LETTER I. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I THINK myſelf obliged to thank you, my dear Miſs Howe, for your condeſcen⯑ſion, in taking notice of a creature, who has occaſioned you ſo much ſcandal.

I am grieved on this account, as much, I verily think, as for the evil itſelf.

Tell me—But yet I am afraid to know—what your mamma ſaid.

I long, and yet I dread to be told, what the young ladies my companions, now never more, perhaps, to be ſo, ſay of me.

They cannot, however, ſay worſe of me than I will of myſelf. Self-accuſation ſhall flow in every line of my narrative, where I think I am juſtly cenſurable. [2] If any thing can ariſe from the account I am going to give you, for extenuation of my fault [For that is all a perſon can hope for, who cannot excuſe herſelf], I know I may expect it from your friendſhip, tho' not from the charity of any other: Since, by this time, I doubt not, every mouth is opened againſt me; and all that know Clariſſa Harlowe, condemn the fugitive daughter.

AFTER I had depoſited my letter to you, written down to the laſt hour, as I may ſay, I returned to the Ivy ſummer-houſe; firſt taking back my letter from the looſe bricks: And there I endeavoured, as coolly as my ſituation would permit, to recollect, and lay to⯑gether, ſeveral incidents that had paſſed between my aunt and me; and, comparing them with ſome of the contents of my couſin Dolly's letter, I began to hope, that I need not be ſo very apprehenſive, as I had been, of the next Wedneſday. And thus I argued with myſelf.

‘'Wedneſday cannot poſſibly be the day they in⯑tend, altho', to intimidate me, they may wiſh me to think it is:—For the ſettlements are unſigned: Nor have they been offered me to ſign. I can chooſe whether I will, or will not, put my hand to them; hard as it will be to refuſe, if my father tender them to me.—Beſides, Did not my father and mother propoſe, if I made compulſion neceſſary, to go to my uncle's themſelves, in order to be out of the way of my appeals? Whereas they intend to be preſent on Wed⯑neſday. And, however affecting to me, the thought of meeting them, and all my friends, in full aſſem⯑bly, is, perhaps it is the very thing I ought to wiſh for: Since my brother and ſiſter had ſuch an opinion of my intereſt in them, that they got me excluded from their preſence, as a meaſure which they thought previouſly neceſſary to carry on their deſigns.’

‘'Nor have I reaſon to doubt, but that (as I had before argued with myſelf) I ſhall be able to bring [3] over ſome of my relations to my party; and, being brought face to face with my brother, that I ſhall expoſe his malevolence, and, of conſequence, weaken his power.’

‘'Then, ſuppoſing the very worſt, challenging the miniſter, as I ſhall challenge him, he will not pre⯑ſume to proceed: Nor, ſurely, will Mr. Solmes dare to accept my refuſing and ſtruggling hand. And, finally, if nothing elſe will do, nor procure me delay, I can plead ſcruples of conſcience, and even pretend prior obligation; for, my dear, I have given Mr. Lovelace room to hope [as you will ſee in one of my letters in your hands], that I will be no other man's while he is ſingle, and gives me not wilful and premeditated cauſe of offence againſt him; and this in order to rein-in his reſentments on the declared animoſity of my brother and uncles. And as I ſhall appeal, or refer my ſcruples on this head, to the good Dr. Lewin, it is impoſſible but that my mamma and aunt (if nobody elſe) ſhould be affected with this plea."’

Revolving curſorily theſe things, I congratulated myſelf, that I had reſolved againſt going away with Mr. Lovelace.

I told you, my dear, that I would not ſpare myſelf; and I enumerate theſe particulars, as an argument to condemn the action I have been ſo unhappily betrayed into. An argument that concludes againſt me with the greater force, as I muſt acknowlege, that I was apprehenſive, that what my couſin Dolly mentions as from Betty and from my ſiſter, was told her, that ſhe ſhould tell me, in order to make me deſperate, and, perhaps, to puſh me upon ſome ſuch ſtep as I have been drawn in to take, as the moſt effectual means to ruin me with my father and uncles.

God forgive me, if I judge too hardly of their views!—But if I do not, I muſt ſay, that they laid a wicked ſnare for me; and that I have been caught in [4] it.—And doubly may they triumph, if they can tri⯑umph, in the ruin of a ſiſter, who never wiſhed or intended hurt to them!

As the above kind of reaſoning had leſſened my apprehenſions as to the Wedneſday, it added to thoſe I had of meeting him—Now, as it ſeemed, not only the neareſt, but the heavieſt evil; principally, indeed, be⯑cauſe neareſt; for little did I dream [fooliſh creature that I was, and every way beſet!] of the event proving what it has proved. I expected a contention with him, 'tis true, as he had not my letter: But I thought it would be very ſtrange, as I mentioned in one of my former ^(a), if I, who had ſo ſteadily held out againſt characters ſo venerable, againſt authorities ſo ſacred, as I may ſay, when I thought them unreaſonably exerted, ſhould not find myſelf more equal to ſuch a trial as this; eſpecially, as I had ſo much reaſon to be diſ⯑pleaſed with him for not having taken away my letter.

On what a criſis, on what a point of time, may one's fate depend! Had I had but two hours more to conſider of the matter, and to attend to and improve upon theſe new lights, as I may call them—But then, perhaps, I might have given him a meeting.—Fool that I was, what had I to do, to give him hope, that I would perſonally acquaint him with the reaſon for my change of mind, if I did change it?

O my dear! an obliging temper is a very dangerous temper!—By endeavouring to gratify others, it is evermore diſobliging itſelf!

When the bell rang to call the ſervants to dinner, Betty came to me, and aſked, If I had any commands before ſhe went to hers; repeating her hint, that ſhe ſhould be employed; adding, that ſhe believed it was expected, that I ſhould not come up till ſhe came down, or till I ſaw my aunt or Miſs Hervey.

I aſked her ſome queſtions about the caſcade, which had been out of order, and lately mended; and ex⯑preſſed [5] a curioſity to ſee how it played, in order to in⯑duce her [How cunning to cheat myſelf, as it proved!] to go thither, if ſhe found me not where ſhe left me; it being at a part of the garden moſt diſtant from the Ivy ſummer-houſe.

She could hardly have got into the houſe, when I heard the firſt ſignal—O how my heart fluttered!—But no time was to be loſt. I ſtept to the garden-door; and, ſeeing a clear coaſt, unbolted the ready-unlocked door.—And there was he, all impatience, waiting for me!

A panic, next to fainting, ſeized me, when I ſaw him. My heart ſeemed convulſed; and I trembled ſo, that I ſhould hardly have kept my feet, had he not ſupported me.

Fear nothing, deareſt creature, ſaid he!—Let us haſten away!—The chariot is at hand!—And, by this ſweet condeſcenſion, you have obliged me beyond expreſſion, or return!

Recovering my ſpirits a little, as he kept drawing me after him, O Mr. Lovelace, ſaid I, I cannot go with you!—Indeed I cannot!—I wrote you word ſo!—Let go my hand, and you ſhall ſee my letter. It has lain there from yeſterday morning, till within this half-hour.—I bid you watch to the laſt for a letter from me, leſt I ſhould be obliged to revoke the ap⯑pointment; and, had you followed the direction, you would have found it.

I have been watched, my deareſt life, ſaid he, half out of breath!—I have been watched in every ſtep I took: And my truſty ſervant has been watched too, ever ſince Saturday; and dared not to come near your wall.—And here we ſhall be diſcovered in a moment!—Speed away, my charmer!—This is the moment of your deliverance!—If you neglect this opportu⯑nity, you never can have ſuch another!

[6]What is it you mean, Sir!—Let go my hand: For I tell you [ſtruggling vehemently], that I will ſooner die than go with you!—

Good God, ſaid he! with a look of wildneſs and ſurprize, what is it I hear!—But [ſtill drawing me after him, as he retreated farther from the door] it is no time to argue—By all that's good you muſt go!—Surely you cannot doubt my honour, nor give me cauſe to queſtion your own.

As you value me, Mr. Lovelace, urge me no far⯑ther. I come fixed and reſolved. Let me give you the letter I had written. My further reaſons ſhall follow; and they will convince you, that I ought not to go.

Nothing, Madam, can convince me—By all that's ſacred, I will not leave you! To leave you now, is to loſe you for ever!

Am I to be thus compelled? interrupted I, with equal indignation and vehemence—Let go my hands—I am reſolved not to go with you—And I will con⯑vince you, that I ought not.

All my friends expect you, Madam!—All your own are determined againſt you!—Wedneſday next is the day! the important, perhaps the fatal day! Would you ſtay to be Solmes's wife?—Can this be your determination at laſt?

No, never, never will I be that man's!—But I will not go with you!—Draw me not thus!—How dare you, Sir?—I would not have ſeen you, but to tell you ſo!—I had not met you, but for fear you would have been guilty of ſome raſhneſs!—And, once more, I will not go!—What mean you!—Striving with all my force to get from him.

What can have poſſeſſed my angel, quitting my hands, and with a gentler voice, that after ſo much ill-uſage from your relations; vows ſo ſolemn on my part; an affection ſo ardent; you ſtab me with a re⯑fuſal to ſtand by your own appointment!

[7]It ſignifies nothing talking, Mr. Lovelace. I will give you my reaſons at a better opportunity. I can⯑not go with you now—And, once more, urge me no farther.—Surely I am not to be compelled by every body!

I ſee how it is, ſaid he, with a dejected, but paſſion⯑ate air—What a ſevere fate is mine!—At length your ſpirit is ſubdued!—Your brother and ſiſter have prevailed; and I muſt give up all my hopes to a wretch ſo truly deſpicable.—

Once more I tell you, interrupted I, I never will be his.—All may end on Wedneſday differently from what you expect.—

And it may not!—And then, good heaven!—

It is to be their laſt effort, as I have reaſon to be⯑lieve.—

And I have reaſon to believe ſo too!—Since, if you tarry, you will inevitably be Solmes's wife.

Not ſo, interrupted I.—I have obliged them in one point—They will be in good humour with me. I ſhall gain time at leaſt—I am ſure I ſhall—I have ſe⯑veral ways to gain time.

And what, Madam, will gaining time do?—It is plain you have not a hope beyond that!—It is plain you have not, by putting all upon that precarious iſſue.—O my deareſt, deareſt life! let me beſeech you not to run a riſque of this conſequence. I can con⯑vince you, that it will be more than a riſque, if you go back, that you will, on Wedneſday next, be Solmes's wife.—Prevent therefore, now that it is in your power to prevent, the fatal miſchiefs that will follow ſuch a dreadful certainty.

While I have any room for hope, it concerns your honour, Mr. Lovelace, as well as mine [if you have the proper value for me, and wiſh me to believe you have], that my conduct in this great point ſhall juſtify my prudence.

[8]Your prudence, Madam! When has that been queſtionable? Yet what ſtead has either your pru⯑dence or your duty ſtood you in, with people ſo ſtrangely determined?

And then he pathetically enumerated the different inſtances of the harſh treatment I had met with; imputing all to the malice and caprice of a bro⯑ther, who ſet every-body againſt him: And inſiſting, that I had no other way to effect a reconciliation with my father and uncles, than by putting myſelf out of the power of my brother's inveterate malice.

Your brother's whole reliance, proceeded he, has been upon your eaſineſs to bear his inſults.—Your whole family will ſeek to you, when you have freed yourſelf from this diſgraceful oppreſſion:—When they know you are with thoſe who can, and will right you, they will give up to you your own eſtate.—Why then, putting his arm round me, and again drawing me with a gentle force after him, do you heſitate a moment?—Now is the time—Fly with me then, I beſeech you, my deareſt creature! Truſt your perſecuted adorer.—Have we not ſuffered in the ſame cauſe? If any imputations are caſt upon you, give me the honour, as I ſhall be found to de⯑ſerve it, to call you mine; and, when you are ſo, ſhall I not be able to protect both your perſon and cha⯑racter?

Urge me no more, Mr. Lovelace, I conjure you.—You yourſelf have given me a hint, which I will ſpeak plainer to, than prudence, perhaps, on any other occaſion, would allow me to ſpeak.—I am convinced, that Wedneſday next [if I had time, I would give you my reaſons] is not intended to be the day we had both ſo much dreaded: And if, after that day ſhall be over, I find my friends to be determined in Mr. Solmes's favour, I will then contrive ſome way to meet you with Miſs Howe, who is not your enemy: And when the [9] ſolemnity has paſſed, I ſhall think that ſtep a duty, which, till then, will be criminal to take: Since now my father's authority is unimpeached by any greater.

Deareſt Madam—

Nay, Mr. Lovelace, if you now diſpute!—If, after this more favourable declaration, than I had the thought of making, you are not ſatisfied, I ſhall know what to think both of your gratitude and generoſity.

The caſe, Madam, admits not of this alternative. I am all gratitude upon it. I cannot expreſs how much I ſhould be delighted with the charming hope you have given me, were you not next Wedneſday, if you ſtay, to be another man's. Think, deareſt creature! what an heightening of my anguiſh the diſtant hope you bid me look up to, is, taken in this light!

Depend upon it, I will die ſooner than be Mr. Solmes's. If you would have me rely upon your ho⯑nour, why ſhould you doubt of mine?

I doubt not your honour, Madam; your power is all I doubt. You never, never can have ſuch another opportunity.—Deareſt creature, permit me—And he was again drawing me after him.

Whither, Sir, do you draw me?—Leave me this moment—Do you ſeek to keep me till my return ſhall grow dangerous or impracticable?—I am not ſatisfied with you at all! Indeed I am not!—This moment let me go, if you would have me think to⯑lerably of you.

My happineſs, Madam, both here and hereafter, and the ſafety of all your implacable family, depend upon this moment.

To Providence, Mr. Lovelace, and to the Law, will I leave the ſafety of my friends.—You ſhall not threaten me into a raſhneſs that my heart condemns!—Shall I, to promote your happineſs, as you call it, deſtroy all my future peace of mind?

You trifle with me, my dear life, juſt as our better proſpects begin to open. The way is clear; juſt [10] now it is clear!—But you may be prevented in a moment.

What is it you doubt?—May I periſh eternally, if your will ſhall not be a law to me in every thing!—All my relations expect you: Your own appointment calls upon you!—Next WEDNESDAY—Deareſt creature!—think of next WEDNESDAY!—And what is it I urge you to, but to take a ſtep that, ſooner than any other, will reconcile you to all you have moſt reaſon to value in your family?

Let me judge for myſelf, Sir. Do not you, who blame my friends for endeavouring to compel me, yourſelf ſeek to compel me. I won't bear it.—Your earneſtneſs gives me greater apprehenſions, and greater reluctance!—Let me go back, then!—Let me, be⯑fore it is too late, go back, that it may not be worſe for both. What mean you by this forcible treatment?—Is it thus that I am to judge of the intire ſubmiſſion to my will, which you have ſo often vowed?—Un⯑hand me this moment, or I will cry out for help.

I will obey you, my deareſt creature!—And quitted my hand with a look full of tender deſpondency, that, knowing the violence of his temper, half-concerned me for him. Yet I was haſtening from him, when, with a ſolemn air, looking upon his ſword, but catch⯑ing, as it were, his hand from it, he folded both his arms, as if a ſudden thought had recovered him from an intended raſhneſs.

Stay, one moment!—But one moment ſtay, O beſt beloved of my ſoul!—Your retreat is ſecure, if you will go: The key lies down at the door.—But, O Madam, next WEDNESDAY, and you are Mr. Solmes's!—Fly me not ſo eagerly!—Hear me but a few words.

When near the garden-door, I ſtopped; and was the more ſatisfied, as I ſaw the key there, by which I could let myſelf in again at pleaſure. But, being uneaſy leſt I ſhould be miſſed, I told him I could ſtay [11] no longer: I had already ſtayed too long: That I would write to him all my reaſons. And depend up⯑on it, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid I, juſt upon the point of ſtooping for the key, in order to return, I will die, rather than have that man. You know what I have promiſed, if I find myſelf in danger.

One word, Madam, however, one word more, approaching me, his arms ſtill folded, as if (as I thought) he would not be tempted to miſchief.—Re⯑member only, that I come at your appointment, to redeem you, at the hazard of my life, from your gaolers and perſecutors, with a reſolution, God is my witneſs, or may he for ever blaſt me! [That was his ſhocking imprecation] to be a father, uncle, brother, and, as I humbly hoped, in your own good time, a huſband to you, all in one. But ſince I find you are ſo ready to cry out for help againſt me, which muſt bring down upon me the vengeance of all your family, I am contented to run all riſques:—I will not aſk you to retreat with me; I will attend you into the garden, and into the houſe, if I am not intercepted.—Nay, be not ſurpriſed, Madam! The help you would have called upon, I will attend you to.—I will face them all: But not as a revenger, if they provoke me not too much. You ſhall ſee what I can further bear for your ſake. And let us both ſee, if expoſtulation, and the behaviour of a gentleman to them, will not pro⯑cure me the treatment due to a gentleman from them.

Had he offered to draw his ſword upon himſelf, I was prepared to have deſpiſed him for ſuppoſing me ſuch a poor novice, as to be intimidated by an artifice ſo common. But this reſolution, uttered with ſo ſerious an air, of accompanying me in to my friends, made me gaſp almoſt with terror.

What mean you, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid I?—I be⯑ſeech you leave me; Leave me, Sir, I beſeech you.

Excuſe me, Madam! I beg you to excuſe me!—I have long enough ſkulked like a thief about theſe lonely [12] walls!—Long, too long, have I borne the inſults of your brother, and others of your relations. Abſence but heightens malice. I am deſperate. I have but this one chance for it; for is not the day after to⯑morrow WEDNESDAY? I have encouraged viru⯑lence by my tameneſs?—Yet tame I will ſtill be!—You ſhall ſee, Madam, what I will bear for your ſake. My ſword ſhall be put ſheathed into your hands [And he offered it to me in the ſcabbard]:—My heart, if you pleaſe, ſhall afford a ſheath to theirs:—Life is nothing, if I loſe you.—Be pleaſed, Madam, to ſhew me the way into the garden. I will attend you, tho' to my fate! But too happy, be it what it will, if I receive it in your preſence. Lead on, dear creature!—You ſhall ſee what I can bear for you.—And he ſtooped, and took up the key; and offered it to the lock—But dropped it again, without opening the door, upon my earneſt expoſtulation to him.

What can you mean, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid I?—Would you thus expoſe yourſelf?—Would you thus expoſe me?—Is this your generoſity?—Is every-body to take advantage thus of the weakneſs of my temper?

And I wept. I could not help it.

He threw himſelf upon his knees at my feet.—Who can bear, ſaid he, with an ardour that could not be feigned, his own eyes gliſtening, as I thought, Who can bear, to behold ſuch ſweet emotion?—O charmer of my heart, and reſpectfully ſtill kneeling, he took my hand with both his, preſſing it to his lips, command me with you, command me from you; in every way I am all implicit obedience!—But I appeal to all you know of your relations cruelty to you, and of their determined malice againſt me, and as determined fa⯑vour to the man you tell me you hate—And, oh! Madam, if you did not hate him, I ſhould hardly think there would be a merit in your approbation, place it where you would—I appeal to every-thing you know, to all you have ſuffered, whether you have [13] not reaſon to be apprehenſive of that Wedneſday, which is my terror!—Whether you can poſſibly have ſuch another opportunity.—The chariot ready: My friends with impatience expecting the reſult of your own appointment: A man whoſe will ſhall be intirely your will, imploring you, thus on his knees imploring you—to be your own Miſtreſs; that is all: Nor will I aſk for your favour, but as upon full proof I ſhall appear to deſerve it: Fortune, alliances unobjectible!—O my beloved creature, preſſing my hand once more to his lips, let not ſuch an opportunity ſlip! You never, never, will have ſuch another!

I bid him riſe: He 'roſe; and I told him, that were I not thus unaccountably hurried by his impatience, I doubted not to convince him, that both he and I had looked upon next Wedneſday with greater appre⯑henſion than was neceſſary: And was proceeding to give him my reaſons; but he broke in upon me—

Had I, Madam, but the ſhadow of a probability to hope what you hope, I would be all obedience and reſignation. But the licence is actually got: The parſon is provided: That pedant Brand is the man: O my deareſt creature, do theſe preparations mean only a trial?

You know not, Sir, were the worſt to be intended, and weak as you think me, what a ſpirit I have; you know not what I can do, and how I can reſiſt, when I think myſelf meanly or unreaſonably dealt with: Nor do you know what I have already ſuffered, what I have already borne, knowing to whoſe unbrotherly inſtigations all is to be aſcribed.—

I may expect all things, Madam, interrupted he, from the nobleneſs of your mind, ſcorning unreaſon⯑able compulſion: But your ſpirits may fail you. From the invincible temper of a father ſo poſitive, to a daughter ſo dutiful, what may not be apprehended? Fainting will not ſave you: They will not, perhaps, be ſorry for ſuch an effect of their barbarity. What [14] will expoſtulations ſignify againſt a ceremony per⯑formed? Muſt not All, the dreadful All, follow, that is torture to my heart but to think of?—Nobody to appeal to, of what avail will your reſiſtance be againſt the conſequences of a rite witneſſed to by the impoſers of it; and thoſe your neareſt relations?

I was ſure, I ſaid, of procuring a delay at leaſt. Many ways I had to procure delay.—Nothing could be ſo fatal to us both, as for me now to be found with him.—My apprehenſions on this ſcore, I told him, grew too ſtrong for my heart.—I ſhould think very hardly of him, if he ſought to detain me longer. But his acquieſcence ſhould engage my gratitude.

And then ſtooping to take up the key to let myſelf into the garden, he ſtarted, and looked as if he had heard ſomebody near the door, on the inſide, clap⯑ping his hand on his ſword.

This frighted me ſo, that I thought I ſhould have ſunk down at his feet. But he inſtantly re-aſſured me: He thought, he ſaid, he had heard a ruſtling againſt the door: But had it been ſo, the noiſe would have been ſtronger. It was only the effect of his ap⯑prehenſion for my mind's ſake.

And then taking up the key, he preſented it to me.—If you will go, Madam—Yet I cannot, cannot leave you!—I muſt enter the garden with you—Forgive me, but I muſt enter the garden with you.

And will you, will you, thus ungenerouſly, Sir, take advantage of my fears!—of my wiſhes, to prevent miſchief?—I, vain fool, to be concerned for every⯑one; nobody for me!

Deareſt creature! interrupted he, holding my hand, as I tremblingly offered to put the key to the lock—Let me, if you will go, open the door.—But once more, conſider, ſhould you prevail for that delay, which ſeems to be your only dependence, whether you may not be cloſer confined? I know they have already had that in conſideration. Will you not, in [15] this caſe, be prevented from correſponding either with Miſs Howe, or with me?—Who then ſhall aſſiſt you in your eſcape, if eſcape you would?—From your chamber-window only permitted to view the garden you muſt not enter into, how will you wiſh for the opportunity you now have, if your hatred to Solmes continue?—But, alas! that cannot continue!—If you go back, it muſt be from the impulſes of a yield⯑ing (which you'll call, a dutiful) heart, tired and teazed out of your own will.

I have no patience, Sir, to be thus reſtrained!—Muſt I never be at liberty to follow my own judg⯑ment?—Be the conſequence what it may, I will not be thus conſtrained.—And then freeing my hand, I again offered the key to the door.

Down the ready kneeler dropt between me and that: And can you, can you, Madam, once more on my knees let me aſk you, look with an indifferent eye upon the evils that may follow? Provoked as I have been, and triumphed over as I ſhall be, if your brother ſucceeds, my own heart ſhudders, at times, at the thoughts of what muſt happen: And can yours be unconcerned! Let me beſeech you, deareſt crea⯑ture! to conſider all theſe things; and loſe not this only opportunity.—My intelligence—

Never, Mr. Lovelace, interrupted I, pin ſo much faith upon the ſleeve of a traitor.—Your baſe intelli⯑gencer is but a ſervant: He may pretend to know more than he has grounds for, in order to earn the wages of corruption. You know not what contrive⯑ances I can find out.

I was offering the key to the lock, when, ſtarting from his knees, with a voice of affrightment, loudly whiſpering, and as if out of breath, They are at the door, my beloved creature! And taking the key from me, he flew to it, and fluttered with it, as if he would double-lock it. And inſtantly a voice from within cried out, burſting againſt the door, as if to break it [16] open, and, repeating its violent puſhes, Are you there?—Come up this moment!—This moment!—Here they are—Here they are both together!—Your piſtol this moment!—Your gun!—Then another puſh, and another.—He at the ſame moment drew his ſword, and clapping it naked under his arm, took both my trembling hands in his; and, drawing me ſwiftly after him, Fly, fly, my charmer; this moment is all you have for it! ſaid he.—Your brother!—Your uncles! or this Solmes!—They will inſtantly burſt the door!—Fly, my deareſt life! if you would not be more cruelly uſed than ever!—If you would not ſee two or three murders committed at your feet, fly, fly, I be⯑ſeech you!

O Lord!—Help, help, cried the fool, all amaze and confuſion, frighted beyond the power of con⯑trouling.

Now behind me, now before me, now on this ſide, now on that, turned I my affrighted face, in the ſame moment; expecting a furious brother here, armed ſervants there, an inraged ſiſter ſcreaming, and a father armed with terror in his countenance, more dreadful than even the drawn ſword which I ſaw, or thoſe I apprehended. I ran as faſt as he, yet knew not that I ran; my fears, which at the ſame time that they took all power of thinking from me, adding wings to my feet: My fears, which probably would not have ſuffered me to know what courſe to take, had I not had him to urge and draw me after him: Eſpecially as I beheld a man, who muſt have come out of the garden-door, keeping us in his eye, running backward and forward, beckoning and calling out to others, whom I ſuppoſed he ſaw, although the turn⯑ing of the wall hindered me from ſeeing them; and whom I imagined to be my brother, my father, and their ſervants.

Thus terrified, I was got out of ſight of the door in a very few minutes: And then, altho' quite breath⯑leſs [17] between running and apprehenſion, he put my arm under his, his drawn ſword in the other hand, and hurried me on ſtill faſter: My voice, however, contradicting my action; crying, No, no, no, all the while, ſtraining my neck to look back, as long as the walls of the garden and park were within ſight, and till he brought me to his uncle's chariot: Where attending were two armed ſervants of his own, and two of Lord M.'s, on horſeback.

Here I muſt ſuſpend my relation for a while: For now I am come to this ſad period of it, my indiſcre⯑tion ſtares me in the face: And my ſhame and my grief give me a compunction, that is more poignant, methinks, than if I had a dagger in my heart—To have it to reflect, that I ſhould ſo inconſiderately give in to an interview, which, had I known either myſelf or him, or in the leaſt conſidered the circumſtances of the caſe, I might have ſuppoſed, would put me into the power of his reſolution, and out of that of my own reaſon.

For, might I not have believed, that he, who thought he had cauſe to apprehend, that he was on the point of loſing a perſon who had coſt him ſo much pains and trouble, would not hinder her, if poſſible, from returning? That he, who knew I had promiſed to give him up for ever, if inſiſted on, as a condition of reconciliation, would not endeavour to put it out of my power to do ſo?—In ſhort, that he, who had artfully forborn to ſend for my letter [for he could not be watched, my dear], leſt he ſhould find in it a countermand to my appointment (as I myſelf could apprehend, altho' I profited not by the apprehenſion), would want a device to keep me with him till the danger of having our meeting diſcovered, might throw me abſolutely into his power, to avoid my own worſe uſage, and the miſchiefs which might have enſued, perhaps in my very ſight, had my friends and he met?

[18]But if it ſhall come out, that the perſon within the garden was his corrupted implement, employed to frighten me away with him, do you think, my dear, that I ſhall not have reaſon to hate him and myſelf ſtill more?—I hope his heart cannot be ſo deep and ſo vile a one: I hope not: But how came it to paſs; that one man could get out at the garden-door, and no more? How, that that man kept aloof, as it were, and purſued us not; nor run back to alarm the houſe?—My fright, and my diſtance, would not let me be certain; but really this ſingle man had the air of that vile Joſeph Leman, as I recollect.

O why, why, my dear friends!—But wherefore blame I them, when I had argued myſelf into a hope, not improbable, that even the dreadful trial I was to undergo ſo ſoon, might turn out better, than if I had been directly carried away from the preſence of my once indulgent parents, who might poſſibly intend that trial to be the laſt I ſhould have had?

Would to heaven, that I had ſtood it however!—Then, if I had afterwards done, what now I have been prevailed upon, or perhaps fooliſhly frightened to do, I ſhould not have been ſtung ſo much by in⯑ward reproach, as now I am: And this would have been a great evil avoided!

You know, my dear, that your Clariſſa's mind was ever above juſtifying her own failings by thoſe of others. God forgive thoſe of my friends who have acted cruelly by me! But their faults are their own and not excuſes for mine. And mine began early. For I ought not to have correſponded with him.

O the vile incroacher! how my indignation, at times, riſes at him! Thus to lead a young creature (too much indeed relying upon her own ſtrength) from evil to evil!—This laſt evil, altho' the remote, ye [...] ſure conſequence of my firſt—my prohibited corre⯑ſpondence! By a father, at leaſt, early prohibited!

[19]How much more properly had I acted, with regard to that correſpondence, had I, once for all, when he was forbid to viſit me, and I to receive his viſits, pleaded the authority I ought to have been bound by, and denied to write to him!—But I thought I could proceed or ſtop as I pleaſed. I ſuppoſed it concerned me, more than any other, to be the arbitreſs of the quarrels of unruly ſpirits.—And now I find my pre⯑ſumption puniſhed!—Puniſhed, as other ſins fre⯑quently are, by itſelf!

