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CLARISSA. OR, THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY: Comprehending The moſt Important Concerns of Private LIFE; And particularly ſhewing, The DISTRESSES that may attend the Miſconduct Both of PARENTS and CHILDREN, In Relation to MARRIAGE.

Publiſhed by the EDITOR of PAMELA.

VOL. V.

LONDON: Printed for S. Richardſon: And Sold by JOHN OSBORN, in Pater-noſter Row; By ANDREW MILLAR, over-againſt Catharine-ſtreet in the Strand; By J. and J. RIVINGTON, in St. Paul's Church-yard; And by J. LEAKE, at Bath.

M.DCC.XLVIII.

THE HISTORY OF Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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LETTER I. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq. Upper-FLaſk, Hamſtead, Friday (June 9) morn. 7 o'clock.

I AM now here, and here have been this hour and half. What an induſtrious ſpirit have I! Nobody can ſay, that I eat the bread of idleneſs. I take true pains for all the pleaſure I enjoy. I cannot chooſe but to admire myſelf ſtrangely; for, certainly, with this active ſoul, I ſhould have made a very great figure in whatever ſtation I had filled. But had I been a prince! — To be ſure I ſhould have made a moſt noble prince! I ſhould have led up a military dance equal to that of the great Macedonian. I ſhould have added kingdom to kingdom, and robbed all my neighbour-ſovereigns, in order to have obtained the name of Robert the Great. And I would have gone to war with the Great Turk, and the [2] Perſian, and the Mogholl, for their Seraglios; for not one of thoſe Eaſtern Monarchs ſhould have had a pretty woman to bleſs himſelf with, till I had done with her.

And now I have ſo much leiſure upon my hands, that, after having informed myſelf of all neceſſary particulars, I am ſet to my ſhort-hand writing, in order to keep up with time as well as I can: For the ſubject is now become worthy of me; and it is yet too ſoon, I doubt, to pay my compliments to my charmer, after all her fatigues for two or three days paſt: And, moreover, I have abundance of matters preparative to my future proceedings, to recount, in order to connect, and render all intelligible.

I parted with the captain at the foot of the hill, trebly inſtructed; that is to ſay, as to the Fact, to the Probable, and to the Poſſible. If my beloved and I can meet and make up, without the mediation of this worthy gentleman, it will be ſo much the better. As little foreign aid, as poſſible, in my amorous conflicts, has always been a rule with me; tho' here I have been obliged to call in ſo much. And who knows but it may be the better for her, the leſs ſhe makes neceſſary? I cannot bear, that ſhe ſhould ſit ſo indifferent to me, as to be in earneſt to part with me for ever, upon ſo ſlight, or even upon any occaſion. If I find ſhe is—But no more threatenings till ſhe is in my power—Thou knoweſt what I have vowed.

All Will's account, from the lady's flight to his finding her again, all the accounts of the people of the houſe, the coachman's information to Will, and ſo forth, collected together, ſtand thus.

The Hamſtead coach, when the lady came to it, had but two paſſengers in it. But ſhe made the fellow go off directly, paying for the vacant places.

The two paſſengers directing the coachman to ſet them down at the Upper-Flaſk, ſhe bid him ſet her down there alſo.

[3] They took leave of her (very reſpectfully no doubt), and ſhe went into the houſe, and aſked, If ſhe could not have a diſh of tea, and a room to herſelf for half an hour?

‘They ſhewed her up to the very room where I now am. She ſat at the very table I now write upon; and, I believe, the chair I ſit in was hers.’ O Belford, if thou knoweſt what Love is, thou wilt be able to account for theſe minutiae.

She ſeemed ſpiritleſs and fatigued. The gentlewoman herſelf choſe to attend ſo genteel and lovely a gueſt. She aſked her, If ſhe would have bread and butter to her tea? No. She could not eat. They had very good biſcakes. As ſhe pleaſed. The gentlewoman ſtept out for ſome; and returning on a ſudden, ſhe obſerved the ſweet fugitive endeavouring to reſtrain a violent burſt of grief, which ſhe had given way to, in that little interval.

However, when the tea came, ſhe made her ſit down with her, and aſked her abundance of queſtions about the villages and roads in that neighbourhood.

The gentlewoman took notice to her, that ſhe ſeemed to be troubled in mind.

‘Tender Spirits, ſhe replied, could not part with dear friends without concern.’ She meant me, no doubt.

She made no inquiry about a lodging, tho' by the ſequel, thou'lt obſerve, that ſhe ſeemed to intend to go no farther that night than Hamſtead. But after ſhe had drank two diſhes, and put a Biſcake in her pocket—[Sweet ſoul, to ſerve for her ſupper perhaps—] ſhe laid down half-a-crown; and refuſing change, ſighing, took leave, ſaying, ſhe would proceed towards Hendon; the diſtance to which had been one of her queſtions.

‘They offered to ſend to know, if a Hamſtead coach were not to go to Hendon that evening. No [4] matter, ſhe ſaid—Perhaps ſhe might meet the chariot.’ Another of her feints, I ſuppoſe; for how, or with whom, could any thing of this ſort have been concerted ſince yeſterday morning?

She had, as the people took notice to one another, ſomething ſo uncommonly noble in her air, and in her perſon and behaviour, that they were ſure ſhe was of quality. And having no ſervant with her of either ſex, her eyes [her fine eyes, the gentlewoman called them, ſtranger as ſhe was, and a woman!] being ſwelled and red, they were ſure there was an elopement in the caſe, either from parents or guardians; for they ſuppoſed her too young and too maidenly to be a married lady: And were ſhe married, no huſband would let ſuch a fine young creature be unattended and alone; nor give her cauſe for ſo much grief, as ſeemed to be ſettled in her countenance. Then, at times, ſhe ſeemed to be ſo bewildred, they ſaid, that they were afraid ſhe had it in her head to make away with herſelf.

All theſe things put together, excited their curioſity; and they engaged a peery ſervant, as they called a footman who was drinking with Kit the hoſtler at the tap-houſe, to watch all her motions. This fellow reported the following particulars, as they were re-reported to me.

She indeed went towards Hendon, paſſing by the ſign of the Caſtle on the heath; then, ſtopping, looked about her, and down into the valley before her. Then, turning her face towards London, ſhe ſeemed, by the motion of her handkerchief to her eyes, to weep; repenting (who knows?) the raſh ſtep ſhe had taken, and wiſhing herſelf back again—

Better for her, if ſhe do, Jack, once more I ſay! —Woe be to the girl who could think of marrying [5] me, yet be able to run away from me, and renounce me for ever!

Then, continuing on a few paces, ſhe ſtopt again; and, as if diſliking her road, again ſeeming to weep, directed her courſe back towards Hamſtead.

I am glad ſhe wept ſo much, becauſe no heart burſts (be the occaſion for the ſorrow what it will) which has that kindly relief. Hence I hardly ever am moved at the ſight of theſe pellucid fugitives in a fine woman. How often, in the paſt twelve hours, have I wiſhed, that I could cry moſt confoundedly!

‘She then ſaw a coach and four driving towards her empty. She croſſed the path ſhe was in, as if to meet it; and ſeemed to intend to ſpeak to the coachman, had he ſtopt, or ſpoke firſt. He, as earneſtly, looked at her. Every one did ſo, who paſſed her (ſo the man who dogg'd her was the leſs ſuſpected)’ —Happy rogue of a coachman, hadſt thou known whoſe notice thou didſt engage, and whom thou mighteſt have obliged!—It was the divine Clariſſa Harlowe at whom thou gazedſt!—My own Clariſſa Harlowe!—But it was well for me that thou wert as undiſtinguiſhing as the beaſts thou droveſt; otherwiſe, what a wild-gooſe chace had I been led?

The lady, as well as the coachman, in ſhort, ſeemed to want reſolution; the horſes kept on; the fellow's head and eyes, no doubt, turned behind him; and the diſtance ſoon lengthened beyond recall. With a wiſtful eye ſhe looked after him; ſighed and wept again; as the ſervant, who then ſlily paſſed her, obſerved.

By this time ſhe had reached the houſes. She looked up at every one, as ſhe paſſed; now-and-then breathing upon her bared hand, and applying it to her ſwelled eyes, to abate the redneſs, and dry the tears. At laſt, ſeeing a bill up for letting lodgings, ſhe walked backwards and forwards half a dozen [6] times, as if unable to determine what to do. And then went farther into the town; and there the fellow being ſpoken to by one of his familiars, he loſt her for a few minutes: But ſoon ſaw her come out of a linen-drapery ſhop, attended with a ſervant-maid, having, as he believed, bought ſome little matters, and, as it proved, got that maid-ſervant to go with her to the houſe ſhe is now at (a).

The fellow, after waiting about an hour, and not ſeeing her come out, returned, concluding that ſhe had taken lodgings there.

And here, ſuppoſing my narrative of the dramatic kind, ends Act the Firſt. And now begins,

ACT II.

SCENE, Hamſtead Heath continued.
Enter my Raſcal.

WILL. having got at all theſe particulars, by exchanging others as frankly againſt them, which I had formerly prepared him with, both verbally and in writing; I found the people already of my party, and full of good wiſhes for my ſucceſs, repeating to me all they told him.

But he had firſt acquainted me with the accounts he had given them of his lady and me. It is neceſſary that I give thee the particulars of his tale—And I have a little time upon my hands; for the maid of the houſe, who had been out of an errand, tells us, that ſhe ſaw Mrs. Moore (with whom muſt be my firſt buſineſs) go into the houſe of a young gentleman, within a few doors of her, who has a maiden ſiſter, Miſs Rawlins by name, ſo notify'd for prudence, that none of her acquaintance undertake any thing of conſequence, without conſulting her.

Mean while my honeſt coachman is walking about Miſs Rawlins's door, in order to bring me notice of Mrs. Moore's return to her own houſe. I hope her [7] goſſips-tale will be as ſoon told as mine. Which take as follows.

Will told them, before I came, ‘That his lady was but lately married to one of the fineſt gentlemen in the world. But that, he being very gay and lively, ſhe was mortal jealous of him; and in a fit of that ſort, had eloped from him. For altho' ſhe loved him dearly, and he doated upon her (as well he might, ſince, as they had ſeen, ſhe was the fineſt creature that ever the ſun ſhone upon), yet ſhe was apt to be very wilful and ſullen, if he might take the liberty to ſay ſo—but truth was truth;—and if ſhe could not have her own way in every thing, would be for leaving him. That ſhe had three or four times played his maſter ſuch tricks; but with all the virtue and innocence in the world; running away to an intimate friend of hers, who, tho' a young lady of honour, was but too indulgent to her in this her only failing: for which reaſon his maſter had brought her to London lodgings; their uſual reſidence being in the country: And that, on his refuſing to ſatisfy her about a lady he had been ſeen with in the park, ſhe had, for the firſt time ſince ſhe came to town, ſerved his maſter thus: Whom he had left half-diſtracted on that account.’

And truly well he might, poor gentleman! cried the honeſt folks, pitying me be ore they ſaw me.

‘He told them how he came by his intelligence of her; and made himſelf ſuch an intereſt with them, that they helped him to a change of cloaths for himſelf; and the landlord, at his requeſt, privately inquired, if the lady actually remained at Mrs. Moore's; and for how long ſhe had taken the lodgings: Which he found only to be for a week certain: But ſhe had ſaid, that ſhe believed ſhe ſhould hardly ſtay ſo long. And then it was that he wrote his letter, and ſent it by honeſt Peter Partrick, as thou haſt heard.’

[8]When I came, my perſon and dreſs having anſwered Will's deſcription, the people were ready to worſhip me. I now-and-then ſighed, now-and-then put on a lighter air; which, however, I deſigned ſhould ſhew more of vexation ill-diſguiſed, than of real chearfulneſs: And they told Will, It was a thouſand pities ſo fine a lady ſhould have ſuch ſkittiſh tricks; adding, that ſhe might expoſe herſelf to great dangers by them; for that there were Rakes every-where [Lovelace's in every corner, Jack!], and many about that town, who would leave nothing unattempted to get into her company: And altho' they might not prevail upon her, yet might they nevertheleſs hurt her reputation; and, in time, eſtrange the affections of ſo fine a gentleman from her.

Good ſenſible people, theſe!—Hay, Jack!

Here, landlord; one word with you. My ſervant, I find, has acquainted you with the reaſon of my coming this way. An unhappy affair, landlord! A very unhappy affair! But never was there a more virtuous woman.

So, Sir, ſhe ſeems to be. A thouſand pities her ladyſhip has ſuch ways—And to ſo good-humoured a gentleman as you ſeem to be, Sir.

Mother-ſpoilt, landlord!—Mother-ſpoilt! that's the thing!—But, ſighing, I muſt make the beſt of it. What I want you to do for me, is to lend me a great coat. I care not what it is. If my ſpouſe ſhould ſee me at a diſtance, ſhe would make it very difficult for me to get at her ſpeech. A great coat with a cape, if you have one. I muſt come upon her before ſhe is aware.

I am afraid, Sir, I have none fit for ſuch a gentleman as you.

O, any thing will do!—The worſe the better.

Exit landlord. Re-enter with two great coats.

Ay, landlord, This will be beſt; for I can button [9] the cape over the lower part of my face. Don't I look deviliſhly down and concern'd, landlord?

I never ſaw a gentleman with a better-natured look. 'Tis pity you ſhould have ſuch tryals, Sir.

I muſt be very unhappy, no doubt of it, landlord. And yet I am a little pleas'd, you muſt needs think, that I have found her out before any great inconvenience has ariſen to her. However, if I cannot break her of theſe freaks, ſhe'll break my heart; for I do love her with all her failings.

The good woman, who was within hearing of all this, pitied me much.

Pray, your honour, ſaid ſhe, if I may be ſo bold, was madam ever a mamma?

No!—and I ſighed—We have been but a little while married; and, as I may ſay to you, it is her own fault that ſhe is not in that way [Not a word of a lye in this, Jack]. But to tell you truth, madam, ſhe may be compared to the dog in the manger—

I underſtand you, Sir, (ſimpering)—She is but young, Sir. I have heard of one or two ſuch ſkittiſh young ladies in my time, Sir.—But when madam is in that way, I dare ſay, as ſhe loves you (and it would be ſtrange if ſhe did not!), all this will be over, and ſhe may make the beſt of wives.

That's all my hope.

She is as fine a lady as I ever beheld. I hope, Sir, you won't be too ſevere. She'll get over all theſe freaks, if once ſhe be a mamma, I warrant.

I can't be ſevere to her; ſhe knows that. The moment I ſee her, all reſentment is over with me, if ſhe give me but one kind look.

All this time, I was adjuſting my horſeman's coat, and Will was putting in the ties of my wig, and buttoning the cape over my chin.

I aſk'd the gentlewoman for a little powder. She brought me a powder-box, and I lightly ſhook the [10] puff over my hat, and flapt one ſide of it, tho' the lace look'd a little too gay for my covering; and ſlouching it over my eyes, Shall I be known, think you, Madam?

Your honour is ſo expert, Sir!—I wiſh, if I may be ſo bold, your lady has not ſome cauſe to be jealous. But it will be impoſſible, if you keep your laced cloaths covered, that any-body ſhould know you in that dreſs to be the ſame gentleman—Except they find you out by your clocked ſtockens.

Well obſerv'd—Can't you, landlord, lend or ſell me a pair of ſtockens, that will draw over theſe? I can cut off the feet, if they won't go into my ſhoes.

He could let me have a pair of coarſe, but clean, ſtirrup-ſtockens, if I pleaſed.

The beſt in the world for the purpoſe.

He fetch'd them. Will. drew them on; and my legs then made a good gouty appearance.

The good woman, ſmiling, wiſhed me ſucceſs; and ſo did the landlord: And as thou knoweſt that I am not a bad mimic, I took a cane, which I borrowed of the landlord, and ſtooped in the ſhoulders to a quarter of a foot of leſs height, and ſtump'd away croſs to the Bowling-green, to practiſe a little the hobbling gaite of a gouty man. The landlady whiſper'd her huſband, as Will. tells me, He's a good one, I warrant him!—I dare ſay the fault lies not all of one ſide. While mine hoſt replied, that I was ſo lively and ſo good-natur'd a gentleman, that he did not know who could be angry with me, do what I would. A ſenſible fellow!—I wiſh my charmer were of the ſame opinion.

And now I am going to try, if I can't agree with goody Moore for lodgings and other conveniencies for my ſick wife.

Wife, Lovelace! methinks thou interrogateſt.

Yes, wife; for who knows what cautions the dear fugitive may have given in apprehenſion of me?

[11]But has goody Moore any other lodgings to let?

Yes, yes; I have taken care of that; and find, that ſhe has juſt ſuch conveniencies as I want. And I know that my wife will like them. For, altho' married, I can do every thing I pleaſe; and that's a bold word, you know. But had ſhe only a garret to let, I would have liked it; and been a poor author afraid of arreſts, and made that my place of refuge; yet would have made ſhift to pay beforehand for what I had. I can ſuit myſelf to any condition, that's my comfort.

THE widow Moore return'd! ſay you—Down, down, flutterer!—This impertinent heart is more troubleſome to me than my conſcience, I think.— I ſhall be obliged to hoarſen my voice, and roughen my character, to keep up with its puppily dancings.

But, let me ſee,—Shall I be angry or pleaſed, when I am admitted to my beloved's preſence?

Angry, to be ſure.—Has ſhe not broken her word with me?—At a time, too, when I was meditating to do her grateful juſtice?—And is not breach of word a dreadful crime in good folks? I have ever been for forming my judgment of the nature of things and actions, not ſo much from what they are in themſelves, as from the character of the actors. Thus it would be as odd a thing in ſuch as we to keep our words with a lady, as it would be wicked in her to break hers to us.

Seeſt thou not, that this unſeaſonable gravity is admitted to quell the palpitations of this unmanageable heart? But ſtill it will go on with its boundings. I'll try, as I ride in my chariot, to tranquillize.

Ride, Bob! ſo little a way?

Yes, ride, Jack; for am I not lame? And will it not look well to have a lodger who keeps his chariot? What widow, what ſervant, aſks queſtions of a man with an equipage?

[12]My coachman, as well as my other ſervant, is under Will's tuition.

Never was there ſuch a hideous raſcal as he has made himſelf. The devil only, and his other maſter, can know him. They both have ſet their marks upon him. As to my Honour's mark, it will never be out of his damn'd wide mothe, as he calls it. For the dog will be hang'd before he can loſe the reſt of his teeth by age.

I am gone.

LETTER II. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

NOW, Belford, for the narrative of narratives. I will continue it, as I have opportunity; and that ſo dextrouſly, that if I break off twenty times, thou ſhalt not diſcern where I piece my thread.

Although grievouſly afflicted with the gout, I alighted out of my chariot (leaning very hard on my cane with one hand, and on my new ſervant's ſhoulder with the other) the ſame inſtant almoſt that he had knock'd at the door, that I might be ſure of admiſſion into the houſe.

I took care to button my great coat about me, and to cover with it even the pommel of my ſword; it being a little too gay for my years. I knew not what occaſion I might have for my ſword. I ſtoop'd forward; blink'd with my eyes to conceal their luſtre [No vanity in ſaying that, Jack!]; my chin wrapt up for the tooth-ach; my ſlouch'd, laced hat, and ſo much of my wig as was viſible, giving me, all together, the appearance of an antiquated beau.

My wife, I reſolved beforehand, ſhould have a complication of diſorders.

[13]The maid came to the door. I aſk'd for her miſtreſs. She ſhew'd me into one of the parlours; and I ſat down, with a gouty Oh!—

Enter goody Moore.

Your ſervant, Madam—but you muſt excuſe me; I cannot well ſtand.—I find by the bill at the door, that you have lodgings to let [Mumbling my words as if, like my man Will, I had loſt ſome of my foreteeth]: Be pleaſed to inform me what they are; for I like your ſituation:—And I will tell you my family —I have a wife, a good old woman—Older than myſelf, by the way, a pretty deal. She is in a bad ſtate of health, and is adviſed into the Hamſtead air. She will have two maid-ſervants and a footman. The coach or chariot (I ſhall not have them up both together), we can put up any-where, and the coachman will be with his horſes.

When, Sir, ſhall you want to come in?

I will take them from this very day; and, if convenient, will bring my wife in the afternoon.

Perhaps, Sir, you would board, as well as lodge?

That as you pleaſe. It will ſave me the trouble of bringing my cook, if we do. And I ſuppoſe you have ſervants who know how to dreſs a couple of diſhes. My wife muſt eat plain food, and I don't love kickſhaws.

We have a ſingle lady, who will be gone in two or three days. She has one of the beſt apartments: That will then be at liberty.

You have one or two good ones mean time, I preſume, Madam, juſt to receive my wife; for we have loſt time—Theſe damn'd phyſicians—Excuſe me, Madam, I am not uſed to curſe; but it is owing to the love I have for my wife—They have kept her in hand, till they are aſham'd to take more fees, and now adviſe her to the air. I wiſh we had ſent her hither at firſt. But we muſt now make the beſt of it.

[14]Excuſe me, Madam (for ſhe looked hard at me), that I am muffled up thus in this warm weather. I am but too ſenſible, that I have left my chamber ſooner than I ought, and perhaps ſhall have a return of my gout for it. I came out thus muffled up, with a dreadful pain in my jaws; an ague in them, I believe. But my poor dear will not be ſatisfied with any body's care but mine. And, as I told you, we have loſt time.

You ſhall ſee what accommodations I have, if you pleaſe, Sir. But I doubt, you are too lame to walk up ſtairs.

I can make ſhift to hobble up, now I have reſted a little. I'll juſt look upon the apartment my wife is to have. Any thing may do for the ſervants: And as you ſeem to be a good ſort of gentlewoman, I ſhan't ſtand for a price, and will pay well, beſides, for the trouble I ſhall give.

She led the way; and I, leaning upon the baniſters, made ſhift to get up with leſs fatigue than I expected from ancles ſo weak. But oh! Jack, What was Sixtus the Vth's artful depreſſion of his natural powers to mine, when, as the half-dead Montalto, he gaped for the pretendedly unſought Pontificate, and, the moment he was choſen, leapt upon the prancing beaſt, which it was thought, by the amazed conclave, he was not able to mount without help of chairs and men? Never was there a more joyous heart and lighter heels than mine, joined together, yet both denied their functions; the one fluttering in ſecret, ready to burſt its bars for relief-ful expreſſion, the others obliged to an hobbling motion; when, unreſtrained, they would, in their maſter's imagination, have mounted him to the lunar world, without the help of a ladder.

There were three rooms on a floor; two of them handſome; and the third, ſhe ſaid, ſtill handſomer; but the lady was in it.

I ſaw!—I ſaw, ſhe was! for as I hobbled up, crying out upon my weak ancles, in the hoarſe mumbling [15] voice I had aſſumed, I beheld a little piece of her, juſt caſting an eye, with the door a-jar, as they call it, to obſerve who was coming up; and, ſeeing ſuch an old clumſy fellow great-coated in weather ſo warm, ſlouched, and muffled up, ſhe withdrew, ſhutting the door without any emotion. But it was not ſo with me; for thou canſt not imagine how my heart danced to my mouth, at the very glimpſe of her; ſo that I was afraid the thump, thump, thumping villain, which had ſo lately thumped as much to no purpoſe, would have choak'd me.

I liked the lodgings well; and the more, as ſhe ſaid the third room was ſtill handſomer. I muſt ſit down, Madam (and choſe the darkeſt part of the room): Won't you take a ſeat yourſelf? No price ſhall part us. But I will leave the terms to you and my wife, if you pleaſe: And alſo whether for board or not. Only pleaſe to take This for earneſt, putting a guinea into her hand.—And one thing I will ſay; My poor wife loves money; but is not an ill-natured woman. She was a great fortune to me: But, as the real eſtate goes away at her death, I would fain preſerve her for that reaſon, as well as for the love I bear her, as an honeſt man. But if ſhe makes too cloſe a bargain with you, tell me; and, unknown to her, I will make it up. This is my conſtant way: She loves to have her pen'worths; and I would not have her vexed or made uneaſy on any account.

She ſaid, I was a very conſiderate gentleman; and, upon the condition I had mentioned, ſhe was content to leave the terms to my lady.

But, Madam, cannot a-body juſt peep into the other apartment, that I may be more particular to my wiſe in the furniture of it?

The lady deſires to be private, Sir—But—And was going to aſk her leave.

I caught hold of her hand—However, ſtay, ſtay, [16] Madam: It mayn't be proper, if the lady loves to be private. Don't let me intrude upon the lady—

No intruſion, Sir, I dare ſay: The lady is good-humoured. She will be ſo kind as to ſtep down into the parlour, I dare ſay. As ſhe ſtays ſo little a while, I am ſure ſhe will not wiſh to ſtand in my way.

No, Madam, that's true, if ſhe be good-humoured, as you ſay—Has ſhe been with you long, Madam?

But yeſterday, Sir—

I believe I juſt now ſaw the glimpſe of her. She ſeems to be an elderly lady.

No, Sir; you're miſtaken. She's a young lady; and one of the handſomeſt I ever ſaw.

Cot ſo, I beg her pardon! Not but that I ſhould have liked her the better, were ſhe to ſtay longer, if ſhe had been elderly. I have a ſtrange taſte, Madam, you'll ſay, but I really, for my wife's ſake, love every elderly woman: Indeed I ever thought age was to be reverenced, which made me (taking the fortune into the ſcale too, that I own) make my addreſſes to my preſent dear.

Very good of you, Sir, to reſpect age: We all hope to live to be old.

Right, Madam. But you ſay the lady is beautiful. Now you muſt know, that tho' I chuſe to converſe with the elderly, yet I love to ſee a beautiful young woman, juſt as I love to ſee fine flowers in a garden. There's no caſting an eye upon her, is there, without her notice? For in this dreſs, and thus muffled up about my jaws, I ſhould not care to be ſeen, any more than ſhe, let her love privacy as much as ſhe will.

I will go aſk, if I may ſhew a gentleman the apartment, Sir; and, as you are a married gentleman, and not over-young, ſhe'll perhaps make the leſs ſcruple.

Then, like me, ſhe loves elderly folks beſt, perhaps. But it may be ſhe has ſuffered by young ones?

[17]I fancy ſhe has, Sir, or is afraid ſhe ſhall. She deſired to be very private, and if by deſcription inquired after, to be denied.

Thou art true woman, goody Moore, thought I!

Good lack!—Good lack!—What may be her ſtory then, I pray?

She is pretty reſerv'd in her ſtory; but, to tell you my thoughts, I believe Love is in the caſe: She is always in tears, and does not much care for company.

Nay, Madam, it becomes not me to dive into ladies ſecrets; I want not to pry into other peoples affairs. But, pray, how does ſhe employ herſelf?—Yet ſhe came but yeſterday; ſo you can't tell.

Writing continually, Sir.

Theſe women, Jack, when you aſk them queſtions by way of information, don't care to be ignorant of any thing.

Nay, excuſe me, Madam, I am very far from being an inquiſitive man. But if her caſe be difficult, and not merely Love, as ſhe is a friend of yours, I would give her my advice.

Then you are a lawyer, Sir—

Why, indeed, Madam, I was ſome time at the Bar; but I have long left practice; yet am much conſulted by my friends in difficult points. In a pauper caſe I frequently give money; but never take any from the richeſt.

You are a very good gentleman, then, Sir.

Ay, Madam, we cannot live always here; and we ought to do what good we can—But I hate to appear officious. If the lady ſtays any time, and thinks fit, upon better acquaintance, to let me in to her caſe, it may be a happy day for her, if I find it a juſt one; for, you muſt know, that when I was at the Bar, I never was ſuch a ſad fellow as to undertake, for the ſake of a paltry fee, to make white black, and black white; for what would that have been, but to endeavour to eſtabliſh iniquity by quirks, while I robbed the innocent?

[18]You are an excellent gentleman, Sir: I wiſh (and then ſhe ſighed) I had had the happineſs to know there was ſuch a lawyer in the world; and to have been acquainted with him.

Come, come, Mrs. Moore, I think your name is, it may not be too late—When you and I are better acquainted, I may help you perhaps.—But mention nothing of this to the lady; for, as I ſaid, I hate to appear officious.

This prohibition, I knew, if goody Moore anſwer'd the ſpecimen ſhe had given of her womanhood, would make her take the firſt opportunity to tell, were it to be neceſſary to my purpoſe that ſhe ſhould.

I appeared, upon the whole, ſo indifferent about ſeeing the room, or the lady, that the good woman was the more eager I ſhould ſee both. And the rather, as I, to ſtimulate her, declared, that there was more required in my eye to merit the character of a handſome woman, than moſt people thought neceſſary; and that I had never ſeen ſix truly lovely ladies in my life.

To be brief, ſhe went in; and after a little while came out again. The lady, Sir, is retired to her cloſet, ſo you may go in and look at the room.

Then how my heart began again to play its pug's tricks!

I hobbled in, and ſtump'd about, and liked it very much; and was ſure my wife would. I begg'd excuſe for ſitting down, and aſk'd, Who was the miniſter of the place? If he were a good preacher? Who preached at the chapel? And if he were a good preacher, and good liver too, Madam—I muſt inquire after That: For I love, I muſt needs ſay, that the Clergy ſhould practiſe what they preach.

Very right, Sir; but that is not ſo often the caſe, as were to be wiſhed.

More's the pity, Madam. But I have a great veneration for the Clergy in general. It is more a ſatire upon Human nature, than upon the Cloth, if [19] we ſuppoſe thoſe who have the beſt opportunities to be good, leſs perfect than other people. For my part, I don't love profeſſional any more than national reflections.—But I keep the lady in her cloſet. My gout makes me rude.

Then up from my ſeat ſtumped I—What do you call theſe window-curtains, Madam?

Stuff-damaſk, Sir.

It looks mighty well, truly. I like it better than ſilk. It is warmer to be ſure, and much fitter for lodgings in the country; eſpecially for people in years. The bed is in a pretty taſte.

It is neat and clean, Sir: That's all we pretend to.

Ay, mighty well—Very well—A ſilk camlet, I think—Very well, truly!—I am ſure my wife will like it. But we would not turn the lady out of her lodging for the world. The other two apartments will do for us at the preſent.

Then ſtumping towards the cloſet, over the door of which hung a picture—What picture is that?— Oh! I ſee: A St. Caecilia!

A common print, Sir—

Pretty well, pretty well! It is after an Italian maſter.—I would not for the world turn the lady out of her apartment. We can make ſhift with the other two, repeated I, louder ſtill: But yet mumblingly hoarſe; for I had as great regard to uniformity in accent, as to my words.

O Belford! to be ſo near my angel, think what a painful conſtraint I was under!—

I was reſolved to fetch her out, if poſſible: And pretending to be going—You can't agree as to any time, Mrs. Moore, when we can have this third room, can you?—Not that (whiſper'd I, loud enough to be heard in the next room; Not that) I would incommode the lady: But I would tell my wife when-abouts—And women, you know, Mrs. Moore, love to have every thing before them of this nature.

[20]Mrs. Moore, ſays my charmer [and never did her voice ſound ſo harmonious to me: Oh how my heart bounded again! It even talked to me, in a manner; for I thought I heard, as well as felt, its unruly flutters; and every vein about me ſeemed a pulſe: Mrs. Moore], you may acquaint the gentleman, that I ſhall ſtay here only for two or three days, at moſt, till I receive an anſwer to a letter I have written into the country; and rather than be your hindrance, I will take up with any apartment a pair of ſtairs higher.

Not for the world! Not for the world, young lady, cried I!—My wife, well as I love her, ſhould lie in a garret, rather than put ſuch a conſiderate lady, as you ſeem to be, to the leaſt inconvenien-cy.

She opened not the door yet; and I ſaid, But ſince you have ſo much goodneſs, Madam, if I could but juſt look into the cloſet, as I ſtand, I could tell my wife, whether it is large enough to hold a cabinet ſhe much values, and will have with her where-ever ſhe goes.

Then my charmer opened the door, and blazed upon me, as it were, in a flood of light, like what one might imagine would ſtrike a man, who, born blind, had by ſome propitious power been bleſſed with his ſight, all at once, in a meridian ſun.

Upon my ſoul, I never was ſo ſtrangely affected before. I had much ado to forbear diſcovering myſelf that inſtant: But, heſitatingly, and in great diſorder, I ſaid, looking into the cloſet, and around it, There is room, I ſee, for my wife's cabinet; and it has many jewels in it of high price; but, upon my ſoul (for I could not forbear ſwearing, like a puppy: —Habit is a curſed thing, Jack—) Nothing ſo valuable as the lady I ſee, can be brought into it!—

She ſtarted, and looked at me with terror. The truth of the compliment, as far as I know, had taken diſſimulation from my accent.

[21]I ſaw it was impoſſible to conceal myſelf longer from her, any more than (from the violent impulſes of my paſſion) to forbear manifeſting myſelf. I unbuttoned therefore my cape, I pulled off my flapt, ſlouched hat; I threw open my great coat, and, like the devil in Milton (an odd compariſon tho'!),

I ſtarted up in my own form divine,
Touch'd by the beam of her celeſtial eye,
More potent than Ithuriel's ſpear!—

Now, Belford, for a ſimilitude—Now for a likeneſs to illuſtrate the ſurpriſing ſcene, and the effect it had upon my charmer, and the gentlewoman!—But nothing was like it, or equal to it. The plain fact can only deſcribe it, and ſet it off. Thus then take it.

She no ſooner ſaw who it was, than ſhe gave three violent ſcreams; and, before I could catch her in my arms (as I was about to do the moment I diſcover'd myſelf), down ſhe ſunk at my feet, in a fit; which made me curſe my indiſcretion for ſo ſuddenly, and with ſo much emotion, revealing myſelf.

The gentlewoman, ſeeing ſo ſtrange an alteration in my perſon, and features, and voice, and dreſs, cried out, Murder, help! Murder, help! by turns, for half a dozen times running. This alarmed the houſe, and up ran two ſervant maids, and my ſervant after them. I cried out for water and hartſhorn, and every one flew a different way, one of the maids as faſt down as ſhe came up; while the gentlewoman ran out of one room into another, and by turns up and down the apartment we were in, without meaning or end, wringing her fooliſh hands, and not knowing what ſhe did.

Up then came running a gentleman and his ſiſter, fetched, and brought in by the maid who had run down; and who having let in a curſed crabbed old wretch, hobbling with his gout, and mumbling with his hoarſe broken-toothed voice, was metamorphoſed all at [22] once into a lively gay young fellow, with a clear accent, and all his teeth; and ſhe would have it, that I was neither more nor leſs than the devil, and could not keep her eye from my foot; expecting, no doubt, every minute to ſee it diſcover itſelf to be cloven.

For my part, I was ſo intent upon reſtoring my angel, that I regarded nobody elſe. And at laſt, ſhe ſlowly recovering motion, with bitter ſighs and ſobs (only the whites of her eyes however appearing for ſome moments), I called upon her in the tendereſt accent, as I kneeled by her, my arm ſupporting her head; My angel! My charmer! My Clariſſa! look upon me, my deareſt life!—I am not angry with you! —I will forgive you, my beſt beloved!—

The gentleman and his ſiſter knew not what to make of all this: And the leſs, when my fair one, recovering her ſight, ſnatched another look at me; and then again groaned, and fainted away.

I threw up the cloſet-ſaſh for air, and then left her to the care of the young gentlewoman, the ſame notable Miſs Rawlins, whom I had heard of at the Flaſk; and to that of Mrs. Moore; who by this time had recover'd herſelf; and then retiring to one corner of the room, I made my ſervant pull off my gouty ſtockens, bruſh my hat, and loop it up into the uſual ſmart cock.

I then ſtept to the cloſet to Mr. Rawlins, whom, in the general confuſion, I had not much minded before. —Sir, ſaid I, you have an uncommon ſcene before you. The lady is my wife, and no gentleman's preſence is neceſſary here but my own.

I beg pardon, Sir: If the lady is your wife, I have no buſineſs here. But, Sir, by her concern at ſeeing you—

Pray, Sir, none of your if's, and but's, I beſeech you: Nor your concern about the lady's concern. You are a very unqualified judge in this cauſe; and I beg of you, Sir, to oblige me with your abſence. [23] The ladies only are proper to be preſent on this occaſion, added I; and I think myſelf obliged to them for their care and kind aſſiſtance.

'Tis well he made not another word: For I found my choler begin to riſe. I could not bear, that the fineſt neck, and arms, and foot, in the world, ſhould be expoſed to the eyes of any man living but mine.

I withdrew once more from the cloſet, finding her beginning to recover, leſt the ſight of me too ſoon, ſhould throw her back again.

The firſt words ſhe ſaid, looking round her with great emotion, were, O hide me! Hide me! Is he gone!—O hide me! Is he gone!

Sir, ſaid Miſs Rawlins, coming to me with an air ſomewhat peremptory and aſſured, This is ſome ſurpriſing caſe. The lady cannot bear the ſight of you. What you have done, is beſt known to yourſelf. But another ſuch fit will probably be her laſt. It would be but kind, therefore, for you to retire.

It behov'd me to have ſo notable a perſon of my party; and the rather, as I had diſobliged her impertinent brother.

The dear creature, ſaid I, may well be concerned to ſee me. If you, Madam, had a huſband who loved you, as I love her, you would not, I am confident, fly from him, and expoſe yourſelf to hazards, as ſhe does whenever ſhe has not all her way—And yet with a mind not capable of intentional evil—But, mother-ſpoilt! This is her fault, and All her fault: And the more inexcuſable it is, as I am the man of her choice, and have reaſon to think ſhe loves me above all the men in the world.

Here, Jack, was a ſtory to ſupport to the lady; face to face too [a]!

[24]You ſpeak like a gentleman; you look like a gentleman, ſaid Miſs Rawlins—But, Sir, this is a ſtrange caſe; the lady ſeems to dread the ſight of you.

No wonder, Madam; taking her a little on one ſide, nearer to Mrs. Moore. I have three times already forgiven the dear creature.—But this jealouſy —There is a ſpice of that in it—and of phrenſy too (whiſpered I, that it might have the face of a ſecret, and, of conſequence, the more engage their attention) —But our ſtory is too long—

I then made a motion to go to the lady. But they deſired, that I would walk into the next room; and they would endeavour to prevail upon her to lie down.

[25]I begg'd that they would not ſuffer her to talk; for that ſhe was accuſtomed to fits, and would, when in this way, talk of any thing that came uppermoſt; and the more ſhe was ſuffered to run on, the worſe ſhe was; and if not kept quiet, would fall into raveings; which might poſſibly hold her a week.

They promiſed to keep her quiet; and I withdrew into the next room; ordering every one down but Mrs. Moore and Miſs Rawlins.

She was full of exclamations. Unhappy creature! miſerable! ruined! and undone! ſhe called herſelf; wrung her hands, and begged they would aſſiſt her to eſcape from the terrible evils ſhe ſhould otherwiſe be made to ſuffer.

They preached patience and quietneſs to her; and would have had her to lie down; but ſhe refuſed; ſinking, however, into an eaſy chair; for ſhe trembled ſo, ſhe could not ſtand.

By this time, I hoped that ſhe was enough recover'd to bear a preſence, that it behoved me to make her bear; and fearing ſhe would throw out ſomething in her exclamations, that would ſtill more diſconcert me, I went into the room again.

O! there he is! ſaid ſhe, and threw her apron over her face—I cannot ſee him!—I cannot look upon him! —Begone! begone! touch me not!—

For I took her ſtruggling hand, beſeeching her to be pacified; and aſſuring her, that I would make all up with her, upon her own terms and wiſhes.

Baſe man! ſaid the violent lady, I have no wiſhes, but never to behold you more! Why muſt I be thus purſued and haunted? Have you not made me miſerable enough already? Deſpoiled of all ſuccour and help, and of every friend, I am contented to be poor, low, and miſerable, ſo I may be free from your perſecutions!—

[26]Miſs Rawlins ſtared at me [A confident ſlut this Miſs Rawlins, thought I!] So did Mrs. Moore—I told you ſo! whiſperingly ſaid I, turning to the women; ſhaking my head with a face of great concern and pity; and then to my charmer, My dear creature, how you rave!—You will not eaſily recover from the effects of this violence! Have patience, my love! Be pacified! and we will coolly talk this matter over: For you expoſe yourſelf, as well as me: Theſe ladies will certainly think, you have fallen among robbers; and that I am the chief of them.

So you are! ſo you are! ſtamping, her face ſtill covered [She thought of Wedneſday night, no doubt]; and, ſighing as if her heart were breaking, ſhe put her hand to her forehead—I ſhall be quite diſtracted!

I will not, my deareſt love, uncover your face. You ſhall not look upon me, ſince I am ſo odious to you. But this is a violence I never thought you capable of.—

And I would have preſſed her hand, as I held it, with my lips; but ſhe drew it from me with indignation.

Unhand me, Sir, ſaid ſhe. I will not be touched by you. Leave me to my fate. What right, what title, have you to perſecute me thus?

What right, what title, my dear!—But this is not a time—I have a letter from Captain Tomlinſon— Here it is—offering it to her—

I will receive nothing from your hands—Tell me not of Captain Tomlinſon—Tell me not of anybody—You have no right to invade me thus—Once more, leave me to my fate—Have you not made me miſerable enough?—

I touched a delicate ſtring, on purpoſe to ſet her in ſuch a paſſion before the women, as might confirm the intimation I had given of a phrenſical diſorder.

What a turn is here!—Lately ſo happy!—Nothing wanting but a reconciliation between you and your [27] friends!—That reconciliation in ſuch a happy train!— Shall ſo ſlight, ſo accidental an occaſion be ſuffered to overturn all our happineſs?

She ſtarted up with a trembling impatience, her apron falling from her indignant face—Now, ſaid ſhe, that thou dareſt to call the occaſion ſlight and accidental, and that I am happily out of thy vile hands, and out of a houſe I have reaſon to believe as vile, traitor and wretch that thou art, I will venture to caſt an eye upon thee—And O that it were in my power, in mercy to my ſex, to look thee firſt into ſhame and remorſe, and then into death!

This violent tragedy-ſpeech, and the high manner in which ſhe uttered it, had its deſired effect. I looked upon the women, and upon her, by turns, with a pitying eye; and they ſhook their wiſe heads, and beſought me to retire, and her to lie down to compoſe herſelf.

This hurricane, like other hurricanes, was preſently allayed by a ſhower. She threw herſelf once more into her armed chair—And begg'd pardon of the women for her paſſionate exceſs; but not of me: Yet I was in hopes, that when compliments were ſtirring, I ſhould have come in for a ſhare.

Indeed, ladies, ſaid I (with aſſurance enough, thou'lt ſay), this violence is not natural to my beloved's temper—Miſapprehenſion—

Miſapprehenſion, wretch!—And want I excuſes from thee!

What a ſcorn was every lovely feature agitated by!

Then turning her face from me, I have not patience, O thou guileful betrayer, to look upon thee! —Begone! Begone! With a face ſo unbluſhing, how dareſt thou my preſence?

I thought then, that the character of a huſband obliged me to be angry.

You may one day, Madam, repent this treatment: [28] —By my ſoul you may.—You know I have not deſerved it of you—You know I have not.

Do I know you have not? —Wretch! Do I know—

You do, Madam!—And never did man of my figure and conſideration [I thought it was proper to throw that in] meet with ſuch treatment. [She lifted up her hands: Indignation kept her ſilent.]—But all is of a piece with the charge you bring againſt me of deſpoiling you of all ſuccour and help, of making you poor and low, and with other unprecedented language. I will only ſay, before theſe two gentlewomen, that ſince it muſt be ſo, and ſince your former eſteem for me is turned into ſo riveted an averſion, I will ſoon, very ſoon, make you intirely eaſy. I will be gone: —I will leave you to your own fate, as you call it; and may That be happy!—Only, that I may not appear to be a ſpoiler, a robber indeed, let me know whither I ſhall ſend your apparel, and every thing that belongs to you, and I will ſend it.

Send it to this place; and aſſure me, that you will never moleſt me more; never more come near me; and that is all I aſk of you.

I will do ſo, Madam, ſaid I, with a dejected air. But did I ever think I ſhould be ſo indifferent to you? —However, you muſt permit me to inſiſt on your reading this letter; and on your ſeeing Captain Tomlinſon, and hearing what he has to ſay from your uncle. He will be here by-and-by.

Don't trifle with me, ſaid ſhe, in an imperious tone—Do as you offer. I will not receive any letter from your hands. If I ſee Captain Tomlinſon, it ſhall be on his own account; not on yours. You tell me you will ſend me my apparel: If you would have me believe any thing you ſay, let This be the teſt of your ſincerity—Leave me now, and ſend my things.

[29]The women ſtared. They did nothing but ſtare; and appeared to be more and more at a loſs what to make of the matter between us.

I pretended to be going from her in a pet: But when I had got to the door, I turned back; and, as if I had recollected myſelf, One word more, my deareſt creature!—Charming even in your anger!—O my fond ſoul! ſaid I, turning half round, and pulling out my handkerchief.

I believe, Jack, my eyes did gliſten a little—I have no doubt but they did.—The women pitied me. Honeſt ſouls!—They ſhew'd, that they had each of them a handkerchief as well as I. So, haſt thou not obſerved (to give a familiar illuſtration) every man in a company of a dozen, or more, obligingly pull out his watch, when ſome one has aſked, What's o'clock?

One word only, Madam, repeated I, as ſoon as my voice had recovered its tone—I have repreſented to Captain Tomlinſon in the moſt favourable light the cauſe of our preſent miſunderſtanding. You know what your uncle inſiſts upon; and which you have acquieſced with. The letter in my hand [and again I offered it to her] will acquaint you with what you have to apprehend from your brother's active malice.

She was going to ſpeak in a high accent, putting the letter from her, with an open palm—Nay, hear me out, Madam—The Captain, you know, has reported our marriage to two different perſons. It is come to your brother's ears. My own relations have alſo heard of it. Letters were brought me from town this morning, from Lady Betty Lawrance and Miſs Montague. Here they are [I pulled them out of my pocket, and offered them to her, with That of the Captain; but ſhe held back her ſtill open palm, that ſhe might not receive them]: Reflect, Madam, I beſeech you reflect, upon the fatal conſequences [30] which this your high reſentment may be attended with.

Ever ſince I knew you, ſaid ſhe, I have been in a wilderneſs of doubt and error. I bleſs God that I am out of your hands. I will tranſact for myſelf what relates to myſelf. I diſmiſs all your ſolicitude for me. Am I not my own miſtreſs!—Am I not—

The women ſtared [The devil ſtare ye, thought I, can ye do nothing but ſtare?]. It was high time to ſtop her here. I raiſed my voice to drown hers— You uſed, my deareſt creature, to have a tender and apprehenſive heart—You never had ſo much reaſon for ſuch a one as now.

Let me judge for myſelf, upon what I ſhall ſee, not upon what I ſhall hear—Do you think I ſhall ever—

I dreaded her going on—I muſt be heard, Madam, raiſing my voice ſtill higher. You muſt let me read one paragraph or two of This letter to you, if you will not read it yourſelf—

Begone from me, Man!—Begone from me with thy Letters! What pretence haſt thou for tormenting me thus—

Deareſt creature, what queſtions you aſk! Queſtions that you can as well anſwer yourſelf—

I can, I will—And thus I anſwer them—

Still louder raiſed I my voice. She was overborne. Sweet ſoul! It would be hard, thought I [and yet I was very angry with her], if ſuch a ſpirit as thine cannot be brought to yield to ſuch a one as mine!

I lowered my voice on her ſilence. All gentle, all intreative, my accent: My head bowed; one hand held out; the other on my honeſt heart:—For heaven's ſake, my deareſt creature, reſolve to ſee Captain Tomlinſon with temper. He would have come along with me: But I was willing to try to ſoften your mind firſt, on this fatal miſapprehenſion; and This for the ſake of your own wiſhes: For what is it otherwiſe to me, whether your friends, are, or [31] are not, reconciled to us? Do I want any favour from them?—For your own mind's ſake therefore, fruſtrate not Captain Tomlinſon's negotiation. That worthy gentleman will be here in the afternoon—Lady Betty will be in town with my couſin Montague, in a day or two. They will be your viſiters. I beſeech you do not carry this miſunderſtanding ſo far, as that Lord M. and Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, may know it [How conſiderable this made me look to the women!]. Lady Betty will not let you reſt till you conſent to accompany her to her own ſeat—And to that lady may you ſafely intruſt your cauſe.

Again, upon my pauſing a moment, ſhe was going to break out. I liked not the turn of her countenance, nor the tone of her voice— ‘And thinkeſt thou, baſe wretch,’ were the words ſhe did utter. I again raiſed my voice, and drowned hers—Baſe wretch, Madam!—You know, that I have not deſerved the violent names you have called me. Words ſo opprobrious, from a mind ſo gentle—But this treatment is from you, Madam!—From you, whom I love more than my own ſoul—By that ſoul, I ſwear that I do—[The women looked upon each other. They ſeemed pleaſed with my ardor. Women, whether wives, maids, or widows, love ardors. Even Miſs Howe, thou knoweſt, ſpeaks up for ardors (a)] — Nevertheleſs, I muſt ſay, that you have carried matters too far for the occaſion. I ſee you hate me—

She was juſt going to ſpeak—If we are to ſeperate for ever, in a ſtrong and ſolemn voice, proceeded I, this iſland ſhall not long be troubled with me.—Mean time, only be pleaſed to give theſe letters a peruſal, and conſider what is to be ſaid to your uncle's friend; and what he is to ſay to your uncle.—Any thing will I come into (renounce me if you will), that ſhall make for your peace, and for the reconciliation your heart was ſo lately ſet upon. But I humbly conceive, [32] that it is neceſſary, that you ſhould come into better temper with me, were it but to give a favourable appearance to what has paſſed, and weight to any future application to your friends, in whatever way you ſhall think proper to make it.

I then put the letters into her lap, and retired into the next apartment with a low bow, and a very ſolemn air.

I was ſoon followed by the two women. Mrs. Moore withdrew to give the fair Perverſe time to read them: Miſs Rawlins for the ſame reaſon; and becauſe ſhe was ſent for home.

The widow beſought her ſpeedy return. I joined in the ſame requeſt; and ſhe was ready enough to promiſe to oblige us.

I excuſed myſelf to Mrs. Moore for the diſguiſe I had appeared in at firſt, and for the ſtory I had invented. I told her, that I held myſelf obliged to ſatisfy her for the whole floor we were upon; and for an upper room for my ſervant; and that for a month certain.

She made many ſcruples, and begg'd ſhe might not be urged on this head, till ſhe had conſulted Miſs Rawlins.

I conſented; but told her, that ſhe had taken my earneſt; and I hoped there was no room for diſpute.

Juſt then Miſs Rawlins return'd, with an air of eager curioſity; and having been told, what had paſſed between Mrs. Moore and me, ſhe gave herſelf airs of office immediately: Which I humoured, plainly perceiving, that if I had her with me, I had the other.

She wiſhed, if there were time for it, and if it were not quite impertinent in her to deſire it, that I would give Mrs. Moore and her a brief hiſtory of an affair, which, as ſhe ſaid, bore the face of novelty, myſtery, and ſurprize: For ſometimes it looked to her as if we were married; at other times, that point appeared doubtful; and yet the lady did not abſolutely deny [33] it; but, upon the whole, thought herſelf highly injured.

I ſaid, That ours was a very particular caſe: That were I to acquaint them with it, ſome part of it would hardly appear credible. But, however, I would give them, as they ſeemed to be perſons of diſcretion, a brief account of the whole; and this in ſo plain and ſincere a manner, that it ſhould clear up to their ſatisfaction every thing that had paſſed, or might hereafter paſs between us.

They ſat down by me, and threw every feature of their faces into attention. I was reſolved to go as near the truth as poſſible, leſt any thing ſhould drop from my ſpouſe to impeach my veracity; and yet keep in view what paſſed at the Flaſk.

It is neceſſary, altho' thou knoweſt my whole ſtory, and a good deal of my views, that thou ſhouldſt be apprized of the ſubſtance of what I told them.

‘I gave them, in as conciſe a manner as I was able, the hiſtory of our families, fortunes, alliances, antipathies (her brother's, and mine, particularly). I averred the truth of our private marriage.’ The Captain's letter, which I will incloſe, will give thee my reaſons for that: And beſides, the women might alſo, perhaps, have propoſed a parſon to me by way of compromiſe. ‘I told them the condition my ſpouſe had made me ſwear to; and which ſhe held me to, in order, I ſaid, to induce me the ſooner to be reconciled to her relations.’

‘I owned, that this reſtraint made me ſometimes ready to fly out.’ And Mrs. Moore was ſo good as to declare, that ſhe did not much wonder at it.

Thou art a very good ſort of woman, Mrs. Moore, thought I.

As Miſs Howe has actually detected our mother; and might poſſibly find ſome way ſtill to acquaint her friend with her diſcoveries; I thought it proper to [34] prepoſſeſs them in Mrs. Sinclair's favour; and in that of her two nieces.

I ſaid, ‘They were gentlewomen born; had not bad hearts; that indeed my ſpouſe did not love them; they having once jointly taken the liberty to blame her for her over-niceneſs with regard to me. People, I ſaid, even good people, who knew themſelves to be guilty of a fault they had no inclination to mend, were too often leaſt patient, when told of it; as they could leſs bear than others, to be thought indifferently of.’

Too often the caſe, they owned.

‘Mrs. Sinclair's houſe was a very handſome houſe, and fit to receive the firſt quality [True enough, Jack!]: Mrs. Sinclair was a woman very eaſy in her circumſtances: A widow-gentlewoman—as you, Mrs. Moore, are. Lets lodgings—as you, Mrs. Moore, do. Once had better proſpects—as you, Mrs. Moore, may have had: The relict of Colonel Sinclair: You, Mrs. Moore, might know Colonel Sinclair—He had lodgings at Hamſtead.’

She had heard of the name.

‘O, he was related to the beſt families in Scotland: And his widow is not to be reflected upon, becauſe ſhe lets lodgings, you know Mrs. Moore; —You know, Miſs Rawlins.’

Very true, and, Very true: And they muſt needs ſay, it did not look quite ſo pretty in ſuch a lady as my ſpouſe, to be ſo cenſorious.

A foundation here, thought I, to procure theſe womens help to get back the fugitive, or their connivance at leaſt at my doing ſo; as well as for anticipating any future information from Miſs Howe.

I gave them a character of that virago: And intin [...]ated, ‘that for a head to contrive miſchief, and a heart to execute it, ſhe had hardly her equal in her ſex.’

[35]To this Miſs Howe it was, Mrs. Moore ſaid, ſhe ſuppoſed, that my ſpouſe was ſo deſirous to diſpatch a man and horſe, by day-dawn, with a letter ſhe wrote before ſhe went to bed laſt night; propoſing to ſtay no longer than till ſhe had received an anſwer to it.

The very ſame, ſaid I. I knew ſhe would have immediate recourſe to her. I ſhould have been but too happy, could I have prevented ſuch a letter from paſſing, or ſo to have managed, as to have it given into Mrs. Howe's hands, inſtead of her daughter's. Women who had lived ſome time in the world, knew better, than to encourage ſuch ſkittiſh pranks in young wives.

Let me juſt ſtop to tell thee, while it is in my head, that I have ſince given Will. his cue to find out where the man lives who is gone with the fair fugitive's letter; and, if poſſible, to ſee him on his return, before he ſees her.

I told the women, ‘That I deſpaired it would ever be better with us, while Miſs Howe had ſo ſtrange a predominance over my ſpouſe, and remained herſelf unmarried; and until the reconciliation with her friends could be effected; or a ſtill happier event,—as I ſhould think it, who am the laſt male of my family; and which my fooliſh vow, and her rigour, had hitherto—’

Here I ſtopt, and looked modeſt, turning my diamond ring round my finger: While goody Moore looked mighty ſignificant, calling it a very particular caſe; and the maiden lady fann'd away, and primm'd and purs'd, to ſhew, that what I ſaid needed no farther explanation.

‘I told them the occaſion of our preſent difference: Avowed the reality of the fire: But owned, that I would have made no ſcruple of breaking the unnatural oath ſhe had bound me in (having an huſband's right of my ſide), when ſhe was ſo accidentally frighted into my arms: And I blamed myſelf [36] exceſſively, that I did not; ſince ſhe thought fit to carry her reſentment ſo high, and had the injuſtice to ſuppoſe the fire to be a contrivance of mine.’

Nay, for that matter, Mrs. Moore ſaid—as we were married, and Madam was ſo odd—Every gentleman would not—And there ſtopt Mrs. Moore.

‘To ſuppoſe I ſhould have recourſe to ſuch a poor contrivance, ſaid I, when I ſaw the dear creature every hour—’ Was not this a bold put, Jack?

A moſt extraordinary caſe, truly! the maiden lady: Fanning, yet coming in with her Well-buts, and her ſifting Pray-Sir's!— And her reſtraining Enough-Sir's!—flying from the queſtion to the queſtion; her ſeat now-and-then uneaſy, for fear my want of delicacy ſhould hurt her abundant modeſty; and yet it was difficult to ſatisfy her ſuper-abundant curioſity.

‘My beloved's jealouſy; which of itſelf, to female minds, accounts for a thouſand unaccountableneſſes; and the imputation of her half-phrenſy brought upon her by her father's wicked curſe, and by the previous perſecutions ſhe had undergone from all her family; were what I dwelt upon, in order to provide againſt what might happen.’

In ſhort, ‘I owned againſt myſelf moſt of the offences which I did not doubt but ſhe would charge me with in their hearing: And as every cauſe has a black and a white ſide, I gave the worſt parts of our ſtory the gentleſt turn. And when I had done, gave them ſome partial hints of the contents of Captain Tomlinſon's letter, which I had left with her: With a caution, to be guarded againſt the inquiries of James Harlowe, and of Captain Singleton, or of any ſailor-looking men.’ This thou wilt ſee from the letter itſelf was neceſſary to be done. Here therefore thou mayeſt read it. And a charming letter to my purpoſe, if thou giveſt the leaſt attention to its contents, wilt thou find it to be.

[37]

To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq.

Dear Sir,

ALTHO' I am obliged to be in town to-morrow, or next day at fartheſt, yet I would not diſpenſe with writing to you, by one of my ſervants, (whom I ſend up before me upon a particular occaſion) in order to advertiſe you, that it is probable you will hear from ſome of your own relations on your [ſuppoſed *] nuptials. One of the perſons (Mr. Lilburne by name) to whom I hinted my belief of your marriage, happens to be acquainted with Mr. Spurrier, Lady Betty Lawrance's ſteward; and (not being under any reſtriction) mentioned it to Mr. Spurrier, and he to Lady Betty, as a thing certain: And this (tho' I have not the honour to be perſonally known to her ladyſhip) brought on an inquiry from her ladyſhip to me by her gentleman; who coming to me in company with Mr. Lilburne, I had no way but to confirm the report. And I underſtand, that Lady Betty takes it amiſs, that ſhe was not acquainted with ſo deſirable a piece of news from yourſelf.

Her ladyſhip, it ſeems, has buſineſs that calls her to town; [and you will poſſibly chooſe to put her right. If you do, it will, I preſume, be in confidence; that nothing may perſpire from your own family to contradict what I have given out.]

[I have ever been of opinion, That truth ought to be ſtrictly adhered to on all occaſions: And am concerned that I have departed (tho' with ſo good a view) from my old maxim. But my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe would have it ſo. Yet I never knew a departure of this kind a ſingle departure. But, to make the beſt of it now, allow me, Sir, once more to beg the lady, as ſoon as poſſible, to authenticate the report given out.] When you both join in the acknowlegement, [38] it will be impertinent in any one to be inquiſitive as to the day or week: [And, if as privately celebrated as you intend (while the gentlewomen with whom you lodge are properly inſtructed, as you ſay they are, and who actually believe you were married long ago), who ſhall be able to give a contradiction to my report?]

And yet it is very probable, that minute inquiries will be made; and this is what renders precaution neceſſary. For Mr. James Harlowe will not believe that you are married; and is ſure, he ſays, that you both lived together when Mr. Hickman's application was made to Mr. John Harlowe: And if you lived together any time unmarried, he infers from your character, Mr. Lovelace, that it is not probable, that you would ever marry. And he leaves it to his two uncles to decide, if you even ſhould be married, whether there be not room to believe, that his ſiſter was firſt diſhonoured; and if ſo, to judge of the title ſhe will have to their favour, or to the forgiveneſs of any of her family. I believe, Sir, this part of my letter had beſt to be kept from the lady.

What makes young Mr. Harlowe the more earneſt to find this out (and find it out he is reſolved, and to come at his ſiſter's ſpeech too; and for that purpoſe ſets out to-morrow, as I am well-informed, with a large attendance, armed, and Mr. Solmes is to be of the party) is this:—Mr. John Harlowe has told the whole family, that he will alter and new-ſettle his will. Mr. Antony Harlowe is reſolved to do the ſame by his; for, it ſeems, he has now given over all thoughts of changing his condition; having lately been diſappointed in a view he had of that ſort with Mrs. Howe. Theſe two brothers generally act in concert; and Mr. James Harlowe dreads (and let me tell you, that he has reaſon for it, on my Mr. Harlowe's account), that his younger ſiſter will be, at laſt, more benefited than he wiſhes for, by the alteration [39] intended. He has already been endeavouring to ſound his uncle Harlowe on this ſubject; and wanted to know whether any new application had been made to him on his ſiſter's part. Mr. Harlowe avoided a direct anſwer, and expreſſed his wiſhes for a general reconciliation, and his hopes that his niece was married. This offended the furious young man, and he reminded his uncle of engagements they had all entered into at his ſiſter's going away, not to be reconciled but by general conſent.

Mr. John Harlowe complains to me often, of the uncontroulableneſs of his nephew; and ſays, that now, that the young man has not any-body of whoſe ſuperior ſenſe he ſtands in awe, he obſerves not decency in his behaviour to any of them. And this makes my Mr. Harlowe ſtill more deſirous than ever of bringing his younger niece into favour again. I will not ſay all I might of this young man's extraordinary rapaciouſneſs:—But one would think, that theſe graſping men expect to live for ever!

I took the liberty but within theſe two hours, to propoſe to ſet on foot (and offer'd my cover) to a correſpondence between my friend, and his daughter-niece, as he ſtill ſometimes fondly calls her. She was miſtreſs of ſo much prudence, I ſaid, that I was ſure ſhe could better direct every thing to its deſirable end, than any-body elſe could. But he ſaid, he did not think himſelf intirely at liberty to take ſuch a ſtep at preſent; and that it was beſt that he ſhould have it in his power to ſay, occaſionally, that he had not any correſpondence with her, or letter from her.

You will ſee, Sir, from all this, the neceſſity of keeping our treaty an abſolute ſecret; and if the lady has mentioned it to her worthy friend Miſs Howe, I hope it is in confidence.

And now, Sir, a few lines in anſwer to yours of Monday laſt.]

[40][Mr. Harlowe was very well pleaſed with your readineſs to come into his propoſal. But as to what you both deſire, that he will be preſent at the ceremony, he ſaid, that his nephew watched all his ſteps ſo narrowly, that he thought it was not practicable (if he were inclinable) to oblige you: But that he conſented with all his heart, that I ſhould be the perſon privately preſent at the ceremony, on his part.]

[However, I think, I have an expedient for this, if your lady continues to be very deſirous of her uncle's preſence (except he ſhould be more determined than his anſwer ſeemed to import); of which I ſhall acquaint you, and perhaps of what he ſays to it, when I have the pleaſure to ſee you in town. But, indeed, I think you have no time to loſe. Mr. Harlowe is impatient to hear, that you are actually one; and I hope I may carry him down word, when I leave you next, that I ſaw the ceremony performed.]

[If any obſtacle ariſes from the lady (from you it cannot), I ſhall be tempted to think a little hardly of her punctilio.]

Mr. Harlowe hopes, Sir, that you will rather take pains to avoid, than to meet, this violent young man. He has the better opinion of you, let me tell you, Sir, from the account I gave him of your moderation and politeneſs; neither of which are qualities with his nephew. But we have all of us ſomething to amend.

You cannot imagine how dearly my friend ſtill loves this excellent niece of his—I will give you an inſtance of it, which affected me a good deal.— ‘If once more (ſaid he, the laſt time but one we were together) I can but ſee this ſweet child gracing the upper-end of my table, as miſtreſs of my houſe, in my allotted month; all the reſt of the family preſent but as her gueſts; for ſo I would have it; and had her mother's conſent for it —There he ſtopt; for he was forced to turn his reverend face from me. [41] Tears ran down his cheeks. Fain would he have hid them: But he could not— ‘Yet,—yet, ſaid he—how —how— (poor gentleman, he perfectly ſobbed)— how ſhall I be able to bear the firſt meeting!’

I bleſs God I am no hard-hearted man, Mr. Lovelace: My eyes ſhewed to my worthy friend, that he had no reaſon to be aſhamed of his humanity before me.

I will put an end to this long epiſtle. Be pleaſed to make my compliments acceptable to the moſt excellent of women; as well as believe me to be,

Dear Sir,
Your faithful friend, and humble ſervant, ANTONY TOMLINSON.
*
What is between hooks [] thou mayeſt ſuppoſe, Jack, I ſunk upon the women, in the account I gave them of the contents of this letter.

During the above converſation I had planted myſelf at the further end of the apartment we were in, over-againſt the door; which was open; and oppoſite to the lady's chamber-door; which was ſhut. I ſpoke ſo low, that it was impoſſible, at that diſtance, that ſhe ſhould hear what we ſaid; and in this ſituation I could ſee if her door opened.

I told the women, that what I had mentioned of Lady Betty's and her niece's coming to town, and of their intention to viſit my ſpouſe, whom they had never ſeen, nor ſhe them, was real; and that I expected news of their arrival every hour. I then ſhewed them copies of the other two letters, which I had left with her; the one from lady Betty, the other from my couſin Montague.—And here thou mayeſt read them if thou wilt.

Eternally reproaching, eternally upbraiding me, are my impertinent relations. But they are fond of occaſions to find fault with me. Their love, their love, Jack, and their dependence on my known good humour, their inducement!

[42]

To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq.

Dear Nephew,

I Underſtand, that at length all our wiſhes are anſwered in your happy marriage. But I think, we might as well have heard of it directly from you, as from the round-about way by which we have been made acquainted with it. Methinks, Sir, the power and the will we have to oblige you, ſhould not expoſe us the more to your ſlights and negligence. My brother had ſet his heart upon giving to you the wife we have all ſo long wiſhed you to have. But if you were actually married at the time you made him that requeſt (ſuppoſing, perhaps, that his gout, would not let him attend you), it is but like you *.—If your lady had her reaſons to wiſh it to be private while the differences between her family and ſelf continue, you might nevertheleſs have communicated it to us, with that reſtriction; and we ſhould have forborn the public manifeſtations of our joy, upon an event we have ſo long deſired.

The diſtant way we have come to know it, is by my ſteward; who is acquainted with a friend of Captain Tomlinſon, to whom that gentleman revealed it: And he, it ſeems, had it from yourſelf and lady, with ſuch circumſtances as leave it not to be doubted.

I am, indeed, very much diſobliged with you: So is my ſiſter Sadleir. But I ſhall have a very ſpeedy opportunity to tell you ſo in perſon; being obliged to go to town on my old Chancery-affair. My couſin Leeſon, who is, it ſeems, removed to Albemarle-ſtreet, has notice of it. I ſhall be at her houſe, where I beſpeak your attendance on Sunday night. I have written to my couſin Charlotte for either her, or her ſiſter, to meet me at Reading, and accompany me to town. I ſhall ſtay but a few days; my buſineſs [43] being matter of form only: On my return I ſhall pop upon my brother, at M. Hall, to ſee in what way his laſt fit has left him.

Mean time, having told you my mind on your negligence, I cannot help congratulating you both upon the occaſion: Your fair lady particularly, upon her entrance into a family, which is prepared to admire and love her.

My principal intention of writing to you (diſpenſing with the neceſſary punctilio) is, that you may acquaint my dear new niece, that I will not be denied the honour of her company down with me into Oxfordſhire. I underſtand, that your propoſed houſe and equipages cannot be ſoon ready. She ſhall be with me till they are. I inſiſt upon it. This ſhall make all up. My houſe ſhall be her own: My ſervants and equipages hers.

Lady Sarah, who has not been out of her own houſe for months, will oblige me with her company for a week, in honour of a niece ſo dearly beloved, as I am ſure ſhe will be of us all.

Being but in lodgings in town, neither you nor your lady can require much preparation.

Some time on Monday I hope to attend the dear young lady, to make her my compliments; and to receive her apology for your negligence: Which, and her going down with me, as I ſaid before, ſhall be full ſatisfaction. Mean time, God bleſs her for her courage (Tell her I ſay ſo): And bleſs you both in each other; and that will be happineſs to us all— particularly, to

Your truly affectionate Aunt, ELIZ. LAWRANCE.
*
I gave the women room to think this reproach juſt, Jack.

To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq.

Dear Couſin,

AT laſt, as we underſtand, there is ſome hope of you. Now does my good Lord run over his [44] bead-roll of proverbs; of Black oxen, Wild oats, Long lanes, and ſo forth.

Now, couſin, ſay I, is your time come; and you will be no longer, I hope, an infidel either to the power or excellence of the ſex you have pretended hitherto ſo much to undervalue; nor a ridiculer or ſcoffer at an inſtitution which all ſober people reverence, and all rakes, ſooner or later, are brought to reverence, or to wiſh they had.

I want to ſee how you become your ſilken fetters: Whether the charming yoke fits light upon your ſhoulders. If, with ſuch a ſweet yoke-fellow it does not, my Lord, and my ſiſter, as well as I, think, that you will deſerve a cloſer tie about your neck.

His Lordſhip frets like gum'd taffaty, that you have not written him word of the day, the hour, the manner, and every thing. But I aſk him, How he can already expect any mark of deference or politeneſs from you? He muſt ſtay, I tell him, till that ſign of reformation, among others, muſt appear from the influence and example of your lady: But that, if ever you will be good for any thing, it will be quickly ſeen. And Oh couſin, what a vaſt, vaſt, journey have you to take from the dreary land of Libertiniſm, thro' the bright province of Reformation, into the ſerene kingdom of Happineſs!—You had need to loſe no time. You have many a weary ſtep to tread, before you can overtake thoſe travellers, who ſet out for it from a leſs remote quarter. But you have a charming pole-ſtar to guide you, that's your advantage. I wiſh you joy of it: And as I have never yet expected any highly complaiſant thing from you, I make no ſcruple to begin firſt; but it is purely, I muſt tell you, in reſpect to my new couſin; whoſe acceſſion into our family we moſt heartily congratulate and rejoice in.

I have a letter from Lady Betty. She commands my attendance, or my ſiſter's, at Reading, to proceed [45] with her to the great beaſtly town, to couſin Leeſon's. She puts Lord M. in hopes, that ſhe ſhall certainly bring down with her our lovely new relation; for ſhe ſays, ſhe will not be denied. His Lordſhip is the willinger to let me be the perſon, as I am in a manner wild to ſee her; my ſiſter having two years ago had that honour at Sir Robert Biddulph's. So get ready to accompany us in our return; except your lady has objections ſtrong enough to ſatisfy us all. Lady Sarah longs to ſee her; and ſays, This acceſſion to the family will ſupply to it the loſs of her beloved daughter.

I ſhall ſoon, I hope, pay my compliments to the dear lady in perſon: So have nothing to add, but that, I am

Your old mad Playfellow and Couſin, CHARLOTTE MONTAGUE·

The women having read the copies of theſe two letters, I thought that I might then threaten and ſwagger— ‘But very little heart have I, ſaid I, to encourage ſuch a viſit from Lady Betty and Miſs Montague to my ſpouſe. For after all, I am tired out with her ſtrange ways. She is not what ſhe was, and (as I told her in your hearing, ladies) I will leave this plaguy iſland, tho' the place of my birth, and tho' the ſtake I have in it is very conſiderable; and go and reſide in France or Italy, and never think of myſelf as a married man, nor live like one.

O dear! ſaid one.

That would be a ſad thing! ſaid the other.

Nay, Madam, turning to Mrs. Moore—Indeed, Madam, to Miſs Rawlins—I am quite deſperate. I can no longer bear ſuch uſage. I have had the good fortune to be favoured by the ſmiles of very fine ladies, tho' I ſay it (and I looked modeſt), both abroad and at home—[Thou knoweſt this to be true, Jack]. With regard to my ſpouſe here, I had but one hope left [46] (for as to the reconciliation with her friends, I ſcorn them all too much to value that, but for her ſake); and that was, that if it pleaſed God to bleſs us with children, ſhe might intirely recover her uſual ſerenity; and we might then be happy. But the reconciliation her heart was ſo much ſet upon, is now, as I hinted before, intirely hopeleſs—Made ſo, by this raſh ſtep of hers, and by the raſher temper ſhe is in; ſince (as you will believe) her brother and ſiſter, when they come to know it, will make a fine handle of it againſt us both;—affecting, as they do at preſent, to diſbelieve our marriage—and the dear creature herſelf too ready to countenance ſuch a disbelief,—as nothing more than the ceremony

Here I was baſhful; for Miſs Rawlins by her preparatory primneſs, put me in mind, that it was proper to be ſo

I turned half round; then facing the fan-player, and the matron—You yourſelves, ladies, knew not what to believe till Now, that I have told you our ſtory: And I do aſſure you, that I ſhall not give myſelf the ſame trouble to convince people I hate: People from whom I neither expect nor deſire any favour; and who are determined not to be convinced. And what, pray, muſt be the iſſue, when her uncle's friend comes, altho' he ſeems to be a truly worthy man? Is it not natural for him to ſay, ‘To what purpoſe, Mr. Lovelace, ſhould I endeavour to bring about a reconciliation between Mrs. Lovelace and her friends, by means of her elder uncle, when a good underſtanding is wanting between yourſelves?’ —A fair inference, Mrs. Moore!—A fair inference, Miſs Rawlins!—And here is the unhappineſs—Till ſhe is reconciled to them, this curſed oath, in her notion, is binding!

The women ſeem'd moved; for I ſpoke with great earneſtneſs, tho' low—And beſides, they love to have their ſex, and its favours, appear of importance to us. They ſhook their deep heads at each other, [47] and looked ſorrowful: And this moved my tender heart too.

'Tis an unheard-of caſe, ladies—Had ſhe not preferred me to all mankind—There I ſtopped—And that, reſumed I, feeling for my handkerchief, is, what ſtaggered Captain Tomlinſon, when he heard of her flight; who, the laſt time he ſaw us together, ſaw the moſt affectionate couple on earth!—The moſt affectionate couple on earth!—in the accent-grievous, repeated I.

Out then I pulled my handkerchief, and, putting it to my eyes, aroſe, and walked to the window—It makes me weaker than a woman!—Did I not love her, as never man loved his wife [I have no doubt but I do, Jack]—

There again I ſtopt; and reſuming—Charming creature, as you ſee ſhe is, I wiſh I had never beheld her face!—Excuſe me, ladies; traverſing the room. And having rubbed my eyes till I ſuppoſed them red, I turned to the women; and, pulling out my lettercaſe, I will ſhew you one letter—Here it is—Read it, Miſs Rawlins, if you pleaſe—It will confirm to you, how much all my family are prepared to admire her. I am freely treated in it;—ſo I am in the two others: But after what I have told you, nothing need be a ſecret to you two.

She took it, with an air of eager curioſity, and looked at the ſeal, oſtentatiouſly coronetted; and at the ſuperſcription, reading out, To Robert Lovelace, Eſq— Ay, Madam—Ay, Miſs—that's my name (giving myſelf an air, tho' I had told it to them before) I am not aſhamed of it. My wife's maiden name—Unmarried name, I ſhould rather ſay,—fool that I am!—and I rubbed my cheek for vexation [Fool enough in conſcience, Jack!] was Harlowe— Clariſſa Harlowe — You heard me call her My Clariſſa.

I did—but thought it to be a feigned or love-name, ſaid Miſs Rawlins.

[48]I wonder what is Miſs Rawlins's love-name, Jack. Moſt of the fair Romancers have in their early womanhood choſen Love-names. No parſon ever gave more real names, than I have given fictitious ones. And to very good purpoſe: Many a ſweet dear has anſwered me a letter for the ſake of owning a name which her godmother never gave her.

No—It was her real name, I ſaid.

I bid her read out the whole letter. If the ſpelling be not exact, Miſs Rawlins, ſaid I, you will excuſe it; the writer is a Lord. But, perhaps, I may not ſhew it to my ſpouſe; for if thoſe I have left with her have no effect upon her, neither will this: And I ſhall not care to expoſe my Lord M. to her ſcorn. Indeed I begin to be quite careleſs of conſequences.

Miſs Rawlins, who could not but be pleaſed with this mark of my confidence, looked as if ſhe pitied me.

And here thou mayeſt read the letter. No. III.

To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq.

Couſin Lovelace,

I Think you might have found time to let us know of your nuptials being actually ſolempnized. I might have expected this piece of civility from you. But perhaps the ceremony was performed at the very time that you aſked me to be your lady's father—But I ſhall be angry if I proceed in my gueſſes—And little ſaid is ſoon amended.

But I can tell you, that Lady Betty Lawrance, whatever Lady Sarah does, will not ſo ſoon forgive you, as I have done. Women reſent ſlights longer than men. You that know ſo much of the ſex (I ſpeak it not however to your praiſe) might have known That. But never was you before acquainted with a lady of ſuch an amiable character. I hope there will be but one ſoul between you. I have before now ſaid, that I will [49] diſinherit you, and ſettle all I can upon her, if you prove not a good huſband to her.

May this marriage be crowned with a great many fine boys (I deſire no girls) to build up again a family ſo antient! The firſt boy ſhall take my ſurname by act of parliament. That is in my will.

Lady Betty and niece Charlotte will be in town about buſineſs before you know where you are. They long to pay their compliments to your fair bride. I ſuppoſe you will hardly be at the Lawn when they get to town; becauſe Greme informs me, you have ſent no orders there for your lady's accommodation.

Pritchard has all things in readineſs for ſigning. I will take no advantage of your ſlights. Indeed I am too much uſed to them—More praiſe to my patience, than to your complaiſance, however.