As to this laſt raſhneſs; now, that it is too late, I plainly ſee how I ought to have conducted myſelf.—As he knew I had but one way of tranſmitting to him the knowlege of what befel me; as he knew, that my fate was upon a criſis with my friends; and that I had, in my letter to him, reſerved the liberty of re⯑voking; I ſhould not have been ſolicitous whether he had got my letter or not: When he had come, and found I did not anſwer his ſignal, he would preſently have reſorted to the looſe bricks, and there been ſa⯑tisfied by the date of my letter, that it was his own fault, that he had it not before. But, governed by the ſame pragmatical motives, which induced me to correſpond with him at firſt, I was again afraid, truly, with my fooliſh and buſy preſcience [and indeed he pretends now, that I had reaſon for it, as you ſhall hear in its place; but which then I could only fear, and not be ſure of], that the diſappointment would have thrown him into the way of receiving freſh in⯑ſults from the ſame perſons; which might have made him guilty of ſome violence to them. And ſo, to ſave him an apprehended raſhneſs, I have ruſhed into a real one myſelf. And what vexes me more, is, that it is plain to me now, by all his behaviour, that he had as great a confidence in my weakneſs, as I had in my own ſtrength. And ſo, in a point intirely relative to my honour, he has triumphed [Can I have patience to [20] look at him!]; for he has not been miſtaken in me, while I have in myſelf!

Tell me, my dear Miſs Howe, tell me truly, if your unforced heart does not deſpiſe me?—It muſt! for your mind and mine were ever one; and I de⯑ſpiſe myſelf!—And well I may: For could the giddieſt and moſt inconſiderate girl in England have done worſe than I ſhall have appear to have done in the eye of the world? Since my crime will be known without the provocations, and without the artifices of the betrayer too [Indeed, my dear, he is a very artful man]; while it will be a high aggravation, that better things were expected from me, than from many others.

You charge me to marry the firſt opportunity.—Ah! my dear! another of the bleſſed effects of my folly!—That's as much in my power now as—as I am myſelf!—For can I give a ſanction immediately to his deluding arts?—Can I avoid being angry with him for tricking me thus, as I may ſay [and as I have called it to him], out of myſelf?—For compelling me to take a ſtep ſo contrary to all my reſolutions, and aſſurances given to you; ſo dreadfully inconve⯑nient to myſelf; ſo diſgraceful and ſo grievous, as it muſt be, to my dear mamma, were I to be leſs regardful of any other!—You don't know, nor can you ima⯑gine, my dear, how I am mortified!—How much I am ſunk in my own opinion!—I, that was propoſed for an example, truly, to others!—O that I were again in my father's houſe, ſtealing down with a letter to you; my heart beating with expectation of finding one from you!

THIS is the Wedneſday-morning I dreaded ſo much, that I once thought of it as my doomſday: But of the Monday, it is plain, I ought to have been moſt apprehenſive. Had I ſtayed, and had the worſt I dreaded happened, my friends would then have been [21] anſwerable, if any bad conſequences had followed:—But, now, I have this one conſolation left me [a very ſad one, you'll ſay], that I have cleared them of blame, and taken it all upon myſelf!

You will not wonder to ſee this narrative ſo diſ⯑mally ſcrawled. It is owing to different pens and ink, all bad, and written by ſnatches of time, my hand trembling too with fatigue and grief.

I will not add to the length of it, by the particu⯑lars of his behaviour to me, and of our converſation at St. Albans, and ſince; becauſe thoſe will come in courſe, in the continuation of my ſtory; which, no doubt, you will expect from me.

Only thus much I will ſay, that he is extremely re⯑ſpectful, even obſequiouſly ſo, at preſent, tho' I am ſo much diſſatisfied with him, and myſelf, that he has hitherto had no great cauſe to praiſe my complaiſance to him. Indeed, I can hardly, at times, bear the ſeducer in my ſight.

The lodgings I am in, are inconvenient. I ſhall not ſtay in them: So it ſignifies nothing to tell you how to direct to me hither. And where my next may be, as yet I know not.

He knows that I am writing to you; and has offered to ſend my letter, when finiſhed, by a ſervant of his. But I thought I could not be too cautious, as I am now ſituated, in having a letter of this importance conveyed to you. Who knows what ſuch a man may do? So very wicked a contriver! The con⯑trivance, if a contrivance, ſo inſolently mean!—But I hope it is not a contrivance neither! Yet, be that as it will, I muſt ſay, that the beſt of him, and of my proſpects with him, are bad: And yet, having in⯑rolled myſelf among the too-late repenters, who ſhall pity me?

Nevertheleſs, I will dare to hope for a continued intereſt in your affections [I ſhall be miſerable indeed, [22] if I may not!], and to be remembered in your daily prayers. I am, my deareſt friend,

LETTER II. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOSEPH LEMAN.

AT length your beloved young Lady has conſented to free herſelf from the cruel treatment ſhe has ſo long borne. She is to meet me without the garden-door, at about four o'clock on Monday afternoon; as I told you ſhe had promiſed. She has confirmed her promiſe. Thank God, ſhe has confirmed her promiſe!

I ſhall have a chariot-and-ſix ready in the by-road fronting the private path to Harlowe-paddock; and ſeveral of my friends and ſervants not far off, armed to protect her, if there be occaſion: But every one charged to avoid miſchief. That, you know, ha [...] always been my principal care.

All my fear is, that when ſhe comes to the point the over-niceneſs of her principles will make her waver and want to go back: Altho' her honour is my honour you know, and mine is hers. If ſhe ſhould, and I ſhoul [...] be unable to prevail upon her, all your paſt ſervice will avail nothing, and ſhe will be loſt to me for ever The prey, then, of that curſed Solmes, whoſe vil [...] ſtingineſs will never permit him to do good to any the ſervants of the family.

I have no doubt of your fidelity, honeſt Joſeph nor of your zeal to ſerve an injured gentleman, an [...] an oppreſſed young lady. You ſee, by the conf [...] ⯑dence I repoſe in you, that I have not; more part [...] ⯑cularly, on this very important occaſion, in whic [...] [23] your, aſſiſtance may crown the work: For, if ſhe wavers, a little innocent contrivance will be neceſ⯑ſary.

Be very mindful, therefore, of the following di⯑rections: Take them into your heart. This will pro⯑bably be your laſt trouble, until my beloved and I are joined in holy wedlock: And then we will be ſure to take care of you. You know what I have, promiſed. No man ever reproached me for breach of word.

Theſe, then, honeſt Joſeph, are they:

Contrive to be in the garden in diſguiſe, if poſſible, and unſeen by your young Lady. If you find the garden-door unbolted, you'll know, that ſhe and I are together, altho' you ſhould not ſee her go out at it. It will be locked, but my key ſhall be on the ground, at the bottom of the door, without, that you may open it with yours, as it may be needful.

If you hear our voices parleying, keep at the door, till I cry Hem, hem, twice: But be watchful for this ſignal, for I muſt not hem very loud, leſt ſhe ſhould take it for a ſignal: Perhaps, in ſtruggling to prevail upon the dear creature, I may have an opportunity to ſtrike the door hard with my elbow, or heel, to con⯑firm you:—Then you are to make a violent burſt againſt the door, as if you'd break it open, drawing backward and forward the bolt in a hurry: Then, with another puſh, but with more noiſe than ſtrength, leſt the lock give way, cry out (as if you ſaw ſome of the family), Come up, come up, inſtantly!—Here they are! Here they are! Haſten!—This inſtant haſten! And mention ſwords, piſtols, guns, with as terrible a voice, as you can cry out with. Then ſhall I prevail upon her, no doubt, if loth before, to fly: If I can⯑not, I will enter the garden with her, and the houſe too, be the conſequence what it will. But ſo 'frighted, there is no queſtion but ſhe will fly.

When you think us at a ſufficient diſtance [and I ſhall raiſe my voice, urging her ſwifter flight, that [24] you may gueſs at that], then open the door with your key: But you muſt be ſure to open it very cautiouſly, leſt we ſhould not be far enough off. I would not have her know you have a hand in this matter, out of my great regard to you.

When you have opened the door, take your key out of the lock, and put it in your pocket: Then, ſtooping for mine, put it in the lock on the inſide, that it may appear as if the door was opened by her⯑ſelf, with a key they'll ſuppoſe of my procuring (it being new), and left open by us.

They ſhould conclude ſhe is gone off by her own conſent, that they may not purſue us: That they may ſee no hopes of tempting her back again. In either caſe, miſchief might happen, you know.

But you muſt take notice, that you are only to open the door with your key, in caſe none of the fa⯑mily come up to interrupt us, and before we are quite gone; For, if they do, you'll find by what follows, that you muſt not open the door at all. Let them, on breaking it open, or by getting over the wall, find my key on the ground, if they will.

If they do not come to interrupt us, and if you, by help of your key, come out, follow us at a di⯑ſtance, and, with uplifted hands, and wild and im⯑patient geſtures (running backward and forward, for fear you ſhould come too near us; and as if you ſaw ſomebody coming to your aſſiſtance), cry out for Help, help, and to haſten. Then ſhall we be ſoon at the chariot.

Tell the family, that you ſaw me enter a chario [...] with her: A dozen, or more, men on horſeback, attending us; all arm'd; ſome with blunderbuſſes as you believe; and that we took the quite contrary way to that we ſhall take.

You ſee, honeſt Joſeph, how careful I am, as wel [...] as you, to avoid miſchief.

[25]Obſerve to keep at ſuch a diſtance that ſhe may not diſcover who you are. Take long ſtrides, to alter your gaite; and hold up your head, honeſt Joſeph; and ſhe'll not know it to be you: Mens airs and gaites are as various, and as peculiar, as their faces. Pluck a ſtake out of one of the hedges; and tug at it, tho' it may come eaſy: This, if ſhe turn back, will took terrible, and account for your not following us faſter. Then returning with it, ſhoulder'd, brag to the family, what you would have done, could you have overtaken us, rather than your young Lady ſhould have been carried off by ſuch a—And you may call me names, and curſe me. And theſe airs will make you look valiant, and in earneſt. You ſee, honeſt Joſeph, I am always contriving to give you reputation. No man ſuffers by ſerving me.

But, if our parley ſhould laſt longer than I wiſh; and if any of her friends miſs her, before I cry, Hem, hem, twice; then, in order to ſave yourſelf (which is a very great point with me, I'll aſſure you), make the ſame noiſe as above: But, as I directed before, open not the door with your key. On the contrary, wiſh for a key, with all your heart; but, for fear any of them ſhould, by accident, have a key about them, keep in readineſs half a dozen little gravel-ſtones, no bigger than peas, and thruſt two or three ſlily into the key-hole; which will hinder their key from turning round. It is good, you know, Joſeph, to provide againſt every accident, in ſuch an important caſe as this. And let this be your cry, inſtead of the other, if any of my enemies come in your ſight, as you ſeem to be trying to burſt the door open: Sir! or Madam! (as it may prove) O Lord, haſten! O Lord, haſten! Mr. Lovelace!—Mr. Lovelace!—And very loud,—And that ſhall quicken me more than it ſhall thoſe you call to.—If it be Betty, and only Betty, I ſhall think worſe of your art of making love ^(a), than of [26] your fidelity, if you can't find a way to amuſe her, and put her upon a falſe ſcent.

You muſt tell them, that your young Lady ſeemed to run as faſt off with me, as I with her. This will alſo confirm to them, that all purſuit is in vain. An end will be hereby put to Solmes's hopes: And her friends, after a while, will be more ſtudious to be reconciled to her, than to get her back. So you will be an happy inſtrument of great good to all round. And This will one day be acknowleged by both fami⯑lies. You will then be every one's favourite: and every good ſervant, for the future, will be proud to be liken'd to honeſt Joſeph Leman.

If ſhe ſhould gueſs at you, or find you out, I have it already in my head to write a letter, for you to copy ^(a); which, occaſionally produced, will ſet you right with her.

This one time, be diligent, be careful; this will be the crown of all: And, once more, depend for a re⯑compence upon the honour of

You need not be ſo much afraid of going too far with Betty. If you ſhould make a match with her, ſhe is a very likely creature, tho' a vixen, as you ſay. I have an admirable receipt to cure a termagant wife.—Never fear, Joſeph, but thou ſhalt be maſter of thine own houſe. If ſhe be very troubleſome, I can teach thee how to break her heart in a twelvemonth; and honeſtly too;—or the precept would not be mine.

I incloſe a new earneſt of my future favour.

LETTER III. To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſquier. His Honner.

I Muſt confeſſe I am infinnitely oblidged to your honner's bounty. But, this laſt command!—It ſeems ſo intricket!—Lord be merciful to me, how have I been led from littel ſtepps to grate ſtepps!—And iff I ſhould be found out!—But your Hon⯑ner ſays, you will take me into your Honner's ſar⯑viſe, and protect me, if as I ſhould at any time be found out; and raiſe my wages beſides; or ſet me upp in a good inne; which is my ambiſhion. And you will be honnerable, and kind to my deareſt young Lady, God love her.—But who can be un⯑kind to ſhe?

I will do the beſt I am able, ſince your Honner will be apt to loſe her, as your Honner ſays, if I do not; and a man ſo ſtindgie will be apt to gain her. But mayhap my deareſt younge Lady will not make all this troubble needful. If ſhe has promiſſed, ſhe will ſtand to it, I dare to ſay.

I love your Honner for contriveing to ſave miſchiff ſo well. I thought till I know'd your Honner, that you was verry miſchevous, and pleſe your Honner. But find it to be quite another thing. Your Honner, it is plane, means mighty well by every body, as far as I ſee. As I am ſure I do myſelf; for I am, althoff a very plane Man, and all that, a very honneſt one, I thank my God. And have good principles, and have kept my young Lady's preſſepts always in mind: For ſhe goes no-where, but ſaves a ſoul or two, more or leſs.

So, commending myſelf to your Honner's fur⯑thir favour, not forgetting the inne, when your Hon⯑ner [28] ſhall ſo pleaſe, and a good one offers; for plaſes are no inherittanſes now-a-days. And, I hope, your Honner will not think me a diſhoneſt Man for ſar⯑vinge your Honner agenſt my duty, as it may look; but only as my conſhence clears me.

Be pleaſed, howſomever, if it like your Honner, not to call me, honneſt Joſeph, and honneſt Joſeph, ſo often. For, althoff I think myſelf very honneſt, and all that; yet I am touched a little, for fear I ſhould not do the quite right thing: And too-beſides, your Honner has ſuch a feſſeſhious way with you, as that I hardly know whether you are in jeſt, or earneſt, when your Honner calls me honneſt ſo often.

I am a very plane man, and ſeldom have writ to ſuch honourable gentlemen; ſo you will be good enuff to paſs by every thing, as I have often ſaid, and need not now ſay over again.

As to Mrs. Betty; I tho'te, indede, ſhe looked above me. But ſhe comes on very well, natheleſſe. I could like her better, iff ſhe was better to my young Lady. But ſhe has too much wit for ſo plane a man. Natheleſs, if ſhe was to angre me, althoff it is a ſhame to bete a woman; yet I colde make ſhift to throe my hat at her, or ſo, your Honner.

But that ſame reſeit, iff your Honour ſo pleaſe, to cure a ſhrowiſh wife. It would more encurrege to wed, iff ſo be one know'd it before-hand, as one may ſay. So likewiſe, iff one knoed one could honeſtly, as your Honner ſays, and as of the handy-work of God, in one twelve-month—

But, I ſhall grow impartinent to ſuch a grate man—And hereafter may do for that, as ſhe turnes out.—For one mought be loth to part with her, mayhap, ſo verry ſoon too; eſpeſſially if ſhe was to make the notable lanlady your Honner put into my head.

[29]Butt wonce moer, beging your Honer's parden, and promiſſing all dilligince and exſackneſſe, I reſte,

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

LETTER V. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I WILL purſue my melancholy ſtory.

Being thus hurried to the chariot, it would have been to no purpoſe to have refuſed entering into it, had he not, in my fright, lifted me in, as he did: And it inſtantly drove away a full gallop, and ſtopt not till it brought us to St. Albans; which was juſt as the day ſhut in.

I thought I ſhould have fainted ſeveral times by the way. With lifted-up hands and eyes, God protect me, ſaid I often to myſelf!—Can it be I, that am here!—My eyes running over, and my heart ready to burſt with ſighs as involuntary as my flight.

How different, how inexpreſſibly different, the gay wretch; viſibly triumphing (as I could not but con⯑ſtrue his almoſt rapturous joy) in the ſucceſs of his arts! But overflowing with complimental flouriſhes, yet reſpectfully diſtant his addreſs, all the way we flew; for that, rather than galloping, was the motion of the horſes; which took, as I believe, a round-about way, to prevent being traced.

I have reaſon to think, there were other horſemen at his devotion; three or four different perſons, above the rank of ſervants, galloping by us, now-and-then, on each ſide of the chariot: But he took no notice of them; and I had too much grief, mingled with in⯑dignation, notwithſtanding all his blandiſhments, to aſk any queſtions about them, or any thing elſe.

Think, my dear, what were my thoughts, on alighting from the chariot; having no attendant of my own ſex; no cloaths but what I had on, and thoſe little ſuited for ſuch a journey as I had already taken, and was ſtill further to take: Neither hood nor hat, [32] nor any thing but a handkerchief about my neck and ſhoulders: Fatigued to death: My mind ſtill more fatigued than my body: And in ſuch a foam the horſes, that every one in the inn we put up at gueſs'd (they could not do otherwiſe) that I was a young giddy creature, who had run away from her friends. This it was eaſy to ſee, by their whiſpering and gaping; more of the people of the houſe alſo coming in to view us, as it were, by turns, than was neceſſary for the attendance.

The gentlewoman of the inn, whom he ſent in to me, ſhewed me another apartment; and, ſeeing me ready to faint, brought me hartſhorn and water; and then, upon my deſiring to be left alone for half an hour, retired: For I found my heart ready to burſt, on revolving every thing in my thoughts; And the moment ſhe was gone, faſtening the door, I threw myſelf into an old great chair, and gave way to a vio⯑lent flood of tears; which a little relieved me.

Mr. Lovelace, ſooner than I wiſhed, ſent up the gentlewoman, who preſſed me, in his name, to admit my Brother, or to come down to him: For he had told her, I was his Siſter; and that he had brought me, againſt my will, and without warning, from a friend's houſe, where I had been all the winter, in order to prevent my marrying againſt the conſent of my friends; to whom he was now conducting me; and that, having given me no time for a travelling-dreſs, I was greatly offended at him.

So, my dear, your frank, your open-hearted friend, was forced to countenance this tale; which, indeed, ſuited me the better, becauſe I was unable, for ſome time, to talk, ſpeak, or look up; and ſo my dejection, and grief, and ſilence, might very well paſs before the gentlewoman and her niece who attended me, as a fit of ſullenneſs.

The room I was in being a bed-chamber, I choſe to go down, at his repeated meſſage, attended by [33] the gentlewoman of the inn, to that in which he was. He approached me with great reſpect, yet not exceed⯑ing a brotherly politeneſs, where a brother is polite; and, calling me his deareſt ſiſter, aſked after the ſtate of my mind; and hoped I would forgive him; for never brother half ſo well loved a ſiſter, as he me.

A wretch!—How naturally did he fall into the character, altho' I was ſo much out of mine!

Unthinking creatures have ſome comfort in the ſhortneſs of their views; in their unapprehenſiveneſs; and that they penetrate not beyond the preſent mo⯑ment: In ſhort, that they are unthinking!—But, for a perſon of my thoughtful diſpoſition, who has been accuſtomed to look forward, as well to the poſſible, as to the probable, what comfort can I have in my re⯑flections?

But let me give you the particulars of our converſa⯑tion, a little before and after our ſupper-time, joining both in one.

When we were alone, he beſought me [I cannot ſay but with all the tokens of a paſſionate and re⯑ſpectful tenderneſs] to be better reconciled to myſelf, and to him: He repeated all the vows of honour, and inviolable affection, that he ever made me: He pro⯑miſed to be wholly governed by me in every future ſtep: He aſked me to give him leave to propoſe, Whe⯑ther I choſe to ſet out next day to either of his aunts?

I was ſilent. I knew not what to ſay, nor what to do.

Whether I choſe to have private lodgings procured me, in either of thoſe ladies neighbourhood, as were once my thoughts?

I was ſtill ſilent.

Whether I choſe to go to either of Lord M.'s ſeats; that of Berks, or that in the county we were in?

In lodgings, I ſaid, any-where, where he was not to be.

[34]He had promiſed This, he own'd; and he would religiouſly keep to his word, as ſoon as he found all danger of purſuit over; and that I was ſettled to my mind.—But, if the place were indifferent to me, Lon⯑don was the ſafeſt, and the moſt private: And his relations ſhould all viſit me there, the moment I thought fit to admit them. His couſin Charlotte, particularly, ſhould attend me, as my companion, if I would accept of her, as ſoon as ſhe was able to go abroad.—Mean time, would I go to his aunt Law⯑rance's (his aunt Sadleir was a melancholy woman)? I ſhould be the moſt welcome gueſt ſhe ever received.

I told him, I wiſhed not to go (immediately, how⯑ever, and in the frame I was in, and likely not to be out of) to any of his relations: That my reputation was concerned, to have him abſent from me:—That, if I were in ſome private lodging (the meaner the leſs to be ſuſpected, as it would be known, that I went away by his means; and he would be ſuppoſed to have pro⯑vided me handſome accommodations), it would be moſt ſuitable both to my mind and my ſituation: That this might be beſt, I ſhould think, in the country for me; in town for him.—And no matter how ſoon he was known to be there.

If he might deliver his opinion, he ſaid, ſince I de⯑clined going to any of his relations, London was the only place in the world to be private in. Every new-comer in a country-town or village excited a cu⯑rioſity: A perſon of my figure (and many compliments he made me) would excite more. Even meſſages and letters, where none uſed to be brought, would occa⯑ſion inquiry. He had not provided a lodging any⯑where, ſuppoſing I would chooſe to go either to Lon⯑don, where accommodations of that ſort might be fixed upon in an hour's time; or to his aunt's; or to Lord M.'s Hertfordſhire ſeat, where was houſe-keeper an excellent woman, Mrs. Greme, ſuch an⯑other as my Norton.

[35]To be ſure, I ſaid, if I were purſued, it would be in their firſt paſſion; and ſome one of his relations houſes would be the place they would expect to find me at.—I knew not what to do!

My pleaſure ſhould determine him, he ſaid, be it what it would. Only that I were ſafe, was all he was ſolicitous about. He had lodgings in town; but he did not offer to propoſe them. He knew, I would have more objection to go to them, than I could have to go to Lord M.'s, or to his aunt's.—

No doubt of it, I reply'd, with an indignation in my manner, that made him run over with profeſſions, that he was far from propoſing them, or wiſhing for my acceptance of them. And again he repeated, That my honour and ſafety were all he was ſolicitous about; aſſuring me, that my will ſhould be a law to him, in every particular.

I was too peeviſh, and too much afflicted, and, indeed, too much incenſed againſt him, to take well any thing he ſaid.

I thought myſelf, I ſaid, extremely unhappy. I knew not what to determine upon: My reputation now, no doubt, utterly ruin'd: Deſtitute of cloaths, fit to be ſeen by any-body: My very indigence, as I might call it, proclaiming my folly to every one who ſaw me: who would ſuppoſe, that I had been taken at advantage, or had given an undue one; and had no power over either my will, or my actions: That I could not but think I had been dealt artfully with: That he had ſeem'd to have taken, what he might ſup⯑poſe, the juſt meaſure of my weakneſs, founded on my youth and inexperience: That I could not forgive my⯑ſelf for meeting him: That my heart bled for the diſtreſſes of my father and mother, on this occaſion: That I would give the world, and all my hopes in it, to have been ſtill in my father's houſe, whatever had been my uſage: That, let him proteſt and vow what [36] he would, I ſaw ſomething low and ſelfiſh in his love, that he could ſtudy to put a young creature upon making ſuch a ſacrifice of her duty and conſcience: When a perſon actuated by a generous love, muſt ſeek to oblige the object of it, in every thing eſſential to her honour, and to her peace of mind.

He was very attentive to all I ſaid; never offering to interrupt me once. His anſwer to every article, almoſt methodically, ſhew'd his memory.

What I had ſaid, he told me, had made him very grave: And he would anſwer accordingly.

He was grieved at his heart, that he had ſo little ſhare in my favour or confidence, as he had the morti⯑fication to find, by what I had ſaid, he had.

As to my reputation, he muſt be very ſincere with me: That could not ſuffer half ſo much by the ſtep I ſo much regretted to have taken, as by the confine⯑ment, and equally fooliſh and unjuſt treatment, I had met with from my relations: That every mouth was full of blame of them, of my brother and ſiſter parti⯑cularly; and of wonder at my patience: That he muſt repeat, what he had written to me, he believed, more than once. That my friends themſelves expected, that I ſhould take a proper opportunity to free myſelf from their perſecutions; why elſe did they confine me? That my exalted character would ſtill bear me out, with thoſe who knew me; who knew my brother's and ſiſter's motives; and who knew the wretch they were for compelling me to have.

With regard to cloaths; Who, as matters were cir⯑cumſtanced, could expect, that I ſhould be able to bring away any others, than thoſe I had on at the time? For preſent uſe or wear, all the Ladies of his family would take a pride to ſupply me: For future, the product of the beſt looms, not only in England, but throughout the world, were at my command.

[37]If I wanted money, as no doubt I muſt, he ſhould be proud to ſupply me: Would to God, he might pre⯑ſume to hope, there were but one intereſt between us!—

And then he would fain have had me to accept of 100 l. bank note; which, unawares to me, he put into my hand: But which, you may be ſure, I refuſed with warmth.

He was inexpreſſibly grieved and ſurpriſed, he ſaid, to hear me ſay, he had acted artfully by me. He came provided, according to my confirm'd appoint⯑ment [A wretch! to upbraid me thus!], to redeem me from my perſecutors; and little expected a change of ſentiment, and that he ſhould have ſo much diffi⯑culty to prevail upon me, as he had met with: That perhaps I might think his offer to go into the garden with me, and to face my aſſembled relations, was a piece of art only: But that if I did, I wronged him: For, to this hour, ſeeing my exceſſive uneaſineſs, he wiſh'd with all his ſoul, he had been permitted to accompany me in. It was always his maxim to brave a threatened danger—Threateners, where they have an opportunity to put in force their threats, were ſeldom to be feared.—But had he been aſſured of a private ſtab, or of as many death's wounds, as there were perſons in my family (made deſperate as he ſhould have been by my return), he would have attended me into the houſe.

So, my dear, what I have to do, is to hold myſelf inexcuſable for meeting ſuch a determined and auda⯑cious ſpirit; that's all!—I have hardly any queſtion now, that he would have contrived ſome way or other to have got me away, had I met him at a mid⯑night hour, as once or twice I had thoughts to do.—And that would have been more terrible ſtill!

He concluded this part of his talk, with ſaying, That he doubted not, but that, had he attended me in, he ſhould have come off, in every-one's opinion, ſo well, that he ſhould have had general leave to renew his viſits.

[38]He went on:—He muſt be ſo bold as to tell me, he ſaid, that he ſhould have paid a viſit of this kind, but indeed accompany'd by ſeveral of his truſty friends, had I not met him—And that very after⯑noon too—for he could not tamely let the dreadful Wedneſday come, without ſome effort to change their determinations.

What, my dear, was to be done with ſuch a man!

That therefore, for my ſake, as well as for his own, he had reaſon to wiſh a diſeaſe ſo deſperate had been attempted to be overcome by as deſperate a re⯑medy. We all know, ſaid he, that great ends are ſometimes brought about by the very means by which they are endeavour'd to be fruſtrated.

My preſent ſituation, I am ſure, thought I, affords a ſad evidence of this truth!

I was ſilent all this time. My blame was indeed turned inward. Sometimes, too, I was half-frighted at his audaciouſneſs: At others, had the leſs inclination to interrupt him, being exceſſively fatigued, and my ſpirits ſunk to nothing, with the view even of the beſt proſpects with ſuch a creature.

This gave him opportunity to proceed; And that he did; aſſuming a ſtill more ſerious air.

As to what further remained for him to ſay, in an⯑ſwer to what I had ſaid, he hoped I would pardon him; but, upon his ſoul, he was concerned, infinitely concerned, he repeated, his colour and his voice riſing, that it was neceſſary for him to obſerve, how much I choſe rather to have run the riſque of being Solmes's wife, than to have it in my power to reward a man, who, I muſt forgive him, had been as much inſulted on my account, as I had been on his—who had watched my commands, and (pardon me, ma⯑dam) every changeable motion of your pen, all hours, in all weathers, and with a chearfulneſs and ardor, that nothing but the moſt faithful and obſequious paſ⯑ſion could inſpire.—

[39]I now, Miſs, began to revive into a little more warmth of attention.—

And all, madam, for what? [How I ſtared!]—Only to prevail upon you to free yourſelf from unge⯑nerous and baſe oppreſſion—

Sir, Sir! indignantly ſaid I—

Hear me but out, deareſt madam!—My heart is full—I muſt ſpeak what I have to ſay—To be told [for your words are yet in my ears, and at my heart!], that you would give the world, and all your hopes in it, to have been ſtill in your cruel and gloomy father's houſe—

Not a word, Sir, againſt my papa!—I will not bear that—

Whatever had been your uſage:—And you have a credulity, madam, againſt all probability, if you be⯑lieve you ſhould have avoided being Solmes's wife: That I have put you upon ſacrificing your duty and conſcience—Yet, deareſt creature! ſee you not the contradiction that your warmth of temper has ſur⯑prized you into, when the reluctance you ſhewed to the laſt to leave your perſecutors, has cleared your conſcience from the leaſt reproach of this ſort.—

O Sir! Sir! are you ſo critical then? Are you ſo light in your anger, as to dwell upon words!—

And indeed, my dear, I have ſince thought, that his anger was not owing to that ſudden impetus, which cannot be eaſily bridled; but rather, was a ſort of manageable anger, let looſe to intimidate me.

Forgive me, madam—I have juſt done.—Have I not, in your own opinion, hazarded my life to re⯑deem you from oppreſſion?—Yet is not my reward, after all, precarious?—For, madam, have you not condition'd with me [and moſt ſacredly, hard as the condition is, will I obſerve it], that all my hope muſt be remote: That you are determined to have it in your power to favour or reject me totally, as you pleaſe?—

[40]See, my dear! In every reſpect my condition changed for the worſe! Is it in my power to take your advice, if I ſhould think it ever ſo right to take it?—

And have you not furthermore declared, proceeded he, that you will engage to renounce me for ever, if your friends inſiſt upon that cruel renunciation, as the terms of being reconciled to you?

But, nevertheleſs, madam, all the merit of having ſaved you from an odious compulſion, ſhall be mine. I glory in it, tho' I were to loſe you for ever—As I ſee I am but too likely to do, from your preſent diſplea⯑ſure; and eſpecially, if your friends inſiſt upon the terms you are ready to comply with.

That you are your own miſtreſs, thro' my means, is, I repeat, my boaſt.—As ſuch, I humbly implore your favour—And that only upon the conditions I have yielded to hope for it.—As I do now thus humbly [the proud wretch falling on one knee] your forgiveneſs, for ſo long detaining your ear, and for all the plain-dealing that my undeſigning heart would not be de⯑nied to utter by my lips.

O Sir, pray riſe!—Let the obliged kneel, if one of us muſt kneel!—But, nevertheleſs, proceed not in this ſtrain, I beſeech you. You have had a great deal of trouble about me: But had you let me know in time, that you expected to be rewarded for it at the price of my duty, I ſhould have ſpared you much of it.

Far be it from me, Sir, to depreciate merit ſo extraordinary. But let me ſay, that had it not been for the forbidden correſpondence I was teazed by you into [and which I had not continued (every letter for many letters, intended to be the laſt), but becauſe I thought you a ſufferer from my friends], I had not been either confined or maltreated: Nor would my bro⯑ther's low-meant violence have had a foundation to work upon.

[41]I am far from thinking my caſe would have been ſo very deſperate as you imagine, had I ſtay'd. My fa⯑ther loved me at bottom: He would not ſee me be⯑fore; and I wanted only to ſee him, and to be heard; and a delay of his ſentence was the leaſt thing I ex⯑pected from the trial I was to ſtand.

You are boaſting of your merits, Sir; let merit be your boaſt: Nothing elſe can attract me. If perſonal conſiderations had principal weight with me, either in Solmes's disfavour, or in your favour, I ſhould deſpiſe myſelf: If you value yourſelf upon them, in prefer⯑ence to the perſon of the poor Solmes, I ſhall deſpiſe you!

You may glory in your fancied merits, in getting me away: But the cauſe of your glory, I tell you plainly, is my ſhame.

Make to yourſelf a title to my regard, which I can better approve of; or elſe you will not have ſo much merit with me, as you have with yourſelf.

But here, like the firſt pair, I, at leaſt, driven out of my paradiſe, are we recriminating. No more ſhall you need to tell me of your ſufferings, and your merits!—your All hours, and All weathers! For I will bear them in memory, as long as I live; and, if it be im⯑poſſible for me to reward them, be ever ready to own the obligation. All that I deſire of you, now, is, to leave it to myſelf to ſeek for ſome private abode: To take the chariot with you to London, or elſewhere: And, if I have any further occaſion for your aſſiſt⯑ance and protection, I will ſignify it to you, and be ſtill further obliged to you.

You are warm, my deareſt life!—But indeed there is no occaſion for it. Had I any views unworthy of my faithful love for you, I ſhould not have been ſo honeſt in my declarations.

Then he began again to vow the ſincerity of his intentions.

[42]But I took him up ſhort: I am willing to believe you, Sir. It would be inſupportable but to ſuppoſe there were a neceſſity for ſuch ſolemn declarations [At this he ſeemed to collect himſelf, as I may ſay, into a little more circumſpection]. If I thought there were, I would not ſit with you here, in a public inn, I aſſure you, altho' cheated hither, as far as I know, by me⯑thods [You muſt excuſe me, Sir!] that, the very ſuſpicion that it may be ſo, gives me too much vexa⯑tion, for me to have patience either with you or with myſelf.—But no more of this juſt now: Let me but know, I beſeech you, good Sir, bowing [I was very angry!], if you intend to leave me; or if I have only eſcaped from one confinement to another?—

Cheated hither, as far as you know, madam! Let you know (and with that air too, charming though grievous to my heart!) if you have only eſcaped from one confinement to another!—Amazing! perfectly amazing!—And can there be a neceſſity for me to anſwer this?—You are abſolutely your own miſtreſs.—It were very ſtrange, if you were not. The mo⯑ment you are in a place of ſafety, I will leave you.—One condition only, give me leave to beg your conſent to: It is this: That you will be pleaſed, now you are ſo intirely in your own power, to renew a promiſe vo⯑luntarily made before; voluntarily, or I would not now preſume to requeſt it; for altho' I would not be though capable of growing upon conceſſion, yet I cannot bea [...] to think of loſing the ground your goodneſs had given me room to hope I had gained; ‘'That, make up how you pleaſe with your relations, you will neve [...] marry any other man, while I am living and ſingle unleſs I ſhould be ſo wicked as to give new cauſ [...] for high diſpleaſure.'’

I heſitate not to confirm this promiſe, Sir, upon your own condition. In what manner do you expec [...] me to confirm it?—

[43]Only, Madam, by your word.

Then I never will.

He had the aſſurance [I was now in his power] to ſalute me, as a ſealing of my promiſe, as he called it. His motion was ſo ſudden, that I was not aware of it. It would have looked affected to be very angry; yet I could not be pleaſed, conſidering this as a leading freedom, from a ſpirit ſo audacious and incroaching; and he might ſee, that I was not.

He paſſed all that by with an air peculiar to him⯑ſelf—Enough! enough, deareſt madam!—And let me beg of you but to conquer this dreadful uneaſineſs, which gives me to apprehend but too-too much for my jealous love to bear: And it ſhall be my whole endeavour to deſerve your favour, and to make you the happieſt woman in the world; as I ſhall be the happieſt of men.

I broke from him to write to you my preceding letter; but refuſed to ſend it by his ſervant, as I told you. The gentlewoman of the inn help'd me to a meſſenger, who was to carry what you ſhould give him to Lord M.'s ſeat in Hertfordſhire, directed for Mrs. Greme the houſekeeper there. And early in the morning, for fear of purſuit, we were to ſet out that way: And there he propoſed to exchange the chariot-and-ſix for a chaiſe-and-pair of his own, which hap⯑pened to be at that ſeat, as it would be a leſs-noticed conveyance.

I looked over my little ſtock of money; and found it to be no more than ſeven guineas and ſome ſilver: The reſt of my ſtock was but fifty guineas, and that five more than I thought it was, when my ſiſter chal⯑ [...]enged me as to the ſum I had by me ^(a): And thoſe I left in my eſcritoire, little thinking to be pre⯑vailed upon to go away with him.

Indeed my caſe abounds with a ſhocking variety of indelicate circumſtances. Among the reſt, I was [44] forced to account to him, who knew I could have no cloaths but what I had on, how I came to have linen with you [for he could not but know I ſent for it]; leſt he ſhould imagine I had an early deſign to go away with him, and made that a part of the prepara⯑tion.

He moſt heartily wiſhed, he ſaid, for my mind's ſake, that your mamma would have afforded me her protection; and delivered himſelf, upon this ſubject, with equal freedom and concern.

There are, my dear Miſs Howe, a multitude of punctilios and decorums, which a young creature muſt diſpenſe with, who, in ſuch a ſituation, makes a man the intimate attendant of her perſon. I could now, I think, give twenty reaſons ſtronger than any I have heretofore mentioned, why women of the leaſt delicacy ſhould never think of incurring the danger and diſgrace of taking the ſtep I have been drawn in to take, but with horror and averſion; and why they ſhould look upon the man who ſhall tempt them to it, as the vileſt and moſt ſelfiſh of ſeducers.

BEFORE five o'clock (Tueſday morning) the maid-ſervant came up to tell me, my brother was ready, and that breakfaſt alſo waited for me in the parlour. I went down with a heart as heavy as my eyes, and received great acknowlegements and compliments from him on being ſo ſoon dreſs'd, and ready, as he interpreted it, to continue our journey.

He had the thought which I had not [For what had I to do with thinking, who had it not, when I ſtood moſt in need of it?], to purchaſe for me a velve [...] hood, and a handſome ſhort cloak, trimm'd with ſilver, without ſaying any thing to me. He muſt re⯑ward himſelf, the artful incroacher ſaid, before th [...] landlady and her maids and niece, for his forethought and would ſalute his pretty ſullen ſiſter!—He too [45] his reward; and, as he ſaid, a tear with it. While he aſſured me [ſtill before them, a vile wretch!], that I had nothing to fear from meeting with parents, who ſo dearly loved me.—How could I be complaiſant, my dear, to ſuch a man as this?—

As ſoon as the chariot drove on, he aſked me, whether I had any objection to go to Lord M.'s Hert⯑fordſhire ſeat? His Lordſhip, he ſaid, was at his Berkſhire one.

I told him, I choſe not to go, as yet, to any of his relations; for that would indicate a plain defiance to my own—My choice was, to go to a private lodging, and for him to be at a diſtance from me; at leaſt, till I heard how things were taken by my friends—For that altho' I had but little hopes of a reconciliation, as it was; yet if they knew I was in his protection, or in that of any of his friends (which would be looked upon as the ſame thing), there would not be room for any at all.

I ſhould govern him as I pleaſed, he ſolemnly aſſured me, in every thing. But he ſtill thought London was the beſt place for me; and if I were once ſafe there, and in a lodging to my liking, he would go to M. Hall. But, as I approved not of London, he would urge it no further.

He propoſed, and I conſented, to put up at an inn in the neighbourhood of The Lawn (as he called Lord M.'s ſeat in this county), ſince I choſe not to go thither. And here I got two hours to myſelf; which I told him I ſhould paſs in writing another letter to you [meaning my narrative, which I had begun at St. Albans, fatigued as I was], and in one to my ſiſter, to apprize the family (whether they were ſoli⯑tous about it or not), that I was well; and to beg that my cloaths, ſome particular books, and the fifty guineas I had left in my eſcritoire, might be ſent me.

He aſked, If I had conſidered whither to have them directed?

[46]Indeed not I, I told him, I was a ſtranger to—

So was he, he interrupted me; but it ſtruck him by chance—[Wicked ſtory-teller!]

But, added he, I will tell you, madam, how it ſhall be managed—If you don't chooſe to go to London, it is, nevertheleſs, beſt, that your relations ſhould think you there; for then they will abſolutely deſpair of finding you. If you write, be pleaſed to direct, To be left for you, at Mr. Oſgood's, near Soho-ſquare; who is a man of reputation, and they will go very ſafe And this will effectually amuſe them.

Amuſe them, my dear!—Amuſe whom?—My fa⯑ther!—my uncles!—But it muſt be ſo!—All his expedients ready, you ſee!—

I had no objection to this: And I have written ac⯑cordingly. But what anſwer I ſhall have, or whether any, that is what gives me no ſmall anxiety.

This, however, is one conſolation, that, if I have an anſwer, and altho' my brother ſhould be the writer, it cannot be more ſevere than the treatment I have of late received from him and my ſiſter.

Mr. Lovelace ſtaid out about an hour and half; and then came in; impatiently ſending up to me no leſs than four times, to expreſs his deſire of my company. But I ſent him word as often, that I was buſy; and, at laſt, that I ſhould be ſo, till dinner was ready. So he haſten'd that, as I heard him now-and-then, with a hearty curſe upon the cook and waiters.

This is another of his perfections. I ventured afterwards to check him for his free words, as we ſa [...] at dinner.

Having heard him ſwear at his ſervant, when below whom, nevertheleſs, he owns to be a good one; It is a ſad life, ſaid I, theſe innkeepers live, Mr. Love⯑lace.

No; pretty well, I believe.—But why, madam think you, that fellows, who eat and drink at othe [...] [47] mens coſt, or they are ſorry whelps of innkeepers, ſhould be intitled to pity?

Becauſe of the ſoldiers they are obliged to quarter; who are generally, I believe, wretched profligates. Bleſs me! ſaid I, how I heard one of them ſwear and curſe, juſt now, at a modeſt meek man, as I judge by his low voice, and gentle anſwers!—Well do they make it a proverb—Like a trooper!

He bit his lip; aroſe; turned upon his heel; ſtept to the glaſs; and looked confidently abaſhed, if I may ſo ſay—Ay, Madam, ſaid he, theſe troopers are ſad ſwearing fellows. I think their officers ſhould chaſtiſe them for it.

I am ſure they deſerve chaſtiſement, reply'd I—For ſwearing is a moſt unmanly vice, and curſing as poor and low a one; ſince it proclaims the profligate's want of power, and his wickedneſs at the ſame time: for, could ſuch a one puniſh as he ſpeaks, he would be a fiend!

Charmingly obſerved, by my ſoul, madam!—The next trooper I hear ſwear and curſe, I'll tell him what an unmanly, and what a poor whelp he is.

Mrs. Greme came to pay her duty to me, as Mr. Lovelace called it; and was very urgent with me to go to her Lord's houſe; letting me know what hand⯑ſome things ſhe had heard her Lord, and his two nieces, and all the family, ſay of me; and what wiſhes, for ſeveral months paſt, they had put up for the honour ſhe now hoped ſoon would be done them all.

This gave me ſome ſatisfaction, as it confirmed from the mouth of a very good ſort of woman, all that Mr. Lovelace had told me.

Upon inquiry about a private lodging, ſhe recom⯑mended me to a ſiſter-in-law of hers, eight miles from thence—Where I now am. And what pleaſed me the better, was, that Mr. Lovelace [of whom I could ſee ſhe was infinitely obſervant] obliged her, of his [48] own motion, to accompany me in the chaiſe; himſelf riding on horſeback, with his two ſervants, and one of Lord M.'s. And here we arrived about four o'clock.

But, as I told you in my former, the lodgings are inconvenient, and Mr. Lovelace found great fault with them; telling Mrs. Greme, who had ſaid, they were not worthy of us, that they came not up even to her deſcription of them; that, as the houſe was a mile from a town, it was not proper for him to be ſo far diſtant from me, leſt any thing ſhould happen: And yet the apartments were not ſeparate and diſtinct enough for me to like, he was ſure.

This muſt be agreeable enough from him, you'll believe.

Mrs. Greme and I had a good deal of talk in the chaiſe about him: She was very eaſy and free in her anſwers to all I aſked; and has a very ſerious turn, I find.

I led her on to ſay to the following effect; ſome part of it not unlike what his uncle's diſmiſſed bailiff had ſaid before; by which I find that all the ſervants opinion of him is alike.

‘'That Mr. Lovelace was a generous man: That it was hard to ſay, whether the ſervants of her Lord's family lov'd or fear'd him moſt: That her Lord had a very great affection for him: That his two noble aunts were no leſs fond of him: That his two couſins Montague were as good-natured young La⯑dies as ever lived: That his uncle and aunts had propoſed ſeveral Ladies to him, before he made his addreſſes to me; and even ſince; deſpairing to move me, and my friends, in his favour—But that he had no thoughts of marrying at all, ſhe had heard him ſay, if it were not to me: That as well her Lord as his ſiſters, were a good deal concerned at the contempts, and ill-uſage, he received from my fa⯑mily: But admired my character, and wiſh'd to [49] have him married to me, altho' I were not to have a ſhilling, in preference to any other perſon, from the opinion that they had of the influence I ſhould have over him: That, to be ſure, ſhe ſaid, Mr. Lovelace was a wild gentleman: But that was a diſ⯑temper which would cure itſelf: That her Lord de⯑lighted in his company, whenever he could get it: But that they often fell out; and his Lordſhip was always forced to ſubmit: Indeed, was half-afraid of him, ſhe believ'd—For he would do as he pleaſed. She mingled a thouſand pities often, that he acted not up to the talents lent him—Yet would have it, that he had fine qualities to found a reformation upon; and, when the happy day came, would make amends for all: And of this all his friends were ſo aſſured, that they wiſhed for nothing ſo earneſtly, as for his marriage.'’

This, indifferent as it is, is better than my brother ſays of him.

The people of the houſe here are very honeſt-looking induſtrious folks: Mrs. Sorlings is the gentle⯑woman's name. The farm ſeems well-ſtock'd, and thriving. She is a widow; has two ſons, men grown, who vie with each other which ſhall take moſt pains in promoting the common good; and they are both of them, I already ſee, more reſpectful to two modeſt young women, their ſiſters, than my brother was to his ſiſter. I believe I muſt ſtay here longer than at firſt I thought I ſhould.

I ſhould have mentioned, that, before I ſet out for this place, I received your kind letter. Every thing is kind from ſo dear a friend. I own you might well be ſurpriſed; [I was myſelf; as by this time you will have ſeen]—after I had determin'd, too, ſo ſtrongly againſt going away.

I have not the better opinion of Mr. Lovelace for his extravagant volubility. He is too full of profeſ⯑ſions: He ſays too many fine things of me, and to me: [50] True reſpect, true value, I think, lies not in words: Words cannot expreſs it: The ſilent awe, the humble, the doubting eye, and even the heſitating voice, better ſhew it by much, than, as Shakeſpeare ſays,

The man, to be ſure, is, at times, all upon the ecſtatic, one of his phraſes; but, to my ſhame and confuſion, I know too well what to attribute it to, in a great meaſure—To his triumph, my dear, in one word; it needs no further explanation; and, to give it that word, perhaps, equally expoſes my vanity, and condemns my folly.

We have been alarmed with notions of a purſuit, founded upon a letter from his intelligencer.

How do different circumſtances ſanctify or con⯑demn an action!—What care ought we to take not to confound the diſtinctions of right and wrong, when ſelf comes into the queſtion! I condemn'd in him the corrupting of a ſervant of my papa's; and now I am glad to give a kind of indirect approbation of it, by inquiring what he hears, by that or any other way, of the manner in which my relations took my flight. A preconcerted, forward, and artful flight, to be ſure, it muſt appear to them—That's a ſad thing!—Yet how, as I am ſituated, can I put them right?

Moſt heavily, he ſays, they take it; but ſhew not ſo much grief as rage.—And he can hardly have pa⯑tience to hear of the virulence and menaces of my brother againſt himſelf—Then a merit is made to me of his forbearance.

What a ſatisfaction am I robbed of, my deareſt friend, by this raſh action? I can now, too late, judge of the difference there is in being an offended rather than an offending perſon!—What would I give to have it once more in my power to ſay I ſuffer'd wrong, rather than did wrong? That others were more [51] wanting in their kindneſs to me, than I in duty (where duty is owing) to them?—

Fie upon me! for meeting the ſeducer!—Let all end as happily as it now may, I have laid up for my⯑ſelf remorſe for my whole life.

What more concerns me is, that every time I ſee this man, I am ſtill at a greater loſs than before what to make of him. I watch every turn of his counte⯑nance: And I think I ſee very deep lines in it. He looks with more meaning, I verily think, than he uſed to look; yet not more ſerious; not leſs gay—I don't know how he looks—But with more confidence a great deal than formerly; and yet he never wanted that.

But here is the thing: I behold him with fear now, as knowing the power my indiſcretion has given him over me. And well may he look more elate, when he ſees me deprived of all the ſelf-ſuppoſed ſignifi⯑cance, which adorns and exalts a perſon who has been accuſtomed to reſpect; and who now, by a conſcious inferiority, allows herſelf to be overcome, and in a ſtate of obligation, as I may ſay, to her new pro⯑tector.

I ſhall ſend this, as my former, by a poor man, who travels every day with pedlary matters, who will leave it at Mrs. Knollys's, as you direct.

If you hear any thing of my father and mother, and of their health, and how my friends were affected by my unhappy ſtep, pray be ſo good as to write me a few lines by the meſſenger, if his waiting for them can be known to you.

I am afraid to aſk you, Whether, upon reading that part of my narrative already in your hands, you think any ſort of extenuation lies for

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

THOU claimeſt my promiſe, that I will be as particular as poſſible, in all that paſſes between me and my goddeſs. Indeed, I never had a more il⯑luſtrious ſubject to exerciſe my pen upon: And, more⯑over, I have leiſure; for, by her good-will, my ac⯑ceſs would be as difficult to her, as that of the humbleſt ſlave to an eaſtern monarch. Nothing, then, but inclination to write, can be wanting: And ſince our friendſhip, and thy obliging attendance upon me at the White Hart, will not excuſe That, I will endeavour to keep my word.

I parted with thee and thy brethren, with a full reſolution, thou knoweſt, to rejoin ye, if ſhe once again diſappointed me, in order to go together, at⯑tended by our ſervants, for ſhew-ſake, to her gloomy father; and demand audience of the tyrant, upon the freedoms taken with my character: And to have try'd by fair means, if fair would do, to make them change their reſolutions; and treat her with leſs in⯑humanity, and me with more civility.

I told thee my reaſons for not going in ſearch of a letter of countermand. I was right; for, if I had, I ſhould have found ſuch a one; and had I received it, ſhe would not have met me. Did ſhe think, that after I had been more than once diſappointed, I would not keep her to her promiſe; that I would not hold her to it, when I had got her in ſo deeply?

The moment I heard the door unbolt, I was ſure of her. That motion made my heart bound to my throat. But when That was followed with the pre⯑ſence of my charmer, flaſhing upon me all at once in a flood of brightneſs, ſweetly dreſs'd, tho' all un⯑prepar'd [53] for a journey, I trod air, and hardly thought myſelf a mortal.

Thou ſhalt judge of her dreſs, as, at the moment ſhe appear'd to me, and as, upon a nearer obſerva⯑tion, ſhe really was. I am a critic, thou knoweſt, in womens dreſſes.—Many a one have I taught to dreſs, and help'd to undreſs. But there is ſuch a native ele⯑gance in this lady, that ſhe ſurpaſſes all that I could imagine ſurpaſſing—But then her perſon adorns what ſhe wears, more than dreſs can adorn her; and that's her excellence.

Expect therefore, a faint ſketch of her admirable perſon with her dreſs.

Her wax-like fleſh [for, after all, fleſh and blood I think ſhe is!] by its delicacy and firmneſs, anſwers for the ſoundneſs of her health. Thou haſt often heard me launch out in praiſe of her complexion. I never in my life beheld a ſkin ſo illuſtriouſly fair. The lily and the driven ſnow it is nonſenſe to talk of: Her lawn and her laces one might, indeed, compare to thoſe: But what a whited wall would a woman appear to be, who had a complexion which would juſtify ſuch unnatural compariſons? But this lady is all-alive, all-glowing, all charming fleſh and blood, yet ſo clear, that every meandring vein is to be ſeen in all the lovely parts of her, which cuſtom permits to be viſible.

Thou haſt heard me alſo deſcribe the wavy ringlets of her ſhining hair, needing neither art nor powder; of itſelf an ornament, defying all other ornaments; wantoning in and about a neck that is beautiful be⯑yond deſcription.

Her head-dreſs was a Bruſſels-lace mob, peculiarly adapted to the charming air and turn of her features. A ſky-blue ribband illuſtrated that.—But altho' the weather was ſomewhat ſharp, ſhe had not on either hat or hood; for, beſides that ſhe loves to uſe her⯑ſelf hardily (by which means, and by a temperance [54] truly exemplary, ſhe is allowed to have given high health and vigour to an originally tender conſtitution), ſhe ſeems to have intended to ſhew me, that ſhe was determin'd not to ſtand to her appointment. O Jack! that ſuch a ſweet girl ſhould be a rogue!

Her morning-gown was a pale primroſe-colour'd paduaſoy: The cuffs and robings curiouſly embroi⯑der'd by the fingers of this ever-charming Ariadne, in a running pattern of violets, and their leaves; the light in the flowers ſilver; gold in the leaves. A pair of diamond ſnaps in her ears. A white handkerchief, wrought by the ſame inimitable fingers, concealed—O Belford! what ſtill more inimitable beauties did it not conceal!—And I ſaw, all the way we rode, the bounding heart; by its throbbing motions I ſaw it! dancing beneath the charming umbrage.

Her ruffles were the ſame as her mob. Her apron a flower'd lawn. Her coat white ſatten, quilted: Blue ſatten her ſhoes, braided with the ſame colour, without lace; for what need has the prettieſt foot in the world of ornament? Neat buckles in them: And on her charming arms a pair of black velvet glove-like muffs, of her own invention; for ſhe makes and gives faſhions as ſhe pleaſes. Her hands, velvet of themſelves, thus uncover'd, the freer to be graſp'd by thoſe of her adorer.

I have told thee what were my tranſports, when the undrawn bolt preſented to me my long-expected goddeſs.—Her emotions were more ſweetly femi⯑nine, after the firſt moments; for then the fire of her ſtarry eyes began to ſink into a leſs-dazling languor. She trembled: Nor knew ſhe how to ſupport the agi⯑tations of a heart ſhe had never found ſo ungovernable. She was even fainting, when I claſp'd her in my ſup⯑porting arms. What a precious moment That! How near, how ſweetly near, the throbbing partners!

By her dreſs, I ſaw, as I obſerv'd before, how un⯑prepar'd ſhe was for a journey; and not doubting her [55] intention once more to diſappoint me, I would have drawn her after me. Then began a contention the moſt vehement that ever I had with lady. It would pain thy friendly heart to be told the infinite trouble I had with her. I begg'd, I pray'd; on my knees I begg'd and pray'd her, yet in vain, to anſwer her own appointment: And had I not happily provided for ſuch a ſtruggle, knowing whom I had to deal with, I had certainly failed in my deſign; and as cer⯑tainly would have accompanied her in, without thee and thy brethren: And who knows what might have been the conſequence?

But my honeſt agent anſwering my ſignal, tho' not quite ſo ſoon as I expected, in the manner thou knoweſt I had laid down to him, They are coming! They are coming!—Fly, fly, my beloved creature, cry'd I, drawing my ſword with a flouriſh, as if I would have ſlain half an hundred of them; and, ſeiz⯑ing her trembling hands, I drew her after me ſo ſwiftly, that my feet, winged by love, could hardly keep pace with her feet, agitated by fear.—And ſo I became her emperor!

I'll tell thee all, when I ſee thee: And thou ſhalt then judge of my difficulties, and of her perverſeneſs. And thou wilt rejoice with me, at my conqueſt over ſuch a watchful and open-ey'd charmer.

But ſeeſt thou not now [as I think I do] the wind-outſtripping fair-one flying from her love to her love?—Is there not ſuch a game?—Nay, flying from friends ſhe was reſolved not to abandon, to the man ſhe was determined not to go off with?—The Sex! The Sex, all over!—Charming contradiction!—Hah, hah, hah, hah!—I muſt here lay down my pen, to hold my ſides; for I muſt have my laugh out, now the fit is upon me!

I believe—I believe—Hah, hah, hah!—I believe, Jack, my dogs conclude me mad: For here has one [56] of them popt in, as if to ſee what ailed me; or whom I had with me.—The whoreſon caught the laugh, as he went out.—Hah, hah, hah!—An im-pudent dog!—O Jack, kneweſt thou my conceit, and were but thy laugh joined to mine, I believe it would hold me for an hour longer.

But, O my beſt-beloved fair-one, repine not thou at the arts by which thou ſuſpecteſt thy fruitleſs vi⯑gilance has been over-watched.—Take care, that thou provokeſt not new ones, that may be ſtill more worthy of thee. If once thy emperor decrees thy fall, thou ſhalt greatly fall. Thou ſhalt have cauſe, if that comes to paſs which may come to paſs [for why wouldeſt thou put off marriage to ſo long a day, as till thou hadſt reaſon to be convinced of my reforma⯑tion, deareſt?]; thou ſhalt have cauſe, never fear, to ſit down more diſſatisfied with thy ſtars, than with thyſelf. And come the worſt to the worſt, glorious terms will I give thee. Thy gariſon, with general Prudence at the head, and governor Watchfulneſs bringing up the rear, ſhall be allowed to march out with all the honours due to ſo brave a reſiſtance. And all thy ſex, and all mine, that hear of my ſtratagems, and thy conduct, ſhall acknowlege the fortreſs as nobly won, as defended.

Thou wilt not dare, methinks I hear thee ſay, to attempt to reduce ſuch a goddeſs as This, to a ſtandard unworthy of her excellencies. It is impoſ⯑ſible, Lovelace, that thou ſhouldſt intend to break thro' oaths and proteſtations ſo ſolemn.

That I did not intend it, is certain. That I do in⯑tend it, I cannot (my heart, my reverence for her, will not let me) ſay. But knoweſt thou not my averſion to the ſtate of ſhackles?—And is ſhe not IN MY POWER?

And wilt thou, Lovelace, abuſe that power, which—

Which what, puppy?—Which I obtain'd not by her own conſent, but againſt it.

[57]But which thou hadſt never obtained, had ſhe not eſteem'd thee above all men.

And which I had never taken ſo much pains to ob⯑tain, had I not loved her above all women.—So far upon a par, Jack!—And, if thou pleadeſt honour, ought not honour to be mutual? If mutual, does it not imply mutual truſt, mutual confidence?—And what have I had of that from her to boaſt of?—Thou knoweſt the whole progreſs of our warfare: For a warfare it has truly been; and far, very far, from an amorous warfare too. Doubts, miſtruſts, upbraidings, on her part: Humiliations the moſt ab⯑ject, on mine. Obliged to aſſume ſuch airs of re⯑formation, that every varlet of ye has been afraid I ſhould reclaim in good earneſt. And haſt thou not thyſelf frequently obſerved to me, how aukwardly I returned to my uſual gaiety, after I had been within a mile of her father's garden-wall, altho' I had not ſeen her?