One reaſon for Lady Betty's going up, as I may tell you under the roſe, is, to buy ſome ſuitable preſents for Lady Sarah and all of us to make on this agreeable occaſion.

We would have blazed it away, could we have had timely notice, and thought it would have been agreeable to all round. The like occaſions don't happen every day.

My moſt affectionate compliments and congratulations to my new niece, conclude me, for the preſent, in violent pains, that with all your heroicalneſs would make you mad,

Your truly affectionate Uncle, M.

This letter clench'd the nail. Not but that, Miſs Rawlins ſaid, ſhe ſaw I had been a wild gentleman; and, truly, ſhe thought ſo, the moment ſhe beheld me.

They began to intercede for my ſpouſe (ſo nicely had I turn'd the tables), and that I would not go abroad, and diſappoint a reconciliation ſo much wiſhed [50] for on one ſide, and ſuch deſirable proſpects on the other in my own family.

Who knows, thought I to myſelf, but more may come of this plot, than I had even promiſed myſelf? What a happy man ſhall I be, if theſe women can be brought to join to carry my marriage into conſummation?

Ladies, you are exceeding good to us both. I ſhould have ſome hopes, if my unhappily-nice ſpouſe could be brought to diſpenſe with the unnatural oath ſhe has laid me under. You ſee what my caſe is. Do you think I may not inſiſt upon her abſolving me from this abominable oath? Will you be ſo good, as to give your advice, that one apartment may ſerve for a man and his wife at the hour of retirement? —Modeſtly put, Belford!—And let me here obſerve, that few rakes, beſides me, would find a language ſo decent, as to engage modeſt women to talk with him in, upon ſuch ſubjects.

They both ſimper'd, and look'd upon one another.

Theſe ſubjects always make women ſimper, at leaſt. No need but of the moſt delicate hints to them. A man who is groſs in a woman's company, ought to be knock'd down with a club: For, like ſo many muſical inſtruments, touch but a ſingle wire, and the dear ſouls are ſenſible all over.

To be ſure, Miſs Rawlins learnedly ſaid, playing with her fan, a caſuiſt would give it, that the matrimonial vow ought to ſuperſede any other obligation.

Mrs. Moore, for her part, was of opinion, that, if the lady owned herſelf to be a wife, ſhe ought to behave like one.

Whatever be my luck, thought I, with this all-eyed fair one, any other woman in the world, from fifteen to five-and-twenty, would be mine upon my own terms before the morning.

And now, that I may be at hand to take all advantages, [51] I will endeavour, ſaid I to myſelf, to make ſure of good quarters.

I am your lodger, Mrs. Moore, in virtue of the earneſt I have given you, for theſe apartments, and for any one you can ſpare above for my ſervants; Indeed for all you have to ſpare—for who knows what my ſpouſe's brother may attempt? I will pay you your own demand: and that for a month or two certain (board included), as I ſhall or ſhall not be your hindrance. Take that as a pledge; or in part of payment.—Offering her a thirty pound bank note.

She declined taking it; deſiring ſhe might conſult the lady firſt; adding, that ſhe doubted not my honour; and that ſhe would not lett her apartments to any other perſon, whom ſhe knew not ſomething of, while I and the lady were here.

The lady, The lady! from both the womens mouths continually (which ſtill implied a doubt in their hearts): And not Your ſpouſe, and Your lady, Sir.

I never met with ſuch women, thought I; — So thoroughly convinced but this moment, yet already doubting! I am afraid I have a couple of Sceptics to deal with.

I knew no reaſon, I ſaid, for my wife to object to my lodging in the ſame houſe with her here, any more than in town, at Mrs. Sinclair's. But were ſhe to make ſuch objection, I would not quit poſſeſſion; ſince it was not unlikely, that the ſame freakiſh diſorder which brought her to Hamſtead, might carry her abſolutely out of my knowlege.

They both ſeemed embarraſſed; and looked upon one another; yet with ſuch an air, as if they thought there was reaſon in what I ſaid. And I declared myſelf her boarder, as well as lodger; and, dinner-time approaching, was not denied to be the former.

LETTER III. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

[52]

I Thought it was now high time to turn my whole mind to my beloved; who had had full leiſure to weigh the contents of the letters I had left with her.

I therefore requeſted Mrs. Moore to ſtep in, and deſire to know, whether ſhe would be pleaſed to admit me to attend her in her apartment, on occaſion of the letters I had left with her; or whether ſhe would favour me with her company in the dining-room?

Mrs. Moore deſired Miſs Rawlins to accompany her in to the lady. They tapp'd at her door, and were both admitted.

I cannot but ſtop here for one minute, to remark, tho' againſt myſelf, upon that ſecurity which innocence gives, that nevertheleſs had better have in it a greater mixture of the Serpent with the Dove. For here, heedleſs of all I could ſay behind her back, becauſe ſhe was ſatisfied with her own worthineſs, ſhe permitted me to go on with my own ſtory, without interruption, to perſons as great ſtrangers to her as to me; and who, as ſtrangers to both, might be ſuppoſed to lean to the ſide moſt injured: And that, as I managed it, was to mine. A dear ſilly ſoul! thought I, at the time, to depend upon the goodneſs of her own heart, when the heart cannot be ſeen into but by its actions; and ſhe, to appearance, a runaway, an eloper, from a tender, a moſt indulgent huſband!—To neglect to cultivate the opinion of individuals, when the whole world is governed by appearance!

Yet, what can be expected of an angel under twenty?—She has a world of knowlege; knowlege ſpeculative, as I may ſay; but no experience! How ſhould ſhe?—Knowlege by theory only is a vague uncertain [53] light: A Will o' the Wiſp, which as often miſleads the doubting mind, as puts it right.

There are many things in the world, could a moralizer ſay, that would afford inexpreſſible pleaſure to a reflecting mind, were it not for the mixture they come to us with. To be graver ſtil; I have ſeen parents (perhaps my own did ſo) who delighted in thoſe very qualities in their children, while young, the natural conſequences of which (too much indulged and encouraged) made them, as they grew up, the plague of their hearts.—To bring this home to my preſent purpoſe, I muſt tell thee, that I adore this charming creature for her vigilant prudence; but yet, I would not, methinks, wiſh her, by virtue of that prudence, which is, however, neceſſary to carry her above the devices of all the reſt of the world, to be too wiſe for mine.

My revenge, my ſworn revenge, is nevertheleſs (adore her as I will) uppermoſt in my heart!—Miſs Howe ſays, that my Love is an Herodian Love (a): By my ſoul, that girl's a witch!—I am half ſorry to ſay, that I find a pleaſure in playing the tyrant over what I love. Call it an ungenerous pleaſure, if thou wilt: Softer hearts than mine know it. The women to a woman know it, and ſhew it too, whenever they are truſted with power. And why ſhould it be thought ſtrange, that I, who love them ſo dearly, and ſtudy them ſo much, ſhould catch the infection of them?

LETTER IV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Will now give thee the ſubſtance of the dialogue that paſſed between the two women and the lady.

Wonder not, that a perv [...]rſe wife makes a liſtening huſband. The event, however, as thou wilt [54] find, juſtified the old obſervation, That liſteners ſeldom hear good of themſelves. Conſcious of their own demerits (if I may gueſs by myſelf: There's ingenuity, Jack!), and fearful of cenſure, they ſeldom find themſelves diſappointed. There is ſomething of ſenſe, after all, in theſe proverbs, in theſe phraſes, in this wiſdom of nations.

Mrs. Moore was to be the meſſenger; but Miſs Rawlins began the dialogue.

Your SPOUSE, Madam — [Devil!—Only to fiſh for a negative or affirmative declaration.]

Cl.

My ſpouſe, Madam —

Miſs R.

Mr. Lovelace, Madam, averrs, that you are married to him; and begs admittance, or your company in the dining-room, to talk upon the ſubject of the letters he left with you.

Cl.

He is a poor wicked wretch. Let me beg of you, Madam, to favour me with your company as often as poſſible while he is hereabouts, and I remain here.

Miſs R.

I ſhall with pleaſure attend you, Madam. But, methinks, I could wiſh you would ſee the gentleman, and hear what he has to ſay, on the ſubject of the letters.

Cl.

My caſe is a hard, a very hard one—I am quite bewilder'd!—I know not what to do!—I have not a friend in the world, that can or will help me!—Yet had none but friends till I knew that man!

Miſs R.

The gentleman neither looks nor talks like a bad man.—Not a very bad man; as men go.

As men go!—Poor Miſs Rawlins, thought I!— And doſt thou know, how men go?

Cl.

O Madam, you know him not!—He can put on the appearance of an angel of light; but has a black, a very black heart!—

Poor I!—

Miſs R.

I could not have thought it, truly!—But men are very deceitful now-a-days!

[55] Now-a-days! — a fool! — Have not her hiſtory-books told her, that they were always ſo?

Mrs. Moore,
ſighing.

I have found it ſo, I am ſure, to my coſt!—

Who knows but in her time, poor goody Moore may have met with a Lovelace, or a Belford, or ſome ſuch vile fellow?—My little hare-um-ſcare-um Beauty knows not what ſtrange hiſtories every woman living, who has had the leaſt independence of will, could tell her, were ſuch to be as communicative as ſhe is. — But here's the thing; — I have given her cauſe enough of offence; but not enough to make her hold her tongue.

Cl.

As to the letters he has left with me, I know not what to ſay to them:—But am reſolved never to have any thing to ſay to him.

Miſs R.

If, Madam, I may be allowed to ſay ſo, I think you carry matters very far.

Cl.

Has he been making a bad cauſe a good one with you, Madam? — That he can do, with thoſe who know him not. Indeed I heard him talking, tho' not what he ſaid, and am indifferent about it. But what account does he give of himſelf?

I was pleaſed to hear this. To arreſt, to ſtop her paſſion, thought I, in the height of its career, is a charming preſage.

Then the buſy Miſs Rawlins fiſh'd on, to find out from her either a confirmation or diſavowal of my ſtory. Was Lord M. my uncle?—Did I court her at firſt with the allowance of her friends, her brother excepted? Had I a rencounter with that brother? Was ſhe ſo perſecuted in favour of a very diſagreeable man, one Solmes, as to induce her to throw herſelf into my protection?

None of theſe were denied. All the objections ſhe could have made, were ſt [...]fled, or kept in, by the conſideration (as ſhe mentioned) that ſhe ſhould ſtay there but a little while; and that her ſtory was too [56] long. But Miſs Rawlins would not be thus eaſily anſwered.

Miſs R.

He ſays, Madam, that he could not prevail for marriage, till he had conſented, under a ſolemn oath, to ſeparate beds, while your family remain'd unreconciled.

Cl.

O the wretch!—What can be ſtill in his head, to endeavour to paſs theſe ſtories upon ſtrangers!

So no direct denial, thought I!—Admirable!— All will do by-and-by!

Miſs R.

He has owned, that an accidental fire had frighten'd you very much on Wedneſday night— And that—And that—And that—an accidental fire had frighten'd you—Very much frighten'd you—laſt Wedneſday night!—

Then, after a ſhort pauſe—In ſhort, He owned, That he had taken ſome innocent liberties, which might have led to a breach of the oath you had impoſed upon him: And that This was the cauſe of your diſpleaſure.

I would have been glad to ſee how my charmer then look'd.—To be ſure ſhe was at a loſs in her own mind, to juſtify herſelf for reſenting ſo highly an offence ſo trifling. She heſitated—Did not preſently ſpeak—When ſhe did, ſhe wiſh'd, That ſhe, Miſs Rawlins, might never meet with any man who would take ſuch innocent liberties with her.

Miſs Rawlins puſh'd further.

Your caſe, to be ſure, Madam, is very particular. But if the hope of a reconciliation with your own friends is made more diſtant by your le [...]ving him, give me leave to ſay, That 'tis pity—'tis pity—[I ſuppoſe the maiden then primm'd, fann'd, and bluſh'd; —'tis pity] the oath cannot be diſpenſed with; eſpecially as he owns, he has not been ſo ſtrict a liver.—

I could have gone in, and kiſs'd the girl.

Cl.
[57]

You have heard his ſtory. Mine, as I told you before, is too long, and too melancholy; my diſorder on ſeeing the wretch is too great; and my time here is too ſhort, for me to enter upon it. And if he has any end to ſerve by his own vindication, in which I ſhall not be a perſonal ſufferer, let him make himſelf appear as white as an angel; with all my heart.

My love for her, and the excellent character I gave her, were then pleaded.

Cl.

Specious ſeducer!—Only tell me, if I cannot get away from him by ſome backway?

How my heart then went pit-a-pat!

Cl.

Let me look out—[I heard the ſaſh lifted up] Whither does that path lead to? Is there no poſſibility of getting to a coach?—Surely, he muſt deal with ſome fiend, or how could he have found me out?— Cannot I ſteal to ſome neighbouring houſe, where I may be concealed till I can get quite away? —You are good people!—I have not been always among ſuch!—O help me, help me, ladies

(with a voice of impatience),

or I am ruined!

Then pauſing, Is that the way to Hendon? [pointing, I ſuppoſe]—Is Hendon a private place?—The Hamſtead coach, I am told, will carry paſſengers thither.

Mrs. Moore.

I have an honeſt friend at Mill-hill [Devil fetch her, thought I]; where, if ſuch be your determination, Madam, and if you think yourſelf in danger, you may be ſafe, I believe.

Cl.

Any-whither, if I can but eſcape from this man!—Whither does that path lead to, out yonder? —What is that town on the right-hand called?

Mrs. M.

Highgate, Madam.

Miſs R.

On the ſide of the heath is a little village called North-end. A kinſwoman of mine lives there. But her houſe is ſmall. I am not ſure ſhe could accommodate ſuch a lady.

Devil take her too, thought I!—I imagined, that [58] I had made myſelf a better intereſt in theſe women. But the whole Sex love plotting; and plot-ters, too, Jack.

Cl.

A barn, an outhouſe, a garret, will be a palace to me, if it will but a afford me a refuge from this man!

Her ſenſes, thought I, are much livelier than mine. What a devil have I done, that ſhe ſhould be ſo very implacable!—I told thee, Belford, All I did: Was there any thing in it ſo very much amiſs!—Such proſpects of family-reconciliation before her too!— To be ſure ſhe is a very ſenſible lady!—

She then eſpied my new ſervant walking under the window, and aſked, If he were not one of mine?—

Will. was on the look-out for old Grimes [So is the fellow called whom my beloved has diſpatch'd to Miſs Howe]. And being told, that the man ſhe ſaw was my ſervant; I ſee, ſaid ſhe, that there is no eſcaping, unleſs you, Madam [To Miſs Rawlins, I ſuppoſe], can befriend me till I can get farther. I have no doubt that that fellow is planted about the houſe to watch my ſteps. But the wicked wretch his maſter has no right to controul me. He ſhall not hinder me from going whither I pleaſe. I will raiſe the town upon him, if he moleſts me. Dear ladies, is there no back-door for me to get out at while you hold him in talk?

Miſs R.

Give me leave to aſk you, Madam; Is there no room to hope for accommodation? Had you not better ſee him? He certainly loves you dearly: He is a fine gentleman: You may exaſperate him, and make matters more unhappy for yourſelf.

Cl.

O Mrs. Moore, O Miſs Rawlins! you know not the man!—I wiſh not to ſee his face, nor to exchange another word with him as long as I live.

Mrs. Moore.

I don't find, Miſs Rawlins, that the gentleman has miſrepreſented any-thing. You ſee, Madam

[To my Clariſſa],

how reſpectful he is; not [59] to come in till permitted. He certainly loves you dearly. Pray, Madam, let him talk to you, as he wiſhes to do, on the ſubject of the letters.

Very kind of Mrs. Moore. Mrs. Moore, thought I, is a very good woman.—I did not curſe her then.

Miſs Rawlins ſaid ſomething; but ſo low, that I could not hear what it was. Thus it was anſwer'd.

Cl.

I am greatly diſtreſſed! I know not what to do!—But, Mrs. Moore, be ſo good as to give his letters to him—Here they are.—Be pleaſed to tell him, That I wiſh him and his aunt and couſin a happy meeting. He never can want excuſes to them for what has happened, any more than pretences to thoſe he would delude. Tell him, That he has ruined me in the opinion of my own friends. I am for that reaſon the leſs ſolicitous how I appear to his.

Mrs. Moore then came to me; and being afraid, that ſomething would paſs mean time between the other two, which I ſhould not like, I took the letters, and entered the room, and found them retired into the cloſet; my beloved whiſpering with an air of earneſtneſs to Miſs Rawlins, who was all attention.

Her back was towards me; and Miſs Rawlins, by pulling her ſleeve, giving intimation of my being there, Can I have no retirement uninvaded, Sir, ſaid ſhe, with indignation, as if ſhe was interrupted in ſome talk her heart was in?—What buſineſs have you here, or with me?—You have your letters, han't you?

Lovel.

I have, my dear; and let me beg of you to conſider what you are about. I every moment expect Capt. Tomlinſon here. Upon my ſoul, I do. He has promiſed to keep from your uncle what has happened.—But what will he think, if he finds you hold in this ſtrange humour?

Cl.

I will endeavour, Sir, to have patience with you for a moment or two, while I aſk you a few [60] queſtions before this lady and Mrs. Moore [who juſt then came in], both whom you have prejudiced in your favour by your ſpecious ſtories:—Will you ſay, Sir, that we are married together? Lay your hand upon your heart, and anſwer me, Am I your wedded wife?

I am gone too far, thought I, to give up for ſuch a puſh as this—home-one as it is.

My deareſt ſoul! how can you put ſuch a queſtion?—Is it either for your honour or my own, that it ſhould be doubted?—Surely, ſurely, Madam, you cannot have attended to the contents of Capt. Tomlinſon's letter.

She complained often of want of ſpirits throughout our whole contention, and of weakneſs of perſon and mind, from the fits ſhe had been thrown into: But little reaſon had ſhe for this complaint, as I thought, who was able to hold me to it, as ſhe did. I own that I was exceſſively concern'd for her ſeveral times.

You and I! Vileſt of men

My name is Lovelace, Madam—

Therefore it is, that I call you the vileſt of men. [Was this pardonable, Jack?] You and I know the truth, the whole truth—I want not to clear up my reputation with theſe gentlewomen:—That is already loſt with every one I had moſt reaſon to value: But let me have this new ſpecimen of what you are capable of— Say, wretch (ſay, Lovelace, if thou hadſt rather), Art thou really and truly my wedded huſhand?—Say! anſwer without heſitation!—

She trembled with impatient indignation; but had a wildneſs in her manner, which I took ſome advantage of, in order to parry this curſed thruſt—And a curſed thruſt it was; ſince, had I poſitively averr'd it, ſhe never would have believed any-thing I had ſaid: And had I owned that I was not married, I had deſtroyed my own plot, as well with the women as with her; and [61] could have had no pretence for purſuing her, or hindering her from going whitherſoever ſhe pleaſed. Not that I was aſham'd to averr it, had it been conſiſtent with policy. I would not have thee think me ſuch a milkſop neither.

Lovel.

My deareſt Love, how wildly you talk! What would you have me anſwer? Is it neceſſary that I ſhould anſwer? May I not re-appeal this to your own breaſt, as well as to Captain Tomlinſon's treaty and letter? You know yourſelf how matters ſtand between us.—And Captain Tomlinſon—

Cl.

O wretch! Is this an anſwer to my queſtion? Say, Are we married, or are we not?

Lovel.

What makes a marriage, we all know. If it be the union of two hearts, [There was a turn, Jack!] to my utmoſt grief, I muſt ſay we are not; ſince now I ſee you hate me. If it be the completion of marriage, to my confuſion and regret, I muſt own we are not. But, my dear, will you be pleaſed to conſider what anſwer half a dozen people whence you came, could give to your queſtion? And do not now, in the diſorder of your mind, and in the height of paſſion, bring into queſtion before theſe gentlewomen a point you have acknowleged before thoſe who know us better.

I would have whiſper'd her about the treaty with her uncle, and the contents of the Captain's letter; But, retreating, and with a rejecting hand, Keep thy diſtance, man, cry'd the dear inſolent—To thy own heart I appeal, ſince thou evadeſt me thus pitifully!—I own no marriage with thee! Bear witneſs, ladies, I do not. And ceaſe to torment me, ceaſe to follow me. Surely, ſurely, faulty as I have been, I have not deſerved to be thus perſecuted!—I reſume, therefore, my former language: You have no right to purſue me: You know you have not: Begone, then; and leave me to make the beſt of my hard lot. O my dear cruel papa! ſaid ſhe, in a violent [62] fit of grief (falling upon her knees, and claſping her uplifted hands together), thy heavy curſe is completed upon thy devoted daughter! I am puniſhed, dreadfully puniſhed, by the very wretch in whom I had placed my wicked confidence!

By my ſoul, Belford, the little witch with her words, but more by her manner, moved me! Wonder not then, that her action, her grief, her tears, ſet the women into the like compaſſionate manifeſtations.

Had not I a curſed taſk of it?

The two women withdrew to the further end of the room, and whiſper'd, A ſtrange caſe! There is no frenzy here—I juſt heard ſaid.

The charming creature threw her handkerchief over her head and neck, continuing kneeling, her back towards me, and her face hid upon a chair, and repeatedly ſobb'd with grief and paſſion.

I took this opportunity to ſtep to the women, to keep them ſteady.

You ſee, ladies (whiſpering), what an unhappy man I am! You ſee what a ſpirit this dear creature has!—All, all owing to her implacable relations, and to her father's curſe.—A curſe upon them all; they have turn'd the head of the moſt charming woman in the world.

Ah! Sir, Sir, replied Miſs Rawlins, whatever be the fault of her relations, all is not as it ſhould be between you and her. 'Tis plain ſhe does not think herſelf married: 'Tis plain ſhe does not: And if you have any value for the poor lady, and would not totally deprive her of her ſenſes, you had better withdraw, and leave to time and cooler conſideration the event in your favour.

She will compel me to this at laſt, I fear, Miſs Rawlins; I fear ſhe will; and then we are both undone: For I cannot live without her; ſhe knows it too well:—And ſhe has not a friend will look upon [63] her: This alſo ſhe knows. Our marriage, when her uncle's friend comes, will be proved inconteſtably. But I am aſhamed to think I have given her room to believe it no marriage: That's what ſhe harps upon!

Well, 'tis a ſtrange caſe, a very ſtrange one, ſaid Miſs Rawlins; and was going to ſay further, when the angry Beauty, coming towards the door, ſaid, Mrs. Moore, I beg a word with you. And they both ſtepped into the dining-room.

I ſaw her, juſt before, put a parcel into her pocket, and followed them out, for fear ſhe ſhould ſlip away; and ſtepping to the ſtairs, that ſhe might not go by me, Will. cry'd I, aloud (tho' I knew he was not near)—Pray, child, to a maid, who anſwered, call either of my ſervants to me.

She then came up to me, with a wrathful countenance: Do you call your ſervant, Sir, to hinder me, between you, from going whither I pleaſe?

Don't, my deareſt life, miſinterpret every thing I do. Can you think me ſo mean and ſo unworthy, as to employ a ſervant to conſtrain you?—I call him to ſend to the public houſes, or inns in this town, to inquire after Captain Tomlinſon, who may have alighted at ſome one of them, and be now, perhaps, needleſly adjuſting his dreſs; and I would have him come, were he to be without cloaths, God forgive me! for I am ſtabb'd to the heart by your cruelty.

Anſwer was returned, that neither of my ſervants was in the way.

Not in the way, ſaid I!—Whither can the dogs be gone?

O Sir! with a ſcornful air; Not far, I'll warrant. One of them was under the window juſt now; according to order, I ſuppoſe, to watch my ſteps—But I will do what I pleaſe, and go whither I pleaſe; and that to your face.

[64]God forbid, that I ſhould hinder you in any thing that you may do with ſafety to yourſelf!

Now I verily believe, that her deſign was, to ſlip out in purſuance of the cloſet-whiſpering between her and Miſs Rawlins; perhaps to Miſs Rawlins's houſe.

She then ſtept back to Mrs. Moore, and gave her ſomething, which proved to be a diamond ring, and deſired her, not whiſperingly, but with an air of defiance to me, that That might be a pledge for her, till ſhe defray'd her demands; which ſhe ſhould ſoon find means to do; having no more money about her, than ſhe might have occaſion for, before ſhe came to an acquaintance's.

Mrs. Moore would have declined taking it; but ſhe would not be deny'd; and then, wiping her eyes, ſhe put on her gloves—Nobody has a right to ſtop me, ſaid ſhe!—I will go!—Who ſhould I be afraid of?—Her very queſtion, charming creature! teſtifying her fear.

I beg pardon, Madam (turning to Mrs. Moore, and courteſying), for the trouble I have given you.—I beg pardon, Madam, to Miſs Rawlins (courteſying likewiſe to her)—You may both hear of me in a happier hour, if ſuch a one falls to my lot—And God bleſs you both!—ſtruggling with her tears till ſhe ſobb'd—and away was tripping.

I ſtepped to the door: I put it to; and ſetting my back againſt it, took her ſtruggling hand—My deareſt life! My angel! ſaid I, why will you thus diſtreſs me? —Is this the forgiveneſs which you ſo ſolemnly promiſed?—

Unhand me, Sir!—You have no buſineſs with me! You have no right over me! You know you have not.

But whither, whither, my deareſt love, would you go?—Think you not that I will follow you, were it to the world's end?—Whither would you go?

Well do you aſk me, Whither I would go, who [65] have been the occaſion, that I have not a friend left! —But God, who knows my innocence, and my up [...]ight intentions, will not wholly abandon me, when I am out of your power—But while in it, I cannot expect a gleam of the divine grace or favour to reach me.

How ſevere is this!—How ſhockingly ſevere!— Out of your preſence, my angry fair one! I can neither hope for the one nor the other. As my couſin Montague, in the letter you have read, obſerves, You are my pole-ſtar, and my guide; and if ever I am to be happy, either here or hereafter, it muſt be in and by you.

She would then have urged me from the door. But reſpectfully oppoſing her, Begone, man! Begone, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe.—Stop not my way.—If you would not that I ſhould attempt the window, give me paſſage by the door; for, once more, you have no right to detain me!

Your reſentments, my deareſt life, I will own to be well-grounded—I will acknowlege, that I have been all in fault. On my knee (and down I dropt) I aſk your pardon. And can you refuſe to ratify your own promiſe?—Look forward to the happy proſpect before us. See you not my Lord M. and Lady Sarah longing to bleſs you, for bleſſing me, and their whole family? Can you take no pleaſure in the promiſed viſit of Lady Betty and my couſin Montague? And in the protection they offer you, if you are diſſatisfied with mine?—Have you no wiſh to ſee your uncle's friend?—Stay only till Captain Tomlinſon comes.—Receive from him the news of your uncle's compliance with the wiſhes of both.

She ſeem'd altogether diſtreſſed; was ready to ſink; and forced to lean againſt the wainſcot, as I kneeled at her feet. A ſtream of tears at laſt burſt from her leſs indignant e [...]es—Good heaven, ſaid ſhe, lifting up her lovely face, and claſped hands, what is [66] at laſt to be my deſtiny!—Deliver me from this dangerous man; and direct me!—I know not what I do; what I can do; nor what I ought to do!—

The women, as I had owned our marriage to be but half completed, heard nothing in this whole ſcene to contradict (not flagrantly to contradict) what I had aſſerted: They believed they ſaw in her returning temper, and ſtagger'd reſolution, a love for me, which her indignation had before ſuppreſſed; and they joined to perſuade her to tarry till the Captain came, and to hear his propoſals; repreſenting the dangers to which ſhe would be expoſed; the fatigues ſhe might endure; a lady of her appearance, unguarded, unprotected. On the other hand, they dwelt upon my declared contrition, and on my promiſes: For the performance of which they offered to be bound.—So much had my kneeling humility affected them.

Women, Jack, tacitly acknowlege the inferiority of their own ſex, in the pride they take to behold a kneeling lover at their feet.

She turned from me, and threw herſelf into a chair.

I aroſe, and approached her with reverence—My deareſt creature, ſaid I—and was proceeding—But, with a face glowing with conſcious dignity, ſhe interrupted me — Ungenerous, ungrateful Lovelace! — You know not the value of the heart you have inſulted! Nor can you conceive how much my ſoul deſpiſes your meanneſs. But meanneſs muſt ever be the portion of the man, who can act vilely!—

The women believing we were likely to be on better terms, retired. The dear perverſe oppoſed their going; but they ſaw I was deſirous of their abſence. And when they had withdrawn, I once more threw myſelf at her feet, and acknowleged my offences; implored her forgiveneſs for this one time, and promiſed the exacteſt circumſpection for the future.

[67]It was impoſſible for her, ſhe ſaid, to keep her memory, and forgive me. What hadſt thou ſeen in the conduct of Clariſſa Harlowe, that ſhould encourage ſuch an inſult upon her, as thou didſt dare to make? How meanly muſt thou think of her, that thou couldſt preſume to be ſo guilty, and expect her to be ſo weak, as to forgive thee?—

I beſought her to let me go over with her Captain Tomlinſon's letter. I was ſure it was impoſſible ſhe could have given it the requiſite attention.

I have given it the requiſite attention, ſaid ſhe; and the other letters too. So that what I ſay, is upon deliberation. And what have I to fear from my brother and ſiſter?—They can but complete the ruin of my fortunes with my father and uncles. Let them, and welcome. You, Sir, I thank you, have lowered my fortunes: But, I bleſs God, that my mind is not ſunk with my fortunes. It is, on the contrary, raiſed above Fortune, and above You; and for half a word, they ſhall have the eſtate they have envied me for, and an acquittal of all expectations from my family, that may make them uneaſy.

I lifted up my hands and eyes in ſilent admiration of her!

My brother, Sir, may think me ruined. To the praiſe of your character, by whom I have been ſeduced from them, he may think it it impoſſible to be with you, and be innocent. You have but too well juſtified their harſheſt cenſures in every part of your conduct. But I will, now that I have eſcaped from you, and that I am out of the reach of your myſterious devices, wrap myſelf up in my own innocence (and then ſhe paſſionately folded her arms about herſelf), and leave to time, and to my future circumſpection, the re-eſtabliſhment of my character.— Leave me then, Sir—Purſue me not!—

Good God! interrupting her—And all this, for what?—Hand I not yielded to your intreaties (Forgive [68] me, Madam), you could not have carried farther your reſentments —

Wretch!—Was it not crime enough to give occaſion for thoſe intreaties? Wouldſt thou make a merit to me, that thou didſt not utterly ruin her whom thou oughteſt to have protected? — Begone, man! turning from me, her face crimſon'd over with paſſion:—See me no more!—I cannot bear thee in my ſight!—

Deareſt, deareſt creature!—

If I forgive thee, Lovelace—And there ſhe ſtopp'd. To endeavour, proceeded ſhe, to endeavour, to terrify a poor creature by premeditation, by low contrivance, by cries of fire—A poor creature who had conſented to take a wretched chance with thee for life!

For Heaven's ſake—offering to take her repulſing hand, as ſhe was flying from me towards the cloſet—

What haſt thou to do, to plead the ſake of Heaven in thy favour, O darkeſt of human minds!

Then turning from me, wiping her eyes, and again turning towards me, but her ſweet face half-aſide, What difficulties haſt thou involved me in!—Thou that hadſt a plain path before thee, after thou hadſt betray'd me into thy power—At once my mind takes in the whole of thy crooked behaviour; and if thou thinkeſt of Clariſſa Harlowe as her proud heart tells her thou oughteſt to think of her, thou wilt ſeek thy fortunes elſewhere. How often haſt thou provoked me to tell thee, that my ſoul is above thee?

For God's ſake, Madam, for a ſoul's ſake, which it is in your power to ſave from perdition, forgive me the paſt offence. I am the greateſt villain on earth, if it was a premeditated one. Yet I preſume not to excuſe myſelf. On your mercy I throw myſelf. I will not offer at any plea, but that of penitence. See but Captain Tomlinſon. See but my aunt and couſin: let them plead for me; let them be guaranties for m [...] honour.

[69]If Captain Tomlinſon come while I ſtay here, I may ſee him. But as for you, Sir—

Deareſt creature! let me beg of you not to aggravate my offence to the Captain, when he comes. Let me beg of you—

What aſkeſt thou?—Is it not, that I ſhall be of party againſt myſelf?—That I ſhall palliate—

Do not charge me, Madam, interrupted I, with villainous premeditation!—Do not give ſuch a conſtruction to my offence, as may weaken your uncle's opinion—as may ſtrengthen your brother's—

She flung from me to the further end of the room; She could go no further—And juſt then Mrs. Moore came up, and told her, that dinner was ready; and that ſhe had prevailed upon Miſs Rawlins to give her her company.

You muſt excuſe me, Mrs. Moore, ſaid ſhe. Miſs Rawlins I hope alſo will—But I cannot eat. I cannot go down. As for you, Sir, I ſuppoſe you will think it right to depart hence; at leaſt till the gentleman comes whom you expect.

I reſpectfully withdrew into the next room, that Mrs. Moore might acquaint her [I durſt not myſelf], that I was her lodger and boarder, as (whiſperingly) I deſired ſhe would: And meeting Miſs Rawlins in the paſſage, Deareſt Miſs Rawlins, ſaid I, ſtand my friend: Join with Mrs. Moore to pacify my ſpouſe, if ſhe has any new f [...]ights upon my having taken lodgings, and intending to board here. I hope ſhe will have more generoſity than to think of hindering a gentlewoman from letting her lodgings.

I ſuppoſe Mrs. Moore (whom I left with my fair one) had appriſed her of this before Miſs Rawlins went in; for I heard her ſay, while I with-held Miſs Rawlins— ‘No, indeed: He is much miſtaken— Surely he does not think I will.’

They both expoſtulated with her, as I could gather from bits and ſcraps of what they ſaid; for they [70] ſpoke ſo low, that I could not hear any diſtinct ſentence, but from the fair perverſe, whoſe anger made her louder. And to this purpoſe I heard her deliver herſelf in anſwer to different parts of their talk to her: — ‘Good Mrs. Moore, dear Miſs Rawlins, preſs me no further—I cannot ſit down at table with him!’

They ſaid ſomething, as I ſuppoſe in my behalf— ‘O the inſinuating wretch!—What defence have I againſt a man, who, go where I will, can turn every one, even of the virtuous of my ſex, in his favour?’

After ſomething elſe ſaid, which I heard not diſtinctly,— ‘This is execrable cunning!—Were you to know his wicked heart, he is not without hope of engaging you two good perſons to ſecond him in the vileſt of his machinations.’

How came ſhe (thought I at the inſtant) by al [...] this penetration? My devil ſurely does not play m [...] booty. If I thought he did, I would marry, and live honeſt, to be even with him.

I ſuppoſe then, they urged the plea which I hinted to Miſs Rawlins at going in, that ſhe would not be Mrs. Moore's hindrance; for thus ſhe expreſſed herſelf— ‘He will no doubt pay you your own price. You need not queſtion his liberality. But one houſe cannot hold us. Why, if it would, did I fly from him, to ſeek refuge among ſtrangers?’

Then, in anſwer to ſomewhat elſe they pleaded— ‘'Tis a miſtake, Madam; I am not reconciled to him. I will believe nothing he ſays. Has he no [...] given you a flagrant ſpecimen of what a man he is, and of what he is capable, by the diſguiſes you ſaw him in? My ſtory is too long, and my ſtay here will be but ſhort; or I could convince you, tha [...] my reſentments againſt him are but too wel [...] founded.’

I ſuppoſe then, that they pleaded for her leave, for my dining with them: For ſhe ſaid; ‘I have nothing [71] to ſay to that—It is your own houſe, Mrs. Moore— It is your own table —You may admit whom you pleaſe to it—Only leave me at my liberty to chooſe my company.’

Then in anſwer, as I ſuppoſe, to their offer of ſending her up a plate— ‘A bit of bread, if you pleaſe, and a glaſs of water: That's all I can ſwallow at preſent. I am really very much diſcompoſed. Saw you not how bad I was?—Indignation only could have ſupported my ſpirits!—’

'I have no objection to his dining with you, Madam;' added ſhe, in reply, I ſuppoſe, to a farther queſtion of the ſame nature— ‘But I will not ſtay a night in the houſe, where he lodges, if I can help it.’

I preſume Miſs Rawlins had told her, that ſhe would not ſtay dinner—for ſhe ſaid, ‘Let me not deprive Mrs. Moore of your company, Miſs Rawlins. You will not be diſpleaſed with his talk. He can have no deſign upon you.’

Then I ſuppoſe they pleaded what I might ſay behind her back, to make my own ſtory good;— ‘I care not what he ſays, or what he thinks of me. Repentance and amendment are all the harm I wiſh him, whatever becomes of me!’

By her accent, ſhe wept when ſhe ſpoke theſe laſt words.

They came out both of them wiping their eyes; and would have perſuaded me to relinquiſh the lodgings, and to depart till her uncle's friend came. But I knew better. I did not care to truſt the devil, well as ſhe and Miſs Howe ſuppoſe me to be acquainted with him, for finding her out again, if once more ſhe eſcaped me.

What I am moſt afraid of, is, that ſhe will throw herſelf among her own relations; and if ſhe does, I am confident they will not be able to withſtand her affecting eloquence. But yet, as thou'lt ſee, the Captain's letter to me is admirably calculated to obviate [72] my apprehenſions on this ſcore; particularly in that paſſage, where it is ſaid, that her uncle thinks not himſelf at liberty to correſpond directly with her, or to receive applications from her—But thro' Captain Tomlinſon, as is ſtrongly imply'd (a).

I muſt own (notwithſtanding the revenge I have ſo ſolemnly vowed) that I would very fain have made for her a merit with myſelf in her returning favour, and owed as little as poſſible to the mediation of Captain Tomlinſon. My pride was concerned in this. And this was one of my reaſons for not bringing him with me. Another was; That, if I were obliged to have recourſe to his aſſiſtance, I ſhould be better able (by viſiting her without him) to direct him what to ſay or to do, as I ſhould find out the turn of her humour.

I was, however, glad at my heart, that Mrs. Moore came up ſo ſeaſonably with notice, that dinner was ready. The fair fugitive was all in Alt. She had the game in her own hands; and by giving me ſo good an excuſe for withdrawing, I had time to ſtrengthen myſelf; the Captain had time to come; and the Lady to cool. Shakeſpeare adviſes well.

Oppoſe not rage, while rage is in its force;
But give it way awhile, and let it waſte.
The riſing deluge is not ſtopt with dams;
Thoſe it o'erbears, and drowns the hope of harveſt.
But, wiſely manag'd, its divided ſtrength
Is ſluic'd in channels, and ſecurely drain'd:
And when its force is ſpent, and unſupply'd,
The reſidue with mounds may be reſtrain'd,
And dry-ſh [...]d we may paſs the naked ford.

I went down with the women to dinner. Mrs. Moore ſent her fair boarder up a plate; but ſhe only eat a little bit of bread, and drank a glaſs of water. [...] doubted not but ſhe would keep her word, when it [73] was once gone out. Is not ſhe an Harlowe?—She ſeems to be inuring herſelf to hardſhips, which, at the worſt, ſhe can never know; ſince, tho' ſhe ſhould ultimately refuſe to be obliged to me, or, to expreſs myſelf more ſuitably to my own heart, to oblige me, every one who ſees her muſt befriend her.

But let me aſk thee, Belford, Art thou not ſolicitous for me, in relation to the contents of the letter which the angry beauty has written and diſpatch'd away by man and horſe; and for what may be Miſs Howe's anſwer to it? Art thou not ready to inquire, Whether it be not likely that Miſs Howe, when ſhe knows of her ſaucy friend's flight, will be concern'd about her letter, which ſhe muſt know could not be at Wilſon's till after that flight; and ſo, probably, would fall into my hands?—

All theſe things, as thou'lt ſee in the ſequel, are provided for with as much contrivance as human foreſight can admit.

I have already told thee, that Will. is upon the look-out for old Grimes.—Old Grimes is, it ſeems, a goſſiping, ſottiſh raſcal; and if Will. can but light of him, I'll anſwer for the conſequence: For has not Will. been my ſervant upwards of ſeven years?

LETTER V. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

WE had at dinner, beſides Miſs Rawlins, a young widow-niece of Mrs. Moore, who is come to ſtay a month with her aunt—Bevis her name; very forward, very lively, and a great admirer of me, I aſſure you; — hanging ſmirkingly upon all I ſaid; and prepared to approve of every word before I ſpoke: And who, by the time we had half-dined (by the help of what ſhe had collected before), was as [74] much acquainted with our ſtory, as either of the other two.

As it behoved me to prepare them in my favour againſt whatever might come from Miſs Howe, I improved upon the hint I had thrown out above-ſtairs againſt that miſchief-making Lady. I repreſented her to be an arrogant creature, revengeful, artful, enterpriſing, and one who, had ſhe been a man, would have ſworn and curs'd, and committed rapes, and play'd the devil, as far as I knew [and I have no doubt of it, Jack]: but who, nevertheleſs, by advantage of a female education, and pride, and inſolence, I believed was perſonally virtuous.

Mrs. Bevis allowed, that there was a vaſt deal in education—and in pride too, ſhe ſaid. While Miſs Rawlins came with a prudiſh God forbid, that virtue ſhould be owing to education only! However, I declared, that Miſs Howe was a ſubtle contriver of miſchief; one who had always been my enemy: her motives I knew not: but, deſpiſing the man whom her mother was deſirous ſhe ſhould have, one Hickman; altho' I did not directly averr, that ſhe would rather have had me; yet they all immediately imagined, that that was the ground of her animoſity to me, and of her envy to my beloved; and it was pity, they ſaid, that ſo fine a young Lady did not ſee thro' ſuch a pretended friend.

And yet nobody (added I) has more reaſon than ſhe to know by experience the force of a hatred founded in envy; as I hinted to you above, Mrs. Moore, and to you, Miſs Rawlins, in the caſe of her ſiſter Arabella.

I had compliments made to my perſon and talents on this occaſion; which gave me a ſingular opportunity of diſplaying my modeſty, by diſclaiming the merit of them, with a No, indeed!—I ſhould be very vain, Ladies, if I thought ſo. While thus abaſing [75] myſelf, and exalting Miſs Howe, I got their opinion both for modeſty and generoſity; and had all the graces which I diſclaimed, thrown in upon me, beſides.

In ſhort, they even oppreſſed that modeſty, which (to ſpeak modeſtly of myſelf) their praiſes created, by diſbelieving all I ſaid againſt myſelf.

And, truly, I muſt needs ſay, they have almoſt perſuaded even me myſelf, that Miſs Howe is actually in love with me. I have often been willing to hope this. And who knows but ſhe may? The Captain and I have agreed, that it ſhall be ſo inſinuated occaſionally—And what's thy opinion, Jack? She certainly hates Hickman: And girls who are diſengaged ſeldom hate, tho' they may not love: And if ſhe had rather have another, why not that other ME? For am I not a ſmart fellow, and a rake? And do not your ſprightly Ladies love your ſmart fellows, and your rakes? And where is the wonder, that the man who could engage the affections of Miſs Harlowe, ſhould engage thoſe of a Lady (with her (a) Alas's) who would be honoured in being deemed her ſecond?

Nor accuſe thou me of SINGULAR vanity in this preſumption, Belford. Wert thou to know the ſecret vanity that lurks in the hearts of thoſe who diſguiſe or cloak it beſt, thou wouldſt find great reaſon to acquit, at leaſt to allow for, me: ſince it is generally the conſcious over-fulneſs of conceit, that makes the hypocrite moſt upon his guard to conceal it.— Yet with theſe fellows, proudly-humble as they are, it will break out ſometimes in ſpite of thier cloaks, tho' but in ſelf-denying, compliment-begging ſelf-degradation.

But now I have appealed this matter to thee, let [76] me uſe another argument in favour of my obſervation, that the Ladies generally prefer a rake to a ſober man; and of my preſumption upon it, that Miſs Howe is in love with me: It is this:—Common fame ſays, That Hickman is a very virtuous, a very innocent fellow—a male-virgin, I warrant!—An odd dog I always thought him.—Now women, Jack, like not novices. They are pleaſed with a Love of the Sex that is founded in the knowlege of it. Reaſon good. Novices expect more than they can poſſibly find in the commerce with them. The man who knows them, yet has ardors for them, to borrow a word from Miſs Howe (a), tho' thoſe ardors are generally owing more to the devil within him, than to the witch without him, is the man who makes them the higheſt and moſt grateful compliment. He knows what to expect, and with what to be ſatisfied.

Then the merit of a woman, in ſome caſes, muſt be ignorance, whether real or pretended. The Man, in theſe caſes, muſt be an adept. Will it then be wondered at, that a woman prefers a libertine to a novice?—While ſhe expects in the one the confidence ſhe wants; ſhe conſiders the other and herſelf as two parallel lines; which, tho' they run ſide by ſide, can never meet.

Yet in this the Sex is generally miſtaken too; for theſe ſheepiſh fellows are fly.—I myſelf was modeſt once; and this, as I have elſewhere hinted to thee (b), has better enabled me to judge of both.—But to proceed with my narrative:

Having thus prepared every-one againſt any letter ſhould come from Miſs Howe, and againſt my beloved's meſſenger returns, I thought it proper to conclude that ſubject with a hint, that my ſpouſe could not bear to have any-thing ſaid that reflected upon [77] Miſs Howe; and, with a deep ſigh, added, that I had been made very unhappy more than once by the ill-will of Ladies, whom I had never offended.

The widow Bevis believed, that might very eaſily be.

Theſe hints within-doors, joined with others to Will. both without and within (for I intend he ſhall fall in love with widow Moore's maid, and have ſaved one hundred pounds in my ſervice, at leaſt), will be great helps, as things may happen.

LETTER VI. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

WE had hardly dined, when my coachman, who kept a look-out for Captain Tomlinſon, as Will. did for old Grimes, conducted hither that worthy gentleman, attended by one ſervant, both on horſeback. He alighted. I went out to meet him at the door.

Thou knoweſt his ſolemn appearance, and unbluſhing freedom; and yet canſt not imagine what a dignity the raſcal aſſumed, nor how reſpectful to him I was.

I led him into the parlour, and preſented him to the women, and them to him.—I thought it highly imported me (as they might ſtill have ſome diffidences about our marriage, from my fair-one's home puſh'd queſtions on that head) to convince them intirely of the truth of all I had aſſerted. And how could I do this better, than by dialoguing with him before them a little?

Dear Captain, I thought you long; for I have had a terrible conflict with my ſpouſe.

Capt.

I am ſorry that I am later than my intention—My account with my banker—[There's a dog, [78] Jack!] took me up longer time to adjuſt than I had foreſeen

(all the time pulling down and ſtroking his ruffles):

for there was a ſmall difference between us— only twenty pounds, indeed, which I had taken no account of. The raſcal has not ſeen twenty pounds of his own theſe ten years.

Then had we between us the characters of the Harlowe family: I railing againſt them all; the Captain taking his dear friend Mr. John Harlowe's part; with a Not ſo faſt!—Not ſo faſt, young gentleman!— and the like free aſſumptions.

He accounted for their animoſity by my defiances: No good family, having ſuch a charming daughter, would care to be defied, inſtead of courted: He muſt ſpeak his mind: Never was a double-tongu'd man.— He appealed to the Ladies, if he were not right.

He got them of his ſide.

The correction I had given the brother, he told me, muſt have aggravated matters.

How valiant this made me look to the women!— The Sex love us mettled fellows at their hearts.

Be that as it would, I ſhould never love any of the family but my ſpouſe; and, wanting nothing from them, would not, but for her ſake, have gone ſo far as I had gone towards a reconciliation.

This was very good of me; Mrs. Moore ſaid.

Very good indeed; Miſs Rawlins.

Good!—It is more than good; it is very generous; ſaid the widow.

Capt.

Why, ſo it is, I muſt needs ſay: For I am ſenſible, that Mr. Lovelace has been rudely treated by them all—More rudely, than it could have been imagined a man of his quality and ſpirit would have put up with. But then, Sir

(turning to me),

I think you are amply rewarded in ſuch a Lady; and that you ought to forgive the father for the daughter's ſake.

Mrs. M.
[79]

Indeed ſo I think.

Miſs R.

So muſt every-one think, who has ſeen the Lady.

Widow B.

A fine Lady! to be ſure! But ſhe has a violent ſpirit; and ſome very odd humours too, by what I have heard. The value of good huſbands is not known till they are loſt!

Her conſcience then drew a ſigh from her.

Lovel.

Nobody muſt reflect upon my angel.—An angel ſhe is.—Some little blemiſhes, indeed, as to her over-haſty ſpirit, and as to her unforgiving temper. But this ſhe has from the Harlowes; inſtigated too by that Miſs Howe.—But her innumerable excellencies are all her own.

Capt.

Ay, talk of ſpirit, There's a ſpirit, now you have named Miſs Howe! [And ſo I led him to confirm all I had ſaid of that vixen.] Yet ſhe was to be pitied too, looking with meaning at me.

As I have already hinted, I had before agreed with him to impute ſecret love occaſionally to Miſs Howe, as the beſt means to invalidate all that might come from her in my disfavour.

Capt.

Mr. Lovelace, but that I know your modeſty, or you could give a reaſon—

Lovel.

looking down, and very modeſt—I can't think ſo, Captain—But let us call another cauſe.

Every woman preſent could look me in the face, ſo baſhful was I.

Capt.

Well, but, as to our preſent ſituation—Only it mayn't be proper— looking upon me, and round upon the women.

Lovel.

O Captain, you may ſay any-thing before this company—Only, Andrew, to my new ſervant, who attended us at table, do you withdraw: This good girl

(looking at the maid-ſervant)

will help us to all we want.

Away went Andrew: He wanted not his cue; and [80] the maid ſeemed highly pleaſed at my honour's preference of her.

Capt.

As to our preſent ſituation, I ſay, Mr. Lovelace—Why, Sir, we ſhall be all untwiſted, let me tell you, if my friend Mr. John Harlowe were to know what that is: He would as much queſtion the truth of your being married, as the reſt of the family do.

Here the women perked up their ears; and were all ſilent attention.

Capt.

I asked you before for particulars, Mr. Lovelace: but you declined giving them.—Indeed it may not be proper for me to be acquainted with them.— But I muſt own, that it is paſt my comprehenſion, that a wife can reſent any-thing a huſband can do (that is not a breach of the peace), ſo far as to think herſelf juſtified for eloping from him.

Lovel.

Captain Tomlinſon—Sir—I do aſſure you, that I ſhall be offended—I ſhall be extremely concerned—if I hear that word mention'd again—

Capt.

Your nicety, and your love, Sir, may make you take offence—But it is my way to call everything by its proper name, let who will be offended—

Thou canſt not imagine, Belford, how brave, and how independent, the raſcal look'd.

Capt.

When, young Gentleman, you ſhall think proper to give us particulars, we will find a word that ſhall pleaſe you better, for this raſh act in ſo admirable a Lady—You ſee, Sir, that, being the repreſentative of my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe, I ſpeak as freely as I ſuppoſe he would do, if preſent. But you bluſh, Sir—I beg your pardon, Mr. Lovelace: It becomes not a modeſt man to pry into thoſe ſecrets, which a modeſt man cannot reveal.

I did not bluſh, Jack; but denied not the compliment, and looked down: the women ſeem'd delighted with my modeſty: but the widow Bevis was [81] more inclined to laugh at me, than praiſe me for it.

Capt.

Whatever be the cauſe of this ſtep (I will not again, Sir, call it elopement, ſince that harſh word wounds your tenderneſs), I cannot but expreſs my ſurprize upon it, when I recollect the affectionate behaviour, which I was witneſs to between you, when I attended you laſt. Over-love, Sir, I think you once mentioned—but Over-love

(ſmiling),

give me leave to ſay, Sir, is an odd cauſe of quarrel. — Few Ladies—

Lovel.

Dear Captain! And I tried to bluſh.

The women alſo tried; and, being more uſed to it, ſucceeded better.—Mrs. Bevis, indeed, has a red-hot countenance, and always bluſhes.

Miſs R.

It ſignifies nothing to mince the matter: but the Lady above as good as denies her marriage. You know, Sir, that ſhe does; turning to me.

Capt.

Denies her marriage! Heavens! how then have I impoſed upon my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe!

Lovel.

Poor dear!—But let not her veracity be called in queſtion. She would not be guilty of a wilful untruth for the world.

Then I had all their praiſes again.

Lovel.

Dear creature!—ſhe thinks ſhe has reaſon for her denial. You know, Mrs. Moore; you know, Miſs Rawlins; what I owned to you above, as to my vow—

I look'd down, and, as once before, turned round my diamond ring.

Mrs. Moore looked awry; and with a leer at Miſs Rawlins, as to her partner in the hinted-at reference.

Miſs Rawlins look'd down as well as I; her eyelids half-cloſed, as if mumbling a Pater-noſter, meditating [82] her ſnuff-box, the diſtance between her noſe and chin lengthened by a cloſe-ſhut mouth.

She put me in mind of the pious Mrs. Fetherſtone at Oxford, whom I pointed out to thee once, among other groteſque figures, at St. Mary's church, where we went to take a view of her two ſiſters: Her eyes ſhut, not daring to truſt her heart with them open; and but juſt half-rearing the lids, to ſee who the next-comer was; and falling them again, when her curioſity was ſatisfied.

The widow Bevis gazed, as if on the hunt for a ſecret.

The Captain looked archly, as if half in poſſeſſion of one.

Mrs. Moore at laſt broke the baſhful ſilence. Mrs. Lovelace's behaviour, ſhe ſaid, could be no otherwiſe ſo well accounted-for, as by the ill-offices of that Miſs Howe; and by the ſeverity of her relations; which might but too probably have affected her head a little at times: Adding, that it was very generous in me to give way to the ſtorm, when it was up, rather than to exaſperate at ſuch a time.

But let me tell you, Sirs, ſaid the widow Bevis, that is not what one huſband in a thouſand would have done.

I deſired, that no part of this converſation might be hinted to my ſpouſe; and looked ſtill more baſhfully. Her great fault, I muſt own, was over-delicacy.

The Captain leered round him; and ſaid, He believed he could gueſs from the hints I had given him in town (of my over-love), and from what had now paſſed, that we had not conſummated our marriage.

O Jack! how ſheepiſhly then looked, or endeavoured to look, thy friend! how primly Goody Moore! how affectedly Miſs Rawlins!—while the honeſt widow Bevis gazed around her fearleſs; and [83] tho' only ſimpering with her mouth, her eyes laugh'd out-right, and ſeem'd to challenge a laugh from every eye in the company.

He obſerv'd, that I was a phoenix of a man, if ſo; and he could not but hope, that all matters would be happily accommodated in a day or two; and that then he ſhould have the pleaſure to averr to her uncle, that he was preſent, as he might ſay, on our wedding-day.

The women ſeem'd all to join in the ſame hope.

Ah, Captain! ah, Ladies!—how happy ſhould I be, if I could bring my dear ſpouſe to be of the ſame mind!

It would be a very happy concluſion of a very knotty affair, ſaid widow Bevis; and I ſee not why we may not make this very night a merry one.

The Captain ſuperciliouſly ſmiled at me. He ſaw plainly enough, he ſaid, that we had been at childrens play hitherto. A man of my character muſt have a prodigious value for his Lady, who could give way to ſuch a caprice as This. But one thing he would venture to tell me; and that was This—That, however deſirous young ſkittiſh Ladies might be to have their way in this particular, it was a very bad ſetting-out for the man; as it gave his bride a very high proof of the power ſhe had over him: And he would engage, that no woman, thus humoured, ever valued the man the more for it; but very much the contrary—And there were reaſons to be given why ſhe ſhould not.

Well, well, Captain, no more of this ſubject before the Ladies.—One feels (in a baſhful try-to-bluſh manner, ſhrugging my ſhoulders), that one is ſo ridiculous—I have been puniſh'd enough for my tender folly.

Miſs Rawlins had taken her fan, and would needs [84] hide her face behind it: I ſuppoſe becauſe her bluſh was not quite ready.

Mrs. Moore hemm'd, and look'd down, and by that, gave hers over.

While the jolly widow, laughing out, praiſed the Captain, as one of Hudibras's metaphyſicians, repeating,

He knew what's what, and that's as high
As metaphyſic wit can fly.

This made Miſs Rawlins bluſh indeed:—Fie, fie, Mrs. Bevis! cry'd ſhe, unwilling I ſuppoſe, to be thought abſolutely ignorant.

Upon the whole, I began to think, that I had not made a bad exchange of our profeſſing mother, for the un-profeſſing Mrs. Moore. And indeed the women and I, and my Beloved too, all mean the ſame thing: We only differ about the manner of coming at the propoſed end.

LETTER VII. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

IT was now high time to acquaint my ſpouſe, that Captain Tomlinſon was come. And the rather, as the maid told us, that the lady had aſked her, If ſuch a gentleman (deſcribing him) was not in the parlour?

Mrs. Moore went up, and requeſted, in my name, that ſhe would give us audience.

But ſhe return'd, with a deſire, that Captain Tomlinſon would excuſe her for the preſent. She was very ill. Her ſpirits were too weak to enter into converſation with him; and ſhe muſt lie down.

I was vexed, and, at firſt, extremely diſconcerted. [85] The Captain was vexed too. And my concern, thou mayſt believe, was the greater on his account.

She had been very much fatigued, I own. Her fits in the morning muſt have weaken'd her: And ſhe had carried her reſentment ſo high, that it was the leſs wonder ſhe ſhould find herſelf low, when her raiſed ſpirits had ſubſided. Very low, I may ſay; if ſinkings are proportioned to riſings; for ſhe had been lifted up above the ſtandard of a common mortal.

The Captain, however, ſent up in his own name, that if he could be admitted to drink one diſh of tea with her, he ſhould take it for a favour; and would go to town, and diſpatch ſome neceſſary buſineſs, if poſſible, to leave his morning free to attend her.

But ſhe pleaded a violent head-ach; and Mrs. Moore confirm'd the plea to be juſt.

I would have had the Captain lodge there that night, as well in compliment to him, as introductory to my intention of entering my ſelf upon my new-taken apartment. But his hours were of too much importance to him to ſtay the evening.

It was indeed very inconvenient for him, he ſaid, to return in the morning; but he was willing to do all in his power to heal this breach, and that as well for the ſakes of me and my lady, as for that of his dear friend Mr. John Harlowe; who muſt not know how far this miſunderſtanding had gone. He would therefore only drink one diſh of tea with the ladies and me.

And accordingly, after he had done ſo, and I had had a little private converſation with him, he hurried away.

His fellow had given him, in the interim, a high character to Mrs. Moore's ſervants: And this reported by the Widow Bevis (who, being no proud woman, is hail fellow, well met, as the ſaying is, with all her aunt's ſervants), he was a fine gentleman, a diſcreet gentleman, a man of ſenſe and breeding, with [86] them all: And it was pity, that, with ſuch great buſineſs upon his hands, he ſhould be obliged to come again.

My life for yours, audibly whiſper'd the Widow Bevis, There is humour as well as head-ach in Somebody's declining to ſee this worthy gentleman.—Ah, Lord! how happy might ſome people be, if they would!—

No perfect happineſs in this world, ſaid I, very gravely, and with a ſigh; for the widow muſt know that I heard her. If we have not real unhappineſs, we can make it, even from the overflowings of our own good fortune.

Very true, and, Very true, the two widows: A charming obſervation, Mrs. Bevis. Miſs Rawlins ſmil'd her aſſent to it; and I thought ſhe call'd me in her heart, Charming man! For ſhe profeſſes to be a great admirer of moral obſervations.

I had hardly taken leave of the Captain, and ſat down again with the women, when Will. came; and calling me out, 'Sir, Sir,' ſaid he, grinning with a familiarity in his looks, as if what he had to ſay intitled him to take liberties; ‘I have got the fellow down!—I have got old Grimes—Hah, hah, hah, hah—He is at the Lower-Flaſk—Almoſt in the condition of David's ſow, and pleaſe your Honour —[The dog himſelf not much better] Here is his letter—from—from Miſs Howe—Ha, ha, ha, ha,’ laugh'd the varlet; holding it faſt, as if to make conditions with me, and to excite my praiſes, as well as my impatience.

I could have knock'd him down; but he would have his ſay out— ‘Old Grimes knows not that I have the letter—I muſt get back to him before he miſſes it—I only made a pretence to go out for a few minutes—But—but’ —and then the dog laugh'd [87] again— ‘He muſt ſtay—Old Grimes muſt ſtay—till I go back to pay the reckoning.’

D—n the prater!—Grinning raſcal!—The letter —The letter!—

He gather'd in his wide mothe, as he calls it, and gave me the letter; but with a ſtrut, rather than a bow; and then ſidled off like one of Widow Sorlings's dunghill cocks, exulting after a great feat performed. And all the time that I was holding up the billet to the light, to try to get at its contents, without breaking the ſeal (for, diſpatch'd in a hurry, it had no cover), there ſtood he laughing, ſhrugging, playing off his legs; now ſtroking his ſhining chin; now turning his hat upon his thumb; then leering in my face, flouriſhing with his head—O Chriſt! now-and-then cry'd the raſcal—

What joy has this dog in miſchief!—More than I can have in the completion of my moſt favourite purpoſes!—Theſe fellows are ever happier than their maſters.

I was once thinking to rumple up this billet till I had broken the ſeal. Young families (Miſs Howe's is not an antient one) love oſtentatious ſealings: And it might have been ſuppoſed to have been ſqueez'd in pieces, in old Grimes's breeches pocket. But I was glad to be ſaved the guilt as well as ſuſpicion of having a hand in ſo dirty a trick; for thus much of the contents (enough for my purpoſe) I was enabled to ſcratch out in character, without it; the folds depriving me only of a few connecting words; which I have ſupply'd between hooks.

My Miſs Harlowe, thou knoweſt, had before changed her name to Miſs Laetitia Beaumont. Another alias now, Jack: I have learn'd her to be half a rogue in this inſtance; for this billet was directed to her by the name of Mrs. Harriot Lucas.

[88]

I Congratulate you, my dear, with all my heart and ſoul, upon [your eſcape] from the villain. [I long] for the particulars of all. [My mamma] is out: But expecting her return every minute, I diſpatch'd [your] meſſenger inſtantly. [I will endeavour to come at] Mrs. Townſend without loſs of time; and will write at large in a day or two, if in that time I can ſee her. [Mean time I] am exceſſively uneaſy for a letter I ſent you yeſterday by Collins, [who muſt have left it at] Wilſon's after you got away. [It is of very] great importance. [I hope the] villain has it not. I would not for the world [that he ſhould.] Immediately ſend for it, if by ſo doing, the place you are at [will not be] diſcover'd. If he has it, let me know it by ſome way [out of] hand. If not, you need not ſend.

Ever, ever yours, A. H.
June 9.

O Jack, what heart's-eaſe does this interception give me!—I ſent the raſcal back with the letter to old Grimes, and charg'd him to drink no deeper. He own'd, that he was half ſeas over, as he phraſed it.

Dog! ſaid I, are you not to court one of Mrs. Moore's maids to night?—

Cry your mercy, Sir!—I will be ſober.—I had forgot that—But old Grimes is plaguy tough—I thought I ſhould never have got him down.

Away, villain!—Let old Grimes come; and on horſeback, too, to the door—

He ſhall, and pleaſe your Honour, if I can get him on the ſaddle, and if he can ſit—

And charge him not to have alighted, nor to have ſeen any-body—

[89]Enough, Sir! familiarly nodding his head, to ſhew he took me. And away went the villain: Into the parlour, among the women, I.

In a quarter of an hour came old Grimes on horſeback, waving to his ſaddle-bow, now on this ſide, now on that; his head, at others, joining to that of his more ſober beaſt.

It look'd very well to the women, that I made no effort to ſpeak to old Grimes (tho' I wiſh'd before them, that I knew the contents of what he brought); but, on the contrary, deſired that they would inſtantly let my ſpouſe know, that her meſſenger was return'd. Down ſhe flew, violently as ſhe had the head-ach!

O how I pray'd for an opportunity to be reveng'd of her, for the ingrateful trouble ſhe had given to her uncle's friend!

She took the letter from old Grimes with her own hands, and retired to an inner parlour to read it.

She preſently came out again to the fellow, who had much ado to ſit his horſe—Here is your money, friend. I thought you long. But what ſhall I do to get ſomebody to go to town immediately for me? I ſee you cannot.

Old Grimes took his money; let fall his hat in d'offing it; had it given him; and rode away; his eyes iſing-glaſs, and ſet in his head, as I ſaw thro' the window; and in a manner ſpeechleſs; all his language hiccoughs. My dog need not have gone ſo deep with this tough old Grimes.—But the raſcal was in his kingdom with him.

The lady apply'd to Mrs. Moore: She matter'd not the price. Could a man and horſe be engaged for her?—Only to go for a letter left for her, at one Mr. Wilſon's in Pall-mall.

A poor neighbour was hired. A horſe procured for him. He had his directions.

[90]In vain did I endeavour to engage my Beloved, when ſhe was below. Her head-ach, I ſuppoſe, return'd. She, like the reſt of her ſex, can be ill or well when ſhe pleaſes —

I ſee her drift, thought I: It is to have all her lights from Miſs Howe before ſhe reſolves; and to take her meaſures accordingly.

Up ſhe went, expreſſing great impatience about the letter ſhe had ſent for; and deſired Mrs. Moore to let her know, if I offer'd to ſend any of my ſervants to town—To get at the letter, I ſuppoſe, was her fear. But ſhe might have been quite eaſy on that head; and yet perhaps would not, had ſhe known, that the worthy Captain Tomlinſon (who will be in town before her meſſenger) will leave there the important letter: Which I hope will help to pacify her, and to reconcile her to me.

O Jack! Jack! thinkeſt thou that I will take all this roguiſh pains, and be ſo often called villain, for nothing?

But yet, is it not taking pains to come at the fineſt creature in the world, not for a tranſitory moment only, but for one of our lives?—The ſtruggle, Whether I am to have her in my own way, or in hers?

But now I know thou wilt be frighten'd out of thy wits for me—What, Lovelace! wouldſt thou let her have a letter that will inevitably blow thee up; and blow up the mother, and all her nymphs!—yet not intend to reform, to marry?

Patience, puppy! Canſt thou not truſt thy maſter?

LETTER VIII. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

I Went up to my new-taken apartment, and fell to writing in character, as uſual. I thought I had made good my quarters. But the cruel creature, underſtanding [91] that I intended to take up my lodgings there, declared with ſo much violence againſt it, that I was obliged to ſubmit, and to accept of another lodging, about twelve doors off, which Mrs. Moore recommended. And all the advantage I could obtain, was, that Will. unknown to my ſpouſe, and for fear of a freak, ſhould lie in the houſe.

Mrs. Moore, indeed, was unwilling to diſoblige either of us. But Miſs Rawlins was of opinion, that nothing more ought to be allow'd me: And yet Mrs. Moore owned, that the refuſal was a ſtrange piece of tyranny to an huſband, if I were an huſband.

I had a good mind to make Miſs Rawlins ſmart for it. Come and ſee Miſs Rawlins, Jack—If thou likeſt her, I'll get her for thee with a wet finger, as the ſaying is!

The Widow Bevis indeed ſtickled hard for me [An innocent or injur'd man will have friends everywhere]. She ſaid, That to bear much with ſome wives, was to be obliged to bear more: And I reflected, with a ſigh, that tame ſpirits muſt always be impoſed upon. And then, in my heart, I renew'd my vows of revenge upon this haughty and perverſe beauty.

The ſecond fellow came back from town about nine o'clock, with Miſs Howe's letter of Wedneſday laſt. ‘Collins, it ſeems, when he left it, had deſired, that it might be ſafely and ſpeedily delivered into Miſs Laetitia Beaumont's own hands. But Wilſon, underſtanding that neither ſhe nor I were in town [He could not know of our difference, thou muſt think], reſolved to take care of it till our return, in order to give it into one of our own hands; and now deliver'd it to her meſſenger.’

This was told her. Wilſon, I doubt not, is in her favour upon it.

[92]She took the letter with great eagerneſs, open'd it in a hurry [I am glad ſhe did: Yet, I believe, all was right] before Mrs. Moore, and Mrs. Bevis (Miſs Rawlins was gone home); and ſaid, She would not for the world, that I ſhould have had that letter; for the ſake of her dear friend the writer; who had written to her very uneaſily about it.

Her dear friend! repeated Mrs. Bevis, when ſhe told me this; — Such miſchief-makers are always deem'd dear friends till they are found out!

The widow ſays, that I am the fineſt gentleman ſhe ever beheld.

I have found a warm kiſs now-and-then very kindly taken.

I might be a very wicked fellow, Jack, if I were to do all the miſchief in my power. But I am evermore for quitting a too-eaſy prey to reptile-rakes. What but difficulty (tho' the lady is an angel), engages me to ſo much perſeverance here? And here, Conquer or die, is now the determination!

I HAVE juſt now parted with this honeſt widow. She called upon me at my new lodgings. I told her that I ſaw, I muſt be further oblig'd to her in the courſe of this difficult affair: She muſt allow me to make her a handſome preſent when all was happily over. But I deſired, that ſhe would take no notice of what ſhould paſs between us, not even to her aunt; for that ſhe, as I ſaw, was in the power of Miſs Rawlins: Who, being a maiden gentlewoman, knew not the right and the fit in matrimonial matters, as ſhe, my dear widow, did.

Very true: How ſhould ſhe? ſaid Mrs. Bevis, proud of knowing—nothing! But, for her part, ſhe deſired no preſent. It was enough if ſhe could contribute to reconcile man and wife, and diſappoint miſchief-makers. She doubted not, that ſuch an envious [93] creature as Miſs Howe was glad that Mrs. Lovelace had eloped — Jealouſy and Love was old Nick!

See, Belford, how charmingly things work between me and my new acquaintance, the widow!— Who knows, but that ſhe may, after a little farther intimacy (tho' I am baniſhed the houſe on nights), contrive a midnight viſit for me to my ſpouſe, when all is ſtill and faſt aſleep?

Where can a woman be ſafe, who has once enter'd the liſts with a contriving and intrepid lover?

But as to this letter, methinks thou ſayeſt, of Miſs Howe?

I knew thou wouldeſt be uneaſy for me: But did not I tell thee, that I had provided for every thing? That I always took care to keep ſeals intire, and to preſerve covers (a)? Was it not eaſy then, thinkeſt thou, to contrive a ſhorter letter out of a longer; and to copy the very words?

I can tell thee, it was ſo well ordered, that, not being ſuſpected to have been in my hands, it was not eaſy to find me out. Had it been my Beloved's hand, there would have been no imitating it, for ſuch a length. Her delicate and even mind is ſeen in the very cut of her letters. Miſs Howe's hand is no bad one; but is not ſo equal and regular. That little devil's natural impatience hurrying on her fingers, gave, I ſuppoſe, from the beginning, her handwriting, as well as the reſt of her, its fits and ſtarts, and thoſe peculiarities, which, like ſtrong muſcular lines in a face, neither the pen nor the pencil can miſs.

Haſt thou a mind to ſee what it was I permitted Miſs Howe to write to her lovely friend? Why then read it here, as if by way of marginal obſervation, [94] as extracted from hers of Wedneſday laſt (a); with a few additions of my own.—The additions underſcored (*).

[95]If thou art capable of taking in all my precautionaries in this letter, thou wilt admire my ſagacity and contrivance, almoſt as much as I do myſelf. Thou [96] ſeeſt, that Miſs Lardner, Mrs. Sinclair, Tomlinſon, Mrs. Fretchville, Mennell, are all mentioned in it. My firſt liberties with her perſon alſo [Modeſty, [97] modeſty, Belford, I doubt, is more confined to time, place, and occaſion, even by the moſt delicate minds, than thoſe minds would have it believed to be]. And why all theſe taken notice of by me from the genuine [98] letter, but for fear ſome future letter from the vixen ſhould eſcape my hands, in which ſhe might refer to theſe names? And if none of them were to have been found in this that is to paſs for hers, I might be routed horſe and foot, as Lord M. would phraſe it, in a like caſe.

Deviliſh hard (and yet I may thank myſelf) to be put to all this plague and trouble!—And for what, doſt thou aſk? O Jack, for a triumph of more value to me beforehand than an imperial crown!—Don't aſk me the value of it a month hence. But what indeed is an imperial crown itſelf, when a man is uſed to it?

Miſs Howe might well be anxious about the letter ſhe wrote. Her ſweet friend, from what I have let paſs of hers, has reaſon to rejoice in the thought, that it fell not into my hands.

And now muſt all my contrivances be ſet at work, to intercept the expected letter from Miſs Howe; which is, as I ſuppoſe, to direct her to a place of ſafety, and out of my knowlege. Mrs. Townſend is, no doubt, in this caſe, to ſmuggle her off. I hope the villain, as I am ſo frequently called between theſe two girls, will be able to manage this point.

But what, perhaps, thou aſkeſt, if the lady ſhould take it into her head, by the connivance of Miſs Rawlins, to quit this houſe privately in the night?

I have thought of this, Jack. Does not Will. lie in the houſe? And is not the Widow Bevis my faſt friend?

LETTER IX. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

THE lady gave Will's ſweetheart a letter laſt night to be carried to the poſt-houſe as this morning, directed for Miſs Howe, under cover to [99] Hickman. I dare ſay neither cover nor letter will be ſeen to have been open'd. The contents but eight lines—To own— ‘The receipt of her double-dated letter in ſafety: and referring to a longer letter, which ſhe intends to write, when ſhe ſhall have a quieter heart, and leſs trembling fingers. But mentions ſomething to have happen'd [My detecting her, ſhe means], which has given her very great flutters, confuſions, and apprehenſions: But which ſhe will await the iſſue of [Some hopes for me hence, Jack!] before ſhe gives her freſh perturbation or concern on her account.—She tells her how impatient ſhe ſhall be for her next, &c.’

Now, Belford, I thought it would be but kind in me to ſave Miſs Howe's concern on theſe alarming hints; ſince the curioſity of ſuch a ſpirit muſt have been prodigiouſly excited by them. Having therefore ſo good a copy to imitate, I wrote; and, taking out that of my Beloved, put under the ſame cover the following ſhort billet; inſcriptive and concluſive parts of it in her own words.

My ever-dear Miſs Howe,

A Few lines only, till calmer ſpirits and quieter fingers be granted me, and till I can get over the ſhock which your intelligence has given me—To acquaint you—that your kind long letter of Wedneſday, and, as I may ſay, of Thurſday morning, is come ſafe to my hands. On receipt of yours by my meſſenger to you, I ſent for it from Wilſon's. There, thank heaven! it lay. May that heaven reward you for all your paſt, and for all your intended goodneſs to

Your for-ever obliged, CL. HARLOWE.

I took great pains in writing this. It cannot, I hope, be ſuſpected. Her hand is ſo very delicate. [100] Yet hers is written leſs beautifully than ſhe uſually writes: And I hope Miſs Howe will allow ſomewhat for hurry of ſpirits, and unſteady fingers.

My conſideration for Miſs Howe's eaſe of mind extended ſtill farther than to the inſtance I have mentioned.

That this billet might be with her as ſoon as poſſible (and before it could have reach'd Hickman by the poſt), I diſpatch'd it away by a ſervant of Mowbray's. Miſs Howe, had there been any failure or delay, might, as thou wilt think, have communicated her anxieties to her fugitive friend; and ſhe to me, perhaps, in a way I ſhould not have been pleaſed with.

Once more wilt thou wonderingly queſtion—All this pains for a ſingle girl?

Yes, Jack! —But is not this girl a CLARISSA?— And who knows, but kind Fortune, as a reward for my perſeverance, may toſs me in her charming friend? Leſs likely things have come to paſs, Belford!—And to be ſure I ſhall have her, if I reſolve upon it.

LETTER X. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Am come back from Mrs. Moore's, whither I went in order to attend my charmer's commands. But no admittance. A very bad night.

Doubtleſs ſhe muſt be as much concern'd, that ſhe has carried her reſentments ſo very far, as I have reaſon to be, that I made ſuch a poor uſe of the opportunity I had on Wedneſday night.

But now, Jack, for a brief review of my preſent ſituation; and a ſlight hint or two of my precautions.

I have ſeen the women this morning, and find them half-right, half-doubting.

[101]Miſs Rawlins's brother tells her, that ſhe lives at Mrs. Moores's.

Mrs. Moore can do nothing without Miſs Rawlins.

People who keep lodgings at public places expect to get by every one who comes into their purlieus. Tho' not permitted to lodge there myſelf, I have engag'd all the rooms ſhe has to ſpare, to the very garrets; and that, as I have told thee before, for a month certain, and at her own price, board included; my ſpouſe's and all: But ſhe muſt not, at preſent, know it. So I hope I have Mrs. Moore faſt by the intereſt.

This, devil-like, is ſuiting temptations to inclinations.

I have always obſerved, and, I believe, I have [...]inted as much formerly (a), that all dealers, tho' but for pins, may be taken in by cuſtomers for pins, ſooner than by a direct bribe of ten times the value; eſpecially if pretenders to conſcience: For the offer of a bribe, would not only give room for ſuſpicion; but would ſtartle and alarm their ſcrupulouſneſs; while a high price paid for what you buy, is but ſubmitting to be cheated in the method the perſon makes a profeſſion to get by. Have I not ſaid, that human nature is a rogue (c)?—And do not I know it?

To give a higher inſtance, How many proud ſenators, in the year 1720, were induced, by preſents or ſubſcriptions of South Sea ſtock, to contribute to a ſcheme big with national ruin; who yet would have ſpurn'd the man who ſhould have preſumed to offer them even twice the ſum certain, that they had a chance to gain by the ſtock?—But to return to my review, and my precautions.

Miſs Rawlins fluctuates as ſhe hears the lady's ſtory, or as ſhe hears mine. Somewhat of an infidel, I doubt, is this Miſs Rawlins. I have not yet [102] conſider'd her foible. The next time I ſee her, I will take particular notice of all the moles and freckles in her mind; and then infer and apply.

The Widow Bevis, as I have told thee, is all my own.