Does ſhe not deſerve to pay for all this?—To make an honeſt fellow look like an hypocrite; what a vile thing is that!

Then thou knoweſt what a falſe little rogue ſhe has been! How little conſcience ſhe has made of diſap⯑pointing me!—Haſt thou not been a witneſs of my ravings, on this ſcore?—Have I not, in the height of them, vowed revenge upon the faithleſs charmer?—And, if I muſt be forſworn, whether I anſwer her expectations, or follow my own inclinations [as Cromwell ſaid, If it muſt be my head, or the king's], and the option in my own power; can I heſitate a moment which to chooſe?

Then, I fancy, by her circumſpection, and her continual grief, that ſhe expects ſome miſchief from me. I don't care to diſappoint any-body I have a value for.

But O the noble, the exalted creature! Who can avoid heſitating when he thinks of an offence againſt her?—Who can but pity—

[58]Yet, on the other hand, ſo loth at laſt to ven⯑ture, tho' threatened to be forced into the nuptial fet⯑ters with a man, whom to look upon as a rival, is to diſgrace myſelf!—So ſullen, now ſhe has ven⯑tured!—What title has ſhe to pity; and to a pity which her pride would make her diſclaim?

But I reſolve not any way. I will ſee how her will works; and how my will leads me on. I will give the combatants fair play. And I find, every time I at⯑tend her, that ſhe is leſs in my power—I more in hers.

Yet, a fooliſh little rogue! to forbid me to think of marriage till I am a reformed man! Till the Im⯑placables of her family change their natures, and be⯑come placable!

It is true, when ſhe was for making thoſe condi⯑tions, ſhe did not think, that, without any, ſhe ſhould be cheated out of herſelf; for ſo the dear ſoul, as thou mayſt hear in its place, phraſes it.

How it ſwells my pride, to have been able to out⯑wit ſuch a vigilant charmer!—I am taller by half a yard, in my imagination, than I was!—I look down upon every-body now!—Laſt night I was ſtill more extravagant.—I took off my hat, as I walk'd, to ſee if the lace were not ſcorch'd, ſuppoſing it had bruſh'd down a ſtar; and, before I put it on again, in mere wantonneſs, and heart's-eaſe, I was for buffeting the moon. In ſhort, my whole ſoul is joy. When I go to bed, I laugh myſelf aſleep: And I awake either laughing or ſinging.—Yet nothing nearly in view, neither.—For why?—I am not yet reform'd enough!

I told thee at the time, if thou remembreſt, how capable this reſtriction was, of being turn'd upon the over-ſcrupulous dear creature, could I once get her out of her father's houſe; and were I diſpoſed to puniſh her for her family's faults, and for the infinite trouble ſhe herſelf had given me. Little thinks ſhe, that I have kept an account of both: And that, when my heart is ſoft, and all her own, I [59] can but turn to my memoranda, and harden myſelf at once.

O my charmer, look to it!—Abate of thy haughty airs!—Value not thyſelf upon thy ſincerity, if thou art indifferent to me!—I will not bear it Now.—Art thou not in my POWER?—Nor, if thou loveſt me, think, that the female affectation of denying thy love, will avail thee Now, with a heart ſo proud and ſo jealous?—Remember, moreover, that all thy fa⯑mily-ſins are upon thy head!—

But, ah! Jack, when I ſee my Angel, when I am admitted to the preſence of this radiant Beauty, what will become of all this vapouring?—

But, be my end what it may, I am obliged, by thy penetration, fair-one, to proceed by the ſap.—Fair and ſoftly.—A wife at any time!—That will be al⯑ways in my power.

When put to the univerſity, the ſame courſe of ini⯑tial ſtudies will qualify the yonker for the one line or for the other. The genius ought to point out the future lawyer, divine, or phyſician!—So the ſame cautious conduct, with ſuch a vigilance, will do, ei⯑ther for the wife, or for the no-wife. When I re⯑form, I'll marry. 'Tis time enough for the one, the Lady muſt ſay—For the other, ſay I!

But how I ramble!—This it is to be in ſuch a ſitua⯑tion, that I know not what to reſolve upon.

I'll tell thee my inclinings, as I procced. The pro's and the con's, I'll tell thee.—But being got too far from the track I ſet out in, I will cloſe here. But, perhaps, may write every day ſomething, and ſend it as opportunity offers.

Regardleſs, however, in all I write, as I ſhall be, of connexion, accuracy, or of any thing, but of my own imperial will and pleaſure.

LETTER VII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I HAVE your narrative, my dear. You are the ſame noble creature you ever were. Above diſguiſe, above art, above extenuating a failing.

The only family in the world, yours, ſurely, that could have driven ſuch a daughter into ſuch extremi⯑ties.

But you muſt not be ſo very much too good for them, and for the caſe.

You lay the blame ſo properly and ſo unſparingly upon your meeting him, that nothing can be added to that ſubject by your worſt enemies, were they to ſee what you have written.

I am not ſurpriſed, now I have read your narrative, that ſo bold, and ſo contriving a man—I am forced to break off—

YOU ſtood it out much better and longer—Here again comes my buſtling, jealous mother!

DON'T be ſo angry at yourſelf. Did you not do for the beſt at the time? As to your firſt fault, the an⯑ſwering his letters; it was almoſt incumbent upon you to aſſume the guardianſhip of ſuch a family, when the bravo of it had run riot, as he did, and brought himſelf into danger.

Except your mamma, who is kept down, have any of them common ſenſe?—

Forgive me, my dear—Here is that ſtupid uncl Antony of yours. A pragmatical, conceited, poſi⯑tive—He came yeſterday, in a fearful pucker, and puffed, and blowed, and ſtumped about our hall and parlour. while his meſſage was carried up.

[61]My mamma was dreſſing herſelf. Theſe widows are as ſtarched as the batchelors. She would not ſee him in a diſhabille, for the world—What can ſhe mean by it?

His errand was to ſet her againſt you, and to ſhew their determined rage on your going away. The iſſue proved it to be ſo too evidently.

The odd creature deſired to ſpeak with her alone. I am not uſed to ſuch exceptions, whenever any viſits are made to my mamma.

When my mamma was primm'd out, down ſhe came to him—The door was locked upon themſelves; the two poſitive heads were put together—cloſe to⯑gether, I ſuppoſe—for I hearken'd, but could hear nothing diſtinctly, tho' they both ſeem'd full of their ſubject.

I had a good mind, once or twice, to have made them open the door—Could I have been ſure of keeping but tolerably my temper, I would have de⯑manded admittance—But I was afraid, if I had ob⯑tained it, that I ſhould have forgot it was my mamma's houſe, and been for turning him out of it.—To come to rave againſt and abuſe my deareſt, deareſt, ſaultleſs friend! and the ravings to be liſten'd to—And this in order to juſtify themſelves; the one for contributing to drive her out of her father's houſe; the other for refuſing her a temporary aſylum, till the reconciliation could have been effected, which her du⯑tiful heart was ſet upon!—And which it would have become the love my mamma had ever pretended for you, to have mediated for—Could I have had patience!

The iſſue, as I ſaid, ſhew'd what the errand was—Its firſt appearance, after the old fuſty fellow was marched off [You muſt excuſe me, my dear], was in a kind of gloomy, Harlowe-like reſervedneſs in my mamma; which, upon a few reſenting flirts of mine, was followed by a rigorous prohibition of correſpond⯑ence.

[62]This put us, you may ſuppoſe, upon terms not the moſt agreeable. I deſired to know. If I were pro⯑hibited dreaming of you?—For, my dear, you have all my ſleeping, as well as waking hours.

I can eaſily allow for your correſpondence with your wretch, at firſt [and yet your motives were ex⯑cellent], by the effect this prohibition has upon me; ſince, if poſſible, it has made me love you better than before; and I am more deſirous than ever of corre⯑ſponding with you.

But I have ſtill a more laudable motive—I ſhould think myſelf the unworthieſt of creatures, could I be brought to ſlight a dear friend, and ſuch a meritorious one, in her diſtreſs.—I would die firſt—And ſo I told my mamma. And I have deſired her not to watch me in my retired hours, nor to inſiſt upon my lying with her conſtantly, which ſhe now does more earneſtly than ever.—'Twere better, I told her, that the Harlowe-Betty were borrowed to be ſet over me.

Mr. Hickman, who greatly honours you, has, un⯑known to me, interpoſed ſo warmly in your favour with my mamma, that it makes for him no ſmall me⯑rit with me.

I cannot, at preſent, write to every particular, un⯑leſs I would be in ſet defiance.—Teaze, teaze, teaze, for ever! The ſame thing, tho' anſwered fifty times over, is every hour to be repeated—Lord bleſs me! what a life muſt my poor papa—But I muſt remem⯑ber to whom I am writing.

If this ever-active, ever-miſchievous monkey of a man—This Lovelace—contrived as you ſuſpect—But here comes my mamma again—Ay, ſtay a little longer, my mamma, if you pleaſe—I can but be ſuſpected! I can but be chidden for making you wait; and chidden I am ſure to be, whether I do or not, in the way you are Antony'd into.

[63]Bleſs me!—how impatient!—I muſt break off—

A CHARMING dialogue-But I am ſent for down in a very peremptory manner, I aſſure you.—What an incoherent letter will you have, when I can get it to you! But now I know where to ſend it, Mr. Hick⯑man ſhall find me a meſſenger. Yet, if he be de⯑tected, poor ſoul, he will be Harlowed-off, as well as his meek miſtreſs!—

MY mamma's abſence was owing to her ſuſpicion, that the Knollys's were to aſſiſt in our correſpond⯑ence. She made them a viſit upon it. She does every thing at once. And they have promiſed, that no more letters ſhall be left there, without her know⯑lege.

But Mr. Hickman has engaged one Filmer, a huſ⯑bandman, in the lane we call Finch-lane, near us to receive them. Thither you will be pleaſed to di⯑rect yours, under cover, to Mr. John Soberton; and Mr. Hickman himſelf will call for them there; and there ſhall leave mine. It goes againſt me too, to make him ſo uſeful to me.—He looks already ſo proud upon it!—I ſhall have him (who knows?) give himſelf airs.—He had beſt conſider, that the favour he has been long aiming at, may put him into a very dangerous, a very tickliſh ſituation. He that can oblige, may diſoblige—Happy for ſome people not to have it in their power to offend!

I will have patience, if I can, for a while, to ſee if theſe buſtlings in my mamma will ſubſide—But upon my word, I will not long bear this uſage.

Sometimes I am ready to think, that my mamma carries it thus on purpoſe to tire me out, and to make me the ſooner marry. If I find it to be ſo, and that Hickman, in order to make a merit with me, is in the low plot, I will never bear him in my ſight.

Plotting wretch, as I doubt your man is, I wiſh to heaven, that you were married, that you might brave them all; and not be forced to hide yourſelf, and be hurried from one inconvenient place to another. I charge you, omit not to lay hold on any handſome opportunity that may offer for that purpoſe.

[67]Here again comes my mamma.

WE look mighty glum upon each other, I can tell [...]ou. She had not beſt Harlowe me at this rate!—won't bear it!—

I have a vaſt deal to write. I know not what to write firſt. Yet my mind is full, and ſeems to run over.

I am got into a private corner of the garden, to [...]e out of her way.—Lord help theſe mothers!—Do they think they can prevent a daughter's writing, or doing any thing ſhe has a mind to do, by ſuſpicion, watchfulneſs, and ſcolding?—They had better place [...] confidence in one by half—A generous mind ſcorns [...]o abuſe a generous confidence.

You have a nice, a very nice part to act with his wretch—Who yet has, I think, but one plain path before him. I pity you!—But you muſt make [...]he beſt of the lot you have been forced to draw. Yet I ſee your difficulties.—But if he do not offer to abuſe your confidence, I would have you ſeem, at leaſt, to place ſome in him.

If you think not of marrying ſoon, I approve of your reſolution to fix ſomewhere out of his reach: And if he know not where to find you, ſo much the better. Yet I verily believe, they would force you back, could they but come at you, if they were not afraid of him.

I think, by all means, you ſhould demand of both your truſtees to be put in poſſeſſion of your own eſtate. Mean time I have ſixty guineas at your ſer⯑vice. I beg you will command them. Before they are gone, I'll take care you ſhall be further ſupplied. I don't think you'll have a ſhilling, or a ſhilling's worth, of your own, from your relations, unleſs you extort it from them.

As they believe you went off by your own conſent, they are ſurpriz'd, it ſeems, and glad, that you have [68] left your jewels and money behind you, and ha [...] contrived for cloaths ſo ill. Very little likelihoo [...] this ſhews, of their anſwering your requeſts.

Indeed every-body, not knowing what I now know muſt be at a loſs to account for your flight, as the [...] will call it. And how, my dear, can one report i [...] with any tolerable advantage to you?—To ſay, y [...] did not intend it, when you met him, who will believ [...] it?—To ſay, that a perſon of your known ſtead [...] ⯑neſs and punctilio was over-perſuaded, when y [...] gave him the meeting, how will that ſound?—T [...] ſay you were trick'd out of yourſelf, and people we [...] to give credit to it, how diſreputable?—And wh [...] unmarried, and yet with him, he a man of ſuch [...] character, what would it not lead a cenſuring wor [...] to think?

I want to ſee how you put it in your letter for yo [...] cloaths.

You may depend, I repeat, upon all the little ſpit [...] ⯑ful and diſgraceful things they can offer, inſtead [...] what you write for. So pray accept the ſum I te [...] ⯑der. What will ſeven guineas do?—And I will fi [...] a way to ſend you alſo any of my cloaths and line [...] for preſent ſupply. I beg, my deareſt Miſs Harlow [...] that you will not put your Anna Howe upon a fo [...] with Lovelace, in refuſing to accept of my offer. [...] you do not oblige me, I ſhall be apt to think, that yo [...] rather incline to be obliged to him, than to favour m [...]. And if I find this, I ſhall not know how to reconc [...] it with your delicacy in other reſpects.

Pray inform me of every thing that paſſes betwee [...] you and him. My cares for you (however needles from your own prudence) make me wiſh you t [...] continue to be very minute. If any thing occur, tha [...] you would tell me of, if preſent, fail not to put down in writing, altho', from your natural diffidenc [...] it ſhould not appear to you altogether ſo worthy [...] your pen, or of my knowing A ſtander-by may ſo [69] more of the game than one that plays. Great conſe⯑quences, like great folks, are generally attended, and even made great, by ſmall cauſes, and little incidents.

Upon the whole, I do not now think it is in your power to diſmiſs him when you pleaſe. I apprized you beforehand that it would not. I repeat, there⯑fore, that were I you, I would at leaſt ſeem to place ſome confidence in him: So long as he is decent, you may. Very viſibly obſervable, to ſuch delicacy as yours, muſt be that behaviour in him, which will make him unworthy of ſome confidence.

Your relations, according to old Antony to my mother, and ſhe to me (by way of threatening, that you will not gain your ſuppoſed ends upon them by your flight), ſeem to expect, that you will throw yourſelf into Lady Betty's protection; and that ſhe will offer to mediate for you: And they vow, that they will never hearken to any accommodation, or terms, that ſhall come from that quarter. They might ſpeak out, and ſay, from any quarter; for I dare aver, that your brother and ſiſter will not let them cool—At leaſt, till their uncles have made ſuch diſpoſitions, and your father too, perhaps, as they would have them make.

As this letter will apprize you of an alteration in the place to which you muſt direct your next, I ſend it by a friend of Mr. Hickman's, who may be depended upon. He has buſineſs in the neighbourhood of Mrs. Sorlings, whom he knows; and will return to Mr. Hickman this night; and bring back any letter you ſhall have ready to ſend, or can get ready. It is moon-light. He won't mind waiting for you. I chooſe not to ſend by any of Mr. Hickman's ſervants;—at preſent, however. Every hour is now, or may be, important; and may make an alteration in your reſo⯑lutions and ſituation neceſſary.

I hear, from where I ſit, my mamma calling about her, and putting every-body into motion. She will [70] ſoon, I ſuppoſe, make me, and my employment, the ſubject of her inquiry.

Adieu, my dear. May heaven preſerve you, and reſtore you with honour as unſullied as your mind, to

LETTER VIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I AM infinitely concerned, my ever-dear and ever-kind friend, that I am the ſad occaſion of the diſ⯑pleaſure between your mamma and you.—How many unhappy perſons have I made!—

Had I not to conſole myſelf, that my error is not owing to wicked precipitation, I ſhould be the moſt miſerable of all creatures. As it is, I am enough pu⯑niſhed in the loſs of my character, more valuable to me than my life; and in the cruel doubts and per⯑plexities which, conflicting with my hopes, and each getting the victory by turns, harrow up my ſoul be⯑tween them.

I think, however, that you ſhould obey your mam⯑ma; and decline a correſpondence with ſo unhappy a creature.—Take care how you fall into my error; for That began with carrying on a prohibited corre⯑ſpondence; which I thought it in my power to diſcon⯑tinue at pleaſure. My talent is ſcribbling, and I the readier fell into this freedom, as I found delight in writing; having motives too, which I thought laud⯑able; and, at one time, the permiſſion of all my friends, to write to him ^(a).

Yet (altho' I am ready ſometimes to diſcontinue a correſpondence ſo dear to me. In order to make your mamma eaſy) what hurt could a letter now-and-then [71] from each do?—Mine occaſionally filled with ſelf-accuſation too!—So much prudence and diſcre⯑tion as you have; and lying under no temptation of following ſo bad an example, in writing to me.

I thank you moſt heartily for your kind offers. You may be aſſured, that I would ſooner be beholden to you, than to any body living. To Mr. Lovelace the laſt. So, do not think, that by declining it, I have an intention to lay myſelf under obligations to him.

I am willing to hope, notwithſtanding what you write, that I ſhall have my little money, together with my cloaths, ſent me by my friends. They are too con⯑ſiderate, ſome of them, at leaſt, to permit, that I ſhould be put to ſuch low difficulties. Perhaps, they will not be in haſte to oblige me. But if not, I cannot yet want.—I believe you think, I muſt not diſpute with him the expences of the road and lodgings, till I can get to a fixed one. But I hope ſoon to put an end even to thoſe ſort of obligations.

Small hopes, indeed, of a reconciliation, from your account of my uncle's viſit to your mamma; to ſet her againſt an almoſt-friendleſs creature, whom once he loved! But is it not my duty to try for it? Ought I to widen my error, by obſtinacy and reſentment, becauſe of their reſentment; which muſt appear rea⯑ſonable to them, as they ſuppoſe my flight premedi⯑tated; and as they are made to believe, that I am capable of triumphing in it, and over them, with the man they hate? When I have done all in my power to reſtore myſelf to their favour, I ſhall have the leſs to reproach myſelf with.—Theſe conſiderations make me waver about following your advice, in relation to marriage; eſpecially, as he is ſo full of his complai⯑ſance, with regard to my former conditions, which he calls my injunctions. And, at the ſame time, that they diſpoſe me not to go to any of the Ladies of his family, whoſe mediation my friends, as you tell me, have ſo ſtrenuouſly declared againſt; I am ready to [72] fix all my reliance on my couſin Morden. For I think, that if I can be ſecure in a tolerable ſtate of independ⯑ence, till he comes to England, all muſt then be de⯑termin'd, in a better manner, than by any other way.

Yet, if I cannot get this man to leave me, how ſhall terms to my friends be propoſed?—If he do, and they ſhould get me back again by force, which you think they would attempt but for fear of him; how will the ſevereſt acts of compulſion which they can have recourſe to, be juſtified by my flight from them!—And while we are together, and unmarried, as you obſerve, what cenſures do I expoſe myſelf to!—And muſt I then, to ſave the poor remains of my reputa⯑tion, in the world's eye, watch the gracious motion from this man's lips?

I will acquaint you, as you deſire, with all that paſſes between us. Hitherto I have not diſcover'd any thing in his behaviour that is very exceptionable. Yet I cannot ſay, that I think the reſpect he ſhews me, an eaſy, unreſtrained, and natural reſpect; altho' I can hardly tell where the fault is.

But he has doubtleſs an arrogant and incroaching ſpirit. Nor is he ſo polite as his education, and other advantages, might have made one expect him to be. He ſeems, in ſhort, to be one, who has always had too much of his own will, to ſtudy to accommodate himſelf to that of others.

As to the placing of ſome confidence in him, I ſhall be as ready to take your advice in this particular, as in all others, and as he will be to deſerve it. But tricked away as I was by him, not only againſt my judgment, but my inclination, can he, or any-body, expect, that I ſhould immediately treat him with complaiſance, as if I acknowleged obligation to him for carrying me away?—If I did, muſt he not either think me a vile diſſembler before he gained that point, or after⯑wards?—

[73]Indeed, indeed, my dear, I could tear my hair, on reconſidering what you write (as to the probability that the dreaded Wedneſday was more dreaded than it needed to be), to think, that I ſhould be thus trick'd by this man; and that, in all likelihood, thro' his vile agent Joſeph Leman. So premeditated and ela⯑borate a wickedneſs as it muſt be!—Muſt I not, with ſuch a man, be wanting to myſelf, if I were not jealous and vigilant?—Yet what a life to live for a ſpirit ſo open, and naturally ſo unſuſpicious, as mine?

I am obliged to Mr. Hickman for the aſſiſtance he is ſo kindly ready to give to our correſpondence. He is ſo little likely to make to himſelf an additional merit with the daughter upon it, that I ſhall be very ſorry, if he riſk any thing with the mother by it.

I am now in a ſtate of obligation: So muſt reſt ſa⯑tisfy'd with whatever I cannot help.—Whom have I the power, once ſo precious to me, of obliging?—What I mean, my dear, is, that I ought, perhaps, to expect, that my influences over you are weakened by my indiſcretion. Nevertheleſs, I will not, if I can help it, deſert myſelf, nor give up the privilege you uſed to allow me, of telling you what I think of any part of your conduct which I may diſapprove of.

You muſt permit me therefore [ſevere as your mamma is againſt an undeſigning offender] to ſay, that I think your livelineſs to her inexcuſable—To paſs over, for this time, what nevertheleſs concerns me not a little, the free treatment you almoſt indiſcriminately give my relations.

If you will not, for your own ſake, forbear ſuch [...]auntings and impatiency as you repeat to me, let me beſeech you, that you will for mine:—Since other⯑wiſe, your mamma may apprehend, that my ex⯑ample, like a leaven, is working itſelf into the mind of her beloved daughter. And may not ſuch an ap⯑prehenſion give her an irreconcileable diſpleaſure againſt me?

[74]I incloſe the copy of my letter to my ſiſter, which you are deſirous to ſee. You'll obſerve, that altho' I have not demanded my eſtate in form, and of my truſtees, yet that I have hinted at leave to retire to it. How joyfully would I keep my word, if they would accept of the offer I renew!—It was not proper, I believe you'll think, on many accounts, to own that I was carry'd off, againſt my inclination.

I am, my deareſt friend,

LETTER IX. To Miſs ARABELLA HARLOWE. Incloſed to Miſs HOWE in the preceding.

I HAVE, I confeſs, been guilty of an action which carries with it a raſh and undutiful appearance. And I ſhould have thought it an inexcuſable one, had I been uſed with leſs ſeverity than I have been of late; and had I not had too great reaſon to apprehend, that I was to be made a ſacrifice to a man I could not bear to think of. But what is done, is done—Per⯑haps I could wiſh it had not—and that I had truſted to the relenting of my dear and honoured parents.—Yet This from no other motives, but thoſe of duty to them.—To whom I am ready to return [if I may not be permitted to retire to The Grove], on conditions which I before offered to comply with.

Nor ſhall I be in any ſort of dependence upon the perſon by whoſe means I have taken this truly reluctant ſtep, inconſiſtent with any reaſonable en⯑gagement I ſhall enter into, if I am not farther pre⯑cipitated.

Let me not have it to ſay, [now, at this important [75] criſis!] that I have a ſiſter, but not a firiend in her. My reputation, dearer to me than life (whatever you may imagine from the ſtep I have taken), is ſuffering. A little lenity will, even yet, in a great meaſure, reſtore it; and make that paſs for a temporary miſunderſtand⯑ing only, which otherwiſe will be a ſtain as durable as life, upon a creature who has already been treated with great unkindneſs, to uſe no harſher a word.

For your own ſake therefore, for my brother's ſake, who have thus precipitated me [I muſt ſay it!], and for all the family's ſake, aggravate not my fault, if, on recollecting every thing, you think it one; nor by widening the unhappy difference, expoſe a ſiſter for ever—Prays,

I ſhall take it for a very great favour, to have my cloaths directly ſent me, together with fifty guineas, which you'll find in my eſcritoire [of which I incloſe the key]; as alſo the divinity and miſcellany claſſes of my little library; and, if it be thought fit, my jewels—Directed for me, To be left at Mr. Oſgood's, near Soho-Square—Till call'd for.

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

The people who came about us, as we alighted, ſeemed, by their jaw-fallen faces, and goggling eyes, to wonder at beholding a charming young lady, ma⯑jeſty in her air and aſpect, ſo compoſedly dreſſed, yet with features ſo diſcompoſed, come off a journey, which had made the cattle ſmoke, and the ſervants ſweat. I read their curioſity, and my beloved's un⯑eaſineſs. She caſt a conſcious glance as ſhe alighted, upon her habit, which was no habit, and repulſively, as I may ſay, quitting my aſſiſting hand, hurried into the houſe as faſt as ſhe could.

Ovid was not a greater maſter of metamorphoſes than thy friend. To the miſtreſs of the houſe I in⯑ſtantly changed her into a ſiſter, brought off by ſur⯑prize from a near relation's (where ſhe had winter'd), to prevent her marrying a confounded Rake [I love always to go as near the truth as I can], whom her father and mother, her elder ſiſter, and all her loving uncles, aunts, and couſins, abhorred. This ac⯑counted for my charmer's expected ſullens; for her diſpleaſure when ſhe was to join me again, were it to hold; for her unſuitable dreſs upon a road; and, at the ſame time, gave her a proper and ſeaſonable aſſurance of my honourable views.

All theſe, and ſtill more mortifying things, ſhe ſaid.

I heard her in ſilence. But when it came to my turn, I pleaded, I argued, I anſwered her, as well as I could.—And when humility would not [77] do, I raiſed my voice, and ſuffer'd my eye to ſparkle with anger; hoping to take advantage of that ſweet cowardice which is ſo amiable in the Sex [which many of them, indeed, fantaſtically affect], and to which my victory over this proud beauty is principally owing.

She was not intimidated, however; and was going to riſe upon me in her temper; and would have broke in upon my defence. But when a man talks to a lady upon ſuch ſubjects, let her be ever ſo much in Alt, 'tis ſtrange, if he cannot throw out a tub to the whale;—if he cannot divert her from reſenting one bold thing, by uttering two or three full as bold; but for which more favourable interpretations will lie.

Very true, my precious!—And innumerable have been the difficulties thou haſt made me ſtruggle with. But one day thou mayeſt wiſh, that thou hadſt ſpared this boaſt; as well as thoſe other pretty haughtineſſes,—That thou didſt not reject Solmes for my ſake: That my glory, if I valued myſelf upon carrying thee off, was thy ſhame:—That I have more merit with myſelf, than with thee, or any-body elſe: [What a coxcomb ſhe makes me, Jack!] That thou wiſheſt thyſelf in thy father's houſe again, whatever were to be the con⯑ſequence.—If I forgive thee, charmer, for theſe hints, for theſe reflections, for theſe wiſhes, for theſe con⯑tempts, I am not the Lovelace I have been reputed to be; and that thy treatment of me ſhews that thou thinkeſt I am—

In ſhort, her whole air throughout this debate, expreſſed a majeſtic kind of indignation, which im⯑plied a believed ſuperiority of talents over the man ſhe ſpoke to.

Thou haſt heard me often expatiate upon the piti⯑ful figure a man muſt make, whoſe wife has, or be⯑lieves [78] ſhe has, more ſenſe than himſelf. A thouſand reaſons could I give, why I ought not to think of marrying Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe: At leaſt till I can be ſure, that ſhe loves me with the preference I muſt expect from a wife.

I begin to ſtagger in my reſolutions. Ever averſe as I was to the Hymeneal ſhackles, how eaſily will old prejudices recur!—Heaven give me the heart to be honeſt to her!—There's a prayer. Jack!—If I ſhould not be heard, what a ſad thing would that be, for the moſt admirable of women!—Yet, as I do not often trouble Heaven with my prayers, who knows but this may be granted?

But there lie before me ſuch charming difficulties, ſuch ſcenery for intrigue, for ſtratagem, for enter⯑prize—What a horrible thing that my talents point all that way!—When I know what is honourable and juſt; and would almoſt wiſh to be honeſt?—Almoſt, I ſay; for ſuch a varlet am I, that I cannot altogether wiſh it, for the ſoul of me!—Such a triumph over the whole Sex, if I can ſubdue this lady!—My maiden vow, as I may call it!—For did not the Sex begin with me?—And does this lady ſpare me?—Think'ſt thou, Jack, that I ſhould have ſpared my Roſebud, had I been ſet at defiance thus?—Her grandmother beſought me, at firſt, to ſpare her Roſebud; and when a girl is put, or puts herſelf, into a man's power, what can he wiſh for further? while I always con⯑ſider'd oppoſition and reſiſtance as a challenge to do my worſt ^(a).

Why, why, will the dear creature take ſuch pains to appear all ice to me?—Why will ſhe, by her pride, awaken mine?—Haſt thou not ſeen, in the above, how contemptibly ſhe treats me?—What have I not ſuffer'd for her, and even from her?—Is it tolerable to be told, that ſhe will deſpiſe me, if I value myſelf above that odious Solmes!—

[79]Then ſhe cuts me ſhort in all my ardors. To vow fidelity, is, by a curſed turn upon me, to ſhew, that there is reaſon, in my own opinion, for doubt of it.—The very ſame reflection upon me, once before ^(a). In my power, or out of my power, all one to her.—So, Belford, my poor vows are cramm'd down my throat, before they can well riſe to my lips. And what can a lover ſay to his miſtreſs, if ſhe will neither let him lye nor ſwear?

One little piece of artifice I had recourſe to: When ſhe puſh'd ſo hard for me to leave her, I made a re⯑queſt to her, upon a condition ſhe could not refuſe; and pretended as much gratitude upon her granting it, as if it were a favour of the laſt conſequence.

And what was This? but to promiſe what ſhe had before promiſed, Never to marry any other man, while I am living, and ſingle, unleſs I ſhould give her cauſe for high diſguſt againſt me. This, you know, was promiſing nothing, becauſe ſhe could be offended at any time; and was to be the ſole judge of the offence. But it ſhew'd her, how reaſonable and juſt my expectations were; and that I was no en⯑croacher.

She conſented; and aſk'd, What ſecurity I ex⯑pected?

Her word only.

She gave me her word: But I beſought her excuſe for ſealing it: And, in the ſame moment [ſince to have waited for conſent, would have been aſking for a de⯑nial], ſaluted her. And, believe me, or not, but, as I hope to live, it was the firſt time I had the courage to touch her charming lips with mine. And This I tell thee, Belford, that That ſingle preſſure (as modeſtly put too, as if I were as much a virgin as herſelf, that ſhe might not be afraid of me another time) delighted me more than ever I was delighted by the Ultimatum with any other woman.—So precious does awe, re⯑verence, [80] and apprehended prohibition, make a fa⯑vour!

I am only afraid, that I ſhall be too cunning; for ſhe does not at preſent talk enough for me. I hardly know what to make of the dear creature yet.

I topt the brother's part on Monday night before the landlady at St. Albans; aſking my ſiſter's pardon for carrying her off ſo unprepar'd for a journey; prated of the joy my father and mother, and all our friends, would have on receiving her; and This with ſo many circumſtances, that I perceived, by a look ſhe gave me, that went thro' my very reins, that I had gone too far. I apologiz'd for it, indeed, when alone; but I could not penetrate for the ſoul of me, whether I made the matter better or worſe by it.—But I am of too frank a nature: My ſucceſs, and the joy I have, becauſe of the jewel I am half in poſſeſſion of, has not only unlock'd my boſom, but left the door quite open.

This is a confounded ſly Sex. Would ſhe but ſpeak out, as I do—But I muſt learn reſerves of her.

She muſt needs be unprovided of money: But has too much pride to accept of any from me. I would have her go to town [to town, if poſſible, muſt I get her to conſent to go], in order to provide herſelf with the richeſt of ſilks which That can afford. But nei⯑ther is this to be aſſented to. And yet, as my intelli⯑gencer acquaints me, her implacable relations are re⯑ſolved to diſtreſs her all they can.

Theſe wretches have been moſt gloriouſly raving, it ſeems, ever ſince her flight; and ſtill, thank Hea⯑ven, continue to rave; and will, I hope, for a twelve-month to come.—Now, at laſt, it is my day!—

Bitterly do they regret, that they permitted her poultry-viſits, and garden-walks, which gave her the opportunity they know ſhe had (tho' they could not find out how) to concert, as they ſuppoſe, her pre-concerted eſcape. For, as to her dining in the [81] Ivy-bower, they had a cunning deſign to anſwer upon her in that permiſſion, as Betty told Joſeph her lover ^(a).

They loſt, they ſay, an excellent pretence for more cloſely confining her, on my threatening to reſcue her, if they offer'd to carry her againſt her will to old Antony's moated houſe ^(b). For this, as I told thee at the Hart, and as I once hinted to the dear creature herſelf ^(c), they had it in deliberation to do; appre⯑hending, that I might attempt to carry her off, either with or without her conſent, on ſome one of thoſe connived-at excurſions.

But here my honeſt Joſeph, who gave me the in⯑formation, was of admirable ſervice to me. I had taught him to make the Harlowes believe, that I was as communicative to my ſervants, as their ſtupid James was to Joſeph ^(d): Joſeph, as they ſuppoſed, by tampering with Will ^(e), got at all my ſecrets, and was acquainted with all my motions: And having undertaken to watch all his young Lady's too ^(f); the wiſe family were ſecure; and ſo was my beloved, and ſo was I.

I once had it in my head [and I hinted it to thee in a former ^(g),] in caſe ſuch a ſtep ſhould be neceſſary, to attempt to carry her off by ſurprize from the wood-houſe; as it is remote from the dwelling-houſe. This, had I attempted, I ſhould certainly have effect⯑ed, by the help of the Confraternity: And it would have been an action worthy of us All.—But Jo⯑ſeph's conſcience, as he called it, ſtood in my way; for he thought, it muſt have been known to be done by [82] his connivance. I could, I dare ſay, have overcome this ſcruple, as eaſily as I did many of his others, had I not depended, at one time, upon her meeting me at a midnight or late hour; when, if ſhe had, it would have coſt me a fall, had ſhe gone back; at other times, upon the cunning family's doing my work for me, by driving her into my arms.

And then I knew, that James and Arabella were determin'd never to leave off their fooliſh trials and provocations, till, by tiring her out, they had either made her Solmes's wife; or guilty of ſuch a raſhneſs as ſhould throw her for ever out of the favour of both her uncles.

LETTER XI. Mr. LOVELACE; In Continuation.

I Obliged the dear creature highly, I could perceive, by bringing Mrs. Greme to attend her, and to ſuffer that good woman's recommendation of lodgings to take place, on her refuſal to go to the Lawn.

She muſt obſerve, that all my views were honourable, when I had provided for her no particular lodgings, leaving it to her choice, whether ſhe'd go to M. Hall, to the Lawn, to London, or to either of my aunts.

She was viſibly pleaſed with my motion of putting Mrs. Greme into the chaiſe with her, and riding on horſeback myſelf.

Some people would have been apprehenſive of what might paſs between her and Mrs. Greme. But as all my relations know the juſtice of my intentions by her, I was in no pain on that account. Eſpecially as I had been always above hypocriſy, or wanting to be thought better than I am. And indeed, what occaſion has a man to be an hypocrite, who has hitherto found his views upon the Sex better anſwer'd, for his being known to be a rake?—Why, even my beloved here, [83] deny'd not to correſpond with me, tho' her friends had taught her to think me one.—Who then would be trying a new and worſe character?

And then Mrs. Greme is a pious matron; who would not have been biaſs'd againſt the truth on any conſideration. She uſed formerly, while there were any hopes of my reformation, to pray for me. She hardly continues the good cuſtom, I doubt; for her worthy Lord makes no ſcruple, occaſionally, to rave againſt me to man, woman, and child, as they come in his way. He is very undutiful, as thou knoweſt. Surely, I may ſay ſo; ſince all duties are recipro⯑cal. But for Mrs. Greme, poor woman! when my Lord has the gout, and is at the Lawn, and the chaplain not to be found, ſhe prays by him, or reads a chapter to him in the Bible, or ſome other good book.

Was it not therefore right, to introduce ſuch a good ſort of woman to my beloved; and to leave them, without reſerve, to their own talk?—And very buſy in talk I ſaw they were, as they rode; and felt it too—For moſt charmingly glowed my cheeks.

I hope I ſhall be honeſt, I once more ſay: But as we frail mortals are not our own maſters, at all times, I muſt endeavour to keep the dear creature unappre⯑henſive, until I can get her to our acquaintance's in London, or to ſome other ſafe place there. Should I, in the interim, give her the leaſt room for ſuſpi⯑cion; or offer to reſtrain her, or refuſe to leave her at her own will; ſhe can make her appeals to ſtrangers, and call the country in upon me; and, perhaps, throw herſelf upon her relations, on their own terms. And were I now to loſe her, how unworthy ſhould I be, to be the prince and leader of ſuch a confraternity as ours!—How unable to look up among men! or to ſhew my face among women!—As things at preſent ſtand, ſhe dare not own, that ſhe went off againſt her [84] own conſent; and I have taken care to make all the Implacables believe, that ſhe eſcaped with it.

She has received an anſwer from Miſs Howe, to the letter written to her from St. Albans ^(a).

Whatever are the contents, I know not; but ſhe was drown'd in tears; and I am the ſufferer.

Miſs Howe is a charming creature too; but con⯑foundedly ſmart, and ſpiritful. I am a good deal afraid of her. Her mother can hardly keep her in. I muſt continue to play off old Antony, by my honeſt Joſeph, upon That Mother, in order to manage That daughter, and oblige my Beloved to an abſolute de⯑pendence upon myſelf ^(b).

Miſtreſs Howe is impatient of contradiction. So is Miſs. A young lady who is ſenſible that ſhe has all the maternal requiſites herſelf, to be under maternal controul;—fine ground for a man of intrigue to build upon!—A mother over-notable; a daughter over-ſenſible; and their Hickman, who is—over-neither, but merely a paſſive—

Only that I have an object ſtill more deſirable!—

Yet how unhappy, that theſe two young ladies lived ſo near each other, and are ſo well acquaint⯑ed! Elſe how charmingly might I have managed them both!

But one man cannot have every woman worth having.—Pity tho'—when the man is ſuch a VERY clever fellow!

LETTER XII. Mr. LOVELACE; In Continuation.

NEVER was there ſuch a pair of ſcribbling lovers as we;—Yet perhaps whom it ſo much concerns to keep from each other what each writes. She won't have any thing elſe to do. I would, if ſhe'd let me. I am not reform'd enough for a huſ⯑band. [85] —Patience is a virtue, Lord M. ſays. Slow and ſure, is another of his ſentences. If I had not a great deal of that virtue, I ſhould not have waited the Har⯑lowes own time of ripening into execution my plots upon Themſelves, and upon their Goddeſs-daughter.

My beloved has been writing to her ſaucy friend, I believe, all that has befallen her, and what has paſs'd between us hitherto. She will poſſibly have fine ſub⯑jects for her pen, if ſhe be as minute as I am to thee.

I would not be ſo barbarous, as to permit old An⯑tony to ſet Goody Howe againſt her, did I not dread the conſequences of the correſpondence between the two young ladies. So lively the one, ſo vigilant, ſo prudent both, who would not wiſh to outwit ſuch girls, and to be able to twirl them round his finger?

My charmer has written to her ſiſter for her cloaths, for ſome gold, and for ſome of her books. What books can tell her more than ſhe knows? But I can. So ſhe had better ſtudy me.

She may write. She muſt be obliged to me at laſt, with all her pride. Miſs Howe will be ready enough, indeed, to ſupply her; but I queſtion, whether ſhe can do it without her mother, who is as covetous as the grave. And my agent's agent Antony has al⯑ready given the mother a hint, which will make her jealous of pecuniaries.

Beſides, if Miſs Howe has money by her, I can put her mother upon borrowing it of her.—Nor blame me, Jack, for contrivances that have their founda⯑tion in generoſity. Thou knoweſt my ſpirit; and that I ſhould be proud to lay an obligation upon my charmer, to the amount of half my eſtate. Lord M. has more for me than I can ever wiſh for. My predo⯑minant paſſion is Girl, not Gold; nor value I This, but as it helps me to That, and gives me indepen⯑dence.

I was forced to put it into the ſweet novice's head, as well for my ſake as for hers (leſt we ſhould be trace⯑able [86] by her direction), whither to direct the ſending of her cloaths, if they incline to do her that ſmall piece of juſtice.

If they do, I ſhall begin to dread a reconciliation; and muſt be forced to muſe for a contrivance or two, to prevent it; and to avoid miſchief. For that (as I have told honeſt Joſeph Leman) is a great point with me.

Thou wilt think me a ſad fellow, I doubt.—But are not all rakes ſad fellows?—And thou, to thy little power, as bad as any? If thou doſt all that's in thy head and in thy heart to do, thou art worſe than me; for I do not, I aſſure thee.

I propoſed, and ſhe conſented, that her cloaths, or whatever elſe her relations ſhould think fit to ſend her, ſhould be directed to thee, at thy couſin Oſgood's.—Let a ſpecial meſſenger, at my charge, bring me any letter, or portable parcel, that ſhall come.—If not portable, give me notice of it. But thou'lt have no trouble of this ſort from her relations, I dare be ſworn. And, in this aſſurance, I will leave them, I think, to act upon their own heads. A man would have no more to anſwer for than needs muſt.

But one thing, while I think of it [It is of great importance to be attended to]—You muſt hereafter write to me in character, as I ſhall do to you, How know we into whoſe hands our letters may fall? It would be a confounded thing to be blown up by a train of one's own laying.

Another thing remember; I have chang'd my name: Chang'd it without an act of parliament. "Robert Huntingford" it is now. Continue Eſquire. It is a reſpectable addition, altho' every ſorry fellow aſſumes it, almoſt to the baniſhment of the uſual tra⯑velling one of Captain. ‘"To be left till called for at the poſthouſe at Hertford."’

Upon naming thee, ſhe aſked thy character. I gave thee a better than thou deſerveſt, in order to do [87] credit to myſelf. Yet I told her, that thou wert an aukward puppy; and This to do credit to Thee, that ſhe may not, if ever ſhe is to ſee thee, expect a cle⯑verer fellow than ſhe'll find; yet thy apparent auk⯑wardneſs befriends thee not a little: For wert thou a ſightly varlet, people would diſcover nothing extra⯑ordinary in thee, when they convers'd with thee: Whereas ſeeing a bear, they are ſurpriz'd to find in thee anything that is like a man. Felicitate thyſelf then upon thy defects; which are ſo evidently thy principal perfections, and which occaſion thee a di⯑ſtinction thou wouldſt otherwiſe never have.

The lodgings we are in at preſent are not conve⯑nient. I was ſo delicate as to find fault with them, as communicating with each other, becauſe I knew the lady would; and told her, That were I ſure ſhe was ſafe from purſuit, I would leave her in them, ſince ſuch was her earneſt deſire. The devil's in't, if I don't baniſh even the ſhadow of miſtruſt from her heart. She muſt be an infidel againſt all reaſon and appearances, if I don't.

Here are two young likely girls, daughters of the widow Sorlings; that's the name of our landlady.

I have only, at preſent, admir'd them in their dairy-works. How greedily do the whole Sex ſwallow praiſe!—So pleas'd was I with the youngeſt, for the elegance of her works, that I kiſs'd her, and ſhe made me a courteſy for my condeſcenſion; and bluſh'd, and ſeem'd ſenſible all over: Encouragingly, yet in⯑nocently, ſhe adjuſted her handkerchief, and looked towards the door, as much as to ſay, She would not tell, were I to kiſs her again.

Her elder ſiſter popt upon her. The conſcious girl bluſh'd again, and look'd ſo confounded, that I made an excuſe for her, which gratify'd both. Mrs. Betty, ſaid I, I have been ſo much pleas'd with the neatneſs of your dairy-works, that I could not help ſaluting [88] your ſiſter: You have your ſhare of merit in them, I am ſure—Give me leave—

Good ſouls!—I like them both.—She courteſied too!—How I love a grateful temper! O that my Miſs Harlowe were but half ſo acknowleging!

I think I muſt get one of them to attend my charmer, when ſhe removes.—The mother ſeems to be a notable woman. She had not beſt, however, be too notable: For, were ſhe by ſuſpicion to give a face of difficulty to the matter, it would prepare me for a tryal with one or both the daughters.

Allow me a little rhodomontade, Jack!—But really and truly, my heart is fix'd. I can think of no crea⯑ture breathing of the ſex, but my Gloriana.

LETTER XIII. From Mr. LOVELACE; In Continuation.

THIS is Wedneſday; the day that I was to have loſt my charmer for ever!—With what high ſatiſ⯑faction and hearts-eaſe can I now ſit down, and triumph over my men in ſtraw at Harlowe-Place! Yet 'tis perhaps beſt for them, that ſhe got off as ſhe did. Who knows what conſequences might have follow'd upon my attending her in; or (if ſhe had not met me) upon my projected viſit, followed by my Myrmidons?

But had I even gone in with her un-accompany'd, I think I had but little reaſon for apprehenſion: For well thou knoweſt, that the tame Spirits which value themſelves upon reputation, and are held within the ſkirts of the law by political conſiderations only, may be compar'd to an infectious ſpider; which will run into his hole the moment one of his threads is touched by a finger that can cruſh him, leaving all his toils defence⯑leſs, and to be bruſh'd down at the will of the potent invader. While a ſilly fly, that has neither courage nor ſtrength to reſiſt, no ſooner gives notice by its buz and its ſtruggle, of its being intangled, but out [89] ſteps the ſelf-circumſcribed tyrant, winds round and round the poor inſect, till he covers it with his bowel-ſpun toils; and when ſo fully ſecured, that it can neither move leg nor wing, ſuſpends it, as if for a ſpectacle to be exulted over: Then ſtalking to the door of his cell, turns about, glotes over it at a diſtance; and, ſometimes advancing, ſometimes retire⯑ing, preys at leiſure upon its vitals.

But now I think of it, will not this compariſon do as well for the intangled girls, as for the tame ſpirits?—Better o' my conſcience!—'Tis but comparing the ſpider to us brave fellows; and it quadrates.

Whatever our hearts are in, our heads will follow. Begin with ſpiders, with flies, with what we will, the Girl is the centre of gravity, and we all naturally tend to it.

Nevertheleſs, to recur; I cannot but obſerve, that theſe tame ſpirits ſtand a poor chance in a fairly offen⯑ſive war with ſuch of us mad fellows, as are above all law, and ſcorn to ſkulk behind the hypocritical ſcreen of reputation.

Thou knoweſt, that I never ſcrupled to throw my⯑ſelf among numbers of adverſaries; the more the ſafer: One or two, no fear, will take the part of a ſingle adventurer, if not intentionally, in fact: hold⯑ing him in, while others hold in the principal antago⯑niſt, to the augmentation of their mutual proweſs, till both are prevailed upon to compromiſe, or one to abſent. So that upon the whole, the law-breakers have the advantage of the law-keepers, all the world over; at leaſt for a time, till they have run to the end of their race.—Add to this, in the queſtion between me and the Harlowes, that the whole family of them muſt know that they have injur'd me—Did they not, at their own church, cluſter together like bees, when they ſaw me enter it? Nor knew they which ſhould venture out firſt, when the Service was over

[90]James, indeed, was not there. If he had, he would perhaps have endeavour'd to look valiant. But there is a ſort of valour in the face, which, by its over-bluſter, ſhews fear in the heart: Juſt ſuch a face would James Harlowe's have been, had I made them a viſit.

When I have had ſuch a face and ſuch a heart as that to deal with, I have been all calm and ſerene, and left it to the friends of ſuch a one, as I have done to the Harlowes, to do my work for me.

I am about muſtering up in my memory, all that I have ever done, that has been thought praiſe-worthy, or but barely tolerable. I am afraid thou canſt not help me to many remembrances of this ſort; becauſe I never was ſo bad as ſince I have known thee.

Have I not had it in my heart to do ſome good that thou canſt remind me of? Study for me, Jack. I have recollected ſeveral inſtances, which I think will tell in:—But ſee if thou canſt not help me to ſome which I may have forgot.

This I may venture to ſay, That the principal blot in my eſcutcheon is owing to theſe Girls, theſe con⯑founded Girls. But for Them, I could go to church with a good conſcience: But when I do, There they are. Every-where does Satan ſpread his ſnares for me!

But, now I think of it, what if our governors ſhould appoint churches for the women only, and others fo [...] the men?—Full as proper, I think, for the promoting of true piety in both, [Much better than the ſyna⯑gogue-lattices] as ſeparate boarding-ſchools for their education.

There are already male and female dedications o [...] churches.

St. Swithin's, St. Stephen's, St. Thomas's, St. George's, and ſo forth, might be appropriated to th [...] men; and the Santa Katharina's, Santa Anna's, Santa Maria's, Santa Margaretta's, for the women!

[91]Yet, were it ſo, and life to be the forfeiture of being found at the female churches, I believe I ſhould, like a ſecond Clodius, change my dreſs, to come at my Portia or Calpurnia, tho' one the daughter of a Cato, the other the wife of a Caeſar.

But how I excurſe!—Yet thou uſedſt to ſay, thou likedſt my excurſions. If thou doſt, thou'lt have enow of them: For I never had a ſubject I ſo much adored; and with which I ſhall probably be com⯑pelled to have ſo much patience, before I ſtrike the blow; if the blow I do ſtrike.

But let me call myſelf back to my recordation-ſub⯑ject—Thou needeſt not to remind me of my Roſebud. I have her in my head; and moreover have contrived to give my fair-one an hint of that affair, by the agency of honeſt Joſeph Leman ^(a); altho' I have not reaped the hoped-for credit of her acknowlege⯑ment.—

That's the devil; and it was always my hard fate—Every thing I do that is good, is but as I ought!—Every thing of a contrary nature is brought into the moſt glaring light againſt me!—Is this fair? Ought not a balance to be ſtruck? and the credit carried to my account?—Yet I muſt own too, that I half grudge Johnny this blooming maiden; for, in truth, I think a fine woman too rich a jewel to hang about a poor man's neck.

Surely, Jack, if I am in a fault in my univerſal adorations of the ſex, the women in general ought to love me the better for it.

And ſo they do, I thank them heartily; except here and there a covetous little rogue comes croſs me, who, under the pretence of loving virtue for its own ſake, wants to have me all to herſelf.—

I have rambled enough.—

LETTER XIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Always lov'd writing, and my unhappy ſituation gives me now enough of it; and you, I fear, too much.—I have had another very warm debate with Mr. Lovelace. It brought on the ſubject, which you adviſed me not to decline, when it handſomely offer'd And I want to have either your acquittal or blame for having ſuffer'd it to go off without effect.

The impatient wretch ſent up to me ſeveral times while I was writing my laſt to you, to deſire my com⯑pany; yet his buſineſs nothing particular; only to hea [...] him talk. The man ſeems pleaſed with his own volu⯑bility; and, whenever he has collected together abun⯑dance of ſmooth things, he wants me to find ears for them.—Yet he need not: for I don't often gratify him either with giving him the praiſe, or ſhewing the pleaſure in his verboſeneſs, that he would be fond of.

When I had diſpatch'd the letter, and given it t [...] Mr. Hickman's friend, I was going up again: But h [...] beſought me to ſtop, and hear what he had to ſay.

Nothing, as I ſaid, to any new purpoſe—but com⯑plainings, and thoſe in a manner, and with an air, a [...] I thought, that bordered upon inſolence:—He coul [...] not live, he told me, unleſs he had more of my com⯑pany, and of my indulgence too, than I had yet give [...] him.

Hereupon I ſtept into the parlour, not a little out o [...] humour with him; and the more, as he has very quietly taken up his quarters here, without talking o [...] removing.

We began preſently our angry conference. H [...] provoked me; and I repeated ſeveral of the plaine [...] things I had ſaid before; and particularly told hi [...] that I was every hour more and more diſſatisfy'd wit [...] [93] myſelf, and with him: That he was not a man, who, in my opinion, improv'd upon acquaintance: And that I ſhould not be eaſy till he had left me to myſelf.

He might be ſurprized at my warmth, perhaps.—But really the man looked ſo like a ſimpleton; heſi⯑tating, and having nothing to ſay for himſelf, or that ſhould excuſe the peremptorineſs of his demand upon me [when he knew I was writing a letter, which a gentleman waited for], that I flung from him, declare⯑ing, that I would be miſtreſs of my own time, and of my own actions, without being called to account for either.

He was very uneaſy till he could again be admitted into my company. And when I was obliged to ſee him, which was ſooner than I liked, never did man put on a more humble and reſpectful demeanour.

He told me, That he had, upon this occaſion, been entering into himſelf, and had found a great deal of reaſon to blame himſelf for an impatiency and inconſi⯑deration, which, altho' he meant nothing by it, muſt be very diſagreeable to one of my delicacy. That having always aimed at a manly ſincerity and openneſs of heart, he had not till now diſcover'd, that both were very conſiſtent with that true politeneſs, which he feared he had too much diſregarded, while he ſought to avoid the contrary extreme; knowing, that in me he had to deal with a lady, who deſpiſed an hypo⯑crite, and who was above all flattery. But, from this time forth, I ſhould find ſuch an alteration in his whole behaviour, as might be expected from a man, who knew himſelf to be honoured with the preſence and converſation of a perſon, who had the moſt deli⯑cate mind in the world—that was his flouriſh.

I ſaid, That he might perhaps expect congratulation upon the diſcovery he had juſt now made, That true politeneſs and ſincerity were very compatible: But that I, who had, by a perverſe fate, been thrown into his company, had abundant reaſon for regret, [94] that he had not ſooner found this out:—Since, I believed, very few men of birth and education were ſtrangers to it.

He knew not, neither, he ſaid, that he had ſo badly behav'd himſelf, as to deſerve ſo very ſevere a rebuke.

Perhaps not. But he might, if ſo, make another diſcovery from what I had ſaid; which might be to my own diſadvantage: Since, if he had ſo much rea⯑ſon to be ſatisfied with himſelf, he would ſee what an ungenerous perſon he ſpoke to, who, when he ſeem'd to give himſelf airs of humility, which, perhaps, he thought beneath him to aſſume, had not the civility to make him a compliment upon them; but was ready to take him at his word.

He had long, with infinite pleaſure, the pretended flattery-hater ſaid, admired my ſuperior talents, and a wiſdom in ſo young a Lady, perfectly ſurpriſing!

Lady he calls me, at every word, perhaps in com⯑pliment to himſelf. As I endeavour to repeat his words with exactneſs, you'll be pleaſed, once for all, to excuſe me for repeating This. I have no title to it. And I am ſure I am too much mortify'd at preſent to take any pride in that, or any other of his compli⯑ments.

Let him ſtand ever ſo low in my opinion, he ſaid, he ſhould believe all were juſt; and that he had nothing to do, but to govern himſelf for the future by my example, and by the ſtandard I ſhould be pleaſed to give him.

I told him, I knew better, than to value myſelf upon his volubility of ſpeech: As he pretended to pay ſo preferable a regard to ſincerity, he ſhould confine himſelf to the ſtrict rules of truth, when he ſpoke of me, to myſelf: And then, although he ſhould be ſo kind as to imagine, he had reaſon to make me a com⯑pliment, he would have much more to pride himſelf in his arts, that had made ſo extraordinary a young crea⯑ture ſo great a fool.—

[95]Really, my dear, the man deſerves not politer treatment!—And then has he not made a fool, an egregious fool, of me?—I am afraid he thinks ſo himſelf.—

He was ſurpriz'd! He was amaz'd! at ſo ſtrange a turn upon him!—He was very unhappy, that nothing he could do or ſay would give me a good opinion of him. He wiſh'd I would let him know, what he could do to obtain my confidence.—

I told him, I deſir'd his abſence, of all things. I ſaw not, that my friends thought it worth their while to give me diſturbance: Therefore, if he would ſet out for London, or Berkſhire, or whither he pleaſed, it would be moſt agreeable to me, and moſt reputable too.

He would do ſo, he ſaid, he intended to do ſo, the moment I was in a place to my liking—in a place convenient for me.

This would be ſo, I told him, when he was not here, to break in upon me, and make the apartments inconvenient.

He did not think this place ſafe; and as I had not had thoughts of ſtaying here, he had not been ſo ſoli⯑citous, as otherwiſe he ſhould have been, to injoin privacy to his ſervants, nor to Mrs. Greme, at her leaving me; and there were two or three gentlemen in the neighbourhood, he ſaid, with whoſe ſervants his goſſiping raſcals had ſcraped acquaintance: So that he could not think of leaving me here unguarded and unattended.—But fix upon any place in England, where I could be out of danger, and undiſcovered, and he would go to the furthermoſt part of the king's dominions, if, by doing ſo, he could make me eaſy.

I told him plainly, that I ſhould never be in humour with myſelf for meeting him; nor with him, for ſeducing me away: That my regrets increaſed, inſtead of diminiſhed: That my reputation was wounded: That nothing I could do would now retrieve it: And [96] that he muſt not wonder, if I every hour grew more and more uneaſy both with myſelf and him: That upon the whole, I was willing to take care of myſelf; and when he had left me, I ſhould beſt know what to reſolve upon, and whither to go.

He wiſh'd, he ſaid, he were at liberty, without giving me offence, or being thought to intend to infringe upon the articles that I had ſtipulated and inſiſted upon, to make one humble propoſal to me.—But the ſacred regard he was determin'd to pay to all my injunctions (reluctantly as I had on Monday laſt put it into his power to ſerve me), would not permit him to make it, unleſs I would promiſe to excuſe him, if I did not approve of it.

I aſked, in ſome confuſion, What he would ſay?

He prefaced and paraded on; and then out came, with great diffidence, and many apologies, and a baſh⯑fulneſs which ſat very aukwardly upon him, a propo⯑ſal of ſpeedy ſolemnization: Which, he ſaid, would put all right: would make my firſt three or four months, which otherwiſe muſt be paſſed in obſcurity and apprehenſion, a round of viſits and viſitings to and from all his relations; To Miſs Howe; To whom I pleaſed: And would pave the way to the reconci⯑liation I had ſo much at heart.

Your advice had great weight with me juſt then, as well as his reaſons, and the conſideration of my un⯑happy ſituation: But what could I ſay? I wanted ſomebody to ſpeak for me: I could not, all at once, act as if I thought, that all punctilio was at an end. I was unwilling to ſuppoſe it was ſo ſoon.

The man ſaw I was not angry at his motion. I only bluſh'd up to the ears; that I am ſure I did: Look'd ſilly, and like a fool.