My man Will. lies in the houſe. My other new fellow attends upon me; and cannot therefore be quite ſtupid.

Already is Will. over head and ears in love with one of Mrs. Moore's maids. He was ſtruck with her the moment he ſet his eyes upon her. A raw country wench too. But all women, from the counteſs to the cookmaid, are put into high good humour with themſelves, when a man is taken with them at firſt ſight. Be they ever ſo plain [No woman can be ugly, Jack!], they'll find twenty good reaſons, beſides the great one, for Sake's ſake, by the help of the glaſs without (and perhaps in ſpite of it), and conceit within, to juſtify the honeſt fellow's caption.

"The rogue has ſaved 150 l. in my ſervice"— More by 50 than I bid him ſave. No doubt he thinks he might have done ſo; tho', I believe, not worth a groat. ‘The beſt of maſters I—Paſſionate, indeed: But ſoon appeaſed.’

The wench is extremely kind to him already. The other maid is alſo very civil to him. He has a huſband for her in his eye. She cannot but ſay, that Mr. Andrew, my other ſervant [The girl is for fixing the perſon] is a very well-ſpoken civil young man.

‘We common folks have our joys, and pleaſe your Honour, ſays honeſt Joſeph Leman, like as our betters have (a).’ And true ſays honeſt Joſeph—Did I prefer eaſe to difficulty, I ſhould envy theſe low-degree ſinners ſome of their joys.

But if Will. had not made amorous pretenſions to the wenches, we all know, that ſervants, united in [103] one common compare-note cauſe, are intimate the moment they ſee one another—Great genealogiſts too; they know immediately the whole kin and kin's kin of each other, tho' diſperſed over the three kingdoms, as well as the genealogies and kin's kin of thoſe they ſerve.

But my precautions end not here.

O Jack, with ſuch an invention, what occaſion had I to carry my Beloved to Mrs. Sinclair's?

My ſpouſe may have further occaſion for the meſſengers whom ſhe diſpatch'd, one to Miſs Howe, the other to Wilſon's. With one of theſe Will. is already well-acquainted, as thou haſt heard—To mingle liquor is to mingle ſouls with theſe fellows: With the other he will ſoon be acquainted, if he be not already.

The Captain's ſervant has his uſes and inſtructions aſſign'd him. I have hinted at ſome of them already (a). He alſo ſerves a moſt humane and conſiderate maſter. I love to make every-body reſpected to my power.

The poſt, general and peny, will be ſtrictly watch'd likewiſe.

Miſs Howe's Collins is remember'd to be deſcribed. Miſs Howe's and Hickman's liveries alſo.

James Harlowe and Singleton are warned againſt. I am to be acquainted with any inquiry that ſhall happen to be made after my ſpouſe, whether by her married or maiden name, before ſhe ſhall be told of it—And this that I may have it in my power to prevent miſchief.

I have order'd Mowbray and Tourville (and Belton, if his health permit) to take their quarters at Hamſtead for a week, with their fellows to attend them. I ſpare thee for the preſent, becauſe of thy private [104] concerns. But hold thyſelf in chearful readineſs however, as a mark of thy allegiance.

As to my ſpouſe herſelf, has ſhe not reaſon to be pleaſed with me, for having permitted her to receive Miſs Howe's letter from Wilſon's? A plain caſe, either that I am no deep plotter, or that I have no further views but to make my peace with her, for an offence ſo ſlight, and ſo accidental.

Miſs Howe ſays, tho' prefaced with an alas! that her charming friend loves me: She muſt therefore yearn after this reconciliation—Proſpects ſo fair—If ſhe uſed me with leſs rigor, and more politeneſs; if ſhe ſhewed me any compaſſion; ſeemed inclinable to ſpare me, and to make the moſt favourable conſtructions; I cannot but ſay, that it would be impoſſible not to ſhew her ſome. But to be inſulted and defied by a rebel in one's power, what prince can bear that?

But I return to the ſcene of action. I muſt keep the women ſteady. I had no opportunity to talk to my worthy Mrs. Bevis in private.

Tomlinſon, a dog, not come yet!

LETTER XI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

MISS Rawlins at her brother's; Mrs. Moore engaged in houſhold matters; Widow Bevis dreſſing; I have nothing to do but write. This curſed Tomlinſon not yet arrived! Nothing to be done without him.

I think he ſhall complain in pretty high language of the treatment he met with yeſterday. ‘What are our affairs to him? He can have no view but to ſerve us. Cruel, to ſend back to town, unaudienced, unſeen, a man of his buſineſs and importance. [105] He never ſtirs a foot, but ſomething of conſequence depends upon his movements. A confounded thing to trifle thus humourſomely with ſuch a gentleman's moments! — Theſe women think, that all the buſineſs of the world muſt ſtand ſtill for their figaries [A good female word, Jack!]: The greateſt triflers in the creation, to fancy themſelves the moſt important beings in it—Marry come up! as I have heard Goody Sorlings ſay to her ſervants, when ſhe has rated at them, with mingled anger and diſdain.’

After all, methinks I want theſe toſtications [Thou ſeeſt how women, and womens words, fill my mind] to be over, happily over, that I may ſit down quietly, and reflect upon the dangers I have paſſed thro', and the troubles I have undergone. I have a reflecting mind, as thou knoweſt; but the very word implies, All got over.

What bryars and thorns does the wretch ruſh into (a ſcratch'd face and tatter'd garments the unavoidable conſequence), who will needs be for ſtriking out a new path thro' overgrown underwood; quitting that beaten out for him by thoſe who have travelled the ſame road before him!

A VISIT from the Widow Bevis, in my own apartment. She tells me, that my ſpouſe had thoughts laſt night, after I was gone to my lodgings, of removing from Mrs. Moore's. I almoſt wiſh ſhe had attempted to do ſo.

Miſs Rawlins, it ſeems, who was apply'd to upon it, diſſuaded her from it.

Mrs. Moore alſo, tho' ſhe did not own that Will. lay in the houſe (or rather ſat up in it, courting), ſet before her the difficulties, which, in her opinion, ſhe would have to get clear off, without my knowlege; aſſuring her, that ſhe could be no-where ſafer [106] than with her, till ſhe had fixed whither to go. And the lady herſelf recollected, that if ſhe went, ſhe might miſs the expected letter from her dear friend Miſs Howe; which, as ſhe owned, was to direct her future ſteps.

She muſt alſo ſurely have ſome curioſity to know what her uncle's friend had to ſay to her from her uncle, contemptuouſly as ſhe yeſterday treated a man of his importance. Nor could ſhe, I ſhould think, be abſolutely determin'd to put herſelf out of the way of receiving the viſits of two of the principal ladies of my family, and to break intirely with me in the face of them all.—Beſides, whither could ſhe have gone?—Moreover, Miſs Howe's letter coming, after her elopement, ſo ſafely to her hands, muſt ſurely put her into a more confiding temper with me, and with every one elſe, tho' ſhe would not immediately own it.

But theſe good folks have ſo little charity!—Are ſuch ſevere cenſurers!—Yet who is abſolutely perfect?—It were to be wiſhed, however, that they would be ſo modeſt as to doubt themſelves ſometimes: Then would they allow for others, as others (excellent as they imagine themſelves to be) muſt for them.

TOMLINSON at laſt is come. Forced to ride five miles about (tho' I ſhall impute his delay to great and important buſineſs) to avoid the ſight of two or three impertinent raſcals, who, little thinking whoſe affairs he was employ'd in, wanted to obtrude themſelves upon him. I think I will make this fellow eaſy, if he behave to my liking in this affair.

I ſent up the moment he came.

She deſired to be excuſed receiving his viſit till four this afternoon.

Intolerable!—No conſideration!—None at all in [107] this ſex, when their curſed humours are in the way! —Pay-day, pay-hour, rather, will come!—O that it were to be the next!

The Captain is in a pet. Who can blame him? Even the women think a man of his conſequence, and generouſly coming to ſerve us, hardly uſed. Would to heaven ſhe had attempted to get off laſt night: The women not my enemies, who knows but the huſband's exerted authority might have met with ſuch connivance, as might have concluded either in carrying her back to her former lodgings, or in conſummation at Mrs. Moore's, in ſpite of exclamations, fits, and the reſt of the female obſecrations?

My beloved has not appeared to any-body this day, except to Mrs. Moore. Is, it ſeems, extremely low: Unfit for the intereſting converſation that is to be held in the afternoon. Longs to hear from her dear friend Miſs Howe—Yet cannot expect a letter for a day or two. Has a bad opinion of all mankind.—No wonder!—Excellent creature as ſhe is! with ſuch a father, ſuch uncles, ſuch a brother, as ſhe has!

How does ſhe look?

Better than could be expected from yeſterday's fatigue, and laſt night's ill reſt.

Theſe tender doves know not, till put to it, what they can bear; eſpecially when engaged in love-affairs; and their attention wholly engroſſed. But the ſex love buſy ſcenes. Still-life is their averſion. A woman will create a ſtorm, rather than be without one. So as they can preſide in the whirlwind, and direct it, they are happy.—But my beloved's miſfortune is, that ſhe muſt live in tumults; yet neither raiſe them herſelf, nor be able to controul them.

LETTER XII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

[108]

WHAT will be the iſſue of all my plots and contrivances, devil take me if I am able to divine! But I will not, as Lord M. would ſay foreſtall my own market.

At four, the appointed hour, I ſent up, to deſire admittance in the Captain's name and my own.

She would wait upon the Captain preſently [Not upon me!]; and in the parlour, if it were not engaged.

The dining-room being mine, perhaps that was the reaſon of her naming the parlour—Mighty nice again, if ſo!—No good ſign for me, thought I, this ſtiffneſs.

In the parlour, with me and the Captain, were Mrs. Moore, Miſs Rawlins, and Mrs. Bevis.

The women ſaid, they would withdraw, when the Lady came down.

Lovel.

Not, except ſhe chooſes you ſhould, Ladies.—People who are ſo much above-board as I am, need not make ſecrets of any of their affairs. Beſides, you three Ladies are now acquainted with all our concerns.

Capt.

I have ſome things to ſay to your Lady, that perhaps ſhe would not herſelf chooſe that any-body ſhould hear; not even you, Mr. Lovelace, as you and her family are not upon ſuch a good foot of underſtanding as were to be wiſhed.

Lovel.

Well, well, Captain, I muſt ſubmit. Give us a ſign to withdraw; and we will withdraw.

It was better that the excluſion of the women ſhould come from him, than from me.

Capt.
[109]

I will bow, and wave my hand, thus— when I wiſh to be alone with the lady. Her uncle dotes upon her: I hope, Mr. Lovelace, you will not make a reconciliation more difficult, for the earneſtneſs which my dear friend ſhews to bring it to bear: But indeed I muſt tell you, as I told you more than once before, that I am afraid you have made lighter of the occaſion of this miſunderſtanding to me, than it ought to have been made.

Lovel.

I hope, Captain Tomlinſon, you do not queſtion my veracity!

Capt.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Lovelace—But thoſe things which we men may think lightly of, may not be ſo to a lady of delicacy.—And then, if you have bound yourſelf by a vow, you ought—

Miſs Rawlins bridling, her lips cloſed

(but her mouth ſtretched to a ſmile of approbation, the longer for not buttoning),

tacitly ſhewed herſelf pleaſed with the Captain for his delicacy.

Mrs. Moore could ſpeak—Very true, however, was all ſhe ſaid, with a motion of her head that expreſſed the bow-approbatory.

For my part, ſaid the jolly widow, ſtaring with eyes as big as eggs, I know what I know—But Man and Wife are Man and Wife; or they are not Man and Wife.—I have no notion of ſtanding upon ſuch niceties.

But here ſhe comes! cried one—hearing her chamber-door open—Here ſhe comes! another—hearing it ſhut after her—And down dropt the angel among us.

We all ſtood up, bowing and courteſying; and could not help it. For ſhe entered with ſuch an air as commanded all our reverence. Yet the Captain look'd plaguy grave.

Cl.

Pray keep your ſeats, Ladies—Pray do not go

[For they made offers to withdraw; yet Miſs Rawlins [110] would have burſt, had ſhe been ſuffer'd to retire].

Before this time you have heard all my ſtory, I make no doubt—Pray keep your ſeats—At leaſt all Mr. Lovelace's.

A very ſaucy and whimſical beginning, thought I.

Capt. Tomlinſon, your ſervant, addreſſing herſelf to him with inimitable dignity. I hope you did not take amiſs my declining your viſit yeſterday. I was really incapable of talking upon any ſubject that required attention.

Capt.

I am glad I ſee you better now, Madam. I hope I do.

Cl.

Indeed I am not well. I would not have excuſed myſelf from attending you ſome hours ago, but in hopes I ſhould have been better. I beg your pardon, Sir, for the trouble I have given you; and ſhall the rather expect it, as this day will, I hope, conclude it all.

Thus ſet! thus determin'd! thought I—Yet to have ſlept upon it!—But, as what ſhe ſaid was capable of a good, as well as a bad conſtruction, I would not put an unfavourable one upon it.

Lovel.

The Captain was ſorry, my dear, he did not offer his attendance the moment he arrived yeſterday. He was afraid that you took it amiſs, that he did not.

Cl.

Perhaps I thought that my uncle's friend might have wiſhed to ſee me as ſoon as he came [How we ſtared!]—But, Sir

(to me),

it might be convenient to you to detain him.

The devil, thought I!—So there really was reſentment, as well as head-ach, as my good friend Mrs. Bevis obſerved, in her refuſing to ſee the honeſt gentleman.

Capt.

You would detain me, Mr. Lovelace—I was for paying my reſpects to the lady the moment I came—

Cl.
[111]

Well, Sir

[interrupting him],

to wave this; for I would not be thought captious—If you have not ſuffer'd inconveniency, in being obliged to come again, I ſhall be eaſy.

Capt.
[half-diſconcerted]

A little, I can't ſay but I have. I have, indeed, too many affairs upon my hands. But the deſire I have to ſerve you and Mr. Lovelace, as well as to oblige my dear friend your uncle Harlowe, make great inconveniencies but ſmall ones.

Cl.

You are very obliging, Sir.—Here is a great alteration ſince you parted with us laſt.

Capt.

A great one indeed, Madam! I was very much ſurpriſed at it, on Thurſday evening, when Mr. Lovelace conducted me to your lodgings, where we hoped to find you.

Cl.

Have you any thing to ſay to me, Sir, from my uncle himſelf, that requires my private ear? Don't go, Ladies

[for the women ſtood up, and offer'd to withdraw]

:—If Mr. Lovelace ſtays, I am ſure you may.

I frown'd. I bit my lip. I looked at the women; and ſhook my head.

Capt.

I have nothing to offer, but what Mr. Lovelace is a party to, and may hear, except one private word or two, which may be poſtponed to the laſt.

Cl.

Pray, Ladies, keep your ſeats.—Things are altered, Sir, ſince I ſaw you. You can mention nothing that relates to me now, to which that gentleman can be a party.

Capt.

You ſurpriſe me, Madam! I am ſorry to hear this!—Sorry for your uncle's ſake!—Sorry for your ſake!—Sorry for Mr. Lovelace's ſake—And yet I am ſure he muſt have given greater occaſion than he has mentioned to me, or—

Lovel.

Indeed, Captain, Indeed, Ladies, I have told you great part of my ſtory!—And what I told you of my offence was the truth;—What I concealed [112] of my ſtory was only what I apprehended would, if known, cauſe this dear creature to be thought more cenſorious than charitable.

Cl.

Well, well, Sir, ſay what you pleaſe. Make me as black as you pleaſe. Make yourſelf as white as you can. I am not now in your power: That will comfort me for all.

Capt.

God forbid that I ſhould offer to plead in behalf of a crime, that a lady of virtue and honour cannot forgive. But ſurely, ſurely, Madam, this is going too far.

Cl.

Do not blame me, Capt. Tomlinſon. I have a good opinion of you, as my uncle's friend. But if you are Mr. Lovelace's friend, that is another thing; for my intereſts and Mr. Lovelace's muſt now be for ever ſeparated.

Capt.

One word with you, Madam, if you pleaſe —offering to retire.

Cl.

You may ſay all that you pleaſe to ſay before theſe gentlewomen, Mr. Lovelace may have ſecrets. I have none. You ſeem to think me faulty: I ſhould be glad, that all the world knew my heart. Let my enemies ſit in judgment upon my actions: Fairly ſcanned, I fear not the reſult. Let them even aſk me my moſt ſecret thoughts, and, whether they make for me, or againſt me, I will reveal them.

Capt.

Noble Lady! who can ſay as you ſay?

The women held up their hands and eyes; each, as if ſhe had ſaid, Not I.

No diſorder here, ſaid Miſs Rawlins! But (judging by her own heart) A confounded deal of improbability, I believe ſhe thought.

Finely ſaid, to be ſure ſaid the widow Bevis, ſhrugging her ſhoulders.

Mrs. Moore ſighed.

Jack Belford, thought I, knows all mine: And in this I am more ingenuous than any of the three, and a fit match for this paragon.

Cl.
[113]

How Mr. Lovelace has found me out here, I cannot tell. But ſuch mean devices, ſuch artful, ſuch worſe than Waltham diſguiſes put on, to obtrude himſelf into my company; ſuch bold, ſuch ſhocking untruths—

Capt.

The favour of but one word, Madam, in private—

Cl.

In order to ſupport a right which he has not over me!—O Sir, O Capt. Tomlinſon!—I think I have reaſon to ſay, that the man is capable of any vileneſs!—

The women looked upon one another, and upon me, by turns, to ſee how I bore it. I had ſuch dartings in my head at the inſtant, that I thought I ſhould have gone diſtracted. My brain ſeemed on fire. What would I have given to have had her alone with me!—I traverſed the room; my clenched fiſt to my forehead. O that I had any-body here, thought I, that, Hercules-like, when flaming in the tortures of Deianira's poiſon'd ſhirt, I could tear in pieces?

Capt.

Dear Lady! ſee you not how the poor gentleman—Lord, how have I impoſed upon your uncle, at this rate! How happy, did I tell him, I ſaw you! How happy I was ſure you would be in each other!

Cl.

Oh, Sir, you don't know how many premeditated offences I had forgiven when I ſaw you laſt, before I could appear to you, what I hoped then I might for the future be!—But now you may tell my uncle, if you pleaſe, that I cannot hope for his mediation. Tell him, that my guilt, in giving this man an opportunity to ſpirit me away from my try'd, my experienced, my natural friends, harſhly as they treated me, ſtares me every day more and more in the face; and ſtill the more, as my fate ſeems to be drawing to a criſis, according to the malediction of my offended father!

[114]And then ſhe burſt into tears, which even affected that dog, who, brought to abet me, was himſelf all Belforded over.

The women, ſo uſed to cry without grief, as they are to laugh without reaſon, by mere force of example [confound their promptitudes!], muſt needs pull out their handkerchiefs. The leſs wonder, however, as I myſelf, between confuſion, ſurprize, and concern, could hardly ſtand it.

What's a tender heart good for!—Who can be happy, that has a feeling heart?—And yet thou'lt ſay, that he who has it not, muſt be a tyger, and no man.

Capt.

Let me beg the favour of one word with you, Madam, in private; and that on my own account.

The women hereupon offered to retire. She inſiſted, that if they went, I ſhould not ſtay.

Capt.

Sir, bowing to me, ſhall I beg—

I hope, thought I, that I may truſt this ſolemn dog, inſtructed as he is. She does not doubt him. I'll ſtay out no longer than to give her time to ſpend her firſt fire.

I then paſſively withdrew, with the women—But with ſuch a bow to my goddeſs, that it won for me every heart but that I wanted moſt to win; for the haughty maid bent not her knee in return.

The converſation between the Captain and the Lady, when we were retired, was to the following effect: They both talked loud enough for me to hear them. The Lady from anger, the Captain with deſign; and, thou mayſt be ſure, there was no liſtener but myſelf. What I was imperfect in was ſupply'd afterwards; for I had my vellom-leav'd book, to note all down.—If ſhe had known this, perhaps ſhe would have been more ſparing of her invectives— and but perhaps neither.

[115]He told her, that as her brother was abſolutely reſolved to ſee her; and as he himſelf, in compliance with her uncle's expedient, had reported her marriage; and as that report had reached the ears of Lord M. Lady Betty, and the reſt of my relations; and as he had been obliged, in conſequence of his firſt report, to vouch it; and as her brother might find out where ſhe was, and apply to the women here, for a confirmation or refutation of the marriage; he had thought himſelf obliged to countenance the report before the women: That this had embaraſſed him not a little, as he would not for the world that ſhe ſhould have cauſe to think him capable of prevarication, contrivance, or double-dealing: And that this made him deſirous of a private converſation with her.

It was true, ſhe ſaid, ſhe had given her conſent to ſuch an expedient, believing it was her uncle's; and little thinking, that it would lead to ſo many errors. Yet ſhe might have known, that one error is frequently the parent of many. Mr. Lovelace had made her ſenſible of the truth of that obſervation, on more occaſions than one; and it was an obſervation that he the Captain had made, in one of the letters that was ſhewn her yeſterday (a).

He hoped, that ſhe had no miſtruſt of him. That ſhe had no doubts of his honour. If, Madam, you ſuſpect me—If you think me capable—What a man— The Lord be merciful to me!—What a man muſt you think me!

I hope, Sir, there cannot be a man in the world, who could deſerve to be ſuſpected in ſuch a caſe as this. I do not ſuſpect you. If it were poſſible there could be one ſuch man, I am ſure, Capt. Tomlinſon, a father of children, a man in years, of ſenſe and experience, cannot be that man.

[116]He told me, that juſt then, he thought he felt a ſudden flaſh from her eye, an eye-beam, as he called it, dart thro' his ſhivering reins; and he could not help trembling.

The dog's conſcience, Jack! Nothing elſe!—I have felt half a dozen ſuch flaſhes, ſuch eye-beams, in as many different converſations with this ſoul-piercing beauty.

Her uncle, ſhe muſt own, was not accuſtom'd to think of ſuch expedients: But ſhe had reconciled this to herſelf, as the caſe was unhappily uncommon; and by the regard he had for her honour.

This ſet the puppy's heart at eaſe, and gave him more courage.

She aſked him, If he thought Lady Betty and Miſs Montague intended her a viſit?

He had no doubt but they did.

And does he imagine, ſaid ſhe, that I could be brought to countenance to them the report you have given out?

[I had hoped to bring her to this, Jack, or ſhe had not ſeen their letters. But I had told the Captain, that I believe I muſt give up this expectation.]

No. He believed, that I had not ſuch a thought. He was pretty ſure, that I intended, when I ſaw them, to tell them (as in confidence) the naked truth.

He then told her, that her uncle had already made ſome ſteps towards a general reconciliation. The moment, Madam, that he knows you are really married, he will enter into conference with your father upon it; having actually expreſſed his deſire to be reconciled to you, to your mother.

And what, Sir, ſaid my mother? What ſaid my dear mother? [with great emotion; holding out her ſweet face, as the Captain deſcribed her, with the moſt earneſt attention, as if ſhe would ſhorten [117] the way which his words were to have to her heart.]

Your mother, Madam, burſt into tears upon it: And your uncle was ſo penetrated by her tenderneſs, that he could not proceed with the ſubject. But he intends to enter upon it with her in form, as ſoon as he hears that the ceremony is over.

By the tone of her voice ſhe wept. The dear creature, thought I, begins to relent!—And I grudg'd the dog his eloquence. I could hardly bear the thought, that any man breathing ſhould have the power, which I had loſt, of perſuading this high-ſoul'd lady, tho' in my own favour. And, wouldſt thou think it? this reflection gave me more uneaſineſs at the moment, than I felt from her reproaches, violent as they were; or than I had pleaſure in her ſuppoſed relenting. For there is beauty in every-thing ſhe ſays and does: Beauty in her paſſion: Beauty in her tears!—Had the Captain been a young fellow, and of rank and fortune, his throat would have been in danger; and I ſhould have thought very hardly of her!

O Capt. Tomlinſon, ſaid ſhe, you know not what I have ſuffer'd by this man's ſtrange ways. He had, as I was not aſhamed to tell him yeſterday, a plain path before him. He at firſt betray'd me into his power: But when I was in it—There ſhe ſtopt. Then reſuming—O, Sir, you know not what a ſtrange man he has been!—An unpolite, a rough-manner'd man!—In diſgrace of his birth, and education, and knowlege, an unpolite man!—And ſo acting, as if his worldly and perſonal advantages ſet him above thoſe graces which diſtinguiſh a gentleman.

The firſt woman that ever ſaid or that ever thought ſo of me, that's my comfort, thought I!— But this (ſpoken to her uncle's friend behind my back) helps to heap up thy already too-full meaſure, deareſt!—It is down in my vellom-book.

Cl.
[118]

When I look back on his whole behaviour to a poor young creature (for I am but a very young creature), I cannot acquit him either of great folly, or of deep deſign.—And, laſt Wedneſday—

[There ſhe ſtopt; and I ſuppoſe turn'd away her face. I wonder ſhe was not aſham'd to hint at what ſhe thought ſo ſhameful; and that to a man, and alone with him.]

Capt.

Far be it from me, Madam, to offer to enter too cloſely into ſo tender a ſubject. He owns, that you have reaſon to be diſpleaſed with him. But he ſo ſolemnly clears himſelf to me, of premeditated offence—

Cl.

He cannot clear himſelf, Mr. Tomlinſon. The people of the houſe muſt be very vile, as well as he. I am convinced, that there was a wicked confederacy—But no more upon ſuch a ſubject.

Capt.

Only one word more, Madam: He tells me, that he gave you ſuch an inſtance of your power over him, as never man gave: And that you promiſed to pardon him.

Cl.

He knew, that he deſerved not pardon, or he had not extorted that promiſe from me. Nor had I given it to him, but to ſhield myſelf from the vileſt outrage—

Capt.

I could wiſh, Madam, inexcuſable as his behaviour has been, ſince he has ſomething to plead in the reliance he made upon your promiſe; that, for the ſake of appearances to the world, and to avoid the miſchiefs that may follow, if you abſolutely break with him, you could prevail upon your naturally generous mind, to lay an obligation upon him by your forgiveneſs.

She was ſilent.

Capt.

Your father and mother, Madam, deplore a daughter loſt to them, whom your generoſity to Mr. Lovelace may reſtore: Do not put it to the poſſible chance, that they may have cauſe to deplore a [119] double loſs; the loſing of a ſon, as well as a daughter, who, by his own violence, which you may perhaps prevent, may be for ever loſt to them, and to the whole family.

She pauſed. She wept. She owned, that ſhe felt the force of this argument.

I will be the making of this fellow, thought I!

Capt.

Permit me, Madam, to tell you, that I do not think it would be difficult to prevail upon your uncle, if you inſiſt upon it, to come up privately to town, and to give you with his own hand to Mr. Lovelace—Except, indeed, your preſent miſunderſtanding were to come to his ears.

Cl.

But why, Sir, ſhould I be ſo much afraid of my brother? My brother has injured me, not I him. Shall I ſeek protection from my brother of Mr. Lovelace? And who ſhall protect me from Mr. Lovelace?—Will the one offer to me, what the other has offer'd!—Wicked, ungrateful man! to inſult a friendleſs, unprotected creature, made friendleſs by himſelf—I cannot, cannot think of him in the light I once thought of him. He has no buſineſs with me. Let him leave me. Let my brother find me. I am not ſuch a poor creature, as to be afraid to face the brother who has injured me.

Capt.

Were you and your brother to meet only to confer together, to expoſtulate, to clear up difficulties, it were another thing. But what, Madam, can you think will be the iſſue of an interview (Mr. Solmes with him), when he finds you unmarried, and reſolved never to have Mr. Lovelace; ſuppoſing Mr. Lovelace were not to interfere; which cannot be ſuppoſed?

Cl.

Well, Sir, I can only ſay, I am a very unhappy creature!—I muſt reſign to the will of Providence, and be patient under evils, which that will not permit me to ſhun. But I have taken my meaſures. Mr. Lovelace can never make me happy, nor [120] I him. I wait here only for a letter from Miſs Howe. That muſt determine me—

Determine you as to Mr. Lovelace, Madam? interrupted the Captain.

Cl.

I am already determin'd as to him.

Capt.

If it be not in his favour, I have done. I cannot uſe ſtronger arguments than I have uſed, and it would be impertinent to repeat them.—If you cannot forgive his offence, I am ſure it muſt have been much greater than he has owned to me.—If you are abſolutely determined, be pleaſed to let me know what I ſhall ſay to your uncle? You was pleaſed to tell me, that this day would put an end to what you called my trouble: I ſhould not have thought it any, could I have been an humble means of reconciling perſons of worth and honour to each other.

Here I enter'd with a ſolemn air.

Lovel.

Mr. Tomlinſon, I have heard a great part of what has paſſed between you and this unforgiving, however otherwiſe excellent lady. I am cut to the heart to find the dear creature ſo determined. I could not have believed it poſſible, with ſuch proſpects, that I had ſo little a ſhare in her eſteem. Nevertheleſs I muſt do myſelf juſtice with regard to the offence I was ſo unhappy as to give, ſince I find you are ready to think it much greater than it really was.

Cl.

I hear not, Sir, your recapitulations. I am, and ought to be, the ſole judge of inſults offered to my perſon. I enter not into diſcuſſion with you, nor hear you on the ſhocking ſubject. And was going.

I put myſelf between her and the door—You may hear all I have to ſay, Madam. My fault is not o [...] ſuch a nature, but that you may. I will be a juſt accuſer of myſelf; and will not wound your ears.

I then proteſted that the fire was a real fire [So it was]. I diſclaimed [leſs truly indeed] premeditation. I owned that I was hurried on by the violence of a youthful paſſion, and by a ſudden impulſe, [121] which few other perſons, in the like ſituation, would have been able to check: That I withdrew, at her command and intreaty, on the promiſe of pardon, without having offered the leaſt indecency, or any freedom, that would not have been forgiven by perſons of delicacy, ſurpriſed in an attitude ſo charming—Her terror, on the alarm of fire, calling for a ſoothing behaviour, and perſonal tenderneſs, ſhe being ready to fall into fits: My hoped-for happy day ſo near, that I might be preſumed to be looked upon as a betrothed lover—And that this excuſe might be pleaded even for the women of the houſe, that they, thinking us actually married, might ſuppoſe themſelves to be the leſs concerned to interfere on ſo tender an occaſion—There, Jack, was a bold inſinuation in behalf of the women!

High indignation filled her diſdainful eye, eye-beam after eye-beam flaſhing at me. Every feature of her ſweet face had ſoul in it. Yet ſhe ſpoke not. Perhaps, Jack, ſhe had a thought, that this plea for the women accounted for my contrivance to have her paſs to them as married, when I firſt carried her thither.

Capt.

Indeed, Sir, I muſt ſay, that you did not well to add to the apprehenſions of a lady ſo much terrified before.

She offer'd to go by me. I ſet my back againſt the door, and beſought her to ſtay a few moments. I had not ſaid thus much, my deareſt creature, but for your ſake, as well as for my own, that Captain Tomlinſon ſhould not think I had been viler than I was. Nor will I ſay one word more on the ſubject, after I have appealed to your own heart, whether it was not neceſſary, that I ſhould ſay ſo much; and to the Captain, whether otherwiſe he would not have gone away with a much worſe opinion of me, if he [122] had judged of my offence by the violence of your reſentment.

Capt.

Indeed I ſhould. I own I ſhould. And I am very glad, Mr. Lovelace, that you are able to defend yourſelf thus far.

Cl.

That cauſe muſt be well tried, where the offender takes his ſeat upon the ſame bench with the judge.—I ſubmit not mine to men—Nor, give me leave to ſay, to You, Captain Tomlinſon, tho' I am willing to have a good opinion of you. Had not the man been aſſured, that he had influenced you in his favour, he would not have brought you up to Hamſtead.

Capt.

That I am influenced, as you call it, Madam, is for the ſake of your uncle, and for your own ſake, more (I will ſay to Mr. Lovelace's face) than for his. What can I have in view, but peace and reconciliation? I have, from the firſt, blamed, and I now, again, blame, Mr. Lovelace, for adding diſtreſs to diſtreſs, and terror to terror; the lady, as you acknowlege, Sir

[looking valiantly],

ready before to fall into fits.

Lovel.

Let me own to you, Captain Tomlinſon, that I have been a very faulty, a very fooliſh man; and, if this dear creature ever honoured me with her love, an ingrateful one. But I have had too much reaſon to doubt it. And this is now a flagrant proof that ſhe never had the value for me which my proud heart wiſhed for, that, with ſuch proſpects before us; a day ſo near; ſettlements approved and drawn; her uncle mediating a reconciliation, which, for her ſake, not my own, I was deſirous to give into; ſhe can, for an offence ſo really ſlight, on an occaſion ſo truly accidental, renounce me for ever; and, with me, all hopes of that reconciliation in the way her uncle had put it in, and ſhe had acquieſced with; and [123] riſque all conſequences, fatal ones as they may too poſſibly be.—By my ſoul, Captain Tomlinſon, the dear creature muſt have hated me all the time ſhe was intending to honour me with her hand. And now ſhe muſt reſolve to abandon me, as far as I know, with a preference in her heart of the moſt odious of men—in favour of that Solmes, who, as you tell me, accompanies her brother: And with what hopes, with what view, accompanies him?—How can I bear to think of this?—

Cl.

It is fit, Sir, that you ſhould judge of my regard for you, by your own conſcious demerits. Yet you know, or you would not have dared to behave to me as ſometimes you did, that you had more of it than you deſerved.

She walked from us; and then returning, Captain Tomlinſon, ſaid ſhe, I will own to you, that I was not capable of reſolving to give my hand, and—nothing but my hand.—Have I not given a flagrant proof of this to the once moſt indulgent of parents? which has brought me into a diſtreſs, which this man has heightened, when he ought, in gratitude and honour, to have endeavoured to render it ſupportable. I had even a byas, Sir, in his favour, I ſcruple not to own it. Long, too long! bore I with his unaccountable ways, attributing his errors to unmeaning gaiety, and to a want of knowing what true delicacy, and true generoſity, required from a heart ſuſceptible of grateful impreſſions to one involved by his means in unhappy circumſtances. It is now wickedneſs in him (a wickedneſs which diſcredits all his profeſſions) to ſay, that his laſt cruel and ingrateful inſult was not a premeditated one.—But what need I ſay more of this inſult, when it was of ſuch a nature, that it has changed that byas in his favour, and made me chooſe to forego all the inviting proſpects he [124] talks of, and to run all hazards, to free myſelf from his power?

O my deareſt creature! how happy for us both, had I been able to diſcover that byas, as you condeſcend to call it, thro' ſuch reſerves as man never encountered with!—

He did diſcover it, Captain Tomlinſon. He brought me, more than once, to own it; the more needleſly brought me to own it, as I dare ſay his own vanity gave him no cauſe to doubt it; and as I had no other motive in not being forward to own it, than my too juſt apprehenſions of his want of generoſity. In a word, Captain Tomlinſon (and now, that I am determined upon my meaſures, I the leſs ſcruple to ſay it), I ſhould have deſpiſed myſelf, had I found myſelf capable of affectation or tyranny to the man I intended to marry. I have always blamed the deareſt friend I have in the world for a fault of this nature. In a word—

Lovel.

And had my angel really and indeed the favour for me ſhe is pleaſed to own?—Deareſt creature, forgive me. Reſtore me to your good opinion. Surely I have not ſinned beyond forgiveneſs. You ſay, that I extorted from you the promiſe you made me. But I could not have preſumed to make that promiſe the condition of my obedience, had I not thought there was room to expect forgiveneſs. Permit, I beſeech you, the proſpects to take place, that were opening ſo agreeably before us. I will go to town, and bring the licence. All difficulties to the obtaining of it are ſurmounted. Captain Tomlinſon ſhall be witneſs to the deeds. He will be preſent at the ceremony on the part of your uncle. Indeed he gave me hope, that your uncle himſelf—

Capt.

I did, Mr. Lovelace: And I will tell you my grounds for the hope I gave. I propoſed to my [125] dear friend (Your uncle, Madam), that he ſhould give out, that he would take a turn with me to my little farm-houſe, as I call it, near Northampton, for a week or ſo.—Poor gentleman! he has of late been very little abroad! Too viſibly indeed declineing!—Change of air, it might be given out, was good for him.—But I ſee, Madam, that this is too tender a ſubject—

The dear creature wept. She knew how to apply, as meant, the Captain's hint to the occaſion of her uncle's declining ſtate of health.

Capt.

We might indeed, I told him, ſet out in that road, but turn ſhort to town in my chariot; and he might ſee the ceremony performed with his own eyes, and be the deſired father, as well as the beloved uncle.

She turned from us, and wiped her eyes.

Capt.

And, really, there ſeem now to be but two objections to this; as Mr. Harlowe diſcouraged not the propoſal—The one, the unhappy miſunderſtanding between you; which I would not by any means he ſhould know; ſince then he might be apt to give weight to Mr. James Harlowe's unjuſt ſurmizes.— The other, that it would neceſſarily occaſion ſome delay to the ceremony; which I cannot ſee, but may be performed in a day or two—If—

And then he reverently bowed to my goddeſs. — Charming fellow!—But often did I curſe my ſtars, for making me ſo much obliged to his adroitneſs.

She was going to ſpeak; but, not liking the turn of her countenance (altho', as I thought, its ſeverity and indignation ſeemed a little abated), I ſaid, and had like to have blown myſelf up by it—One expedient I have juſt thought of—

Cl.

None of your expedients, Mr. Lovelace! I abhor your expedients, your inventions—I have had too many of them.

Lovel.
[126]

See, Capt. Tomlinſon!—See, Sir—O how we expoſe ourſelves to you!—Little did you think, I dare ſay, that we have lived in ſuch a continued miſunderſtanding together! But you will make the beſt of it all. We may yet be happy. O that I could have been aſſured, that this dear lady loved me with the hundredth part of the love I have for her!—Our diffidences have been mutual. This dear creature has too much punctilio: I am afraid, that I have too little. Hence our difficulties. But I have a heart, Capt. Tomlinſon, a heart, that bids me hope for her love, becauſe it is reſolved to deſerve it, as much as man can deſerve it.

Capt.

I am indeed ſurpriſed at what I have ſeen and heard. I defend not Mr. Lovelace, Madam, in the offence he has given you—As a father of daughters myſelf, I cannot defend him, tho' his fault ſeems to be lighter than I had apprehended—But in my conſcience I think, that you, Madam, cany your reſentment too high.

Cl.

Too high, Sir!—Too high, to the man that might have been happy if he would!—Too high to the man that has held my ſoul in ſuſpenſe an hundred times, ſince (by artifice and deceit) he obtained a power over me!—Say, Lovelace, thyſelf ſay, Art thou not the very Lovelace, that, by inſulting me, haſt wrong'd thy own hopes?—The wretch that appeared in vile diſguiſes, perſonating an old lame creature, ſeeking for lodgings for thy ſick wife?—Telling the gentlewomen here, ſtories all of thy own invention; and aſſerting to them an huſband's right over me, which thou hadſt not?—And is it

(turning to the Captain)

to be expected, that I ſhould give credit to the proteſtations of ſuch a man?

Lovel.

Treat me, deareſt creature, as you pleaſe, I will bear it: And yet your ſcorn and your violence have fixed daggers in my heart—But was it poſſible, [127] without thoſe diſguiſes, to come at your ſpeech?— And could I loſe you, if ſtudy, if invention, would put it in my power to arreſt your anger, and give me hope to engage you to confirm to me the promiſed pardon?—The addreſs I made to you before the women, as if the marriage-ceremony had paſſed, was in conſequence of what your uncle had adviſed, and what you had acquieſced with; and the rather made, as your brother, and Singleton, and Solmes, were reſolved to find out whether what was reported of your marriage were true or not, that they might take their meaſures accordingly; and in hopes to prevent that miſchief, which I have been but too ſtudious to prevent, ſince this tameneſs has but invited inſolence from your brother and his confederates.

Cl.

O thou ſtrange wretch, how thou talkeſt!— But, Captain Tomlinſon, give me leave to ſay, that, were I inclin'd to talk any farther upon this ſubject, I would appeal to Miſs Rawlins's judgment (Who elſe have I to appeal to?); ſhe ſeems to be a perſon of prudence and honour; but not to any man's judgment, whether I carry my reſentment beyond fit bounds, when I reſolve—

Capt.

Forgive, Madam, the interruption—But I think there can be no reaſon for this. You ought, as you ſaid, to be the ſole judge of indignities offered you. The gentlewomen here are ſtrangers to you. You will perhaps ſtay but a little while among them. If you lay the ſtate of your caſe before any of them, and your brother come to inquire of them, your uncle's intended mediation will be diſcover'd, and rendered abortive—I ſhall appear in a light that I never appeared in, in my life—for theſe women may not think themſelves obliged to keep the ſecret.

Cl.

O what difficulties has one fatal ſtep involved me in!—But there is no neceſſity for ſuch an appeal. I am reſolved on my meaſures.

Capt.
[128]

Abſolutely reſolved, Madam?

Cl.

I am.

Capt.

What ſhall I ſay to your uncle Harlowe, Madam?—Poor gentleman! how will he be ſurpriſed! —You ſee, Mr. Lovelace—You ſee, Sir— turning to me, with a flouriſhing hand—But you may thank yourſelf—and admirably ſtalk'd he from us.

True, by my ſoul, thought I. I traverſed the room, and bit my unperſuaſive lips, now upper, now under, for vexation.

He made a profound reverence to her—And went to the window, where lay his hat and whip; and, taking them up, open'd the door. Child, ſaid he, to ſomebody he ſaw, pray, order my ſervant to bring my horſe to the door—

Lovel.

You won't go, Sir—I hope you won't!— I am the unhappieſt man in the world!—You won't go—Yet, alas! —But you won't go, Sir! —There may be yet hopes, that Lady Betty may have ſome weight—

Capt.

Dear Mr. Lovelace; and may not my worthy friend, an affectionate uncle, hope for ſome influence upon his daughter-niece?—But I beg pardon —A letter will always find me diſpoſed to ſerve the lady, and that as well for her ſake, as for the ſake of my dear friend.

She had thrown herſelf into a chair; her eyes caſt down: She was motionleſs, as in a profound ſtudy.

The Captain bowed to her again: But met with no return to his bow. Mr. Lovelace, ſaid he (with an air of equality and independence), I am Yours.

Still the dear unaccountable ſat as immoveable as a ſtatue; ſtirring neither hand, foot, head, nor eye— I never before ſaw any one in ſo profound a reſverie, in ſo waking a dream.

He paſſed by her to go out at the door ſhe ſat near, tho' the other door was his direct way; and [129] bowed again. She moved not. I will not diſturb the lady in her meditations, Sir.—Adieu, Mr. Lovelace—No farther, I beſeech you.

She ſtarted, ſighing—Are you going, Sir?

Capt.

I am, Madam. I could have been glad to do you ſervice: But I ſee it is not in my power.

She ſtood up, holding out one hand, with inimitable dignity and ſweetneſs—I am ſorry you are going, Sir—I can't help it—I have no friend to adviſe with—Mr. Lovelace has the art (or good-fortune, perhaps, I ſhould call it) to make himſelf many.— Well, Sir—If you will go, I can't help it.

Capt.

I will not go, Madam, his eyes twinkling

[Again ſeized with a fit of humanity!].

I will not go, if my longer ſtay can do you either ſervice or pleaſure. What, Sir

(turning to me),

what, Mr. Lovelace, was your expedient?—Perhaps ſomething may be offer'd, Madam—

She ſighed, and was ſilent.

REVENGE, invoked I to myſelf, keep thy throne in my heart—If the uſurper LOVE once more drive thee from it, thou wilt never regain poſſeſſion!

Lovel.

What I had thought of, what I had intended to propoſe, and I ſigh'd—was this, That the dear creature, if ſhe will not forgive me, as ſhe promiſed, would ſuſpend the diſpleaſure ſhe has conceived againſt me, till Lady Betty arrives. —That lady may be the mediatrix between us. This dear creature may put herſelf into her protection, and accompany her down to her ſeat in Oxfordſhire. It is one of her Ladyſhip's purpoſes to prevail on her ſuppoſed new niece to go down with her. It may paſs to every one but to Lady Betty, and to you, Capt. Tomlinſon, and to your friend Mr. Harlowe (as he deſires), that we have been ſome time married: And her being with my relations, will amount to a proof to James Harlowe, that we are; and our nuptials may [130] be privately, and at this beloved creature's pleaſure, ſolemnized; and your report, Captain, authenticated.

Capt.

Upon my honour, Madam, clapping his hand upon his breaſt, a charming expedient! This will anſwer every end.

She muſed—She was greatly perplexed—At laſt, God direct me, ſaid ſhe! I know not what to do— A young unfriended creature, whom have I to adviſe with?—Let me retire, if I can retire.

She withdrew with ſlow and trembling feet, and went up to her chamber.

For Heaven's ſake, ſaid the penetrated varlet, his hands lifted up, for Heaven's ſake, take compaſſion upon this admirable lady!—I cannot proceed—I cannot proceed—She deſerves all things—

Softly!—damn the fellow!—The women are coming in.

He ſobb'd up his grief—turn'd about—hemm'd up a more manly accent—Wipe thy curſed eyes—He did. The ſunſhine took place on one cheek, and ſpread ſlowly to the other, and the fellow had his whole face again.

The women all three came in, led by that ever-curious Miſs Rawlins. I told them, that the lady was gone up to conſider of every-thing: That we had hopes of her. And ſuch a repreſentation we made of all that had paſſed, as brought either tacit or declared blame upon the fair perverſe, for hardneſs of heart, and over-delicacy.

The widow Bevis, in particular, put out one lip, toſſed up her head, wrinkled her forehead, and made ſuch motions with her now-lifted-up, now caſt-down eyes, as ſhew'd, that ſhe thought there was a great deal of perverſeneſs and affectation in the lady. Now-and-then ſhe changed her cenſuring looks to looks of pity of me—But (as ſhe ſaid) She loved not to aggravate!—A poor buſineſs, God help's! ſhrugging up [131] her ſhoulders, to make ſuch a rout about! and then her eyes laugh'd heartily — Indulgence was a good thing! Love was a good thing!—But too much was too much!

Miſs Rawlins, however, declared, after ſhe had called the Widow Bevis, with a prudiſh ſimper, a comical gentlewoman! That there muſt be ſomething in our ſtory, which ſhe could not fathom; and went from us into a corner, and ſat down, ſeemingly vexed that ſhe could not.

LETTER XIII. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

THE lady ſtaying longer above than we wiſhed; and hoping that (lady-like) ſhe only waited for an invitation to return to us; I deſired the Widow Bevis, in the Captain's name (who wanted to go to town), to requeſt the favour of her company.

I cared not to ſend up either Miſs Rawlins or Mrs. Moore on the errand, leſt my beloved ſhould be in a communicative diſpoſition; eſpecially as ſhe had hinted at an appeal to Miſs Rawlins; who, beſides, has ſuch an unbounded curioſity.

Mrs. Bevis preſently return'd with an anſwer (winking and pinking at me), that the lady would follow her down. Miſs Rawlins could not but offer to retire, as the others did. Her eyes, however, intimated that ſhe had rather ſtay. But they not being anſwer'd as ſhe ſeemed to wiſh, ſhe went with the reſt, but with ſlower feet; and had hardly left the parlour, when the lady enter'd it by the other door; a melancholy dignity in her perſon and air.

She ſat down. Pray, Mr. Tomlinſon, be ſeated. He took his chair over againſt her. I ſtoo [...] beh [...] hers, that I might give him agreed-upon ſignals, ſhould there be occaſion for them.

[132]As thus — A wink of the left-eye was to ſignify, Puſh that point, Captain.

A wink of the right, and a nod, was to indicate Approbation of what he had ſaid.

My fore-finger held up, and biting my lip, Get off of that, as faſt as poſſible.

A right-forward nod, and a frown—Swear to it, Captain.

My whole ſpread hand, To take care not to ſay too much on that particular ſubject.

And theſe motions I could make, even thoſe with my hand, without holding up my arm, or moving my wriſt, had the women been there; as, when they were agreed upon, I knew not but they would.

A ſcouling brow, and a poſitive nod, was to bid him riſe in his temper.

She hemm'd—I was going to ſpeak, to ſpare her ſuppoſed confuſion: But this lady never wants preſence of mind, when preſence of mind is neceſſary either to her honour, or to that conſcious dignity which diſtinguiſhes her from all the women I ever knew.

I have been conſidering, ſaid ſhe, as well as I was able, of every thing that has paſſed; and of all that has been ſaid; and of my unhappy ſituation. I mean no ill; I wiſh no ill, to any creature living, Mr. Tomlinſon. I have always delighted to draw favourable rather than unfavourable concluſions, ſometimes, as it has proved, for very bad hearts. Cenſoriouſneſs, whatever faults I have, is not naturally my fault.—But, circumſtanced as I am; treated as I have been, unworthily treated by a man who is full of contrivances, and glories in them—

Lovel.

My deareſt life!—But I will not interrupt you.

Cl.

Thus treated, it becomes me to doubt — It concerns my honour to doubt, to fear, to apprehend— [133] Your intervention, Sir, is ſo ſeaſonable, ſo kind, for this man — My uncle's expedient, the firſt of the kind he ever, I believe, thought of; a plain, honeſt, good-minded man, as he is, not affecting ſuch expedients — Your report in conformity, to it — The conſequences of that report; The alarm taken by my brother; His raſh reſolution upon it—The alarm taken by Lady Betty, and the reſt of Mr. Lovelace's relations—The ſudden letters written to him, upon it, which, with yours, he ſhew'd me—All ceremony, among perſons born obſervers of ceremony, and intitled to value themſelves upon their diſtinction— All theſe things have happen'd ſo quick, and ſome of them ſo ſeaſonable—

Lovel.

Lady Betty, you ſee, Madam, in her letter, diſpenſes with punctilio, avowedly in compliment to you. Charlotte, in hers, profeſſes to do the ſame for the ſame reaſon. Good Heaven, that the reſpect intended you by my relations, who, in every other caſe, are really punctilious, ſhould be thus conſtrued! They were glad, Madam, to have an opportunity to compliment you at my expence. Every one of my family takes delight in raillying me. But their joy on the ſuppoſed occaſion—

Cl.

Do I doubt, Sir, that you have not ſomething to ſay, for any-thing you think fit to do?—I am ſpeaking to Captain Tomlinſon, Sir.—I wiſh you would be pleaſed to withdraw—At leaſt to come from behind my chair.

And ſhe looked at the Captain, obſerving, no doubt, that his eyes ſeemed to take leſſons from mine.

A fair match, by Jupiter!

The Captain was diſconcerted. The dog had not had ſuch a bluſh upon his face for ten years before. I bit my lip for vexation: Walk'd about the room; but nevertheleſs took my poſt again; and blink'd [134] with my eyes to the Captain, as a caution for him to take more care of his: And then ſcouling with my brows, and giving the nod poſitive, I as good as ſaid, Reſent that, Captain.

Capt.

I hope, Madam, you have no ſuſpicion, that I am capable—

Cl.

Be not diſpleaſed with me, Captain Tomlinſon. I have told you, that I am not of a ſuſpicious temper. Excuſe me for the ſake of my ſincerity. There is not, I will be bold to ſay, a ſincerer heart in the world, than hers before you.

She took out her handkerchief, and put it to her eyes.

I was going at the inſtant, after her example, to vouch for the honeſty of my heart; but my conſcience Mennell'd upon me; and would not ſuffer the meditated vow to paſs my lips.—A deviliſh thing, thought I, for a man to be ſo little himſelf, when he has moſt occaſion for himſelf!

The villain Tomlinſon look'd at me with a rueful face, as if he begg'd leave to cry for company. It might have been as well, if he had cried. A feeling heart, or the tokens of it, given by a ſenſible eye, are very reputable things, when kept in countenance by the occaſion.

And here let me fairly own to thee, that twenty times in this trying converſation I ſaid to myſelf, that could I have thought, that I ſhould have all this trouble, and incurr'd all this guilt, I would have been honeſt at firſt. But why, queſtion'd I, is this dear creature ſo lovely?—Yet ſo invincible?—Ever heardſt thou before, that the ſweets of May bloſſom'd in December?

Capt.

Be pleaſed — be pleaſed, Madam—if you have doubts of my honour—

A whining varlet! He ſhould have been quite angry—For what gave I him the nod poſitive? He [135] ſhould have ſtalk'd to the window, as for his whip and hat.

Cl.

I am only making ſuch obſervations as my youth, my inexperience, and my preſent unhappy circumſtances, ſuggeſt to me—A worthy heart (ſuch, I hope, is Captain Tomlinſon's) need not fear an examination—need not fear being looked into — Whatever doubt that man, who has been the cauſe of my errors, and, as my ſevere father imprecated, the puniſher of the errors he has cauſed, might have had of me, or of my honour, I would have forgiven him for them, if he had fairly propoſed them to me: For he might, perhaps, have had ſome doubt of the future conduct of a creature, whom he could induce to correſpond with him againſt parental prohibition, and againſt the lights which her own judgment threw in upon her: And if he had propounded them to me like a man and a gentleman, I would have been glad of the opportunity given me to clear my intentions, and to have ſhewn myſelf intitled to his good opinion —And I hope you, Sir—

Capt.

I am ready to hear all your doubts, Madam, and to clear them up—

Cl.

I can only put it, Sir, to your conſcience and honour—

The dog ſat uneaſy: He ſhifted his feet: Her eye was upon him; he was therefore, after the rebuff he had met with, afraid to look at me for my motions; and now turn'd his eyes towards me, then from me, as if he would unlook his own looks; his head turning about like a weathercock in a hurricane.

Cl.

—That all is true, that you have written, and that you have told me.

I gave him a right-forward nod, and a frown—as much as to ſay, Swear to it, Captain. But the varlet did not round it off as I would have had him. However, he averr'd that it was.

[136]He had hoped, he ſaid, that the circumſtances with which his commiſſion was attended, and what he had communicated to her, which he could not know but from his dear friend her uncle, might have ſhielded him even from the ſhadow of ſuſpicion—But I am contented, ſaid he, ſtammering, to be thought—to be thought—what—what you pleaſe to think me— till, till, you are ſatisfied—

A whore's-bird!

Cl.

The circumſtances you refer to, I muſt own, ought to ſhield you, Sir, from ſuſpicion—But the man before you is a man that would make an angel ſuſpected, ſhould that angel plead for him.

I came forward. Travers'd the room—Was indeed in a bloody paſſion—I have no patience, Madam! —And again I bit my unperſuaſive lip—

Cl.

No man ought to be impatient at imputations he is not aſham'd to deſerve. An innocent man will not be outrageous upon ſuch imputations. A guilty man ought not.

[Moſt excellently would this charming creature cap ſentences with Lord M.!]

But I am not now trying you, Sir, on the foot of your merits. I am only ſorry, that I am conſtrained to put queſtions to this worthier gentleman, which perhaps I ought not to put, ſo far as they regard himſelf.—And I hope, Captain Tomlinſon, that you, who know not Mr. Lovelace ſo well, as, to my unhappineſs, I do, and who have children of your own, will excuſe a poor young creature, who is deprived of all worthy protection, and who has been inſulted and endangered, by the moſt deſigning man in the world, and perhaps by a confederacy of his creatures.

There ſhe ſtopt; and ſtood up, and looked at me; fear, nevertheleſs, apparently mingled with her anger. And ſo it ought. I was glad, however, of this [137] poor ſign of love—No one fears whom they value not.

Womens tongues were licenſed, I was going to ſay—But my conſcience would not let me call her a woman; nor uſe to her ſo vulgar a phraſe. I could only rave by my motions; lift up my eyes, ſpread my hands, rub my face, pull my wig, and look like a fool. Indeed, I had a great mind to run mad. Had I been alone with her, I would; and ſhe ſhould have taken conſequences.

The Captain interpoſed in my behalf; gently, however, and as a man not quite ſure that he was himſelf acquitted. Some of the pleas we had both inſiſted on, he again inforced—And, ſpeaking low— Poor gentleman! ſaid he, who can but pity him! —Indeed, Madam, it is eaſy to ſee, with all his failings, the power you have over him!

Cl.

I have no pleaſure, Sir, in diſtreſſing any one.— Not even him, who has ſo much diſtreſſed me.—But, Sir, when I THINK, and when I ſee him before me, I cannot command my temper! — Indeed, indeed, Captain Tomlinſon, Mr. Lovelace has not acted by me either as a grateful, a generous, or a prudent man!—He knows not, as I told him yeſterday, the value of the heart he has inſulted!

There the angel ſtopt; her handkerchief at her eyes!

O Belford, Belford! that ſhe ſhould ſo greatly excel, as to make me, at times, a villain in my own eyes!

I beſought her pardon. I promiſed, that it ſhould be the ſtudy of my whole life to deſerve it. My faults, I ſaid, whatever they had been, were rather faults in her apprehenſion, than in fact. I beſought her to give way to the expedient I had hit upon—I repeated it. The Captain inforced it, for her uncle's ſake. I, once more, for the ſake of the general reconciliation; [138] for the ſake of all my family; for the ſake of preventing future miſchief—

She wept—She ſeemed ſtagger'd in her reſolution— She turned from me. I mention'd the letter of Lord M. I beſought her to reſign to Lady Betty's mediation all our differences, if ſhe would not forgive me before ſhe ſaw her.

She turned towards me—She was going to ſpeak; but her heart was full—And again ſhe turned away her face—Then, half turning it to me, her handkerchief at her eyes—And do you really and indeed expect Lady Betty and Miſs Montague?—And do you —Again ſhe ſtopt—

I anſwer'd in a ſolemn manner.

She turned from me her whole face, and pauſed, and ſeemed to conſider. But, in a paſſionate accent, again turning towards me [O how difficult, Jack, for a Harlowe ſpirit to forgive!]—Let her Ladyſhip come, if ſhe pleaſes, ſaid ſhe—I cannot, cannot wiſh to ſee her—And if ſhe plead for you, I cannot wiſh to hear her!—The more I think, the leſs can I forgive an attempt, that I am convinced was intended to deſtroy me. [A plaguy ſtrong word for the occaſion, ſuppoſing ſhe was right!] What has my conduct been, that an inſult of ſuch a nature ſhould be offer'd to me, as it would be a weakneſs to forgive? I am ſunk in my own eyes!—And how can I receive a viſit that muſt depreſs me more?

The Captain urged her in my favour with greater earneſtneſs than before. We both even clamour'd, as I may ſay, for mercy and forgiveneſs. [Didſt thou never hear the good folks talk of taking heaven by ſtorm?]—Contrition repeatedly avowed — A total reformation promiſed—The happy expedient again pleaded—

Cl.

I have taken my meaſures. I have gone too far to recede, or to wiſh to recede. My mind is prepared [139] for adverſity. That I have not deſerved the evils I have met with, is my conſolation!—I have written to Miſs Howe what my intentions are. My heart is not with you—It is againſt you, Mr. Lovelace. I had not written to you, as I did, in the letter I left behind me, had I not reſolved, whatever became of me, to renounce you for ever.

I was full of hope now. Severe as her expreſſions were, I ſaw ſhe was afraid, that I ſhould think of what ſhe had written. And indeed, her letter is violence itſelf. Angry people, Jack, ſhould never write while their paſſion holds.

Lovel.

The ſeverity you have ſhewn me, Madam, whether by pen or by ſpeech, ſhall never have place in my remembrance, but for your honour. In the light you have taken things, all is deſerved, and but the natural reſult of virtuous reſentment; and I adore you, even for the pangs you have given me.

She was ſilent. She had employment enough with her handherchief at her eyes.

Lovel.

You lament ſometimes, that you have no friends of your own ſex to conſult with. Miſs Rawlins, I muſt confeſs, is too inquiſitive to be confided in

[I lik'd not, thou mayeſt think, her appeal to Miſs Rawlins].

She may mean well. But I never in my life knew a perſon who was fond of prying into the ſecrets of others, that was fit to be truſted. The curioſity of ſuch is govern'd by pride, which is not gratified but by whiſpering about a ſecret till it becomes public, in order to ſhew either their conſequence, or their ſagacity. It is ſo in every caſe. What man or woman, who is covetous of power, or of wealth, is covetous of either, for the ſake of making a right uſe of it?—But in the ladies of my family you may confide. It is their ambition to think of you, as one of themſelves. Renew but your conſent to paſs to the world, for the ſake of your uncle's [140] expedient, and for the prevention of miſchief, as a lady ſome time married. Lady Betty may be acquainted with the naked truth; and you may (as ſhe hopes you will) accompany her to her ſeat; and, if it muſt be ſo, conſider me as in a ſtate of penitence or probation, to be accepted or rejected, as I may appear to deſerve.

The Captain again clapt his hand on his breaſt, and declared upon his honour, that this was a propoſal, that, were the caſe that of his own daughter, and ſhe were not reſolved upon immediate marriage (which yet he thought by far the more eligible choice), he ſhould be very much concerned, were ſhe to refuſe it.

Cl.

Were I with Mr. Lovelace's relations, and to paſs as his wife to the world, I could not have any choice. And how could he be then in a ſtate of probation? O Mr. Tomlinſon, you are too much his friend to ſee into his drift.

Capt.

His friend, Madam, as I ſaid before, as I am yours and your uncle's, for the ſake of a general reconciliation, which muſt begin with a better underſtanding between yourſelves.

Lovel.

Only, my deareſt life, reſolve to attend the arrival and viſit of Lady Betty: And permit her to arbitrate between us.

Capt.

There can be no harm in that, Madam— You can ſuffer no inconvenience from that. If Mr. Lovelace's offence be ſuch, that a lady of that lady's character judges it to be unpardonable, why then—

Cl.
(interrupting; and to me)

If am not invaded by you, Sir—If I am (as I ought to be) my own miſtreſs, I think to ſtay here, in this honeſt hou [...]e

[And then had I an eye-beam, as the Captain calls it, flaſh'd at me],

till I receive a letter from Miſs Howe. That, I hope, will be in a day or two. If in that time the ladies come whom you expect, and if they are [141] deſirous to ſee the creature whom you have made unhappy, I ſhall know whether I can, or cannot, receive their viſit.

She turn'd ſhort to the door, and retiring, went up ſtairs to her chamber.

O Sir, ſaid the Captain, as ſoon as ſhe was gone, what an angel of a woman is this!—I have been, and I am, a very wicked man.—But if any thing ſhould happen amiſs to this admirable lady, thro' my means, I ſhall have more cauſe for ſelf-reproach, than for all the bad actions of my life put together.

And his eyes gliſten'd.

Nothing can happen amiſs, thou ſorrowful dog! —What can happen amiſs?—Are we to form our opinion of things by the romantic notions of a girl, who ſuppoſes that to be the greateſt which is the ſlighteſt of evils? Have I not told thee our whole ſtory? Has ſhe not broken her promiſe? Did I not generouſly ſpare her, when in my power? I was decent, tho' I had her at ſuch advantage. Greater liberties have I taken with girls of character at a common romping-bout, and all has been laugh'd off, and handkerchief and headcloaths adjuſted, and petticoats ſhaken to rights, in my preſence. Never man, in the like circumſtances, and reſolved as I was reſolved, goaded on as I was goaded on, as well by her own ſex, as by the impulſes of a violent paſſion, was ever ſo decent. Yet what mercy does ſhe ſhew me?

Now, Jack, this pitiful dog was ſuch another unfortunate one as thyſelf—His arguments ſerving to confirm me in the very purpoſe, he brought them to prevail upon me to give up. Had he left me to myſelf, to the tenderneſs of my own nature, moved as I was when the lady withdrew, and had ſat down, and made odious faces, and ſaid nothing; it is very poſſible, that I ſhould have taken the chair over-againſt him, which ſhe had quitted; and have cry'd [142] and blubber'd with him for half an hour together. But the varlet to argue with me! To pretend to convince a man, who knows in his heart that he is doing a wrong thing!—He muſt needs think, that this would put me upon trying what I could ſay for myſelf; and when the excited compunction can be carried from the heart to the lips, it muſt evaporate in words.

Thou perhaps, in this place, wouldſt have urged the ſame pleas that he urged. What I anſwer'd to him therefore may do for thee, and ſpare thee the trouble of writing, and me of reading, a good deal of nonſenſe.

Capt.

You was pleaſed to tell me, Sir, that you only propoſed to try her virtue; and that you believed you ſhould actually marry her.

Lovel.

So I ſhall, and cannot help it. I have no doubt but I ſhall. And as to trying her, is ſhe not now in the height of her trial? Have I not reaſon to think, that ſhe is coming about? Is ſhe not now yielding up her reſentment for an attempt which ſhe thinks ſhe ought not to forgive?—And if ſhe do, may ſhe not forgive the laſt attempt?—Can ſhe, in a word, reſent that more than ſhe does this?—Women often, for their own ſakes, will keep the laſt ſecret; but will oſtentatiouſly din the ears of gods and men with their clamours upon a ſucceſsleſs offer. It was my folly, my weakneſs, that I gave her not more cauſe for this her unſparing violence!

Capt.

O Sir, you never will be able to ſubdue this lady without force.

Lovel.

Well, then, puppy, muſt I not endeavour to find a proper time and place—

Capt.

Forgive me, Sir! But can you think of force to ſuch a fine creature?

Lovel.

Force, indeed, I abhor the thought of; and for what, thinkeſt thou, have I taken all the pains [143] I have taken, and engaged ſo many perſons in my cauſe, but to avoid the neceſſity of violent compulſion? But yet, imagineſt thou that I expect direct conſent from ſuch a lover of forms, as this lady is known to be? Let me tell thee, Mc Donald, that thy maſter Belford has urged on thy ſide of the queſtion, all that thou canſt urge. Muſt I have every puppy's conſcience to pacify, as well as my own?—By my ſoul, Patrick, ſhe has a friend here

(clapping my hand on my breaſt)

that pleads for her with greater and more irreſiſtable eloquence, than all the men in the world can plead for her. And had ſhe not eſcaped me?—And yet how have I anſwer'd my firſt deſign of trying her (a), and in her the virtue of the moſt virtuous of the ſex? — Thou puppy! Wouldſt thou have me decline a trial that may make for the honour of a ſex we all ſo dearly love?

Then, Sir, you have no thoughts—no thoughts—(looking ſtill more ſorrowfully) of marrying this wonderful lady?

Yes, puppy, but I have. But let me, firſt, to gratify my pride, bring down hers. Let me ſee, that ſhe loves me well enough to forgive me for my own ſake. Has ſhe not heretofore lamented, that ſhe ſtaid not in her father's houſe, tho' the conſequence muſt have been, if ſhe had, that ſhe would have been the wife of the odious Solmes? If now ſhe be brought to conſent to be mine, ſeeſt thou not, that the reconciliation with her deteſted relations is the inducement, as it always was, and not love of me?— Neither her virtue nor her love can be eſtabliſhed but upon full trial; the laſt trial—But if her reſiſtance and reſentment be ſuch as hitherto I have reaſon to expect they will be, and if I find in that reſentment leſs of hatred of me, than of the fact, then ſhall ſhe be mine in her own way. Then, hateful as is the life of ſhackles to me, will I marry her.

[144]Well, Sir, I can only ſay, that I am dough in your hands, to be moulded into what ſhape you pleaſe. But if, as I ſaid before —

None of your ſaids-before. I remember all thou ſaidſt — And I know all thou canſt further ſay — Thou art only, Pontius Pilate like, waſhing thine own hands (don't I know thee?), that thou mayſt have ſomething to ſilence thy conſcience with by loading me. But we have gone too far to recede. Are not all our engines in readineſs?—Dry up thy ſorrowful eyes. Let unconcern and heart's-eaſe once more take poſſeſſion of thy ſolemn features. Thou haſt hitherto performed extremely well. Shame not thy paſt, by thy future behaviour; and a rich reward awaits thee. If thou art dough, be dough; and I ſlapt him on the ſhoulder — Reſume but thy former ſhape—And I'll be anſwerable for the event.

He bow'd aſſent and compliance: Went to the glaſs; and began to untwiſt and unſadden his features: Pull'd his wig right, as if that, as well as his head and heart, had been diſcompoſed by his compunction; and once more became old Mulciber's and mine.

But didſt thou think, Jack, that there was ſo much—What-ſhall-I-call it?—in this Tomlinſon? Didſt thou imagine, that ſuch a fellow as that, had bowels? That nature, ſo long dead and buried in him, as to all humane effects, ſhould thus revive and exert itſelf?—Yet why do I aſk this queſtion of thee, who, to my equal ſurprize, haſt ſhewn, on the ſame occaſion, the like compaſſionate ſenſibilities?

As to Tomlinſon, it looks as if poverty had made him the wicked fellow he is; as plenty and wantonneſs have made us what we are. Neceſſity, after all, is the teſt of principle. But what is there in this dull word, or thing, called HONESTY, that even I, who cannot in my preſent views be ſerved by it, cannot [145] help thinking even the accidental emanations of it amiable in Tomlinſon, tho' demonſtrated in a female caſe; and judging better of him for being capable of ſuch?

LETTER XIV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

THIS debate between the Captain and me, was hardly over, when the three women, led by Miſs Rawlins, enter'd, hoping, No intruſion—But very deſirous, the maiden ſaid, to know if we were likely to accommodate.

O yes, I hope ſo. You know, ladies, that your Sex muſt, in theſe caſes, preſerve their forms. They muſt be courted to comply with their own happineſs. A lucky expedient, we have hit upon. The uncle has his doubts of our marriage. He cannot believe, nor will any-body, that it is poſſible that a man ſo much in love, the lady ſo deſirable —

They all took the hint—It was a very extraordinary caſe, the two widows allowed. Women, Jack, as I believe I have obſerved elſewhere, have a high opinion of what they can do for us.—Miſs Rawlins deſired, if I pleaſed, to let them know the expedient; and look'd as if there was no need to proceed in the reſt of my ſpeech.

I begg'd, that they would not let the lady know that I had told them what this expedient was.

They promiſed.

It was this: That to oblige and ſatisfy Mr. Harlowe, the ceremony was to be again performed. He was to be privately preſent, and to give his niece to me with his own hands—And ſhe was retired to conſider of it.

Thou ſeeſt, Jack, that I have provided an excuſe, to ſave my veracity to the women here, in caſe I [146] ſhould incline to marriage, and ſhe ſhould chooſe to have Miſs Rawlins's aſſiſtance at the ceremony. Nor doubted I to bring my Fair-one to ſave my credit on this occaſion, if I could get her to conſent to be mine.

A charming expedient! cried the widow. They were all three ready to clap their hands for joy upon it. Women love to be married twice at leaſt, Jack; tho' not indeed to the ſame man; and all bleſs'd the reconciliatory ſcheme, and the propoſer of it; and, ſuppoſing it came from the Captain, they look'd at him with pleaſure, while his face ſhined with the applauſe implied. He ſhould think himſelf very happy, if he could bring about a general reconciliation; and he flouriſh'd with his head like my man Will. on his victory over old Grimes; bridling by turns, like Miſs Rawlins in the height of a prudiſh fit.

But now it was time for the Captain to think of returning to town, having a great deal of buſineſs to diſpatch before morning: Nor was he certain that he ſhould again be able to attend us at Hamſtead before he went home.

And yet I did not intend that he ſhould leave Hampſtead this night: Every thing drawing on to a criſis.

A meſſage to the above effect was carried up, at my deſire, by Mrs. Moore; with the Captain's compliments, and to know if ſhe had any commands for him to her uncle?

But I hinted to the women, that it would be proper for them to withdraw, if the lady did come down; leſt ſhe ſhould not care to be ſo free before them, on a propoſal ſo particular, as ſhe would be to us, who had offer'd it to her conſideration.

Mrs. Moore brought down word, that the lady was following her. They all three withdrew; and ſhe enter'd at one door, as they went out at the other.

[147]The Captain accoſted her, repeating the contents of the meſſage ſent up; and deſired, that ſhe would give him her commands in relation to the report he was to make to her uncle Harlowe.

I know not what to ſay, Sir, nor what I would have you to ſay, to my uncle. Perhaps you may have buſineſs in town—Perhaps you need not ſee my uncle, till I have heard from Miſs Howe; till after Lady Betty—I don't know what to ſay.

I implored the return of that value, which ſhe had ſo generouſly acknowleged once to have had for me. I preſumed, I ſaid, to flatter myſelf that Lady Betty, in her own perſon, and in the name of all my family, would be able, on my promiſed reformation and contrition, to prevail in my favour; eſpecially as our proſpects in other reſpects, with regard to the general reconciliation wiſhed for, were ſo happy. But let me owe to your own generoſity, my deareſt creature, ſaid I, rather than to the mediation of any perſon on earth, the forgiveneſs I am an humble ſuitor for. How much more agreeable to yourſelf, O beſt beloved of my ſoul, muſt it be, as well as obliging to me, that your firſt perſonal knowlege of my relations, and theirs of you (for they will not be denied attending you), ſhould not be begun in recriminations and appeals! As Lady Betty will be here ſo ſoon, it will not perhaps be poſſible for you to receive her viſit with a brow abſolutely ſerene. But, deareſt, deareſt creature, I beſeech you, let the miſunderſtanding paſs as a ſlight one—As a miſunderſtanding clear'd up. Appeals give pride and ſuperiority to the perſons appealed to, and are apt to leſſen the appellant, not only in their eye, but in her own. Exalt not into judges thoſe who are prepared to take leſſons and inſtructions from you. The individuals of my family are as proud as I am ſaid to be. But they will chearfully reſign to your ſuperiority—You [148] will be the firſt woman of the family in every one's eyes.

This might have done with any other woman in the world but this; and yet ſhe is the only woman in the world of whom it may with truth be ſaid— But thus, angrily, did ſhe diſclaim the compliment.

Yes, indeed!—(and there ſhe ſtopt a moment, her ſweet boſom heaving with a noble diſdain)—Trick'd out of myſelf, from the very firſt—A fugitive from my own family! Renounced by my relations! Inſulted by you!—Laying humble claim to the protection of yours!—Is not this the light in which I muſt appear not only to the ladies of your family, but to all the world?—Think you, Sir, that in theſe circumſtances, or even had I been in the happieſt, that I could be affected by this plea of undeſerved ſuperiority?—You are a ſtranger to the mind of Clariſſa Harlowe, if you think her capable of ſo poor and ſo undue a pride!

She went from us to the farther end of the room.

The Captain was again affected—Excellent creature! I called her; and, reverently approaching her, urged further the plea I had laſt made.

It is but lately, ſaid I, that the opinions of my relations have been more than indifferent to me, whether good or bad; and it is for your ſake, more than for my own, that I now wiſh to ſtand well with my whole family. The principal motive of Lady Betty's coming up, is, to purchaſe preſents for the whole family to make on the happy occaſion.

This conſideration, turning to the Captain, with ſo noble-minded a dear creature, I know, can have no weight; only as it will ſhew their value and reſpect. But what a damp would their worthy hearts receive, were they to find their admired new niece, as they now think her, not only not their niece, but capable of renouncing me for ever! They love me. [149] They all love me. I have been guilty of careleſſneſs and levity to them, indeed; but of careleſſneſs and levity only; and that owing to a pride that has ſet me above meanneſs, tho' it has not done every thing for me.

My whole family will be guaranties for my good behaviour to this dear creature, their niece, their daughter, their couſin, their friend, their choſen companion and directreſs, all in one.—Upon my ſoul, Captain, we may, we muſt be happy.

But, deareſt, deareſt creature, let me on my knees (and down I dropt, her face all the time turn'd half from me, as ſhe ſtood at the window, her handkerchief often at her eyes) plead your promiſed forgiveneſs; and let us not appear to them, on their viſit, thus unhappy with each other. Lady Betty, the next hour that ſhe ſees you, will write her opinion of you, and of the likelihood of our future happineſs, to Lady Sarah, her ſiſter, a weak-ſpirited woman, who now hopes to ſupply to herſelf, in my bride, the loſt daughter ſhe ſtill mourns for!

The Captain then joined in, re-urging her uncle's hopes and expectations; and his reſolution effectually to ſet about the general reconciliation: The miſchief that might be prevented: The certainty he was in, that her uncle might be prevailed upon to give her to me with his own hand, if ſhe made it her choice to wait for his coming up. But, for his own part, he humbly adviſed, and fervently preſſed her, to make the very next day, or Monday at fartheſt, my happy day.

Permit me, deareſt Lady, ſaid he, and I could kneel to you myſelf (bending his knee); tho' I have no intereſt in my earneſtneſs, but the pleaſure I ſhould have to be able to ſerve you all; to beſeech you to give me an opportunity to aſſure your uncle, that I myſelf ſaw with my own eyes the happy knot ty'd!—All miſunderſtandings, all doubts, all diffidences, will then be at an end.

[150]And what, Madam, rejoined I, ſtill kneeling, can there be in your new meaſures, be they what they will, that can ſo happily, ſo reputably, I will preſume to ſay, for all round, obviate the preſent difficulties?

Miſs Howe herſelf, if ſhe loves you, and loves your fame, Madam, urged the Captain, his knee ſtill bent, muſt congratulate you on ſuch a happy concluſion.

Then turning her face, ſhe ſaw the Captain half-kneeling—O Sir! O Capt. Tomlinſon!—Why this undue condeſcenſion? extending her hand to his elbow, to raiſe him.—I cannot bear this!—Then caſting her eye to me, Riſe, Mr. Lovelace. Kneel not to the poor creature whom you have inſulted!—How cruel the occaſion for it!—And how mean the ſubmiſſion!

Not mean to ſuch an angel!—Nor can I riſe, but to be forgiven!—

The Captain then re-urged once more the day— He was amazed, he ſaid, if ſhe ever valued me—

O Captain Tomlinſon, interrupted ſhe, how much are you the friend of this man!—If I had never valued him, he never would have had it in his power to inſult me; nor could I have taken to heart as I do, the inſult (execrable as it was) ſo undeſervedly, ſo ungratefully given—But let him retire—For a moment let him retire.

I was more than half afraid to truſt the Captain by himſelf with her—He gave me a ſign that I might depend upon him—And then I took out of my pocket his letter to me, and Lady Betty's, and Miſs Montague's, and Lord M.'s (which laſt ſhe had not then ſeen), and giving them to him: Procure for me, in the firſt place, Mr. Tomlinſon, a re-peruſal of theſe three letters; and of This, from Lord M. And I beſeech you, my deareſt life, give them due [151] conſideration: And let me on my return find the happy effects of it.

I then withdrew; with ſlow feet, however, and a miſgiving heart.

The Captain inſiſted upon this re-peruſal previouſly to what ſhe had to ſay to him, as he tells me. She comply'd, but with ſome difficulty; as if ſhe was afraid of being ſoften'd in my favour!

She lamented her unhappy ſituation; deſtitute of friends, and not knowing whither to go, or what to do.—She aſked queſtions, ſifting queſtions, about her uncle, about her family, and after what he knew of Mr. Hickman's fruitleſs application in her favour.

He was well prepared in this particular; for I had ſhewn him the letters, and extracts of letters, of Miſs Howe, which I had ſo happily come at (a). Might ſhe be aſſured, ſhe aſked him, that her brother, with Singleton, and Solmes, were actually in queſt of her?

He averr'd that they were.

She aſked, If he thought I had hopes of prevailing on her to go back to town?

He was ſure I had not.

Was he really of opinion, that Lady Betty would pay her a viſit?

He had no doubt of it.

But, Sir; but, Captain Tomlinſon—Then impatiently turning from him, and again to him, I know not what to do—But were I your daughter, Sir— Were you my own father—Alas, Sir, I have neither father nor mother!

He turned from her, and wiped his eyes.

O Sir! you have humanity! [She wept too] There are ſome men in the world, thank Heaven, that can be moved. O Sir, I have met with hard-hearted men; and in my own family too—or I could not [152] have been ſo unhappy as I am—But I make everybody unhappy!

I ſuppoſe his eyes run over.

Deareſt Madam! Heavenly Lady!—Who can— who can—heſitated and blubber'd the dog, as he owned. And indeed I heard ſome part of what paſſed, tho' they both talked lower than I wiſhed; for, from the nature of their converſation, there was no room for altitudes.

THEM, and BOTH, and THEY!—How it goes againſt me to include this angel of a creature, and any man on earth, but myſelf, in one word!

Capt.

Who can forbear being affected?—But, Madam, you can be no other man's.

Cl.

Nor would I be. But he is ſo ſunk with me!— To fire the houſe!—An artifice ſo vile!—contrived for the worſt of purpoſes!—Would you have a daughter of yours—But what would I ſay?—Yet you ſee, that I have nobody in whom I can confide!—Mr. Lovelace is a vindictive man!—He could not love the creature whom he could inſult as he has inſulted me! Then pauſing—In ſhort, I never, never can forgive him, nor he me.—Do you think, Sir, I would have gone ſo far, as I have gone, if I had intended ever to draw with him in one yoke?—I left behind me ſuch a letter—

You know, Madam, he has acknowleged the juſtice of your reſentment—

O Sir, he can acknowlege, and he can retract, fifty times a day—But do not think I am trifling with myſelf and you, and want to be perſuaded to forgive him, and to be his.—There is not a creature of my ſex, who would have been more explicit, and more frank, than I would have been, from the moment I intended to be his, had I had a heart like my own to deal with. I was always above reſerve, Sir, I will preſume to ſay, where I had no cauſe of doubt. Mr. Lovelace's conduct has made me appear, perhaps, [153] over-nice, when my heart wanted to be encouraged and aſſured; and when, if it had been ſo, my whole behaviour would have been governed by it.

She ſtopt, her handkerchief at her eyes. I inquired after the minuteſt part of her behaviour, as well as after her words. I love, thou knoweſt, to trace human nature, and more particularly female nature, thro' its moſt ſecret receſſes.

The pitiful fellow was loſt in ſilent admiration of her—And thus the noble creature proceeded.

It is the fate of unequal unions, that tolerable creatures, thro' them, frequently incurr cenſure, when, more happily yoked, they might be intitled to praiſe. And ſhall I not ſhun an union with a man, that might lead into errors a creature who flatters herſelf that ſhe is bleſt with an inclination to be good; and who wiſhes to make every-one happy with whom ſhe has any connexion, even to her very ſervants?

She pauſed, taking a turn about the room—the fellow, devil fetch him, a mummy all the time: Then proceeded.

Formerly, indeed, I hoped to be an humble means of reforming him. But, when I have no ſuch hope, is it right (You are a ſerious man, Sir) to make a venture that ſhall endanger my own morals!

Still ſilent was the varlet. If my advocate had nothing to ſay for me, what hope of carrying my cauſe?

And now, Sir, what is the reſult of all?—It is this—That you will endeavour, if you have that influence over him which a man of your ſenſe and experience ought to have, to prevail upon him, and that for his own ſake, as well as mine, to leave me free to purſue my own deſtiny. And of this you may aſſure him, that I never will be any other man's.

Impoſſible, Madam!—I know that Mr. Lovelace would not hear me with patience on ſuch a topic. And I do aſſure you, that I have ſome ſpirit, and [154] ſhould not care to take an indignity from him, or from any man living.

She pauſed—Then reſuming—And think you, Sir, that my uncle will refuſe to receive a letter from me?—How averſe, Jack, to concede a tittle in my favour!

I know, Madam, as matters are circumſtanced, that he would not anſwer it. If you pleaſe I will carry one down from you.

And will he not purſue his intentions in my favour, nor be himſelf reconciled to me, except I am married?

From what your brother gives out, and affects to believe, on Mr. Lovelace's living with you in the ſame—

No more, Sir—I am an unhappy creature!

He then re-urged, that it would be in her power inſtantly, or on the morrow, to put an end to all her difficulties.

How can that be, ſaid ſhe? The licence ſtill to be obtained? The ſettlements ſtill to be ſigned? Miſs Howe's anſwer to my laſt unreceived?—And ſhall I, Sir, be in ſuch a HURRY, as if I thought my honour in danger if I delay'd? Yet marry the man from whom only it can be endanger'd?—Unhappy, thrice unhappy, Clariſſa Harlowe!—In how many difficulties has one raſh ſtep involved thee?—And ſhe turn'd from him, and wept.

The varlet, by way of comfort, wept too: Yet her tears, as he might have obſerved, were tears that indicated rather a yielding than a perverſe temper.

There is a ſort of ſtone, thou knoweſt, ſo ſoft in the quarry, that it may, in a manner, be cut with a knife; but if the opportunity be not taken, and it is expoſed to the air for any time, it will become as hard as marble, and then with difficulty it yields to the chizel (a). So this lady, not taken at the moment, [155] after a turn or two croſs the room, gained more reſolution; and then ſhe declared, as ſhe had done once before, that ſhe would wait the iſſue of Miſs Howe's anſwer to the letter ſhe had ſent her from hence, and take her meaſures accordingly; leaving it to him, mean time, to make what report he thought fit, to her uncle; the kindeſt that truth could bear, ſhe doubted not from Captain Tomlinſon: And ſhe ſhould be glad of a few lines from him, to hear what that was.

She wiſhed him a good journey. She complained of her head; and was about to withdraw: But I ſtept round to the door next the ſtairs, as if I had but juſt come in from the garden; which, as I entered, I called a very pretty one; and took her reluctant hand, as ſhe was going out: My deareſt life, you are not going?—What hopes, Captain?—Have you not ſome hopes to give me of pardon and reconciliation?

She ſaid, She would not be detained. But I would not let her go, till ſhe had promiſed to return, when the Captain had reported to me what her reſolution was.

And when he had, I claimed her promiſe; and ſhe came down again, and repeated it, as what ſhe was determined upon.

I expoſtulated with her upon it, in the moſt ſubmiſſive and earneſt manner. She made it neceſſary for me to repeat many of the pleas I had before urged. The Captain ſeconded me with equal earneſtneſs. At laſt, each fell down on his knees before her.

She was diſtreſſed. I was afraid at one time ſhe would have fainted. Yet neither of us would riſe without ſome conceſſions. I pleaded my own ſake; the Captain, his dear friend her uncle's; and both, the prevention of future miſchief; and the peace and happineſs of the two families.

She own'd herſelf unequal to the conflict. She ſigh'd, ſhe ſobb'd, ſhe wept, ſhe wrung her hands.

[156]I was perfectly eloquent in my vows and proteſtations. Her tearful eyes were caſt down upon me; a glow upon each charming cheek; a viſible anguiſh in every lovely feature—At laſt, her trembling knees ſeeming to fail her, ſhe dropt into the next chair; her charming face, as if ſeeking for a hiding-place (which a mother's boſom would have beſt ſupply'd), ſinking upon her own ſhoulder.

I forgot at the inſtant all my vows of revenge. I threw myſelf at her feet as ſhe ſat; and, ſnatching her hand, preſſed it with my lips. I beſought Heaven to forgive my paſt offences, and proſper my future hopes, as I deſigned honourably and juſtly by the charmer of my heart, if once more ſhe would reſtore me to her favour. And I thought I felt drops of ſcalding water (Could they be tears?) trickle down upon my cheeks; while my cheeks, glowing like fire, ſeemed to ſcorch up the unwelcome ſtrangers.

I then aroſe, not doubting of an imply'd pardon in this ſilent diſtreſs. I raiſed the Captain. I whiſper'd him—By my ſoul, man, I am in earneſt.—Now talk of reconciliation, of her uncle, of the licence, of ſettlements—And raiſing my voice, If now at laſt, Captain Tomlinſon, my angel will give me leave to call ſo great a bleſſing mine, it will be impoſſible that you ſhould ſay too much to her uncle in praiſe of my gratitude, my affection, and fidelity to his charming niece; and he may begin as ſoon as he pleaſes, his kind ſchemes for effecting the deſirable reconciliation!—Nor ſhall he preſcribe any terms to me, that I will not comply with.

The Captain bleſs'd me with his eyes and hands— Thank God, whiſper'd he. We approached the lady together.

What hinders, deareſt Madam, ſaid he, what now hinders, but that Lady Betty Lawrance, when ſhe comes, may be acquainted with the truth of everything? And aſſiſt privately at your nuptials?—I will [157] ſtay till they are celebrated; and then ſhall I go down with the happy tidings to my dear Mr. Harlowe.—And all will, all muſt, ſoon be happy.

I muſt have an anſwer from Miſs Howe, reply'd the ſtill trembling Fair-one. I cannot change my new meaſures, but with her advice. I will forfeit all my hopes of happineſs in this world, rather than her good opinion, and that ſhe ſhould think me giddy, unſteady, or precipitate. All I will further ſay on the preſent ſubject is this, That, when I have her anſwer to what I have written, I will write to her the whole ſtate of the matter, as I ſhall then be enabled to do.

Lovel.

Then muſt I deſpair for ever—O Captain Tomlinſon, Miſs Howe hates me!—Miſs Howe—

Capt.

Not ſo, perhaps—When Miſs Howe knows your concern for having offended, ſhe will never adviſe, that, with ſuch proſpects of general reconciliation, the hopes of ſo many conſiderable perſons in both families, ſhould be fruſtrated. Some little time, as that excellent lady has foreſeen and hinted, will neceſſarily be taken up, in actually procuring the licence, and in peruſing and ſigning the ſettlements. In that time Miſs Howe's anſwer may be received; and Lady Betty may arrive; and ſhe, no doubt, will have weight to diſſipate the lady's doubts, and to accelerate the day. It ſhall be my part, mean time, to make Mr. Harlowe eaſy. All I fear from delay is, from Mr. James Harlowe's quarter; and therefore all muſt be conducted with prudence and privacy;—As your uncle, Madam, has propoſed.

She was ſilent: I rejoiced in her ſilence: The dear creature, thought I, has actually forgiven me in her heart!—But why will ſhe not lay me under obligation to her, by the generoſity of an explicit declaration?—And yet, as that would not accelerate any-thing, while the licence is not in my hands, ſhe is the leſs to be blamed (if I do her juſtice), that ſhe took more time to deſcend.

[158]I propoſed, as on the morrow night, to go to town; and doubted not to bring the licence up with me on Monday morning. Would ſhe be pleaſed to aſſure me, that ſhe would not depart from Mrs. Moore's?

She ſhould ſtay at Mrs. Moore's, till ſhe had an anſwer from Miſs Howe.

I told her, that I hop'd I might have her tacit conſent, at leaſt, to the obtaining of the licence.

I ſaw by the turn of her countenance, that I ſhould not have aſked this queſtion. She was ſo far from tacitly conſenting, that ſhe declared to the contrary.

As I never intended, I ſaid, to aſk her to enter again into a houſe, with the people of which ſhe was ſo much offended, would ſhe be pleaſed to give orders for her cloaths to be brought up hither? Or ſhould Dorcas attend her for any of her commands on that head?

She deſired not ever more to ſee any-body belonging to that houſe. She might perhaps get Mrs. Moore or Mrs. Bevis to go thither for her, and take her keys with them.

I doubted not, I ſaid, that Lady Betty would arrive by that time. I hoped ſhe had no objection to my bringing that lady and my couſin Montague up with me?

She was ſilent.

To be ſure, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid the Captain, the lady can have no objection to this.

She was ſtill ſilent. So ſilence in this caſe was aſſent.

Would ſhe be pleaſed to write to Miſs Howe?—

Sir! Sir! peeviſhly interrupting—No more queſtions: No preſcribing to me.—You will do as you think fit. So will I, as I pleaſe. I own no obligation to you. Captain Tomlinſon, your ſervant. Recommend me to my uncle Harlowe's favour: And was going.

[159]I took her reluctant hand, and beſought her only to promiſe to meet me early in the morning.

To what purpoſe meet you? Have you more to ſay, than has been ſaid?—I have had enough of vows and proteſtations, Mr. Lovelace. To what purpoſe ſhould I meet you to-morrow morning?

I repeated my requeſt, and that in the moſt fervent manner, naming ſix in the morning.

‘You know, that I am always ſtirring before that hour, at this ſeaſon of the year,’ was the half-expreſſed conſent.

She then again recommended herſelf to her uncle's favour; and withdrew.

And thus, Belford, has ſhe mended her markets, as Lord M. would ſay, and I worſted mine. Miſs Howe's next letter is now the hinge, on which the fate of both muſt turn. I ſhall be abſolutely ruin'd and undone, if I cannot intercept it.

LETTER XV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

NO reſt, ſays a text that I once heard preached upon, to the wicked—And I cannot cloſe my eyes; yet wanted only to compound for half an hour in an elbow-chair. So muſt ſcribble on.

I parted with the Captain, after another ſtrong debate with him in relation to what is to be the fate of this lady. As the fellow has an excellent head, and would have made an eminent figure in any ſtation of life, had not his early days been tainted with a deep crime, and he detected in it; and as he had the right ſide of the argument; I had a good deal of difficulty with him; and at laſt brought myſelf to promiſe, that if I could prevail upon her generouſly to forgive me, and to reinſtate me in her favour, I would make it my whole endeavour to get off of my [160] contrivances, as happily as I could (only that Lady Betty and Charlotte muſt come); and then, ſubſtituting him for her uncle's proxy, take ſhame to myſelf, and marry.

But if I ſhould, Jack (with the ſtrongeſt antipathy to the ſtate that ever man had), what a figure ſhall I make in rakiſh annals? And can I have taken all this pains for nothing? Or for a wife only, that, however excellent (and any woman, do I think, I could make good, becauſe I could make any woman fear as well as love me), might have been obtained without the plague I have been at, and much more reputably than with it? And haſt thou not ſeen, that this haughty lady knows not how to forgive with graciouſneſs? Indeed has not at all forgiven me? But holds my ſoul in a ſuſpenſe, which has been ſo grievous to her own.

At this ſilent moment I think, that if I were to purſue my former ſcheme, and reſolve to try whether I cannot make a greater fault ſerve as a ſponge to wipe out a leſs; and then be forgiven for that; I can juſtify myſelf to myſelf; and that, as the fair Implacable would ſay, is all in all.

It is my intention, in all my reflections, to avoid repeating, at leaſt dwelling upon, what I have before written to thee, tho' the ſtate of the caſe may not have varied; ſo I would have thee reconſider the old reaſonings (particularly thoſe contained in my anſwer to thy laſt expoſtulatory nonſenſe (a); and add the new, as they fall from my pen; and then I ſhall think myſelf invincible;—at leaſt, as arguing rake to rake.

I take the gaining of this lady to be eſſential to my happineſs: And is it not natural for all men to aim at obtaining whatever they think will make them happy, be the object more or leſs conſiderable in the eyes of others?

As to the manner of endeavouring to obtain her, [161] by falſification of oaths, vows, and the like—Do not the poets of two thouſand years and upwards tell us, that Jupiter laughs at the perjuries of lovers? And let me add, to what I have heretofore mentioned on that head, a queſtion or two.

Do not the mothers, the aunts, the grandmothers, the governeſſes of the pretty innocents, always, from their very cradles to riper years, preach to them the deceitfulneſs of men?—That they are not to regard their oaths, vows, promiſes?—What a parcel of fibbers would all theſe reverend matrons be, if there were not now-and-then a pretty credulous rogue taken in for a juſtification of their preachments, and to ſerve as a beacon lighted up for the benefit of the reſt?

Do we not then ſee, that an honeſt prowling fellow is a neceſſary evil on many accounts? Do we not ſee, that it is highly requiſite that a ſweet girl ſhould be now-and-then drawn aſide by him?—And the more eminent the lady, in the graces of perſon, mind, and fortune, is not the example likely to be the more efficacious?

If theſe poſtulata be granted me, who, I pray, can equal my charmer in all theſe? Who therefore ſo fit for an example to the reſt of the Sex?—At worſt, I am intirely within my worthy friend Mandeville's rule, That private vices are public benefits.

Well then, if this ſweet creature muſt fall, as it is called, for the benefit of all the pretty fools of the Sex, ſhe muſt; and there's an end of the matter. And what would there have been in it of uncommon or rare, had I not been ſo long about it?—And ſo I diſmiſs all further argumentation and debate upon the queſtion: And I impoſe upon thee, when thou writeſt to me, an eternal ſilence on this head.

Wafer'd on, as an after-written introduction to the paragraphs which follow.

[162]

LORD, Jack, what ſhall I do now!—How one evil brings on another!—Dreadful news to tell thee!—While I was meditating a ſimple robbery, here have I (in my own defence indeed) been guilty of murder! A bloody murder!—So I believe it will prove.—At her laſt gaſp!—Poor impertinent oppoſer! Eternally reſiſting!—Eternally contradicting! There ſhe lies, weltering in her blood! Her death's wound have I given her!—But ſhe was a thief, an impoſtor, as well as a tormentor. She had ſtolen my pen.— While I was ſullenly meditating, doubting, as to my future meaſures, ſhe ſtole it; and thus ſhe wrote with it, in a hand exactly like my own; and would have faced me down, that it was really my own hand-writing.

‘But let me reflect, before it be too late. On the manifold perfections of this ever-admirable creature, let me reflect. The hand yet is only held up. The blow is not ſtruck. Miſs Howe's next letter may blow thee up. In policy thou ſhouldeſt be now at leaſt honeſt. Thou canſt not live without her. Thou wouldeſt rather marry her than loſe her abſolutely. Thou mayeſt undoubtedly prevail upon her, inflexible as ſhe ſeems to be, for marriage. But if now ſhe find thee a villain, thou mayeſt never more engage her attention, and ſhe, perhaps, will refuſe and abhor thee.’

‘Yet already have I not gone too far? Like a repentant thief, afraid of his gang, and obliged to go on, in fear of hanging till he comes to be hang'd, I am afraid of the gang of my curſed contrivances.’

‘As I hope to live, I am ſorry, at the preſent writing, that I have been ſuch a fooliſh plotter, as to put it, as I fear I have done, out of my own [163] power to be honeſt. I hate compulſion in all forms; and cannot bear, even to be compelled to be the wretch my choice has made me! — So now, Belford, as thou haſt ſaid, I am a machine at laſt, and no free agent.’

‘Upon my ſoul, Jack, it is a very fooliſh thing for a man of ſpirit to have brought himſelf to ſuch a height of iniquity, that he muſt proceed, and cannot help himſelf; and yet to be next-to certain, that his very victory will undo him.’

‘Why was ſuch a woman as This thrown in my way, whoſe very fall will be her glory, and, perhaps, not only my ſhame, but my deſtruction?’

‘What a happineſs muſt that man know, who moves regularly to ſome laudable end, and has nothing to reproach himſelf with in his progreſs to it! When, by honeſt means, he attains this end, how great and unmixed muſt be his enjoyments! What a happy man, in this particular caſe, had I been, had it been given me to be only what I wiſhed to appear to be!’

Thus far had my Conſcience written with my pen; and ſee what a recreant ſhe had made me!—I ſeized her by the throat—There!—There, ſaid I, thou vile impertinent!—Take that, and that!—How often have I given thee warning!—And now, I hope, thou intruding varleteſs, have I done thy buſineſs!

Puling, and in-voiced, rearing up thy deteſted head, in vain imploreſt thou my mercy, who, in thy day, haſt ſhewed me ſo little!—Take that, for a riſing-blow!—And now will thy pain, and my pain from thee, ſoon be over!—Lie there!—Welter on!— Had I not given thee thy death's wound, thou wouldeſt have robbed me of all my joys. Thou couldeſt not have mended me, 'tis plain. Thou couldeſt only have thrown me into deſpair. Didſt thou not ſee, that I had gone too far to recede?—Welter on, once more I bid thee!—Gaſp on!—That thy laſt [164] gaſp, ſurely!—How hard dieſt thou!—ADIEU!— 'Tis kind in thee, however, to bid me Adieu!— Adieu, Adieu, Adieu, to thee, O thou inflexible, and, till now, unconquerable boſom-intruder— Adieu to thee for ever!

LETTER XVI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

A Few words to the information thou ſenteſt me laſt night concerning thy poor old man; and then I riſe from my ſeat, ſhake myſelf, refreſh, new-dreſs, and ſo to my charmer, whom, notwithſtanding her reſerves, I hope to prevail upon to walk out with me on the heath, this warm and fine morning.

The birds muſt have awaken'd her before now. They are in full ſong. She always gloried in accuſtoming herſelf to behold the ſun-riſe; one of God's natural wonders, as once ſhe called it.

Her window ſalutes the Eaſt. The valleys muſt be gilded by his rays, by the time I am with her; for already have they made the up-lands ſmile, and the face of nature chearful.

How unſuitable wilt thou find this gay preface to a ſubject ſo gloomy, as that I am now turning to!

I am glad to hear thy tedious expectations are at laſt anſwered.

Thy ſervant tells me, that thou art plaguily grieved at the old fellow's departure.

I can't ſay, but thou mayſt look as if thou wert; haraſſed as thou haſt been for a number of days and nights with a cloſe attendance upon a dying man, beholding his drawing-on hour—Pretending, for decency's ſake, to whine over his excruciating pangs— To be in the way to anſwer a thouſand impertinent inquiries after the health of a man thou wiſhedſt to die— To pray by him—for ſo once thou wroteſt to me!— [165] To read by him—To be forced to join in conſultations with a parcel of ſolemn wou'd-ſeem-wiſe doctors, and their officious Zanies the apothecaries, joined with the butcherly tribe of ſcarificators; all combined to carry on the phyſical farce, and to cut out thongs both from his fleſh and his eſtate—To have the ſuper-added apprehenſion of dividing thy intereſt in what he ſhall leave with a crew of eager-hoping, never-to-be-ſatisfied relations, legatees, and the devil knows who, of private gratificators of paſſions laudable and illaudable—In theſe circumſtances, I wonder not that thou lookeſt to ſervants (as little grieved at heart as thyſelf, and who are gaping after legacies, as thou after heirſhip) as if thou indeed wert grieved; and as if the moſt wry-facing woe had befallen thee.

Then, as I have often thought, the reflection that muſt naturally ariſe from ſuch mortifying objects, as the death of one with whom we have been familiar, muſt afford, when we are obliged to attend it in its ſlow approaches, and in its face-twiſting pangs, that it will one day be our own caſe, goes a great way to credit the appearance of grief.

And This it is that, ſeriouſly reflected upon, may temporarily give a fine air of ſincerity to the wailings of lively widows, heart-exulting heirs, and reſiduary legatees of all denominations; ſince, by keeping down the inward joy, thoſe intereſting reflections muſt ſadden the aſpect, and add an appearance of real concern to the aſſumed ſables.

Well, but, now thou art come to the reward of all thy watchings, anxieties, and cloſe attendances, tell me what it is; tell me if it compenſate thy trouble, and anſwer thy hope?

As to myſelf, thou ſeeſt, by the gravity of my ſtyle, how the ſubject has help'd to mortify me. But the neceſſity I am under of committing either ſpeedy matrimony, or a rape, has ſadden'd over my gayer proſpects, and, more than the caſe itſelf, contributed [166] to make me ſympathize with thy preſent joyful-ſorrow.

Adieu, Jack. I muſt be ſoon out of my pain, and my Clariſſa ſhall be ſoon out of hers—For ſo does the arduouſneſs of the caſe require.

LETTER XVII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

I Have had the honour of my charmer's company for two complete hours. We met before ſix in Mrs. Moore's garden: A walk on the heath refuſed me.

The ſedateneſs of her aſpect, and her kind compliance in this meeting, gave me hopes. And all that either the Captain or I had urged yeſterday to obtain a full and free pardon, that re-urged I; and I told her, beſides, that Capt. Tomlinſon was gone down with hopes to prevail upon her uncle Harlowe to come up in perſon, in order to preſent me with the greateſt bleſſing that man ever received.

But the utmoſt I could obtain was, That ſhe would take no reſolution in my favour, till ſhe received Miſs Howe's next letter.

I will not repeat the arguments uſed by me: But I will give thee the ſubſtance of what ſhe ſaid in anſwer to them.

She had conſidered of every thing, ſhe told me. My whole conduct was before her. The houſe I carried her to, muſt be a vile houſe. The people early ſhewed what they were capable of, in the earneſt attempt made to faſten Miſs Partington upon her; as ſhe doubted not, with my approbation.— [Surely, thought I, ſhe has not received a duplicate of Miſs Howe's letter of detection!] They heard her cries. My inſult was undoubtedly premeditated. By my whole recollected behaviour to her, previous to [167] it, it muſt be ſo. I had the vileſt of views, no queſtion. And my treatment of her put it out of all doubt.

Soul all over, Belford! ſhe ſeems ſenſible of liberties, that my paſſion made me inſenſible of having taken.

She beſought me to give over all thoughts of her. Sometimes, ſhe ſaid, ſhe thought herſelf cruelly treated by her neareſt and deareſt relations: At ſuch times, a ſpirit of repining, and even of reſentment, took place, and the reconciliation, at other times ſo deſirable, was not then ſo much the favourite wiſh of her heart, as was the ſcheme ſhe had formerly planned—of taking her good Norton for her directreſs and guide, and living upon her own eſtate in the manner her grandfather had intended ſhe ſhould live.

This ſcheme, ſhe doubted not, that her couſin Morden, who was one of her truſtees for that eſtate, would enable her (and that as ſhe hoped, without litigation) to purſue. And if he can, and does, what, Sir, let me aſk you, ſaid ſhe, have I ſeen in your conduct, that ſhould make me prefer to it an union of intereſts, where there is ſuch a diſunion in minds?

So thou ſeeſt, Jack, there is reaſon, as well as reſentment, in the preference ſhe makes againſt me!— Thou ſeeſt, that ſhe preſumes to think, that ſhe can be happy without me; and that ſhe muſt be unhappy with me!

I had beſought her, in the concluſion of my reurged arguments, to write to Miſs Howe before Miſs Howe's anſwer could come, in order to lay before her the preſent ſtate of things; and if ſhe would defere to her judgment, to let her have an opportunity to give it, on the full knowlege of the caſe —

So I would, Mr. Lovelace, was the anſwer, if I were in doubt myſelf, which I would prefer; marriage, or the ſcheme I have mentioned. You cannot think, Sir, but the latter muſt be my choice. I wiſh [168] to part with you with temper—Don't put me upon repeating—

Part with me, Madam, interrupted I!—I cannot bear thoſe words!—But let me beſeech you, however, to write to Miſs Howe. I hope, if Miſs Howe is not my enemy—

She is not the enemy of your perſon, Sir;—as you would be convinced, if you ſaw her laſt letter to me (a). But were ſhe not an enemy to your actions, ſhe would not be my friend, nor the friend of virtue. Why will you provoke from me, Mr. Lovelace, the harſhneſs of expreſſion, which, however deſerved by you, I am unwilling juſt now to uſe; having ſuffered enough in the two paſt days from my own vehemence?

I bit my lip for vexation. I was ſilent.

Miſs Howe, proceeded ſhe, knows the full ſtate of matters already, Sir. The anſwer I expect from her reſpects myſelf, not you. Her heart is too warm in the cauſe of friendſhip, to leave me in ſuſpenſe one moment longer than is neceſſary, as to what I want to know. Nor does her anſwer depend abſolutely upon herſelf. She muſt ſee a perſon firſt; and that perſon perhaps muſt ſee others.

The curſed ſmuggler-woman, Jack!—Miſs Howe's Townſend, I doubt not!—Plot, contrivance, intrigue, ſtratagem!—Underground moles theſe ladies- But let the earth cover me! let me be a mole too, thought I, if they carry their point!—And if this lady eſcape me now.

She frankly owned, that ſhe had once thought of embarking out of all our ways for ſome one of our American colonies. But now that ſhe had been compelled to ſee me (which had been her greateſt dread, and which ſhe would have given her life to avoid), ſhe thought ſhe might be happieſt in the reſumption [169] of her former favourite ſcheme, if Miſs Howe could find her a reputable and private aſylum, till her couſin Morden could come. But if he came not ſoon, and if ſhe had a difficulty to get to a place of refuge, whether from her brother or from any-body elſe (meaning me, I ſuppoſe), ſhe might yet perhaps go abroad: For, to ſay the truth, ſhe could not think of returning to her father's houſe; ſince her brother's rage, her ſiſter's upbraidings, her father's anger, her mother's ſtill more-affecting ſorrowings, and her own conſciouſneſs under them all, would be inſupportable to her.

O Jack! I am ſick to death, I pine, I die, for Miſs Howe's next letter! I would bind, gag, ſtrip, rob, and do any thing but murder, to intercept it.

But, determined as ſhe ſeems to be, it was evident to me, nevertheleſs, that ſhe had ſtill ſome tenderneſs for me.

She often wept as ſhe talk'd, and much oftener ſigh'd. She looked at me twice with an eye of undoubted gentleneſs, and three times with an eye tending to compaſſion and ſoftneſs: But its benign rays were as often ſnatch'd back, as I may ſay, and her face averted, as if her ſweet eye were not to be truſted, and could not ſtand againſt my eager eyes; ſeeking, as they did, for a loſt heart in hers, and endeavouring to penetrate to her very ſoul.

More than once I took her hand. She ſtruggled not much againſt the freedom. I preſſed it once with my lips. She was not very angry. A frown indeed; but a frown that had more diſtreſs in it than indignation.

How came the dear ſoul (cloathed as it is with ſuch a ſilken veſture) by all its ſteadineſs (a)?—Was it neceſſary, that the active gloom of ſuch a tyrant of a father, ſhould commix with ſuch a paſſive ſweetneſs [170] of a will-leſs mother, to produce a conſtancy, an equanimity, a ſteadineſs, in the daughter, which never woman before could boaſt of?—If ſo, ſhe is more obliged to that deſpotic father than I could have imagined a creature to be, who gave diſtinction to every one related to her, beyond what the crown itſelf can confer.

I hoped, I ſaid, that ſhe would admit of the intended viſit of the two ladies, which I had ſo often mentioned.

She was here. She had ſeen me. She could not help herſelf at preſent. She ever had the higheſt regard for the ladies of my family, becauſe of their worthy characters. There ſhe turned away her ſweet face, and vanquiſhed a half-riſen ſigh.

I kneeled to her then. It was upon a verdant cuſhion; for we were upon the graſs-walk. I caught her hand. I beſought her with an earneſtneſs that called up, as I could feel, my heart to my eyes, to make me, by her forgiveneſs and example, more worthy of them, and of her own kind and generous wiſhes. By my ſoul, Madam, ſaid I, you ſtab me with your goodneſs, your undeſerved goodneſs! and I cannot bear it!

Why, why, thought I, as I did ſeveral times in this converſation, will ſhe not generouſly forgive me? Why will ſhe make it neceſſary for me to bring my aunt and my couſin to my aſſiſtance? Can the fortreſs expect the ſame advantageous capitulation, which yields not to the ſummons of a reſiſtleſs conqueror, as if it gave not the trouble of bringing up, and raiſing its heavy artillery againſt it?

What ſenſibilities, ſaid the divine creature, withdrawing her hand, muſt thou have ſuppreſſed!— What a dreadful, what a judicial hardneſs of heart muſt thine be; who canſt be capable of ſuch emotions as ſometimes thou haſt ſhewn; and of ſuch ſentiments, as ſometimes have flowed from thy lips; [171] yet canſt have ſo far overcome them all, as to be able to act as thou haſt acted, and that, from ſettled purpoſe and premeditation; and this, as it is ſaid, throughout the whole of thy life, from infancy to this time!

I told her, that I had hoped, from the generous concern ſhe had expreſſed for me, when I was ſo ſuddenly and dangerouſly taken ill—[The Ipecacuanha experiment, Jack!].

She interrupted me.—Well have you rewarded me for the concern you ſpeak of! — However, I will frankly own, now that I am determined to think no more of you, that you might (unſatisfied as I nevertheleſs was with you) have made an intereſt—

She pauſed. I beſought her to proceed.

Do you ſuppoſe, Sir, and turned away her ſweet face as we walked; do you ſuppoſe, that I had not thought of laying down a plan to govern myſelf by, when I found myſelf ſo unhappily over-reached, and cheated, as I may ſay, out of myſelf?—When I found, that I could not be, and do, what I wiſhed to be, and to do, do you imagine, that I had not caſt about, what was the next proper courſe to take?— And do you believe, that this next courſe has not coſt me ſome pain, to be obliged to—

There again ſhe ſtopt.

But let us break off diſcourſe, reſumed ſhe. The ſubject grows too—She ſigh'd—Let us break off diſcourſe—I will go in—I will prepare for church— [The devil! thought I.] Well as I can appear in theſe every-day worn cloaths—looking upon herſelf— I will go to church.

She then turned from me to go into the houſe.

Bleſs me, my beloved creature, bleſs me with the continuance of this affecting converſation—Remorſe has ſeized my heart!—I have been exceſſively wrong— Give me further cauſe to curſe my heedleſs folly, by the continuance of this calm, but ſoul-penetrating converſation.

[172]No, no, Mr. Lovelace. I have ſaid too much. Impatience begins to break in upon me. If you can excuſe me to the ladies, it will be better for my mind's ſake, and for your credit's ſake, that I do not ſee them. Call me to them over-nice, petulant, prudiſh; what you pleaſe, call me to them. Nobody but Miſs Howe, to whom, next to the Almighty, and my own mother, I wiſh to ſtand acquitted of wilful error, ſhall know the whole of what has paſſed. Be happy, as you may!—Deſerve to be happy, and happy you will be, in your own reflection at leaſt, were you to be ever ſo unhappy in other reſpects. For myſelf, if I ſhall be enabled, on due reflection, to look back upon my own conduct, without the great reproach of having wilfully, and againſt the light of my own judgment, erred, I ſhall be more happy, than if I had all that the world accounts deſirable.

The noble creature proceeded; for I could not ſpeak.

This ſelf-acquittal, when ſpirits are lent me to diſpel the darkneſs which at preſent too often overclouds my mind, will, I hope, make me ſuperior to all the calamities that can befall me.

Her whole perſon was informed by her ſentiments. She ſeemed to be taller than before. How the God within her exalted her, not only above me, but above herſelf.

Divine creature! (as I thought her) I called her. I acknowleged the ſuperiority of her mind; and was proceeding—But ſhe interrupted me—All human excellence, ſaid ſhe, is comparative only. My mind, I believe, is indeed ſuperior to yours, debaſed as yours is by evil habits. But I had not known it to be ſo, if you had not taken pains to convince me of the inferiority of yours.

How great, how ſublimely great, this creature!— By my ſoul, I cannot forgive her for her virtues!— There is no bearing the conſciouſneſs of the infinite [173] inferiority ſhe charged me with.—But why will ſhe break from me, when good reſolutions are taking place?—The red-hot iron ſhe refuſes to ſtrike—O why will ſhe ſuffer the yielding wax to harden?

We had gone but a few paces towards the houſe, when we were met by the impertinent women, with notice, that breakfaſt was ready. I could only, with up-lifted hands, beſeech her to give me hope of a renewed converſation after breakfaſt.

No; ſhe would go to church.

And into the houſe ſhe went, and up-ſtairs directly. Nor would ſhe oblige me with her company at the tea-table.

I offered by Mrs. Moore to quit both the table and the parlour, rather than ſhe ſhould exclude herſelf, or deprive the two widows of the favour of her company.

That was not all the matter, ſhe told Mrs. Moore. She had been ſtruggling to keep down her temper. It had coſt her ſome pains to do it. She was deſirous to compoſe herſelf, in hopes to receive benefit by the divine worſhip ſhe was going to join in.

Mrs. Moore hoped for her preſence at dinner.

She had rather be excuſed. Yet, if ſhe could obtain the frame of mind ſhe hoped for, ſhe might not be averſe to ſhew, that ſhe had got above thoſe ſenſibilities, which gave conſideration to a man who deſerved not to be to her what he had been.

This ſaid, no doubt, to let Mrs. Moore know, that the garden-converſation had not been a reconciling one.

Mrs. Moore ſeemed to wonder, that we were not upon a better foot of underſtanding, after ſo long a conference; and the more, as ſhe believed, that the lady had given in to the propoſal for the repetition of the ceremony, which I had told them was inſiſted upon by her uncle Harlowe. But I accounted for this, by telling both widows, that ſhe was reſolved to [174] keep on the reſerve, till ſhe heard from Capt. Tomlinſon, whether her uncle would be preſent in perſon at the ſolemnity, or would name that worthy gentleman for his proxy.

Again I injoined ſtrict ſecrecy, as to this particular; which was promiſed by the widows, as well for themſelves, as for Miſs Rawlins; of whoſe taciturnity they gave me ſuch an account, as ſhewed me, that ſhe was ſecret-keeper-general to all the women of faſhion at Hamſtead.

The Lord, Jack! What a world of miſchief, at this rate, muſt Miſs Rawlins know!—What a Pandora's box muſt her boſom be!—Yet, had I nothing that was more worthy of my attention to regard, I would engage to open it, and make my uſes of the diſcovery.

And now, Belford, thou perceiveſt, that all my reliance is upon the mediation of Lady Betty, and Miſs Montague; and upon the hope of intercepting Miſs Howe's next letter.

THE fair inexorable is actually gone to church, with Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Bevis. But Will. cloſely attends her motions; and I am in the way to receive any occaſional intelligence from him.

She did not chooſe [A mighty word with the ſex! as if they were always to have their own wills!] that I ſhould wait upon her. I did not much preſs it, that ſhe might not apprehend, that I thought I had reaſon to doubt her voluntary return.

I once had it in my head, to have found the widow Bevis other employment. And I believe ſhe would have been as well pleaſed with my company as to go to church; for ſhe ſeemed irreſolute when I told her, that two out of a family were enough to go to church for one day. But having her things on, as the women call every-thing, and her aunt Moore expecting her company, ſhe thought it beſt to go— [175] Leſt it ſhould look oddly, you know, whiſper'd ſhe, to one, who was above regarding how it look'd.

LETTER XIX. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

O Belford! what a hair's-breadth eſcape have I had! — Such a one, that I tremble between terror and joy, at the thoughts of what might have happen'd, and did not.

What a perverſe girl is this, to contend with her fate, yet has reaſon to think, that her very ſtars fight againſt her! I am the luckieſt of men! — But my breath almoſt fails me, when I reflect upon what a ſlender thread my deſtiny hung.

But not to keep thee in ſuſpenſe; I have, within this half-hour, obtained poſſeſſion of the expected letter from Miſs Howe—And by ſuch an accident! But here, with the former, I diſpatch this; thy meſſenger waiting.

LETTER XX. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

THUS it was—My charmer accompanied Mrs. Moore again to church this afternoon. I had been very earneſt, in the firſt place, to obtain her company at dinner: But in vain. According to what ſhe had ſaid to Mrs. Moore (a), I was too conſiderable to her to be allowed that favour. In the next place, I beſought her to favour me, after dinner, with another garden-walk. But ſhe would again go to church. And what reaſon have I to rejoice that ſhe did!

My worthy friend Mrs. Bevis thought one ſermon a day, well-obſerved, enough; ſo ſtay'd at home to bear me company.

The Lady and Mrs. Moore had not been gone a [176] quarter of an hour, when a young country-fellow on horſeback came to the door, and inquired for Mrs. Harriot Lucas. The widow and I (undetermined how we were to entertain each other) were in the parlour next the door; and hearing the fellow's inquiry, O my dear Mrs. Bevis, ſaid I, I am undone, undone for ever, if you don't help me out!—Since here, in all probability, is a meſſenger from that implacable Miſs Howe with a letter; which, if delivered to Mrs. Lovelace, may undo all we have been doing.

What, ſaid ſhe, would you have me do?

Call the maid in this moment, that I may give her her leſſon; and if it be as I imagine, I'll tell you what you ſhall do.

Widow.

Margaret! — Margaret! come in this minute.

Lovel.

What anſwer, Mrs. Margaret, did you give the man, upon his aſking for Mrs. Harriot Lucas?

Peggy.

I only aſked, What was his buſineſs, and who he came from? (For, Sir, your Honour's ſervant had told me how things ſtood): And I came at your call, Madam, before he anſwer'd me.

Lovel.

Well, child, if ever you wiſh to be happy in wedlock yourſelf, and would have people diſappointed, who want to make miſchief between you and your huſband, get out of him his meſſage, or letter, if he has one, and bring it to me, and ſay nothing to Mrs. Lovelace, when ſhe comes in; and here is a guinea for you.

Peggy.

I will do all I can to ſerve your Honour's Worſhip for nothing

[Nevertheleſs, with a ready hand, taking the guinea].

For Mr. William tells me, what a good gentleman you be.

Away went Peggy to the fellow at the door.

Peggy.

What is your buſineſs, friend, with Mrs. Harry Lucas?

Fellow.

I muſt ſpeak to her, her own ſelf.

Lovel.
[177]

My deareſt widow, do you perſonate Mrs. Lovelace—For Heaven's ſake do you perſonate Mrs. Lovelace!

Wid.

I perſonate Mrs. Lovelace, Sir! How can I do that?—She is fair: I am a brown woman. She is ſlender: I am plump—

Lovel.

No matter, no matter — The fellow may be a new-come ſervant: He is not in livery, I ſee. He may not know her perſon. You can but be bloated, and in a dropſy.

Wid.

Dropſical people look not ſo freſh and ruddy as I do—

Lovel.

True—But the clown may not know That —'Tis but for a preſent deception.

Peggy, Peggy, call'd I, in a female tone, ſoftly at the door. Madam, anſwer'd Peggy; and came up to me to the parlour-door.

Lovel.

Tell him the Lady is ill, and has lain down upon the couch. And get his buſineſs from him, whatever you do.

Away went Peggy.

Lovel.

Now, my dear widow, lie along on the ſettee, and put your handkerchief over your face, that, if he will ſpeak to you himſelf, he may not ſee your eyes and your hair.—So—that's right. I'll ſtep into the cloſet by you.

I did ſo.

Peggy.
(returning)

He won't deliver his buſineſs to me. He will ſpeak to Mrs. Harry Lucas her own ſelf.

Lovel.
(holding the door in my hand)

Tell him, that This is Mrs. Harriot Lucas; and let him come in. Whiſper him, if he doubts, that ſhe is bloated, dropſical, and not the woman ſhe was.

Away went Margery.

Lovel.

And now, my dear widow, let me ſee what a charming Mrs. Lovelace you'll make!—Aſk, If he comes from Miſs Howe. Aſk, If he live with [178] her. Aſk, How ſhe does. Call her, at every word, your dear Miſs Howe. Offer him money—Take this half-guinea—Complain of your head, to have a pretence to hold it down; and cover your forehead and eyes with your hand, where your handkerchief hides not your face.—That's right—And diſmiſs the raſcal—(Here he comes)—as ſoon as you can.

In came the fellow, bowing and ſcraping, his hat poked out before him with both his hands.

Fellow.

I am ſorry, Madam, and pleaſe you, to find you be'n't well.

Widow.

What is your buſineſs with me, friend?

Fellow.

You are Mrs. Harriot Lucas, I ſuppoſe, Madam?

Widow.

Yes. Do you come from Miſs Howe?

Fellow.

I do, Madam.

Widow.

Doſt thou know my right name, friend?

Fellow.

I can give a ſhrewd gueſs. But that is none of my buſineſs.

Widow.

What is thy buſineſs? I hope Miſs Howe is well.

Fellow.

Yes, Madam; pure well, I thank God. I wiſh you were ſo too.

Widow.

I am too full of grief to be well.

Fellow.

So belike I have hard ſay.

Widow.

My head akes ſo dreadfully, I cannot hold it up. I muſt beg of you to let me know your buſineſs?

Fellow.

Nay, and that be all, my buſineſs is ſoon known. It is but to give this letter into your own partiklar hands—Here it is.

Widow.
[Taking it.]

From my dear friend Miſs Howe?—Ah, my head!

Fellow.

Yes, Madam: But I am ſorry you are ſo bad.

Widow.

Do you live with Miſs Howe?

Fellow.

No, Madam: I am one of her tenant's ſons. Her lady-mother muſt not know as how I [179] came of this errand. But the letter, I ſuppoſe, will tell you all.

Widow.

How ſhall I ſatisfy you for this kind trouble?

Fellow.

Na how at all. What I do is for love of Miſs Howe. She will ſatisfy me more than enough. But, may-hap, you can ſend no anſwer, you are ſo ill.

Widow.

Was you order'd to wait for an anſwer?

Fellow.

No. I can't ſay I was. But I was bidden to obſerve how you looked, and how you was; and if you did write a line or ſo, to take care of it, and give it only to our young landlady, in ſecret.

Widow.

You ſee I look ſtrangely. Not ſo well as I uſed to do.

Fellow.

Nay, I don't know that I ever ſaw you but once before; and that was at a ſtile, where I met you and my young landlady; but knew better than to ſtare a gentlewoman in the face; eſpecially at a ſtile.

Widow.

Will you eat, or drink, friend?

Fellow.

A cup of ſmall ale, I don't care if I do.

Widow.

Margaret, take the young man down, and treat him with what the houſe affords.

Fellow.

Your ſervant, Madam. But I ſtaid to eat as I came along, juſt upon the Heath yonder, or elſe, to ſay the truth, I had been here ſooner

[Thank my ſtars, thought I, thou didſt].

A piece of powder'd beef was upon the table, at the ſign of the Caſtle, where I ſtopt to inquire for this houſe: And ſo, thoff I only intended to whet my whiſtle, I could not help eating. So ſhall only taſte of your ale; for the beef was woundily corn'd.

He withdrew, bowing and ſcraping.

Pox on thee, thought I: Get thee gone for a prating dog!

Margaret, whiſper'd I, in a female voice, whipping out of the cloſet, and holding the parlour-door in my hand, Get him out of the houſe as faſt as you [180] can, leſt they come from church, and catch him here.

Peggy.

Never fear, Sir.

The fellow went down, and, it ſeems, drank a large draught of ale; and Margaret finding him very talkative, told him, ſhe begg'd his pardon; but ſhe had a ſweetheart juſt come from ſea, whom ſhe was forced to hide in the pantry; ſo was ſure he would excuſe her from ſtaying with him.

Ay, ay, to be ſure, the clown ſaid: For if he could not make ſport, he would ſpoil none. But he whiſper'd her, that one 'Squire Lovelace was a damnation rogue, if the truth might be told.

For what, ſaid Margaret? And could have given him, ſhe ſaid, a good dowſe of the chaps.

For kiſſing all the women he came near.

At the ſame time, the dog wrapp'd himſelf round Margery, and gave her a ſmack, that, ſhe told Mrs. Bevis afterwards, ſhe might have heard into the parlour.

Such, Jack, is human nature: Thus does it operate in all degrees; and ſo does the clown, as well as his betters, practiſe what he cenſures; and cenſure what he practiſes! Yet this ſly dog knew not but the wench had a ſweetheart lock'd up in the pantry. If the truth were known, ſome of the ruddy-faced dairy wenches might perhaps call him a damnation rogue, as juſtly as their betters of the ſame ſex, might 'Squire Lovelace.

The fellow told the maid, that, by what he diſcern'd of the young lady's face, it look'd very roſy to what he took it to be; and he thought her a good deal fatter, as ſhe lay, and not ſo tall.

All women are born to intrigue, Jack; and practiſe it more or leſs, as fathers, guardians, governeſſes, from dear experience can tell; and in love-affairs are naturally expert, and quicker in their wits by half than men. This ready, tho' raw, wench gave an inſtance of this, and improved on the dropſical hint I had [181] given her. The lady's ſeeming plumpneſs was owing to a dropſical diſorder, and to the round poſture ſhe lay in—Very likely, truly. Her appearing to him to be ſhorter, he might have obſerved was owing to her drawing her feet up, from pain, and becauſe the couch was too ſhort, ſhe ſuppos'd—Ad-ſo, he did not think of that. Her roſy colour was owing to her grief and head-ach—Ay, that might very well be.—But he was highly pleas'd he had given the letter into Mrs. Harriot's own hand, as he ſhould tell Miſs Howe.

He deſir'd once more to ſee the lady, at his going away, and would not be denied. The widow therefore ſat up, with her handkerchief over her face, leaning her head againſt the wainſcot.

He aſked, If ſhe had any partiklar meſſage.

No: She was ſo ill ſhe could not write, which was a great grief to her.

Should he call next day? for he was going to London, now he was ſo near; and ſhould ſtay at a couſin's that night, who lived in a ſtreet call'd Fetter-lane.

No: She would write as ſoon as able, and ſend by the poſt.

Well then, if ſhe had nothing to ſend by him, may-hap he might ſtay in town a day or two; for he had never ſeen the Lions in the Tower, nor Bedlam, nor the Tombs; and he would make a holiday or two, as he had leave to do, if ſhe had no buſineſs or meſſage that required his poſting down next day.

She had not.

She offered him the half-guinea I had given her for him; but he refuſed it, with great profeſſions of diſintereſtedneſs, and love, as he called it, to Miſs Howe; to ſerve whom, he would ride to the world's end, or even to Jericho.

And ſo the ſhocking raſcal went away: And glad at my heart was I when he was gone; for I feared [182] nothing ſo much as that he would have ſtaid till they came from church.

Thus, Jack, got I my heart's-eaſe, the letter of Miſs Howe; and thro' ſuch a train of accidents, as makes me ſay, that the Lady's ſtars fight againſt her: But yet I muſt attribute a good deal to my own precaution, in having taken right meaſures: For had I not ſecured the widow by my ſtories, and the maid by my ſervant, all would have ſignified nothing. And ſo heartily were they ſecured, the one by a ſingle guinea, the other by half a dozen warm kiſſes, and the averſion they both had to ſuch wicked creatures as delighted in making miſchief between man and wife, that they promiſed, that neither Mrs. Moore, Miſs Rawlins, Mrs. Lovelace, nor anybody living, till a week at leaſt were paſt, and till I gave leave, ſhould know any thing of the matter.

The widow rejoiced that I had got the miſchief-maker's letter. I excuſed myſelf to her, and inſtantly withdrew with it; and, after I had read it, fell to my ſhort-hand, to acquaint thee with my good luck: And they not returning ſo ſoon as church was done (ſtepping, as it proved, in to Miſs Rawlins's, and tarrying there a while, to bring that buſy girl with them to drink tea); I wrote thus far to thee, that thou mighteſt, when thou cameſt to this place, rejoice with me upon the occaſion.

They are all three juſt come in—I haſten to them.

LETTER XXI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Have begun another letter to thee, in continuation of my narrative: But I believe I ſhall ſend thee this before I ſhall finiſh that. By the incloſed thou wilt ſee, that neither of the correſpondents deſerve mercy from me: And I am reſolved to make the ending with one, the beginning with the other.

[183]If thou ſayeſt, That the provocations I have given to one of them, will juſtify her freedoms; I anſwer, So they will to any other perſon but myſelf. But he that is capable of giving thoſe provocations, and has the power to puniſh thoſe who abuſe him for giving them, will ſhew his reſentment; and the more vindictively, perhaps, as he has deſerved the freedoms?

If thou ſayeſt, It is, however, wrong to do ſo; I reply, that it is nevertheleſs human nature:—And would'ſt not have me be a man, Jack?

Here read the letter, if thou wilt. But thou art not my friend, if thou offereſt to plead for either of the ſaucy creatures, after thou haſt read it.

To Mrs. HARRIOT LUCAS, at Mrs. MOORE's at Hamſtead.

AFTER the diſcoveries I had made of the villainous machinations of the moſt abandoned of men, particularized in my long letter of Wedneſday laſt (a), you will believe, my deareſt friend, that my ſurprize upon peruſing yours of Thurſday evening from Hamſtead (b) was not ſo great as my indignation. Had the villain attempted to fire a city inſtead of a houſe, I ſhould not have wondered at it. All that I am amazed at, is, that he (whoſe boaſt, as I am told, it is, that no woman ſhall keep him out of her bedchamber, when he has made a reſolution to be in it) did not diſcover his foot before. And it is as ſtrange to me, that, having got you at ſuch a ſhocking advantage, and in ſuch an horrid houſe, you could, at the time, eſcape diſhonour, and afterwards get from ſuch a ſet of infernals.

I gave you, in my long letter of Wedneſday and Thurſday laſt, reaſons why you ought to miſtruſt that ſpecious Tomlinſon. That man, my dear, muſt be a ſolemn villain. May lightning from Heaven blaſt the wretch, who has ſet him, and the reſt of his [184] REMORSELESS GANG, at work, to endeavour to deſtroy the moſt conſummate virtue! Heaven be praiſed! you have eſcaped from all their ſnares, and now are out of danger.—So I will not trouble you at preſent with the particulars that I have further collected relating to this abominable impoſture.

For the ſame reaſon, I forbear to communicate to you ſome new ſtories of the abhorred wretch himſelf, which have come to my ears. One in particular, of ſo ſhocking a nature!—Indeed, my dear, the man is a devil.

The whole ſtory of Mrs. Fretchville, and her houſe, I have no doubt to pronounce, likewiſe, an abſolute fiction. —Fellow! — How my ſoul ſpurns the villain!

Your thought of going abroad, and your reaſons for ſo doing, moſt ſenſibly affect me. But, be comforted, my dear; I hope you will not be under a neceſſity of quitting your native country. Were I ſure, that That muſt be the cruel caſe, I would abandon all my own better proſpects, and ſoon be with you. And I would accompany you whitherſoever you went, and ſhare fortunes with you: For it is impoſſible that I ſhould be happy, if I knew that you were expoſed not only to the perils of the ſea, but to the attempts of other vile men; your perſonal graces attracting every eye, and expoſing you to thoſe hourly dangers, which others, leſs diſtinguiſhed by the gifts of nature, might avoid.—All that I know, that Beauty (ſo greatly coveted, and ſo greatly admired) is good for!

O, my dear, were I ever to marry, and to be the mother of a CLARISSA (Clariſſa muſt be the name, if promiſingly lovely!) how often would my heart ake for the dear creature, as ſhe grew up, when I reflected, that a prudence and diſcretion unexampled in woman, had not, in you, been a ſufficient protection to that beauty, which had drawn after it as many admirers as beholders!—How little ſhould I regret the attacks of that cruel diſtemper, as it is [185] called, which frequently makes the greateſt ravages in the fineſt faces!

I HAVE juſt parted with Mrs. Townſend (a). I thought you had once ſeen her with me: But, ſhe ſays, ſhe never had the honour to be perſonally known to you. She has a manlike ſpirit. She knows the world. And her two brothers being in town, ſhe is ſure ſhe can engage them, in ſo good a cauſe, and (if there ſhould be occaſion) both their ſhips crews, in your ſervice.

Give your conſent, my dear; and the horrid villain ſhall be repaid with broken bones, at leaſt, for all his vileneſs!

The misfortune is, Mrs. Townſend cannot be with you till Thurſday next, or Wedneſday, at ſooneſt. Are you ſure you can be ſafe where you are, till then? I think you are too near London; and perhaps you had better be in it. If you remove, let me know whither, the very moment.

How my heart is torn, to think of the neceſſity ſo dear a creature is driven to, of hiding herſelf! Deviliſh fellow! He muſt have been ſportive and wanton in his inventions—Yet that cruel, that ſavage ſportiveneſs has ſaved you from the ſudden violence which he has had recourſe to in the violation of others, of names and families not contemptible. For ſuch the villain always gloried to ſpread his ſnares.

The vileneſs of this ſpecious monſter has done more, than any other conſideration could do, to bring Mr. Hickman into credit with me. Mr. Hickman alone knows, for me, of your flight, and the reaſon of it. Had I not given him the reaſon, he might have thought ſtill worſe of the vile attempt. I communicated it to him by ſhewing him your letter from Hamſtead. [186] When he had read it (and he trembled and reddened, as he read), he threw himſelf at my feet, and beſought me to permit him to attend you, and to give you the protection of his houſe. The good-natured man had tears in his eyes, and was repeatedly earneſt on this ſubject; propoſing to take his chariot-and-four, or a ſet, and in perſon, in the face of all the world, give himſelf the glory of protecting ſuch an oppreſſed innocent.

I could not but be pleaſed with him. And I let him know that I was. I hardly expected ſo much ſpirit from him. But a man's paſſiveneſs to a beloved object of our ſex may not, perhaps, argue want of courage on proper occaſions.

I thought I ought, in return, to have ſome conſideration for his ſafety, as ſuch an open ſtep would draw upon him the vengeance of the moſt villainous enterprizer in the world, who has always a gang of fellows, ſuch as himſelf, at his call, ready to ſupport one another in the vileſt outrages. But yet, as Mr. Hickman might have ſtrengthened his hands by legal recourſes, I ſhould not have ſtood upon it, had I not known your delicacies (ſince ſuch a ſtep muſt have made a great noiſe, and given occaſion for ſcandal, as if ſome advantage had been gained over you), and were there not the greateſt probability, that all might be more ſilently, and more effectually, managed by Mrs. Townſend's means.

Mrs. Townſend will in perſon attend you—She hopes, on Wedneſday.—Her brothers, and ſome of their people, will ſcatteringly, and as if they knew nothing of you (ſo we have contrived), ſee you ſafe not only to London, but to her houſe at Deptford.

She has a kinſwoman, who will take your commands there, if ſhe herſelf be obliged to leave you. And there you may ſtay, till the wretch's fury on loſing you, and his ſearch, are over.

[187]He will very ſoon, 'tis likely, enter upon ſome new villainy, which may engroſs him: And it may be given out, that you are gone to lay claim to the protection of your couſin Morden at Florence.

Poſſibly, if he can be made to believe it, he will go over in hopes to find you there.

After a while, I can procure you a lodging in one of the neighbouring villages; where I may have the happineſs to be your daily viſiter. And if this Hickman be not ſilly, and apiſh, and if my mother do not do unaccountable things, I may the ſooner think of marrying, that I may, without controul, receive and entertain the darling of my heart.

Many, very many, happy days, do I hope we ſhall yet ſee together: And as this is my hope, I expect, that it will be your conſolation.

As to your eſtate, ſince you are reſolved not to litigate for it, we will be patient, either till Col. Morden arrives, or till ſhame compels ſome people to be juſt.

Upon the whole, I cannot but think your proſpects now much happier, than they could have been, had you been actually married to ſuch a man as this. I muſt therefore congratulate you upon your eſcape, not only from a horrid libertine, but from ſo vile a huſband, as he muſt have made to any woman; but more eſpecially to a perſon of your virtue and delicacy.

You hate him, heartily hate him, I hope, my dear— I am ſure you do. It would be ſtrange, if ſo much purity of life and manners were not to abhor what is ſo repugnant to itſelf.

In your letter before me, you mention one written to me for a feint (a). I have not received any ſuch. Depend upon it therefore, that he muſt have it. And if he has, it is a wonder, that he did not likewiſe get my long one of the 7th. Heaven be [188] praiſed that he did not; and that it came ſafe to your hands!

I ſend this by a young fellow, whoſe father is one of our tenants, with command to deliver it to no other hands but yours. He is to return directly, if you give him any letter. If not, he will proceed to London upon his own pleaſures. He is a ſimple fellow; but very honeſt. So you may ſay any thing to him. If you write not by him, I deſire a line or two, as ſoon as poſſible.

My mother knows nothing of his going to you. Nor yet of your abandoning the fellow! Forgive me!—But he's not intitled to good manners.

I ſhall long to hear how you and Mrs. Townſend order matters. I wiſh ſhe could have been with you ſooner. But I have loſt no time in engaging her, as you will ſuppoſe. I refer to her, what I have further to ſay and adviſe. So ſhall conclude with my prayers, that Heaven will direct, and protect, my deareſt creature, and make your future days happy!

ANNA HOWE.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 328.
(b)
See Vol. iv. p. 348.
(a)
For the account of Mrs. Townſend, &c. ſee Vol. iv. p. 103, 104, 105.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 351, 352—357.

AND now, Jack, I will ſuppoſe, that thou haſt read this curſed letter. Allow me to make a few obſervations upon ſome of its contents, which I will do in my crow-quill ſhort-hand, that they may have the appearance of notes upon the vixen's text.

It is ſtrange to Miſs Howe, that having got her friend at ſuch a ſhocking advantage, &c.] And it is ſtrange to me, too. If ever I have ſuch another opportunity given me, the cauſe of both our wonder, I believe, will ceaſe.

So thou ſeeſt Tomlinſon is further detected. No ſuch perſon as Mrs. Fretchville. May lightning from heaven—O Lord, O Lord, O Lord! —What a horrid vixen is this! —My gang, my remorſeleſs gang, too, is brought in—And thou wilt plead for theſe girls again; wilt thou?—Heaven be praiſed, ſhe ſays, that her friend is out of danger —Miſs Howe ſhould be ſure of that: And that ſhe herſelf is ſafe.—But for this termagant (as I have often ſaid), I muſt ſurely have made a better hand of it—

New ſtories of me, Jack!—What can they be?—I have not found, that my generoſity to my Roſebud ever did me due credit with this [189] pair of friends. Very hard, Belford, that Credits cannot be ſet againſt Debits, and a balance ſtruck in a Rake's favour, as well as in that of every common man!—But he, from whom no good is expected, is not allowed the merit of the good he does.

I ought to have been a little more attentive to character, than I have been. For, notwithſtanding that the meaſures of Right and Wrong are ſaid to be ſo manifeſt, let me tell thee, that character byaſſes and runs away with all mankind. Let a man or woman once eſtabliſh themſelves in the world's opinion, and all that either of them do will be ſanctified. Nay, in the very courts of juſtice, does not character acquit or condemn as often as facts, and ſometimes even in ſpite of facts?—Yet, (impolitic that I have been, and am!) to be ſo careleſs of mine!—And now, I doubt, it is irretrievable.—But to leave moralizing.

Thou, Jack, knoweſt almoſt all my enterprizes worth remembring. Can this particular ſtory, which this girl hints at, be that of Lucy Villars?—Or can ſhe have heard of my intrigue with the pretty Gypſey, who met me in Norwood, and of the trap I caught her cruel huſband in (a fellow, as gloomy and tyrannical as old Harlowe), when he purſued a wife, who would not have deſerved ill of him, if he had deſerved well of her?—But he was not quite drowned. The man is alive at this day: And Miſs Howe mentions the ſtory as a very ſhocking one. Beſides, both theſe are a twelvemonth old, or more.

But evil fame and ſcandal are always new. When the offender has forgot a vile fact, it is often told to one and to another, who, having never heard of it before, trumpet it about, as a novelty to others. But well ſaid the honeſt corregidor at Madrid, a ſaying with which I inriched Lord M.'s collection — Good actions are remembered but for a day: Bad ones for many years after the life of the guilty.— Such is the reliſh that the world has for ſcandal. In other words, Such is the deſire which every-one has to exculpate himſelf by blackening his neighbour. You and I, Belford, have been very kind to the world, in furniſhing it with many opportunities to gratify its devil.

Miſs Howe will abandon her own better proſpects, and ſhare fortunes with her, were ſhe to go abroad.]— Charming Romancer!—I muſt ſet about this girl, Jack. I have always had hopes of a woman whoſe paſſions carry her into ſuch altitudes!—Had I attacked Miſs Howe firſt, her paſſions (inflamed and guided, as I could have managed them) would have brought her to my lure in a fortnight.

But thinkeſt thou (and yet I think thou doſt), that there is any thing in theſe high flights among the ſex? Verily, Jack, theſe vehement friendſhips are nothing but chaff and ſtubble, liable to be blown away by the very wind that raiſes them. Apes! mere apes of us! they think the word friendſhip has a pretty ſound with it; and it is much talked of; a faſhionable word: And ſo, truly, a ſingle woman, who thinks ſhe has a Soul, and knows, that ſhe wants ſomething, would be thought to have found a fellow-ſoul for it in her own Sex. But I repeat, that the word is a mere word, the thing a mere name with them; a cork-bottomed ſhuttlecock, which they are fond of ſtriking to and fro, to make one another glow in the froſty weather of a ſingle ſtate; but which, when a man comes in between the pretended inſeparables, is given up, like their Muſic, and other maidenly amuſements; which, nevertheleſs, may be neceſſary to keep the pretty [190] rogues out of more active miſchief. They then, in ſhort, having caught the fiſh, lay aſide the net (a).

Thou haſt a mind, perhaps, to make an exception for theſe two ladies. With all my heart. My Clariſſa has, if woman has, a ſoul capable of friendſhip. Her flame is bright and ſteady. But Miſs Howe's, were it not kept up by her mother's oppoſition, is too vehement to endure. How often have I known oppoſition not only cement Friendſhip, but create Love? I doubt not but poor Hickman would fare the better with this vixen, if her mother were as heartily againſt him, as ſhe is for him.

Thus much indeed, as to theſe two ladies, I will grant thee; that the active ſpirit of the one, and the meek diſpoſition of the other, may make their friendſhip more durable than it would otherwiſe be; for this is certain, that in every friendſhip, whether male or female, there muſt be a man and a woman ſpirit (that is to ſay, one of them, a forbearing one) to make it permanent.

But this I pronounce, as a truth, which all experience confirms; that friendſhip between women never holds to the ſacrifice of capital gratifications, or to the endangering of life, limb, or eſtate, as it often does in our nobler ſex.

Well, but next comes an indictment againſt poor Beauty!—What has Beauty done, that Miſs Howe ſhould be offended at it?—Miſs Howe, Jack, is a charming girl. She has no reaſon to quarrel with Beauty!—Didſt ever ſee her?—Too much fire and ſpirit in her eye indeed, for a girl!—But that's no fault with a man, that can lower that fire and ſpirit at pleaſure; and I know I am the man that can.

A ſweet auburn Beauty, is Miſs Howe. A firſt Beauty among beauties, when her ſweeter friend (with ſuch a commixture of ſerene gracefulneſs, of natural elegance, of native ſweetneſs, yet conſcious, tho' not arrogant, dignity, every feature glowing with intelligence) is not in company.

The difference between the two, when together, I have ſometimes delighted to read, in the addreſſes of a ſtranger entering into the preſence of both, when ſtanding ſide by ſide. There never was an inſtance, on ſuch an occaſion, where the ſtranger paid not his firſt devoirs to my Clariſſa.

A reſpectful ſolemn awe ſat upon every feature of the addreſſer's face. His eye ſeemed to aſk leave to approach her; and lower than common, whether man or woman, was the bow or courteſy. And altho' this awe was immediately diminiſhed by her condeſcending ſweetneſs, yet went it not ſo intirely off, but that you might ſee the reverence remain, as if the perſon ſaw more of the goddeſs, than the woman in her.

But the moment the ſame ſtranger turns to Miſs Howe (tho' proud and ſaucy, and erect and bridling, ſhe) you will obſerve by the turn of his countenance, and the air of his addreſs, a kind of equality [191] aſſumed. He appears to have diſcovered the woman in her, charming as that woman is. He ſmiles. He ſeems to expect repartee and ſmartneſs, and is never diſappointed. But then viſibly he prepares himſelf to give as well as take. He dares, after he has been a while in her company, to diſpute a point with her— Every point yielded up to the other, tho' no aſſuming or dogmatical air compels it.

In ſhort, with Miss Howe a bold man ſees (No doubt but Sir George Colmar did), that he and ſhe may either very ſoon be familiar together (I mean with innocence), or he may ſo far incur her diſpleaſure, as to be forbid her preſence for ever.

For my own part, when I was firſt introduced to this lady, which was by my goddeſs, when ſhe herſelf was a viſiter at Mrs. Howe's; I had not been half an hour with her, but I even hungred and thirſted after a romping-bout with the lively rogue; and in the ſecond or third viſit, was more deterred by the delicacy of her friend, than by what I apprehended from her own. This charming creature's preſence, thought I, awes us both. And I wiſhed her abſence, tho' any other lady were preſent, that I might try the difference in Miſs Howe's behaviour before her friend's face, or behind her back.

Delicate ladies make delicate ladies, as well as decent men. With all Miſs Howe's fire and ſpirit, it was eaſy to ſee, by her very eye, that ſhe watched for leſſons, and feared reproof from the penetrating eye of her milder-diſpoſition'd friend (a): And yet it was as eaſy to obſerve, in the candor and ſweet manners of the other, that the fear which Miſs Howe ſtood in of her, was more owing to her own generous apprehenſion, that ſhe fell ſhort of her excellencies, than to Miſs Harlowe's conſciouſneſs of excellence over her. I have often, ſince I came at Miſs Howe's letters, revolved this just and fine praiſe contained in one of them (b). ‘Every one ſaw, that the preference each gave you to herſelf, exalted you not into any viſible triumph over her; for you had always ſomething to ſay, on every point you carried, that raiſed the yielding heart, and left every one pleaſed and ſatisfied with herſelf, tho' ſhe carried not off the palm.’

As I propoſe in my more advanced life, to endeavour to atone for my youthful freedoms with individuals of the ſex, by giving caution and inſtructions to the whole, I have made a memorandum to inlarge upon this doctrine;—to wit, That it is full as neceſſary to direct daughters in the choice of their female companions, as it is to guard them againſt the deſigns of men.

I ſay not this, however, to the diſparagement of Miſs Howe. She has from pride, what her friend has from principle. [The Lord help the ſex, if they had not pride!]—But yet I am confident, that Miſs Howe is indebted to the converſation and correſpondence of Miſs Harlowe for her higheſt improvements. But, both theſe ladies out of the queſtion, I make no ſcruple to averr [And I, Jack, ſhould know ſomething of the matter], that there have been more girls ruined, at leaſt prepared [192] for ruin, by their own ſex (taking in ſervants, as well as companions), than directly by the attempts and deluſions of men.

But it is time enough, when I am old and joyleſs, to enlarge upon this topic.

As to the compariſon between the two ladies, I will expatiate more on that ſubject (for I like it) when I have had them both—Which this letter of the vixen girl's, I hope thou wilt allow, warrants me to try for.

I return to the conſideration of a few more of its contents, to juſtify my vengeance, ſo nearly now in view.

As to Mrs. Townſend; her manlike ſpirit; her two brothers; and their ſhips crews—I ſay nothing but this to the inſolent threatening— Let 'em come!—

But as to her ſordid menace—To repay the horrid villain, as ſhe calls me, for all my vileneſs, by BROKEN BONES!—Broken bones, Belford!—Who can bear this porterly threatning!—Broken bones, Jack!—Damn the little vulgar—Give me a name for her—But I baniſh all furious reſentment. If I get theſe two girls into my power, Heaven forbid that I ſhould be a ſecond Phalaris, and turn his bull upon the artiſt! No bones of theirs will I break!—They ſhall come off with me upon much lighter terms!—

But theſe fellows are ſmugglers, it ſeems. And am not I a ſmuggler too?—I have not the leaſt doubt, that I ſhall have ſecured my goods before Thurſday or Wedneſday either.

But did I want a plot, what a charming new one does this letter of Miſs Howe ſtrike me out? I am almoſt ſorry, that I have fixed upon one.—For here, how eaſy would it be for me, to aſſemble a crew of ſwabbers, and to create a Mrs. Townſend (whoſe perſon, thou ſeeſt, my Beloved knows not) to come on Tueſday, at Miſs Howe's renewed urgency, in order to carry my Beloved to a warehouſe of my own providing?

This, however, is my triumphant hope, that at the very time, that theſe ragamuffins will be at Hamſtead (looking for us), my dear Miſs Harlowe and I (ſo the fates, I imagine, have ordained) ſhall be faſt aſleep in each other's arms in town.—Lie ſtill, villain, till the time comes.—My heart, Jack; my heart!—It is always thumping away on the remoteſt proſpects of this nature.

But, it ſeems, that the vileneſs of this ſpecious monſter (meaning me Jack!) has brought Hickman into credit with her. So I have done ſome good!—But to whom, I cannot tell: For this poor fellow, ſhould I permit him to have this termagant, will be puniſhed, as many times we all are, by the enjoyment of his own wiſhes.—Nor can ſhe be happy, as I take it, with him, were he to govern himſelf by her will, and have none of his own; ſince never was there a directing wife, who knew where to ſtop: Power makes ſuch a one wanton— She deſpiſes the man ſhe can govern. Like Alexander, who wept, that he had no more worlds to conquer, ſhe will be looking out for new exerciſes for her power, till ſhe grow uneaſy to herſelf, a diſcredit to her huſband, and a plague to all about her.

But this honeſt fellow, it ſeems, with tears in his eyes, and with humble proſtration, beſought the vixen to permit him to ſet out in his chariot and four, in order to give himſelf the glory of protecting ſuch [193] an oppreſſed innocent, in the face of the whole world.—Nay, he redden'd, it ſeems; and trembled too! as he read the fair complainant's letter—How valiant is all this!—Women love brave men; and no wonder, that his tears, his trembling, and his proſtration, gave him high reputation with the meek Miſs Howe.

But doſt think, Jack, that I, in the like caſe (and equally affected with the diſtreſs) ſhould have acted thus?—Doſt think, that I ſhould not firſt have reſcued the lady, and then, if needful, have aſked excuſe for it, the lady in my hand?—Wouldeſt not thou have done thus, as well as I?

But 'tis beſt as it is. Honeſt Hickman may now ſleep in a whole ſkin. And yet that is more perhaps than he would have done (the lady's deliverance unattempted), had I come at this requeſted permiſſion of his any other way, than by a letter, that it muſt not be known I have intercepted.

She thinks I may be diverted from purſuing my charmer, by ſome new-ſtarted villainy. Villainy is a word that ſhe is extremely fond of. But I can tell her, that it is impoſſible I ſhould, till the end of this villainy be obtained. Difficulty is a ſtimulus with ſuch a ſpirit as mine. I thought Miſs Howe knew me better. Were ſhe to offer herſelf, perſon for perſon, in the romancing zeal of her friendſhip, to ſave her friend, it ſhould not do, while the dear creature is on this ſide the moon.

She thanks Heaven, that her friend has received her letter of the 7th. We are all glad of it. She ought to thank me too. But I will not at preſent claim her thanks.

But when ſhe rejoices, that that letter went ſafe, does ſhe not, in effect, call out for vengeance, and expect it?—All in good time, Miſs Howe. When ſetteſt thou out for the Iſle of Wight, Love?

I will cloſe at this time with deſiring thee to make a liſt of the virulent terms with which the incloſed letter abounds: And then, if thou ſuppoſeſt, that I have made ſuch another, and have added to it all the flowers of the ſame blow, in the former letters of the ſame fancy creature, and thoſe in that of Miſs Harlowe, left for me on her elopement, thou wilt certainly think, that I have provocations ſuffic [...]ent to juſtify me in all I ſhall do to either.

Return the incloſed the moment thou haſt peruſed it.

LETTER XXII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

I WENT down with revenge in my heart; the contents of Miſs Howe's letter almoſt engroſſing me, the moment that Miſs Harlowe and Mrs. Moore, accompanied by Miſs Rawlins, came in: But in my [194] countenance all the gentle, the placid, the ſerene, that the glaſs could teach; and in my behaviour all the polite, that ſuch an unpolite creature, as ſhe has often told me I am, could put on.

Miſs Rawlins was ſent for home, almoſt as ſoon as ſhe came in, to entertain an unexpected viſiter; to her great regret, as well as to the diſappointment of my fair one, as I could perceive from the looks of both: For they had agreed, it ſeems, if I went to town, as I ſaid I intended to do, to take a walk upon the heath; at leaſt in Mrs. Moore's garden; and who knows, what might have been the iſſue, had the ſpirit of curioſity in the one met with the ſpirit of communication in the other?

Miſs Rawlins promiſed to return, if poſſible: But ſent to excuſe herſelf; her viſiter intending to ſtay with her all night.

I rejoiced in my heart, at her meſſage; and after much ſupplication obtained the favour of my Beloved's company for another walk in the garden, having, as I told her, abundance of things to ſay, to propoſe, and to be informed of, in order ultimately to govern myſelf in my future ſteps.

She had vouchſafed, I ſhould tell thee, with eyes turned from me, and in an half-aſide attitude, to ſip two diſhes of tea in my company—Dear ſoul!—How anger unpoliſhes the moſt polite! for I never ſaw Miſs Harlowe behave ſo aukwardly. I imagined ſhe knew not how to be aukward.

When we were in the garden, I poured my whole ſoul into her attentive ear; and beſought her returning favour.

She told me, that ſhe had formed her ſcheme for her future life: That, vile as the treatment was which ſhe had received from me, that was not all the reaſon ſhe had for rejecting my ſuit: But that, on the matureſt deliberation, ſhe was convinced, that ſhe could [195] neither be happy with me, nor make me happy; and ſhe injoined me, for both our ſakes, to think no more of her.

The Captain, I told her, was rid down poſt in a manner, to forward my wiſhes with her uncle.