He wants not courage. Would he have had me catch at his firſt, at his very firſt word?—I was ſilent too!—And do not the bold ſex take ſilence for a mark of favour?—Then, ſo lately in my father's houſe! [97] Having, alſo, declared to him in my letters, before I had your advice, that I would not think of marriage, till he had paſſed thro' a ſtate of probation, as I may call it—How was it poſſible, I could encourage, with very ready ſigns of approbation, ſuch an early pro⯑poſal? eſpecially ſo ſoon after the free treatment he had provoked from me.—If I were to die, I could not.

He look'd at me with great confidence; as if (not⯑withſtanding his contradictory baſhfulneſs) he would look me through, while my eye but now-and-then could glance at him. He begg'd my pardon with great obſequiouſneſs: He was afraid I would think he deſerv'd no other anſwer, but that of a contem⯑ptuous ſilence. True Love was fearful of offend⯑ing—[Take care, Lovelace, thought I, how yours is tried by that rule]. Indeed ſo ſacred a regard [fooliſh man!] would he have to all my declarations made before I honour'd him—

I would hear him no further; but withdrew in too viſible confuſion, and left him to make his nonſenſical flouriſhes to himſelf.

I will only add, that, if he really wiſhes for a ſpeedy ſolemnization, he never could have had a luckier time to preſs for my conſent to it. But he let it go off; and indignation has taken place of it: And now it ſhall be my point, to get him at a diſtance from me.

I am, my deareſt friend,

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

WHAT can be done with a woman who is above flattery, and deſpiſes all praiſe but that which flows from the approbation of her own heart?

But why will this admirable creature urge her deſtiny? Why will ſhe defy the power ſhe is abſo⯑ſutely dependent upon?—Why will ſhe ſtill wiſh to [98] my face, that ſhe had never left her father's houſe?—Why will ſhe deny me her company, till ſhe makes me loſe my patience, and lay myſelf open to her reſent⯑ment?—And why, when ſhe is offended, does ſhe carry her indignation to the utmoſt length, that a ſcornful beauty, in the very height of her power and pride, can go?

Is it prudent, think'ſt thou, in her circumſtances, to tell me, repeatedly to tell me, That ſhe is every hour more and more diſſatisfy'd with herſelf and me? That I am not one, who improve upon her, in my converſation and addreſs? [Couldſt thou, Jack, bear this from a captive!] That ſhe ſhall not be eaſy while ſhe is with me? That ſhe was thrown upon me by a perverſe ſate? That ſhe knew better than to value herſelf upon my volubility? That if I thought ſhe deſerv'd the compliments I made her, I might pride myſelf in my arts, which had made a fool of ſo ex⯑traordinary a perſon? That ſhe ſhould never forgive herſelf for meeting me, nor me for ſeducing her away? [Her very words!] That her regrets increaſe inſtead of diminiſh? That ſhe would take care of herſelf; and ſince her friends thought it not worth while to purſue her, ſhe would be left to that care? That I ſhould make Mrs. Sorlings's houſe more agreeable by my abſence?—And, go to Berks, to town, or where⯑ever I would [to the devil, I ſuppoſe], with all her heart?

The impolitic charmer!—To a temper ſo vindic⯑tive as ſhe thinks mine! To a free-liver, as ſhe be⯑lieves me to be, who has her in his power!—I was before, as thou knoweſt, balancing; now this ſcale, now that, the heavieſt. I only waited to ſee how her will would work, how mine would lead me on. Thou ſeeſt what biaſs hers takes—And wilt thou doubt that mine will be determin'd by it?—Were not her faults before this numerous enough?—Why will ſhe put me upon looking back?—

[99]I will ſit down to argue with myſelf by-and-by, and thou ſhalt be acquainted with the reſult.

If thou kneweſt, if thou but beheldeſt, the abject ſlave ſhe made me look like!—I had given myſelf high airs, as ſhe call'd them: But they were airs that ſhew'd my love for her: That ſhew'd I could not live out of her company. But ſhe took me down with a ven⯑geance! She made me look about me. So much advantage had ſhe over me; ſuch ſevere turns upon me; by my ſoul, Jack, I had hardly a word to ſay for myſelf. I am aſham'd to tell thee, what a poor creature ſhe made me look like!—But I could have told her ſomething that would have humbled her pretty pride at the inſtant, had ſhe been in a proper place, and proper company about her.

To ſuch a place then—and where ſhe cannot fly me—And then to ſee how my will works, and what can be done by the amorous See-ſaw; now humble; now proud; now expecting, or demanding; now ſubmitting, or acquieſcing—till I have tired reſiſt⯑ance. But theſe hints are at preſent enough—I may further explain myſelf as I go along; and as I confirm or recede in my future motions.—If ſhe will revive paſt diſobligations!—If ſhe will—But no more—No more, as I ſaid, at preſent, of threatenings.

LETTER XVI. Mr. LOVELACE; In Continuation.

AND do I not ſee that I ſhall need nothing but patience, in order to have all power with me? For what ſhall we ſay, if all theſe complaints of a character wounded; theſe declarations of increaſing regrets for meeting me; of reſentments never to be got over for my ſeducing her away: Theſe angry com⯑mands to leave her:—What ſhall we ſay, If all were to mean nothing but MATRIMONY?—And what if [100] my forbearing to enter upon that ſubject come out to be the true cauſe of her petulance and uneaſineſs?

I had once before play'd about the ſkirts of the irrevocable obligation; but thought myſelf obliged to ſpeak in clouds, and to run away from the ſubject, as ſoon as ſhe took my meaning, leſt ſhe ſhould ima⯑gine it to be ungenerouſly urged, now ſhe was in ſome ſort in my power, as ſhe had forbid me, before⯑hand, to touch upon it, till I were in a ſtate of viſible reformation, and till a reconciliation with her friends were probable. But now, out-argued, out-talented, and puſhed ſo vehemently to leave one, whom I had no good pretence to hold, if ſhe would go; and who could ſo eaſily, if I had given her cauſe to doubt, have thrown herſelf into other protection, or have return'd to Harlowe-Place and Solmes; I ſpoke out upon the ſubject, and offer'd reaſons, altho' with infinite doubt and heſitation [leſt ſhe ſhould be offended at me, Belford!] why ſhe ſhould aſſent to the legal tie, and make me the happieſt of men. And O how the mantled cheek, the downcaſt eye, the ſilent, yet trembling lip, and the heaving boſom, a ſweet col⯑lection of heighten'd beauties, gave evidence, that the tender was not mortally offenſive!

Charming creature, thought I [But I charge thee, that thou let not any of the ſex know my exultation] Is it ſo ſoon come to this?—Am I already lord of the deſtiny of a Clariſſa Harlowe!—Am I already the reformed man thou reſolvedſt I ſhould be, before I had the leaſt encouragement given me? Is it thus, that the more thou knoweſt me, the leſs thou ſeeſt reaſon to approve of we?—And can art and deſign enter into a breaſt ſo celeſtial; To baniſh me from thee, to inſiſt ſo rigorouſly upon my abſence, in order to bring me cloſer to thee, and make the bleſſing dear?—Well do thy arts juſtify mine; and encourage me to let looſe my plotting genius upon thee.

[101]But let me tell thee, charming maid, if thy wiſhes are at all to be anſwer'd, that thou haſt yet to account to me for thy reluctance to go off with me, at a criſis when thy going off was neceſſary to avoid being forced into the nuptial fetters with a wretch, that were he not thy averſion, thou wert no more honeſt to thy own merit, than to me.

I am accuſtomed to be preferr'd, let me tell thee, by thy equals in rank too, tho' thy inferiors in merit; but who is not ſo! And ſhall I marry a woman, who has given me reaſon to doubt the preference ſhe has for me?

No, my deareſt love,—I have too ſacred a regard for thy injunctions, to let them be broke thro', even by thyſelf. Nor will I take-in thy full meaning, by bluſhing ſilence only. Nor ſhalt thou give me room to doubt, whether it be neceſſity or love, that inſpires this condeſcending impulſe.

Upon theſe principles, what had I to do, but to conſtrue her ſilence into contemptuous diſpleaſure? And I begg'd her pardon, for making a motion, which, I had ſo much reaſon to fear, would offend her: For the future I would pay a ſacred regard to her previous injunctions, and prove to her, by all my conduct, the truth of that obſervation. That true love is always fearful of offending!—

And what could the Lady ſay to this? methinks thou aſkeſt.

Say!—Why ſhe look'd vex'd, diſconcerted, teaz'd; was at a loſs, as I thought, whether to be more angry with herſelf, or me. She turn'd about, however, as if to hide a ſtarting tear; and drew a ſigh into two or three but juſt audible quavers, trying to ſuppreſs it; and withdrew, leaving me maſter of the field.

Tell me not of politeneſs: Tell me not of genero⯑ſity: Tell me not of compaſſion:—Is ſhe not a match for me? More than a match? Does ſhe not out-do me at every fair weapon? Has ſhe not made me [102] doubt her love? Has ſhe not taken officious pains to declare, that ſhe was not averſe to Solmes for any reſpect ſhe had to me? and her ſorrow for putting herſelf out of his reach; that is to ſay, for meeting me?

Then what a triumph would it be to the Harlowe pride, were I now to marry this Lady?—A family be⯑neath my own!—No one in it worthy of an alliance with, but her!—My own eſtate not contemptible!—Living within the bounds of it, to avoid dependence upon their betters, and obliged to no man living!—My expectations ſtill ſo much more conſiderable—My perſon, my talents—not to be deſpiſed, ſurely—Yet rejected by them with ſcorn:—Obliged to carry on an under-hand addreſs to their daughter, when two of the moſt conſiderable families in the kingdom have made over-tures, which I have declined, partly for her ſake, and partly becauſe I never will marry, if ſhe be not the perſon: To be forced to ſteal her away; not only from them, but from herſelf:—And muſt I be brought to implore forgiveneſs and reconciliation from the Harlowes?—Beg to be acknowleged as the ſon of a gloomy tyrant, whoſe only boaſt is his riches? As a brother to a wretch, who has conceived immortal hatred to me; and to a ſiſter who was beneath my attempts, or I would have had her in my own way, [and that with a tenth part of the trouble and pains, that her ſiſter, whom ſhe has ſo barbarouſly inſulted, has coſt me, yet not a ſtep advanced with her?] And, finally, as a nephew to uncles, who valuing themſelves upon their acquired fortunes, would inſult me, as creeping to them on that account?—Forbid it the blood of the Lovelaces, that your laſt, and, let me ſay, not the meaneſt of your ſtock, ſhould thus creep, thus fawn, thus lick the duſt, for a WIFE!—

Proceed anon.

LETTER XVII. From Mr. LOVELACE; In Continuation.

BUT is it not the divine Clariſſa [Harlowe let me not ſay; my ſoul ſpurns them all but her] whom I am thus by implication threatening?—If virtue be the true nobility, how is ſhe ennobled, and how would an alliance with her ennoble, were there no draw-backs from the family ſhe is ſprung from, and prefers to me?

But again, let me ſtop.—Is there not ſomething wrong; has there not been ſomething wrong in this divine creature?—And will not the reflections upon that wrong [what tho' it may be conſtrued in my fa⯑vour?] make me unhappy, when novelty has loſt its charms, and ſhe is mind and perſon all my own?—Libertines are nicer, if at all nice, than other men. They ſeldom meet with the ſtand of virtue in the women whom they attempt. And by thoſe they have met with, they judge of all the reſt. Importunity and Opportunity no woman is proof againſt, eſpecially from a perſevering lover, who knows how to ſuit temptations to inclinations. This, thou knoweſt, is a prime article of the rake's creed.

And what! (methinks thou aſkeſt with ſurprize) Doſt thou queſtion this moſt admirable of women?—The virtue of a CLARISSA doſt thou queſtion?

I do not, I dare not queſtion it. My reverence for her will not let me, directly, queſtion it. But let me, in my turn, aſk thee—Is not, may not her virtue be founded rather in pride than principle?—Whoſe daughter is ſhe?—And is ſhe not a daughter? If impeccable, how came ſhe by her impeccability?—The pride of ſetting an example to her ſex has run away with her hitherto, and may have made her till now invincible—But is not that pride abated?— [104] What may not both men and women be brought to do, in a mortify'd ſtate? What mind is ſuperior to calamity?—Pride is perhaps the principal bulwark of female virtue. Humble a woman, and may ſhe not be effectually humbled?

Then who ſays, Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe is the pa⯑ragon of virtue? Is virtue itſelf?

All who know her, and have heard of her, It will be anſwer'd.

Common bruit!—Is virtue to be eſtabliſhed by common bruit only?—Has her virtue ever been proved?—Who has dared to try her virtue?

I told thee, I would ſit down to argue with myſelf; and I have drawn myſelf into the argumentation be⯑fore I was aware.

Let me enter into a ſtrict diſcuſſion of this ſubject.

I know how ungenerous an appearance what I have ſaid, and what I have farther to ſay, on this topic, will have from me: But am I not bringing virtue to the touchſtone, with a view to exalt it, if it come out to be virtue?—Avaunt then, for one moment, all conſideration that may ariſe from a weakneſs, which ſome would miſcall gratitude; and is often⯑times the corrupter of a heart not ignoble!

To the teſt then. And I will bring this charming creature to the ſtricteſt teſt, that all the ſex, who may be ſhewn any paſſages in my letters [And I know thou cheareſt the hearts of all thy acquaintance with ſuch detached parts of mine, as tend not to diſhonour characters, or reveal names. And this gives me an appetite to oblige thee by interlardment] that all the ſex, I ſay, may ſee what they ought to be; what is expected from them; and if they have to deal with a perſon of reflection and punctilio [pride, if thou wilt], how careful they ought to be, by a regular and uniform conduct, not to give him cauſe to think lightly of them, by favours granted, which may be interpreted into na⯑tural weakneſs. For is not a wife the keeper of a man's [105] honour? And do not her faults bring more diſgrace upon a huſband, than even upon herſelf?

It is not for nothing, Jack, that I have diſliked the life of ſhackles!—

To the teſt, then, as I ſaid, ſince now I have the queſtion brought home to me, Whether I am to have a wife? And whether ſhe be to be a wife at the firſt, or at the ſecond hand?

I will proceed fairly; I will do the dear creature not only ſtrict, but generous juſtice; for I will try her by her own judgment, as well as by our prin⯑ciples.

She blames herſelf for having correſponded with me, a man of free character; and one indeed whoſe firſt view it was, to draw her into this correſpond⯑ence; and who ſucceeded in it, by means unknown to herſelf.

Now, what were her inducements to this corre⯑ſpondence?—If not what her niceneſs makes her think blame-worthy, why does ſhe blame herſelf?

Has ſhe been capable of error?—Of perſiſting in that error?

Whoever was the tempter, that is not the thing; nor what the temptation. The fact, the error, is now before us.

Did ſhe perſiſt in it againſt parental prohibition?

She owns ſhe did.

Was there ever known to be a daughter who had higher notions of the filial duty, of the parental au⯑thority?

Never.

What muſt be thoſe inducements, how ſtrong, that were too ſtrong for duty, in a daughter ſo duti⯑ful?—What muſt my thought have been of them, what my hopes built upon them, at the time, taken in this light?

Well, but it will be ſaid. That her principal view was, to prevent miſchief between her brother and her [106] other friends, and the man vilely inſulted by them all.

But why ſhould ſhe be more concerned for the ſafety of others, than they were for their own?—And had not the rencounter then happen'd?—Was a perſon of virtue to be prevailed upon to break through her ap⯑parent, her acknowleged duty, upon any conſidera⯑tion?—Much leſs was ſhe to be ſo prevailed upon to prevent an apprehended evil only?

Thou, Lovelace, the tempter (thou'lt again break out and ſay), to be the accuſer!

But I am not the accuſer. I am an arguer only, and, in my heart, all the time acquit and worſhip the divine creature. But let me, nevertheleſs, examine, whether the acquittal be owing to her merit, or to my weakneſs, the true name for love.

But ſhall we ſuppoſe another motive?—And that is LOVE; a motive which all the world will excuſe her for.—But let me tell all the world that do, not be⯑cauſe they ought, but becauſe all the world is apt to be miſled by it.

Let LOVE then be the motive:—LOVE of whom?

A Lovelace is the anſwer.

Is there but one Lovelace in the world?—May not more Lovelaces be attracted by ſo fine a figure? By ſuch exalted qualities?—It was her character that drew me to her: And it was her beauty and good ſenſe, that rivetted my chains; and now, all toge⯑ther make me think her a ſubject worthy of my at⯑tempts; worthy of my ambition.

But has ſhe had the candor, the openneſs, to ac⯑knowlege that love?

She has not.

Well then, if love it be at bottom, is there not another vice lurking beneath the ſhadow of that love?—Has ſhe not affectation?—Or is it pride of heart?

And what reſults?—Is then the divine Clariſſa [107] Harlowe capable of loving a man whom ſhe ought not to love?—And is ſhe capable of affectation? And is her virtue founded in pride?—And, if this anſwer be affirmative, muſt ſhe not then be a woman?

And can ſhe keep this lover at bay?—Can ſhe make him, who has been accuſtomed to triumph over other women, tremble?—Can ſhe ſo conduct herſelf, as to make him, at times, queſtion whether ſhe loves him or any man; yet not have the requiſite command over the paſſion itſelf in ſteps of the higheſt conſe⯑quence to her honour, as ſhe thinks [I am trying her, Jack, by her own thoughts]—but ſuffer herſelf to be provoked to promiſe to abandon her father's houſe, and go off with him, knowing his character; and even conditioning not to marry till improbable and remote contingencies were to come to paſs?—What tho' the provocations were ſuch as would juſtify any other woman; yet was a CLARISSA to be ſuſceptible to pro⯑vocations, which ſhe thinks herſelf highly cenſurable for being ſo much moved by?

But let us ſee thé dear creature reſolving to revoke her promiſe; yet meeting her lover; a bold and in⯑trepid man, who was more than once before diſap⯑pointed by her; and who comes, as ſhe muſt think, prepared to expect the fruits of her appointment, and reſolved to carry her off.—And let us ſee him actually carrying her off; and having her at his mercy—May there not be, I repeat, other Lovelaces; other like intrepid perſevering enterprizers; altho' they may not go to work in the ſame way?

And has then a CLARISSA [herſelf her judge] failed?—In ſuch great points failed?—And may ſhe not further fail?—Fail in the greateſt point, to which all the other points in which ſhe has failed, have but a natural tendency?

Nor ſay thou, that virtue, in the eye of heaven, is as much a manly as a womanly grace [By virtue in this place I mean chaſtity and to be ſuperior to tem⯑ptation; [108] my Clariſſa out of the queſtion]. Nor aſk thou, Shall the man be guilty, yet expect the woman to be guiltleſs, and even unſuſpectable?—Urge thou not theſe arguments, I ſay, ſince the wife, by a failure, may do much more injury to the huſband, than the huſband can do to the wife, and not only to her huſband, but to all his family, by obtruding another man's children into his poſſeſſions, perhaps to the excluſion of (at leaſt to a participation with) his own; he believing them all the time to be his. In the eye of heaven, therefore, the ſin cannot be equal. Beſides, I have read in ſome place, that the woman was made for the man, not the man for the woman. Virtue then is leſs to be diſpenſed with in the woman than in the man.

Thou, Lovelace (methinks ſome better man than thyſelf will ſay), to expect ſuch perfection in a woman!—

Yes, I, may I anſwer. Was not the great Caeſar a great Rake as to women?—Was he not called, by his very ſoldiers, on one of his triumphant entries in⯑to Rome, The bald-pated lecher?—and warning given of him to the wives, as well as to the daughters, of his fellow-citizens?—Yet did not Caeſar repudiate his wife for being only in company with Clodius, or rather becauſe Clodius, tho' by ſurprize upon her, was found in hers? And what was the reaſon he gave for it?—It was this (tho' a rake himſelf, as I have ſaid), and only this—The wife of Caeſar muſt not be ſu⯑ſpected!—

Caeſar was not a prouder man than Lovelace.—

Go to then, Jack; nor ſay, nor let any-body ſay, in thy hearing, that Lovelace, a man valuing himſelf upon his anceſtry, is ſingular in his expecta⯑tions of a wife's purity, tho' not pure himſelf.

As to my CLARISSA, I own, that I hardly think, there ever was ſuch an angel of a woman. But has ſhe not, as above, already taken ſteps, which ſhe her⯑ſelf condemns? Steps, which the world, and her own [109] family, did not think her capable of taking?—And for which her own family will not forgive her?

Nor think it ſtrange, that I refuſe to hear any thing pleaded in behalf of a ſtandard virtue, from high pro⯑vocations.—Are not provocations and temptations the teſts of virtue?—A ſtandard virtue muſt not be allowed to be provoked to deſtroy or annihilate itſelf.

May not then the ſucceſs of him, who could carry her thus far, be allowed to be an encouragement for him to try to carry her farther?—'Tis but to try, Jack—Who will be afraid of a trial for this divine lady?—Thou knoweſt, that I have more than once, twice or thrice, been tempted to make this trial upon young ladies of name and character: But never yet found one of them to hold me out for a month; nor ſo long as could puzzle my invention. I have con⯑cluded againſt the whole ſex upon it. And now, if I have not found a virtue that cannot be corrupted, I will ſwear that there is not one ſuch in the whole ſex. Is not then the whole ſex concerned that this trial ſhould be made?—And who is it that knows her, that would not ſtake upon her head the honour of the whole?—Let her who would refuſe it, come forth, and deſire to ſtand in her place.

I muſt aſſure thee, that I have a prodigious high opinion of virtue; as I have of all thoſe graces and excellencies, which I have not been able to attain myſelf.—Every free liver would not ſay this, nor think thus—Every argument he uſes, condemnatory of his own actions, as ſome would think—But inge⯑nuity was ever a ſignal part of my character.

Satan, whom thou mayeſt, if thou wilt, in this caſe, call my inſtigator, put the good man of old up⯑on the ſevereſt trials.—To his behaviour under theſe trials, that good man owed his honour and his future rewards. An innocent perſon, if doubted, muſt wiſh to be brought to a fair and candid trial.

[110]Rinaldo, indeed, in Arioſto, put the Mantuan knight's cup of trial from him, which was to be the proof of his wife's chaſtity ^(a)—This was his argu⯑ment for forbearing the experiment: ‘'Why ſhould I ſeek a thing I ſhould be loth to find? My wife is a woman: The ſex is frail. I cannot believe better of her than I do. It will be to my own loſs, if I find reaſon to think worſe."’ But Rinaldo would not have refuſed the trial of the lady, before ſhe became his wife, and when he might have availed himſelf by detecting her.

For my part, I would not have put the cup from me, tho' married, had it been but in hope of finding reaſon to confirm my good opinion of my wife's ho⯑nour; and that I might know whether I had a ſnake or a dove in my boſom.

To my point—What muſt that virtue be, which will not ſtand a trial?—What that woman, who would wiſh to ſhun it?

Well then, a trial ſeems neceſſary for the further eſtabliſhment of the honour of ſo excellent a crea⯑ture.

And who ſhall put her to this trial?—Who, but the man, who has, as ſhe thinks, already induced her, in leſſer points, to ſwerve?—And this for her own ſake, in a double ſenſe—Not only, as he has been able to make ſome impreſſion, but as ſhe regrets the impreſſion made; and ſo may be preſumed to be guarded againſt his further attempts.

The ſituation ſhe is at preſent in, it muſt be con⯑feſſed, is a diſadvantageous one to her: But if ſhe overcome, that will redound to her honour.

[111]Shun not, therefore, my dear ſoul, further trials, nor hate me for making them.—For what woman can be ſaid to be virtuous till ſhe has been tried?

Nor is one effort, one trial, to be ſufficient. Why? Becauſe a woman's heart may be at one time ada⯑mant, at another wax.—As I have often experienced. And ſo, no doubt, haſt thou.

A fine time on't, methinks, thou ſayeſt, would the women have, if they were all to be tried!

But, Jack, I am not, for that, neither. Tho' I am a rake, I am not a rake's friend; except thine and company's.

And be this one of the morals of my tedious diſcuſſion— ‘'Let the little rogues who would not be put to the queſtion, as I may call it, chooſe accordingly—Let them prefer to their favour, good honeſt ſober fellows, who have not been uſed to play dogs tricks: Who will be willing to take them as they offer; and who, being tolerable themſelves, are not ſuſpicious of others.'’

But what, methinks thou aſkeſt, is to become of the lady, if ſhe fail?

What?—Why will ſhe not, if once ſubdued, be always ſubdued? Another of our libertine maxims—And what an immenſe pleaſure to a marriage-hater, what rapture to thought, to be able to prevail upon ſuch a lady as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe to live with him, without real change of name!

But if ſhe reſiſt—If nobly ſhe ſtand her trial—

Why then I will marry her, to be ſure; and bleſs my ſtars for ſuch an angel of a wife.

But will ſhe not hate thee?—Will ſhe not re⯑fuſe—

No, no, Jack!—Circumſtanced and ſituated as we are, I am not afraid of that.—And hate me!—Why ſhould ſhe hate the man who loves her upon proof?—

[112]And then for a little hint at reprizal—Am I not juſtify'd in my reſolutions of trying her virtue; who is reſolved, as I may ſay, to try mine?—Who has declared, that ſhe will not marry me, till ſhe has hopes of my reformation?

And now, to put an end to this ſober argumenta⯑tion, wilt thou not thyſelf [whom I have ſuppoſed an advocate for the lady, becauſe I know that Lord M. has put thee upon uſing the intereſt he thinks thou haſt in me, to perſuade me to enter the pale; will thou not thyſelf] allow me to try, if I cannot awaken the woman in her?—To try, if ſhe, with all that glowing ſymmetry of parts, and that full bloom of vernal graces, by which ſhe attracts every eye, be really inflexible, as to the grand article?

Let me begin then, as opportunity preſents.—I will—And watch her every ſtep to find one ſliding one; her every moment, to find the moment criti⯑cal. And the rather, as ſhe ſpares not me, but takes every advantage that offers, to puzzle and plague me; nor expects, nor thinks me to be a good man. If ſhe be a woman, and love me, I ſhall ſurely catch her once tripping: For Love was ever a traitor to its har⯑bourer: And Love within, and I without, ſhe'll be more than woman, as the poet ſays, or I leſs than man, if I ſucceed not.

Now, Belford, all is out. The lady is mine; ſhall be more mine.—Marriage, I ſee, is in my power, now ſhe is ſo [Elſe perhaps it had not]. If I can have her without, who can blame me for trying? If not, great will be her glory, and my future confi⯑dence.—And well will ſhe merit the ſacrifice I ſhall make her of my liberty; and from all her ſex honours next to divine, for giving a proof that there was once a woman whoſe virtue no trials, no ſtratagems, no temptations, even from the man ſhe hated not, could overpower.

[113]Now wilt thou ſee all my circulation: As in a glaſs wilt thou ſee it.—CABALA, however, is the word ^(a); nor let the ſecret eſcape thee even in thy dreams.

Nobody doubts, that ſhe is to be my wife. Let her paſs for ſuch, when I give the word. Mean⯑time Reformation ſhall be my ſtalking-horſe; ſome one of the women in London, if I can get her thither, my bird.—And ſo much for this time.

LETTER XVIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. [In anſwer to Letters viii.xiv.]

DON'T be ſo much concerned, my deareſt friend, at the bickerings between my mamma and me. We love one another dearly notwithſtanding. If my mamma had not me to find fault with, ſhe muſt find fault with ſomebody elſe. And as to me, I am a very ſaucy girl; and were there not this occaſion, there would be ſome other to ſhew it.

You have heard me ſay, that this was always the caſe between us.—You could not otherwiſe have known it. For when you was with us, you harmo⯑nized us both; and indeed I was always more afraid of you than of my mamma. But then that awe is accompanied with love. Your reproofs (as I have al⯑ways found) are ſo charmingly mild and inſtructive! ſo evidently calculated to improve, and not to pro⯑voke, that a generous temper muſt be amended by them.—But here now, mind my mamma, when you are not with us—You ſhall, I tell you, Nancy!—I will have it ſo!—Don't I know beſt!—I won't be diſobey'd!—How can a daughter of ſpirit bear ſuch [114] language! Such looks too with the language; and not have a longing mind to diſobey?

Don't adviſe me, my dear, to obey my mamma in her prohibition of correſponding with you. She has no reaſon for it. Nor would ſhe of her own judg⯑ment have prohibited me. That odd old ambling ſoul your uncle (whoſe viſits are frequenter than ever), in⯑ſtigated by your malicious and ſelfiſh brother and ſiſter, is the occaſion. And they only have borrowed my mamma's lips, at the diſtance they are from you, for a ſort of ſpeaking-trumpet for them. The prohi⯑bition, once more I ſay, cannot come from her heart: But if it did, is ſo much danger to be ap⯑prehended from my [...]ntinuing to write to one of my own ſex, as if I wrote to one of the other? Don't let dejection and diſappointment, and the courſe of oppreſſion which you have run thro', weaken your mind, my deareſt creature; and make you ſee inconveniencies, where there poſſibly cannot be any. If your talent is ſcribbling, as you call it; ſo is mine—And I will ſcribble on, at all opportunities; and to you; let 'em ſay what they will.—Nor let your letters be filled with the ſelf-accuſations you mention: There is no cauſe for them.—I wiſh, that your Anna Howe, who continues in her mother's houſe, were but half ſo good as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, who has been driven out of her father's.

I will ſay nothing upon your letter to your ſiſter, till I ſee the effect it will have. You hope, you tell me, that you ſhall have your money and cloaths ſent you, notwithſtanding what I write of my opinion to the contrary.—I am ſorry to have it to acquaint you, that I have juſt now heard, that they have ſat in coun⯑cil upon your letter; and that your mamma was the only perſon, who was for ſending you your things; and was over-ruled. I charge you therefore to accept of my offer, as by my laſt; and give me particular directions for what you want, that I can ſupply you with beſides.