Lady Betty and Miſs Montague were undoubtedly arrived in town by this time.

I would ſet out early in the morning to attend them.

They adored her. They longed to ſee her. They would ſee her.—They would not be denied her company into Oxfordſhire.

Where could ſhe better go, to be free from her brother's inſults?—Where, to be abſolutely made unapprehenſive of any-body elſe?—Might I have any hopes of her returning favour, if Miſs Howe could be prevailed upon to intercede for me?

Miſs Howe prevailed upon to intercede for you! repeated ſhe, with a ſcornful bridle, but a very pretty one.—And there ſhe ſtopt.

I repeated the concern it would be to me, to be under a neceſſity of mentioning the miſunderſtanding to Lady Betty and my couſin, as a miſunderſtanding ſtill to be made up; and as if I were of very little conſequence to a dear creature, who was of ſo much to me; urging, that it would extremely lower me, not only in my own opinion, but in that of my relations.

But ſtill ſhe referred to Miſs Howe's next letter; and all the conceſſion I could bring her to in this whole conference, was, that ſhe would wait the arrival and viſit of the two ladies, if they came in a day or two, or before ſhe received the expected letter from Miſs Howe.

Thank Heaven for this! thought I. And now may I go to town with hopes at my return to find thee, deareſt, where I ſhall leave thee.

But yet I ſhall not intirely truſt to this, as ſhe may [196] find reaſons to change her mind in my abſence. My fellow, therefore, who is in the houſe, and who, by Mrs. Bevis's kind intelligence, will know every ſtep ſhe can take, ſhall have Andrew and a horſe ready, to give me immediate notice of her motions; and moreover, go where ſhe will, he ſhall be one of her retinue, tho' unknown to herſelf, if poſſible.

This was all I could make of the fair Inexorable. Should I be glad of it, or ſorry for it?—

Glad, I believe: And yet my pride is confoundedly abated to think, that I had ſo little hold in the affections of this daughter of the Harlowes.

Don't tell me, that virtue and principle are her guides on this occaſion!—'Tis pride, a greater pride than my own, that governs her. Love, ſhe has none, thou ſeeſt; nor ever had; at leaſt not in a ſuperior degree.—Love never was under the dominion of prudence, or of any reaſoning power.—She cannot bear to be thought a woman, I warrant!—And if, in the laſt attempt, I find her not one, what will ſhe be the worſe for the tryal?—No one is to blame for ſuffering an evil he cannot ſhun or avoid.

Were a general to be overpower'd, and robb'd by a highwayman, would he be leſs fit for the command of an army on that account?—If indeed the general, pretending great valour, and having boaſted, that he never would be robb'd, were to make but faint reſiſtance, when he was brought to the teſt, and to yield his purſe when he was maſter of his own ſword, then indeed will the highwayman, who robs him, be thought the braver man.

But from theſe laſt conferences am I furniſhed with an argument in defence of my favourite purpoſe, which I never yet pleaded.

O Jack! what a difficulty muſt a man be allowed to have, to conquer a predominant paſſion, be it what it will, when the gratifying of it is in his power, however wrong he knows it to be to reſolve to gratify [197] it! Reflect upon this; and then wilt thou be able to account for, if not to excuſe, a projected crime, which has habit to plead for it, in a breaſt as ſtormy, as uncontroulable!—

This my new argument—

Should ſhe fail in the trial; ſhould I ſucceed; and ſhould ſhe refuſe to go on with me; and even to marry me; which I can have no notion of—And ſhould ſhe diſdain to be obliged to me for the handſome proviſion I ſhould be proud to make for her, even to the half of my eſtate; yet cannot ſhe be altogether unhappy—Is ſhe not intitled to an independent fortune? Will not Col. Morden, as her truſtee, put her in poſſeſſion of it? And did ſhe not, in our former conference, point out the way of life, that ſhe always preferred to the married life?‘To take her good Norton for her directreſs and guide, and to live upon her own eſtate in the manner her grandfather deſired ſhe ſhould live (a)?’

It is moreover to be conſidered, that ſhe cannot, according to her own notions, recover above one half of her fame, were we now to intermarry; ſo much does ſhe think ſhe has ſuffered by her going off with me. And will ſhe not be always repining and mourning for the loſs of the other half?—And if ſhe muſt live a life of ſuch uneaſineſs and regret for half, may ſhe not as well repine and mourn for the whole?

Nor, let me tell thee, will her own ſcheme of penitence, in this caſe, be half ſo perfect, if ſhe do not fall, as if ſhe does: For what a fooliſh penitent will ſhe make, who has nothing to repent of?— She piques herſelf, thou knoweſt, and makes it matter of reproach to me, that ſhe went not off with me by her own conſent; but was tricked out of herſelf.

Nor upbraid thou me upon the meditated breach of vows ſo repeatedly made. She will not, thou ſeeſt, [198] permit me to fulfil them. And if ſhe would, this I have to ſay, that at the time I made the moſt ſolemn of them, I was fully determined to keep them. But what prince thinks himſelf obliged any longer to obſerve the articles of the moſt ſacredly ſworn-to treaties, than ſuits with his intereſt or inclination; altho' the conſequence of the infraction muſt be, as he knows, the deſtruction of thouſands?

Is not this then the reſult of all, that Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, if it be not her own fault, may be as virtuous after ſhe has loſt her honour, as it is called, as ſhe was before? She may be a more eminent example to her ſex; and if ſhe yield (a little yield) in the tryal, may be a completer penitent. Nor can ſhe, but by her own wilfulneſs, be reduced to low fortunes.

And thus may her old nurſe and ſhe; an old coachman; and a pair of old coach-horſes; and two or three old maid-ſervants, and perhaps a very old footman or two (for every thing will be old and penitential about her), live very comfortably together; reading old ſermons, and old prayer-books; and relieving old men, and old women; and giving old leſſons, and old warnings, upon new ſubjects, as well as old ones, to the young ladies of her neighbourhood; and ſo paſs on to a good old age, doing a great deal of good, both by precept and example, in her generation.

And is a lady, who can live thus prettily, without controul; who ever did prefer, and who ſtill prefers, the Single to the Married life; and who will be enabled to do every thing, that the plan ſhe had formed will direct her to do; be ſaid to be ruined, undone, and ſuch ſort of ſtuff?—I have no patience with the pretty fools, who uſe thoſe ſtrong words, to deſcribe the moſt tranſitory evil; and which a mere church-form makes none?

At this rate of romancing, how many flouriſhing [199] ruins doſt thou, as well as I, know? Let us but look about us, and we ſhall ſee ſome of the haughtieſt and moſt cenſorious ſpirits among our acquaintance of that ſex, now paſſing for chaſte wives, of whom ſtrange ſtories might be told; and others, whoſe huſband's hearts have been made to ake for their gaieties, both before and after marriage; and yet know not half ſo much of them, as ſome of us honeſt fellows could tell them.

But, having thus ſatisfied myſelf in relation to the worſt that can happen to this charming creature; and that it will be her own fault, if ſhe be unhappy; I have not at all reflected upon what is likely to be my own lot.

This has always been my notion, tho' Miſs Howe grudges us the beſt of the ſex, and ſays, that the worſt is too good for us (a); That the wife of a libertine ought to be pure, ſpotleſs, uncontaminated. To what purpoſe has ſuch a one lived a free life, but to know the world, and to make his advantages of it?—And, to be very ſerious, it would be a misfortune to the public, for two perſons, heads of a family, to be both bad; ſince, between two ſuch, a race of varlets might be propagated, Lovelaces and Belfords, if thou wilt, who might do great miſchief in the world.

Thou ſeeſt at bottom, that I am not an abandoned fellow; and that there is a mixture of gravity in me. This, as I grow older, may increaſe; and when my active capacity begins to abate, I may ſit down with the Preacher, and reſolve all my paſt life into vanity and vexation of ſpirit.

This is certain, that I ſhall never find a woman ſo well ſuited to my taſte, as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe. I only wiſh (if I live to ſee that day), that I may have ſuch a lady as her to comfort and adorn my ſetting-ſun. I have often thought it very unhappy for us both, that ſo excellent a creature ſprung up a little [200] too late for my ſetting-out, and a little too early in my progreſs, before I can think of returning. And yet, as I have pick'd up the ſweet traveller in my way, I cannot help wiſhing, that ſhe would bear me company in the reſt of my journey, altho' ſhe were to ſtep out of her own path to oblige me. And then, perhaps, we could put up in the evening at the ſame inn; and be very happy in each other's converſation; recounting the difficulties and dangers we had paſſed in our way to it.

I imagine, that thou wilt be apt to ſuſpect, that ſome paſſages in this letter were written in town. Why, Jack, I cannot but ſay, that the Weſtminſter air is a little groſſer than that at Hamſtead; and the converſation of Mrs. Sinclair, and the Nymphs, leſs innocent than Mrs. Moore's and Miſs Rawlins's. And I think in my heart, that I can ſay and write thoſe things at one place, which I cannot at the other; nor indeed any-where elſe.

I came to town about ſeven this morning.—All neceſſary directions and precautions remember'd to be given.

I beſought the favour of an audience before I ſet out. I was deſirous to ſee which of her lovely faces ſhe was pleaſed to put on, after another night had paſſed. But ſhe was reſolved, I found, to leave our quarrel open. She would not give me an opportunity ſo much as to intreat her again to cloſe it, before the arrival of Lady Betty and my couſin.

I had notice from my proctor, by a few lines brought by man and horſe, juſt before I ſet out, that all difficulties had been for two days paſt ſurmounted; and that I might have the licence for fetching.

I ſent up the letter to my Beloved, by Mrs. Bevis. It procured me not admittance, tho' my requeſt for that, was ſent with it.

And now, Belford, I ſet out upon buſineſs.

LETTER XXIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

[201]

DIDST ever ſee a Licence, Jack?

N.N. by divine permiſſion, Lord Biſhop of London, To our well-beloved in Chriſt Robert Lovelace [Your ſervant, my good Lord! What have I done to merit ſo much goodneſs, who never ſaw your Lordſhip in my life?], of the pariſh of St. Martin's in the Fields, Batchelor, and Clariſſa Harlowe of the ſame pariſh, Spinſter, ſendeth greeting.—WHEREAS ye are, as is alleged, determined to enter into the holy ſtate of matrimony [This is only alleged, thou obſerveſt], by and with the conſent of, &c. &c. &c. and are very deſirous of obtaining your marriage to be ſolemnized in the face of the church: We are willing, that ſuch your honeſt deſires [Honeſt deſires, Jack!] may more ſpeedily have their due effect: And therefore, that ye may be able to procure ſuch marriage to be freely and lawfully ſolemnized in the pariſh-church of St. Martin in the Fields, or St. Giles's in the Fields, in the county of Middleſex, by the rector, vicar, or curate thereof, at any time of the year [At ANY time of the year, Jack!], without publication of banes: Provided, that by reaſon of any precontract [I verily think, that I have had three or four precontracts in my time; but the good girls have not claimed upon them of a long time], conſanguinity, affinity, or any other lawful cauſe whatſoever, there be no lawful impediment in this behalf; and that there be not at this time any action, ſuit, plaint, quarrel, or demand, moved or depending before any judge eccleſiaſtical or temporal, for or concerning any marriage contracted by or with either of you; and that the ſaid marriage be openly ſolemnized in the church above-mentioned, between the hours of eight and twelve in the forenoon; and without prejudice to the miniſter of the place where the ſaid woman is a pariſhioner: We [202] do hereby, for good cauſes [It coſt me—Let me ſee, Jack—What did it coſt me?], give and grant our licence, or faculty, as well to you the parties contracting, as to the rector, vicar, or curate of the ſaid church, where the ſaid marriage is intended to be ſolemnized, to ſolemnize the ſame in manner and form above-ſpecified, according to the rites and ceremonies preſcribed in the Book of Common-prayer in that behalf publiſhed by authority of parliament. Provided always, That if hereafter any fraud ſhall appear to have been committed, at the time of granting this licence, either by falſe ſuggeſtions, or concealment of the truth [Now this, Belford, is a little hard upon us: For I cannot ſay, that every one of our ſuggeſtions is literally true:—So, in good conſcience, I ought not to marry under this licence], the licence ſhall be void to all intents and purpoſes, as if the ſame had not been granted. And in that caſe, we do inhibit all miniſters whatſoever, if any thing of the premiſes ſhall come to their knowlege, from proceeding to the celebration of the ſaid marriage, without firſt conſulting Us, or our Vicar-general. Given, &c.

The follow the regiſter's name, and a large pendent ſeal, with theſe words round it — SEAL OF THE VICAR-GENERAL AND OFFICIAL-PRINCIPAL OF THE DIOCESE OF LONDON.

A good whimſical inſtrument, take it all together! —But what, thinkeſt thou, are the arms to this matrimonial harbinger?—Why, in the firſt place, Two croſſed ſwords; to ſhew, that marriage is a ſtate of offence as well as defence: Three lions; to denote, that thoſe who enter into the ſtate, ought to have a triple proportion of courage. And (couldſt thou have imagined, that theſe prieſtly fellows, in ſo ſolemn a caſe, would cut their jokes upon poor ſouls, who come to have their honeſt deſires put in a way to be gratified?) there are three crooked horns, ſmartly top-knotted with ribbands; which being the Ladies wear, ſeem to indicate, that they may very probably adorn, as well as beſtow, the bull's feather.

[203]To deſcribe it according to heraldry-art, if I am not miſtaken—Gules, two ſwords, ſaltire-wiſe, Or; ſecond coat, a chevron ſable between three buglehorns, Or [So it ought to be]: On a chief of the ſecond, three lions rampant of the firſt—But the devil take them for their hieroglyphics, ſhould I ſay, if I were determined in good earneſt to marry!

And determined to marry I would be, were it not for this conſideration; That once married, and I am married for life.

That's the plague of it! — Could a man do as the birds do, change every Valentine's day [A natural appointment! for birds have not the ſenſe, forſooth, to fetter themſelves, as we wiſeacre men take great and ſolemn pains to do]; there would be nothing at all in it. And what a glorious time would the Lawyers have, on the one hand, with their Noverint univerſi's, and ſuits commenceable on reſtitution of goods and chattels; and the Parſons, on the other, with their indulgencies (renewable annually, as other licences) to the honeſt deſires of their clients?

Then, were a ſtated mulct, according to rank or fortune, to be paid on every change, towards the exigencies of the State [But none on renewals with the old loves, for the ſake of encouraging conſtancy, eſpecially among the minores], the change would be made ſufficiently difficult, and the whole Public would be the better for it; while thoſe children, which the parents could not agree about maintaining, might be conſidered as the children of the Public, and provided for like the children of the antient Spartans; who were (as ours would in this caſe be) a nation of heroes. How, Jack, could I have improved upon Lycurgus's inſtitutions, had I been a lawgiver (a)?

[204][205]

LETTER XXIV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

[206]

WELL, but now my plots thicken; and my employment of writing to thee on this ſubject will ſoon come to a concluſion. For now, having got the licence; and Mrs. Townſend, with her tars, being to come to Hamſtead next Wedneſday or Thurſday; and another letter poſſibly, or meſſage, from Miſſ Howe, to inquire how Miſs Harlowe does, upon the ruſtic's report of her ill health, and to expreſs her wonder, that ſhe has not heard from her, in anſwer to hers on her eſcape;—I muſt ſoon blow up the lady, or be blown up myſelf. And ſo I am preparing, with Lady Betty and my couſin Montague, to wait upon my Beloved with a coach and four, or a ſet; for Lady Betty will not ſtir out with a pair, for the world; tho' but for two or three miles. And this is a well-known part of her character.

But as to her arms and creſt upon the coach and trappings?

Doſt thou not know, that a Blunt's muſt ſupply her, while her own is new-lining and repairing? An opportunity ſhe is willing to take now ſhe is in town. Nothing of this kind can be done to her mind in the country. Liveries nearly Lady Betty's.

Thou haſt ſeen Lady Betty Lawrance ſeveral times—Haſt thou not, Belford?

No, never in my life.

But thou haſt; and lain with her too; or fame does thee more credit than thou deſerveſt — Why, Jack, knoweſt thou not Lady Betty's other name?

Other name!—Has ſhe two?

She has. And what thinkeſt thou of Lady Bab. Wallis?

O the devil!

Now thou haſt it. Lady Barbara, thou knoweſt, [207] lifted up in circumſtances, and by pride, never appears, or produces herſelf, but on occaſions ſpecial— To paſs to men of quality or price, for a ducheſs, or counteſs, at leaſt. She has always been admired for a grandeur in her air, that few women of quality can come up to: And never was ſuppoſed to be other than what ſhe paſſed for; tho' often and often a paramour for Lords.

And who, thinkeſt thou, is my couſin Montague?

Nay, how ſhould I know?

How indeed! Why, my little Johanetta Golding, a lively, yet modeſt-looking girl, is my couſin Montague.

There, Belford, is an aunt!—There's a couſin! Both have wit at will. Both are accuſtomed to ape quality. Both are genteelly deſcended. Miſtreſſes of themſelves; and well educated—Yet paſt pity. True Spartan dames; aſhamed of nothing but detection— Always, therefore, upon their guard againſt that. And in their own conceit, when aſſuming top parts, the very quality they ape.

And how doſt think I dreſs them out? — I'll tell thee.

Lady Betty in a rich gold tiſſue, adorned with jewels of high price.

My couſin Montague in a pale pink, [...]nding an end with ſilver flowers of her own [...]. Charlotte, as well as my Beloved, is admirable at her needle. Not quite ſo richly jewel'd out as Lady Betty; but ear-rings and ſolitaire very valuable, and infinitely becoming.

Johanetta, thou knoweſt, has a good complexion, a fine neck, and ears remarkably fine.—So has Charlotte. She is nearly of Charlotte's ſtature too.

Laces both, the richeſt that could be procured.

Thou canſt not imagine what a ſum the loan of the jewels coſt me; tho' but for three days.

This ſweet girl will half ruin me. But ſeeſt thou [208] not by this time, that her reign is ſhort?—It muſt be ſo. And Mrs. Sinclair has already prepared everything for her reception once more.

HERE come the ladies—Attended by Suſan Morriſon, a tenant-farmer's daughter, as Lady Betty's woman; with her hands before her, and thoroughly inſtructed.

How dreſs advantages women!—eſpecially thoſe, who have naturally a genteel air and turn, and have had education!

Hadſt thou ſeen how they paraded it—Couſin, and Couſin, and Nephew, at every word; Lady Betty bridling and looking haughtily-condeſcending: Charlotte galanting her fan, and ſwimming over the floor without touching it.

How I long to ſee my niece-elect! cries one—For they are told, that we are not married; and are pleaſed, that I have not put the ſlight upon them, that they had apprehended from me.

How I long to ſee my dear couſin that is to be, the other!

Your La'ſhip, and your La'ſhip, and an aukward courteſy at every addreſs, prim Suſan Morriſon.

Top your parts, ye villains! — You know how nicely I diſtinguiſh. There will be no paſſion in this caſe to blind the judgment, and to help on meditated deluſion, as when you engage with titled ſinners. My charmer is as cool and as diſtinguiſhing, tho' not quite ſo learned in her own ſex, as I am. Your commonly-aſſumed dignity won't do for me now. Airs of ſuperiority, as if born to rank. — But no over-do!—Doubting nothing. Let not your faces arraign your hearts.

Eaſy and unaffected!—Your very dreſſes will give you pride enough.

A little graver, Lady Betty. More ſignificance, leſs bridling, in your dignity.

[209]That's the air! Charmingly hit—Again—You have it.

Devil take you!—Leſs arrogance. You are got into airs of young quality. Be leſs ſenſible of your new condition. People born to dignity command reſpect without needing to require it.

Now for your part, couſin Charlotte!—

Pretty well. But a little too frolicky that air— Yet have I prepared my Beloved to expect in you both, great vivacity and quality-freedom.

Curſe thoſe eyes!—Thoſe glancings will never do. A down-caſt baſhful turn, if you can command it— Look upon me. Suppoſe me now to be my Beloved.

Devil take that leer. Too ſignificantly arch!— Once I knew you the girl I would now have you to be.

Sprightly, but not confident, couſin Charlotte!— Be ſure forget not to look down, or aſide, when looked at. When eyes meet eyes, be yours the retreating ones. Your face will bear examination.

O Lord! O Lord! that ſo young a creature can ſo ſoon forget the innocent appearance ſhe firſt charmed by; and which I thought born with you all! — Five years to ruin what Twenty had been building up! How natural the latter leſſon! How difficult to regain the former!

A ſtranger, as I hope to be ſaved, to the principal arts of your ſex! — Once more, what-a-devil has your heart to do in your eyes?

Have I not told you, that my Beloved is a great obſerver of the eyes? She once quoted upon me a text (a), which ſhewed me how ſhe came by her [210] knowlege. — Dorcas's were found guilty of treaſon the firſt moment ſhe ſaw her.

Once more, ſuppoſe me to be my charmer. — Now you are to encounter my examining eye, and my doubting heart—

That's my dear!
Study that air in the pier-glaſs!—
Charming!—Perfectly right!
Your honours, now, devils!—

Pretty well, couſin Charlotte, for a young country lady!—Till form yields to familiarity, you may courteſy low. You muſt not be ſuppoſed to have forgot your boarding-ſchool airs.

But too low, too low, Lady Betty, for your years and your quality. The common fault of your ſex will be your danger: Aiming to be young too long! —The devil's in you all, when you judge of yourſelves by your wiſhes, and by your vanity! Fifty will then never be more than Fifteen.

Graceful eaſe, conſcious dignity, like that of my charmer, O how hard to hit!

Both together now—

Charming!—That's the air, Lady Betty!—That's the cue, couſin Charlotte, ſuited to the character of each!—But, once more, be ſure to have a guard upon your eyes.

Never fear, nephew!—
Never fear, couſin.
A dram of Barbados each—
And now we are gone —

LETTER XXV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

[211]

ALL's right, as heart can wiſh!—In ſpite of all objection—in ſpite of a reluctance next to fainting—In ſpite of all her foreſight, vigilance, ſuſpicion, once more is the charmer of my ſoul in her new lodgings!

Now throbs away every pulſe! Now thump, thump, thumps my bounding heart for ſomething!

But I have not time for the particulars of our management.

My Beloved is now directing ſome of her cloaths to be packed up—Never more to enter this houſe! Nor ever more will ſhe, I dare ſay, when once again out of it!

Yet not ſo much as a condition of forgiveneſs!— The Harlowe-ſpirited Fair-one will not deſerve my mercy!—She will wait for Miſs Howe's next letter; and then, if ſhe find a difficulty in her new ſchemes [Thank her for nothing] — will — Will what?— Why even then will take time to conſider, whether I am to be forgiven, or for ever rejected. An indifference that revives in my heart the remembrance of a thouſand of the like nature.—And yet Lady Betty and Miſs Montague [One would be tempted to think, Jack, that they wiſh her to provoke my vengeance] declare, that I ought to be ſatisfied with ſuch a proud ſuſpenſion!

They are intirely attached to her. Whatever ſhe ſays is, muſt be, goſpel!—They are guarantees for her return to Hamſtead this night. They are to go back with her. A ſupper beſpoke by Lady Betty at Mrs. Moore's. All the vacant apartments there, by my permiſſion (for I had engaged them for a month certain), to be filled with them and their attendants, [212] for a week at leaſt, or till they can prevail upon the dear Perverſe, as they hope they ſhall, to reſtore me to her favour, and to accompany Lady Betty to Oxfordſhire.

The dear creature has thus far condeſcended— That ſhe will write to Miſs Howe, and acquaint her with the preſent ſituation of things.

If ſhe write, I ſhall ſee what ſhe writes. But I believe ſhe will have other employment ſoon.

Lady Betty is ſure, ſhe tells her, that ſhe ſhall prevail upon her to forgive me; tho' ſhe dares ſay, that I deſerve not forgiveneſs. Lady Betty is too delicate to inquire ſtrictly into the nature of my offence. But it muſt be an offence againſt herſelf, againſt Miſs Montague, againſt the virtuous of the whole Sex, or it could not be ſo highly reſented. Yet ſhe will not leave her till ſhe forgive me, and till ſhe ſee our nuptials privately celebrated. Mean time, as ſhe approves of her uncle's expedient, ſhe will addreſs her as already my wife, before ſtrangers.

Stedman her ſolicitor may attend her for orders, in relation to her Chancery-affair, at Hamſtead. Not one hour they can be favoured with, will they loſe from the company and converſation of ſo dear, ſo charming a new relation.

Hard then if ſhe had not obliged them with her company, in their coach-and-four, to and from their couſin Leeſon's, who longed (as they themſelves had done) to ſee a lady ſo juſtly celebrated!

'How will Lord M. be raptured when he ſees her, 'and can ſalute her as his niece!

How will Lady Sarah bleſs herſelf!—She will now think her loſs of the dear daughter ſhe mourns for, happily ſupplied!

Miſs Montague dwells upon every word that falls from her lips. She perfectly adores her new couſin: ‘For her couſin ſhe muſt be. And her couſin will ſhe call her! She anſwers for equal admiration in her ſiſter Patty.’

[213] ‘Ay, cry I (whiſpering loud enough for her to hear), how will my couſin Patty's dove's eyes gliſten, and run over, on the very firſt interview! — So gracious, ſo noble, ſo unaffected a dear creature!’

"What a happy family," chorus we all, ‘will ours be!’

Theſe, and ſuch-like congratulatory admirations, every hour repeated: Her modeſty hurt by the ecſtatic praiſes:— ‘Her graces are too natural to herſelf, for her to be proud of them:—But ſhe muſt be content to be puniſhed for excellencies that caſt a ſhade upon the moſt excellent!’

In ſhort, we are here, as at Hamſtead, all joy and rapture: All of us, except my beloved, in whoſe ſweet face [her almoſt fainting reluctance to re-enter theſe doors not overcome] reigns a kind of anxious ſerenity! — But how will even that be changed in a few hours!

Methinks I begin to pity the half-apprehenſive Beauty!—But avaunt, thou unſeaſonably-intruding pity! Thou haſt more than once, already, well nigh undone me! —And, Adieu reflection! Begone conſideration! and commiſeration! I diſmiſs ye all, for, at leaſt, a week to come!—Be remembred her broken word! Her flight, when my fond ſoul was meditating mercy to her!—Be remembred her treatment of me, in her letter on her eſcape to Hamſtead!— Her Hamſtead virulence!—What is it ſhe ought not to expect from an unchained Beelzebub, and a plotting villain?

Be her preference of the ſingle life to me, alſo remembred!—That ſhe deſpiſes me!—That ſhe even refuſes to be my WIFE!—A proud Lovelace to be denied a Wife! — To be more proudly rejected by a daughter of the Harlowes!—The ladies of my own family [She thinks them the ladies of my family] ſupplicating in vain for her returning favour to their deſpiſed kinſman, and taking laws from her ſtill prouder punctilio!

[214]Be the execrations of her vixen friend likewiſe remembred, poured out upon me from her repreſentations, and thereby made her own execrations!

Be remembred ſtill more particularly, the Townſend plot, ſet on foot between them, and now, in a day or two, ready to break out; and the ſordid threatenings thrown out againſt me by that little fury.

Is not this the criſis for which I have been long waiting? Shall Tomlinſon, ſhall theſe women, be engaged; ſhall ſo many engines be ſet at work, at an immenſe expence, with infinite contrivance; and all to no purpoſe?

Is not this the hour of her trial — And in her, of the trial of the virtue of her whole Sex, ſo long premeditated, ſo long threatened? — Whether her froſt is froſt indeed? Whether her virtue is principle? Whether, if once ſubdued, ſhe will not be always ſubdued? And will ſhe not want the very crown of her glory, the proof of her till now all-ſurpaſſing excellence, if I ſtop ſhort of the ultimate trial?

Now is the end of purpoſes long over-awed, often ſuſpended, at hand. And need I to throw the ſins of her curſed family into the too weighty ſcale?

Abhorred be force!—Be the thoughts of force! There's no triumph over the will in force! This I know I have ſaid (a). But would I not have avoided it, if I could?—Have I not try'd every other method? And have I any other recourſe left me? Can ſhe reſent the laſt outrage more than ſhe has reſented a fainter effort?—And if her reſentments run ever ſo high, cannot I repair by matrimony?—She will not refuſe me, I know, Jack; the haughty Beauty will not refuſe me, when her pride of being corporally inviolate is brought down; when ſhe can tell no tales, but when (be her reſiſtance what it will) even her own ſex will ſuſpect a yielding in reſiſtance; and [215] when that modeſty, which may fill her boſom with reſentment, will lock up her ſpeech.

But how know I, that I have not made my own difficulties?—Is ſhe not a woman?—What redreſs lies for a perpetrated evil?—Muſt ſhe not live?— Her piety will ſecure her life.— And will not time be my friend?—What, in a word, will be her behaviour afterwards?—She cannot fly me!—She muſt forgive me — And, as I have often ſaid, once forgiven, will be for ever forgiven.

Why then ſhould this enervating pity unſteel my fooliſh heart?—

It ſhall not. All theſe things will I remember; and think of nothing elſe, in order to keep up a reſolution, which the women about me will have it I ſhall be ſtill unable to hold.

I'll teach the dear charming creature to emulate me in contrivance!—I'll teach her to weave webs and plots againſt her conqueror!—I'll ſhew her, that in her ſmuggling ſchemes ſhe is but a ſpider compared to me, and that ſhe has all this time been ſpinning only a cobweb!

WHAT ſhall we do now!—We are immerſed in the depth of grief and apprehenſion!—How ill do women bear diſappointment!—Set upon going to Hamſtead, and upon quitting for ever a houſe ſhe re-enter'd with infinite reluctance; what things ſhe intended to take with her, ready pack'd up; herſelf on tip-toe to be gone; and I prepared to attend her thither; ſhe begins to be afraid, that ſhe ſhall not go this night; and, in grief and deſpair, has flung herſelf into her old apartment; lock'd herſelf in; and, thro' the key-hole, Dorcas ſees her on her knees— praying, I ſuppoſe, for a ſafe deliverance.

And from what?—And wherefore theſe agonizing apprehenſions?

Why, here, this unkind Lady Betty, with the [216] dear creature's knowlege, tho' to her concern, and this mad-headed couſin Montague without it, while ſhe was employ'd in directing her package, have hurried away in the coach to their own lodgings—Only, indeed, to put up ſome night-cloaths, and ſo forth, in order to attend their ſweet couſin to Hamſtead; and, no leſs to my ſurprize than hers, are not yet returned.

I have ſent to know the meaning of it.

In a great hurry of ſpirits, ſhe would have had me gone myſelf. Hardly any pacifying her!—The girl! God bleſs her! is wild with her own idle apprehenſions!—What is ſhe afraid of?

I curſe them both for their delay—My tardy villain, how he ſtays!—Devil fetch them! Let them ſend their coach, and we'll go without them. In her hearing, I bid the fellow tell them ſo.—Perhaps he ſtays to bring the coach, if any thing happens to hinder the ladies from attending my Beloved this night.

DEVIL take them, again ſay I!— They promiſed too, they would not ſtay, becauſe it was but two nights ago, that a chariot was robb'd at the foot of Hamſtead hill; which alarmed my fair-one, when told of it!

Oh! here's my aunt's ſervant, with a billet.

To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

EXcuſe us, dear nephew, I beſeech you, to my deareſt kinſwoman. One night cannot break ſquares. For here Miſs Montague has been taken violently ill with three fainting fits, one after another. The hurry of her joy, I believe, to find your dear lady ſo much ſurpaſs all expectation (Never did family-love, you know, reign ſo ſtrong, as among us), and the too eager deſire ſhe had to attend her, have [217] occaſioned it: For ſhe has but weak ſpirits, poor girl! well as ſhe looks.

If ſhe be better, we will certainly go with you tomorrow morning, after we have breakfaſted with her, at your lodgings. But, whether ſhe be, or not, I will do myſelf the pleaſure to attend your lady to Hamſtead; and will be with you, for that purpoſe, about nine in the morning. With due compliments to your moſt worthily beloved, I am

Yours affectionately, ELIZAB. LAWRANCE.

Faith and troth, Jack, I know not what to do with myſelf: For here, juſt now, having ſent in the above note by Dorcas, out came my beloved with it in her hand: In a fit of phrenſy!—True, by my ſoul!

She had indeed complained of her head all the evening.

Dorcas ran to me, out of breath, to tell me, that her lady was coming in ſome ſtrange way: But ſhe followed her ſo quick, that the frighted wench had not time to ſay in what way.

It ſeems, when ſhe read the billet—Now indeed, ſaid ſhe, am I a loſt creature! O the poor Clariſſa Harlowe!

She tore off her head-cloaths; inquired where I was: And in ſhe came, her ſhining treſſes flowing about her neck; her ruffles torn, and hanging in tatters about her ſnowy hands; with her arms ſpread out; her eyes wildly turned, as if ſtarting from their orbits—Down ſunk ſhe at my feet, as ſoon as ſhe approached me; her charming boſom heaving to her uplifted face; and, claſping her arms about my knees, Dear Lovelace, ſaid ſhe, if ever—if ever—if ever—And, unable to ſpeak another word, quitting her claſping hold, down proſtrate on the floor ſunk ſhe, neither in a fit nor out of one.

[218]I was quite aſtoniſhed.—All my purpoſes ſuſpended for a few moments, I knew neither what to ſay, nor what to do. But, recollecting myſelf, Am I again, thought I, in a way to be overcome, and made a fool of!—If I now recede, I am gone for ever.

I raiſed her: But down ſhe ſunk, as if quite diſjointed; her limbs failing her—yet not in a fit neither. I never heard of, or ſaw, ſuch a dear unaccountable: Almoſt lifeleſs, and ſpeechleſs too for a few moments!—What muſt her apprehenſions be at that moment! And for what? — An high-notioned dear ſoul!—Pretty ignorance! thought I.

Never having met with a repugnance ſo greatly repugnant, I was ſtagger'd — I was confounded — Yet how ſhould I know that it would be ſo till I try'd?—And how, having proceeded thus far, could I ſtop, were I not to have had the women to goad me on, and to make light of circumſtances, which they pretended to be better judges of than me.

I lifted her, however, into a chair; and, in words of diſordered paſſion, told her, All her fears were needleſs: Wondered at them: Begg'd of her to be pacified: Beſought her reliance on my faith and honour: And re-vowed all my old vows, and poured forth new ones.

At laſt, with an heart-breaking ſob, I ſee, I ſee, Mr. Lovelace, in broken ſentences ſhe ſpoke—I ſee, I ſee—that at laſt—at laſt—I am ruined!—Ruined — If your pity—Let me implore your pity!—And down on her boſom, like a half-broken-ſtalk'd lily, top-heavy with the overcharging dews of the morning, ſunk her head, with a ſigh that went to my heart.

All I could think of to re-aſſure her, when a little recovered, I ſaid.

Why did I not ſend for their coach, as I had intimated? It might return in the morning for the ladies.

I had actually done ſo, I told her, on ſeeing her [219] ſtrange uneaſineſs. But it was then gone to fetch a doctor for Miſs Montague, leſt his chariot ſhould not be ſo ready.

An! Lovelace! ſaid ſhe, with a doubting face; anguiſh in her imploring eye.

Lady Betty would think it very ſtrange, I told her, if ſhe were to know it was ſo diſagreeable to her to ſtay one night, for her company, in a houſe where ſhe had paſſed ſo many!

She called me names upon this.—She had called me names before.—I was patient.

Let her go to Lady Betty's lodgings, then; directly go; if the perſon I called Lady Betty was really Lady Betty.

IF! my dear! Good Heaven! What a villain does that IF ſhew you believe me to be!

I cannot help it—I beſeech you once more, Let me go to Mrs. Leeſon's, if that IF ought not to be ſaid.

Then aſſuming a more reſolute ſpirit—I will go! I will inquire my way!—I will go by myſelf!—And would have ruſhed by me.

I folded my arms about her to detain her; pleading the bad way I heard poor Charlotte was in; and what a farther concern her impatience, if ſhe went, would give her.

She would believe nothing I ſaid, unleſs I would inſtantly order a coach (ſince ſhe was not to have Lady Betty's, nor was permitted to go to Mrs. Leeſon's), and let her go in it to Hamſtead, late as it was; and all alone; ſo much the better: For in the houſe of people, of whom Lady Betty, upon inquiry, had heard a bad character [Dropt fooliſhly This, by my prating new relation, in order to do credit to herſelf, by depreciating others]; every thing, and every face, looking with ſo much meaning vileneſs, as well as my own [Thou art ſtill too ſenſible, thought I, my [220] charmer!], ſhe was reſolved not to ſtay another night.

Dreading what might happen as to her intellects, and being very apprehenſive, that ſhe might poſſibly go thro' a great deal before morning (tho' more violent ſhe could not well be with the worſt ſhe dreaded), I humoured her, and ordered Will. to go and endeavour to get a coach directly, to carry us to Hamſtead; I cared not at what price.

Robbers, whom I would have terrify'd her with, ſhe feared not—I was all her fear, I found; and this houſe her terror: For I ſaw plainly, that ſhe now believed, that Lady Betty and Miſs Montague were both impoſtors.

But her miſtruſt is a little of the lateſt to do her ſervice.

And, O Jack, the rage of Love, the rage of Revenge is upon me! By turns they tear me!—The progreſs already made! — The womens inſtigations!— The power I ſhall have to try her to the utmoſt, and ſtill to marry her, if ſhe be not to be brought to cohabitation.! — Let me periſh, Belford, if ſhe eſcape me now!

WILL. is not yet come back.—Near eleven.—

WILL. is this moment returned.—No coach to be got, for love or money.

Once more, ſhe urges—To Mrs. Leeſon's let me go!—Lovelace! Good Lovelace! Let me go to Mrs. Leeſon's!—What is Miſs Montague's illneſs to my terror?—For the Almighty's ſake, Mr. Lovelace!— her hands claſped—

O my angel! What a wildneſs is this!—Do you know, do you ſee, my deareſt life, what an appearance your cauſeleſs apprehenſions have given you?— Do you know it is paſt eleven o'clock?

Twelve, one, two, three, four—any hour—I [221] care not—If you mean me honourably, let me go cut of this hated houſe!

Thou'lt obſerve, Belford, that tho' this was written afterwards, yet (as in other places) I write it as it was ſpoken, and happened; as if I had retired to put down every ſentence as ſpoken. I know thou likeſt this lively preſent-tenſe manner, as it is one of my peculiars.

Juſt as ſhe had repeated the laſt words, If you mean me honourably, let me go out of this hated houſe, in came Mrs. Sinclair, in a great ferment.—And what, pray, Madam, has this houſe done to you? — Mr. Lovelace, you have known me ſome time; and, if I have not the niceneſs of this lady, I hope I do not deſerve to be treated thus!

She ſet her huge arms a-kembo: Hoh! Madam, let me tell you, I am amazed at your freedoms with my character! And, Mr. Lovelace (holding up, and violently ſhaking, her head), if you are a gentleman, and a man of honour—

Having never before ſeen any thing but obſequiouſneſs in this woman, little as ſhe liked her, ſhe was frighted at her maſculine air, and fierce look—God help me! cry'd ſhe. What will become of me now! Then, turning her head hither and thither, in a wild kind of amaze, Whom have I for a protector! What will become of me now!

I will be your protector, my deareſt love!—But indeed you are uncharitably ſevere upon poor Mrs. Sinclair! Indeed you are!—She is a gentlewoman born, and the relict of a man of honour; and tho' left in ſuch circumſtances as oblige her to let lodgings, yet would ſhe ſcorn to be guilty of a wilful baſeneſs.

I hope ſo—it may be ſo—I may be miſtaken— But—But there is no crime, I preſume, no treaſon, to ſay I don't like her houſe.

The old dragon ſtraddled up to her, with her arms [222] kembo'd again—Her eye-brows erect, like the buſtles upon a hog's back, and, ſcouling over her ſhortened noſe, more than half-hid her ferret eyes. Her mouth was diſtorted. She pouted out her blubber-lips, as if to bellows up wind and ſputter into her horſe-noſtrils; and her chin was curdled, and more than uſually prominent with paſſion.

With two Hoh-Madams ſhe accoſted the frighted fair-one; who, terrified, caught hold of my ſleeve.

I feared ſhe would fall into fits; and, with a look of indignation, told Mrs. Sinclair, that theſe apartments were mine; and I could not imagine what ſhe meant, either by liſtening to what paſſed between me and my ſpouſe, or to come in, uninvited; much leſs to give herſelf theſe violent airs.

I may be to blame, Jack, for ſuffering this wretch to give herſelf theſe airs: but her coming in was without my orders.

The old Beldam, throwing herſelf into a chair, fell a blubbering and exclaiming. And the pacifying of her, and endeavouring to reconcile the lady to her, took up till near one a clock.

And thus, between terror, and the late hour, and what followed, ſhe was diverted from the thoughts of getting out of the houſe to Mrs. Leeſon's, or anywhere elſe.

LETTER XXVI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

AND now, Belford, I can go no farther. The affair is over. Clariſſa lives. And I am

Your humble ſervant, R. LOVELACE.

The whole of this black tranſaction is given by the injured lady, to Miſs Howe, in her ſubſequent letters, dated Thurſday July 6. To which the reader is referred.

LETTER XXVII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq.

[223]

O Thou ſavage-hearted monſter! What work haſt thou made in one guilty hour, for a whole age of repentance!

I am inexpreſſibly concerned at the fate of this matchleſs lady! She could not have fallen into the hands of any other man breathing, and ſuffered as ſhe has done with thee.

I had written a great part of another long letter, to try to ſoften thy flinty heart in her favour; for I thought it but too likely, that thou ſhouldeſt ſucceed in getting her back again to the accurſed woman's. But I find it would have been too late, had I finiſhed it, and ſent it away. Yet cannot I forbear writing, to urge thee to make the only amends thou now canſt make her, by a proper uſe of the Licenſe thou haſt obtained.

Poor, poor lady! It is a pain to me, that I ever ſaw her. Such an adorer of virtue to be ſacrificed to the vileſt of her ſex; and thou their implement in the devil's hands, for a purpoſe ſo baſe, ſo ungenerous, ſo inhumane! — Pride thyſelf, O cruelleſt of men, in this reflection; and that thy triumph over a lady, who for thy ſake was abandoned of every friend ſhe had in the world, was effected, not by advantages taken of her weakneſs and credulity; but by the blackeſt artifice; after a long courſe of ſtudied deceits had been tried to no purpoſe.

I can tell thee, it is well either for thee or for me, that I am not the brother of the lady. Had I been her brother, her violation muſt have been followed by the blood of one of us.

Excuſe me, Lovelace; and let not the lady fare the worſe for my concern for her. And yet I have [224] but one other motive to aſk thy excuſe; and that is, becauſe I owe to thy own communicative pen the knowlege I have of thy barbarous villainy; ſince thou might'ſt, if thou would'ſt, have paſſed it upon me for a common ſeduction.

CLARISSA LIVES, thou ſay'ſt. That ſhe does, is my wonder; and theſe words ſhew, that thou thyſelf (tho' thou couldſt, nevertheleſs, proceed) hardly expectedſt ſhe would have ſurvived the outrage. What muſt have been the poor lady's diſtreſs (watchful as ſhe had been over her honour), when dreadful certainty took place of cruel apprehenſion!—And yet a man may gueſs what it muſt have been, by that which thou painteſt, when ſhe ſuſpected herſelf trick'd, deſerted, and betrayed, by thy pretended aunt and couſin.

That thou couldſt behold her phrenſy on this occaſion, and her half-ſpeechleſs, half-fainting proſtration at thy feet, and yet retain thy evil purpoſes, will hardly be thought credible, even by thoſe who know thee, if they have ſeen her.

Poor, poor Lady! With ſuch noble qualities as would have adorned the moſt exalted married life, to fall into the hands of the only man in the world, who could have treated her as thou haſt treated her!— And to let looſe the old dragon, as thou properly calleſt her, upon the before-affrighted innocent, what a barbarity was that! What a poor piece of barbarity! in order to obtain by terror, what thou deſpairedſt to do by love, tho' ſupported by ſtratagems the moſt inſidious!

O LOVELACE! LOVELACE! had I doubted it before, I ſhould now be convinced, that there muſt be a WORLD AFTER THIS, to do juſtice to injured merit, and to puniſh ſuch a barbarous perfidy! Could the divine SOCRATES, and the divine CLARISSA, otherwiſe have ſuffered?

But let me, if poſſible, for one moment, try to [225] forget this villainous outrage on the moſt excellent of women.

I have buſineſs here, which will hold me yet a few days; and then perhaps I ſhall quit this houſe for ever.

I have had a ſolemn and tedious time of it. I ſhould never have known, that I had half the reſpect I really find I had for the old gentleman, had I not ſo cloſely, at his earneſt deſire, attended him, and been a witneſs of the tortures he underwent.

This melancholy occaſion may poſſibly have contributed to humanize me: But ſurely I never could have been ſo remorſeleſs a caitiff as thou haſt been, to a woman of half this lady's excellence.

But pr'ythee, dear Lovelace, if thou'rt a man, and not a devil, reſolve, out of hand, to repair thy ſin of ingratitude, by conferring upon thyſelf the higheſt honour thou canſt receive, in making her lawfully thine.

But if thou canſt not prevail upon thyſelf to do her this juſtice, I think I ſhould not ſcruple a tilt with thee (An everlaſting rupture at leaſt muſt follow), if thou ſacrificeſt her to the accurſed women.

Thou art deſirous to know what advantage I reap by my uncle's demiſe. I do not certainly know; for I have not been ſo greedily ſollicitous on this ſubject, as ſome of the kindred have been, who ought to have ſhewn more decency, as I have told them, and ſuffered the corpſe to have been cold before they had begun their hungry inquiries. But, by what I gathered from the poor man's talk to me, who, oftener than I wiſhed, touched upon the ſubject, I deem it will be upwards of 5000 l. in caſh, and in the funds, after all legacies paid, beſides the real eſtate, which is a clear 500 l. a year.

I wiſh from my heart, thou wert a money-lover! Were the eſtate to be of double the value, thou ſhouldſt have it every ſhilling; only upon one condition [226] (for my circumſtances before were as eaſy as I wiſh them to be while I am ſingle)—That thou wouldſt permit me the honour of being this fatherleſs lady's Father, as it is called, at the altar.

Think of this, my dear Lovelace: Be honeſt: And let me preſent thee with the brighteſt jewel that man ever poſſeſſed; and then, body and ſoul, wilt thou bind to thee for ever, thy

BELFORD.

LETTER XXVIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

LET me alone, you great dog, you!—Let me alone!—have I heard a leſſer boy, his coward arms held over his head and face, ſay to a bigger, who was pummeling him, for having run away with his apple, his orange, or his ginger-bread.

So ſay I to thee, on occaſion of thy ſeverity to thy poor friend, who, as thou owneſt, has furniſhed thee (ungenerous as thou art!) with the weapons thou brandiſheſt ſo fearfully againſt him.—And to what purpoſe, when the miſchief is done; when, of conſequence, the affair is irretrievable? and when a CLARISSA could not move me?

Well, but, after all, I muſt own, that there is ſomething very ſingular in this lady's caſe: And, at times, I cannot help regretting, that I ever attempted her; ſince not one power either of body or ſoul could be moved in my favour; and ſince, to uſe the expreſſion of the philoſopher, on a much graver occaſion, There is no difference to be found between the ſkull of king Philip, and that of another man.

But peoples extravagant notions of things alter not facts, Belford: And, when all's done, M [...]ſs Clariſſa Harlowe has but run the fate of a thouſand others of her Sex—Only that they did not ſet ſuch a romantic [227] value upon what they call their honour; that's all.

And yet I will allow thee this—That if a perſon ſets a high value upon any thing, be it ever ſuch a trifle in itſelf, or in the eye of others, the robbing of that perſon of it is not a trifle to him. Take the matter in this light, I own I have done wrong, great wrong, to this admirable creature.

But have I not known twenty and twenty of the ſex, who have ſeemed to carry their notions of virtue high; yet, when brought to the teſt, have abated of their ſeverity? And how ſhould we be convinced that any of them are proof, till they are try'd?

A thouſand times have I ſaid, that I never yet met with ſuch a woman as this. If I had, I hardly ever ſhould have attempted Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe. Hitherto ſhe is all angel: And was not that the point which at ſetting out I propoſed to try (a)? And was not cohabitation ever my darling view? And am I not now, at laſt, in the high-road to it?—It is true, that I have nothing to boaſt of as to her will. The very contrary. But now are we come to the teſt, whether ſhe cannot be brought to make the beſt of an irreparable evil?—If ſhe exclaim (ſhe has reaſon to exclaim, and I will ſit down with patience, by the hour together, to hear her exclamations, till ſhe is tired of them), ſhe will then deſcend to expoſtulation perhaps: Expoſtulation will give me hope: Expoſtulation will ſhew, that ſhe hates me not. And if ſhe hate me not, ſhe will forgive: And if ſhe now forgive; then will all be over; and ſhe will be mine upon my own terms: And it ſhall then be the whole ſtudy of my future life to make her happy.

So, Belford, thou ſeeſt; that I have journeyed on to this ſtage (indeed, thro' infinite mazes, and as infinite remorſes), with one determined point in view, from the firſt. To thy urgent ſupplication then, that [228] I will do her grateful juſtice by marriage, let me anſwer in Matt. Prior's two lines on his hoped-for Auditorſhip; as put into the mouths of his St. John and Harley;

—Let that be done, which Matt, doth ſay.
YEA, quoth the Earl—BUT NOT TO-DAY.

Thou ſeeſt, Jack, that I make no reſolutions, however, againſt doing her, one time or other, the wiſh'd-for juſtice, even were I to ſucceed in my principal view, cohabitation. And of this I do aſſure thee, that, if I ever marry, it muſt, it ſhall, be Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe.—Nor is her honour at all impaired with me, by what ſhe has ſo far ſuffered: But the contrary. She muſt only take care, that, if ſhe be at laſt brought to forgive me, ſhe ſhew me, that her Lovelace is the only man on earth, whom ſhe could have forgiven on the like occaſion.

But, ah, Jack! what, in the mean time, ſhall I do with this admirable creature? At preſent — I am loth to ſay it—But, at preſent, ſhe is quite ſtupefied.

I had rather, methinks, ſhe ſhould have retained all her active powers, tho' I had ſuffered by her nails and her teeth, than that ſhe ſhould be ſunk into ſuch a ſtate of abſolute—inſenſibility (ſhall I call it), as ſhe has been in ever ſince Tueſday morning. Yet, as ſhe begins a little to revive, and now-and-then to call names, and to exclaim, I dread almoſt to engage with the anguiſh of a ſpirit that owes its extraordinary agitations to a niceneſs that has no example either in antient or modern ſtory. For, after all, what is there in her caſe, that ſhould ſtupefy ſuch a glowing, ſuch a blooming charmer?—Exceſs of grief, exceſs of terror, has made a perſon's hair ſtand on end, and even (as we have read) changed the colour of it. But that it ſhould ſo ſtupefy, as to make a perſon, at times, inſenſible to thoſe imaginary wrongs, which would raiſe others from ſtupefaction, is very ſurpriſing!

[229]But I will leave this ſubject, leſt it ſhould make me too grave.

I was yeſterday at Hamſtead, and diſcharged all obligations there, with no ſmall applauſe. I told them, that the lady was now as happy as myſelf: And that is no great untruth; for I am not altogether ſo, when I allow myſelf to think.

Mrs. Townſend, with her tars, had not been then there. I told them what I would have them ſay to her, if ſhe come.

Well, but, after all (How many after-all's have I?), I could be very grave, were I to give way to it.—The devil take me for a fool! What's the matter with me, I wonder!—I muſt breathe a freſher air for a few days.

But what ſhall I do with this admirable creature the while?—Hang me, if I know!— For, if I ſtir, the venomous ſpider of this habitation will want to ſet upon the charming fly, whoſe ſilken wings are already ſo intangled in my enormous web, that ſhe cannot move hand or foot: For ſo much has grief ſtupefied her, that ſhe is at preſent as deſtitute of will, as ſhe always ſeemed of deſire. I muſt not therefore think of leaving her yet for two days together.

LETTER XXIX. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Have juſt now had a ſpecimen of what this dear creature's reſentment will be, when quite recover'd: An affecting one!—For, entering her apartment after Dorcas; and endeavouring to ſoothe and pacify her diſordered mind; in the midſt of my blandiſhments, ſhe held up to Heaven, in a ſpeechleſs agony, the innocent Licence (which ſhe has in her own power); as the poor diſtreſſed Catalans held up their [230] Engliſh treaty, on an occaſion that keeps the worſt of my actions in countenance.

She ſeemed about to call down vengeance upon me; when, happily, the Leaden God, in pity to her trembling Lovelace, waved over her half-drowned eyes his ſomniferous wand, and laid aſleep the fair exclaimer, before ſhe could go half thro' with her intended imprecation.

Thou wilt gueſs, by what I have written, that ſome little art has been made uſe of: But it was with a generous deſign (if thou'lt allow me the word on ſuch an occaſion) in order to leſſen the too quick ſenſe ſhe was likely to have of what ſhe was to ſuffer. A contrivance I never had occaſion for before, and had not thought of now, if Mrs. Sinclair had not propoſed it to me: To whom I left the management of it: And I have done nothing but curſe her ever ſince, leſt the quantity ſhould have for ever damped her charming intellects.

Hence my concern—For I think the poor lady ought not to have been ſo treated. Poor lady, did I ſay?—What have I to do with thy creeping ſtyle?— But have not I the worſt of it; ſince her inſenſibility has made me but a thief to my own joys?

I did not intend to tell thee of this little innocent trick; for ſuch I deſigned it to be; but that I hate diſingenuity: To thee, eſpecially: And as I cannot help writing in a more ſerious vein than uſual, thou wouldſt, perhaps, had I not hinted the true cauſe, have imagined, that I was ſorry for the fact itſelf: And this would have given thee a good deal of trouble in ſcribbling dull perſuaſives to repair by matrimony; and me, in reading thy crude nonſenſe. Beſides, one day or other, thou mighteſt, had I not confeſſed it, have heard of it in an aggravated manner; and I know thou haſt ſuch an high opinion of this lady's virtue, that thou wouldſt be diſappointed, i [...] thou hadſt reaſon to think, that ſhe was ſubdued by [231] her own conſent, or any the leaſt yielding in her will. And ſo is ſhe beholden to me, in ſome meaſure, that, at the expence of my honour, ſhe may ſo juſtly form a plea, which will intirely ſalve hers?

And now is the whole ſecret out.

Thou wilt ſay I am a horrid fellow!—As the lady does, that I am the unchained Beelzebub, and a plotting villain: And as this is what you both ſaid beforehand, and nothing worſe can be ſaid, I deſire, if thou wouldſt not have me quite ſerious with thee, and that I ſhould think thou meaneſt more by thy tilting-hint, than I am willing to believe thou doſt, that thou wilt forbear thy invectives: For is not the thing done?—Can it be help'd?—And muſt I not now try to make the beſt of it?—And the rather do I injoin thee this, and inviolable ſecrecy; becauſe I begin to think, that my puniſhment will be greater than the fault, were it to be only from my own reflection.

LETTER XXX. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

I AM ſorry to hear of thy misfortune; but hope thou wilt not long lie by it. Thy ſervant tells me, what a narrow eſcape thou hadſt with thy neck. I wiſh it may not be ominous: But I think thou ſeemeſt not to be in ſo enterpriſing a way as formerly; and yet, merry or ſad, thou ſeeſt a rake's neck is always in danger, if not from the hangman, from his own horſe. But 'tis a vicious toad, it ſeems; and I think thou ſhouldſt never venture upon his back again; for 'tis a plaguy thing for rider and horſe both to be vicious.

Thy fellow tells me, thou deſireſt me to continue to write to thee, to divert thy chagrin on thy forced [232] confinement: But how I can think it in my power to divert, when my ſubject is not pleaſing to myſelf?

Caeſar never knew what it was to be hyp'd, I will call it, till he came to be what Pompey was; that is to ſay, till he arrived at the height of his ambition: Nor did thy Lovelace know what it was to be gloomy, till he had completed his wiſhes upon the charming'ſt creature in the world, as the other did his upon the moſt potent republic that ever exiſted.

And yet why ſay I, completed? when the will, the conſent, is wanting—And I have ſtill views before me of obtaining that?

Yet I could almoſt join with thee in the wiſh, which thou ſendeſt me up by thy ſervant, unfriendly as it is, that I had had thy misfortune before Monday night laſt: For here, the poor lady has run into a contrary extreme to that I told thee of in my laſt: For now is ſhe as much too lively, as before ſhe was too ſtupid; and, 'bating that ſhe has pretty frequent lucid intervals, would be deem'd raving mad, and I ſhould be obliged to confine her.

I am moſt confoundedly diſturb'd about it: For I begin to fear, that her intellects are irreparably hurt.

Who the devil could have expected ſuch ſtrange effects from a cauſe ſo common, and ſo ſlight?

But theſe high ſoul'd and high-ſens'd girls, who had ſet up for ſhining lights and examples to the reſt of the ſex, [I now ſee, that ſuch there are!] are with ſuch difficulty brought down to the common ſtandard, that a wiſe man, who prefers his peace of mind to his glory in ſubduing one of that exalted claſs, would have nothing to ſay to them.

I do all in my power to quiet her ſpirits, when I force myſelf into her preſence.

I go on, begging pardon one minute; and vowing truth and honour another.

I would at firſt have perſuaded her, and offer'd to [233] call witneſſes to the truth of it, that we were actually married. Tho' the licence was in her hands, I thought the aſſertion might go down in her diſorder; and charming conſequences I hoped would follow. But this would not do.—

I therefore gave up that hope: And now I declare to her, that it is my reſolution to marry her, the moment her uncle Harlowe informs me, that he will grace the ceremony with his preſence.

But ſhe believes nothing I ſay; nor (whether in her ſenſes, or not) bears me with patience in her ſight.

I pity her with all my ſoul; and I curſe myſelf, when ſhe is in her wailing fits, and when I apprehend, that intellects, ſo charming as hers, are for ever damp'd—But more I curſe theſe women, who put me upon ſuch an expedient! —Lord! Lord! what a hand have I made of it!—And all for what?

Laſt night, for the firſt time ſince Monday laſt, ſhe got to her pen and ink: But ſhe purſues her writing with ſuch eagerneſs and hurry, as ſhew too evidently her diſcompoſure.

I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her ſpirits.

JUST now Dorcas tells me, that what ſhe writes ſhe tears, and throws the paper in fragments under the table, either as not knowing what ſhe does, or diſliking it: Then gets up, wrings her hands, weeps, and ſhifts her ſeat all round the room: Then returns to her table, ſits down, and writes again.

ONE odd letter, as I may call it, Dorcas has this moment given me from her—Carry this, ſaid ſhe, to the vileſt of men. Dorcas, a toad! brought it, without any further direction, to me.—I ſat down, [234] intending (tho' 'tis pretty long) to give thee a copy of it: But, for my life, I cannot; 'tis ſo extravagant. And the original is too much an original to let it go out of my hands.

But ſome of the ſcraps and fragments, as either torn thro', or flung aſide, I will copy, for the novelty of the thing, and to ſhew thee how her mind works, now ſhe is in this whimſical way. Yet I know I am ſtill furniſhing thee with new weapons againſt myſelf. But ſpare thy comments. My own reflections render them needleſs. Dorcas thinks her lady will aſk for them: So wiſhes to have them to lay again under her table.

By the firſt thou'lt gueſs, that I have told her, that Miſs Howe is very ill, and can't write; that ſhe may account the better for not having received the letter deſigned for her.

PAPER I. (Torn in two pieces.)
My deareſt Miſs Howe!

O! What dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you!

But yet I cannot tell you neither But ſay, Are you really ill, as a vile, vile creature informs me you are?

But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: And yet, if it were not true, ſurely I ſhould have heard from you before now!—But what have I to do, to upbraid?—You may well be tired of me! —And if you are, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myſelf: And all my own relations were tired of me long before you were.

How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe!—But how I ramble!

I ſat down to ſay a great deal—My heart was full—I did not know what to ſay firſt—And thought, and grief, and confuſion, and (O my poor head!) I cannot tell what—And thought, and grief, and confuſion, came crouding ſo thick upon me; one would be firſt, another would be firſt, all would be firſt; ſo I can write nothing [235] at all.—Only that, whatever they have done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was in any one thing. —In any one thing did I ſay? Yes, but I am; for I am ſtill, and I ever will be,

Your true—

Plague on it! I can write no more of this eloquent nonſenſe myſelf; which rather ſhews a raiſed, than a quenched, imagination: But Dorcas ſhall tranſcribe the others in ſeparate papers, as written by the whimſical charmer: And ſome time hence, when all is over, and I can better bear to read them, I may aſk thee for a ſight of them. Preſerve them therefore; for we often look back with pleaſure even upon the heavieſt griefs, when the cauſe of them is removed.

PAPER II. (Scratch'd thro', and thrown under the Table.)

—AND can you, my dear honoured papa, reſolve for ever to reprobate your poor child? — But I am ſure you would not, if you knew what ſhe has ſuffered ſince her unhappy—And will nobody plead for your poor ſuffering girl?—No one good body?—Why, then, deareſt Sir, let it be an act of your own innate goodneſs, which I have ſo much experienced, and ſo much abuſed.—I don't preſume to think you ſhould receive me—No, indeed— my name is—I don't know what my name is!—I never dare to wiſh to come into your family again!—But your heavy curſe, my papa—Yes, I will call you papa, and help yourſelf as you can—for you are my own dear papa, whether you will or not—And tho' I am an unworthy child—yet I am your child—

PAPER III.

A Lady took a great fancy to a young Lion, or a Bear, I forget which—but a Bear, or a Tyger, I believe, it was. It was made her a preſent of, when a whelp. She fed it with her own hand: She nurſed up the wicked cub with great tenderneſs; and would play with it, without fear or apprehenſion of danger: And it was obedient [236] to all her commands: And its tameneſs, as ſhe uſed to boaſt, increaſed with its growth; ſo that, like a lapdog, it would follow her all over the houſe. But mind what followed: At laſt, ſome-how, neglecting to ſatisfy its hungry maw, or having other-wiſe diſobliged it on ſome occaſion, it reſumed its nature; and on a ſudden fell upon her, and tore her in pieces.—And who was moſt to blame, I pray? The brute, or the lady? The lady, ſurely! —For what ſhe did, was out of nature, out of character, at leaſt: What it did, was in its own nature.

PAPER IV.

HOW art thou now humbled in the duſt, thou proud Clariſſa Harlowe! Thou that never ſteppedſt out of thy father's houſe, but to be admired! Who wert wont to turn thine eye, ſparkling with healthful life, and ſelf-aſſurance, to different objects at once, as thou paſſedſt, as if (for ſo thy penetrating ſiſter uſed to ſay) to plume thyſelf upon the expected applauſes of all that beheld thee! Thou that uſedſt to go to reſt ſatisfied with the adulations paid thee in the paſt day, and couldſt put off every thing but thy vanity!—

PAPER V.

REjoice not now, my Bella, my ſiſter, my friend; but pity the humbled creature, whoſe fooliſh heart you uſed to ſay you beheld thro' the thin veil of humility, which cover'd it.

It muſt have been ſo! My fall had not elſe been permitted—

You penetrated my proud heart with the jealouſy of an elder ſiſter's ſearching eye.

You knew me better than I knew myſelf.

Hence your upbraidings, and your chidings, when I began to totter.

But forgive now thoſe vain triumphs of my heart.

I thought, poor proud wretch that I was, that what you ſaid was owing to your envy.

I thought I could acquit my intention of any ſuch vanity.

[237]I was too ſecure in the knowlege I thought I had of my own heart.

My ſuppoſed advantages became a ſnare to me.

And what now is the end of all?—

PAPER VI.

WHAT now is become of the proſpects of a happy life, which once I thought opening before me?— Who now ſhall aſſiſt in the ſolemn preparations? Who now ſhall provide the nuptial ornaments, which ſoften and divert the apprehenſions of the fearful virgin? No court now to be paid to my ſmiles! No encouraging compliments to inſpire thee with hope of laying a mind not unworthy of thee under obligation! No elevation now for conſcious merit, and applauded purity, to look down from on a proſtrate adorer, and an admiring world, and up to pleaſed and rejoicing parents and relations!

PAPER VII.

THOU pernicious caterpillar, that preyeſt upon the fair leaf of virgin fame, and poiſoneſt thoſe leaves which thou canſt not devour!

Thou fell blight, thou eaſtern blaſt, thou overſpreading mildew, that deſtroyeſt the early promiſes of the ſhining year! that mockeſt the laborious toil, and blaſteſt the joyful hopes, of the painful huſbandman!

Thou fretting moth, that corrupteſt the faireſt garment!

Thou eating canker-worm, that preyeſt upon the opening bud, and turneſt the damaſk roſe into livid yellowneſs!

If, as Religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great meaſure, by our benevolent or evil actions to one another—O wretch! bethink thee, in time bethink thee, how great muſt be thy condemnation!

PAPER VIII.

AT firſt, I ſaw ſomething in your air and perſon that diſpleaſed me not. Your birth and fortunes were no ſmall advantages to you.—You acted not ignobly by [238] my paſſionate brother. Every-body ſaid you were brave: Every-body ſaid you were generous. A brave man, I thought, could not be a baſe man: A generous man, could not, I believed, be ungenerous, where he acknowleged obligation. Thus prepoſſeſſed, all the reſt, that my ſoul loved, and wiſhed for, in your reformation, I hoped!—I knew not, but by report, any flagrant inſtances of your vileneſs. You ſeemed frank, as well as generous: Frankneſs and generoſity ever attracted me: Whoever kept up thoſe appearances, I judged of their hearts by my own; and whatever qualities I wiſhed to find in them, I was ready to find; and, when found, I believed them to be natives of the ſoil.

My Fortunes, my Rank, my Character, I thought a further ſecurity. I was in none of thoſe reſpects unworthy of being the niece of Lord M. and of his two noble ſiſters.—Your vows, your imprecations—But, Oh! you have barbarouſly and baſely conſpired againſt that honour, which you ought to have protected: And now you have made me—What is it of vile, that you have not made me?—

Yet, God knows my heart, I had no culpable inclinations!—I honoured virtue!—I hated vice!—But I knew not, that you were vice itſelf!

PAPER IX.

HAD the happineſs of any the pooreſt outcaſt in the world, whom I had never ſeen, never known, never before heard of, lain as much in my power, as my happineſs did in yours, my benevolent heart would have made me fly to the ſuccour of ſuch a poor diſtreſſed—With what pleaſure would I have raiſed the dejected head, and comforted the deſponding heart!—But who now ſhall pity the poor wretch, who has increaſed, inſtead of diminiſhed, the number of the miſerable!

PAPER X.
[239]
LEAD me, where my own Thoughts themſelves may loſe me,
Where I may doze out what I've left of Life,
Forget myſelf; and that day's guilt! —
Cruel remembrance! — how ſhall I appeaſe thee?
—Oh! you have done an act
That blots the face and bluſh of modeſty;
Takes off the roſe
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And makes a bliſter there! —
Then down I laid my head,
Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead;
And my freed Soul to a ſtrange ſomewhere fled!
Ah! ſottiſh ſoul! ſaid I,
When back to its cage again I ſaw it fly,
Fool! to reſume her broken chain,
And row the galley here again!
Fool! to that body to return,
Where it condemn'd and deſtin'd is to mourn.
O my Miſs Howe! if thou haſt friendſhip, help me,
And ſpeak the words of peace to my divided ſoul,
That wars within me,
And raiſes ev'ry ſenſe to my confuſion.
I'm tott'ring on the brink
Of peace; and thou art all the hold I've left!
Aſſiſt me in the pangs of my affliction!
When honour's loſt, 'tis a relief to die:
Death's but a ſure retreat from infamy.
Then farewel, youth,
And all the joys that dwell
With youth and life!
And life itſelf, farewel!
For life can never be ſincerely bleſt.
Heaven puniſhes the Bad, and proves the Beſt.
Death only can be dreadful to the bad:
To innocence 'tis like a bugbear dreſs'd
To frighten children. Pull but off the maſk
And he'll appear a friend.
I could a tale unfold—
Would harrow up thy ſoul!—
By ſwift misfortunes
How am I purſu'd!
Which on each other are,
Like waves, renew'd!

AFTER all, Belford, I have juſt ſkimm'd over theſe tranſcriptions of Dorcas; and I ſee there is method [240] and good ſenſe in ſome of them, wild as others of them are; and that her memory, which ſerves her ſo well for theſe poetical flights, is far from being impair'd. And this gives me hope, that ſhe will ſoon recover her charming intellects—Tho' I ſhall be the ſufferer by their reſtoration, I make no doubt.

But, in the letter ſhe wrote to me, there are yet greater extravagancies; and tho' I ſaid, It was too affecting to give thee a copy of it, yet, after I have let thee ſee the looſe papers incloſed, I think I may throw in a tranſcription of that. Dorcas, therefore, ſhall here tranſcribe it: I cannot. The reading of it affected me ten times more, than the ſevereſt reproaches of a regular mind.

To Mr. LOVELACE.

I Never intended to write another line to you. I would not ſee you, If I could help it. O that I never had!

But tell me of a truth, Is Miſs Howe really and truly ill?—Very ill?—And is not her illneſs poiſon? And don't you know who gave it her?

What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or ſomebody, I cannot tell who, have done to my poor head, you beſt know: But I ſhall never be what I was. My head is gone. I have wept away all my brain, I believe; for I can weep no more. Indeed I have had my full ſhare; ſo it is no matter.

But, good now, Lovelace, don't ſet Mrs. Sinclair upon me again! I never did her any Harm. She ſo affrights me, when I ſee her!—Ever ſince—When was it? I cannot tell. You can, I ſuppoſe. She may be a good woman, as far as I know. She was the wife of a man of honour—Very likely!—Tho' forced to let lodgings for her livelihood. Poor gentlewoman! Let her know I pity her: But don't let her come near me again—Pray don't

Yet ſhe may be a very good woman—

What would I ſay! — I forget what I was going to ſay.

[241]O Lovelace, you are Satan himſelf; or he helps you out in every thing; and that's as bad!

But have you really and truly ſold yourſelf to him And for how long? What duration is your reign to have?

Poor man! The contract will be out; and then what will be your fate!

Oh! Lovelace! if you could be ſorry for yourſelf, I would be ſorry too—But when all my doors are faſt, and nothing but the key-hole open, and the key of late put into that, to be where you are, in a manner without opening any of them—O wretched, wretched Clariſſa Harlowe?

For I never will be Lovelace—let my uncle take it as he pleaſes.

Well, but now I remember what I was going to ſay— It is for your good—not mine—For nothing can do me good now!—O thou villainous man! thou hated Lovelace!

But Mrs. Sinclair may be a good woman—If you love me—But that you don't—But don't let her bluſter up with her worſe than manniſh airs to me again! O ſhe is a frightful woman! If ſhe be a woman!—She needed not to put on that fearful maſk to ſcare me out of my poor wits. But don't tell her what I ſay—I have no hatred to her— It is only fright, and fooliſh fear, that's all.—She may not be a bad woman—But neither are all men, any more than all women, alike—God forbid they ſhould be like you!

Alas! you have killed my head among you—I don't ſay who did it—God forgive you all!—But had it not been better to have put me out of all your ways at once? You might ſafely have done it! For nobody would require me at your hands—No, not a ſoul—Except, indeed, Miſs Howe would have ſaid, when ſhe ſhould ſee you, What, Lovelace, have you done with Clariſſa Harlowe?—And then you could have given any ſlight gay anſwer—Sent her beyond ſea; or, ſhe has run away from me, as ſhe did from her parents. And this would have been eaſily credited; for you know, Lovelace, ſhe that could run away from them, might very well run away from you.

But this is nothing to what I wanted to ſay. Now I have it!

[242]I have loſt it again—This fooliſh wench comes teazing me—For what purpoſe ſhould I eat? For what end ſhould I wiſh to live?—I tell thee, Dorcas, I will neither eat nor drink. I cannot be worſe than I am.

I will do as you'd have me—Good Dorcas, look not upon me ſo fiercely—But thou canſt not look ſo bad as I have ſeen ſomebody look.

Mr. Lovelace, now that I remember what I took pen in hand to ſay, let me hurry off my thoughts, left I loſe them again.—Here I am ſenſible—And yet I am hardly ſenſible neither—But I know my head is not as it ſhould be, for all that—Therefore let me propoſe one thing to you: It is for your good—not mine: And this is it:

I muſt needs be both a trouble, and an expence, to you. And here my uncle Harlowe, when he knows how I am, will never wiſh any man to have me: No, not even you, who have been the occaſion of it—Barbarous and ungrateful!—A leſs complicated villainy coſt a Tarquin—But I forget what I would ſay again—

Then this is it: I never ſhall be myſelf again: I have been a very wicked creature—a vain, proud, poor creature—full of ſecret pride—which I carried off under an humble guiſe, and deceived every-body—My ſiſter ſays ſo—And now I am puniſhed—ſo let me be carried out of this houſe, and out of your ſight; and let me be put into that Bedlam privately, which once I ſaw: But it was a ſad ſight to me then! Little as I thought what I ſhould come to myſelf!—That is all I would ſay: This is all I have to wiſh for—Then I ſhall be out of all your ways; and I ſhall be taken care of; and bread and water, without your tormentings, will be dainties; and my ſtraw bed the eaſieſt I have lain in—for—I cannot tell how long!—

My cloaths will ſell for what will keep me there, perhaps, as long as I ſhall live. But, Lovelace, dear Lovelace I will call you; for you have coſt me enough I'm ſure!—don't let me be made a ſhew of, for my family's ſake; nay, for your own ſake, don't do that— For when I know all I have ſuffer'd, which yet I do no [...] and no matter if I never do—I may be apt to rave again [...] you by name, and tell of all your baſeneſs to a poo [...] [243] humbled creature, that once was as proud as any-body— But of what I can't tell—Except of my own folly and vanity—But let that paſs—ſince I am puniſhed enough for it—

So, ſuppoſe, inſtead of Bedlam, it were a private madhouſe, where nobody comes!—That will be better a great deal.

But, another thing, Lovelace: Don't let them uſe me cruelly when I am there—You have uſed me cruelly enough, you know! Don't let them uſe me cruelly; for I will be very tractable; and do as any-body would have me do— Except what you would have me do—for that I never will. —Another thing, Lovelace: Don't let this good woman; I was going to ſay vile woman; but don't tell her that, —Becauſe ſhe won't let you ſend me to this happy refuge perhaps, if ſhe were to know it—

Another thing, Lovelace: And let me have pen, and ink, and paper, allowed me—It will be all my amuſement—But they need not ſend to any-body I ſhall write to, what I write, becauſe it will but trouble them: And ſomebody may do you a miſchief, may-be.—I wiſh not that any-body do any-body a miſchief upon my account.

You tell me, that Lady Betty Lawrance, and your couſin Montague, were here to take leave of me; but that I was aſleep, and could not be waked. So you told me at firſt, I was married, you know; and that you were my huſband—Ah! Lovelace! look to what you ſay —But let not them (for they will ſport with my miſery), let not that Lady Betty, let not that Miſs Montague, whatever the real ones may do; nor Mrs. Sinclair neither, nor any of her lodgers, nor her nieces, come to ſee me in my place—Real ones, I ſay; for, Lovelace, I ſhall find out all your villainies in time—Indeed I ſhall—So put me there as ſoon as you can—It is for your good— Then all will paſs for ravings that I can ſay, as, I doubt not, many poor creatures exclamations do paſs, tho' there may be too much truth in them for all that—And you know I began to be mad at Hamſtead—So you ſaid.—Ah! villainous man! what have you not to anſwer for!

[244]

A little interval ſeems to be lent me. I had begun to look over what I have written. It is not fit for any one to ſee, ſo far as I have been able to re-peruſe it: But my head will not hold, I doubt, to go through it all. If therefore I have not already mentioned my earneſt deſire, let me tell you, it is this: That I be ſent out of this abominable houſe without delay, and lock'd up in ſome private madhouſe about this town; for ſuch, it ſeems, there are; never more to be ſeen, or to be produced to any-body, except in your own vindication, if you ſhould be charged with the murder of my perſon; a much lighter crime, than that of my honour, which the greateſt villain on earth has robbed me of. And deny me not this my laſt requeſt, I beſeech you; and one other, and that is, Never to let me ſee you more! This ſurely may be granted to

The miſerably abuſed CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I WILL not hear thy heavy preachments upon this plaguy letter. So, not a word of that ſort! The paper, thou'lt ſee, is bliſter'd with the tears even of the harden'd tranſcriber; which has made her ink run here-and-there.

Mrs. Sinclair is a true heroine, and, I think, ſhames us all. And ſhe is a woman too! Thou'lt ſay, The beſt things corrupted become the worſt. But this is certain, that whatever the ſex ſet their hearts upon, they make thorough work of it. And hence it is, that a miſchief, which would end in ſimple robbery among men-rogues, becomes murder, if a woman be in it.

I know thou wilt blame me for having had recourſe to art. But do not phyſicians preſcribe opiates in acute caſes, where the violence of the diſorder would be apt to throw the patient into a fever or delirium? I averr, that my motive for this expedient was mercy; nor could it be any thing elſe. For a Rape, thou knoweſt, to us Rakes, is far from being an undeſirable thing. Nothing but the Law [245] ſtands in our way, upon that account; and the opinion of what a modeſt woman will ſuffer, rather than become a viva voce accuſer, leſſens much an honeſt fellow's apprehenſions on that ſcore. Then, if theſe ſomnivolences [I hate the word opiates on this occaſion] have turned her head, that is an effect they frequently have upon ſome conſtitutions; and in this caſe was rather the fault of the doſe, than the deſign of the giver.

But is not wine itſelf an opiate in degree?—How many women have been taken advantage of by wine, and other ſtill more intoxicating viands?—Let me tell thee, Jack, that the experience of many of the paſſive ſex, and the conſciences of many more of the active, appealed to, will teſtify that thy Lovelace is not the worſt of villains. Nor would I have thee put me upon clearing myſelf, by compariſons.

If ſhe eſcape a ſettled delirium when my plots unravel, I think it is all I ought to be concerned about. What therefore I deſire of thee, is, That, if two conſtructions may be made of my actions, thou wilt afford me the moſt favourable. For this, not only friendſhip, but my own ingenuity, which has furniſhed thee with the knowlege of the facts, againſt which thou art ſo ready to inveigh, require of thee.

WILL is juſt returned from an errand to Hamſtead; and acquaints me, that Mrs. Townſend was yeſterday at Mrs. Moore's, accompanied by three or four rough fellows. She was ſtrangely ſurpriſed at the news, that my ſpouſe and I are intirely reconciled; and that two fine ladies, my relations, came to viſit her, and went to town with her: Where ſhe is very happy with me. She was ſure we were not married, ſhe ſaid, unleſs it was while we were at Hamſtead: And they were ſure the ceremony was not performed there. But that the Lady is happy and eaſy, is [246] unqueſtionable: And a fling was thrown out by Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Bevis at miſchief-makers, as they knew Mrs. Townſend to be acquainted with Miſs Howe.

Now, ſince my Fair-one can neither receive, nor ſend away letters, I am pretty eaſy, as to this Mrs. Townſend, and her employer. And I fancy Miſs Howe will be puzzled to know what to think of the matter, and afraid of ſending by Wilſon's conveyance; and perhaps ſuppoſe, that her friend ſlights her; or has changed her mind in my favour, and is aſhamed to own it; as ſhe has not had an anſwer to what ſhe wrote; and will believe, that the ruſtic d [...]livered her laſt letter into her own hand.

Mean time, I have a little project come into my head, of a new kind; juſt for amuſement-ſake, that's all: Variety has irreſiſtible charms. I cannot live without intrigue. My charmer has no paſſions; that is to ſay, none of the paſſions that I want her to have. She engages all my reverence. I am at preſent more inclined to regret what I have done, than to proceed to new offences: And ſhall regret it till I ſee how ſhe takes it, when recovered.

Shall I tell thee my project? 'Tis not a high one. —'Tis this—To get hither Mrs. Moore, Miſs Rawlins, and my Widow Bevis; for they are deſirous to make a viſit to my ſpouſe, now we are ſo happy together. And, if I can order it right, Belton, Mowb [...]ay, Tourville, and I, will ſhew them a little more of the ways of this wicked town, than they at preſent know. Why ſhould they be acquainted with a man of my character, and not be the better and wiſer for it?—I would have every-body rail againſt rakes with judgment and knowlege, if they will rail. Two of theſe women gave me a great deal of trouble: And the third, I am confident, will forgive a merry evening.

I am really ſick at heart for a frolick, and have [247] no doubt but this will be an agreeable one. Theſe women already think me a wild fellow; nor do they like me the leſs for it, as I can perceive; and I ſhall take care, that they ſhall be treated with ſo much freedom before one another's faces, that in policy they ſhall keep each other's counſel. And won't this be doing a kind thing by them? ſince it will knit an indiſſoluble band of union and friendſhip between three women who are neighbours, and at preſent have only common obligations to one another: For thou wanteſt not to be told, that ſecrets of love, and ſecrets of this nature, are generally the ſtrongeſt cement of female friendſhips.

But, after all, if my Beloved ſhould be happily reſtored to her intellects, we may have ſcenes ariſe between us, that will be ſufficiently buſy to employ all the faculties of thy friend, without looking out for new occaſions. Already, as I have often obſerved, has ſhe been the means of ſaving ſcores; yet without her own knowlege.

BY Dorcas's account of her Lady's behaviour, the dear creature ſeems to be recovering. I ſhall give the earlieſt notice of this to the worthy Captain Tomlinſon, that he may appriſe uncle John of it. I muſt be properly enabled, from that quarter to pacify her, or, at leaſt, to rebate her firſt violence.

LETTER XXXI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

I WENT out early this morning, and returned not till juſt now; when I was informed, that my Beloved, in my abſence, had taken it into her head to attempt to get away.

She tripp'd down, with a parcel tied up in a handkerchief, [248] her hood on; and was actually in the entry, when Mrs. Sinclair ſaw her.

Pray, Madam, whipping between her and the ſtreet-door, be pleaſed to let me know whither you are going?

Who has a right to controul me? was the word.

I have, Madam, by order of your ſpouſe: And, kemboing her arms, as ſhe owned, I deſire you will be pleaſed to walk up again.

She would have ſpoken; but could not: And, burſting into tears, turned back, and went up to her chamber: And Dorcas was taken to taſk for ſuffering her to be in the paſſage before ſhe was ſeen.

This ſhews, as we hoped laſt night, that ſhe is recovering her charming intellects.

Dorcas ſays, ſhe was viſible to her, but once before, the whole day; and then ſeemed very ſolemn and ſedate.

I will endeavour to ſee her. It muſt be in her own chamber, I ſuppoſe; for ſhe will hardly meet me in the dining-room. What advantage will the confidence of our ſex give me over the modeſty of hers, if ſhe be recoverd!—I, the moſt confident of men: She, the moſt delicate of women. Sweet ſoul! methinks, I have have her before me: Her face averted: Speech loſt in ſighs—Abaſh'd—Conſcious—What a triumphant aſpect will this give me, when I gaze in her downcaſt countenance!

THIS moment Dorcas tells me, ſhe believes ſhe is coming to find me out. She aſked her after me: And Dorcas left her, drying her red-ſwoln eyes at her glaſs; [No deſign of moving me by her tears!] ſighing too ſenſibly for my courage. But to what purpoſe have I gone thus far, if I purſue not my principal end? —Niceneſs muſt be a little abated. She knows the worſt. That ſhe cannot fly me; that ſhe muſt ſee me; and that I can look her into a ſweet confuſion; [249] are circumſtances greatly in my favour. What can ſhe do, but rave and exclaim? I am uſed to raving and exclaiming—But, if recovered, I ſhall ſee how ſhe behaves upon this our firſt ſenſible interview, after what ſhe has ſuffered.

Here ſhe comes!—

LETTER XXXII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

NEVER blame me for giving way to have Art uſed with this admirable creature. All the princes of the air, or beneath it, joining with me, could never have ſubdued her while ſhe had her ſenſes.

I will not anticipate—Only to tell thee, that I am too much awaken'd by her to think of ſleep, were I to go to bed; and ſo ſhall have nothing to do, but to write an account of our odd converſation, while it is ſo ſtrong upon my mind that I can think of nothing elſe.

She was dreſs'd in a white damaſk night-gown, with leſs negligence than for ſome days paſt. I was ſitting, with my pen in my fingers; and ſtood up when I firſt ſaw her, with great complaiſance, as if the day were ſtill her own. And ſo indeed it is.

She entered with ſuch dignity in her manner, as ſtruck me with great awe, and prepared me for the poor figure I made in the ſubſequent converſation. A poor figure indeed!—But I will do her juſtice.

She came up with quick ſteps, pretty cloſe to me; a white handkerchief in her hand; her eyes neither fierce nor mild, but very earneſt; and a fix'd ſedateneſs in her whole aſpect, which ſeemed to be the effect of deep contemplation: And thus ſhe accoſted me, with an air and action that I never ſaw equal'd.

[250]You ſee before you, Sir, the wretch, whoſe preference of you to all your Sex you have rewarded—as it indeed deſerved to be rewarded. My father's dreadful curſe has already operated upon me in the very letter of it, as to This life; and it ſeems to me too evident, that it will not be your fault, that it is not intirely completed in the loſs of my ſoul, as well as of my honour—Which you, villainous man! have robbed me of, with a baſeneſs ſo unnatural, ſo inhuman, that, it ſeems, you, even you, had not the heart to attempt it, till my ſenſes were made the previous ſacrifice.

Here I made an heſitating effort to ſpeak, laying down my pen—But ſhe proceeded: — Hear me out, guilty wretch!—abandon'd man!—Man did I ſay?— Yet what name elſe can I? ſince the mortal worryings of the fierceſt beaſt would have been more natural, and infinitely more welcome, than what you have acted by me; and that with a premeditation and contrivance worthy only of that ſingle heart, which now, baſe as well as ingrateful as thou art, ſeems to quake within thee.—And well may'ſt thou quake; well may'ſt thou tremble and falter; and heſitate, as thou doſt, when thou reflecteſt upon what I have ſuffer'd for thy ſake, and the returns thou haſt made me?

By my ſoul, Belford, my whole frame was ſhaken: For not only her looks, and her action, but her voice, ſo ſolemn, was inexpreſſibly affecting: And then my curſed guilt, and her innocence, and merit, and rank, and ſuperiority of talents, all ſtared me at that inſtant in the face ſo formidably, that my preſent account, to which ſhe unexpectedly called me, ſeemed, as I then thought, to reſemble that general one, to which we are told we ſhall be ſummoned, when our conſcience ſhall be our accuſer.

[251]But ſhe had had time to collect all the powers of her eloquence. The whole day probably in her intellects. And then I was the more diſappointed, as I had thought I could have gazed the dear creature into confuſion—But it is plain, that the ſenſe ſhe has of her wrongs ſets this matchleſs woman above all leſſer, all weaker conſiderations.

My dear—My love—I—I—I never—No never— Lips trembling, limbs quaking, voice inward, heſitating, broken—Never ſurely did miſcreant look ſo like a miſcreant! While thus ſhe proceeded, waving her ſnowy hand, with all the graces of moving oratory.

I have no pride in the confuſion viſible in thy whole perſon. I have been all the day praying for a compoſure, if I could not eſcape from this vile houſe, that ſhould once more enable me to look up to my deſtroyer with the conſciouſneſs of an innocent ſufferer.—Thou ſeeſt me, ſince my wrongs are beyond the power of words to expreſs, thou ſeeſt me, calm enough to wiſh, that thou mayſt continue haraſſed by the workings of thy own conſcience, till effectual repentance take hold of thee, that ſo thou mayſt not forfeit all title to that mercy, which thou haſt not ſhewn to the poor creature now before thee, who had ſo well deſerved to meet with a faithful friend, where ſhe met with the worſt of enemies.

But tell me (for no doubt thou haſt ſome ſcheme to purſue), Tell me, ſince I am a priſoner, as I find, in the vileſt of houſes, and have not a friend to protect or ſave me, what thou intendeſt ſhall become of the remnant of a life not worth the keeping? Tell me, if yet there are more evils reſerved for me; and whether thou haſt enter'd into a compact with the grand deceiver, in the perſon of his horrid agent in this houſe; and if the ruin of my ſoul, that my father's curſe may be fulfilled, is to complete the triumphs of ſo vile a confederacy?—Anſwer me!— [252] Say, if thou haſt courage to ſpeak out to her whom thou haſt ruined, tell me, what further I am to ſuffer from thy barbarity?

She ſtopp'd here; and, ſighing, turn'd her ſweet face from me, drying up with her handkerchief thoſe tears which ſhe endeavour'd to reſtrain; and, when ſhe could not, to conceal from my ſight.

As I told thee, I had prepared myſelf for high paſſions, raving, flying, tearing, execration: Theſe tranſient violences, the workings of ſudden grief, and ſhame, and vengeance, would have ſet us upon a par with each other, and quitted ſcores. Theſe have I been accuſtomed to; and, as nothing violent is laſting, with theſe I could have wiſhed to encounter. But ſuch a majeſtic compoſure—Seeking me— whom yet, it is plain by her attempt to get away, ſhe would have avoided ſeeing — No Lucretia-like vengeance upon herſelf in her thought—Yet ſwallow'd up, her whole mind ſwallow'd up, as I may ſay, by a grief ſo heavy, as, in her own words, to be beyond the power of ſpeech to expreſs—and to be able, diſcompoſed as ſhe was to the very morning, to put ſuch a home-queſtion to me, as if ſhe had penetrated my future view—How could I avoid looking like a fool, and anſwering, as before, in broken ſentences, and confuſion?

What—What-a—What—has been done—I, I, I —cannot but ſay—Muſt own—Muſt confeſs—Hem —Hem—Is not right—Is not what ſhould have been —But-a—But—But—I am truly—truly—ſorry for it—Upon my ſoul I am—And—And—will do all— do every thing—Do what—What-ever is incumbent upon me—all that you—that you—that you ſhall require, to make you amends!—

O Belford! Belford! Whoſe the triumph now! —HERS, or MINE?

Amends! O thou truly deſpicable wretch!—Then, lifting up her eyes—Good Heaven! Who ſhall pity [253] the creature, who could fall by ſo baſe a mind!— Yet — and then ſhe looked indignantly upon me— Yet, I hate thee not, baſe and low-ſoul'd as thou art! half ſo much as I hate myſelf, that I ſaw thee not ſooner in thy proper colours!—That I hoped either morality, gratitude, or humanity from a libertine, who, to be a libertine, muſt have got over and defied all moral ſanctions (a).

She then called upon her couſin Morden's name, as if he had warned her againſt a man of free principles; and walked towards the window; her handkerchief at her eyes: But, turning ſhort towards me, with an air of mingled ſcorn and majeſty—[What, at the moment, would I have given never to have injured her!] What amends haſt thou to propoſe!— What amends can ſuch a one as Thou make to a perſon of ſpirit, or common ſenſe, for the evils thou haſt ſo inhumanly made me ſuffer?

As ſoon, Madam—As ſoon—as—As ſoon as your uncle—or—not waiting—

Thou wouldſt tell me, I ſuppoſe—I know what thou wouldſt tell me—But thinkeſt thou, that marriage will ſatisfy for a guilt like thine? Deſtitute as thou haſt made me both of friends and fortune, I too much deſpiſe the wretch, who could rob himſelf of his wife's virtue, to endure the thoughts of thee, in the light thou ſeemeſt to hope I will accept thee in!—

I heſitated an interruption: But my meaning dy'd away upon my trembling lips. I could only pronounce the word marriage—And thus ſhe proceeded:

Let me therefore know, whether I am to be controuled in the future diſpoſal of myſelf? Whether, in a country of liberty, as this, where the Sovereign of it muſt not be guilty of your wickedneſs; and where you neither durſt have attempted it, had I one friend or relation to look upon me, I am to be kept [254] here a priſoner, to ſuſtain freſh injuries? Whether, in a word, you intend to hinder me from going whither my deſtiny ſhall lead me?

After a pauſe; for I was ſtill ſilent;

Can you not anſwer me this plain queſtion? —I quit all claim, all expectation upon you — What right have you to detain me here?

I could not ſpeak. What could I ſay to ſuch a queſtion?

O wretch! wringing her uplifted hands, had I not been robbed of my ſenſes, and that in the baſeſt manner—You beſt know how—Had I been able to account for myſelf, and your proceedings, or to have known but how the days paſſed; a whole week ſhould not have gone over my head, as I find it has done, before I had told you, what I now tell you—That the man, who has been the villain to me you have been, ſhall never make me his wife.—I will write to my uncle, to lay aſide his kind intentions in my favour—All my proſpects are ſhut in — I give myſelf up for a loſt creature as to this world—Hinder me not from entering upon a life of ſevere penitence, for correſponding, after prohibition, with a wretch, who has too well juſtified all their warnings and inveteracy; and for throwing myſelf into the power of your vile artifices.—Let me try to ſecure the only hope I hav [...] left.—This is all the amends I aſk of you. I repea [...] therefore, Am I now at liberty to diſpoſe of myſe [...] as I pleaſe?

Now comes the fool, the miſcreant again, heſ [...] tating his broken anſwer: My deareſt love, I am confounded, quite confounded, at the thought o [...] what—of what has been done; and at the thoug [...] of—To whom. I ſee, I ſee, there is no withſtan [...] ing your eloquence!—Such irreſiſtable proofs of t [...] love of virtue for its own ſake—did I never hear o [...] nor meet with, in all my reading. And if you can fo [...] give a repentant villain, that thus on his knees i [...] plores [255] your forgiveneſs [Then down I dropt, abſolutely in earneſt in all I ſaid], I vow by all that's Sacred and Juſt (and a may a thunderbolt ſtrike me dead at your feet, if I am not ſincere!), that I will by marriage, before to-morrow-noon, without waiting for your uncle, or any-body, do you all the juſtice I now can do you. And you ſhall ever after controul and direct me as you pleaſe, till you have made me more worthy of your angelic purity, than now I am: Nor will I preſume ſo much as to touch your garment, till I have the honour to call ſo great a bleſſing lawfully mine.

O thou guileful betrayer! There is a juſt God, whom thou invokeſt: Yet the thunderbolt deſcends not; and thou liveſt to imprecate and deceive!

My deareſt life! riſing; for I hoped ſhe was relenting—

Hadſt thou not ſinned beyond the poſſibility of forgiveneſs, interrupted ſhe; and had this been the firſt time that thus thou ſolemnly promiſeſt and invokeſt the vengeance thou haſt as often defied; the deſperateneſs of my condition might have induced me to think of taking a wretched chance with a man ſo profligate. But, after what I have ſuffered by thee, it would be criminal in me to wiſh to bind my ſoul in covenant to a man ſo nearly ally'd to perdition.

Good God!—how uncharitable!—I offer not to defend—Would to Heaven that I could recall—So early ally'd to perdition, Madam! — So profligate a man, Madam!—

O how ſhort is expreſſion of thy crimes, and my [...]fferings!—Such premeditation in thy baſeneſs!— [...]o proſtitute the characters of perſons of honour of [...]y own family!—And all to delude a poor creature, [...]hom thou oughteſt— But why talk I to thee?—Be [...]y crimes upon thy head!—Once more I aſk thee, [...]m I, or am I not, at my own liberty now?

[256]I offer'd to ſpeak in defence of the women, declaring that they really were the very perſons—

Preſume not, interrupted ſhe, baſe as thou art, to ſay one word in thine own vindication on this head. I have been contemplating their behaviour, their converſation, their over-ready acquieſcencies to my declarations in thy disfavour; their free, yet affectedly reſerved light manners: And now, that the ſad event has open'd my eyes, and I have compared facts and paſſages together, in the little interval that has been lent me, I wonder I could not diſtinguiſh the behaviour of the unmatron-like jilt whom thou broughteſt to betray me, from the worthy lady whom thou haſt the honour to call thy aunt: And that I could not detect the ſuperficial creature, whom thou paſſedſt upon me for the virtuous Miſs Montague.

Amazing uncharitableneſs in a lady ſo good herſelf!—That the high ſpirits thoſe ladies were in to ſee you, ſhould ſubject them to ſuch cenſures!—I do moſt ſolemnly vow, Madam—

That they were, interrupting me, verily and indeed Lady Betty Lawrance, and thy couſin Montague! —O wretch! I ſee by thy ſolemn averrment. [I had not yet averr'd it] what credit ought to be given to all the reſt. Had I no other proof—

Interrupting her, I beſought her patient ear. ‘I had found myſelf,’ I told her, ‘almoſt a vowedly deſpiſed and hated. I had no hope of gaining he [...] love, or her confidence. The letter ſhe had left behind her, on her removal to Hamſtead, ſufficiently convinced me, that ſhe was intirely under Miſs Howe's influence, and waited but the return of a letter from her, to enter upon meaſures that would deprive me of her for ever: Miſs Howe had ever been my [...]nemy: More ſo then, no doubt, from the contents of the letter ſhe had written to her on her fi [...]ſt coming to Hamſtead: That I dared not to ſtand the event of ſuch a letter; and was glad [257] of an opportunity, by Lady Betty's and my couſin's means (tho' they knew not my motive), to get her back to town; far, at the time, from intending the outrage which my deſpair, and her want of confidence in me, put me ſo vilely upon—’

I would have proceeded; and particularly would have ſaid ſomething of Captain Tomlinſon and her Uncle; but ſhe would not hear me further. And indeed it was with viſible indignation, and not without ſeveral angry interruptions, that ſhe heard me ſay ſo much.

Would 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 offer'd myſelf to her acceptance.

And, ſaying this, ſhe flung from me; leaving me abſolutely ſhock'd 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 doubts 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.

[258]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, in 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 XXXIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq,

I Muſt write on. Nothing elſe can divert m [...] And I think thou canſt not have been a dog to me.

I would fain have cloſed my eyes: But ſleep [...] 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 Darkneſs in the mind:
Darkneſs but half his work will do.
'Tis not enough: He muſt find Quiet too.

Now indeed do I from my heart wiſh, that I h [...] never known this lady. But who would have thoug [...] there had been ſuch a woman in the world? Of [...] the ſex I have hitherto known, or heard, or read [...] [259] it was once ſubdued, and always ſubdued. The firſt ſtruggle was generally the laſt; or, at leaſt, the ſubſequent ſtruggles were ſo much fainter and fainter, that a man would rather have them, than be without them. But how know I yet—

IT is now near ſix—The ſun has been illuminating, for ſeveral hours, every thing about me: For that impartial orb ſhines upon mother Sinclair's houſe, as well as upon any other: But nothing within me can it illuminate.

At day-dawn I looked thro' the key-hole of my Beloved's door. She had declared ſhe would not put off her cloaths any more in this houſe. There I beheld her in a ſweet ſlumber, which I hope will prove refreſhing to her diſturbed ſenſes; ſitting in her elbow-chair, her apron over her head, and that ſupported by one ſweet hand, the other hanging down upon her ſide, in a ſleepy lifeleſſneſs; half of one pretty foot only viſible.

See the difference in our caſes, thought I! She, the charming injured, can ſweetly ſleep, while the varlet injurer cannot cloſe his eyes; and has been trying to no purpoſe, the whole night, to divert his melancholy, and to fly from himſelf!

As every vice generally brings on its own puniſhment, even in this life, if any thing were to tempt me to doubt of future puniſhment, it would be, that there can hardly be a greater, than that which I at this inſtant experience in my own remorſe.

I hope it will go off.—If not, well will the dear creature be avenged; for I ſhall be the moſt miſerable or men.

JUST now Dorcas tells me, that her lady is preparing openly, and without diſguiſe, to be gone. Very probable. The humour ſhe flew away from me [260] in laſt night, has given me expectation of ſuch an enterprize.

Now, Jack, to be thus hated, and deſpiſed!— And if I have ſinned beyond forgiveneſs—

BUT ſhe has ſent me a meſſage by Dorcas, that ſhe will meet me in the dining-room; and deſires [Odd enough!] that the wench may be preſent at the converſation that ſhall paſs between us. This meſſage gives me hope.

CONFOUNDED art, cunning, villainy!—By my ſoul, ſhe had like to have ſlipt thro' my fingers. She meant nothing by her meſſage, but to get Dorcas out of the way, and a clear coaſt. Is a fancied diſtreſs ſufficient to juſtify this lady for diſpenſing with her principles? Does ſhe not ſhew me, that ſhe can wilfully deceive, as well as I?

Had ſhe been in the fore-houſe, and no paſſage t [...] go thro' to get at the ſtreet-door, ſhe had certainly been gone. But her haſte betray'd her: For Sally Martin happening to be in the fore-parlour, and hearing a ſwifter motion than uſual, and a ruſtling [...] ſilks, as if from ſomebody in a hurry, looked out and ſeeing who it was, ſtept between her and th [...] door, and ſet her back againſt it.

You muſt not go, Madam. Indeed you muſt not.

By what right?—And how dare you?—And ſuc [...] like imperious airs the dear creature gave herſelf. [...] While Sally called out for her aunt; and half a doze [...] voices joined inſtantly in the cry, for me to haſte [...] down, to haſten down, in a moment.

I was gravely inſtructing Dorcas above-ſtairs, a [...] wondering what would be the ſubject of the co [...] verſation which ſhe was to be a witneſs to, when the outcries reached my ears. And down I flew.—A [...] there was the charming creature, the ſweet deceive panting for breath, her back againſt the partition, [261] parcel in her hand [Women make no excurſions without their parcels] Sally, Polly (but Polly obligingly pleading for her) the Mother, Mabell, and Peter (the footman of the houſe), about her; all, however, keeping their diſtance; the Mother and Sally between her and the door—In her ſoft rage the dear ſoul, repeating, I will go!—Nobody has a right—I will go! —If you kill me, women, I won't go up again!

As ſoon as ſhe ſaw me, ſhe ſtept a pace or two towards me; Mr. Lovelace, I will go! ſaid ſhe — Do you authorize theſe women—What right have they, or you either, to ſtop me?

Is this, my dear, preparative to the converſation you led me to expect in the dining-room? And do you think I can part with you thus?—Do you think I will?

And am I, Sir, to be thus beſet! — Surrounded thus?—What have theſe women to do with me?

I deſired them to leave us, all but Dorcas, who was down as ſoon as I. I then thought it right to aſſume an air of reſolution, having found my tameneſs ſo greatly triumphed over. And now, my dear, ſaid I (urging her reluctant feet), be pleaſed to walk into the fore-parlour. Here, ſince you will not go up ſtairs—Here we may hold our parley: and Dorcas [...]e witneſs to it.—And now, Madam, ſeating her, and ſticking my hands in my ſides, your pleaſure!

Inſolent villain! ſaid the furious lady. And, riſing, an to the window, and threw up the ſaſh [She knew [...]ot, I ſuppoſe, that there were iron rails before the [...]indows]. And, when ſhe found ſhe could not get [...]ut into the ſtreet, claſping her uplifted hands toge [...]her—having dropt her parcel—For the love of God, [...]ood honeſt man!—For the love of God, miſtreſs— [...] two paſſers-by—a poor, poor creature, ſaid ſhe, hin'd! —

I claſp'd her in my arms, people beginning to gather [...] out the window: And then ſhe cried out, Murder! [262] Help! help!—And carried her up to the dining-room, in ſpight of her little plotting heart (as I may now cal [...] it), altho' ſhe violently ſtruggled, catching hold of the baniſters here and there, as ſhe could. I would have ſeated her there, but ſhe ſunk down half-motionleſs, pale as aſhes. And a violent burſt of tears happly reliev'd her.

Dorcas wept over her. The wench was actually moved for her!

Violent hyſterics ſucceeded. I left her to Mabell, Dorcas, and Polly; the latter the moſt ſupportable to her of the ſiſterhood.

This attempt, ſo reſolutely made, alarmed me not a little.

Mrs. Sinclair, and her nymphs, are much more concerned; becauſe of the reputation of their houſe, as they call it, having receiv'd ſome inſults (broken windows threaten'd), to make them produce the young creature who cried out.

While the mobbiſh inquiſitors were in the heigh of their office, the women came running up to me, to know what they ſhould do; a conſtable bein [...] actually fetch'd.

Get the conſtable into the parlour, ſaid I, wi [...] three or four of the forwardeſt of the mob, and produce one of the nymphs, onion-ey'd, in a moment with diſorder'd head-dreſs and neck-kerchief, and le [...] her own herſelf the perſon: The occaſion, a femal [...] ſkirmiſh; but ſatisfied with the juſtice done her. Th [...] give a dram or two to each fellow, and all will be we [...]

ALL done, as I adviſed; and all is well.

Mrs. Sinclair wiſhes ſhe never had ſeen the face [...] ſo ſkittiſh a lady; and ſhe and Sally are extreme [...] preſſing with me, to leave the perverſe beauty to th [...] breaking, as they call it, for four or five days. B [...] I curſed them into ſilence; only ordering doub [...] precaution for the future.

[263]Polly, tho' ſhe conſoled the dear perverſe-one all ſhe could, when with her, inſiſts upon it to me, that nothing but terror will procure me tolerable uſage.

Dorcas was challenged by the women upon her tears. She own'd them real. Said, She was aſham'd of herſelf; but could not help it. So ſincere, ſo unyielding a grief, in ſo ſweet a lady!—

The women laugh'd at her: But I bid her make no apologies for her tears, nor mind their laughing. I was glad to ſee them ſo ready. Good uſe might be made of ſuch ſtrangers. In ſhort, I would have her indulge them often, and try if it were not poſſible to [...]gain her lady's confidence by her concern for her.

She ſaid, That her lady did take kind notice of them to her; and was glad to ſee ſuch tokens of humanity in her.

Well then, ſaid I, your part, whether any thing come of it or not, is to be tender-hearted. It can do no harm, if no good. But take care you are not too ſuddenly, or too officiouſly compaſſionate.

So Dorcas will be a humane good ſort of creature, I believe, very quickly with her lady. And as it becomes women to be ſo, and as my Beloved is willing to think highly of her own ſex; it will the more readily paſs with her.

I thought to have had one trial (having gone ſo far) for cohabitation. But what hope can there be of ſucceeding?—She is invincible! — Againſt all my notions, againſt all my conceptions (thinking of her as a woman, and in the very bloom of her charms), ſhe is abſolutely invincible! — My whole view, at the preſent, is to do her legal juſtice! if I can but once more get her out of her altitudes!

The conſent of ſuch a lady, muſt make her ever new, ever charming. But, aſtoniſhing! Can the want of a church ceremony make ſuch a difference!

She owes me her conſent; for hitherto I have had nothing to boaſt of. All, of my ſide, has been deep [264] remorſe, anguiſh of mind, and love increaſed rather than abated.

How her proud rejection ſtings me!—And yet I hope ſtill to get her to liſten to my ſtories of the family-reconciliation, and of her Uncle and Capt. Tomlinſon. —And as ſhe has given me a pretence to detain her, againſt her will, ſhe muſt ſee me, whether in temper, or not—She cannot help it. And if Love will not do, Terror, as the women adviſe, muſt be tried.

A nice part, after all, has my Beloved to act. If ſhe forgive me eaſily, I reſume, perhaps, my projects: —If ſhe carry her rejection into violence, that violence may make me deſperate, and occaſion freſh violence—She ought, ſince ſhe thinks ſhe has found the women out, to conſider where ſhe is.

I am confoundedly out of conceit with myſelf. If I give up my contrivances, my joy in ſtratagem, and plot, and invention, I ſhall be but a common man: Such another dull heavy creature as thyſelf. Yet what does even my ſucceſs in my machinations bring me, but diſgrace, repentance, regret? But I a [...] overmatched, egregiouſly overmatched, by this lady. What to do with her, or without her, I know not.

LETTER XXXIV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

I Have this moment intelligence from Simon Parſo [...] one of Lord M.'s ſtewards, that his Lordſhip is ve [...] ill. Simon, who is my obſequious ſervant, in vir [...] of my preſumptive heirſhip, gives me a hint in [...] letter, that my preſence at M.-Hall will not be am [...] So, I muſt accelerate, whatever be the courſe I ſh [...] be allowed or compelled to take.

No bad proſpects for this charming creature, the old peer would be ſo kind as to ſurrender; a [...] many a ſummons has his gout given him. A g [...] 8000 l. a year; and perhaps the title reverſiona [...] would help me up with her.

[265]Proudly as this lady pretends to be above all pride, grandeur will have its charms with her; for grandeur always makes a man's face ſhine in a woman's eye. I have a pretty good, becauſe a clear, eſtate, as it is: But what a noble variety of miſchief will 8000 l. a year enable a man to do?

Perhaps thou'lt ſay, I do already all that comes into my head: But that's a miſtake — Not one half, I will aſſure thee. And even good folks, as I have heard, love to have the power of doing miſchief, whether they make uſe of it, or not. The late Queen Anne, who was a very good woman, was always fond of prerogative. And her miniſters, in her name, in more inſtances than one, made a miniſterial uſe of this her foible.

BUT now, at laſt, am I to be admitted to the preſence of my angry Fair-one: After three denials, nevertheleſs; and a peremptory from me, by Dorcas, that I muſt ſee her in her chamber, if I cannot ſee her in the dining-room.

Dorcas, however, tells me, that ſhe ſays, If ſhe were at her own liberty, ſhe would never ſee me more; and that ſhe has been aſking after the characters and conditions of the neighbours. I ſuppoſe, now ſhe has found her voice, to call out for help from them, if there were any to hear her.

She will have it now, it ſeems, that I had the wickedneſs, from the very beginning, to contrive for her ruin, a houſe ſo convenient for dreadful miſchief.

Dorcas begs of her to be pacified—Intreats her to ſee me with patience—Tells her, that I am one of the moſt determin'd of men, as ſhe has heard ſay— That gentleneſs may do with me; but that nothing elſe will, ſhe believes. And what, as her lady-ſhip (as ſhe always ſtiles her) is married, if I had broke my oath, or intended to break it!—

[266]She hinted plain enough to the honeſt wench, that ſhe was not married.—But Dorcas would not underſtand her.

This ſhews, that ſhe is reſolv'd to keep no meaſures. And now is to be a trial of ſkill, whether ſhe ſhall or not.

Dorcas has hinted to her my Lord's illneſs, as a piece of intelligence that dropped in converſation from me.

But here I ſtop. My Beloved, purſuant to my peremptory meſſage, is juſt gone up into the dining-room.

LETTER XXXV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

PITY me, Jack, for pity's ſake; ſince, if thou doſt not, no-body elſe will: And yet never was there a man of my genius, and lively temper, that wanted it more. We are apt to attribute to the devil every-thing that happens to us, which we would not have happen: But here, being (as perhaps thou'lt ſay) the devil, myſelf, my plagues ariſe from an angel. I ſuppoſe all mankind is to be plagu'd by its contrary.

She began with me like a true woman (She in the fault, I to be blamed) the moment I enter'd the dining-room: — Not the leaſt apology, not the leaſt excuſe, for the uproar ſhe had made, and the trouble ſhe had given me.

I come, ſaid ſhe, into thy deteſted preſence, becauſe I cannot help it. But why am I to be impriſon'd here? — Altho' to no purpoſe, I cannot help—

Deareſt Madam, interrupted I, give not way to ſo much violence. You muſt know, that your detention is intirely owing to the deſire I have to make you all the amends that is in my power to make you. And This, as well for your ſake as my own.—Surely, there is ſtill one way left to repair the wrongs you have ſuffer'd—

Canſt thou blot out the paſt week? Several weeks [267] paſt, I ſhould ſay; ever ſince I have been with thee? Canſt thou call back time?—If thou canſt—

Surely, Madam, again interrupting her, If I may be permitted to call you legally mine, I might have but anticip—

Wretch, that thou art! Say not another word upon this ſubject. When thou vowedſt, when thou promiſedſt at Hamſtead, I had begun to think, that I muſt be thine. If I had conſented, at the requeſt of thoſe I thought thy relations, this would have been a principal inducement, That I could then have brought thee, what was moſt wanted, an unſullied honour in dowry, to a wretch deſtitute of all honour; and could have met the gratulations of a family, to which thy life has been one continued diſgrace, with a conſciouſneſs of deſerving their gratulations. But thinkeſt thou, that I will give a harlot-niece to thy honourable uncle, and to thy real aunts; and a couſin to thy couſins from a brothel? For ſuch, in my opinion, is this deteſted houſe!—Then, lifting up her claſped hands, ‘Great and good God of Heaven, ſaid ſhe, give me patience to ſupport myſelf under the weight of thoſe afflictions, which Thou, for wiſe and good ends, tho' at preſent impenetrable by me, haſt permitted!’

Then, turning towards me, who knew neither what to ſay to her, nor for myſelf, I renounce thee for ever, Lovelace!—Abhorred of my ſoul! for ever I renounce thee! — Seek thy fortunes whereſoever thou wilt! —Only now, that thou haſt already ruin'd me—

Ruin'd you, Madam — The world need not — I knew not what to ſay—

Ruin'd me in my own eyes, and that is the ſame to me, as if all the world knew it—Hinder me not from going whither my myſterious deſtiny ſhall lead me—

Why heſitate you, Sir? What right have you to [268] ſtop me, as you lately did; and to bring me up by force, my hands and arms bruiſed with your violence? What right have you to detain me here?

I am cut to the heart, Madam, with invectives ſo violent. I am but too ſenſible of the wrong I have done you, or I could not bear your reproaches. The man who perpetrates a villainy, and reſolves to go on with it, ſhews not the compunction I ſhew. Yet, if you think yourſelf in my power, I would caution you, Madam, not to make me deſperate. For you ſhall be mine, or my life ſhall be the forfeit! Nor is life worth having without you!—

Be thine!—I be thine!ſaid the paſſionate Beauty. O how lovely in her violence!—

Yes, Madam, Be mine! — I repeat, You ſhall be mine! — My very crime is your glory. My love, my admiration of you is increaſed by what has paſſed: And ſo it ought. I am willing, Madam, to court your returning favour: But let me tell you, were the houſe beſet by a thouſand armed men, reſolved to take you from me, they ſhould not effect their purpoſe, while I had life.

I never, never will be yours, ſaid ſhe, claſping her hands together, and lifting up her eyes!—I never will be yours!

We may yet ſee many happy years, Madam. All your friends may be reconciled to you. The treaty for that purpoſe is in greater forwardneſs than you imagine. You know better than to think the worſe of yourſelf for ſuffering what you could not help. Injoin but the terms I can make my peace with you upon, and I will inſtantly comply.

Never, never, repeated ſhe, will I be yours!—

Only forgive me, my deareſt life, this one time!— A virtue ſo invincible! what further view can I have againſt you?—Have I attempted any further outrage? —If you will be mine, your injuries will be injuries done to myſelf. You have too well gueſſed at the [269] unnatural arts that have been uſed? — But can a greater teſtimony be given of your virtue?—And now I have only to hope, that altho' I cannot make you complete amends, yet that you will permit me to make you all the amends that can poſſibly be made.

Hear me out, I beſeech you, Madam; for ſhe was going to ſpeak with an aſpect unpacifiedly angry: The God, whom you ſerve, requires but repentance and amendment. Imitate Him, my deareſt love, and bleſs me with the means of reforming a courſe of life, that begins to be hateful to me. That was once your favourite point. Reſume it, deareſt creature: In charity to a ſoul as well as body, which once, as I flatter'd myſelf, was more than indifferent to you, reſume it. And let to-morrow's ſun witneſs to our eſpouſals.

I cannot judge thee, ſaid ſhe; but the GOD to whom thou ſo boldly referreſt, can; and aſſure thyſelf He will. But, if compunction has really taken hold of thee; if indeed thou art touched for thy ingrateful baſeneſs, and meaneſt any thing by pleading the holy example thou recommendeſt to my imitation; in this thy pretended repentant moment, let me ſift thee thoroughly; and, by thy anſwer, I ſhall judge of the ſincerity of thy pretended declarations.

Tell me then, Is there any reality in the treaty thou haſt pretended to be on foot between my Uncle and Captain Tomlinſon, and thyſelf?—Say, and heſitate not, is there any truth in that ſtory?—But, remember, if there be not, and thou avoweſt that there is, what further condemnation attends thy averrment, if it be as ſolemn, as I require it to be!

This was a curſed thruſt. What could I ſay?— Surely, this mercileſs lady is reſolved to damn me, thought I, and yet accuſes me of a deſign againſt her ſoul!—But was I not obliged to proceed as I had begun?

[270]In ſhort, I ſolemnly averr'd, that there was!— How one crime, as the good folks ſay, brings on another?

I added, That the Captain had been in town, and would have waited on her, had ſhe not been indiſpoſed: That he went down much afflicted, as well on her account, as on that of her uncle; tho' I had not acquainted him either with the nature of her diſorder, or the ever-to-be-regretted occaſion of it; having told him, that it was a violent fever: That he had twice ſince, by her uncle's deſire, ſent up to inquire after her health: And that I had already diſpatched a man and horſe with a letter, to acquaint him (and her uncle thro' him) with her recovery; making it my earneſt requeſt, that he would renew his application to her uncle for the favour of his preſence at the private celebration of our nuptials; and that I expected an anſwer, if not this night, as to-morrow.

Let me aſk thee next, ſaid ſhe, Thou knoweſt the opinion I have of the women thou broughteſt to me at Hamſtead; and who have ſeduced me hither to my ruin; Let me aſk thee, If really and truly, they were Lady Betty Lawrance and thy couſin Montague?—What ſayeſt thou—Heſitate not—What ſayeſt thou to this queſtion?

Aſtoniſhing, my dear, that you ſhould ſuſpect them!—But, knowing your ſtrange opinion of them, what can I ſay to be believed?

And is this the anſwer thou returneſt me? Doſt thou thus evade my queſtion? But let me know, for I am trying thy ſincerity now, and ſhall judge of thy new profeſſions by thy anſwer to this queſtion; Let me know, I repeat, whether thoſe women be really Lady Betty Lawrance and thy couſin Montague?

Let me, my deareſt love, be enabled to-morrow to call you lawfully mine, and we will ſet out the next day, if you pleaſe, to Berkſhire, to my Lord M.'s, [271] where they both are at this time, and you ſhall convince yourſelf by your own eyes, and by your own ears; which you will believe ſooner than all I can ſay or ſwear.

Now, Belford, I had really ſome apprehenſion of treachery from thee; which made me ſo miſerably evade; for elſe, I could as ſafely have ſworn to the truth of this, as to that of the former: But ſhe preſſing me ſtill for a categorical anſwer, I ventur'd plumb; and ſwore to it [Lovers oaths, Jack] that they were really and truly Lady Betty Lawrance and my couſin Mont [...]gue.

She lifted up her hands, and eyes—What can I think!—What can I think!—

You think me a devil, Madam; a very devil! or you could no, after you have put theſe queſtions to me, ſeem to doubt the truth of anſwers ſo ſolemnly ſworn to.

And if I do think thee ſo, have I not cauſe? Is there another man in the world (I hope, for the ſake of human nature, there is not) who could act by any poor friendleſs creature as thou haſt acted by me, whom thou haſt made friendleſs—And who, before I knew thee, had for a friend every one who knew me?

I told you, Madam, before, that my aunt and couſin were actually here, in order to take leave of you, before they ſet out for Berkſhire. But the effects of my ingrateful crime (ſuch, with ſhame and remorſe, I own it to be!) were the reaſon you could not ſee them. Nor could I be fond, that they ſhould ſee you: Since they never would have forgiven me, had they known what had paſſed—And what reaſon had I to expect your ſilence on the ſubject, had you been recover'd?

It ſignifies nothing now, that the cauſe of their appearance has been anſwer'd in my ruin, who or what they are: But, if thou haſt averr'd thus ſolemnly [272] to two falſhoods, what a wretch do I ſee before me!—

I thought ſhe had now reaſon to be ſatisfied; and I begg'd her to allow me to talk to her of to-morrow, as of the happieſt day of my life. We have the Licence, Madam—And you muſt excuſe me, that I cannot let you go hence, till I have try'd every way I can try, to obtain your forgiveneſs.

And am I then (with a kind of frantic wildneſs) to be detained a priſoner in this horrid houſe?—Am I, Sir?—Take care!—Take care! holding up her hand, menacing, how you make me deſperate!—If I fall, tho' by my own hand, inquiſition will be made for my blood: And be not out in thy plot, Lovelace, if it ſhould be ſo—Make ſure work, I charge thee: Dig a hole deep enough to cram in and conceal this unhappy body: For, depend upon it, that ſome of thoſe, who will not ſtir to protect me living, will move heaven and earth, to avenge me dead!

A horrid dear creature!—By my ſoul, ſhe made me ſhudder! She had need, indeed, to talk of her unhappineſs, in falling into the hands of the only man in the world, who could have uſed her, as I have uſed her! She is the only woman in the world, who could have ſhock'd and diſturb'd me, as ſhe has done.—So we are upon a foot in that reſpect. And I think I have the worſt of it by much. Since very little has been my joy; very much my trouble: And her puniſhment, as ſhe calls it, is over: But when mine will, or what it may be, who can tell?

Here, only recapitulating [think, then, how I muſt be affected at the time], I was forced to leave off, and ſing a ſong to myſelf. I aimed at a lively air; but I croaked rather than ſung: And fell into the old diſmal thirtieth of January ſtrain. I hemm'd up for a ſprightlier note; but it would not do: And at laſt I ended, like a malefactor, in a dead pſalm-melody.

[273]High-ho!—I gape like an unfledg'd kite in its neſt, wanting to ſwallow a chicken, bobb'd at its mouth, by its marauding dam!—

What a devil ails me!—I can neither think nor write!—

Lie down, pen, for a moment!—

LETTER XXXVI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

THERE is certainly a good deal in the obſervation, That it coſts a man ten times more pains to be wicked, than it would coſt him to be good. What a confounded number of contrivances have I had recourſe to, in order to carry my point with this charming creature; and, after all, how have I puzzled myſelf by it; and yet am near tumbling into the pit, which it was the end of all my plots to ſhun! What a happy man had I been, with ſuch an excellence, could I have brought my mind to marry when I firſt prevailed upon her to quit her father's houſe! But then, as I have often reflected, how had I known, that a but bloſſoming beauty, who could carry on a private correſpondence, and run ſuch riſques with a notorious wild fellow, was not prompted by inclination, which one day might give ſuch a free liver as myſelf, as much pain to reflect upon, as, at the time, it gave me pleaſure? Thou remembreſt the Hoſt's tale in Arioſto. And thy experience, as well as mine, can furniſh out twenty Fiametto's in proof of the imbecility of the ſex.

But to proceed with my narrative.

The dear creature reſumed the topic her heart was ſo firmly fixed upon; and inſiſted upon quitting the odious houſe, and that in very high terms.

I urged her to meet me the next day at the altar, in either of the two churches mentioned in the Licence. [274] And I beſought her, whatever were her reſolution, to let me debate this matter calmly with her.

If, ſhe ſaid, I would have her give what I deſired, the leaſt moment's conſideration, I muſt not hinder her from being her own miſtreſs. To what purpoſe did I aſk her conſent, if ſhe had not a power over either her own perſon or actions?

Will you give me your honour, Madam, if I conſent to your quitting a houſe ſo diſagreeable to you?—

My honour, Sir! ſaid the dear creature—Alas!— And turned weeping from me with inimitable grace— As if ſhe had ſaid—Alas!—You have robb'd me of my honour!

I hoped then, that her angry paſſions were ſubſiding! — But I was miſtaken! — For, urging her warmly for the day; and that for the ſake of our mutual honour, and the honour of both our families, in this high-flown, and high-ſoul'd ſtrain, ſhe anſwer'd me:

And canſt thou, Lovelace, be ſo mean—as to wiſh to make a wife of the creature thou haſt inſulted, diſhonoured, and abuſed, as thou haſt me? Was it neceſſary to humble Clariſſa Harlowe down to the low level of thy baſeneſs, before ſhe could be a wife meet for thee? Thou hadſt a father, who was a man of honour: A mother, who deſerved a better ſon—Thou haſt an uncle, who is no diſhonour to the peerage of a kingdom, whoſe peers are more reſpectable than the nobility of any other country. Thou haſt other relations alſo, who may be thy boaſt, tho' thou canſt not be theirs. And canſt thou not imagine, that thou heareſt them calling upon thee; the dead from their monuments; the living from their laudable pride; not to diſhonour thy antient and ſplendid houſe, by entering into wedlock, with a creature whom thou haſt levelled with the dirt of the ſtreet, and claſſed with the vileſt of her ſex?

[275]I extoll'd her greatneſs of ſoul, and her virtue. I execrated myſelf for my guilt: And told her, how grateful to the manes of my anceſtors, as well as to the wiſhes of the living, the honour I ſupplicated for, would be.

But ſtill ſhe inſiſted upon being a free agent; of ſeeing herſelf in other lodgings before ſhe would give what I urged the leaſt conſideration. Nor would ſhe promiſe me favour even then, or to permit my viſits. How then, as I aſked her, could I comply, without reſolving to loſe her for ever?

She put her hand to her forehead often as ſhe talked; and at laſt, pleading diſorder in her head, retired; neither of us ſatisfied with the other. But ſhe ten times more diſſatisfied with me, than I with her.

Dorcas ſeems to be coming into favour with her—

What now!—What now!—

How determin'd is this lady!—Again had ſhe like to have eſcaped us!—What a fixed reſentment!— She only, I find, aſſumed a little calm, in order to quiet ſuſpicion. She was got down, and actually had unbolted the ſtreet-door, before I could get to her; alarmed as I was by Mrs. Sinclair's cookmaid, who was the only one that ſaw her fly thro' the paſſage: Yet lightning was not quicker than I.

Again I brought her back to the dining-room, with infinite reluctance on her part. And before her face, ordered a ſervant to be placed conſtantly at the bottom of the ſtairs for the future.

She ſeem'd even choak'd with grief and diſappointment.

Dorcas was exceedingly aſſiduous about her; and confidently gave it as her own opinion, that her dear lady ſhould be permitted to go to another lodging, ſince this was ſo diſagreeable to her: Were ſhe [276] to be killed for ſaying ſo, ſhe would ſay it. And was good Dorcas for this afterwards.

But for ſome time the dear creature was all paſſion and violence—

I ſee, I ſee, ſaid ſhe, when I had brought her up, what I am to expect from your new profeſſions, O vileſt of men!—

Have I offered to you, my beloved creature, any thing that can juſtify this impatience, after a more hopeful calm?

She wrung her hands. She diſorder'd her headdreſs. She tore her ruffles. She was in a perfect phrenſy.

I dreaded her returning malady: But intreaty rather exaſperating, I affected an angry air—I bid her expect the worſt ſhe had to fear—And was menacing on, in hopes to intimidate her, when, dropping down at my feet,

'Twill be a mercy, ſaid ſhe, the higheſt act of mercy you can do, to kill me outright upon this ſpot—This happy ſpot, as I will, in my laſt moments, call it!—Then, baring, with a ſtill more frantic violence, part of her inchanting neck—Here, here, ſaid the ſoul-harrowing beauty, let thy pointed mercy enter! And I will thank thee, and forgive thee for all the dreadful paſt! —With my lateſt gaſp will I forgive and thank thee!—Or help me to the means, and I will myſelf put out of thy way ſo miſerable a wretch! And bleſs thee for thoſe means!

Why all this extravagant paſſion, why all theſe exclamations? Have I offered any new injury to you, my deareſt life! What a phrenſy is this! Am I not ready to m [...]ke you all the reparation that I can make you? Had I not reaſon to hope—

No, no, no, no—half a dozen times, as faſt as ſhe could ſpeak.

Had I not reaſon to hope, that you were meditating upon the means of making me happy, and [277] yourſelf not miſerable, rather than upon a flight ſo cauſeleſs and ſo precipitate?—

No, no, no, no, as before, ſhaking her head with wild impatience, as reſolved not to attend to what I ſaid.

My reſolutions are ſo honourable, if you will permit them to take effect, that I need not be ſolicitous whither you go, if you will but permit my viſits, and receive my vows. And, God is my witneſs, that I bring you not back from the door with any view to your diſhonour, but the contrary: And this moment I will ſend for a miniſter to put an end to all your doubts and fears.

Say this, and ſay a thouſand times more, and bind every word with a ſolemn appeal to that God, whom thou art accuſtomed to invoke to the truth of the vileſt falſhoods, and all will ſtill be ſhort of what thou haſt vowed and promiſed to me. And, were not my heart to abhor thee, and to riſe againſt thee, for thy perjuries, as it does, I would not, I tell thee once more, I would not, bind my ſoul in covenant with ſuch a man, for a thouſand worlds!

Compoſe yourſelf, however, Madam; for your own ſake, compoſe yourſelf. Permit me to raiſe you up; abhorred as I am of your ſoul!—

Nay, if I muſt not touch you; for ſhe wildly [...]lap [...] my hands; but with ſuch a ſweet paſſionate air, her boſom heaving and throbbing as ſhe looked up to me, that altho' I was moſt ſincerely enraged, I could with tranſport have preſs'd her to mine—

If I muſt not touch you, I will not.—But depend upon it (and I aſſumed the ſterneſt air I could aſſume, to try what that would do), depend upon it, Madam, that this is not the way to avoid the evils you dread. Let me do what I will, I cannot be uſed worſe!—Dorcas, be gone!

She aroſe, Dorcas being about to withdraw, and wildly caught hold of her arm: O Dorcas! If thou [278] art of mine own ſex, leave me not, I charge thee!— Then quitting Dorcas, down ſhe threw herſelf upon her knees, in the furthermoſt corner of the room, claſping a chair with her face laid upon the bottom of it!—O where can I be ſafe?—Where, where can I be ſafe, from this man of violence?—

This gave Dorcas an opportunity to confirm herſelf in her lady's confidence: The wench threw herſelf at my feet, while I ſeemed in violent wrath; and, embracing my knees, Kill me, Sir, kill me, Sir, if you pleaſe!—I muſt throw myſelf in your way, to ſave my lady. I beg your pardon, Sir—But you muſt be ſet on!—God forgive the miſchief-makers! —But your own heart, if left to itſelf, would not permit theſe things!—Spare, however, Sir! ſpare my lady, I beſeech you! buſtling on her knees about me, as if I were intending to approach her lady, had I not been reſtrained by her.

This, humour'd by me, Begone, devil!—Officious devil, begone!—ſtartled the dear creature; who, ſnatching up haſtily her head from the chair, and as haſtily popping it down again in terror, hit her noſe, I ſuppoſe, againſt the edge of the chair; and it guſh'd out with blood, running in a ſtream down her boſom; ſhe herſelf too much affrighted to heed it!—

Never was mortal man in ſuch terror and agitation as I; for I inſtantly concluded, that ſhe had ſtabb'd herſelf with ſome concealed inſtrument.

I ran to her in a wild agony—For Dorcas was frighted out of all her mock interpoſition—

What have you done!—O what have you done! —Look up to me, my deareſt life!—Sweet injur'd innocence, look up to me! What have you done! —Long will I not ſurvive you!—And I was upon the point of drawing my ſword to diſpatch myſelf, when I diſcover'd— [What an unmanly blockhead does this charming creature make me at her pleaſure!] [279] that all I apprehended was but a bloody noſe, which, as far as I know (for it could not be ſtopp'd in a quarter of an hour), may have ſaved her head, and her intellects.

But I ſee by this ſcene, that the ſweet creature is but a pretty coward at bottom; and that I can terrify her out of her virulence againſt me, whenever I put on ſternneſs and anger: But then, as a qualifier to the advantage this gives me over her, I find myſelf to be a coward too, which I had not before ſuſpected, ſince I was capable of being ſo eaſily terrified by the apprehenſions of her offering violence to herſelf.

LETTER XXXVII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

BUT, with all this dear creature's reſentment againſt me, I cannot, for my heart, think but ſhe will get all over, and conſent to enter the pale with me. Were ſhe even to die to-morrow, and to know ſhe ſhould, would not a woman of her ſenſe, of her punctilio, and in her ſituation, and of ſo proud a family, rather die married, than otherwiſe? —No doubt but ſhe would; altho' ſhe were to hate the man ever ſo heartily. If ſo, there is now but one man in the world whom ſhe can have—And that is Me.

Now I talk [familiar writing is but talking, Jack] thus glibly of entering the pale, thou wilt be ready to queſtion me, I know, as to my intentions on this head.

As much of my heart, as I know of it myſelf, will I tell thee.—When I am from her, I cannot ſtill help heſitating about marriage, and I even frequently reſolve againſt it; and am reſolved to preſs my favourite ſcheme for cohabitation. But when I am with her, I am ready to ſay, to ſwear, and to do, [280] whatever I think will be moſt acceptable to her: And were a parſon at hand, I ſhould plunge at once, no doubt of it, into the ſtate.

I have frequently thought, in common caſes, that it is happy for many giddy fellows [There are giddy fellows, as well as giddy girls, Jack; and perhaps thoſe are as often drawn in, as theſe], that ceremony and parade are neceſſary to the irrevocable ſolemnity; and that there is generally time for a man to recollect himſelf in the ſpace between the heated over-night, and the cooler next morning; or I know not who could eſcape the ſweet gypſies, whoſe faſcinating powers are ſo much aided by our own raiſed imaginations.

A wife at any time, I uſed to ſay. I had ever confidence and vanity enough, to think, that no woman breathing could deny her hand, when I held out mine. I am confoundedly mortified to find, that this lady is able to hold me at bay, and to refuſe all my honeſt vows.

What force [allow me a ſerious reflection, Jack It will be put down!] What force have evil habits upon the human mind! When we enter upon a devious courſe, we think we ſhall have it in ou [...] power, when we will, to return to the right path But it is not ſo, I plainly ſee: For, who can acknowlege with more juſtice this dear creature's merits, and his own errors, than I? Whoſe regret, at times, can be deeper than mine, for the injurie [...] I have done her? Whoſe reſolutions to repair thoſe injuries ſtronger?—Yet how tranſitory is my penitence!—How am I hurried away—Canſt thou te [...] by what?—O devil of Youth, and devil of Intrigue how do ye miſlead me! — How often do we en [...] in occaſions for the deepeſt remorſe, what we begin in wantonneſs!—

At the preſent writing, however, the turn of the [281] ſcale is in favour of matrimony—For I deſpair of carrying with her my favourite point.

The lady tells Dorcas, that her heart is broken; and that ſhe ſhall live but a little while. I think nothing of that, if we marry. In the firſt place, ſhe knows not what a mind unapprehenſive will do for her, in a ſtate to which all the ſex look forward with high ſatisfaction. How often have the whole ſacred conclave been thus deceived in their choice of a pope; not conſidering, that the new dignity is of itſelf ſufficient to give new life! — A few months heart's-eaſe will give my charmer a quite different notion of things: And I dare ſay, as I have heretofore ſaid (a), once married, and I am married for life.

I will allow, that her pride, in one ſenſe, has ſuffered abaſement: But her triumph is the greater in every other. And while I can think, that all her trials are but additions to her honour, and that I have laid the foundations of her glory in my own ſhame, can I be called cruel, if I am not affected with her grief, as ſome men would be?—

And for what ſhould her heart be broken? Her will is unviolated:—At preſent, however, her will is unviolated. The deſtroying of good habits, and the introducing of bad, to the corrupting of the whole heart, is the violation. That her will is not to be corrupted, that her mind is not to be debaſed, ſhe has hitherto unqueſtionably proved. And if ſhe give cauſe for further trials, and hold faſt her integrity; what ideas will ſhe have to dwell upon, that will be able to corrupt her morals?—What veſtigia, what remembrances, but ſuch as will inſpire abhorrence of the attempter?

What nonſenſe then to ſuppoſe, that ſuch a mere notional violation, as ſhe has ſuffered, ſhould be able to cut aſunder the ſtrings of life?

[282]Her religion, married, or not married, will ſet her above making ſuch a trifling accident, ſuch an involuntary ſuffering, f [...]tal to her.

Such conſiderations as theſe, they are, that ſupport me againſt all apprehenſion of bugbear conſequences: And I would have them have weight with thee; who art ſuch a doughty advocate for her. And yet I allow thee this; That ſhe really makes too much of it: Takes it too much to heart. To be ſure ſhe ought to have forgot it by this time, except the charming, charming conſequence happen, that ſtill I am in hopes will happen, were I to proceed no further. And, if ſhe apprehend this herſelf, then has the dear over-nice ſoul ſome reaſon for taking it ſo much to heart: And yet would not, I think, refuſe to legitimate.

O Jack! had I an imperial diadem, I ſwear to thee, that I would give it up, even to my enemy, to have one charming boy by this lady. And ſhould ſhe eſcape me, and no ſuch effect follow, my revenge on her family, and, in ſuch a caſe, on herſelf, would be incomplete, and I ſhould reproach myſelf as long as I lived.

Were I to be ſure, that this foundation is laid [And why may I not hope it is?], I ſhould not doubt to have her ſtill (ſhould ſhe withſtand her day of grace) on my own conditions: Nor ſhould I, if it were ſo, queſtion that revived affection in her, which a woman ſeldom fails to have for the father of her firſt child, whether born in wedlock, or out of it.

And pr'ythee, Jack, ſee in this aſpiration, let me call it, a diſtinction in my favour from other rakes; who almoſt to a man follow their inclinations, without troubling themſelves about conſequences. In imitation, as one would think, of the ſtrutting villain of a bird which from feather'd lady to feather'd lady purſues his imperial pleaſures, leaving it to his [283] ſleek paramours to hatch the genial product, in holes and corners of their own finding out.

LETTER XXXVIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

WELL, Jack, now are we upon another foot together. This dear creature will not let me be good. She is now authorizing all my plots by her own example.

Thou muſt be partial in the higheſt degree, if now thou blameſt me for reſuming my former ſchemes, ſince in that caſe I ſhall but follow her clue. No forced conſtruction of her actions do I make on this occaſion, in order to juſtify a bad cauſe, or a worſe intention. A little pretence, indeed, ſerved the wolf, when he had a mind to quarrel with the lamb; but this is not now my caſe.

For here (Wouldſt thou have thought it?), taking advantage of Dorcas's compaſſionate temper, and of ſome warm expreſſions, which the tender-hearted wench let fall againſt the cruelty of men; and wiſhing to have it in her power to ſerve her; has ſhe given her the following Note, ſigned by her maiden name: For ſhe has thought fit, in poſitive and plain words, to own to the pitying Dorcas, that ſhe is not married.

I The underwritten do hereby promiſe, that, on my coming into poſſeſſion of my own eſtate, I will provide for Dorcas Martindale in a gentlewoman-like manner, in my own houſe: Or, if I do not ſoon obtain that poſſeſſion, or ſhould firſt die, I do hereby bind myſelf, my executors, and adminiſtrators, to pay to her, or her order, during the term of her natural life, the [284] ſum of five pounds on each of the four uſual quarterly days in the year; that is to ſay, twenty pounds by the year; on condition that ſhe faithfully aſſiſt me in my eſcape from an illegal confinement, which I now labour under. The firſt quarterly payment to commence, aid be payable, at the end of three months immediately following the day of my deliverance. And I do alſo promiſe to give her, as a teſtimony of my honour in the reſt, a diamond ring, which I have ſhewed her. Witneſs my hand, this nineteenth day of June, in the year above-written.

CLARISSA HARLOWE,

Now, Jack, what terms wouldſt thou have me to keep with ſuch a ſweet corruptreſs?—Seeſt thou not how ſhe hates me?—Seeſt thou not, that ſhe is reſolved never to forgive me?—Seeſt thou not, however, that ſhe muſt diſgrace herſelf in the eye of the world, if ſhe actually ſhould eſcape?—That ſhe muſt be ſubjected to infinite diſtreſs and hazard?—For whom has ſhe to receive and protect her?—Yet to determine to riſque all theſe evils!—And furthermore to ſtoop to artifice, to be guilty of the reigning vice of the times, of bribery and corruption! O Jack, Jack! ſay not, write not, another word in her favour!—

Thou haſt blamed me for bringing her to this houſe: But had I carried her to any other in England, where there would have been one ſervant or inmate capable either of compaſſion or corruption, what muſt have been the conſequence?

But ſeeſt thou not, however, that, in this flimſy contrivance, the dear implacable, like a drowning man, catches at a ſtraw to ſave herſelf!—A ſtraw ſhall ſhe find to be the refuge ſhe has reſorted to.

LETTER XXXIX. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

[285]

VERY ill!—Exceeding ill!—as Dorcas tells me, in order to avoid ſeeing me—And yet the dear ſoul may be ſo in her mind—But is not that equivocation?—Some one paſſion predominating, in every human breaſt, breaks thro' principle, and controuls us all. Mine is love and revenge taking turns. Hers is hatred.—But this is my conſolation, that hatred appeaſed, is love begun; or love renew'd, I may rather ſay, if love ever had footing here.

But reflectioning apart, thou ſeeſt, Jack, that her plot is beginning to work. To-morrow it is to break out.

I have been abroad, to ſet on foot a plot of circumvention. All fair now, Belford!—

I inſiſted upon viſiting my indiſpoſed fair one. Dorcas made officious excuſes for her. I curſed the wench in her hearing for her impertinence; and ſtamp'd, and made a clutter;—which was improved into an apprehenſion to the lady, that I would have flung her faithful confidante from the top of the ſtairs to the bottom.

He is a violent wretch!—But, Dorcas (dear Dorcas now it is), thou ſhalt have a friend in me to the laſt day of my life.

And what now doſt think, the name of her good angel is?—Why Dorcas Martindale, Chriſtian and ſuper (no more Wykes) as in the promiſory note in my former—And the dear creature has bound her to her by the moſt ſolemn obligations, beſides the tie of intereſt.

Whither, Madam, do you deſign to go when you get out of this houſe?

[286]I will throw myſelf into the firſt open houſe I can find; and beg protection till I can get a coach, or a lodging in ſome honeſt family.

What will you do for cloaths, Madam?—I doubt you'll not be able to take any away with you, but what you'll have on.

O no matter for cloaths, if I can but get out of this houſe.

What will you do for money, Madam? I have heard his Honour expreſs his concern, that he could not prevail upon you to be obliged to him, tho' he apprehended, that you muſt be ſhort of money.

O, I have rings, and other valuables. Indeed I have but four guineas, and two of them, I found lately wrapt up in a bit of lace, deſigned for a charitable uſe: But now, alas! Charity begins at home! But I have one dear friend left, if ſhe be living, as I hope in God ſhe is! to whom I can be obliged, if I want, O Dorcas! I muſt ere now have heard from her, if I had had fair play.

Well, Madam, yours is a hard lot. I pity you at my heart!

Thank you, Dorcas! —I am unhappy, that I did not think before, that I might have confided in thy pity, and in thy ſex!

I pitied you, Madam, often and often: But you were always, as I thought, diffident of me. And then I doubted not but you were married; and I thought his Honour was unkindly uſed by you. So that I thought it my duty to wiſh well to his Honour, rather than to what I thought to be your humours, Madam. Would to heaven, that I had known before, that you were not married!—Such a lady! — Such a fortune! — To be ſo ſadly betrayed!—

Ah, Dorcas! I was baſely drawn in! My youth! My ignorance of the world! — And I have ſome things to reproach myſelf with, when I look back!

[287]Lord, Madam, what deceitful creatures are theſe men!—Neither oaths, nor vows!—I am ſure! I am ſure!—And then with her apron ſhe gave her eyes half a dozen hearty rubs—I may curſe the time that I came into this houſe! —

Here was accounting for her bold eyes! And was it not better to give up a houſe, which her lady could not think worſe of than ſhe did, in order to gain the reputation of ſincerity, than by offering to vindicate it, to make her proffered ſervices ſuſpected?

Poor Dorcas!—Bleſs me! how little do we, who have lived all our time in the country, know of this wicked town!—

Had I been able to write, cried the veteran wench, I ſhould certainly have given ſome other near relations I have in Wales, a little inkling of matters; and they would have ſaved me from—from—from—

Her ſobs were enough. The apprehenſions of women on ſuch ſubjects are ever aforehand with ſpeech.

And then, ſobbing on, ſhe lifted her apron to her face again. She ſhewed me how.

Poor Dorcas!—Again wiping her own charming eyes.

All love, all compaſſion, is this dear creature to every one in affliction, but me.

And would not an aunt protect her kinſwoman? —Abominable wretch!

I can't—I can't—I can't—ſay, my aunt was privy to it. She gave me good advice. She knew not for a great while, that I was—that I was—that I was— ugh!—ugh!—ugh!—

No more, no more, good Dorcas! — What a world we live in!—What a houſe am I in! But [...]ome, don't weep (tho' ſhe herſelf could not for [...]ear): My being betrayed into it, tho' to my own [...], may be a happy event for thee: And, if I live, [...] ſhall.

[288]I thank you, my good lady, blubbering. I am ſorry, very ſorry, you have had ſo hard a lot. But it may be the ſaving of my ſoul, if I can get to your ladyſhip's houſe.—Had I but known that your ladyſhip was not married, I would have eat my own fleſh, before, before, before—

Dorcas ſobb'd and wept. The lady ſighed and wept alſo.

But now, Jack, for a ſerious reflection upon the premiſes.

How will the good folks account for it, that Satan has ſuch faithful inſtruments, and that the bond of wickedneſs is a ſtronger bond, than the ties of virtue? —As if it were the nature of the human mind to be villainous. For here, had Dorcas been good, and tempted, as ſhe was tempted, to any thing evil, I make no doubt, but ſhe would have yielded to the temptation.

And cannot our fraternity, in an hundred inſtances, give proof of the like predominance of vice over virtue? And that we have riſqued more to ſerve and promote the intereſts of the former, than ever a good man did to ſerve a good man, or a good cauſe? For have we not been prodigal of life and fortune? Have we not defied the civil magiſtrate upon occaſion; and have we not attempted reſcues, and dared all things, only to extricate a pounded profligate?—

Whence, Jack, can this be?

O I have it, I believe. The vicious are as bad as they can be; and do the devil's work without looking after; while he is continually ſpreading ſnares for the others; and, like a ſkilful angler, ſuiting his baits to the fiſh he angles for.

Nor let even honeſt people, ſo called, blame po [...] Dorcas for her fidelity in a bad cauſe. For does no [...] the General, who implicitly ſerves an ambitious princ [...] in his unjuſt deſigns upon his neighbours, or upo [...] his own oppreſſed ſubjects; and even the Lawyer [289] who, for the ſake of a paltry fee, undertakes to whiten a black cauſe, and to defend it againſt one he knows to be good, do the very ſame thing as Dorcas? And are they not both every whit as culpable? Yet the one ſhall be dubbed a hero, the other a charming fellow, and be contended for by every client; and his double-paced abilities ſhall carry him thro' all the high preferments of the Law with reputation and applauſe.

Well but, what ſhall be done, ſince the lady is ſo much determined on removing?—Is there no way to oblige her, and yet to make the very act ſubſervient to my own views?—I fancy ſuch a way may be found out.

I will ſtudy for it—

Suppoſe I ſuffer her to make an eſcape? Her heart is in it. If ſhe effect it, the triumph ſhe will have over me upon it will be a counterbalance for all ſhe has ſuffered.

I will oblige her if I can.

LETTER XL. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

TIred with a ſucceſſion of fatiguing days and ſleepleſs nights, and with contemplating the precarious ſituation I ſtand in with my Beloved, I fell into a profound reſverie; which brought on ſleep; and that produced a dream; a fortunate dream; which, as I imagine, will afford my working mind the means to effect the obliging double purpoſe my heart is now once more ſet upon.

What, as I have often contemplated, is the enjoyment of the fineſt woman in the world, to the contrivance, the buſtle, the ſurprizes, and at laſt the happy concluſion of a well-laid plot?—The charming roundabouts, to come the neareſt way home;— [290] the doubts; the apprehenſions; the heart-akings, the meditated triumphs.—Theſe are the joys that make the bleſſing dear.—For all the reſt, what is it?— What but to find an angel in imagination dwindled down to a woman in fact?—But to my dream—

Methought it was about nine on Wedneſday morning, that a chariot, with a dowager's arms upon the doors, and in it a grave matronly lady [not unlike Mother H. in the face; but in her heart O how unlike!], ſtopp'd at a grocer's ſhop, about ten doors on the other ſide of the way, in order to buy ſome groceries: And methought Dorcas, having been out to ſee if the coaſt were clear for her lady's flight, and if a coach were to be got near the place, eſpied this chariot with the dowager's arms, and this matronly lady: And what, methought, did Dorcas, that ſubtle traitreſs, do, but whip up to the old matronly lady, and, lifting up her voice, ſay, Good my Lady, permit me one word with your Ladyſhip.

What thou haſt to ſay to me, ſay on, quoth the old lady; the grocer retiring, and ſtanding aloof, to give Dorcas leave to ſpeak; who, methought, in words like theſe, accoſted the lady.

‘You ſeem, Madam, to be a very good lady; and here in this neighbourhood, at a houſe of no high repute, is an innocent lady of rank and fortune, beautiful as a May morning, and youthful as a roſe-bud, and full as ſweet and lovely; who has been trick'd thither by a wicked gentleman, practiſed in the ways of the town; and this very night will ſhe be ruined, if ſhe get not out of his hands. Now, O Lady! if you will extend your compaſſionate goodneſs to this fair young lady, in whom, the moment you behold her, you will ſee cauſe to believe all I ſay; and let her but have a place in your chariot, and remain in your protection for one day only, till ſhe can ſend a man [291] and a horſe to her rich and powerful friends; you may ſave from ruin a lady, who has no equal for virtue as well as beauty.’

Methought the old lady, moved with Dorcas's ſtory, anſwered and ſaid, ‘Haſten, O damſel, who in a happy moment art come to put it in my power to ſerve the innocent and the virtuous, which it has always been my delight to do; Haſten to this young lady, and bid her hie hither to me with all ſpeed; and tell her, that my chariot ſhall be her aſylum: And if I find all that thou ſayeſt true, my houſe ſhall be her ſanctuary, and I will protect her from all her oppreſſors.’

Hereupon, methought, this traitreſs Dorcas hied back to the lady, and made report of what ſhe had done. And, methought, the lady highly approved of Dorcas's proceeding, and bleſſed her for her good thought.

And I lifted up mine eyes, and behold the lady iſſued out of the houſe, and without looking back, ran to the chariot with the dowager's coat upon it, and was received by the matronly lady with open arms, and ‘Welcome, welcome, welcome, fair young lady, who ſo well anſwer the deſcription of the faithful damſel: And I will carry you inſtantly to my houſe, where you ſhall meet with all the good uſage your heart can wiſh for, till you can appriſe your rich and powerful friends of your paſt dangers, and preſent eſcape.’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, worthy, thrice worthy lady, who afford ſo kindly your protection to a moſt unhappy young creature, who has been baſely ſeduced and betrayed, and brought to the very brink of deſtruction.’

Methought then, the matronly lady, who had by the time the young lady came to her, bought and paid for the goods ſhe wanted, ordered her coachman to drive home with all ſpeed; who ſtopped not [292] till he had arrived in a certain ſtreet, not far from Lincolns-inn-fields, where the matronly lady lived in a ſumptuous dwelling, replete with damſels who wrought curiouſly in muſlins, cambricks, and fine linen, and in every good work that induſtrious damſels love to be imployed about, except the loom and the ſpinning-wheel.

And methought, all the way the young lady and the old lady rode, and after they came in, till dinner was ready, the young lady filled up the time with the diſmal account of her wrongs and her ſufferings, the like of which was never heard by mortal ear; and this in ſo moving a manner, that the good old lady did nothing but weep, and ſigh, and ſob, and inveigh againſt the arts of wicked men, and againſt that abominable 'Squire Lovelace, who was a plotting villain, methought ſhe ſaid; and, more than that, an unchained Beelzebub.

Methought I was in a dreadful agony, when I found the lady had eſcaped; and in my wrath had like to have ſlain Dorcas, and our mother, and every one I met. But, by ſome quick tranſition, and ſtrange metamorphoſis, which dreams do not uſually account for, methought, all of a ſudden, this matronly lady was turned into the famous Mother H. herſelf; and, being an old acquaintance of Mother Sinclair, was prevailed upon to aſſiſt in my plot upon the young lady.

Then, methought, followed a ſtrange ſcene; for, Mother H. longing to hear more of the young lady's ſtory, and night being come, beſought her to accept of a place in her own bed, in order to have all the talk to themſelves. For, methought, two young nieces of hers had broken in upon them in the middle of the diſmal tale.

Accordingly going early to bed, and the ſad ſtory being reſumed, with as great earneſtneſs on one ſide, as attention on the other, before the young lady had [293] gone far in it, Mother H. methought was taken with a fit of the colic; and her tortures increaſing, was obliged to riſe, to get a cordial ſhe uſed to find ſpecific in this diſorder, to which ſhe was unhappily ſubject.

Having thus riſen, and ſtept to her cloſet, methought ſhe let fall the wax taper in her returns and then [O metamorphoſis ſtill ſtranger than the former! What unaccountable things are dreams!], coming to bed again in the dark, the young lady, to her infinite aſtoniſhment, grief, and ſurprize, found Mother H. turned into a young perſon of the other ſex: And altho' Lovelace was the abhorred of her ſoul, yet, fearing it was ſome other perſon, it was matter of ſome conſolation to her, when ſhe found it was no other than himſelf, and that ſhe had been ſtill the bedfellow of but one and the ſame man.

A ſtrange promiſcuous huddle of adventures followed; ſcenes perpetually ſhifting; now nothing heard from the lady, but ſighs, groans, exclamations, faintings, dyings.—From the gentleman, but vows, promiſes, proteſtations, diſclaimers of purpoſes purſued; and all the gentle and ungentle preſſures of the lover's warfare.

Then, as quick as thought [for dreams, thou knoweſt, confine not themſelves to the rules of the drama], enſued recoveries, lyings-in, chriſtenings, the ſmiling boy, amply, even in her own opinion, rewarding the ſuffering mother.

Then the grandfather's eſtate yielded up, poſſeſſion taken of it—Living very happily upon it:— Her beloved Norton her companion; Miſs Howe her viſitor; and (admirable! thrice admirable I) enabled to compare notes with her; a charming girl, by the ſame father, to her friend's charming boy; who, as they grow up, in order to conſolidate their mammas friendſhips [for neither have dreams regard to conſanguinity], intermarry; change names by act of [294] parliament, to enjoy my eſtate;—and I know not what of the like incongruous ſtuff.

I awoke, as thou mayeſt believe, in great diſorder, and rejoiced to find my charmer in the next room, and Dorcas honeſt.

Now thou wilt ſay, this was a very odd dream. And yet (for I am a ſtrange dreamer) it is not altogether improbable, that ſomething like it may happen; as the pretty ſimpleton has the weakneſs to confide in Dorcas, whom, till now, ſhe diſliked.

But I forgot to tell thee one part of my dream; and that was, That, the next morning, the lady gave way to ſuch tranſports of grief and reſentment, that ſhe was with difficulty diverted from making an attempt upon her own life. But, however, at laſt, was prevailed upon to reſolve to live, and to make the beſt of the matter. A letter, methought, from Capt. Tomlinſon helping to pacify her, written to appriſe me, that her uncle Harlowe would certainly be at Kentiſh-town on Wedneſday night June 28. the following day, the 29th, being his anniverſary birth-day; and he doubly deſirous, on that account, that our nuptials ſhould be then privately ſolemnized in his preſence.

But is Thurſday the 29th her uncle's anniverſary, methinks thou aſkeſt?—It is; or elſe the day of celebration ſhould have been earlier ſtill. Three weeks ago I heard her ſay it was; and I have down the birth-day of every one of her family, and the wedding-day of her father and mother. The minuteſt circumſtances are often of great ſervice, in matters of the laſt importance.

And what ſayeſt thou now to my dream?

Who ſays, that, ſleeping and waking, I have not fine helps from ſome body, ſome ſpirit rather, as thou'lt be apt to ſay?—But no wonder that a Beelzebub has his devilkins to attend his call.