[115]Don't ſet your thoughts ſo much upon a reconcilia⯑tion, as to prevent your laying hold of any handſome opportunity to give yourſelf a protector; ſuch a one as the man will be, who, I imagine, huſband-like, will let nobody inſult you but himſelf.

What could he mean, by letting ſlip ſuch a one as that you mention?—I don't know how to blame you neither. How could you go beyond ſilence and bluſhes, when the fooliſh fellow came with his ob⯑ſervances of the reſtrictions which you laid him un⯑der when in another ſituation? But, as I told you above, you really ſtrike people into awe. And, upon my word, you did not ſpare him.

I repeat what I ſaid in my laſt, that you have a very nice part to act: And I will add, that you have a mind that is much too delicate for your part. But when the lover is exalted, the lady muſt be humbled. He is naturally proud and ſaucy. I doubt, you muſt engage his pride, which he calls his honour: And that you muſt throw off a little more of the veil. And I would have you reſtrain your wiſhes before him, that you had not met him; and the like.—What ſignifies wiſhing, my dear?—He will not bear it. You can hardly expect that he will.

Nevertheleſs it vexes me to the very bottom of my pride, that any wretch of that ſex ſhould have ſuch a triumph over ſuch a lady.

I cannot, however, but ſay, that I am charmed with your ſpirit. So much ſweetneſs, where ſweetneſs is requiſite; ſo much ſpirit, where ſpirit is called for—What a true magnanimity!

But I doubt, in your preſent circumſtances, you muſt endeavour after a little more of the reſerve, and palliate a little.—That humility which he puts on when you riſe upon him, is not natural to him.

Methinks I ſee the man heſitating, and looking like the fool you paint him, under your corrective ſupe⯑riority! [116] —But he is not a fool. Don't put him upon mingling reſentment with his love.

You are very ſerious, my dear, in the firſt of the two letters before me, in relation to Mr. Hickman and me; and in relation to my mamma and me. But, as to the latter, you muſt not be too grave. If we are not well together at one time, we are not ill to⯑gether at another.—And while I am able to make my mamma ſmile in the midſt of the moſt angry fit ſhe ever fell into on the preſent occaſion (tho' ſometimes ſhe would not, if ſhe could help it), it is a very good ſign—A ſign that diſpleaſure can never go deep, or be laſting. And then a kind word, or kind look, to her favourite Hickman, ſets the one in raptures, and the other in tolerable humour, at any time.

But your caſe pains me at heart; and with all my levity, they muſt both ſometimes partake of that pain, which muſt continue as long as you are in a ſtate of uncertainty; and eſpecially as I was not able to prevail for that protection for you, which would have prevented the unhappy ſtep, the neceſſity for which, we both, with ſo much reaſon, deplore.

I have only to add (and yet that is needleſs to tell you), That I am, and will ever be,

LETTER XIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOU tell me, my dear, that my cloaths and the little matter of money I left behind me, will not be ſent me.—But I will ſtill hope. It is yet early days. When their paſſions ſubſide, they will better conſider of it; and eſpecially as I have my ever dear and excellent mamma for my friend, in this requeſt. [117] —O the ſweet indulgence! how has my heart bled, and how does it ſtill bleed for her!

You adviſe me not to depend upon a reconcilia⯑tion. I do not depend upon it. I cannot. But nevertheleſs it is the wiſh next my heart. And as to this man, what can I do? You ſee, that marriage is not abſolutely in my own power, if I were inclin'd to prefer it to the trial which I think I ought to have principally in view to make for a reconciliation.

You ſay, he is proud and inſolent. Indeed he is. But can it be your opinion, that he intends to humble me down to the level of his mean pride?

And what mean you, my dear friend, when you ſay, that I muſt throw off a little more of the veil?—Indeed I never knew that I wore one. Let me aſſure you, that if I ſee any thing in Mr. Lovelace that looks like a deſign to humble me, his inſolence ſhall never make me diſcover a weakneſs unworthy of a perſon diſtinguiſhed by your friendſhip; that is to ſay, unworthy either of my ſex, or of my former ſelf.

But I hope, as I am out of all other protection, that he is not capable of mean or low reſentments. What extraordinary trouble I have given him, may he not thank himſelf for?—His character, which as I have told him, gave pretence to my brother's anti⯑pathy, he may lay it to, if he pleaſes.—And did I ever make him any promiſes? Did I ever profeſs a love for him?—Did I ever wiſh for the continuance of his addreſs?—Had not my brother's violence pre⯑ [...]ipitated matters, would not my indifference to him, in all likelihood (as I deſigned it ſhould), have tired out his proud ſpirit ^(a), and made him ſet out for London, where he uſed chiefly to reſide? And if he [...]ad, would there not have been an end of all his pre [...]ſions and hopes? For no encouragement had I [...]en him: Nor did I then correſpond with him. [...]or, believe me, ſhould I have begun to do ſo—the [118] fatal rencounter not having then happen'd; which drew me in afterwards for others ſakes (fool that I was!), and not for my own. And can you think, or can he, that even this but temporarily-intended cor⯑reſpondence [which, by the way, my dear mamma connived at ^(a)] would have ended thus, had I not been driven on one hand, and teazed on the other, to continue it; the occaſion which had at firſt induced it, continuing? What pretence then has he, were I to be abſolutely in his power, to avenge himſelf on me, for the faults of others; and thro' which I have ſuffered more than he? It cannot, cannot be, that I ſhould have cauſe to apprehend him to be ſo ungene⯑rous, ſo bad, a man.

You bid me not be concerned at the bickerings be⯑tween your mamma and you. Can I avoid concern, when thoſe bickerings are on my account?—That they are raiſed by my uncle, and my other relations, ſurely muſt add to my concern.

But I muſt obſerve, perhaps too critically for the ſtate my mind is in at preſent, that the very ſen⯑tences you give from your mamma, as ſo many im⯑peratives, which you take amiſs, are very ſevere re⯑flections upon yourſelf.—For inſtance—You ſhall, I tell you, Nancy, implies, that you had diſputed her will.—And ſo of the reſt.

And further let me obſerve, with reſpect to what you ſay, that there cannot be the ſame reaſon for a prohibition of correſpondence with me, as there was of mine with Mr. Lovelace; that I thought as little of bad conſequences from him at the time, as you can do from me: But if obedience be a duty, the breach of it is the fault, however circumſtances may differ. Surely there is no merit in ſetting up our own judgments againſt the judgments of our parents. And if it be puniſhable ſo to do, I have been ſeverely pu⯑niſhed; [119] and that is what I warn'd you of, from my own example.

Yet, God forgive me! I adviſe thus againſt myſelf with very great reluctance: And, to ſay truth, have not ſtrength of mind, at preſent, to decline it myſelf.—But, if the occaſion go not off, I will take it into far⯑ther conſideration.

You give me very good advice in relation to this man; and I thank you for it.—When you bid me be more upon the reſerve with him, perhaps I may try for it: But to palliate, as you call it, that cannot be done, by, my deareſt Miſs Howe,

LETTER XX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOU may believe, my dear Miſs Howe, that the circumſtance of the noiſe and outcry within the garden-door, on Monday laſt, gave me no ſmall un⯑eaſineſs, to think that I was in the hands of a man, who could, by ſuch vile premeditation, lay a ſnare to trick me out of myſelf, as I have ſo frequently called it.

Whenever he came in my ſight, the thought of this gave me an indignation that made his preſence diſ⯑guſtful to me; and the more, as I fancy'd I beheld in his face a triumph which reproached my weakneſs on that account; altho', perhaps, it was only the ſame vivacity and placidneſs that generally fit upon his fea⯑tures.

I was reſolved to taſk him upon this ſubject, the firſt time I could have patience to enter upon it with him. For, beſides that it piqued me exceſſively from the nature of the artifice, I expected ſhuffling and eva⯑ſion, if he were guilty, that would have incenſed me: [120] And, if not confeſſedly guilty, ſuch unſatisfactory declarations, as ſtill would have kept my mind doubt⯑ful and uneaſy; and would, upon every new offence that he might give me, ſharpen my diſguſts to him.

I have had the opportunity I waited for; and will lay before you the reſult.

He was making his court to my good opinion in very polite terms, and with great ſeriouſneſs lamenting that he had loſt it; declaring, that he knew not how he had deſerved to do ſo; attributing to me a preju⯑dice, at leaſt an indifference to him, that ſeemed, to his infinite concern, hourly to increaſe. And he be⯑ſought me to let him know my whole mind, that he might have an opportunity either to confeſs his faults, and amend them, or to clear his conduct to my ſatiſ⯑faction, and thereby intitle himſelf to a greater ſhare of my confidence.

I anſwer'd him with quickneſs—Then, Mr. Love⯑lace, I will tell you one thing with a frankneſs, that is, perhaps, more ſuitable to my character, than to yours [He hoped not, he ſaid], which gives me a very bad opinion of you, as a deſigning, artful man.

I am all attention, Madam.

I never can think tolerably of you, while the noiſe and voice I heard at the garden-door, which put me into the terror you took ſo much advantage of, re⯑mains unaccounted for. Tell me fairly, tell me can⯑didly, the whole of that circumſtance; and of your dealings with that wicked Joſeph Leman; and, ac⯑cording to your explicitneſs in this particular, I ſhall form a judgment of your future profeſſions.

I will, without reſerve, my deareſt life, ſaid he, tell you the whole; and hope that my ſincerity in the re⯑lation will atone for any thing you may think wrong in the fact.

‘'I knew nothing, ſaid he, of this man, this Le⯑man, and ſhould have ſcorned a reſort to ſo low a method, as bribing the ſervant of any family, to [121] let me into the ſecrets of that family, if I had not detected him attempting to corrupt a ſervant of mine, to inform him of all my motions, of all my ſuppoſed intrigues, and, in ſhort, of every action of my private life, as well as of my circumſtances and engagements; and this for motives too obvious to be dwelt upon.’

‘'My ſervant told me of his offers, and I ordered him, unknown to the fellow, to let me hear a con⯑verſation that was to paſs between them.’

‘'In the midſt of it, and juſt as he had made an offer of money for a particular piece of intelligence, promiſing more when procured, I broke in upon them, and by bluſter, calling for a knife to cut off his ears (one of which I took hold of), in order to make a preſent of it, as I ſaid, to his employers, I obliged him to tell me who they were.’

‘'Your brother. Madam, and your uncle Antony, he nam'd.’

‘'It was not difficult, when I had given him my pardon on naming them, after I had ſet before him the enormity of the taſk he had undertaken, and the honourableneſs of my intentions to your dear ſelf, to prevail upon him, by a larger reward, to ſerve me; ſince, at the ſame time, he might keep your uncle and brother's favour; as I deſired to know nothing, but what related to myſelf and to you, in order to guard us both againſt the effects of an ill-will, which he acknowleged all his fellow-ſervants, as well as himſelf, thought undeſerved.’

‘'By this means, I own to you, Madam, I fre⯑quently turned his principals about upon a pivot of my own, unknown to themſelves: And the fel⯑low, who is always calling himſelf a plain man, and boaſting of his CONSCIENCE, was the eaſier, as I condeſcended frequently to aſſure him of my ho⯑nourable views; and as he knew, that the uſe I [122] made of his intelligence prevented, perhaps, fatal miſchiefs.’

‘'I was the more pleaſed with his ſervices, as, let me acknowlege to you, Madam, they procured to you, unknown to yourſelf, a ſafe and uninterrupted egreſs (which perhaps would not otherwiſe have been continued to you, ſo long as it was) to the garden and wood-houſe: For he undertook to them, to watch all your motions: And the more chearfully (for the fellow loves you), as it kept off the curioſity of others ^(a).'’

So, my dear, it comes out, that I myſelf was obliged to this deep contriver.

I ſat in ſilent aſtoniſhment; and thus he went on.

‘'As to the circumſtance, which you, Madam, think ſo hardly of me for, I do freely confeſs, that having a ſuſpicion that you would revoke your in⯑tention of getting away, and in that caſe, as I was determin'd, if poſſible, to prevail upon you to ad⯑here to your reſolution, apprehending that we ſhould not have the time together, that was neceſſary for that purpoſe; I had order'd him to keep off every body he could keep off, and to be himſelf within view of the garden-door'’—

But pray, Sir, interrupting him, how came you to apprehend that I ſhould revoke my intention? I had indeed depoſited a letter to that purpoſe; but you had it not: And how, as I had reſerved to myſelf the pri⯑vilege of a revocation, did you know, but I might have prevailed upon my friends, and ſo have revoked upon good grounds?

‘'I will be very ingenuous, Madam: You had made me hope, that, it you changed your mind, you would give me a meeting, to apprize me of the rea⯑ſons for it: I went to the looſe bricks, and I ſaw the letter there; And as I knew your friends were im⯑moveably [123] fixed in their ſchemes, I doubted not but the letter was to revoke or ſuſpend your reſolution; and probably to ſerve inſtead of a meeting too. I therefore let it lie, that, if you did revoke, you might be under the neceſſity of meeting me for the ſake of the expectation you had given me: And as I came prepared, I was reſolved, pardon me, Ma⯑dam, whatever were your intentions, that you ſhould not go back. Had I taken your letter, I muſt have been determin'd by the contents of it, for the preſent, at leaſt: But not having receiv'd it, and you having reaſon to think I wanted not reſo⯑lution, in a ſituation ſo deſperate, to make your friends a perſonal viſit, I depended upon the inter⯑view you had bid me hope for.'’

Wicked wretch! ſaid I; It is my grief, that I gave you opportunity to take ſo exact a meaſure of my weakneſs!—But would you have preſumed to viſit the family, had I not met you?

Indeed I would. I had ſome friends in readineſs, who were to have accompany'd me to them. And had they refuſed to ſee me, or to give me audience, I would have taken my friends with me to Solmes.

And what did you intend to do to Mr. Solmes?

Not the leaſt hurt, had the man been paſſive.

But had he not been paſſive, as you call it, what would you have done to Mr. Solmes?

He was loth, he ſaid, to tell me—Yet not the leaſt hurt to his perſon.

I repeated my queſtion.

If he muſt tell me, he only propoſed to carry off the poor fellow, and to hide him for a month or two. And this he would have done, let what would have been the conſequence.

Was ever ſuch a wretch heard of!—I ſigh'd from the bottom of my heart.—But bid him proceed from the part I had interrupted him at.

[124] ‘'I order'd the fellow, as I told you, Madam, ſaid he, to keep within view of the garden-door: And if he found any parley between us, and any-body coming (before you could retreat undiſcover'd) whoſe coming might be attended with violent ef⯑fects, he would cry out; and this not only in order to ſave himſelf from their ſuſpicions of him, but to give me warning to make off, and, if poſſible, to induce you [I own it, Madam] to go off with me, according to your own appointment. And I hope, all circumſtances conſider'd, and the danger I was in of loſing you for ever, that the acknowlegement of this contrivance, or if you had not met me, that upon Solmes, will not procure me your hatred: For, had they come, as I expected, as well as you, what a deſpicable wretch had I been, could I have left you to the inſults of a brother, and others of your fami⯑ly, whoſe mercy was cruelty, when they had not the pretence which this detected interview would have furniſhed them with!'’

What a wretch, ſaid I!—But if, Sir, taking your own account of this ſtrange matter to be fact, any-body were coming, how happen'd it, that I ſaw only that man Leman (for I thought it was he) out of the door, and at a diſtance, look after us?

Very lucky! ſaid he, putting his hand firſt in one pocket, then in another.—I hope I have not thrown it away—It is, perhaps, in the coat I had on yeſterday—Little did I think it would be neceſſary to be produced—But I love to come to a demon⯑ſtration whenever I can—I may be giddy—I may be heedleſs. I am indeed—But no man, as to you, Madam, ever had a ſincerer heart.

He then ſtepping to the parlour-door, called his ſervant to bring him the coat he had on yeſterday.

The ſervant did. And in the pocket, rumpled up as a paper he regarded not, he pulled out a letter, [125] written by that Joſeph, dated Monday night; in which ‘'he begs pardon for crying out ſo ſoon:'’ Says, ‘'That his fears of being diſcovered to act on both ſides, had made him take the ruſhing of a little dog (that always follows him) thro' the phyllirea-hedge, for Betty's being at hand, or ſome of his maſters: And that, when he found his miſtake, he opened the door by his own key [Which the contriving wretch confeſſed he had furniſhed him with] and inconſiderately ran out in a hurry, to have appriſed him, that his crying-out was owing to his fright only:'’ And he added, ‘'that they were upon the hunt for me, by the time he returned ^(a).'’

I ſhook my head—Deep! deep! deep! ſaid I, at the beſt!—O Mr. Lovelace! God forgive and reform you!—But you are, I ſee plainly, upon the whole of your own account, a very artful, a very deſigning man.

Love, my deareſt life, is ingenious. Night and day have I racked my ſtupid brains [O Sir, thought I, not ſtupid! 'Twere well, perhaps, if they were] to contrive methods to prevent the ſacrifice deſigned to be made of you, and the miſchief that muſt have enſued upon it: So little hold in your affections: Such undeſerved antipathy from your friends: So much danger of loſing you for ever from both cauſes—I have not had, for the whole fortnight before laſt Monday, half an hour's reſt at a time. And I own to you, Madam, that I ſhould never have forgiven myſelf, had I omitted any contrivance or forethought, that would have prevented your return without me.

Again I blamed myſelf for meeting him: And juſtly; for there were many chances to one, that I had not met him. And if I had not, all his fortnight's [126] contrivances, as to me, would have come to nothing; and, perhaps, I might nevertheleſs have eſcaped Solmes.

Yet, had he reſolved to come to Harlowe-Place with his friends, and been inſulted, as he certainly would have been, what miſchiefs might have followed!

But his reſolution to run away with, and to hide the poor Solmes for a month or ſo, O my dear! what a wretch have I let run away with me, inſtead of him!

I aſked him, If he thought ſuch enormities as theſe, ſuch defiances of the laws of ſociety, would have paſſed unpuniſhed?

He had the aſſurance to ſay, with one of his uſual gay airs, That he ſhould by this means have diſap⯑pointed his enemies, and ſaved me from a forced mar⯑riage. He had no pleaſure in ſuch deſperate puſhes. Solmes he would not have perſonally hurt. He muſt have fled his country for a time at leaſt: And, truly, if he had been obliged to do ſo, as all his hopes of my favour muſt have been at an end, he would have had a fellow-traveller of his own ſex out of our family, whom I little thought of.

Was ever ſuch a wretch!—To be ſure he meant my brother!

And ſuch, Sir, ſaid I, in high reſentment, are the uſes you make of your corrupt intelligencer—

My corrupt intelligencer, Madam, interrupted he! He is to this hour your brother's as well as mine. By what I have ingenuouſly told you, you may ſee, who began this corruption. Let me aſſure you, Madam, that there are many free things, which I have been guilty of, as reprizals, which I would not have been the aggreſſor in.

All that I ſhall further ſay on this head, Mr. Love⯑lace, is this: That as this vile double-faced wretch has probably been the cauſe of great miſchief on both ſides, and ſtill continues, as you own, his wicked practices, it is but my duty to have my friends ap⯑prized, [127] what a creature he is, whom ſome of them encourage.

What you pleaſe, Madam, as to that—My ſervice and your brother's are now almoſt over for him. The fellow has made a good hand of it. He does not in⯑tend to ſtay long in his place. He is now actually in treaty for an inn, which will do his buſineſs for life. I can tell you further, that he makes love to your ſiſter's Betty: And this by my advice. They will be marry'd, when he is eſtabliſhed. An innkeeper's wife is every man's miſtreſs; and I have a ſcheme in my head, to ſet ſome engines at work, to make her repent her ſaucy behaviour to you to the laſt day of her life.

What a wicked ſchemer are you, Sir!—Who ſhall avenge upon you the ſtill greater evils which you have been guilty of?—I forgive Betty with all my heart. She was not my ſervant; and but too probably, in what ſhe did, obey'd the commands of her, to whom ſhe owed duty, better than I obey'd thoſe, to whom I owed more.

No matter for that, the wretch ſaid [To be ſure, my dear, he muſt deſign to make me afraid of him] The decree was gone out—Betty muſt ſmart—Smart too by an act of her own choice. He lov'd, he ſaid, to make bad people their own puniſhers.—Nay, Madam, excuſe me; but if the fellow, if this Joſeph, in your opinion, deſerves puniſhment, mine is a complicated ſcheme; a man and his wife cannot well ſuffer ſepa⯑rately, and it may come home to him too.—

I had no patience with him. I told him ſo.—But, Sir, ſaid I, I ſee what a man I am with. Your rattle warns me of the ſnake. And away I flung; leaving him ſeemingly vex'd, and in confuſion.

LETTER XXI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MY plaindealing with him, on ſeeing him again, and the free diſlike I expreſſed to his ways, his manners, and his contrivances, as well as to his ſpeeches, have obliged him to recollect himſelf a little. He will have it, that the menaces which he threw out juſt now againſt my brother and Mr. Solmes, are only the effect of an unmeaning pleaſantry. He has too great a ſtake in his country, he ſays, to be guilty of ſuch enterprizes, as ſhould lay him under a neceſſity of quitting it for ever. Twenty things, particularly, he ſays, he has ſuffer'd Joſeph Leman to tell of him, that were not and could not be true, in order to make himſelf formidable in ſome peoples eyes, and this purely with a view to prevent miſchief. He is un⯑happy, as far as he knows, in a quick invention, in hitting readily upon expedients; and many things are reported of him which he never ſaid, and many which he never did, and others which he has only talked of (as juſt now) and which he has forgot as ſoon as the words have paſſed his lips.

This may be ſo, in part, my dear. No one man ſo young could be ſo wicked as he has been reported to be. But ſuch a man at the head of ſuch wretches as he is ſaid to have at his beck, all men of fortune and fearleſneſs, and capable of ſuch enterprizes as I have unhappily found him capable of, what is not to be ap⯑prehended from him!

His careleſſneſs about his character is one of his excuſes: A very bad one. What hope can a woman have of a man, who values not his reputation?—Theſe gay wretches may, in mix'd converſation, divert for an hour, or ſo:—But the man of probity, the man of virtue, is the man that is to be the partner for life. What woman, who could help it, would [129] ſubmit it to the courteſy of a wretch, who avows a diſregard to all moral ſanctions, whether he will per⯑form his part of the matrimonial obligation, and treat her with tolerable politeneſs?

With theſe notions, and with theſe reflections, to be thrown upon ſuch a man myſelf—Would to Heaven—But what avail wiſhes now?—To whom can I fly, if I would fly from him?

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

NEVER did I hear of ſuch a parcel of fooliſh toads as theſe Harlowes!—Why, Belford, the Lady muſt fall, if every hair of her head were a guardian angel, unleſs they were to make a viſible appearance for her, or, ſnatching her from me at unawares, would draw her after them into the ſtarry regions.

All I had to apprehend, was, that a daughter ſo reluctantly carried off, would offer terms to her father, and would be accepted upon a mutual concedence; They to give up Solmes; She to give up me: And ſo I was contriving to do all I could to guard againſt the latter. But they ſeem reſolved to perfect the work they have begun.

What ſtupid creatures there are in the world! Cun⯑ning whelp the brother! not to know, that he who would be bribed to undertake a baſe thing by one, would be over-bribed to retort the baſeneſs:—Eſpe⯑cially when he could be put into the way to ſerve himſelf by both!—Thou, Jack, wilt never know one half of my contrivances.

[130]What a capacity for glorious miſchief has thy friend!—Yet how near the truth all of it! The only deviation, my aſſerting, that the fellow made the noiſes by miſtake, and thro' fright, and not by pre⯑vious direction: Had ſhe known the preciſe truth, her pride (to be ſo taken in) would never have let her for⯑give me.

Had I been a hero, I ſhould have made gunpowder uſeleſs; for I ſhould have blown up all my adverſaries by dint of ſtratagem, turning their own devices upon them.

But theſe fathers and mothers—Lord help 'em!—Were not the powers of nature ſtronger than thoſe of diſcretion, and were not that buſy Dea Bona to afford her genial aids, till tardy prudence qualified parents to manage their future offspring, how few people would have children!

James and Arabella may have their motives; but what can be ſaid for a father acting as this father has acted? What for a mother? What for an aunt? What for uncles?—Who can have patience with ſuch fellows and fellow-eſſes?

Soon will the fair-one hear how high their fooliſh reſentments run againſt her: And then ſhe'll have a little more confidence in me, I hope. Then will I be jealous that ſhe loves me not with the preference my heart builds upon: Then will I bring her to con⯑feſſions of grateful love: And then will I kiſs her when I pleaſe; and not ſtand trembling, as now, like an hungry hound, who ſees a delicious morſel within his reach (the froth hanging about his vermilion jaws) yet dare not leap at it for his life.

But I was originally a baſhful whelp—Baſhful ſtill, with regard to this Lady!—Baſhful, yet know the ſex ſo well!—But that indeed is the reaſon that I know it ſo well:—For, Jack, I have had abundant cauſe, when I have looked into myſelf, by way of compariſon with the other ſex, to conclude, that a [131] baſhful man has a good deal of the ſoul of a woman; and ſo, like Tireſias, can tell what they think, and what they drive at, as well as themſelves.

The modeſt ones and I, particularly, are pretty much upon a par. The difference between us is only, What They think, I act. But the immodeſt ones out-do the worſt of us by a bar's length, both in thinking and acting.

One argument let me plead in proof of my aſſertion; That even we rakes love modeſty in a woman; while the modeſt women, as they are accounted, that is to ſay, the ſlyeſt, love, and generally prefer, an impu⯑dent man. Whence can this be, but from a likeneſs in nature? And this made the poet ſay, That every woman is a rake in her heart. It concerns them, by their actions, to prove the contrary, if they can.

Thus have I read in ſome of the philoſophers, That no wickedneſs is comparable to the wickedneſs of a woman ^(a). Canſt thou tell me, Jack, who ſays this? Was it Socrates? for he had the devil of a wife?—Or who? Or is it Solomon?—King Solomon—Thou remembreſt to have read of ſuch a king, doſt thou not? SOLOMON, I learned, when an infant [My mother was a good woman] to anſwer, when aſked, Who was the wiſeſt man?—But my indulgent queſtioner never aſked me, How he came by the un⯑inſpired part of his wiſdom.

Come, come, Jack, you and I are not ſo very bad, could we but ſtop where we are.

LETTER XXIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I WILL now give you the particulars of a conver⯑ſation that has juſt paſſed between Mr. Lovelace and me; which I muſt call agreeable.

It began with his telling me, that he had juſt ri⯑ceived intelligence, that my friends were of a ſudden come to a reſolution, to lay aſide all thoughts of pur⯑ſuing me, or of getting me back: And that therefore, he attended me, to know my pleaſure; and what I would do, or have him do?

I told him, that I would have him leave me di⯑rectly; and that, when it was known to every-body, that I was abſolutely independent of him, it would paſs, that I had left my father's houſe, becauſe of my brother's ill-uſage of me: Which was a plea that I might make with juſtice, and to the excuſe of my father, as well as of myſelf.

He mildly reply'd, that if he could be certain, that my relations would adhere to this their new reſolu⯑tion, he could have no objection, ſince ſuch was my pleaſure: But that, as he was well aſſured, that they had taken it only from apprehenſions, that a more active one might involve my brother (who had breath'd nothing but revenge) in ſome fatal misfortune, there was too much reaſon to believe, that they would re⯑ſume their former purpoſe, the moment they ſhould think they ſafely might.

This, Madam, ſaid he, is a riſque I cannot run. You would think it ſtrange, if I could. And yet, as ſoon as I knew they had ſo given out, I thought it proper to apprize you of it, and to take your com⯑mands upon it.

Let me hear, ſaid I, willing to try if he had any particular view, what you think moſt adviſeable?

[133]'Tis very eaſy to ſay That, if I durſt—If I might not offend you—If it were not to break conditions that ſhall be inviolable with me.

Say then, Sir, what you would ſay. I can ap⯑prove or diſapprove, as I think fit.

To wave, Madam, what I would ſay till I have more courage to ſpeak out [More courage—Mr. Lovelace more courage, my dear!]—I will only pro⯑poſe what I think will be moſt agreeable to you.—Suppoſe, if you chooſe not to go to Lady Betty's, that you take a turn croſs the country to Wind⯑ſor?

Why to Windſor?

Becauſe it is a pleaſant place: Becauſe it lies in the way either to Berkſhire, to Oxford, or to London—Berkſhire, where Lord M. is at preſent: Oxford, in the neighbourhood of which lives Lady Betty. Lon⯑don, whither you may retire at your pleaſure: Or, if you will have it ſo, whither I may go, you ſtaying at Windſor; and yet be within an eaſy diſtance of you, if any thing ſhould happen, or if your friends ſhould change their pacific reſolution.

This diſpleaſed me not. But I ſaid, My only ob⯑jection was, the diſtance from Miſs Howe, of whom I ſhould be glad to be always within two or three hours reach by a meſſenger, if poſſible.

If I had thoughts of any other place than Windſor, or nearer to Miſs Howe, he wanted but my com⯑mands, and would ſeek for proper accommodations: But, fix as I pleaſed, farther or nearer, he had ſer⯑vants, and they had nothing elſe to do, but to obey me.

A grateful thing then he named to me—To ſend for my Hannah, as ſoon as I ſhould be fixed; unleſs I would chooſe one of the young gentlewomen here to attend me, both of whom, as I had acknowleged, were very obliging; and he knew I had generoſity enough to make it worth either of their whiles.