I can have no manner of doubt of ſucceeding in [295] Mother H.'s part of the ſcheme; for will the lady (who reſolves to throw herſelf into the firſt houſe ſhe can enter, or to beſpeak the protection of the firſt perſon ſhe meets; and who thinks there can be no danger out of this houſe, equal to what ſhe apprehends from Me in it) ſcruple to accept of the chariot of a dowager, accidentally offering? And the lady's protection engaged by her faithful Dorcas, ſo highly bribed to promote her eſcape?—And then Mrs. H. has the air and appearance of a venerable matron, and is not ſuch a forbidding devil as Mrs. Sinclair.

The pretty ſimpleton knows nothing of the world; nor that people who have money never want aſſiſtants in their views, be they what they will. How elſe could the princes of the earth be ſo implicitly ſerved as they are, change they hands ever ſo often, and be their purpoſes ever ſo wicked?

If I can but get her to go on with me till Wedneſday next week, we ſhall be ſettled together pretty quietly by that time. And indeed if ſhe has any gratitude, and has in her the leaſt of her ſex's foibles, ſhe muſt think I deſerve her favour, by the pains ſhe has coſt me. For dearly do they all love, that men ſhould take pains about them, and for them.

And here, for the preſent, I will lay down my pen, and congratulate myſelf upon my happy invention (ſince her obſtinacy puts me once more upon exerciſing it)—But with this reſolution, I think, That, if the preſent contrivance fail me, I will exert all the faculties of my mind, all my talents, to procure for myſelf a legal right to her favour, and that in defiance of all my antipathies to the married ſtate; and of the ſuggeſtions of the great devil out of the houſe, and of his ſecret agents in it.—Since, if now ſhe is not to be prevailed upon, or drawn in, it will be in vain to attempt her further.

LETTER XLI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

[296]

NO admittance yet to my charmer! She is very ill — in a violent fever, Dorcas thinks. Yet will have no advice.

Dorcas tells her how much I am concerned at it.

But again let me aſk, Does this lady do right to make herſelf ill, when ſhe is not ill? For my own part, libertine as people think me, when I had occaſion to be ſick, I took a doſe of ipecacuanha, that I might not be guilty of a falſhood; and moſt heartily ſick was I; as ſhe, who then pitied me, full well knew. But here to pretend to be very ill, only to get an opportunity to run away, in order to avoid forgiving a man who has offended her, how unchriſtian! — If good folks allow themſelves in theſe breaches of a known duty, and in theſe preſumptuous contrivances to deceive, who, Belford, ſhall blame us?

I have a ſtrange notion, that the matronly lady will be certainly at the grocer's ſhop at the hour of nine to-morrow morning: For Dorcas heard me tell Mrs. Sinclair, that I ſhall go out at eight preciſely; and then ſhe is to try for a coach: And if the dowager's chariot ſhould happen to be there, how lucky will it be for my charmer! How ſtrangely will my dream be made out!

I HAVE juſt received a letter from Captain Tomlinſon. Is it not wonderful! For that was part of my dream!

I ſhall always have a prodigious regard to dreams henceforward. I know not but I may write a book upon that ſubject; for my own experience will furniſh out a great part of it. Glanville of Witches, and [297] Baxter's Hiſtory of Spirits and Apparitions, and the Royal Inſignificant's Demonology, will be nothing at all to Lovelace's Reſveries.

The letter is juſt what I dream'd it to be. I am only concerned, that uncle John's anniverſary did not happen three or four days ſooner; for ſhould any new misfortune befal my charmer, ſhe may not be able to ſupport her ſpirits ſo long, as till Thurſday in the next week. Yet it will give me the more time for new expedients, ſhould my preſent contrivance fail; which I cannot, however, ſuppoſe.

To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

Dear Sir,

I Can now return you joy, for the joy you have given me, as well as my dear friend Mr. Harlowe, in the news of his beloved niece's happy recovery; for he is determined to comply with her wiſhes, and yours, and to give her to you with his own hand.

As the ceremony has been neceſſarily delayed by reaſon of her illneſs, and as Mr. Harlowe's Birthday is on Thurſday the 29th of this inſtant June, when he enters into the ſeventy-fourth year of his age; and as time may be wanted to complete the dear lady's recovery; he is very deſirous, that the marriage ſhall be ſolemnized upon it; that he may afterwards have double joy on that day, to the end of his life.

For this purpoſe, he intends to ſet out privately, ſo as to be at Kentiſh-town on Wedneſday ſe'nnight in the evening.

All the family uſed, he ſays, to meet to celebrate it with him; but as they are at preſent in too unhappy a ſituation for that, he will give out, that, not being able to bear the day at home, he has reſolved to be abſent for two or three days.

He will ſet out on horſeback, attended only with one truſty ſervant, for the greater privacy. He will [298] be at the moſt creditable-looking public houſe there, expecting you both next morning, if he hear nothing from me to prevent him. And he will go to town with you after the ceremony is performed, in the coach he ſuppoſes you will come in.

He is very deſirous, that I ſhould be preſent on the occaſion. But this I have promiſed him, at his requeſt, that I will be up before the day, in order to ſee the ſettlements executed, and every thing properly prepared.

He is very glad that you have the licence ready.

He ſpeaks very kindly of you, Mr. Lovelace; and ſays, that, if any of the family ſtand out after he has ſeen the ceremony performed, he will ſeparate from them, and unite himſelf to his dear niece and her intereſts.

I owned to you, when in town, that I took ſlight notice to my dear friend of the miſunderſtanding between you and his niece; and that I did this, for fear the lady ſhould have ſhewn any little diſcontent in his preſence, were I to have been able to prevail upon him to go up in perſon, as then was doubtful. But I hope nothing of that diſcontent remains now.

My abſence, when your meſſenger came, muſt excuſe me for not writing by him.

Be pleaſed to make my moſt reſpectful compliments acceptable to the admirable lady, and believe me to be

Your moſt faithful and obedient ſervant, ANTONY TOMLINSON.

This letter I ſealed, and broke open. It was brought, thou mayſt ſuppoſe, by a particular meſſenger; the ſeal ſuch a one as the writer need not be aſhamed of. I took care to inquire after the Captain's health, in my Beloved's hearing; and it is now ready to be produced, as a pacifier, according as ſhe ſhall take on, or reſent, if the two metamorphoſes [299] happen purſuant to my wonderful dream; as, having great faith in dreams, I dare ſay they will.—I think it will not be amiſs in changing my cloaths, to have this letter of the worthy Captain lie in my Beloved's way.

LETTER XLII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

WHAT ſhall I ſay now!—I who but a few hours ago had ſuch faith in dreams, and had propoſed out of hand to begin my treatiſe of Dreams-ſleeping and Dreams-waking, and was pleaſing myſelf with the dialoguings between the old matronly lady, and the young lady; and with the two metamorphoſes (abſolutely aſſured that every thing would happen as my dream chalked it out); ſhall never more depend upon thoſe flying follies, thoſe illuſions of a fancy depraved, and run mad.

Thus confoundedly have matters happened.

I went out at eight o'clock in high good humour with myſelf, in order to give the ſought-for opportunity to the plotting miſtreſs and corrupted maid; only ordering Will. to keep a good look-out, for fear his lady ſhould miſtruſt my plot, or miſtake a hackney-coach for the dowager-lady's chariot. But firſt I ſent to know how ſhe did; and received for anwer, Very ill:—Had a very bad night: Which latter was but too probable: Since This I know, that people who have plots in their heads as ſeldom have as deſerve good ones.

I deſired a phyſician might be called in; but was refuſed.

I took a walk in St. James's park, congratulating myſelf all the way on my rare inventions: Then, impatient, I took coach, with one of the windows quite up, the other almoſt up, playing at bo-peep at every [300] chariot I ſaw paſs in my way to Lincolns-inn-fields: And, when arrived there, I ſent the coachman to deſire any one of Mother H.'s family to come to me to the coach-ſide, not doubting but I ſhould have intelligence of my fair fugitive there; it being then half an hour after ten.

A ſervant came to me, who gave me to underſtand, that the matronly lady was juſt returned by herſelf in the chariot.

Frighted out of my wits, I alighted, and heard from the Mother's own mouth, that Dorcas had ingaged her to protect the lady; but came to tell her afterwards, that ſhe had changed her mind, and would not quit the houſe.

Quite aſtoniſh'd, not knowing what might have happen'd, I order'd the coachman to laſh away to our mother's.

Arriving here in an inſtant, the firſt word I aſk'd, was, If the lady were ſafe (a)?

[301][302]

LETTER XLIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

DIſappointed in her meditated eſcape;—obliged, againſt her will, to meet me in the dining-room; —and perhaps apprehenſive of being upbraided for her art in feigning herſelf ill; I expected that the dear perverſe would begin with me with ſpirit and indignation. But I was in hopes, from the gentleneſs of her natural diſpoſition, from the conſideration which I expected from her, on her ſituation on the letter of Captain Tomlinſon, which Dorcas told me ſhe had ſeen, and from the time ſhe had had to cool and reflect, ſince ſhe laſt admitted me to her preſence, that ſhe would not have carried it ſo ſtrongly thro', as ſhe did.

As I enter'd the dining-room, I congratulated her and myſelf upon her ſudden recovery. And would have taken her hand, with an air of reſpectful tenderneſs. But ſhe was reſolved to begin where ſhe left off.

She turned from me, drawing in her hand, with a repulſing and indignant aſpect—I meet you once more, ſaid ſhe, becauſe I cannot help it. What [303] have you to ſay to me? Why am I to be thus detained againſt my will?

With the utmoſt ſolemnity of ſpeech and behaviour, I urged the ceremony. I ſaw I had nothing elſe for it.—I had a letter in my pocket, I ſaid (feeling for it, altho' I had not taken it from the table where I left it, and which we were then near), the contents of which, if attended to, would make us both happy. I had been loth to ſhew it to her before, becauſe I hoped to prevail upon her to be mine ſooner than the day mentioned in it.

I felt for it in all my pockets, watching her eye mean time, which I ſaw glance towards the table where it lay.

I was uneaſy that I could not find it—At laſt, directed again by her ſly eye, I ſpied it on the table at the further end of the room.

With joy I fetch'd it. Be pleaſed to read that letter, Madam, with an air of ſatisfied aſſurance.

She took it, and caſt her eye over it, in ſuch a careleſs way, as made it evident, that ſhe had read it before: And then unthankfully toſs'd it into the window-ſeat before her.

I urged her to bleſs me to-morrow, or Friday morning: At leaſt, that ſhe would not render vain her uncle's journey, and kind endeavours to bring about a reconciliation among us all.

Among us all, repeated ſhe, with an air equally diſdainful and incredulous. O Lovelace, thou art ſurely nearly allied to the grand deceiver, in thy endeavour to ſuit temptations to inclinations!—But what honour, what faith, what veracity, were it poſſible that I could enter into parley with thee on this ſubject, which it is not, may I expect from ſuch a man as thou haſt ſhewn thyſelf to be?

I was touch'd to the quick. A lady of your perfect character, Madam, who has feign'd herſelf ſick, on purpoſe to avoid ſeeing the man who adored her, ſhould—

[304]I know what thou wouldſt ſay, interrupted ſhe!— Twenty and twenty low things, that my ſoul would have been above being guilty of, and which I have deſpiſed myſelf for, have I been brought into by the infection of thy company, and by the neceſſity thou haſt laid me under, of appearing mean. But I thank God, deſtitute as I am, that I am not, however, ſunk ſo low, as to wiſh to be thine.

I, Madam, as the injurer, ought to have patience. It is for the injured to reproach. But your uncle is not in a plot againſt you, it is to be hoped. There are circumſtances in the letter you have caſt your eyes over—

Again ſhe interrupted me, Why, once more I aſk thee, am I detained in this houſe? — Do I not ſee myſelf ſurrounded by wretches, who, tho' they wear the habit of my ſex, may yet, as far as I know, lie in wait for my perdition?

She would be very loth, I ſaid, that Mrs. Sinclair and her nieces ſhould be called up to vindicate themſelves, and their houſe.

Would but they kill me, let them come, and welcome. I will bleſs the hand that will ſtrike the blow; indeed I will.

'Tis idle, very idle, to talk of dying. Mere young-lady talk, when controuled by thoſe they hate.—But let me beſeech you, deareſt creature—

Beſeech me nothing. Let me not be detained thus againſt my will!—Unhappy creature, that I am, ſaid ſhe, in a kind of phrenſy, wringing her hands at the ſame time, and turning from me, her eyes lifted up! Thy curſe, O my cruel father, ſeems to be now in the height of its operation!—I am in the way of being a loſt creature as to both worlds! Bleſſed, bleſſed God, ſaid ſhe, falling on her knees, ſave me, O ſave me from myſelf, and from this man!

I ſunk down on my knees by her, exceſſively affected.—O that I could recall yeſterday! —Forgive [305] me! my deareſt creature, forgive what is paſt, as it cannot now but by one way be retrieved. Forgive me only on this condition—That my future ſaith and honour—

She interrupted me, riſing—If you mean to beg of me, Never to ſeek to avenge myſelf by Law, or by an appeal to my relations, to my couſin Morden in particular, when he comes to England—

D—n the Law, riſing alſo [She ſtarted], and all thoſe to whom you talk of appealing! — I defy both the one and the other—All I beg, is YOUR forgiveneſs; and that you will, on my unfeigned contrition, re-eſtabliſh me in your favour—

O no, no, no! lifting up her claſped hands, I never, never will, never, never can forgive you!— And it is a puniſhment worſe than death to me, that I am obliged to meet you, or to ſee you!

This is the laſt time, my deareſt life, that you will ever ſee me in this poſture, on this occaſion: And again I kneeled to her.—Let me hope, that you will be mine next Thurſday, your uncle's birth-day, if not before. Would to Heaven I had never been a villain! Your indignation is not, cannot be, greater than my remorſe—and I took hold of her gown; for ſhe was going from me.

Be remorſe thy portion!—For thy own ſake, be remorſe thy portion! — I never, never will forgive thee!—I never, never will be thine!—Let me retire! —Why kneeleſt thou to the wretch whom thou haſt ſo vilely humbled?

Say but, deareſt creature, you will conſider—Say but you will take time to reflect upon what the honour of both our families require of you. I will not riſe. I will not permit you to withdraw (ſtill holding her gown), till you tell me you will conſider.— Take this letter. Weigh well your ſituation, and mine. Say you will withdraw to conſider; and then I will not preſume to with-hold you.

[306]Compulſion ſhall do nothing with me. Tho' a ſlave, a priſoner, in circumſtance, I am no ſlave in my will!—Nothing will I promiſe thee—With-held, compell'd—Nothing will I promiſe thee —

Noble creature!—But not implacable, I hope!— Promiſe me but to return in an hour!—

Nothing will I promiſe thee!—

Say but you will ſee me again this evening!

O that I could ſay—that it were in my power to ſay—I never will ſee thee more!—Would to Heaven I never were to ſee thee more!

Paſſionate beauty—ſtill holding her—

I ſpeak, tho' with vehemence, the deliberate wiſh of my heart.—O that I could avoid looking down upon thee, mean groveler, and abject as inſulting—Let me withdraw! My ſoul is in tumults! Let me withdraw!

I quitted my hold to claſp my hands together— Withdraw, O ſovereigneſs of my fate!—Withdraw, if you will withdraw!—My deſtiny is in your power. —It depends upon your breath!—Your ſcorn but augments my love!—Your reſentment is but too we [...] founded! — But, deareſt creature, return, return, with a reſolution to bleſs with pardon and peace your faithful adorer!

She flew from me. As ſoon as ſhe found her wings the angel flew from me. I, the reptile kneeler, the deſpicable ſlave, no more the proud victor, aroſe and, retiring, tried to comfort myſelf, that, circumſtanced as ſhe is, deſtitute of friends and fortune her uncle moreover, who is to reconcile all ſo ſoon (as, I thank my ſtars, ſhe ſtill believes), expected.—

O that ſhe would forgive me!— Would ſhe b [...] generouſly forgive me, and receive my vows at th [...] altar, at the inſtant of her forgiving me, that I migh [...] not have time to relapſe into my old prejudices!—B [...] my ſoul, Belford, this dear girl gives the lye to al [...] our rakiſh maxims. There muſt be ſomething more [307] than a name in virtue! — I now ſee that there is! — Once ſubdued, always ſubdued — 'Tis an egregious falſhood! — But Oh, Jack, ſhe never was ſubdued. What have I obtained, but an increaſe of ſhame and confuſion!—While her glory has been eſtabliſhed by her ſufferings!

This one merit is, however, left me, that I have laid her ſex under obligations to me, by putting this noble creature to trials, which, ſo gloriouſly ſupported, have done honour to them all.

But yet—But no more will I add—What a force have evil habits—I will take an airing, and try to fly from myſelf—Do not thou upbraid me on my weak fits—On my contradictory purpoſes—On my irreſolution — And all will be well.

LETTER XLIV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

A Man is juſt now arrived from M. Hall, who tells me, that my Lord is in a very dangerous way. The gout in his ſtomach to an extreme degree, occa [...]ion'd by drinking a great quantity of limonade.

A man of 8000 l. a year to prefer his appetite to [...]s health! — He deſerves to die! — But we have all [...]f us our inordinate paſſions to gratify!—And they [...]enerally bring their puniſhment along with them.— [...]o witneſſes the nephew, as well as the uncle.

The fellow was ſent up on other buſineſs; but [...]retched his orders a little, to make his court to a [...]ucceſſor.

I am glad I was not at M. Hall, at the time my [...]ord took the grateful doſe [It was certainly grateful him at the time]: There are people in the world, [...]o would have had the wickedneſs to ſay, that I [...]d perſuaded him to drink it.

The man ſays, that his Lordſhip was ſo bad when [308] he came away, that the family began to talk of ſending for me, in poſt-haſte. As I know the old peer has a good deal of caſh by him, of which he ſeldom keeps account, it behoves me to go down as ſoon as I can. But what ſhall I do with this dear creature the while?—To-morrow over, I ſhall, perhaps, be able to anſwer my own queſtion. — I am afraid ſhe will make me deſperate.

For here have I ſent to implore her company, and am denied with ſcorn.

I HAVE been ſo happy as to receive, this moment, a third letter from my dear correſpondent Miſs Howe. A little ſevere devil!—It would have broke the heart of my Beloved, had it fallen into her hands. I wil [...] incloſe a copy of it. Read it here.

My deareſt Miſs Harlowe,

AGain I venture to write to you (almoſt againſt inclination; and that by your former conveyance, little a [...] I like it.

I know not how it is with you. It may be bad; an [...] then it would be hard to upbraid you, for a ſilence yo [...] may not be able to help. But if not, what ſhall I ſay ſevere enough, that you have not anſwered either of m [...] laſt letters? The firſt (a) of which (and I think it imported you too much to be ſilent upon it) you owned th [...] receipt of. The other, which was delivered into yo [...] own hands (b), was ſo preſſing for the favour of a [...] from you, that I am amazed I could not be obliged. [...] And ſtill more, that I have not heard from you ſince.

The fellow made ſo ſtrange a ſtory of the condition [...] ſaw you in, and of your ſpeech to him, that I know t [...] what to conclude from it: Only, that he is a ſimple, bl [...] dering, and yet conceited fellow, who aiming at deſcr [...] tion, and the ruſtic wonderful, gives an air of bumki [...] romance to all he tells. That this is his character, y [...] will believe, when you are informed, that he deſcrib [...] [309] you in grief exceſſive (c), yet ſo improved in your perſon and features, and ſo roſy, that was his word, in your face, and ſo fluſh-colour'd, and ſo plump in your arms, that one would conclude you were labouring under the operation of ſome malignant poiſon; and ſo much the rather, as he was introduced to you, when you were upon a couch, from which you offer'd not to riſe, or ſit up.

Upon my word, Miſs Harlowe, I am greatly diſtreſſed upon your account; for I muſt be ſo free as to ſay, that, in your ready return with your deceiver, you have not at all anſwer'd my expectations, nor acted up to your own character: For Mrs. Townſend tells me, from the women at Hamſtead, how chearfully you put yourſelf into his hands again: Yet, at the time, it was impoſſible you ſhould be married!

Lord, my dear, what pity it is, that you took ſo much pains to get from the man! But you know beſt!—Sometimes I think it could not be you to whom the ruſtic deliver'd my letter. But it muſt too: Yet it is ſtrange I could not have one line by him:—Not one:—And you ſo ſoon well enough to go with him back again!

I am not ſure, that the letter I am now writing will come to your hands: So ſhall not ſay half that I have upon my mind to ſay. But if you think it worth your while to write to me, pray let me know, what fine ladies, his relations, thoſe were, who viſited you at Hamſtead, and carried you back again ſo joyfully, to a place that I had ſo fully warn'd you — But I will ſay no more: At leaſt till I know more: For I can do nothing but wonder, and ſtand amazed!

Notwithſtanding all the man's baſeneſs, 'tis plain, there was more than a lurking love—Good God!—But I have done!—Yet I know not how to have done, neither!— Yet I muſt—I will.

Only account to me, my dear, for what I cannot at all account for: And inform me, whether you are really married, or not.—And then I ſhall know, Whether there muſt, or muſt not, be a period ſhorter than that of one of our lives, to a friendſhip which has hitherto been the pride and boaſt of

Your ANNA HOWE.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 328.
(b)
See p. 183 of this Volume.
(c)
See p. 178 to 181 of this Volume.

[310]DORCAS tells me, that ſhe has juſt now had a ſearching converſation, as ſhe calls it, with her lady. She is willing, ſhe tells the wench, ſtill to place a confidence in her. Dorcas hopes ſhe has re-aſſured her; but wiſhes me not to depend upon it. Yet Captain Tomlinſon's letter muſt aſſuredly weigh with her. I ſent it in juſt now by Dorcas, deſiring her to re-peruſe it. And it was not returned me, as I feared it would be. And that's a good ſign, I think.

I ſay, I think, and I think; for this charming creature, intangled as I am in my own inventions, puzzles me ten thouſand times more than I her.

LETTER XLV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BBLFORD, Eſq

LET me periſh, if I know what to make either of myſelf, or of this ſurpriſing creature — Now calm, now tempeſtuous — But I know thou loveſt not anticipation any more than me.

At my repeated requeſts, ſhe met me at ſix this morning. She was ready dreſſed; for ſhe has not had her cloaths off ever ſince ſhe declared, that they never more ſhould be off in this houſe. And charmingly ſhe looked, with all the diſadvantages of a three hours violent ſtomach-ach (for Dorcas told me, that ſhe had been really ill), no reſt, and eyes red, and ſwell'd with weeping. Strange to me, that thoſe charming fountains have not been long ago exhauſted. But ſhe is a woman. And I believe anatomiſts allow, that women have more watry heads than men.

Well, my deareſt creature, I hope you have now thoroughly conſider'd of the contents of Captain Tomlinſon's letter. But as we are thus early met, let me beſeech you to make this my happy day.

She looked not favourably upon me. A cloud hung upon her brow at her entrance: But as ſhe was going [311] to anſwer me, a ſtill greater ſolemnity took poſſeſſion of her charming features.

Your air, and your countenance, my beloved creature, are not propitious to me. Let me beg of you, before you ſpeak, to forbear all further recriminations. For already I have ſuch a ſenſe of my vileneſs to you, that I know not how to bear the reproaches of my own mind.

I have been endeavouring, ſaid ſhe, ſince I am not permitted to avoid you, after a compoſure which I never more expected to ſee you in. How long I may enjoy it, I cannot tell. But I hope I ſhall be enabled to ſpeak to you without that vehemence which I expreſſed yeſterday, and could not help it (a).

After a pauſe (for I was all attention) thus ſhe proceeded.

It eaſy for me, Mr. Lovelace, to ſee, that further violences are intended me, if I comply not with your purpoſes, whatever they are. I will ſuppoſe them to be what you ſo ſolemnly profeſs they are. But I have told you as ſolemnly my mind, that I never will, [...]hat I never can, be yours; nor, if ſo, any man's upon earth. All vengeance, nevertheleſs, for the wrongs you have done me, I diſclaim. I want but to ſlide into ſome obſcure corner, to hide myſelf from you, and from every one, who once loved me. The deſire lately ſo near my heart, of a reconciliation with my friends, is much abated. They ſhall not receive me now, if they would. Sunk in my own eyes, I now think myſelf unworthy of their favour. In the anguiſh of my ſoul, therefore, I conjure you, Lovelace (tears in her eyes), to leave me to my fate. In [312] doing ſo, you will give me a pleaſure, the higheſt I now can know.

Whither, my deareſt life—

No matter whither. I will leave to Providence, when I am out of this houſe, the direction of my future ſteps. I am ſenſible enough of my deſtitute condition. I know, that I have not now a friend in the world. Even Miſs Howe has given me up—or you are—But I would fain keep my temper! — By your means I have loſt them all—And you have been a barbarous enemy to me. You know you have.

She pauſed.

I could not ſpeak.

The evils I have ſuffered, proceeded ſhe (turning from me), however irreparable, are but temporary evils —Leave me to my hopes of being enabled to obtain the Divine forgiveneſs, for the offence I have been drawn in to give to my parents, and to virtue; that ſo I may avoid the evils that are more than temporary. This is in now all I have to wiſh for. And what is it that I demand, that I have not a right to, and from which it is an illegal violence to with-hold me?

It was impoſſible for me, I told her plainly, to comply. I beſought her to give me her hand as this very day. I could not live without her. I communicated to her my Lord's illneſs, as a reaſon why I wiſh'd not to ſtay for her uncle's anniverſary. I beſought her to bleſs me with her conſent; and, after the ceremony was paſſed, to accompany me down [...] Berks. And thus, my deareſt life, ſaid I, will yo [...] be freed from a houſe, to which you have conceive [...] ſo great an antipathy.

This, thou wilt own, was a princely offer. And I was reſolved to be as good as my word. I though [...] I had kill'd my Conſcience, as I told thee, Belford ſome time ago. But Conſcience, I find, tho' it ma [...] be temporarily ſtifled, cannot die; and when it da [...] not ſpeak aloud, will whiſper. And at this inſtant [313] I thought I felt the revived varleteſs (on but a ſlight retrograde motion), writhing round my pericardium like a ſerpent; and, in the action of a dying one (collecting all its force into its head), fix its plaguy fangs into my heart.

She heſitated, and looked down, as if irreſolute. And this ſet my heart up at my mouth. And, believe me, I had inſtantly popt in upon me, in imagination, an old ſpectacled parſon, with a white ſurplice thrown over a black habit (A fit emblem of the halcyon office, which, under a benign appearance, often introduces a life of ſtorms and tempeſts), whining and ſnuffling thro' his noſe the irrevocable ceremony.

I hope now, my dear life, ſaid I, ſnatching her hand, and preſſing it to my lips, that your ſilence bodes me good. Let me, my beloved creature, have but your tacit conſent this moment, to ſtep out, and engage a miniſter—And then I promiſed how much my whole future life ſhould be devoted to her commands, and that I would make her the beſt and tendereſt of huſbands.

At laſt, turning to me, I have told you my mind, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe. Think you, that I could thus ſolemnly—There ſhe ſtopt—I am too much in your power, proceeded ſhe; Your priſoner, rather than a perſon free to chooſe for myſelf, or to ſay what I will do or be.—But, as a teſtimony that you mean me well, let me inſtantly quit this houſe; and I will then give you ſuch an anſwer in writing, as beſt befits my unhappy circumſtances.

And imagineſt thou, faireſt, thought I, that this will go down with a Lovelace? Thou oughteſt to have known, that free-livers, like miniſters of ſtate, never part with a power put into their hands, without an equivalent of twice the value.

I pleaded, that if we joined hands this morning (if not, to-morrow; if not, on Thurſday, her uncle's birth-day, and in his preſence); and afterwards, as I [314] had propoſed, ſet out for Berks; we ſhould, of courſe, quit this houſe; and, on our return to town, ſhould have in readineſs the houſe I was in treaty for.

She anſwer'd me not, but with tears and ſighs: Fond of believing what I hoped, I imputed her ſilence to the modeſty of her ſex. The dear creature, thought I, ſolemnly as ſhe began with me, is ruminating, in a ſweet ſuſpenſe, how to put into fit words the gentle purpoſes of her condeſcending heart. But, looking in her averted face with a ſoothing gentleneſs, I plainly perceived, that it was reſentment, and not baſhfulneſs, that was ſtruggling in her boſom (a).

At laſt, ſhe broke ſilence—I have no patience, ſaid ſhe, to find myſelf a ſlave, a priſoner, in a vile houſe —Tell me, Sir, in ſo many words tell me, Whether it be, or be not, your intention to permit me to quit it?—To permit me the freedom which is my birthright as an Engliſh ſubject?

Will not the conſequence of your departure hence be, that I ſhall loſe you for ever, Madam?—And can I bear the thoughts of that?

She flung from me—My ſoul diſdains to hold parley with thee, were her violent words—But I threw myſelf at her feet, and took hold of her reluctant hand, and began to imprecate, to vow, to promiſe—But thus the paſſionate Beauty, interrupting me, went on:

I am ſick of thee, MAN!—One continued ſtring of vows, oaths, and proteſtations, varied only by time and place, fill thy mouth!—Why detaineſt thou me? My heart riſes againſt thee, O thou cruel implement of my brother's cauſeleſs vengeance—All I beg of thee is, that thou wilt remit me the future part of my father's dreadful curſe! The temporary part, baſe and ingrateful as thou art! thou haſt completed!

I was ſpeechleſs!—Well I might!—Her brother's [315] implement! —James Harlowe's implement! — Zounds, Jack! what words were theſe!

I let go her ſtruggling hand. She took two or three turns croſs the room, her whole haughty ſoul in her air—Then approaching me, but in ſilence, turning from me, and again to me, in a milder voice—I ſee thy confuſion, Lovelace. Or is it thy remorſe? — I have but one requeſt to make thee.—The requeſt ſo often repeated —That thou wilt this moment permit me to quit this houſe. Adieu then, let me ſay, for ever adieu! And may'ſt thou enjoy that happineſs in this world, which thou haſt robbed me of; as thou haſt of every friend I have in it!

And ſaying this, away ſhe flung, leaving me in a confuſion ſo great, that I knew not what to think, ſay, or do.

But Dorcas ſoon rouſed me — Do you know, Sir, I running in haſtily, that my lady is gone down ſtairs!

No, ſure!—And down I flew, and found her once more at the ſtreet-door, contending with Polly Horton to get out.

She ruſhed by me into the fore-parlour, and flew to the window, and attempted once more to throw up the ſaſh—Good people! Good people! cried ſhe.

I caught her in my arms, and lifted her from the window. But being afraid of hurting the charming creature (charming in her very rage), ſhe ſlid thro' my arms on the floor; — Let me die here! Let me die here! were her words; remaining jointleſs and immoveable till Sally and Mrs. Sinclair hurried in.

She was viſibly terrified at the ſight of the old wretch; while I, ſincerely affected, appealed, Bear witneſs, Mrs. Sinclair!—Bear witneſs, Miſs Martin! —Miſs Horton! — Every one bear witneſs, that I offer not violence to this beloved creature!

She then found her feet — O houſe (looking towards the windows, and all round her, O houſe) contrived on purpoſe for my ruin! ſaid ſhe—But let not [316] that woman come into my preſence—Nor that Miſs Horton neither, who would not have dared to controul me, had ſhe not been a baſe one!

Hoh, Sir! Hoh, Madam! vociferated the old creature, her arms kemboed, and flouriſhing with one foot to the extent of her petticoats—What ado's here about nothing!—I never knew ſuch work in my life, betwen a chicken of a gentleman, and a tyger of a lady!—

She was viſibly affrighted: And up ſtairs ſhe haſten'd. A bad woman is certainly, Jack, more terrible to her own ſex, than even a bad man.

I follow'd her up. She ruſhed by her own apartment into the dining-room: No terror can make her forget her punctilio.

To recite what paſſed there of invective, exclamations, threatenings, even of her own life, on one ſide; of expoſtulations, ſupplications, and ſometimes menaces, on the other, would be too affecting; and, after my particularity in like ſcenes, theſe things may as well be imagined as expreſſed.

I will therefore only mention, that, at length, I extorted a conceſſion from her. She had reaſon (a) to think it would have been worſe for her on the ſpot, if ſhe had not made it. It was, That ſhe would endeavour to make herſelf eaſy, till ſhe ſaw what next Thurſday, her uncle's birth-day, would produce. But O that it were not a ſin, ſhe paſſionately exclaimed, on making this poor conceſſion, to put an end to her own life, rather than yield to give me but that aſſurance!

[317]This, however, ſhews me, that ſhe is aware, that the reluctantly-given aſſurance may be fairly conſtrued into a matrimonial expectation on my ſide. And if ſhe will now, even now, look forward, I think, from my heart, that I will put on her livery, and wear it for life.

What a ſituation am I in, with all my curſed inventions? I am puzzled, confounded, and aſhamed of myſelf, upon the whole. To take ſuch pains to be a villain!— But (for the fiftieth time) let me aſk thee, Who would have thought, that there had been ſuch a woman in the world?—Nevertheleſs, ſhe had beſt take care, that ſhe carries not her obſtinacy much further. She knows not what revenge for ſlighted love will make me do.

The buſy ſcenes I have juſt paſſed thro', have given emotions to my heart, which will not be quieted one while. My heart, I ſee (on reperuſing what I have written), has communicated its tremors to my fingers; and in ſome places the characters are ſo indiſtinct and unformed, that thou'lt hardly be able to make them out. But if one half of them only are intelligible, that will be enough to expoſe me to thy contempt, for the wretched hand I have made of my plots and contrivances.—But ſurely, Jack, I have gained ſome ground by this promiſe.

And now, one word to the aſſurances thou ſendeſt me, that thou haſt not betrayed my ſecrets in relation to this charming creature. Thou mighteſt have ſpared them, Belford. My ſuſpicions held no longer than while I wrote about them (a). For well I knew, when I allowed myſelf time to think, that thou hadſt no principles, no virtue, to be miſled by. A great deal of ſtrong envy, and a little of weak pity, I knew to be thy motives. Thou couldſt not provoke my anger, and my compaſſion thou ever hadſt; and art [318] now more eſpecially intitled to it; beauſe thou art a pityful fellow.

All thy new expoſtulations in my Beloved's behalf, I will anſwer when I ſee thee.

LETTER XLVI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq.

COnfoundedly out of humour with this perverſe lady. Nor wilt thou blame me, if thou art my friend. She regards the conceſſion ſhe made, as a conceſſion extorted from her: And we are but juſt where we were before ſhe made it.

With great difficulty I prevailed upon her to favour me with her company for one half-hour this evening. The neceſſity I was under to go down to M. Hall, was the ſubject I wanted to talk to her upon.

I told her, that as ſhe had been ſo good as to promiſe, that ſhe would endeavour to make herſelf eaſy till ſhe ſaw the Thurſday in next week over,—I hoped, that ſhe would not ſcruple to oblige me with her word, that I ſhould find her here, at my return from M. Hall.

Indeed ſhe would make me no ſuch promiſe. Nothing of this houſe was mentioned to me, ſaid ſhe: You know it was not. And do you think that I would have given my conſent to my impriſonment in it?

I was plaguily nettled, and diſappointed too. If I go not down to M. Hall, Madam, you'll have no ſcruple to ſtay here, I ſuppoſe, till Thurſday is over?

If I cannot help myſelf, I muſt.—But I inſiſt upon being permitted to go out of this houſe, whether you leave it, or not.

Well, Madam, then I will comply with your commands. And I will go out this very evening, in queſt of lodgings that you ſhall have no objection to.

I will have no lodgings of your providing, Sir—I will go to Mrs. Moore's at Hamſtead.

[319]Mrs. Moore's, Madam?—I have no objection to Mrs. Moore's.—But will you give me your promiſe, to admit me there to your preſence?

As I do here—When I cannot help it.

Very well, Madam—Will you be ſo good, as to let me know, what you intended by your promiſe to make yourſelf eaſy

To endeavour, Sir, to make myſelf eaſy—were the words—

—Till you ſaw what next Thurſday would produce?

Aſk me no queſtions that may inſnare me. I am too ſincere for the company I am in.

Let me aſk you, Madam, What meant you, when you ſaid, ‘that, were it not a ſin, you would die before you gave me that aſſurance?’

She was indignantly ſilent.

You thought, Madam, you had given me room to hope your pardon by it?

When I think I ought to anſwer you with patience, I will ſpeak.

Do you think yourſelf in my power, Madam?

If I were not—And there ſhe ſtopt—

Deareſt creature, ſpeak out—I beſeech you, deareſt creature, ſpeak out.—

She was ſilent; her charming face all in a glow.

Have you, Madam, any reliance upon my honour?

Still ſilent.

You hate me, Madam. You deſpiſe me more than you do the moſt odious of God's creatures.

You ought to deſpiſe me, if I did not.

You ſay, Madam, you are in a bad houſe. You have no reliance upon my honour—You believe you cannot avoid me

She aroſe. I beſeech you, let me withdraw.

I ſnatch'd her hand, riſing, and preſs'd it firſt to my lips, and then to my heart, in wild diſorder. She might have felt the bounding miſchief ready to burſt its bars—You ſhall go—To your own apartment, if [320] you pleaſe—But, by the great God of Heaven, I will accompany you thither.

She trembled—Pray, pray, Mr. Lovelace, don't terrify me ſo!

Be ſeated, Madam! I beſeech you be ſeated!—

I will ſit down—

Do then, Madam—Do then—All my ſoul in my eyes, and my heart's blood throbbing at my fingers ends.

I will—I will—You hurt me—Pray, Mr. Lovelace, don't—don't frighten me ſo—And down ſhe ſat, trembling; my hand ſtill graſping hers.

I hung over her throbbing boſom, and putting my other arm round her waiſt—And you ſay, you hate me, Madam — And you ſay, you deſpiſe me!—And you ſay, you promiſed me nothing—

Yes, yes, I did promiſe you—Let me not be held down thus—You ſee I ſat down when you bid me— Why (ſtruggling) need you hold me down thus?— I did promiſe to endeavour to be eaſy till Thurſday was over! But you won't let me! — How can I be eaſy?— Pray, let me not be thus terrified.

And what, Madam, meant you by your promiſe? Did you mean any-thing in my favour?— You deſigned, that I ſhould, at the time, think you did. Did you mean any thing in my favour, Madam?— Did you intend, that I ſhould think you did?

Let go my hand, Sir—Take away your arm from about me, ſtruggling, yet trembling — Why do you gaze upon me ſo?

Anſwer me, Madam—Did you mean any thing in my favour by your promiſe?

Let me not be thus conſtrained to anſwer.

Then pauſing, and gaining more ſpirit, Let me go, ſaid ſhe: I am but a woman—but a weak woman— But my life is in my own power, tho' my perſon is not—I will not be thus conſtrained.

You ſhall not, Madam, quitting her hand, bowing, [321] but my heart at my mouth, and hoping farther provocation.

She aroſe, and was hurrying away.

I purſue you not, Madam—I will try your generoſity—Stop—Return.—This moment ſtop, return, if, Madam, you would not make me deſperate.

She ſtopt at the door; burſt into tears— O Lovelace!—How, how, have I deſerved—

Be pleaſed, deareſt angel, to return.

She came back—But with declared reluctance; and imputing her compliance to terror.

Terror, Jack, as I have heretofore found out, tho' I have ſo little benefited by the diſcovery, muſt be my reſort, if ſhe make it neceſſary — Nothing elſe will do with the inflexible charmer.

She ſeated herſelf over-againſt me; extremely diſcompoſed.—But indignation had a viſible predominance in her features.

I was going towards her, with a countenance intendedly changed to love and ſoftneſs: Sweeteſt, deareſt angel, were my words, in the tendereſt accent:—But, riſing up, ſhe inſiſted upon my being ſeated at diſtance from her.

I obeyed—and begged her hand over the table, to my extended hand; to ſee, as I ſaid, if in any thing ſhe would oblige me — But nothing gentle, ſoft, or affectionate would do. She refuſed me her hand!— Was ſhe wiſe, Jack, to confirm to me, that nothing but terror would do?

Let me only know, Madam, if your promiſe to endeavour to wait with patience the event of next Thurſday, meant me favour?

Do you expect any voluntary favour from one to whom you give not a free choice?

Do you intend, Madam, to honour me with your hand, in your uncle's preſence, or do you not?

My heart and my hand ſhall never be ſeparated. [322] Why, think you, did I ſtand in oppoſition to the will of my beſt my natural friends?

I know what you mean, Madam—Am I then as hateful to you as the vile Solmes?

Aſk me not ſuch a queſtion, Mr. Lovelace.

I muſt be anſwered. Am I as hateful to you, as the vile Solmes?

Why do you call Mr. Solmes vile?

Don't you think him ſo, Madam?

Why ſhould I? Did Mr. Solmes ever do vilely by me?

Deareſt creature! don't diſtract me by hateful compariſons! And perhaps by a more hateful preference.

Don't you, Sir, put queſtions to me, that you know I will anſwer truly, tho' my anſwer were ever ſo much to enrage you.

My heart, Madam, my ſoul is all yours at preſent. But you muſt give me hope, that your promiſe, in your own conſtruction, binds you, no new cauſe to the contrary, to be mine on Thurſday. How elſe can I leave you?

Let me go to Hamſtead; and truſt to my favour.

May I truſt to it?—Say, only, May I truſt to it?

How will you truſt to it, if you extort an anſwer to this queſtion?

Say only, deareſt creature, ſay only, may I truſt to your favour, if you go to Hamſtead?

How dare you, Sir, if I muſt ſpeak out, expect a promiſe of favour from me?—What a mean creature muſt you think me, after your ingrateful baſeneſs to me, were I to give you ſuch a promiſe?

Then ſtanding up, Thou haſt made me, O vileſt of men! (her hands claſped, and a face crimſoned over with indignation) an inmate of the vileſt of houſes—Nevertheleſs, while I am in it, I ſhall have a heart incapable of any thing but abhorrence of that and of thee!

[323]And round her looked the angel, and upon me, with fear in her ſweet aſpect of the conſequence of her free declaration.—But what a devil muſt I have been, I, who love bravery in a man, had I not been more ſtruck with admiration of her fortitude at the inſtant, than ſtimulated by revenge?

Nobleſt of creatures! — And do you think I can leave you, and my intereſt in ſuch an excellence, precarious? No promiſe!—No hope!—If you make me not deſperate, may lightning blaſt me, if I do you not all the juſtice 'tis in my power to do you!

If you have any intention to oblige me, leave me at my own liberty, and let me not be detained in this abominable houſe. To be conſtrained as I have been conſtrained! To be ſtopt by your vile agents! To be brought up by force, and to be bruiſed, in my own defence againſt ſuch illegal violence!—I dare to die, Lovelace—And the perſon that fears not death is not to be intimidated into a meanneſs unworthy of her heart and principles!

Wonderful creature! But why, Madam, did you lead me to hope for ſomething favourable for next Thurſday?—Once more, make me not deſperate— With all your magnanimity, glorious creature! [I was more than half frantic, Belford] You may, you may — But do not, do not make me brutally threaten you!—Do not, do not make me deſperate!

My aſpect, I believe, threatened ſtill more than my words. I was riſing—She aroſe—Mr. Lovelace, be pacified—You are even more dreadful than the Lovelace I have long dreaded—Let me retire—I aſk your leave to retire—You really frighten me—Yet I give you no hope—From my heart I ab—

Say not, Madam, you abhor me — You muſt, for your own ſake, conceal your hatred — At leaſt not avow it.—I ſeized her hand.

Let me retire — Let me retire, ſaid ſhe —in a manner out of breath.

[324]I will only ſay, Madam, that I refer myſelf to your generoſity. My heart is not to be truſted at this inſtant. As a mark of my ſubmiſſion to your will, you ſhall, if you pleaſe, withdraw.—But I will not go to M. Hall—Live or die my uncle, I will not go to M. Hall.—But will attend the effect of your promiſe. Remember, Madam, you have promiſed to endeavour to make yourſelf eaſy, till you ſee the event of next Thurſday—Next Thurſday, remember, your uncle comes up, to ſee us married. — That's the event— You think ill of your Lovelace — Do not, Madam, ſuffer your own morals to be degraded by the infection, as you called it, of his example.

Away flew the charmer, with this half-permiſſion—And no doubt thought, that ſhe had an eſcape-nor without reaſon.

I knew not for half an hour what to do with myſelf. Vexed at the heart, nevertheleſs, now ſhe was from me, when I reflected upon her hatred of me, and her defiances, that I ſuffered myſelf to be ſo over-awed, checked, reſtrained—

And now I have written thus far (having of courſe recollected the whole of our converſation), I am more and more incenſed againſt myſelf.

But I will go down to theſe women—and perhaps ſuffer myſelf to be laugh'd at by them.

Devil fetch them, they pretend to know their own ſex. Sally was a woman well educated—Polly alſo — Both have read —Both have ſenſe—Of parentage not contemptible—Once modeſt both—Still they ſay had been modeſt, but for me — Not intirely indelicate now; tho' too little nice for my perſonal intimacy, loth as they both are to have me think ſo.—The old one, too, a woman of family, tho' thus (from bad inclination, as well as at firſt from low circumſtances) miſerably ſunk:—And hence they all pretend to remember what once they were; and vouch for the inclinations [325] and hypocriſy of the whole ſex; and wiſh for nothing ſo ardently, as that I will leave the perverſe lady to their management, while I am gone to Berkſhire; undertaking abſolutely for her humility and paſſiveneſs on my return; and continually boaſting of the many perverſe creatures whom they have obliged to draw in their traces.

They often upbraidingly tell me, that they are ſure I ſhall marry at laſt:—And Sally, the laſt time I was with her, had the confidence to hint, that, when a wife, ſome other perſon would not find half the difficulty, that I had found.—Confidence, indeed! But yet I muſt ſay, That this dear creature is the only woman in the world, of whom I ſhould not be jealous. And yet, if a man gives himſelf up to the company of theſe devils, they never let him reſt, till he either ſuſpect or hate his wife.

But a word or two of other matters, if poſſible.

Methinks, I long to know how cauſes go at M. Hall. I have another private intimation, that the old Peer is in the greateſt danger.

I muſt go down. Yet what to do with this lady the mean while!—Theſe curſed women are full of cruelty and enterpriſe. She will never be eaſy with them in my abſence. They will have provocation and pretence therefore. But woe be to them, if—

Yet what will vengeance do, after an inſult committed? The two nymphs will have jealous rage [...]o goad them on—And what will with-hold a jealous and already-ruined woman?

To let her go elſewhere; that cannot he done. I am ſtill reſolved to be honeſt, if ſhe'll give me hope: If yet ſhe'll let me be honeſt — But I'll ſee how ſhe'll be, after the contention ſhe will certainly have between her reſentment, and the terror ſhe had reaſon for, from our laſt converſation.—So let this ſubject reſt till the morning. And to the old Peer once more.

[326]I ſhall have a good deal of trouble, I reckon, tho' no ſordid man, to be decent on the expected occaſion. Then how to act (I who am no hypocrite) in the days of condolement! What farces have I to go through; and to be a principal actor in them—I'll try to think of my own latter end; a grey beard, and a graceleſs heir; in order to make me ſerious.

Thou, Belford, knoweſt a good deal of this ſort of grimace; and canſt help a gay heart to a little of the diſmal. But then every feature of thy face is cut out for it. My heart may be touched, perhaps, ſooner than thine; for, believe me, or not, I have a very tender one:—But then, no man looking in my face, be the occaſion for grief ever ſo great, will believe that heart to be deeply diſtreſſed.

All is placid, eaſy, ſerene, in my countenance. Sorrow cannot ſit half an hour together upon it. Nay, I believe, that Lord M.'s recovery, ſhould it happen, would not affect me above a quarter of an hour. Only the new ſcenery (and the pleaſure of aping an Heraclitus to the family, while I am a Democritus among my private friends), or I want nothing that the old Peer can leave me. Wherefore then ſhould grief ſadden and diſtort ſuch blythe, ſuch jocund features as mine?

But as for thine, were there murder committed in the ſtreet, and thou wert but paſſing by, the murderer even in ſight, the purſuers would quit him, and lay hold of thee: And thy very looks would hang, as well as apprehend, thee.

But one word to buſineſs, Jack. Whom dealteſt thou with for thy blacks?—Wert thou well uſed?— I ſhall want a plaguy parcel of them. For I intend to make every ſoul of the family mourn—Outſide, if not In.

LETTER XLVII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

[327]

I Went out early this morning, on a deſign that I know not yet whether I ſhall or ſhall not purſue; and on my return found Simon Parſons, my Lord's Berkſhire Bailiff (juſt before arrived), waiting for me with a meſſage in form, ſent by all the family, to preſs me to go down, and that at my Lord's particular deſire; who wants to ſee me before he dies.

Simon has brought my Lord's chariot-and-ſix (perhaps my own by this time), to carry me down. I have ordered it to be in readineſs by four to-morrow morning. The cattle ſhall ſmoke for the delay; and by the reſt they'll have in the interim, will be better able to bear it.

I am ſtill reſolved upon matrimony, if my fair Perverſe will accept of me. But, if ſhe will not— why then I muſt give an uninterrupted hearing, not to my conſcience, but to theſe women below.

Dorcas had acquainted her lady with Simon's arrival and errand. My Beloved had deſired to ſee him. But my coming in prevented his attendance on her, juſt as Dorcas was inſtructing him what queſtions he ſhould not anſwer to, that might be aſked of him.

I am to be admitted to her preſence immediately, at my repeated requeſt—Surely the acquiſition in view will help me to make all up with her—She is juſt gone up to the dining-room.

NOTHING will do, Jack! — I can procure no favour from her, tho' ſhe has obtained from me the point which ſhe had ſet her heart upon.

I will give thee a brief account of what paſſed between us.

I firſt propoſed inſtant marriage; and this in the moſt fervent manner: But was denied as fervently.

[328]Would ſhe be pleaſed to aſſure me, that ſhe would ſtay here only till Tueſday morning? I would but juſt go down, and ſee how my Lord was—To know whether he had any thing particular to ſay, or injoin me, while yet he was ſenſible, as he was very earneſt to ſee me—Perhaps I might be up on Sunday— Concede in ſomething! — I beſeech you, Madam, ſhew me ſome little conſideration.

Why, Mr. Lovelace, muſt I be determined by your motions?—Think you, that I will voluntarily give a ſanction to the impriſonment of my perſon? Of what importance to me ought to be your ſtay or your return?

Give a ſanction to the impriſonment of your perſon! Do you think, Madam, that I fear the Law?—

I might have ſpared this fooliſh queſtion of defiance—But my pride would not let me. I thought ſhe threatened me, Jack.

I don't think ſo, Sir — You are too brave to have any regard either to moral or divine ſanctions.

'Tis well, Madam! — But aſk me any thing I can do to oblige you; and I will oblige you, tho' in nothing will you oblige me.

Then I aſk you, then I requeſt of you, to let me go to Hamſtead.

I pauſed — and at laſt — By my ſoul you ſhall— This very moment I will wait upon you, and ſee you fixed there, if you'll promiſe me your hand on Thurſday, in preſence of your uncle.

I want not you to ſee me fixed—I will promiſe nothing.

Take care, Madam, that you don't let me ſee, that I can have no reliance upon your future favour.

I have been uſed to be threatened by you, Sir— But I will accept of your company to Hamſtead— I will be ready to go in a quarter of an hour—My cloaths may be ſent after me.

You know the condition, Madam—Next Thurſday.

You dare not truſt—

[329]My infinite demerits tell me, that I ought not— Nevertheleſs I will confide in your generoſity—To-morrow morning (no new cauſe ariſing to give reaſon to the contrary), as early as you pleaſe, you may go to Hamſtead.

This ſeemed to oblige her. But yet ſhe looked with a face of doubt.

I will go down to the women. And having no better judges at hand, will hear what they ſay upon my critical ſituation with this proud beauty, who has ſo inſolently rejected a Lovelace kneeling at her feet, tho' making an earneſt tender of himſelf for a huſband, in ſpite of all his prejudices to the ſtate of ſhackles.

LETTER XLVIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

JUST come from the women.

‘Have I gone ſo far, and am I afraid to go farther?—Have I not already, as it is evident by her behaviour, ſinned beyond forgiveneſs?—A woman's tears uſed to be to me but as water ſprinkled on a glowing fire, which gives it a fiercer and brighter blaze: What defence has this lady, but her tears and her eloquence? She was before taken at no weak advantage. She was inſenſible in her moments of trial. Had ſhe been ſenſible, ſhe muſt have been ſenſible. So they ſay. The methods taken with her have augmented her glory and her pride. She has now a tale to tell, that ſhe may tell, with honour to herſelf. No accomplice-inclination. She can look me into confuſion, without being conſcious of ſo much as a thought, which ſhe need to be aſhamed of.’

This, Jack, the ſubſtance of my conference with the women.

To which let me add, that the dear creature now ſees the neceſſity I am in to leave her. Detecting me [330] is in her head. My contrivances are of ſuch a nature, that I muſt appear to be the moſt odious of men, if I am detected on this ſide matrimony. And yet I have promiſed as thou ſeeſt, that ſhe ſhall ſet out to Hamſtead, as ſoon as ſhe pleaſes in the morning, and that without condition on her ſide.

Doſt thou aſk, What I meant by this promiſe?

No new cauſe ariſing, was the proviſo on my ſide, thou'lt remember. But there will be a new cauſe.

Suppoſe Dorcas ſhould drop the promiſory-note given her by her lady? Servants, eſpecially thoſe who cannot read or write, are the moſt careleſs people in the world of written papers. Suppoſe I take it up? — At a time, too, that I was determined that the dear creature ſhould be her own miſtreſs? — Will not this detection be a new cauſe?—A cauſe that will carry againſt her the appearance of ingratitude with it?

That ſhe deſigned it a ſecret from me, argues a fear of detection, and indirectly a ſenſe of guilt. I wanted a pretence. Can I have a better? If I am in a violent paſſion upon the detection, is not paſſion an univerſally allowed extenuator of violence? —Is not every man and woman obliged to excuſe that fault in another, which at times they find attended with ſuch ungovernable effects in themſelves?

The mother and ſiſterhood, ſuppoſe, brought to ſit in judgment upon the vile corrupted?—The leaſt benefit that muſt accrue from the accidental diſcovery, if not a pretence for perpetration (which, however, may be the caſe), an excuſe for renewing my orders for her detention till my return from M. Hall (the fault her own); and for keeping a ſtricter watch over her than before; with direction to ſend me any letters that may be written by her or to her. — And when I return, the devil's in it if I find not a way to make her chooſe lodgings for herſelf (ſince theſe are ſo hateful to her), that ſhall anſwer all my purpoſes; [331] and yet no more appear to direct her choice, than I did before in theſe.

Thou wilt curſe me, when thou comeſt to this place. I know thou wilt. But thinkeſt thou, that, after ſuch a ſeries of contrivance, I will loſe this inimitable woman, for want of a little more? A Rake's a Rake, Jack!—And what Rake is with-held by principle from the perpetration of any evil his heart is ſet upon, and in which he thinks he can ſucceed?— Beſides, am I not in earneſt as to marriage?—Will not the generality of the world acquit me, if I do marry? And what is that injury which a church-rite will at any time repair? Is not the cataſtrophe of every ſtory that ends in wedlock accounted happy, be the difficulties in the progreſs to it ever ſo great?

But here, how am I ingroſſed by this lady, while poor Lord M. as Simon tells me, lies groaning in the dreadfuleſt agonies? —What muſt he ſuffer!—Heaven relieve him!—I have a too compaſſionate heart. And ſo would the dear creature have found, could I have thought the worſt of her ſufferings equal to the lighteſt of his. I mean as to fact; for, as to that part of hers, which ariſes from extreme ſenſibility, I know nothing of that; and cannot therefore be anſwerable for it.

LETTER XLIX. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

JUST come from my charmer. She will not ſuffer me to ſay half the obliging, the tender things, which my honeſt heart is ready to overflow with. A confounded ſituation, that, when a man finds himſelf in humour to be eloquent, and pathetic at the ſame time, yet cannot engage the miſtreſs of his fate to lend an ear to his fine ſpeeches.

I can account now, how it comes about, that lovers, when their miſtreſſes are cruel, run into ſolitude, [332] and diſburthen their minds to ſtocks and ſtones: For am I not forced to make my complaints to thee?

She claimed the performance of my promiſe, the moment ſhe ſaw me, of permitting her (haughtily ſhe ſpoke the word) to go to Hamſtead, as ſoon as I were gone to Berks.

Moſt chearfully I renewed it.

She deſired me to give orders in her hearing.

I ſent for Dorcas, and Will. They came.—Do you both take notice (But, perhaps, Sir, I may take you with me), that your lady is to be obeyed in all her commands. She purpoſes to return to Hamſtead as ſoon as I am gone—My dear, will you not have a ſervant to attend you?

I ſhall want no ſervant there.

Will you take Dorcas?

If I ſhould want Dorcas, I can ſend for her.

Dorcas could not but ſay, She ſhould be very proud—

Well, well, that may be at my return, if your lady permit—Shall I, my dear, call up Mrs. Sinclair, and give her orders to the ſame effect, in your hearing?

I deſire not to ſee Mrs. Sinclair; nor any that belong to her.

As you pleaſe, Madam.

And then (the ſervants being withdrawn) I urged her again for the aſſurance, that ſhe would meet me at the altar on Thurſday next. But to no purpoſe. May ſhe not thank herſelf for all that may follow?

One favour, however, I would not be denied; to be admitted to paſs the evening with her.

All ſweetneſs and obſequiouſneſs will I be on this occaſion. My whole ſoul ſhall be poured out to move her to forgive me. If ſhe will not, and if the promiſory-note ſhould fall in my way, my revenge will, doubtleſs, take total poſſeſſion of me.

All the houſe in my intereſt, and every one in it [333] not only engaging to intimidate, and aſſiſt, as occaſion ſhall offer, but ſtaking all their experience upon my ſucceſs, if it be not my own fault, what muſt be the conſequence?

This, Jack, however, ſhall be her laſt trial; and if ſhe behave as nobly in and after this ſecond attempt (all her ſenſes about her), as ſhe has done after the firſt, ſhe will come out an angel upon full proof, in ſpite of man, woman, and devil: Then ſhall there be an end of all her ſufferings. I will then renounce that vanquiſhed devil, and reform. And if any vile machination ſtart up, preſuming to miſlead me, I will ſooner ſtab it in my heart, as it riſes, than give way to it.

A few hours will now decide all. But whatever be the event, I ſhall be too buſy to write again, till I get to M. Hall.

Mean time I am in ſtrange agitations. I muſt ſuppreſs them, if poſſible, before I venture into her preſence—My heart bounces my boſom from the table. I will lay down my pen, and wholly reſign to its impulſes.

LETTER L. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Thought I ſhould not have had either time or inclination to write another line before I got to M. Hall. But have the firſt; muſt find the laſt; ſince I can neither ſleep, nor do any thing but write, if I can do that. I am moſt confoundedly out of humour. The reaſon let it follow; if it will follow — No preparation for it, from me.

I tried by gentleneſs and love to ſoften—What?— Marble. A heart incapable either of love, or gentleneſs. Her paſt injuries for ever in her head. Ready to receive a favour; the permiſſion to go to Hamſtead; [334] but neither to deſerve it, nor return any. So my ſcheme of the gentle kind, was ſoon given over.

I then wanted her to provoke me: Like a coward boy, who waits for the firſt blow, before he can perſuade himſelf to fight, I half challeng'd her to challenge or defy me: She ſeemed aware of her danger; and would not directly brave my reſentment: But kept ſuch a middle courſe, that I neither could find a pretence to offend, nor reaſon to hope; yet ſhe believed my tale, that her uncle would come to Kentiſh Town; and ſeemed not to apprehend, that Tomlinſon was an impoſtor.

She was very uneaſy, upon the whole, in my company: Wanted often to break from me: Yet ſo held me to my promiſe of permitting her to go to Hamſtead, that I knew not how to get off of it; altho' it was impoſſible, in my precarious ſituation with her, to think of performing it.

In this ſituation; the women ready to aſſiſt; and, if I proceeded not, as ready to ridicule me; what had I left me, but to purſue the concerted ſcheme, and ſeek a pretence to quarrel with her, in order to revoke my promiſed permiſſion; and to convince her, that I would not be upbraided as the moſt brutal of raviſhers for nothing?

I had agreed with the women, that if I could not find a pretence in her preſence to begin my operations, the note ſhould lie in my way, and I was to pick it up, ſoon after her retiring from me. But I began to doubt at near ten o'clock (ſo earneſt was ſhe to leave me, ſuſpecting my over-warm behaviour to her, and eager graſping of her hand two or three times, with eye-ſtrings, as I felt, on the ſtrain, while her eyes ſhewed uneaſineſs and apprehenſion), that if ſhe actually retired for the night, it might be a chance, whether it would be eaſy to come at her again. Loth therefore to run ſuch a riſque, I ſtept [335] out at a little after ten, with intent to alter the preconcerted diſpoſition a little; ſaying I would attend her again inſtantly. But as I returned, I met her at the door, intending to withdraw for the night. I could not perſuade her to go back: Nor had I preſence of mind (ſo full of complaiſancy as I was to her juſt before) to ſtay her by force: So ſhe ſlid thro' my hands into her own apartment. I had nothing to do, therefore, but to let my former concert take place.

I ſhould have premiſed (but care not for order of time, connexion, or any thing elſe) that, between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, another ſervant of Lord M.'s, on horſeback, came, to deſire me to carry down with me Dr. S. my uncle having been once (in extremis, as they judge he is now) relieved and reprieved by him. I ſent, and engaged the Doctor to accompany me down; and am to call upon him by four this morning: Or the devil ſhould have uncle and doctor, if I'd ſtir, till I got all made up.

Poke thy damn'd noſe forward into the event, if thou wilt— Curſe me, if thou ſhalt have it, till its proper time and place—And too ſoon then.

She had hardly got into her chamber, but I found a little paper, as I was going into mine; which I took up; and, opening it (for it was carefully pinn'd in another paper), what ſhould it be, but a promiſory note, given as a bribe, with a further promiſe of a diamond ring, to induce Dorcas to favour her miſtreſs's eſcape?

How my temper chang'd in a moment!—Ring, ring, ring, ring, my bell, with a violence enough to break the ſtring, and as if the houſe were on fire.

Every devil frighted into active life: The whole houſe in an uproar: Up runs Will.—Sir—Sir—Sir! —Eyes goggling, mouth diſtended—Bid the damn'd [336] toad Dorcas come hither (as I ſtood at the ſtair-head), in a horrible rage, and out of breath, cry'd I.

In ſight came the trembling devil—but ſtanding aloof, from the report made her by Will. of the paſſion I was in, as well as from what ſhe heard.

Flaſh came out my ſword immediately; for I had it ready on—Curs'd, confounded, villainous, bribery and corruption!—

Up runs ſhe to her lady's door, ſcreaming out for ſafety and protection.

Good your honour, interpoſed Will. for God's ſake—O Lord, O Lord!—receiving a good cuff.—

Take that, varlet, for ſaving the ingrateful wretch from my vengeance!—

Wretch! I intended to ſay; but if it were ſome other word of like ending, paſſion muſt be my excuſe.

Up ran two or three of the ſiſterhood, What's the matter! What's the matter!

The matter! (for ſtill my beloved opened not her door; on the contrary, drew another bolt) This abominable Dorcas!—(Call her aunt up!—Let her ſee what a traitreſs ſhe has placed about me!—And let her bring the toad to anſwer for herſelf)— has taken a bribe, a proviſion for life, to betray her truſt; by that means to perpetuate a quarrel between a man and his wife, and fruſtrate for ever all hopes of reconciliation between us!

Let me periſh, Belford, if I have patience to proceed with the farce!

UP came the aunt puffing and blowing!—As ſhe hoped for mercy, ſhe was not privy to it!—She never knew ſuch a plotting perverſe lady in her life! —Well might ſervants be at the paſs they were, when ſuch ladies as Mrs. Lovelace made no conſcience of corrupting them. For her part, ſhe deſired no mercy [337] for the wretch: No niece of hers, if ſhe were not faithful to her truſt!—But what was the proof?—

She was ſhewn the paper—

But too evident! —Curſed, curſed Toad, Devil, Jade, paſſed from each mouth:—And the vileneſs of the corrupted, and the unworthineſs of the corruptreſs, were inveighed againſt.

Up we all went, paſſing the lady's door into the dining-room, to proceed to tryal—

Stamp, ſtamp, ſtamp up, each on her heels; Rave, rave, rave, every tongue!—

Bring up the creature before us all, this inſtant!—

And would ſhe have got out of the houſe, ſay you!—

Theſe the noiſes, and the ſpeeches, as we clatter'd by the door of the fair bribereſs.—

Up was brought Dorcas (whimpering) between two, both bawling out—You muſt go! You ſhall go!—'Tis fit you ſhould anſwer for yourſelf!— You are a diſcredit to all worthy ſervants!—as they pulled and puſhed her up ſtairs.—She whining, I cannot ſee his honour!—I cannot look ſo good and ſo generous a gentleman in the face!—O how ſhall I bear my aunt's ravings!—

Come up, and be d—n'd—Bring her forward, her imperial judge!—What a plague, it is the detection, not the crime, that confounds you. You could be quiet enough for days together, as I ſee by the date, under the villainy. Tell me, ingrateful devil, tell me, who made the firſt advances.

Ay, diſgrace to my family and blood, cry'd the old one!—Tell his Honour! Tell the truth;—Who m [...]de the firſt advances!—

Ay, curſed creature, cry'd Sally, Who made the firſt advances?

I have betrayed one truſt already!—O let me not betray another!—My lady is a good lady!—O let not her ſuffer!—

Tell all you know. Tell the whole truth, Dorcas, [338] cry'd Polly Horton—His Honour loves his lady too well, to make her ſuffer much; little as ſhe requites his love!—

Every-body ſees that, cry'd Sally— Too well indeed, for his Honour, I was going to ſay.

Till now, I thought ſhe deſerved my love! But to bribe a ſervant thus, whom ſhe ſuppoſed had orders to watch her ſteps, for fear of another elopement; and to impute that precaution to me as a crime!— Yet I muſt love her!—Ladies, forgive my weakneſs!—

Curſe upon my grimaces!—If I have patience to repeat them!—But thou ſhalt have them all —Thou canſt not deſpiſe me more than I deſpiſe myſelf!—

BUT ſuppoſe, Sir, ſaid Sally, you have my lady and the wench face to face? You ſee ſhe cares not to confeſs.

O my careleſſneſs! cry'd Dorcas—Don't let my poor lady ſuffer!—Indeed if you all knew what I know, you would ſay, Her ladyſhip has been cruelly treated—

See!—See!—See!—See!— repeatedly, every one at once—Only ſorry for the detection, as your Honour ſaid — Not the fault

Curſed creature, and deviliſh creature, from every mouth.

Your lady won't, ſhe dare not come out to ſave you, cry'd Sally, tho' it is more his Honour's mercy, than your deſert, if he does not cut your vile throat, this inſtant.

Say, repeated Polly, was it your lady, that made the firſt advances, or was it you, you creature?—

If the lady has ſo much honour, bawl'd the mother, excuſe me, So—Excuſe me, Sir—[Confound the old wretch! ſhe had like to have ſaid Son!]— If the lady has ſo much honour, as we have ſuppoſed, ſhe will appear to vindicate a poor ſervant, miſled, as ſhe has been, by ſuch large promiſes!— [339] But I hope, Sir, you will do them both juſtice: I hope you will!—Good lack! Good lack! clapping her hands together, to grant her every thing ſhe could aſk: To indulge her in her unworthy hatred to my poor innocent houſe! To let her go to Hamſtead, tho' your Honour told us, you could get no condeſcenſion from her; no, not the leaſt!— O Sir—O Sir—I hope—I hope—If your lady will not come out—I hope, you will find a way to hear this cauſe in her preſence. I value not my doors, on ſuch an occaſion as this. Juſtice I ever loved. I deſire you will come at the bottom of it, in clearance to me!—I'll be ſworn I had no privity in this black corruption.

Juſt then, we heard the lady's door unbar, unlock, unbolt—

Now, Sir!

Now, Mr. Lovelace.

Now, Sir! from every encouraging mouth!—

But, O Jack! Jack! Jack! I can write no more!

IF you muſt have it all, you muſt!

Now, Belford, ſee us all ſitting in judgment, reſolved to puniſh the fair bribereſs—I, and the mother, the hitherto dreaded mother, the nieces Sally, Polly, the traitreſs Dorcas, and Mabell, a guard, as it were, over her, that ſhe might not run away, and hide herſelf:—All pre-determined, and of neceſſity pre-determined, from the journey I was going to take, and my precarious ſituation with her:—And hear her unbolt, unlock, unbar, the door; then, as it proved afterwards, put the key into the lock on the outſide, lock the door, and put it in her pocket; Will. I knew, below, who would give me notice, if, while we were all above, ſhe ſhould miſtake her way, and go down ſtairs, inſtead of coming into the dining-room; the ſtreet-doors alſo doubly ſecured, and every [340] ſhutter to the windows round the houſe faſtened, that no noiſe or ſcreaming ſhould be heard [Such was the brutal preparation]—And then hear her ſtep towards us, and inſtantly ſee her enter among us, confiding in her own innocence; and with a majeſty in her perſon and manner, that is natural to her; but which then ſhone out in all its glory!—Every tongue ſilent, every eye awed, every heart quaking, mine, in a particular manner, ſunk, throbleſs, and twice below its uſual region, to once at my throat: —A ſhameful recreant!—She ſilent too, looking round her, firſt on me; then on the mother, as no longer fearing her; then on Sally, Polly; and the culprit Dorcas!—Such the glorious power of innocence exerted at that awful moment!

She would have ſpoken, but could not, looking down my guilt into confuſion: A mouſe might have been heard paſſing over the floor, her own light feet and ruſtling ſilks could not have prevented it; for ſhe ſeemed to tread air, and to be all ſoul — She paſſed to the door, and back towards me, two or three times, before ſpeech could get the better of indignation, and at laſt, after twice or thrice hemming, to recover her articulate voice — O thou contemptible and abandoned Lovelace, thinkeſt thou that I ſee not thro' this poor villainous plot of thine, and of theſe thy wicked accomplices?

Thou woman, looking at the mother, once my terror! always my diſlike! but now my deteſtation ſhouldeſt once more (for thine perhaps was the preparation) have provided for me intoxicating potions, to rob me of my ſenſes—

And then, turning to me, Thou, wretch, mighteſt more ſecurely have depended upon ſuch a low contrivance as this!—

And ye, vile women, who perhaps have been the ruin, body and ſoul, of hundreds of innocents (you ſhew me how, in full aſſembly), know, that I am [341] not married,—ruined as I am, by your helps, I bleſs God, I am not married, to this miſcreant—And I have friends that will demand my honour at your hands!—And to whoſe authority I will apply; for none has this man over me. Look to it then, what further inſults you offer me, or incite him to offer me. I am a perſon, tho' thus vilely betrayed, of rank and fortune. I never will be his; and, to your utter ruin, will find friends to purſue you: And now I have this full proof of your deteſtable wickedneſs, and have heard your baſe incitements, will have no mercy upon you!—

They could not laugh at the poor figure I made. —Lord! how every devil, conſcience-ſhaken, trembled! —

What a dejection muſt ever fall to the lot of guilt, were it given to innocence always thus to exert itſelf! —

And as for thee, thou vile Dorcas! — Thou double deceiver! — whining out thy pretended love for me! — Begone, wretch! — Nobody will hurt thee! —Begone, I ſay!—Thou haſt too well acted thy part to be blamed by any here but myſelf— Thou art ſafe: Thy guilt is thy ſecurity in ſuch a houſe as this!—Thy ſhameful, thy poor part, thou haſt as well acted, as the low farce could give thee to act! —As well as they each of them (thy ſuperiors, tho' not thy betters), thou ſeeſt, can act theirs.—Steal away into darkneſs! No inquiry after this will be made, whoſe the firſt advances, thine or mine.

And, as I hope to live, the wench, confoundedly frightened, ſlunk away; ſo did her centinel Mabell; tho' I, endeavouring to rally, cried out for Dorcas to ſtay: But I believe the devil could not have ſtopt her, when an angel bid her begone.

Madam, ſaid I, let me tell you; and was advancing towards her, with a fierce aſpect, moſt curſedly vexed and aſhamed too—

[342]But ſhe turned to me; Stop where thou art, O vileſt and moſt abandoned of men! — Stop where thou art! — Nor, with that determined face, offer to touch me, if thou wouldeſt not that I ſhould be a corpſe at thy feet!

To my aſtoniſhment, ſhe held forth a penknife in her hand, the point to her own boſom, graſping reſolutely the whole handle, ſo, that there was no offering to take it from her.

I offer not miſchief to any-body but myſelf. You, Sir, and ye women, are ſafe from every violence of mine. The LAW ſhall be all my reſource: The LAW, and ſhe ſpoke the word with emphaſis, that to ſuch people carries natural terror with it, and now ſtruck a panic into them.

No wonder, ſince thoſe who will damn themſelves to procure eaſe and plenty in this world, will tremble at every thing that ſeems to threaten their methods of obtaining that eaſe and plenty.—

The LAW only ſhall be my refuge!—

The infamous mother whiſpered me, that it were better to make terms with this ſtrange lady, and let her go.

Sally, notwithſtanding all her impudent bravery at other times, ſaid, If Mr. Lovelace had told them what was not true of her being his wife—

And Polly Horton: That ſhe muſt needs ſay, the lady, if ſhe were not my wife, had been very much injured; that was all.

That is not now a matter to be diſputed, cried I: You and I know. Madam —

We do ſo, ſaid ſhe; and I thank God, I am not thine: — Once more, I thank God for it! I have no doubt of the further baſeneſs that thou hadſt intended me, by this vile and low trick: But I have my SENSES, Lovelace: And from my heart I deſpiſe thee, thou very poor Lovelace! How canſt thou ſtand in my preſence!—Thou, that—

[343]Madam, Madam, Madam— Theſe are inſults not to be borne— And was approaching her. She withdrew to the door, and ſet her back againſt it, holding the pointed knife to her heaving boſom; while the women held me, beſeeching me not to provoke the violent lady—For their houſe ſake, and be curs'd to them, they beſought me—and all three hung upon me—While the truly heroic lady braved me, at that diſtance:

Approach me, Lovelace, with reſentment, if thou wilt. I dare die. It is in defence of my honour. God will be merciful to my poor ſoul!—I expect no mercy from thee! I have gained this diſtance, and two ſteps nearer me, and thou ſhalt ſee what I dare do!—

Leave me, women, to myſelf, and to my angel! —They retired at a diſtance—O my beloved creature, how you terrify me!—Holding out my arms, and kneeling on one knee—Not a ſtep, not a ſtep further, except to receive the death myſelf at that injured hand that threatens its own.—I am a villain! the blackeſt or villains!—Say you will ſheath your knife in the injurer's, not the injured's, heart; and then will I indeed approach you, but not elſe.

The mother twang'd her damn'd noſe; and Sally and Polly pulled out their handkerchiefs, and turned from us. They never in their lives, they told me afterwards, beheld ſuch a ſcene—

Innocence ſo triumphant: Villainy ſo debaſed, they muſt mean!

Unawares to myſelf, I had moved onward to my angel —And doſt thou, doſt thou, ſtill diſclaiming, ſtill advancing—Doſt thou, doſt thou, ſtill inſidiouſly move towards me; and her hand was extended —I dare—I dare—Not raſhly neither—My heart from principle abhors the act, which thou makeſt neceſſary!—God, in thy mercy! —Lifting up her eyes, and hands—God, in thy mercy!—

[344]I threw myſelf to the further end of the room. An ejaculation, a ſilent ejaculation, employing her thoughts that moment; Polly ſays the whites of her lovely eyes were only viſible: And, in the inſtant that ſhe extended her hand, aſſuredly to ſtrike the fatal blow [How the very recital tumults me!], ſhe caſt her eye towards me, and ſaw me at the utmoſt diſtance the room would allow, and heard my broken voice [My voice was utterly broken; nor knew I what I ſaid, or whether to the purpoſe or not]: And her charming cheeks, that were all in a glow before, turned pale, as if terrified at her own purpoſe; and lifting up her eyes—Thank God!—Thank God! ſaid the angel — Deliver'd for the preſent; for the preſent deliver'd from myſelf. — Keep, Sir, keep that diſtance (looking down towards me, who was proſtrate on the floor, my heart pierced, as with an hundred daggers!): That diſtance has ſaved a life; to what reſerved, the Almighty only knows!—

To be happy, Madam; and to make happy!— And O let me but hope for your favour for to-morrow—I will put off my journey till then — And may God—

Swear not, Sir! — With an awful and piercing aſpect—You have too-too often ſworn!—God's eye is upon us! — His more immediate eye; and looked wildly.— But the women looked up to the ceiling, and trembled, as if afraid of God's eye. And well they might; and I too, who ſo very lately had each of us the devil in our hearts.

If not to-morrow, Madam, ſay but next Thurſday, your uncle's birth-day; ſay but next Thurſday! —

This I ſay, of This you may aſſure yourſelf, I never, never will be yours. — And let me hope, that I may be intitled to the performance of your promiſe, to permit me to leave this innocent houſe, as one called [345] it (but long have my ears been accuſtomed to ſuch inverſions of words), as ſoon as the day breaks.

Did my perdition depend upon it, that you cannot, Madam, but upon terms. And I hope you will not terrify me—Still dreading the accurſed knife.

Nothing leſs than an attempt upon my honour ſhall make me deſperate.—I have no view, but to defend my honour: With ſuch a view only I entered into treaty with your infamous agent below. The reſolution you have ſeen, I truſt, God will give me again upon the ſame occaſion. But for a leſs, I wiſh not for it. Only take notice, women, that I am no wife of this man: Baſely as he has uſed me, I am not his wife. He has no authority over me. If he go away by-and-by, and you act by his authority to detain me, look to it.

Then, taking one of the lights, ſhe turned from us; and away ſhe went, unmoleſted. — Not a ſoul was able to moleſt her.

Mabell ſaw her, tremblingly, and in a hurry, take the key of her chamber-door out of her pocket, and unlock it; and, as ſoon as ſhe entered, heard her, double lock, bar, and bolt it.

By her taking out her key, when ſhe came out of her chamber to us, ſhe no doubt ſuſpected my deſign: Which was, to have carried her in my arms thither, if ſhe made ſuch force neceſſary, after I had intimidated her, and to have been her companion for that night.

She was to have had ſeveral bedchamber-women to aſſiſt to undreſs her upon occaſion: But, from the moment ſhe entered the dining-room with ſo much intrepidity, it was abſolutely impoſſible to think of proſecuting my villainous deſigns againſt her.

THIS, This, Belford, was the hand I made of a [346] contrivance I expected ſo much from! — And now am I ten times worſe off than before!

Thou never ſaweſt people in thy life look ſo like fools upon one another, as the mother, her partners, and I, did for a few minutes. And at laſt, the two deviliſh nymphs broke out into inſulting ridicule upon me; while the old wretch was concerned for her houſe, the reputation of her houſe. I curſed them all together; and, retiring to my chamber, locked myſelf in.

And now it is time to ſet out: All I have gained, detection, diſgrace, freſh guilt by repeated perjuries, and to be deſpiſed by her I doat upon; and, what is ſtill worſe to a proud heart, by myſelf.

Succeſs, ſucceſs in projects, is every thing. What an admirable fellow did I think myſelf till now! Even for this ſcheme among the reſt! But how pitifully fooliſh does it appear to me now! — Scratch out, eraſe, never to be read, every part of my preceding letters, where I have boaſtingly mentioned it.—And never preſume to railly me upon the curſed ſubject: For I cannot bear it.

But for the lady, by my ſoul I love her, I admire her, more than ever!—I muſt have her. I will have her ſtill. — With honour, or without, as I have often vowed. — My curſed fright at her accidental bloody noſe, ſo lately, put her upon improving upon me thus: Had ſhe threatened ME, I ſhould ſoon have been miſtreſs of one arm, and in both! — But for ſo ſincere a virtue to threaten herſelf, and not offer to intimidate any other, and with ſo much preſence of mind, as to diſtinguiſh, in the very paſſionate intention, the neceſſity of the act in def [...]nce of her honour, and ſo fairly to diſavow leſſer occaſions; ſhewed ſuch a deliberation, ſuch a choice, ſuch a principle; and then keeping me ſo watchfull at a diſtance, that I could not ſeize her hand, ſo ſoon as ſhe could have given the fatal blow; how impoſſible [347] not to be ſubdued by ſo true and ſo diſcreet a magnanimity!

But ſhe is not gone; ſhall not go. I will preſs her with letters for the Thurſday—She ſhall yet be mine, legally mine. For, as to cohabitation, there is now no ſuch thing to be thought of.

The Captain ſhall give her away, as proxy for her uncle. My Lord will die. My fortune will help my will, and ſet me above every-thing and every-body.

But here is the curſe:—She deſpiſes me, Jack!— What man, as I have heretofore ſaid, can bear to be deſpiſed—eſpecially by his wife?—O Lord! O Lord! What a hand, what a curſed hand, have I made of this plot!—And here ends

The hiſtory of the Lady and the Penknife!!!— The devil take the penknife!—It goes againſt me to ſay, God bleſs the Lady.

LETTER LI. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

My deareſt Life,

IF you do not impute to love, and to terror raiſed by love, the poor figure I made before you laſt night, you will not do me juſtice. I thought I would try to the very laſt moment, if, by complying with you in every-thing, I could prevail upon you to promiſe to be mine on Thurſday next, ſince you refuſed me an earlier day. Could I have been ſo happy, you had not been hindered going to Hamſtead, or whereever elſe you pleaſed. But when I could not prevail upon you to give me this aſſurance, what room had I (my demerit ſo great) to ſuppoſe, that your going thither wou [...]d not be to loſe you for ever?

I will own to you, Madam, that yeſterday afternoon [348] I picked up the paper dropt by Dorcas; who has confeſſed, that ſhe would have aſſiſted you in getting away, if ſhe had had an opportunity ſo to do; and undoubtedly dropped it by accident.—And could I have prevailed upon you as to the Thurſday next, I would have made no uſe of it; ſecure as I ſhould then have been, in your word given, to be mine. But when I found you inflexible, I was reſolved to try, if, by reſenting Dorcas's treachery, I could not make your pardon of me the condition of mine to her: And if not, to make a handle of it to revoke my conſent to your going away from Mrs. Sinclair's; ſince the conſequence of that muſt have been ſo fatal to me.

So far, indeed, was my proceeding low and artful: And when I was challenged with it, as ſuch, in ſo high and noble a manner, I could not avoid taking ſhame to myſelf upon it.

But you muſt permit me, Madam, to hope, that you will not puniſh me too heavily for ſo poor a contrivance, ſince no diſhonour was meant you; and ſince, in the moment of its execution, you had as great an inſtance of my incapacity to defend a wrong, a low meaſure, and, at the ſame time, of your power over me, as mortal man could give: In a word, ſince you muſt have ſeen, that I was abſolutely under the controul both of Conſcience, and of Love.

I will not offer to defend myſelf, for wiſhing you to remain where you are, till either you give me your word to meet me at the altar, on Thurſday; or till I have the honour of attending you, preparative to the ſolemnity which will make that day the happieſt of my life.

I am but too ſenſible, that this kind of treatment may appear to you with the face of an arbitrary and illegal impoſition: But as the conſequences, not only to ourſelves, but to both our families, may be fatal, if you cannot be moved in my favour; let me beſeech you to forgive this act of compulſion, on the ſcore of the [349] neceſſity you your dear ſelf have laid me under to be guilty of it; and to permit the ſolemnity of next Thurſday to include an act of oblivion of all paſt offences.

The orders I have given to the people of the houſe are: ‘That you ſhall be obeyed in every particular that is conſiſtent with my expectations of finding you there on my return to town on Wedneſday next: That Mrs. Sinclair, and her nieces, having incurred your juſt diſpleaſure, ſhall not, without your orders, come into your preſence: That neither ſhall Dorcas, till ſhe has fully cleared her conduct to your ſatisfaction, be permitted to attend you: But Mabell, in her place; of whom, you ſeemed, ſome time ago, to expreſs ſome liking. Will. I have left behind me to attend your commands. If he be either negligent or impertinent, your diſmiſſion ſhall be a diſmiſſion of him from my ſervice for ever. But, as to letters which may be ſent you, or any which you may have to ſend, I muſt humbly intreat, that none ſuch paſs from or to you, for the few days that I ſhall be abſent.’ But I do aſſure you, Madam, that the ſeals of both ſorts ſhall be ſacred: And the letters, if ſuch be ſent, ſhall be given into your own hands, the moment the ceremony is performed, or before, if you require it.

Mean time I will inquire, and ſend you word, how Miſs Howe does; and to what, if I can be informed, her long ſilence is owing.

Dr. Perkins I found here, attending my Lord, when I arrived with Dr. S. He acquaints me, that your father, mother, uncles, and the ſtill leſs worthy perſons of your family, are well; and intend to be all at your uncle Harlowe's next week; I preſume to keep his anniverſary. This can make no alteration, but a happy one, as to perſons, on Thurſday; becauſe Mr. Tomlinſon aſſured me, that, if [350] any-thing fell out to hinder your uncle's coming up in perſon (which, however, he did not then expect), he would be ſatisfied if his friend the Captain were proxy for him. I ſhall ſend a man and horſe tomorrow to the Captain, to be at greater certainty.

I ſend this by a ſpecial meſſenger, who will wait your pleaſure: Which I humbly hope will be ſignified in a line, in relation to the impatiently-wiſhed-for Thurſday.

My Lord, tho' hardly ſenſible, and unmindful of every-thing but of our felicity, deſires his moſt affectionate compliments to you. He has in readineſs to preſent you ſeveral valuables; which he hopes will be acceptable, whether he lives to ſee you adorn them, or not.

Lady Sarah and Lady Betty have alſo their tokens of reſpect ready to court your acceptance: But may heaven incline you to give the opportunity of receiving their perſonal compliments, and thoſe of my couſins Montague, before the next week be out!

His Lordſhip is exceeding ill. Dr. S. has no hopes of him: The only conſolation I can have for the death of a relation who loves me ſo well, if he do die, muſt ariſe from the additional power it will put into my hands of ſhewing how much I am,

My deareſt Life,
Your ever-affectionate and faithful LOVELACE,

LETTER LII. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

My deareſt Love,

I Cannot find words to expreſs how much I am mortified at the return of my meſſenger, without a line from you.

[351]Thurſday is ſo near, that I will ſend meſſenger after meſſenger every four hours, till I have a favourable anſwer; the one to meet the other, till its eve arrives, to know if I may venture to appear in your preſence, with the hope of having my wiſhes anſwered on that day.

Your love, Madam, I neither expect, nor aſk for; nor will, till my future behaviour gives you cauſe to think I deſerve it. All I at preſent preſume to wiſh, is, To have it in my power to do you all the juſtice I can now do you: And to your generoſity will I leave it, to reward me, as I ſhall merit, with your affection.

At preſent, revolving my poor behaviour of Friday night before you, I think I ſhould ſooner chooſe to go to my laſt audit, unprepared for it as I am, than to appear in your preſence, unleſs you give me ſome hope, that I ſhall be received as your elected huſband, rather than (however deſerved) as a deteſted criminal.

Let me therefore propoſe an expedient, in order to ſpare my own confuſion; and to ſpare you the neceſſity for that ſoul-harrowing recrimination, which I cannot ſtand, and which muſt be diſagreeable to yourſelf — To name the church; and I will have every thing in readineſs; ſo that our next interview will be, in a manner, at the very altar; and then you will have the kind huſband to forgive for the faults of the ingrateful lover. If your reſentment be ſtill too high to write more, let it only be, in your own dear hand, theſe words, St. Martin's church, Thurſday—or theſe, St. Giles's church, Thurſday; nor will I inſiſt upon any inſcription, or ſubſcription, or ſo much as the initials of your name. This ſhall be all the favour I will expect, till the dear hand ſelf is given to mine, in preſence of that Being whom I invoke as a witneſs of the inviolable faith and honour of

Your adoring LOVELACE.

LETTER LIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

[352]

ONCE more, my deareſt love, do I conjure you to ſend me the four requeſted words. There is no time to be loſt. And I would not have next Thurſday go over, without being intitled to call you mine, for the world; and that as well for your ſake as my own. Hitherto all that has paſſed is between you and me only; but, after Thurſday, if my wiſhes are unanſwered, the whole will be before the world.

My Lord is extremely ill, and endures not to have me out of his ſight for one half-hour. But this ſhall not weigh with me one iota, if you be pleaſed to hold out the olive-branch to me, in the four requeſted words.

I have the following intelligence from Captain Tomlinſon.

All your family are at your uncle Harlowe's. Your uncle finds he cannot go up; and names Captain Tomlinſon for his proxy. He propoſes to keep all your family with him, till the Captain aſſures him, that the ceremony is over.

Already he has begun, with hope of ſucceſs, to try to reconcile your mother to you.

My Lord M. but juſt now has told me, how happy he ſhould think himſelf to have an opportunity, before he dies, to ſalute you as his niece. I have put him in hopes, that he ſhall ſee you; and have told him, that I will go to town on Wedneſday, in order to prevail upon you to accompany me down on Thurſday or Friday. I have ordered a Set to be in readineſs to carry me up; and, were not my Lord ſo very ill, [353] my couſin Montague tells me, ſhe would offer her attendance on you. If you pleaſe, therefore, we can ſet out for this place the moment the ſolemnity is performed.

Do not, deareſt creature, diſſipate all theſe promiſing appearances, and, by refuſing to ſave your own and your family's reputation in the eye of the world, uſe yourſelf worſe than the ingratefulleſt wretch on earth has uſed you. For, if we are married, all the diſgrace you imagine you have ſuffered while a ſingle lady, will be my own; and only known to ourſelves.

Once more then, conſider well the ſituation we are both in; and remember, my deareſt life, that Thurſday will be ſoon here; and that you have no time to loſe.

In a letter ſent by the meſſenger whom I diſpatch with this, I have deſired, that my friend Mr. Belford, who is your very great admirer, and who knows all the ſecrets of my heart, will wait upon you, to know what I am to depend upon, as to the choſen day.

Surely, my dear, you never could, at any time, ſuffer half ſo much from cruel ſuſpenſe, as I do.

If I have not an anſwer to this, either from your own goodneſs, or thro' Mr. Belford's interceſſion, it will be too late for me to ſet out: And Captain Tomlinſon will be diſappointed, who goes to town on purpoſe to attend your pleaſure.

One motive for the gentle reſtraint I have preſumed to lay you under, is to prevent the miſchiefs that might enſue (as probably to the more innocent, as to the leſs), were you to write to any-body, while your paſſions were ſo much raiſed and inflamed againſt me. Having appriſed you of my direction on this head, I wonder you ſhould have endeavoured to ſend a letter to Miſs Howe, altho' in a cover directed [354] to that young lady's (a) ſervant; as you muſt think it would be likely to fall into my hands.

The juſt ſenſe of what I have deſerved the contents ſhould be, leaves me no room to doubt what they are. Nevertheleſs, I return it you incloſed, with the ſeal, as you will ſee, unbroken.

Relieve, I beſeech you, deareſt Madam, by the four requeſted words, or by Mr. Belford, the anxiety of

Your ever-affectionate and obliged LOVELACE.

Remember, there will not, there cannot be time for further writing, and for my coming-up by Thurſday, your uncle's birth-day.

LETTER LIV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

THOU wilt ſee the ſituation I am in with Miſs Harlowe by the incloſed copies of three letters; to two of which I am too much ſcorned to have one word given me in anſwer; and of the third (now ſent by the meſſenger who brings thee this) I am afraid as little notice will be taken — And if ſo, her day of grace is abſolutely over.

One would imagine (ſo long uſed to conſtraint too as ſhe has been), that ſhe might have been ſatisfied with the triumph ſhe had over us all on Friday night: A triumph that to this hour has ſunk my pride and my vanity ſo much, that I almoſt hate the words Plot, Contrivance, Scheme, and ſhall miſtruſt my ſelf in future, for every one that riſes to my inventive head.

But ſeeſt thou not, that I am under a neceſſity to continue her at Sinclair's, and to prohibit all her correſpondences?

[355]Now, Belford, as I really, in my preſent mood, think of nothing leſs than marrying her, if ſhe let not Thurſday ſlip; I would have thee, in purſuance of the intimation I have given her in my letter of this date, to attend her; and vow for me, ſwear for me, bind thy ſoul to her for my honour, and uſe what arguments thy friendly heart can ſuggeſt, in order to procure me an anſwer from her; which, as thou wilt ſee, ſhe may give in four words only. And then I purpoſe to leave Lord M. (dangerouſly ill as he is) and meet her at her appointed church, in order to ſolemnize: If ſhe will ſign but Cl. H. to thy writing the four words, that ſhall do; for I would not come up to be made a fool of in the face of all my family and friends.

If ſhe ſhould let the day go off;—I ſhall be deſperate!—I am intangled in my own devices, and cannot bear that ſhe ſhould detect me.

O that I had been honeſt!—What a devil are all my plots come to! What do they end in, but one grand plot upon myſelf, and a title to eternal infamy and diſgrace! But, depending on thy friendly offices, I will ſay no more of this.—Let her ſend me but one line!—But one line!—Not treat me as unworthy of her notice; yet be altogether in my power—I cannot—I will not bear that.

My Lord, as I ſaid, is extremely ill: The doctors give him over. He gives himſelf over. Thoſe who would not have him die, are afraid he will. But as to myſelf, I am doubtful: For theſe long and violent ſtruggles between the conſtitution and the diſeaſe, tho' the latter has three phyſicians and an apothecary to help it forward (and all three, as to their preſcriptions, of different opinions too), indicate a plaguy tough habit, and favour more of recovery than death: And the more ſo, as he has no ſharp or acute animal organs to whet out his bodily ones, and to raiſe his fever above the ſymptomatic helpful one.

[356]Thou wilt ſee in the incloſed, what pains I am at to diſpatch meſſengers; who are conſtantly on the road to meet each other, and one of them to link in the chain with a fourth, whoſe ſtation is in London, and five miles onward, or till met. But, in truth, I have ſome other matters for them to perform at the ſame time, with my Lord's banker and his lawyer; which will enable me, if his Lordſhip is ſo good as to die this bout, to be an over-match for ſome of my other relations. I don't mean Charlotte and Patty; for they are noble girls; but others, who have been ſcratching and clawing under-ground like ſo many moles in my abſence; and whoſe workings I have diſcovered ſince I have been down, by the little heaps of dirt they have thrown up.

A ſpeedy account of thy commiſſion, dear Jack! The letter travels all night.

LETTER LV. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

YOU muſt excuſe me, Lovelace, from engaging in the office you would have me undertake, till I can be better aſſured you really intend honourably at laſt by this much-injured lady.

I believe you know your friend Belford too well, to think he would be eaſy with you, or with any man alive, who ſhould ſeek to make him promiſe for him what he never intended to perform. And let me tell thee, that I have not much confidence in the honour of a man, who, by imitation of hands (I will only call it), has ſhewn ſo little regard to the honour of his own relations.

Only that thou haſt ſuch jeſuitical qualifyings, or I ſhould think thee at laſt touched with remorſe, and brought within view of being aſhamed of thy curſed [357] inventions by the ill ſucceſs of thy laſt: Which I heartily congratulate thee upon.

O the divine lady!—But I will not aggravate!

Yet when thou writeſt, that, in thy preſent mood, thou thinkeſt of marrying; and yet canſt ſo eaſily change thy mood: When I know thy heart is againſt the ſtate:—That the four words thou courteſt from the lady are as much to thy purpoſe, as if ſhe wrote forty; ſince it will ſhew ſhe can forgive the higheſt injury that can be offered to woman: And when I recollect, how eaſily thou canſt find excuſes to poſtpone; thou muſt be more explicit a good deal, as to thy real intentions, and future honour, than thou art; for I cannot truſt to a temporary remorſe; which is brought on by diſappointment too, and not by principle; and the like of which thou haſt ſo often got over!

If thou canſt convince me time enough for the day, that thou meaneſt to do honourably by her, in her own ſenſe of the word; or, if not time enough, wilt fix ſome other day (which thou oughteſt to leave to her option, and not bind her down for the Thurſday; and the rather, as thy pretence for ſo doing is founded on an abſolute fiction); I will then moſt chearfully undertake thy cauſe; by perſon, if ſhe will admit me to her preſence; if not, by pen. But, in this caſe, thou muſt allow me to be guarantee for thy faith. And, if ſo, as much as I value thee, and reſpect thy ſkill in all the qualifications of a gentleman, thou may'ſt depend upon it, that I will act up to the character of a guarantee, with more honour than the princes of our day uſually do—to their ſhame be it ſpoken.

Mean time, let me tell thee, that my heart bleeds for the wrongs this angelic lady has received: And if thou doſt not marry her, if ſhe will have thee; and, when married, make her the beſt and tendereſt of [358] huſbands; I would rather be a dog, a monkey, a bear, a viper, or a toad, than thee.

Command me with honour, and thou ſhalt find none readier to oblige thee, than

Thy ſincere Friend, JOHN BELFORD.

LETTER LVI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

YOURS reached me this moment, by an extraordinary puſh in the meſſengers.

What a man of honour, thou, of a ſudden!

And ſo, in the imaginary ſhape of a guarantee, thou threateneſt me!

Had I not been in earneſt as to the lady, I ſhould not have offered to employ thee in the affair. But, let me tell thee, that hadſt thou undertaken the taſk, and I had afterwards thought fit to change my mind, I ſhould have contented myſelf to tell thee, that That was my mind, when thou engagedſt for me; and to have given thee the reaſons for the change; and then left thee to thy own direction. For never knew I what fear of man was,—nor fear of woman neither, till I became acquainted with Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe; nay, what is moſt ſurpriſing, till I came to have her in my power.

And ſo thou wilt not wait upon the charmer of my heart, but upon terms and conditions!—Let it alone, and be curs'd; I care not. — But ſo much credit did I give to the value thou expreſſedſt for her, that I thought the office would have been as acceptable to thee, as ſerviceable to me; for what was it, but to endeavour to perſuade her to conſent to the reparation of her own honour? For what have I done [359] but diſgraced myſelf, and been a thief to my own joys? — And if there be an union of hearts, and an intention to ſolemnize, what is there wanting but the fooliſh ceremony?—And that I ſtill offer. But if ſhe will keep back her hand; if ſhe will make me hold out mine in vain—How can I help it?

I write her one more letter, and if, after ſhe has received that, ſhe keep ſullen ſilence, ſhe muſt thank herſelf for what is to follow.

But, after all, my heart is wholly hers. I love her beyond expreſſion; and cannot help it. I hope therefore ſhe will receive this laſt tender, as I wiſh. I hope ſhe intends not, like a true woman, to plague, and vex, and teaze me, now ſhe has found her power. If ſhe will take me to mercy now theſe remorſes are upon me; tho' I ſcorn to condition with thee for my ſincerity; all her trials, as I have heretofore declared, ſhall be over; and ſhe ſhall be as happy as I can make her: For, ruminating upon all that has paſſed between us, from the firſt hour of our acquaintance till the preſent, I muſt pronounce, That ſhe is Virtue itſelf, and, once more I ſay, has no equal.

As to what you hint of leaving to her choice another day, do you conſider, that it will be impoſſible, that my contrivances and ſtratagems ſhould be much longer concealed?—This makes me preſs that day, tho' ſo near; and the more, as I have made ſo much ado about her uncle's anniverſary. If ſhe ſend me the four words, I will ſpare no fatigue to be in time, if not for the canonical hour at church, for ſome other hour of the day in her own apartment, or any other; for money will do every thing: And that I have never ſpared in this affair.

To ſhew thee, that I am not at enmity with thee, I incloſe the copies of two letters: One to her: It is the fourth, and muſt be the laſt on the ſubject: The other to Captain Tomlinſon; calculated, as thou wilt ſee, for him to ſhew her.

[360]And now, Jack, interfere in this caſe, or not, thou knoweſt the mind of

R. LOVELACE.

LETTER LVII. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

NOT one line, my deareſt life, not one word, in anſwer to three letters I have written! The time is now ſo ſhort, that this muſt be the laſt letter that can reach you on this ſide of the important hour that might make us legally one.

My friend Mr. Belford is apprehenſive, that he cannot wait upon you in time, by reaſon of ſome urgent affairs of his own.

I the leſs regret the diſappointment, becauſe I have procured a more acceptable perſon, as I hope, to attend you; Captain Tomlinſon I mean: To whom I had applied for this purpoſe, before I had Mr. Belford's anſwer.

I was the more ſolicitous to obtain this favour from him, becauſe of the office he is to take upon him, as I humbly preſume to hope, to-morrow. That office obliged him to be in town as this day: And I acquainted him with my unhappy ſituation with you; and deſired, that he would ſhew me, on this occaſion, that I had as much of his favour and friendſhip, as your uncle had; ſince the whole treaty muſt be broken off, if he could not prevail upon you in my behalf.

He will diſpatch the meſſenger directly; whom I propoſe to meet in perſon at Slough; either to proceed onward to London with a joyful heart, or to return back to M. Hall, with a broken one.

I ought not (but cannot help it) to anticipate the pleaſure Mr. Tomlinſon propoſes to himſelf, in acquainting [361] you with the likelihood there is of your mother's ſeconding your uncle's views. For, it ſeems, he has privately communicated to her his laudable intentions: And her reſolution depends, as well as his, upon what to-morrow will produce.

Diſappoint not then, I beſeech you, for an hundred perſons ſakes, as well as for mine, that uncle, and that mother, whoſe diſpleaſure I have heard you ſo often deplore.

You may think it impoſſible for me to reach London by the canonical hour. If it ſhould, the ceremony may be performed in your own apartment, at any time in the day, or at night: So that Captain Tomlinſon may have it to aver to your uncle, that it was performed on his anniverſary.

Tell but the Captain, that you forbid me not to attend you: And that ſhall be ſufficient for bringing [...] you, on the wings of Love,

Your ever-grateful and affectionate LOVELACE.

LETTER LVIII. To Mr. PATRICK M'DONALD, at his Lodgings, at Mr. Brown's, Perukemaker, in St. Martin's-lane, Weſtminſter.

Dear M'DONALD,

THE bearer of this has a letter to carry to the lady (a). I have been at the trouble of writing a copy of it; which I incloſe, that you may not miſtake your cue.

You will judge of my reaſons for ante-dating the incloſed ſealed one (b), directed to you by the name of Tomlinſon, which you are to ſhew the lady, as in confidence. You will open it of courſe.

[362]I doubt not your dexterity and management, dear M'Donald; nor your zeal, eſpecially as the hope of cohabitation muſt now be given up. Impoſſible to be carried is that ſcheme. I might break her heart, but not incline her will. Am in earneſt therefore to marry her, if ſhe let not the day ſlip.

Improve upon the hint of her mother: That muſt touch her. But John Harlowe, remember, has privately engaged that Lady—Privately, I ſay; elſe (not to mention the reaſon for her uncle Harlowe's former expedient) you know, ſhe might find means to get a letter away to the one or the other, to know the truth; or to Miſs Howe, to engage her to inquire into it: And if ſhe ſhould, the word privately will account for the uncle's and mother's denying it.

However, fail not, as from me, to charge our mother and her nymphs, to redouble their vigilance both as to her perſon and letters. All's upon a criſis now. But ſhe muſt not be treated ill neither.

Thurſday over, I ſhall know what to reſolve upon.

If neceſſary, you muſt aſſume authority. The devil's in't, if ſuch a girl as this ſhall awe a man of your years and experience. Fly out, if ſhe doubt your honour. Spirits naturally ſoft may be beat out of their play and borne down (tho' ever ſo much raiſed) by higher anger. All women are cowards at bottom: Only violent when they may. I have often ſtormed a girl out of her miſtruſts, and made her yield before ſhe knew where ſhe was to the point indignantly miſtruſted; and that to make up with me, tho' I was the aggreſſor.

If this matter ſucceed as I'd have it (or if not, and do not fail by your fault) I will take you off of the neceſſity of purſuing your curſed Smuggling; which otherwiſe may one day end fatally for you.

We are none of us perfect, McDonald. This ſweet lady makes me ſerious ſometimes in ſpite of my [363] heart. But as private vices are leſs blameable than public; and as I think Smuggling (as it is called) a National evil; I have no doubt to pronounce you a much worſe man than myſelf, and as ſuch ſhall take pleaſure in reforming you.

I ſend you incloſed ten guineas, as a ſmall earneſt of further favours. Hitherto you have been a very clever fellow.

As to cloaths for Thurſday, Monmouth-ſtreet will afford a ready ſupply. Cloaths quite new would make your condition ſuſpected. But you may defer that care, till you ſee if ſhe can be prevailed upon. Your riding-dreſs will do for the firſt viſit. Nor let your boots be over clean: I have always told you the conſequence of attending to the minutiae, where art (or impoſture, as the ill-manner'd would call it) is deſigned—Your linen rumpled and ſoily, when you wait upon her — Eaſy terms theſe! — Juſt come to town — Remember (as formerly) to loll, to throw out your legs, to ſtroke and graſp down your ruffles, as if of ſignificance enough to be careleſs. What tho' the preſence of a fine lady would require a different behaviour, are you not of years to diſpenſe with politeneſs? You have no deſign upon her, you know. Are a father yourſelf of daughters as old as ſhe. Evermore is parade and obſequiouſneſs ſuſpectable: It muſt ſhew either a fooliſh head, or a knaviſh heart. Make yourſelf of conſequence therefore; and you will be treated as a man of conſequence. I have often more than half ruined myſelf by my complaiſance, and, being afraid of controul, have brought controul upon myſelf.

I think I have no more to ſay at preſent. I intend to be at Slough, or on the way to it, as by mine to the lady. Adieu, honeſt McDonald.

R. L.

LETTER LIX. To Captain ANTONY TOMLINSON. [Incloſed in the preceding; To be ſhewn to the Lady as in confidence.]

[364]
Dear Capt. Tomlinſon,

AN unhappy miſunderſtanding having ariſen between the deareſt lady in the world and me (the particulars of which ſhe perhaps may give you, but I will not, becauſe I might be thought partial to myſelf); and the refuſing to anſwer my moſt preſſing and reſpectful letters; I am at a moſt perplexing uncertainty, whether ſhe will meet us, or not, next Thurſday, to ſolemnize.

My Lord is ſo extremely ill, that if I thought ſhe would not oblige me, I would defer going up to town for two or three days. He cares not to have me out of his ſight: Yet is impatient to ſalute my Beloved as his niece before he dies. This I have promiſed to give him an opportunity to do; intending, if the dear creature will make me happy, to ſet out with her for this place directly from church.

With regret I ſpeak it of the charmer of my ſoul; but irreconcileableneſs is her family-fault: The leſs excuſeable indeed in her, as ſhe herſelf ſuffers by it in ſo high a degree from her own relations.

Now, Sir, as you intended to be in town ſome time before Thurſday, if it be not too great an inconvenience to you, I could be glad you would go up as ſoon as poſſible, for my ſake: And this I the more boldly requeſt, as I preſume that a man who has ſo many great affairs of his own in hand as you have, would be glad to be at a certainty himſelf as to the day.

You, Sir, can ſo pathetically and juſtly ſet before er the unhappy conſequences that will follow if the [365] day be poſtponed, as well with regard to her uncle's diſappointment, as to the part you have aſſured me her mother is willing to take in the wiſhed-for reconciliation, that I have great hopes ſhe will ſuffer herſelf to be prevailed upon. And a man and horſe ſhall be in waiting to take your diſpatches, and bring them to me.

But if you cannot prevail in my favour, you will be pleaſed to ſatisfy your friend Mr. John Harlowe, that it is not my fault that he is not obliged. I am, dear Sir,

Your extremely obliged and faithful Servant, R. LOVELACE.

LETTER LX. To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

Honoured Sir,

I Received yours, as your ſervant deſired me to acquaint you, by ten this morning. Horſe and man were in a foam.

I inſtantly equipp'd myſelf, as if come off from a journey, and poſted away to the lady, intending to plead great affairs, that I came not before, in order to favour your ante-date; and likewiſe to be in a hurry, to have a pretence to hurry her Ladyſhip, and to take no denial for her giving a ſatisfactory return to your meſſenger: But, upon my entering Mrs. Sinclair's houſe, I found all in the greateſt conſternation.

You muſt not, Sir, be ſurpriſed. It is a trouble to me to be the relater of the bad news: But ſo it is, the lady is gone off. She was miſſed but half an hour before I came.

Her waiting-maid is run away, or hitherto is not to be found: So that they conclude it was by her connivance.

[366]They had ſent before I came to my honoured maſters Mr. Belton, Mr. Mowbray, and Mr. Belford. Mr. Tourville is out of town.

High words are paſſing between Madam Sinclair, and Madam Horton, and Madam Martin; as alſo with Dorcas. And your ſervant William threatens to hang or drown himſelf.

They have ſent to know if they can hear of Mabell the waiting-maid at her mother's, who it ſeems lives in Chick-lane, Weſt-Smithfield; and to an uncle of her's alſo, who keeps an alehouſe at Cowcroſs, hard-by, and with whom ſhe lived laſt.

Your meſſenger, having juſt changed his horſe, is come back: So I will not detain him longer than to add, that I am, with great concern for this miſfortune, and thanks for your ſeaſonable favour and kind intentions towards me [I am ſure this was not my fault] honoured Sir,

Your moſt obliged humble Servant, PATRICK McDONALD.

LETTER LXI. Mr. MOWBRAY, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

Dear Lovelace,

I Have plaguy news to acquaint thee with. Miſs Harlowe is gon off!—Quite gon, by my ſoul!— I have not time for particulars, your ſervant being going off. But iff I had, we are not yet come to the bottom of the matter. The ladies here are all blubbering like devils, accuſing one another moſt confoundedly: Whilſt Belton and I damn them all together in thy name.

If thou ſhouldſt hear that thy fellow Will. is taken dead out of ſome horſe-pond, and Dorcas cutt down from her bed's teaſter, from dangling in her own garters, be not ſurpriz'd. Here's the devill to pay. No-body ſerene but Jack Belford, who is taking [367] minutes of examminations, accuſations, and confeſſions, with the ſignifficant air of a Middleſex Juſtice; and intends to write at large all particulars, I ſuppoſe.

I heartily condole with thee: So does Belton. But it may turn out for the beſt: For ſhe is gone away with thy marks, I underſtand. A fooliſh little devill! Where will ſhe mend herſelf? For no-body will look upon her. And they tell me, that thou wouldſt certainly have married her had ſhe ſtaid.—But I know thee better.

Dear Bobby, adieu. If thy uncle will die now, to comfort thee for this Ioſs, what a ſeaſonable exit would he make! Let's have a letter from thee: Pr'ythee do. Thou canſt write devil-like to Belford, who ſhews us nothing at all.

Thine heartily, RD. MOWBRAY.

LETTER LXII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

THOU haſt heard from McDonald and Mowbray the news. Bad or good, I know not which thou'lt deem it. I only wiſh I could have given thee joy upon the ſame account, before the unhappy lady was ſeduced from Hamſtead: For then of what an ingrateful villainy hadſt thou been ſpared the perpetration, which now thou haſt to anſwer for!

I came to town purely to ſerve thee with her, expecting that thy next would ſatisfy me that I might endeavour it without diſhonour: And at firſt when I found her gone, I half pitied thee; for now wilt thou be inevitably blown up: And in what an execrable light wilt thou appear to all the world! Poor Lovelace! Caught in thy own ſnares! Thy puniſhment is but beginning!

[368]But to my narrative; for I ſuppoſe thou expecteſt all particulars from me, ſince Mowbray has informed thee that I have been collecting them.

The noble exertion of ſpirit ſhe had made on Friday night, had, it ſeems, greatly diſordered her; inſomuch that ſhe was not viſible till Saturday evening; when Mabell ſaw her, and ſhe ſeemed to be very ill: But on Sunday morning, having dreſs'd herſelf, as if deſigning to go to church, ſhe order'd Mabell to get her a coach to the door.

The wench told her, She was to obey her in every thing but the calling of a coach or chair.

She ſent for Will. and gave him the ſame command.

He pleaded his maſter's orders to the contrary, and deſired to be excuſed.

Upon this, down ſhe went herſelf, and would have gone out without obſervation: But finding the ſtreet-door double-lock'd, and the key not in the lock, ſhe ſtept into the ſtreet-parlour, and would have thrown up the ſaſh to call out to the people paſſing by, as they doubted not: But that, ſince her laſt attempt of the ſame nature, had been faſten'd down.

Hereupon ſhe reſolutely ſtept into Mrs. Sinclair's parlour in the back-houſe; where were the old devil and her two partners; and demanded the key of the ſtreet-door, or to have it opened for her.

They were all ſurpriſed; but deſired to be excuſed, pleading your orders.

She aſſerted, that you had no authority over her; and never ſhould have any: That their preſent refuſal was their own act and deed: She ſaw the intent of their back-houſe, and the reaſon of putting her there: She pleaded her condition and fortune; and ſaid, They had no way to avoid utter ruin, but by opening their doors to her, or by murdering [369] her, and burying her in their garden or cellar, too deep for detection: That already what had been done to her was puniſhable by death: And bid them at their peril detain her.

What a noble, what a right ſpirit has this charming creature, in caſes that will juſtify an exertion of ſpirit!—

They anſwer'd, That Mr. Lovelace could prove his marriage, and would indemnify them. And they all would have vindicated their behaviour on Friday night, and the reputation of their houſe: But refuſing to hear them on that topic, ſhe flung from them, threatening.

She then went up half a dozen ſtairs in her way to her own apartment: But, as if ſhe had bethought herſelf, down ſhe ſtept again, and proceeded towards the ſtreet-parlour; ſaying, as ſhe paſſed by the infamous Dorcas, I'll make myſelf protectors, tho' the windows ſuffer: But that wench, of her own head, on the lady's going out of that parlour to Mrs. Sinclair's, had lock'd the door, and taken out the key: So that finding herſelf diſappointed, ſhe burſt into tears, and went menacing and ſobbing up ſtairs again.

She made no other attempt till the effectual one. Your letters and meſſages, they ſuppoſed, coming ſo faſt upon one another (tho' ſhe would not anſwer one of them) gave her ſome amuſement, and an aſſurance to them, that ſhe would at laſt forgive you; and that then all would end as you wiſh'd.

The women, in purſuance of your orders, offer'd not to obtrude themſelves upon her; and Dorcas alſo kept out of her ſight all the reſt of Sunday; alſo on Monday and Tueſday. But by the lady's condeſcenſion (even to familiarity) to Mabell, they imagined, that ſhe muſt be working in her mind all that time to get away: They therefore redoubled their cautions to the wench: Who told [370] them ſo faithfully all that paſſed between her lady and her, that they had no doubt of her fidelity to her wicked truſt.

'Tis probable ſhe might have been contriving ſomething all this time; but ſaw no room for perfecting any ſcheme: The contrivance by which ſhe effected her eſcape ſeems to me not to have been fallen upon till the very day; ſince it depended partly upon the weather, as it proved. But it is evident ſhe hoped ſomething from Mabell's ſimplicity, or gratitude, or compaſſion, by cultivating all the time her civility to her.

Polly waited on her early on Wedneſday morning; and met with a better reception than ſhe had reaſon to expect. She complained however with warmth of her confinement. Polly ſaid, There would be an happy end to it (if it were a confinement) next day, ſhe preſumed. She abſolutely declared to the contrary, in the way Polly meant it; and ſaid, That Mr. Lovelace, on his return [Which look'd as if ſhe intended to wait for it], ſhould have reaſon to repent the orders he had given, as they all ſhould their obſervance of them: Let him ſend twenty letters, ſhe would not anſwer one, be the conſequence what it would; nor give him hope of the leaſt favour, while ſhe was in that houſe. She had given Mrs. Sinclair and themſelves fair warning, ſhe ſaid: No orders of another ought to make them detain a free perſon: But having made an open attempt to go, and been detained by them, ſhe was the calmer, ſhe told Polly; Let them look to the conſequence.

But yet ſhe ſpoke this with temper; and Polly gave it as her opinion, (with apprehenſion for their own ſafety) that, having ſo good a handle to puniſh them all, ſhe would not go away, if ſhe might. And what, inferred Polly, is the indemnity of a man who has committed the vileſt of rapes on a [371] perſon of condition; and muſt himſelf, if proſecuted for it, either fly, or be hang'd?

Sinclair, ſo I will ſtill call her, upon this repreſentation of Polly, foreſaw, ſhe ſaid, the ruin of her poor houſe in the iſſue of this ſtrange buſineſs, as ſhe call'd it; and Sally and Dorcas bore their parts in the apprehenſion: And this put them upon thinking it adviſeable for the future, that the ſtreet-door ſhould generally in the day-time be only left upon a bolt-latch, as they call'd it, which anybody might open on the inſide; and that the key ſhould be kept in the door; that their numerous comers and goers, as they called their gueſts, ſhould be able to give evidence, that ſhe might have gone out if ſhe would: Not forgetting, however, to renew their orders to Will. to Dorcas, to Mabell, and the reſt, to redouble their vigilance on this occaſion, to prevent her eſcape: — None of them doubting, at the ſame time, that her love of a man ſo conſiderable in their eyes, and the proſpect of what was to happen as ſhe had reaſon to believe on Thurſday, her uncle's birth-day, would (tho' perhaps not till the laſt hour, for her pride-ſake, was their word) engage her to change her temper.

They believe, that ſhe diſcover'd the key to be left in the door; for ſhe was down more than once to walk in the little garden, and ſeemed to caſt her eye each time to the ſtreet-door.

About eight yeſterday morning, an hour after Polly had left her, ſhe told Mabell, She was ſure ſhe ſhould not live long; and having a good many ſuits of apparel, which after her death would be of no uſe to any-body ſhe valued, ſhe would give her a brown luſtring gown, which, with ſome alterations, to make it more ſuitable to her degree, would a great while ſerve her for a Sunday wear; for that ſhe (Mabell) was the only perſon in that [372] houſe of whom ſhe could think without terror or antipathy.

Mabell expreſſing her gratitude upon the occaſion, the lady ſaid, She had nothing to employ herſelf about; and if ſhe could get a workwoman directly, ſhe would look over her things then, and give her what ſhe intended for her.

Her miſtreſs's mantua-maker, the maid replied, lived but a little way off; and ſhe doubted not that ſhe could procure her, or one of her journey-women, to alter the gown out of hand.

I will give you alſo, ſaid ſhe, a quilted coat, which will require but little alteration, if any; for you are much about my ſtature: But the gown I will give directions about, becauſe the ſleeves and the robings and facings muſt be alter'd for your wear, being, I believe, above your ſtation: And try, ſaid ſhe, if you can get the workwoman, and we'll adviſe about it. If ſhe cannot come now, let her come in the afternoon; but I had rather now, becauſe it will amuſe me to give you a lift.

Then ſtepping to the window, It rains, ſaid ſhe [and ſo it had done all the morning]: Slip on the hood and ſhort cloak I have ſeen you wear, and come to me when you are ready to go out, becauſe you ſhall bring me in ſomething that I want.

Mabell equipp'd herſelf accordingly, and received her commands to buy her ſome trifles, and then left her; but, in her way out, ſtept into the back parlour, where Dorcas was with Mrs. Sinclair, telling her where ſhe was going, and on what account, bidding Dorcas look out till ſhe came back. So faithful was the wench to the truſt repoſed in her, and ſo little had the lady's generoſity wrought upon her.

Mrs. Sinclair commended her; Dorcas envied her, and took her cue: And Mabell ſoon returned with the mantua-maker's journeywoman (She was [373] reſolved, ſhe ſaid, ſhe would not come without her); and then Dorcas went off guard.

The lady look'd out the gown and petticoat, and before the workwoman cauſed Mabell to try it on; and, that it might ſit the better, made the willing wench pull off her upper petticoat, and put on that ſhe gave her. Then ſhe bid them go into Mr. Lovelace's apartment, and contrive about it before the pier-glaſs there, and ſtay till ſhe came to them, to give them her opinion.

Mabell would have taken her own cloaths, and hood, and ſhort cloak with her: But her lady ſaid, No matter; you may put them on again here, when we have conſider'd about the alterations: There's no occaſion to litter the other room.

They went; and inſtantly, as it is ſuppoſed, ſhe ſlipt on Mabell's gown and petticoat over her own, which was white damask, and put on the wench's hood, ſhort cloak, and ordinary apron, and down ſhe went.

Hearing ſomebody tripping along the paſſage, both Will. and Dorcas whipt to the inner-hall door, and ſaw her; but, taking her for Mabell, Are you going far, Mabell, cried Will.?

Without turning her face, or anſwering, ſhe held out her hand, pointing to the ſtairs; which they conſtrued as a caution for them to look out in her abſence; and ſuppoſing ſhe would not be long gone, as ſhe had not formally repeated her caution to them, up went Will. tarrying at the ſtairs-head in expectation of the ſuppoſed Mabell's return.

Mabell and the workwoman waited a good while, amuſing themſelves not diſagreeably, the one with contriving in the way of her buſineſs, the other delighting herſelf with her fine gown and coat: But at laſt, wondering the lady did not come in to them, Mabell tiptoed it to her door, and tapping, and not being anſwer'd, ſtept into the chamber.

[374] Will. at that inſtant, from his ſtation at the ſtairs-head, ſeeing Mabell in her lady's cloaths; for he had been told of the preſent [Gifts to ſervants fly from ſervant to ſervant in a minute] was very much ſurpriſed, having, as he thought, juſt ſeen her go out in her own; and, ſtepping up, met her at the door. How the devil can this be, ſaid he? Juſt now you went out in your own dreſs! How came you here in This? And how could you paſs me unſeen? But nevertheleſs, kiſſing her, ſaid, He would now brag he had kiſſed his lady, or one in her cloaths.

I am glad, Mr. William, cried Mabell, to ſee you here ſo diligently. But know you where my lady is?

In my maſter's apartment, i'n't ſhe? interrogated Will. Was ſhe not talking with you this moment?

No, that's Mrs. Dolins's journeywoman.

They both ſtood aghaſt, as they ſaid; Will. again recollecting he had ſeen Mabell, as he thought, go out in her own cloaths. And while they were debating and wondering, up comes Dorcas with your fourth letter, juſt then brought for her lady; and ſeeing Mabell dreſs'd out (whom ſhe had likewiſe beheld a little before, as ſhe ſuppoſed, in her common cloaths), ſhe joined in the wonder; till Mabell, re-entering the lady's apartment, miſſed her own cloaths; and then ſuſpecting what had happen'd, and letting the others into the ground of her ſuſpicion, they all agreed, that ſhe had certainly eſcaped: And then followed ſuch an uproar of mutual accuſation, and You ſhould have done this, and You ſhould have done that, as alarmed the whole houſe; every apartment in both houſes giving up its devil, to the number of fourteen or fifteen, including the mother and her partners.

Will. told them his ſtory; and then ran out, as [375] on the like occaſion formerly, to make inquiry whether the lady was ſeen by any of the coachmen, chairmen, or porters, plying in that neighbourhood: While Dorcas cleared herſelf immediately, and that at the poor Mabell's expence, who made a figure as guilty as aukward, having on the ſuſpected price of her treachery; which Dorcas, out of envy, was ready to tear from her back.

Hereupon all the pack open'd at the poor wench, while the mother, foaming at the mouth, bellow'd out her orders for ſeiſing the ſuſpected offender; who could neither be heard in her own defence, nor, had ſhe been heard, would have been believed.

That ſuch a perfidious wretch ſhould ever diſgrace her houſe, was the mother's cry! Good people might be corrupted; but it was a fine thing if ſuch a houſe as hers could not be faithfully ſerved by curſed creatures, who hired themſelves upon character, and had no pretence to principle! — Damn her, the wretch proceeded!—She had no patience with her! Call the cook, and call the ſcullion!

They were at hand.

See that guilty pyeball devil, was her word [her lady's gown upon her back]—But I'll puniſh her for a warning to all betrayers of their truſt. Put on the great gridiron this moment (an oath or a curſe at every word): Make up a roaring fire:—The cleaver bring me this inſtant:—I'll cut her into quarters with my own hands; and carbonade and broil the traitreſs, for a feaſt to all the dogs and cats in the neighbourhood; and eat the firſt ſlice of the toad myſelf, without ſalt or pepper.

The poor Mabell, frighten'd out of her wits, expected every moment to be torn in pieces, having half a ſcore open-claw'd paws upon her all at once. She promiſed to confeſs all: But that All, when ſhe had obtained a hearing, was nothing; for nothing had ſhe to confeſs.

[376] Sally hereupon, with a curſe of mercy, ordered her to retire; undertaking that ſhe and Polly would examine her themſelves, that they might be able to write all particulars to his Honour; and then, if ſhe could not clear herſelf, or, if guilty, give ſome account of the lady (who had been ſo wicked as to give them all this trouble) ſo as they might get her again, then the cleaver and gridiron might go to work with all their hearts.

The wench, glad of this reprieve, went up ſtairs; and while Sally was laying out the law, and prating away in her uſual dictatorial manner, whipt on another gown, and ſliding down ſtairs, eſcaped to her relations. And this flight, which was certainly more owing to terror than guilt, was, in the true Old Bailey conſtruction, made a confirmation of the latter.

Theſe are the particulars of Miſs Harlowe's flight. Thou'lt hardly think me too minute.—How I long to triumph over thy impatience and fury on the occaſion!

Let me beſeech thee, my dear Lovelace, in thy next letter, to rave moſt gloriouſly!—I ſhall be grievouſly diſappointed, if thou doſt not.

Where, Lovelace, can the poor lady be gone? And who can deſcribe the diſtreſs ſhe muſt be in?

By your former letters, it may be ſuppoſed, that ſhe can have very little money: Nor, by the ſuddenneſs of her flight, more cloaths than thoſe ſhe has on. And thou knoweſt who once ſaid (a), ‘Her Parents will not receive her: Her Uncles will not entertain her: Her Norton is in their direction, and cannot: Miſs Howe dare not: She has not one friend or intimate in town; intirely a ſtranger to it.’ And, let me add, has been deſpoiled of her honour by the man for whom ſhe made all theſe [377] ſacrifices; and who ſtood bound to her by a thouſand oaths and vows, to be her huſband, her protector, and friend!

How ſtrong muſt be her reſentment of the barbarous treatment ſhe has received! How worthy of herſelf, that it has made her hate the man ſhe once loved! And, rather than marry him, chooſe to expoſe her diſgrace to the whole world; to forego the reconciliation with her friends which her heart was ſo ſet upon; and to hazard a thouſand evils to which her youth and her ſex may too probably expoſe an indigent and friendleſs beauty.

Remembereſt thou not that home puſh upon thee, in one of the papers written in her delirium; of which however it favours not?—

I will aſſure thee, that I have very often ſince moſt ſeriouſly reflected upon it: And as thy intended ſecond outrage convinces me, that it made no impreſſion upon thee then, and perhaps thou haſt never thought of it ſince, I will tranſcribe the ſentence.

‘If, as Religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great meaſure, by our benevolent or evil actions to one another—O wretch, bethink thee, in time bethink thee, how great muſt be thy condemnation (a)!’

And is this amiable doctrine the Sum of Religion? Upon my faith I believe it is. For, to indulge a ſerious thought, ſince we are not atheiſts, except in practice, Does God, the BEING of beings, want any thing of us for HIMSELF? And does he not injoin us works of mercy to one another, as the means to obtain His mercy? A ſublime principle, and worthy of the SUPREME SUPERINTENDENT and FATHER of all things!—But, if we are to be judged by this noble principle, what, indeed, muſt be thy condemnation on the ſcore of this lady only! And what mine, and what all our confraternity's, on the ſcore [378] of other women; tho' we are none of us half ſo bad as thou art, as well for want of inclination, I hope, as of opportunity!

I muſt add, that, as well for thy own ſake, as for the lady's, I wiſh ye were yet to be married to each other. It is the only medium that can be hit upon, to ſalve the honour of both. All that's paſt may yet be concealed from the world, and from her relations; and thou mayſt make amends for all her ſufferings, if thou reſolveſt to be a tender and kind huſband to her.

And if this really be thy intention, I will accept, with pleaſure, of a commiſſion from thee, that ſhall tend to promote ſo good an end, whenever ſhe can be found; that is to ſay, if ſhe will admit to her preſence a man who profeſſes friendſhip to thee. Nor can I give a greater demonſtration, that I am

Thy ſincere Friend, J. BELFORD.

P.S. Mabell's cloaths were thrown into the paſſage this morning: No-body knows by whom.

END of VOL. V.
Notes
(a)
See Vol. iv. p. 353.
[a]

And here, Belford, leſt thou, thro' inattention, ſhouldſt be ſurpriſed at my aſſurance, let me remind thee (and that, thus, by way of marginal obſervation, that I may not break in upon my narrative), that this my intrepidity was but a conſequence of the meaſures I had previouſly concerted (as I have from time to time acquainted thee) in apprehenſion of ſuch an event as has fallen out. For had not the dear creature already paſſed for my wife, before no leſs than four worthy gentleman of family and fortune *? And before Mrs. Sinclair, and her houſhold, and Miſs Partington?— And had ſhe not agreed to her uncle's expedient, that ſhe ſhould paſs for ſuch, from the time of Mr. Hickman's application to that uncle ; and that the worthy captain Tomlinſon ſhould be allowed to propagate that belief; as he had actually reported it to two families (they poſſibly to more); purpoſely that it might come to the ears of James Harl [...]we; and ſerve for a foundation for uncle John to build his reconciliation-ſcheme upon ? And canſt thou think, that nothing was meant by all this contrivance? And that I am not ſtill further prepared to ſupport my ſtory?

Indeed, I little thought, at the time that I formed theſe precautionary ſchemes, that ſhe would ever have been able if willing, to get out of my hands. All that I hoped I ſhould have occaſion to have recourſe to them for, was only, that in caſe I ſhould have the courage to make the grand attempt, and ſhould ſucceed in it, to bring the dear creature (and this out of tenderneſs to her; for what attention did I ever yet pay to the grief, the execiations, the tears of a woman I had triumphed over?) to bear me in her ſight; to expoſtulate with me; to be pacified by my pleas, and by her own future hopes, founded upon the reconciliatory-project, upon my reiterated vows, and upon the captain's aſſurances— Since, in that caſe, to forgive me, to have gone on with me for a week, would have been to forgive me, to have gone on with me, for ever. And then had my eligible life of honour taken place; her trials would all have been then ever; and ſhe would have known nothing but gratitude, love, and joy, to the end of one of our lives. For never would I, never could I, have abandoned ſuch an admirable creature as this. Thou knoweſt, I never was a ſordid villain to any of her inferiors— Her inferiors, I may ſay,—For, who is not her inferior?

*
Vol. iii. p. 321.
Vol. iv. p. 262.
Vol. iv. p. 264.
(a)
Vol. iii. p. 130, 131.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 340.
(a)
See p. 39. of this Volume.
(a)
See vol. iv. p. 341, where Miſs Howe ſays, Alas, my dear, I knew you loved him!
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 69. and 135.
(b)
Vol. iii. p. 130, 131.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 348.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 328.
(*)
Mr. Lovelace's additions and connexions in this letter are printed in the Italic character.
15
My deareſt Friend,

YOU will perhaps think, that I have been too long ſilent. But I had begun two letters at different times ſince my laſt, and written a great deal each time; and with ſpirit enough, I aſſure you; incenſed as I was againſt the abominable wretch you are with, particularly on reading yours of the 21ſt of the paſt month.

The FIRST I intended to keep open till I could give you ſome accounts of my proceedings with Mrs. Townſend. It was ſome days before I ſaw her: And this intervenient ſpace giving me time to reperuſe what I had written, I thought it proper to lay that aſide, and to write in a ſtyle a little leſs fervent; for you would have blamed me, I knew, for the freedom of ſome of my expreſſions (execrations, if you pleaſe). And when I had gone a good way in the SECOND, the change in your proſpects, on his communicating to you Miſs Montague's letter, and his better behaviour, occaſioning a change in your mind, I laid that aſide alſo: And in this uncertainty thought I would wait to ſee the iſſue of affairs between you, before I wrote again; believing that all would ſoon be decided one way or other.—

Here I was forced to break off. I am too little my own miſtreſs.— My mother (b) always up and down; and watching as if I were writing to a fellow. What need I (ſhe aſks me) lock myſelf in (c), if I am only reading paſt correſpondencies? For that is my pretence, when ſhe comes poking in with her face ſharpen'd to an edge, as I may ſay, by a curioſity, that gives her more pain than pleaſure—The Lord forgive me; but I believe I ſhall huff her, next time ſhe comes in.

Do you forgive me too, my dear. My mother ought; becauſe ſhe ſays, I am my father's girl; and becauſe I am ſure I am hers.

Upon my life, my dear, I am ſometimes of opinion, that this vile man was capable of meaning you diſhonour. When I look back upon his paſt conduct, I cannot help thinking ſo: What a villain, if ſo! —But now I hope, and verily believe, that he has laid aſide ſuch thoughts. My reaſons for both opinions I will give you.

For the firſt, to wit, that he had it once in his head to take you at advantage if he could; I conſider (d), that pride, revenge, and a delight to tread in unbeaten paths, are principal ingredients in the character of this finiſh'd libertine. He hates all your family, yourſelf excepted.—Yet is a ſavage in love. His pride, and the credit which a few plauſible qualities ſprinkled among his odious ones, have given him, have ſecured him too good a reception from our eye-judging, our undiſtinguiſhing, our ſelf-flattering, our too-confiding ſex, to make aſſiduity and obſequiouſneſs, and a conqueſt of his unruly paſſions, any part of his ſtudy.

He has ſome reaſon for his animoſity to all the men, and to one woman, of your family. He has always ſhewn you and his own family too, that he prefers his pride to his intereſt. He is a declared marriage-hater; a notorious intriguer; full of his inventions, and glorying in them. As his vanity had made him imagine, that no woman could be proof againſt his love, no wonder that he ſtruggled like a lion held in toils (e), againſt a paſſion that he thought not returned (f), Hence, perhaps, it is not difficult to believe, that it became poſſible for ſuch a wretch as this to give way to his old prejudices againſt marriage; and to that revenge which had always been a firſt paſſion with him (g).

And hence may we account for his delays; his teazing ways; his bringing you to bear with his lodging in the ſame houſe; his making you paſs to the people of it as his wife; his bringing you into the company of his libertine companions; the attempt of impoſing upon you that Miſs Partington for a bedfellow, &c.

My reaſons for the contrary opinion; to wit, that he is now reſolved to do you all the juſtice in his power to do you; are theſe: That he ſees that all his own family (h) have warmly engaged themſelves in your cauſe; that the horrid wretch loves you—With ſuch a Love, however, as H [...]d loved his Mariamne: That, on inquiry, I find it to be true, that counſellor Williams (whom Mr. Hickman knows to be a man of eminence in his profeſſion) has actually as good as finiſhed the ſettlements: That two draughts of them have been made; one avowedly to be ſent to this very Captain Tomlinſon: And I find, that a licence has actually been more than once endeavoured to be obtained, and that d [...]fficulties have hitherto been made equally to Lovelace's vexation and diſappointment. My mother's proctor, who is very intimate with the proctor apply'd to by the wretch, has come at this information, in confidence; and hints, that as Mr. Lovelace is a man of high fortunes, theſe difficulties will probably be got over.

I had once reſolved to make ſtrict inquiry about Tomlinſon; and ſtill, if you will, your uncle's favourite houſekeeper may be ſounded, at diſtance.

I know that the matter is ſo laid (i), that Mrs. Hodges is ſuppoſed to kn [...]w nothing of the treaty ſet on foot by means of Capt. Tomlinſon. But your uncle is an old man (k), and old men imagine themſelves to be under obligation to their paramours, if younger than themſelves, and ſeldom keep any thing from their knowlege.—Yet, methinks, there can be no need; ſince Tomlinſon, as you deſcribe him, is ſo good a man, and ſo much of a gentleman; the end to be anſwered by his being an impoſtor ſo much more than neceſſary, if Lovelace has villainy in his head.—And thus what he communicated to you of Mr. Hickman's application to your uncle, and of Mrs. Norton's to your mother (ſome of which particulars I am ſatisfied his vile agent Joſeph Leman could not reveal to his viler employer); his puſhing on the marriage-day, in the name of your uncle; which it could not anſwer any wicked purpoſe for him to do; and what he writes of your uncle's propoſal, to have it thought that you were married from the time that you had lived in one houſe together; and that to be made to agree with the time of Mr. Hickman's viſit to your uncle; the inſiſting on a truſty perſon's being preſent at the ceremony, at that uncle's nomination—Theſe things make me aſſured that he now at laſt means honourably.

But if any unexpected delays ſhould happen on his ſide, acquaint me, my dear, of the very ſtreet where Mrs. Sinclair lives; and where Mrs. Fretchville's houſe is ſituated (which I cannot find that you have ever mentioned in your former letters—which is a little odd); and I will make ſtrict inquiries of them, and of Tomlinſon too; and I will (if your heart will let you take my advice) ſoon procure you a refuge from him with Mrs. Townſend.

But why do I now, when you ſeem to be in ſo good a train, puzzle and perplex you with my retroſpections? And yet they may be of uſe to you, if any delay happen on his part.

But that I think cannot well be. What you have therefore now to do, is, ſo to behave to this proud-ſpirited wretch, as may baniſh from his mind all remembrance of paſt diſobligations (l), and to receive his addreſſes, as thoſe of a betrothed lover. You will incur the cenſure of prudery and affectation, if you keep him at that diſtance, which you have hitherto kept him at. His ſudden (and as ſuddenly recover'd) illneſs has given him an opportunity to find out that you love him [Alas, my dear, I knew you loved him!]: He has ſeemed to change his nature, and is all love and gentleneſs: And no more quarrels now, I beſeech you.

I am very angry with him, nevertheleſs, for the freedoms which he took with your perſon (m); and I think ſome guard is neceſſary, as he is certainly an incroacher. But indeed all men are ſo; and you are ſuch a charming creature, and have kept him at ſuch a diſtance! — But no more of this ſubject. Only, my dear, be not over-nice, now you are ſo near the ſtate. You ſee what difficulties you laid yourſelf under, when Tomlinſon's letter called you again into the wretch's company.

If you meet with no impediments, no new cauſes of doubt (n), your reputation in the eye of the world is concerned, that you ſhould be his, and, as your uncle rightly judges, be thought to have been his, before now. And yet, let me tell you, I can hardly bear to think, that theſe libertines ſhould be rewarded for their villainy with the beſt of the ſex, when the worſt of it are too good for them.

I ſhall ſend this long letter by Collins (o), who changes his day to oblige me. As none of our letters by Wilſon's conveyance have miſcarried, when you have been in more apparently diſagreeable ſituations than you are in at preſent, I have no doubt that this will go ſafe.

Miſs Lardner (p) (whom you have ſeen at her couſin Biddulph's) ſaw you at St. James's Church on Sunday was fortnight. She kept you in her eye during the whole time; but could not once obtain the notice of yours, tho' ſhe courteſied to you twice. She thought to pay her compliments to you when the ſervice was over; for ſhe doubted not but you were married—and for an odd reaſon—becauſe you came to church by yourſelf.—Every eye, as uſual, ſhe ſaid was upon you: and this ſeeming to give you hurry, and you being nearer the door than ſhe, you ſlid out before ſhe could go to you. But ſhe order'd her ſervant to follow you till you were houſed. This ſervant ſaw you ſtep into a chair which waited for you; and you ordered the men to carry you to the place where they took you up. She deſcribes the houſe as a very gent [...]el houſe, and fit to receive people of faſhion: And what makes me mention this, is, that perhaps you will have a viſit from her; or meſſage, at leaſt.

So that you have Mr. Doleman's teſtimony to the credit of the houſe and people you are with (q); and he is a man of fortune, and ſome reputation; formerly a rake indeed; but married to a woman of family; and, having had a palſy-blow, one would think, a penitent. You have a [...]ſo Mr. Mennell's at leaſt paſſive teſtimony; Mr. Tomlinſon's; and now, laſtly, Miſs Lardner's; ſo that there will be the leſs need for inquiry: But you know my buſy and inquiſitive temper, as well as my affection for you, and my concern for your honour. But all doubt will ſoon be loſt in certainty.

Nevertheleſs I muſt add, that I would have you command me up, if I can be of the leaſt ſervice or pleaſure to you (r). I value not fame; I value not cenſure; nor even life itſelf, I verily think, as I do your honour, and your friendſhip. — For is not your honour my honour And is not your friendſhip the pride of my life?

May heaven preſerve you, my deareſt creature, in honour and ſafety, is the prayer, the hourly prayer, of

Your ever faithful and affectionate ANNA HOWE.
Thurſday Morn. 5.

I have written all night. Excuſe indifferent writing. My crow-quills are worn to the ſt [...]mps, and I muſt get a new ſupply.

(b)
Vol. iv. p. 329.
(c)
p. 331.
(d)
p. 336.
(e)
Vol. iv. p. 337.
(f)
ibid.
(g)
p. 338.
(h)
p. 340.
(i)
p. 333.
(k)
p. 334.
(l)
Vol. iv. p. 341.
(m)
See p. 258, 259, 260.
(n)
p. 342.
(o)
p. 343.
(p)
p. 331, 332.
(q)
p. 331.
(r)
p. 344.

Theſe Ladies always write with crow-quills, Jack.

(a)
Vol. iii. p. 172.
(c)
Vol. iii. p. 177. Vol. iv. p. 17.
(a)
Vol. iii. p. 231.
(a)
Page 85 of this Volume.
(a)
Page 37. of this Volume.
(a)
Vol. iii. Letter xvii. p. 110, & ſ [...]q.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 126, & ſeq.
(a)
The nature of the Bath ſtone, in particular.
(a)
See Vol. iv. p. 277. & ſeq.
(a)
The lady innocently means, Mr. Lovelace's forged one, p. 94. of this Volume.
(a)
See Vol. i. p. 50, 51, 86, 126, 127. for what ſhe herſelf ſays on that ſteadineſs which Mr. Lovelace, tho' a deſerved ſufferer by it, cannot help admiring.
(a)
Page 173.
(a)
He alludes here to the ſtory of a pope, who, (once a poor fiſherman) thro' every preferment he roſe to, even to that of the cardinalate, hung up in view of all his gueſts, his net, as a token of humility. But, when he arrived at the pontificate, he took it down, ſaying, That there was no need of the net, when he had caught the fiſh.
(a)
Miſs Howe in vol. iii. p. 113. ſays, That ſhe was always more afraid of her, than of her mother; and, in p. 215. That ſhe fears her as much as ſhe loves her; and in many other places, in her letters to Miſs Harlowe, verifies this obſervation of Mr. Lovelace.
(b)
Vol. iv. p. 23.
(a)
See p. 167.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 342.
(a)

Did I never ſhew thee a ſcheme, which I drew up on ſuch a notion as this?—In which I demonſtrated the conveniencies, and obviated the inconveniences, of changing the preſent mode to this? I believe I never did.

I remember I proved, to a demonſtration, that ſuch a change would be a means of annihilating, abſolutely annihilating, four or five very atrocious and capital ſins.—Rapes, vulgarly ſo called; Adultery, and Fornication; nor would Polygamy be panted after. Frequently would it prevent Murders and Duelling: Hardly any ſuch thing as Jealouſy (the cauſe of ſhocking violences) would be heard of: And Hypocriſy between man and wife be baniſhed the boſoms of each. Nor, probably, would the reproach of barrenneſs reſt, as now it too often does, where it is leaſt deſerved.—Nor would there, poſſibly, be ſuch a perſon as a barren woman.

Moreover, what a multitude of domeſtic quarrels would be avoided, were ſuch a ſcheme carried into execution? Since both ſexes would bear with each other, in the view that they could help themſelves in a few months.

And then what a charming ſubject for converſation would be the gallant and generous laſt partings between man and wife! Each, perhaps, a new mate in eye, and rejoicing ſecretly in the manumiſſion, could afford to be complaiſantly-ſorrowful in appearance. ‘He preſented her with this jewel, it will be ſaid by the reporter, for example ſake: She him with that: How he wept! How ſhe ſobb'd! How they looked after one another!’ Yet, that's the jeſt of it, neither of them wiſhing to ſtand another twelvemonth's trial.

And if giddy fellows, or giddy girls, miſbehave in a firſt marriage, whether from noviceſhip, having expected to find more in the matter than can be found; or from perverſeneſs on her part, or poſitiveneſs on his, each being miſtaken in the other [A mighty difference, Jack, in the ſame perſon, an inmate, or a viſiter]; what a fine opportunity will each have, by this ſcheme, of recovering a loſt character, and of ſetting all right, in the next adventure?

And O Jack, with what joy, with what rapture, would the changelings (or changeables, if thou like that word better) number the weeks, the days, the hours, as the annual obligation approached to its deſirable period!

As for the Spleen or Vapours, no ſuch malady would be known or heard of. The Phyſical tribe would, indeed, be the ſufferers, and the only ſufferers; ſince freſh health and freſh ſpirits, the conſequences of ſweet blood and ſweet humours (the mind and body continually pleaſed with each other), would perpetually flow in; and the joys of expectation, the higheſt of all our joys, would ſalubriate and keep all alive.

But, that no Body of men might ſuffer, the Phyſicians, I thought, might turn parſons, as there would be a great demand for parſons. Beſides, as they would be partakers in the general benefit, they muſt be ſorry fellows indeed, if they preferred Themſelves to the Public.

Every one would be married a dozen times, at leaſt. Both men and women would be careful of their characters, and polite in their behaviour, as well as delicate in their perſons, and elegant in their dreſs (a great matter each of theſe, let me tell thee, to keep paſſion alive), either to induce a renewal with the old love, or to recommend themſelves to a new. While the news-papers would be crouded with paragraphs, all the world their readers, as all the world would be concerned to ſee who and who's together

‘Yeſterday, for inſtance, enter'd into the holy ſtate of matrimony [We ſhould all ſpeak reverently of matrimony then] the Right Honourable Robert Earl Lovelace [I ſhall be an Earl by that time], with her Grace the Ducheſs dowager of Fifty-manors; his Lordſhip's one and thirtieth wife.’ —I ſhall then be contented, perhaps, to take up, as it is called, with a widow. But ſhe muſt not have had more than one huſband neither. Thou knoweſt, that I am nice in theſe particulars.

I know, Jack, that thou, for thy part, wilt approve of my ſcheme.

As Lord M. and I, between us, have three or four Boroughs at command, I think I will get into Parliament, in order to bring in a Bill for this good purpoſe.

Neither will the houſes of Parliament, nor the houſes of Convocation, have reaſon to object to it. And all the Courts, whether ſpiritual or ſenſual, civil or uncivil, will find their account in it, when paſſed in [...]o a Law.

By my ſoul, Jack, I ſhould be apprehenſive of a general inſurrection, and that incited by the Women, were ſuch a Bill to be thrown out.— For here is the excellency of the ſcheme: The women will have equal reaſon with the men to be pleaſed with it.

D [...]ſt think, that old prerogative Harlowe, for example, muſt not, if ſuch a Law were in being, have pulled in his horns? — So excellent a lady as he has, would never elſe have renewed with ſuch a gloomy tyrant: Who, as well as all other tyrants, muſt have been upon good behaviour from year to year.

A termagant wife, if ſuch a Law were to paſs, would be a phoenix.

The churches would be the only market-places for the fair ſex; and domeſtic excellence the capital recommendation.

Nor would there be an old maid in Great Britain, and all its territories. For what an odd ſoul muſt ſhe be, who could not have her twelvemonth's trial?

In ſhort, a total alteration for the better, in the morals and way of l [...]fe in both ſexes, muſt, in a very few years, be the conſequence of ſuch a ſal [...]tary Law.

Who would have expected ſuch a one from me? I wiſh the devil owe me not a ſpite for it.

Then would not the diſtinction be very pretty, Jack; as in flowers; —Such a gentleman, or ſuch a lady, is an ANNUAL—Such a one a PERENNIAL.

One difficulty, however, as I remember, occurred to me, upon the probability that a wife might be enſient, as the lawyers call it. But thus I obviated it.

That no man ſhould be allowed to marry another woman without his then wife's conſent, till ſhe were brought-to-bed, and he had defray'd all incident charges; and till it was agreed upon between them, whether the child ſhould be his, hers, or the public's. The women, in this caſe, to have what I call the coercive option: For I would not have it in the man's power to be a dog neither.

And indeed, I gave the turn of the ſcale, in every part of my ſcheme, in the women's favour: For dearly do I love the ſweet rogues.

How infinitely more preferable this my ſcheme, than the polygamy one of the old patriarchs; who had wives and concubines without number! I believe David and Solomon had their hundreds at a time. Had they not, Jack?

Let me add, That annual Parliaments, and annual Marriages, are the projects next my heart. How could I expatiate upon the benefits that would ariſe from both!

(a)
Ecclus. xxvi. The whoredom of a woman may be known in her haughty looks and eye-lids. Watch over an impudent eye, and marvel not if it treſpaſs againſt thee.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 169.
(a)
Vol. iii. p. 111.
(a)
Her couſin Morden's words to her in his letter from Florence. See Vol. iii. p. 361.
(a)
See p. 203. of this Volume.
(a)

Mr. Lovelace gives here a very circumſtantial relation of all that paſſed between the Lady and Dorcas. But as he could only gueſs at her motives for refuſing to go off, when Dorcas told her, that ſhe had engaged for her the protection of the dowager lady, it is thought proper to omit his relation, and to ſupply it by ſome memoranda of the Lady's. But it is firſt neceſſary to account for the occaſion on which thoſe memoranda were made.

The reader may remember, that in the letter wrote to Miſs Howe on her eſcape to Hamſtead (b), ſhe promiſes to give her the particulars of her flight at leiſure.

She had indeed thoughts of continuing her account of every thing that had paſſed between her and Mr. Lovelace, ſince her laſt narrative letter. But the uncertainty ſhe was in from that time, with the execrable treatment ſhe met with on her being deluded back again; followed by a week's delirium; had hitherto hindered her from proſecuting her intention. But, nevertheleſs, having it ſtill in her view to perform her promiſe, as ſoon as ſhe had opportunity, ſhe made minutes of every thing as it paſſed, in order to help her memory:—Which, as ſhe obſerves, in one place, ſhe could leſs truſt to ſince her late diſorders than before.

In theſe minutes, or book of memoranda, ſhe obſerves, ‘That having apprehenſions, that Dorcas might be a traitreſs, ſhe would have got away while ſhe was gone out to ſee for a coach; and actually ſlid down ſtairs with that intent. But that, ſeeing Mrs. Sinclair in the entry’ [whom Dorcas had planted there while ſhe went out), ‘ſhe ſpeeded up again, unſeen.’

She then went up to the dining-room, and ſaw the letter of Captain Tomlinſon: On which ſhe obſerves in her memorandum-book, as follows.

How am I puzzled now!—He might leave this letter on purpoſe: None of the other papers left with it being of any conſequence: — What's the alternative?—To ſtay, and be the wife of the vileſt of men—How my heart reſiſts that!—To attempt to get off, and fail, ruin inevitable! — Dorcas may betray me! — I doubt ſhe is ſtill his implement!—At his going out, he whiſper'd her, as I ſaw, unobſerved—In a very familiar manner too—Never fear, Sir, with a courteſy.

In her agreeing to connive at my eſcape, ſhe provided not for her own ſafety, if I got away! Yet had reaſon, in that caſe, to expect his vengeance; and wants not forethought.—To have taken her with me, was to be in the power of her intelligence, if a faithleſs creature.—Let me, however, tho' I part not with my caution, keep my charity!—Can there be any woman ſo vile to woman?—O yes! — Mrs. Sinclair: Her aunt.—The Lord deliver me!—But, alas! I have put myſelf out of the courſe of his protection by the natural means—And am already ruin'd!—A father's curſe likewiſe againſt me!—Having made vain all my friends cautions and ſolicitudes, I muſt not hope for miracles in my favour!

If I do eſcape, what may become of me, a poor, helpleſs, deſerted creature!—Helpleſs from ſex!—From circumſtances!—Expoſed to every danger!—Lord protect me!

His vile man not gone with him!—Lurking hereabouts, no doubt, "to watch my ſteps!—I will not go away by the chariot, however.

That this chariot ſhould come ſo opportunely!—So like his many opportunelies! — That Dorcas ſhould have the ſudden thought! — Should have the courage with the thought, to addreſs a lady in behalf of an abſolute ſtranger to that lady! — That the lady ſhould ſo readily conſent!—Yet the tranſaction between them to take up ſo much time; their diſtance in degree conſider'd: For, arduous as the caſe was, and precious as the time, Dorcas was gone above half an hour! Yet the chariot was ſaid to be ready at a grocer's not many doors off!

Indeed ſome elderly ladies are talkative: And there are, no doubt, ſome good people in the world—

But that it ſhould chance to be a widow lady, who could do what ſhe pleaſed: That Dorcas ſhould know her to be ſo, by the Lozenge! Perſons in her ſtation not uſually ſo knowing, I believe, in heraldry.

Yet ſome may!—For ſervants are fond of deriving collateral honours and diſtinctions, as I may call them, from the quality, or people of rank, whom they ſerve.

But his ſly ſervant not gone with him!—Then this letter of Tomlinſons!—

Altho' I am reſolved never to have this wretch, yet, may I not throw myſelf into my uncle's protection at Kentiſh-Town or Highgate, if I cannot eſcape before; and ſo get clear of him?—May not the evil I know, be leſs than what I may fall into, if I can avoid further villainy? — Further villainy he has not yet threatened — freely and juſtly as I have treated him! — I will not go, I think. At leaſt, unleſs I can ſend this fellow out of the way (a).

The fellow a villain! The wench, I doubt, a vile wench. At laſt concerned for her own ſafety. Plays off and on about a coach.

All my hopes of getting off, at preſent, over! —Unhappy creature! —to what further evils art thou reſerved!—O how my heart riſes, at the neceſſity I muſt ſtill be under to ſee and converſe with ſo very vile a man!

(b)
See Vol. iv. p. 352.
(a)
She tried to do this; but was prevented by the fellow's pretending to put his ancle out, by a ſlip down ſtairs—"A trick," ſays his contriving maſter, in his omitted relation, ‘"I had learned him, on a like occaſion, at Amiens.’.
(a)
The Lady, in her minutes, ſays, "I fear Dorcas is a falſe one. May I not be able to prevail upon him to leave me at my liberty? Better to try, than to truſt to her. If I cannot prevail, but muſt meet him and my uncle, I hope I ſhall have fortitude enough to renounce him then. But I would fain avoid qualifying with the wretch, or to give him an expectation which I intend not to anſwer. If I am miſtreſs of my own reſolutions, my uncle himſelf ſhall not prevail with me to bind my ſoul in covenant with ſo vile a man."
(a)
The Lady, in her minutes, owns the difficulty ſhe lay under to keep her temper in this conference. ‘But when I found, ſays ſhe, that all my intreaties were ineffectual, and that he was reſolved to detain me, I could no longer with-hold my impatience.’
(a)
The Lady mentions, in her memorandum-book, that ſhe had no other way, as ſhe apprehended, to ſave herſelf from inſtant diſhonour, but by making this conceſſion. Her only hope, now, ſhe ſays if ſhe cannot eſcape by Dorcas's connivance (whom, nevertheleſs, ſhe ſuſpects), is, to find a way to engage the protection of her uncle, and even of the civil magiſtrate, on Thurſday next, if neceſſary. ‘He ſhall ſee, ſhe ſays, tame and timid as he has thought her, what ſhe dare to do, to avoid ſo hated a compulſion; and a man capable of a baſeneſs ſo premeditatedly vile and inhuman.’
(a)
See p. 258. of this Volume.
(a)
The lady had made an attempt to ſend away a letter.
(a)
Viz. the preceding letter.
(b)
See the next letter.
(a)
Vol. iv. p. 17.
(a)
See p. 237. of this Volume.
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Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4362 Clarissa Or the history of a young lady comprehending the most important concerns of private life Published by the editor of Pamela pt 5. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5EA3-3