[134]This of Hannah, he might ſee, I took very well. I ſaid, I had thoughts of ſending for her, as ſoon as I got to more convenient lodgings. As to theſe young gentlewomen, it were pity to break in upon that uſe⯑fulneſs which the whole family were of to each other: Each having her proper part, and performing it with an agreeable alacrity: Inſomuch that I liked them all ſo well, that I could even paſs my days among them, were he to leave me; by which means the lodgings would be more convenient to me than now they were.

He need not repeat his objections to this place, he ſaid: But as to going to Windſor, or where-ever elſe I thought fit, or as to his perſonal attendance, or leaving me, he would aſſure me (he very agreeably ſaid), that I could propoſe nothing in which I thought my reputation, and even my punctilio, concerned, that he would not chearfully come into. And ſince I was ſo much taken up with my pen, he would inſtantly order his horſe to be got ready, and would ſet out.

Not to be off of my caution, Have you any ac⯑quaintance at Windſor? ſaid I.—Know you of any convenient lodgings there?

Except with the foreſt, reply'd he, where I have often hunted, I know the leaſt of Windſor, of any place ſo noted, and ſo pleaſant. Indeed, I have not a ſingle acquaintance there.

Upon the whole, I told him, that I thought his propoſal of Windſor not amiſs; and that I would re⯑move thither, if I could get a lodging only for my⯑ſelf, and an upper-chamber for Hannah; for that my ſtock of money was but ſmall, as was eaſy to be con⯑ceived; and I ſhould be very loth to be obliged to any-body. I added, that the ſooner I removed the bet⯑ter; for that then he could have no objection to go to London, or Berkſhire, as he pleaſed: And I ſhould let every-body know my independence.

[135]He again propoſed himſelf, in very polite terms, for my banker. But I, as civilly, declined his offers.

This converſation was to be, all of it, in the main, agreeable. He aſked, whether I would chooſe to lodge in the town of Windſor, or out of it?

As near the caſtle, I ſaid, as poſſible, for the con⯑venience of going conſtantly to the public worſhip: An opportunity I had been too long deprived of.

He ſhould be very glad, he told me, if he could procure me accommodations in any one of the ca⯑nons houſes; which he imagined would be more agreeable to me than any other, on many accounts. And as he could depend upon my promiſe, Never to have any other man but himſelf, on the condition he had ſo chearfully ſubſcribed to, he ſhould be eaſy; ſince it was now his part, in earneſt, to ſet about re⯑commending himſelf to my favour, by the only way he knew it could be done. Adding, with a very ſe⯑rious air—I am but a young man, Madam; but I have run a long courſe: Let not your purity of mind incline you to deſpiſe me for the acknowlegement: It is high time to be weary of it, and to reform; ſince, like Solomon, I can ſay, There is nothing New under the ſun. But that it is my belief, that a life of virtue can afford ſuch pleaſures, on reflection, as will be for ever-blooming, for ever New!

I was agreeably ſurpriſed. I looked at him, I be⯑lieve, as if I doubted my ears and my eyes!—His features and aſpect, however, became his words.

I expreſs'd my ſatisfaction in terms ſo agreeable to him, that he ſaid, He found a delight in this early dawning of a better day to him, and in my approba⯑tion, which he had never received from the ſucceſs of the moſt favour'd of his purſuits.

Surely, my dear, the man muſt be in earneſt. He could not have ſaid this; he could not have thought it, had he not. What followed made me ſtill readier to believe him.

[136]In the midſt of my wild vagaries, ſaid he, I have ever preſerv'd a reverence for religion, and for reli⯑gious men. I always called another cauſe, when any of my libertine companions, in purſuance of Lord Shafteſbury's teſt (which is a part of the rake's creed, and what I may call The whetſtone of infidelity), en⯑deavour'd to turn the ſacred ſubject into ridicule. On this very account I have been called, by good men of the clergy, who nevertheleſs would have it, that I was a practical rake, The decent rake: And indeed I had too much pride in my ſhame, to diſown the name.

This, Madam, I am the readier to confeſs, as it may give you hope, that the generous taſk of my re⯑formation, which I flatter myſelf you will have the goodneſs to undertake, will not be ſo difficult a one as you may have imagin'd; for it has afforded me ſome pleaſure in my retired hours, when a temporary re⯑morſe has ſtruck me for any thing I have done amiſs, that I ſhould one day take delight in another courſe of life: For, without one can, I dare ſay, no durable good is to be expected from the endeavour.—Your ex⯑ample, Madam, muſt do all, muſt confirm all ^(a).

The divine grace, or favour, Mr. Lovelace, muſt do All, and confirm All. You know not how much you pleaſe me, that I can talk to you in this dialect.

And I then thought of his generoſity to his pretty ruſtic; and of his kindneſs to his tenants.

Yet, Madam, be pleaſed to remember one thing: Reformation cannot be a ſudden work. I have in⯑finite vivacity: It is that which runs away with me. Judge, deareſt Madam, by what I am going to con⯑feſs, that I have a prodigious way to journey on, be⯑fore a good perſon will think me tolerable; ſince, tho' I have read in ſome of our Perfectioniſts enough to make a better man than myſelf, either run into [137] madneſs or deſpair, about the grace you mention; yet I cannot enter into the meaning of the word, nor into the modus of its operation. Let me not then be checked, when I mention your example for my viſible reliance; and inſtead of uſing ſuch words, till I can better underſtand them, ſuppoſe all the reſt included in the profeſſion of that reliance.

I told him, that, altho' I was ſomewhat concern'd at his expreſſion, and ſurpris'd at ſo much darkneſs, as, for want of another word, I would call it, in a man of his talents and learning; yet I was pleas'd with his ingenuity; I wiſh'd him to encourage this way of thinking: I told him, that his obſervation, that no durable good was to be expected from any new courſe, where there was not a delight taken in it, was juſt: But that the delight would follow by uſe.

And twenty things of this ſort I even preach'd to him; taking care, however, not to be tedious, nor to let my expanded heart give him a contracted or im⯑patient brow. And, indeed, he took viſible pleaſure in what I ſaid, and even hung upon the ſubject, when I, to try him, ſeem'd to be ready to drop it, once or twice: And proceeded to give me a moſt agreeable inſtance, that he could, at times, think both deeply and ſeriouſly.—Thus it was.

He was wounded dangerouſly, once, in a duel, he ſaid, in the left arm, baring it, to ſhew me the ſcar: That this (notwithſtanding a great effuſion of blood, it being upon an artery) was follow'd by a violent fe⯑ver, which at laſt fixed upon his ſpirits; and that ſo obſtinately, that neither did he deſire life, nor his friends expect it: That, for a month together, his heart, as he thought, was ſo totally changed, that he deſpiſed his former courſes, and particularly that raſh⯑neſs, which had brought him to the ſtate he was in, and his antagoniſt (who, however, was the aggreſſor) into a much worſe: That, in this ſpace, he had thoughts, which, at times, gives him pleaſure to re⯑flect [138] upon: And altho' theſe promiſing proſpects changed, as he recovered health and ſpirits; yet he parted with them, with ſo much reluctance, that he could not help ſhewing it, in a copy of verſes, truly blank ones, he ſaid; ſome of which he repeated, and (advantaged by the grace which he gives to every thing he repeats) I thought them very tolerable ones; the ſentiments, however, much graver than I ex⯑pected from him.

He has promiſed me a copy of the lines; and then I ſhall judge better of their merit; and ſo ſhall you. The tendency of them was, ‘"That, ſince ſickneſs only gave him a proper train of thinking, and that his reſtored health brought with it a return of his evil habits, he was ready to renounce the gifts of nature for thoſe of contemplation."’

He farther declared, that altho' all theſe good mo⯑tions went off (as he had own'd) on his recovery, yet he had better hopes now, from the influence of my example, and from the reward before him, if he per⯑ſevered: And that he was the more hopeful that he ſhould, as his preſent reſolution was made in a full tide of health and ſpirits; and when he had nothing to wiſh for, but perſeverance, to intitle himſelf to my favour.

I will not throw cold water, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid I, on a riſing flame: But look to it! For I ſhall endea⯑vour to keep you up to this ſpirit; I ſhall meaſure your value of me by this teſt: And I would have you bear thoſe charming lines of Mr. Rowe for ever in your mind; you, who have, by your own confeſſion, ſo much to repent of; and as the ſcar, indeed, you ſhew'd me, will, in one inſtance, remind you to your dying day.

The lines, my dear, are from that poet's Ulyſſes. You have heard me often admire them; and I re⯑peated them to him:

He had often read theſe lines, he ſaid; but never taſted them before.—By his ſoul (the unmortified crea⯑ture ſwore) and as he hoped to be ſaved, he was now in earneſt, in his good reſolutions. He had ſaid, be⯑fore I repeated theſe lines from Rowe, that habitual evils could not be changed on a ſudden: But he hoped, he ſhould not be thought a diſſembler, if he were not enabled to hold his good purpoſes; ſince ingratitude and diſſimulation were vices that of all others he ab⯑horred.

May you ever abhor them! ſaid I. They are the moſt odious of all vices.

I hope, my dear Miſs Howe, I ſhall not have oc⯑caſion, in my future letters, to contradict theſe pro⯑miſing appearances. Should I have nothing on his ſide to combat with, I ſhall be very far from being happy, from the ſenſe of my fault, and the indigna⯑tion of all my relations. So ſhall not fail of condign puniſhment for it, from my inward remorſe, on ac⯑count of my forfeited character. But the leaſt ray of hope could not dart in upon me, without my being willing to lay hold of the very firſt opportunity to communicate it to you, who take ſo generous a ſhare in all my concerns.

Nevertheleſs, you may depend upon it, my dear, that theſe agreeable aſſurances, and hopes of his begun reformation, ſhall not make me forget my caution. Not that I think, at worſt, any more than you, that he dare to harbour a thought injurious to my honour: But he is very various, and there is an apparent, and [140] even an acknowleg'd unfixedneſs in his temper, which, at times, gives me ſome uneaſineſs. I am reſolved therefore to keep him at diſtance from my perſon and my thoughts, as much as I can: For whether all men are, or are not, incroachers, I am ſure Mr. Lovelace is one.

Hence it is, that I have always caſt about, and will continue to caſt about, what ends he may have in view from this propoſal, or from that report: In a word, tho' hopeful of the beſt, I will always be fear⯑ful of the worſt, in every thing that admits of doubt. For it is better, in ſuch a ſituation as mine, to appre⯑hend without cauſe, than to ſubject myſelf to ſurprize for want of forethought.

Mr. Lovelace is gone to Windſor, having left two ſervants to attend me. He purpoſes to be back to-morrow.

I have written to my aunt Hervey, to ſupplicate her intereſt in my behalf, for my cloaths, books, and money; ſignifying to her, ‘"That, could I be reſtored to the favour of my family, and be allowed a ne⯑gative only, as to any man who might be propoſed to me, and be uſed like a daughter, a niece, and a ſiſter, I would ſtill ſtand by my offer to live ſingle, and ſubmit, as I ought, to a negative, from my father."’ Intimating nevertheleſs, ‘"That it were perhaps better, after the uſage I have received from my brother and ſiſter, that I might be allowed to be diſtant from them, as well for their ſakes as my own,"’ [meaning, as I ſuppoſe it will be taken, at my Dairy-houſe]—offering ‘"to take my father's directions, as to the manner I ſhould live in, the ſervants I ſhould have, and in every thing that ſhould ſhew the dutiful ſubordination that I was willing to conform to."'’

My aunt will know by my letter to my ſiſter how to direct to me, if ſhe be permitted to favour me with a line.

[141]I am equally earneſt with her in this letter, as I was with my ſiſter in That I wrote to her, to obtain for me a ſpeedy reconciliation, that I may not be further pre⯑cipitated; intimating, ‘"That, by a timely lenity, all may paſs for a miſunderſtanding only, which, other⯑wiſe, will be thought equally diſgraceful to them, and to me; appealing to her for the neceſſity I was under to do what I did."’

Here I cloſe for the preſent, with the aſſurance that I am

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

THOU haſt often reproached me, Jack, with my vanity, without diſtinguiſhing the humorous turn that accompanies it; and for which, at the ſame time that thou robbeſt me of the merit of it, thou ad⯑mireſt me highly. Envy gives thee the indiſtinction: Nature inſpires the admiration: Unknown to thyſelf it inſpires it. But thou art too clumſy and too ſhort-ſighted a mortal, to know how to account even for the impulſes by which thou thyſelf art moved.

Well, but this acquits thee not of my charge of va⯑nity, Lovelace, methinks thou ſayſt:

And true thou ſayſt: For I have indeed a con⯑founded parcel of it. But, if men of parts may not be allowed to be vain, who ſhould? And yet, upon ſecond thoughts, men of parts have the leaſt occaſion of any to be vain; ſince the world [ſo few of them are there in it] are ready to find them out, and extol them. If a fool can be made ſenſible, that there is a man who has more underſtanding than himſelf, he is ready enough to conclude, that ſuch a man muſt be a very extraordinary creature.

[142]And what, at this rate, is the general concluſion to be drawn from the promiſes?—Is it not, That no man ought to be vain? But what if a man can't help it?—This, perhaps, may be my caſe. But there is nothing on which I value myſelf ſo much as upon my inven⯑tions. And, for the ſoul of me, I cannot help letting it be ſeen, that I do. Yet this vanity may be a means, perhaps, to overthrow me with this ſagacious lady.

She is very apprehenſive of me, I ſee. I have ſtu⯑died before her and Miſs Howe, as often as I have been with them, to paſs for a giddy thoughtleſs fel⯑low. What a folly then to be ſo expatiatingly ſincere, in my anſwer to her home Put, upon the noiſes within the garden?—But ſuch ſucceſs having attended that contrivance [Succeſs, Jack, has blown many a man up!], my curſed vanity got uppermoſt, and kept down my caution. The menace to have ſecreted Solmes, and that other, that I had thoughts to run away with her fooliſh brother, and of my project to revenge her upon the two ſervants, ſo much terrified my beloved, that I was forced to ſit down to muſe how to retrieve myſelf with her.

Some favourable incidents, at the time, tumbled in from my agent in her family; at leaſt ſuch as I was determined to make favourable: And therefore I de⯑ſired admittance; and this before ſhe could reſolve any thing againſt me; that is to ſay, while her ad⯑miration of my intrepidity kept reſolution in ſuſ⯑penſe.

Accordingly, I prepared myſelf to be all gentle⯑neſs, all obligingneſs, all ſerenity; and as I have now-and-then, and always had, more or leſs, good mo⯑tions pop up in my mind, I encouraged and collected every thing of this ſort that I had ever had from no⯑vicehood to maturity, [not long in recollecting, Jack!] in order to bring the dear creature into good humour with me: And who knows, thought I, if I can hold it, and proceed, but I may be able to lay a foundation [143] fit to build my grand ſcheme upon?—Love, thought I, is not naturally a doubter: Fear is: I will try to baniſh the latter: Nothing then but Love will remain. Credulity is the God of Love's prime miniſter; and they never are aſunder.

Now, Belford, can it enter into thy leaden head, what I meant by this propoſal?—I know it cannot. And ſo I'll tell thee.

To leave her for a day or two, with a view to ſerve her by my abſence, would, as I thought, look like confiding in her favour.—I could not think of leaving her, thou knoweſt, while I had reaſon to believe her friends would purſue us; and I began to apprehend, that ſhe would ſuſpect, that I made a pretence of that intentional purſuit, to keep about her, and with her. But now that they had declared againſt it, and that they would not receive her, if ſhe came back again [a declaration ſhe had better hear firſt from me, than from Miſs Howe, or any other]; what ſhould hinder me from giving her this mark of my obedience; eſpe⯑cially as I could leave Will, who is a clever fellow, and can do any thing but write and ſpell, and my uncle's Jonas [not as guards, to be ſure, but as atten⯑dants only]; the latter to be diſpatch'd to me occa⯑ſionally by the former, whom I could acquaint with my motions?

Then I wanted to inform myſelf, why I had not congratulatory letters from my aunts, and from my couſins Montague; to whom I had written, glorying in my beloved's eſcape; which letters, as they ſhould [144] be worded, might poſſibly be made neceſſary to ſhew, as matters proceed.

As to Windſor, I had no deſign to carry her parti⯑cularly thither: But ſomewhere it was proper to name, as ſhe condeſcended to aſk my advice about it. Lon⯑don, I durſt not; but very cautiouſly; and ſo as to make it her own option: For I muſt tell thee, that there is ſuch a perverſeneſs in the ſex, that, when they aſk your advice, they do it only to know your opinion, that they may oppoſe it; tho', had not the thing in queſtion been your choice, perhaps it had been theirs.

I could eaſily give reaſons againſt Windſor, after I had pretended to be there; and this would have looked the better, as it was a place of my own nomination; and ſhewn her, that I had no fixed ſcheme.—Never was there in woman ſuch a ſagacious, ſuch an all-alive apprehenſion, as in this.—Yet it is a grievous thing to an honeſt man to be ſuſpected.

Then, in my going or return, I can call upon Mrs. Greme. She and my beloved had a great deal of talk together. If I knew what it was about; and that Either, upon their firſt acquaintance, was for bene⯑fiting herſelf by the Other, I might contrive to ſerve them both, without hurting myſelf: For theſe are the moſt prudent ways of doing friendſhips, and what are not followed by regrets, tho' the ſerv-ed ſhould prove ingrateful. Then Mrs. Greme correſponds by pen and ink with her farmer ſiſter, where we are: Some⯑thing may poſſibly ariſe that way, either of a conve⯑nient nature, which I may purſue; or an inconve⯑nient, which I may avoid.

Always be careful of back-doors, is a maxim with me in all my exploits. Whoever knows me, knows that I am no proud man. I can talk as familiarly to ſer⯑vants as to principals, when I have a mind to make it worth their while to oblige me in any thing.—Then ſervants are but as the common ſoldiers in an army: [145] They do all the miſchief; frequently without malice, and merely, good ſouls! for miſchief-ſake.

I am moſt apprehenſive about Miſs Howe. She has a confounded deal of wit, and wants only a ſubject, to ſhew as much roguery: And ſhould I be out-witted, with all my ſententious, boaſting con⯑ceit of my own noſtrum-mongerſhip—[I love to plague thee, who art a pretender to accuracy, and a ſurface-skimmer in learning, with out-of-the-way words and phraſes] I ſhould certainly hang, drown, or ſhoot myſelf.

Poor Hickman!—I pity him for the proſpect he has with ſuch a virago!—But the fellow's a fool, God wot! And now I think of it, it is abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary for complete happineſs in the marry'd ſtate, that one ſhould be a fool; an argument I once held with this very Miſs Howe.—But then the fool ſhould know that he is ſo, elſe the obſtinate one will diſap⯑point the wiſe one.

But my agent Joſeph has help'd me to ſecure this quarter.

LETTER XXV. Mr. LOVELACE; In Continuation.

BUT is it not a confounded thing, that I cannot faſten an obligation upon ths proud beauty? I have two motives, in endeavouring to prevail upon her to accept money and raiment from me: One, the real pleaſure I ſhould have in the accommodating the haughty maid; and to think there was ſomething near her, and upon her, that I could call mine: The other, in order to abate her ſeverity, and humble her a little.

Nothing ſooner brings down a proud ſpirit, than a ſenſe of lying under pecuniary obligations. This has always made me ſolicitous to avoid laying myſelf un⯑der [146] any ſuch: Yet ſometimes formerly have I been put to it, and curſed the tardy revolution of the quarterly periods. And yet I ever made ſhift to avoid anticipations: I never would eat the calf in the cow's belly, as Lord M.'s phraſe is: For what is that, but to hold our lands upon tenant-courteſy, the vileſt of all tenures? To be deny'd a fox-chace, for fear of breaking down a fence upon my own grounds? To be clamour'd at for repairs ſtudied for, rather than really wanted? To be prated to by a bumkin with his hat on, and his arms folded, as if he defied your expectations of that ſort; his foot firmly fixed, as if upon his own ground; and you forced to take his arch leers, and ſtupid gybes; intimating by the whole of his conduct, that he has had it in his power to ob⯑lige you, and, if you behave civilly, may oblige you again?—I, who think I have a right to break every man's head I paſs by, if I like not his looks, to bear this!—I no more could do it, than I could borrow of an inſolent uncle, or inquiſitive aunt, who would thence think themſelves intitled to have an account of all my life and actions laid before them for their review and cenſure.

My charmer, I ſee, has a pride like my own: But ſhe has no diſtinction in her pride: Nor knows the pretty fool, that there is nothing nobler, nothing more delightful, than for lovers to be conferring and receiving obligations from one another. In this very farm-yard, to give thee a familiar inſtance, I have more than once ſeen this remark illuſtrated. A ſtrut⯑ting raſcal of a cock have I beheld chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck-ing his miſtreſs to him, when he has found a ſingle barley-corn, taking it up with his bill, and letting it drop five or ſix times, ſtill repeating his chucking invitation: And when two or three of his fea⯑ther'd ladies ſtrive who ſhall be the firſt for't [O Jack! a cock is a grand-ſignor of a bird!], he directs the bill of the foremoſt to it; and, when ſhe has got the dirty [147] pearl, he ſtruts over her with an erected creſt, and an exulting chuck—a chuck-aw-aw-w, circling round her, with dropt wings, ſweeping the duſt in humble courtſhip: While the obliged ſhe, half-ſhy, half-willing, by her cowring tail, half-ſtretch'd wings, yet ſeemingly affrighted eyes, and contracted neck, lets one ſee, that ſhe knows the barley-corn was not all he called her for.

Now, Belford, canſt thou imagine what I meant by propoſing Hannah, or one of the girls here, for her attendant? I'll give thee a month to gueſs.

Thou wilt not pretend to gueſs, thou ſay'ſt.

Well, then, I'll tell thee.

Believing ſhe would certainly propoſe to have that favourite wench about her, as ſoon as ſhe was a little ſettled, I had cauſed the girl to be inquired after, with an intent to make intereſt, ſome how or other, that a month's warning ſhould be inſiſted on by her maſter or miſtreſs, or by ſome other means, which I had not determined upon, to prevent her coming to her. But fortune fights for me. The wench is luckily ill; a violent rheumatic diſorder, which has obliged her to leave her place, confines her to her chamber: Poor Hannah! How I pity the girl! Theſe things are very hard upon induſtrious ſervants!—I intend to make the poor maid a ſmall preſent on the occaſion—I know it will oblige my charmer.

And ſo, Jack, pretending not to know any thing of the matter, I preſſed her to ſend for the wench. She knew I had always a regard for this ſervant, be⯑cauſe of her honeſt love to her lady: But now I have a greater regard for her than ever. Calamity, tho' a poor ſervant's calamity, will rather increaſe than di⯑miniſh [148] good-will, with a truly generous maſter or miſtreſs.

As to one of the young Sorlings's attendance, there was nothing at all in propoſing that; for if either of them had been choſen by her, and permitted by the mother [Two chances in that!], it would have been only till I had fix'd upon another. And if afterwards they had been loth to part, I could eaſily have given my beloved a jealouſy, which would have done the buſineſs; or to the girl, who would have quitted her country dairy, ſuch a reliſh for a London one, as would have made it very convenient for her to fall in love with Will; or perhaps I could have done ſtill better for her with Lord M.'s chaplain, who is very deſirous of ſtanding well with his Lord's preſumptive heir.

A bleſſing on thy honeſt heart, Lovelace! thou'lt ſay; for thou art for providing for every-body.

Is not this fair play? Is it not dealing ingenuouſly? Then the obſervation, I will be bold to ſay, is founded in truth and nature. But there was a little touch of policy in it beſides; that the lady, if I ſhould fly out again, ſhould not think me too groſs an hypocrite: For, as I plainly told her, I was afraid, that my fits of reformation were but fits and ſallies; but I hoped her example would fix them into habits. But it is ſo diſcouraging a thing, to have my monitreſs ſo very good!—I proteſt I know not how to look up at her! Now, as I am thinking, if I could pull her down a little nearer to my own level; that is to ſay, could prevail upon her to do ſomething that would argue imperfection, ſomething to repent of; we ſhould jog [149] on much more equally, and be better able to compre⯑hend one another: And ſo the comfort would be mu⯑tual, and the remorſe not all on one ſide.

This lady ſays ſerious things in ſo agreeable a man⯑ner; and then her voice is all harmony, when ſhe touches a ſubject ſhe is pleaſed with; that I could have liſtened to her for half a day together. But yet I am afraid, if ſhe falls, as they call it, ſhe will loſe a good deal of that pathos, of that noble ſelf-confidence, which gives a good perſon, as I now ſee, a viſible ſu⯑periority over one not ſo good.

But, after all, Belford, I would fain know why people call ſuch free livers as you and me hypocrites.—That's a word I hate; and ſhould take it very ill to be called by it. For myſelf, I have as good motions, and perhaps have them as frequently as any-body: All the buſineſs is, they don't hold; or, to ſpeak more in character, I don't take the care ſome do, to conceal my lapſes.

LETTER XXVI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

THO' pretty much preſſed in time, and oppreſſed by my mamma's watchfulneſs, I will write a few lines upon the new light that has broke in upon your gentleman; and ſend it by a particular hand.

I know not what to think of him upon it.—He talks well; but judge him by Rowe's lines, he is cer⯑tainly a diſſembler, odious as the ſin of hypocriſy, and, as he ſays, that other of ingratitude, are to him.

[150]And pray, my dear, let me aſk you, Could he have triumphed, as it is ſaid he has done, over ſo many of our ſex, had he not been egregiouſly guilty of both ſins?

His ingenuity is the thing that ſtaggers me: Yet is he cunning enough to know, that whoever accuſes himſelf firſt, blunts the edge of an adverſary's accu⯑ſation.

He is certainly a man of ſenſe: There is more hope of ſuch a one, than of a fool: And there muſt be a beginning to a reformation. Theſe I will allow in his favour.

But this, I think, is the only way to judge of his ſpecious confeſſions and ſelf-accuſations—Does he confeſs any thing that you knew not before, or that you are not likely to find out from others?—If no⯑thing elſe, what does he confeſs to his own diſadvan⯑tage? You have heard of his duels: You have heard of his ſeductions: All the world has.—He owns therefore what it would be to no purpoſe to con⯑ceal; and his ingenuity is a ſalvo— ‘'Why, this, Madam, is no more than Mr. Lovelace himſelf acknowleges.'’

Well, but, what is now to be done?—You muſt make the beſt of your ſituation: And as you ſay, ſo ſay I, I hope that will not be bad: For I like all that he has propoſed to you of Windſor, and his Canon's houſe. His readineſs to leave you, and go himſelf in queſt of a lodging, likewiſe looks well.—And I think there is nothing can be ſo properly done, as [whether you get to a Canon's houſe or not] that the Canon joins you together in wedlock as ſoon as poſſible.

I much approve, however, of all your cautions, of all your vigilance, and of every thing you have done, but of your meeting of him. Yet, in my diſapproba⯑tion of that, I judge by the event only; for who would have divined, it would have concluded as it did? But he is the devil, by his own account: And had he run [151] away with the wretched Solmes, and your more wretched brother, and been himſelf tranſported for life, he ſhould have had my free conſent for all three.

What uſe does he make of that Joſeph Leman!—His ingenuouſneſs, I muſt once more ſay, confounds me; but if, my dear, you can forgive your brother, I don't know whether you ought to be angry at him on that account; yet I have wiſh'd fifty times, ſince he got you away, that you were rid of him, whether it were by a burning fever, by hanging, by drowning, or by a broken neck; provided it were before he laid you under a neceſſity to go into mourning for him.

I repeat my hitherto-rejected offer. May I ſend it ſafely by your old man?—I have reaſons for not ſend⯑ing it by Hickman's ſervant; unleſs I had a bank note or notes. Inquiring for ſuch may cauſe diſtruſt. My mamma is ſo buſy, ſo inquiſitive!—I don't love ſu⯑ſpicious tempers.

And here ſhe is continually in and out—I muſt break off. Mr. Hickman begs his moſt reſpectful compliments to you, and offer of ſervices. I told him I would oblige him, becauſe minds in trouble take kindly any-body's civilities: But that he muſt not imagine he obliged me by this; Since I ſhould think the man or woman either blind or ſtupid, who admired not a perſon of your exalted merit for her own ſake, and wiſh'd not to ſerve her without view to other reward, than the honour of ſerving her.

To be ſure, that was his principal motive, with great daintineſs he ſaid it: But with a kiſs of his hand, and a bow to my feet, he hoped, that that fine lady's be⯑ing my friend did not leſſen the merit of the reverence he really had for her. Believe me ever, what you ſhall ever find me,

LETTER XXVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Detain your meſſenger while I write in anſwer to yours; my poor old man not being very well.

You diſhearten me a good deal about this man. I may be too willing, from my ſad circumſtances, to think the beſt of him.—If his pretences to reforma⯑tion are but pretences, what muſt be his intent? But can the heart of man be ſo very vile? Can he, dare he, mock the Almighty?—But may I not, from one very ſad reflection, think better of him; That I am thrown too much in his power, to make it neceſ⯑ſary for him (except he were to intend the very utmoſt villainy by me) to be ſuch a ſhocking hypocrite?—He muſt, at leaſt, be in earneſt, at the time he gives the better hopes. Surely he muſt.—You yourſelf muſt join with me in this hope, or you could not wiſh me to be ſo dreadfully yoked.

But after all, I had rather be independent of him, and of his family, altho' I have an high opinion of them; much rather: At leaſt till I ſee what my own may be brought to.—Otherwiſe, I think, it were beſt for me, at once, to caſt myſelf into Lady Betty's protection. All would then be conducted with decency, and perhaps many mortifications would be ſpared me. But then I muſt be his, at all adven⯑tures, and be thought to defy my own family. And ſhall I not ſee the iſſue of one application firſt?—And yet I cannot make this, till I am ſettled ſomewhere, and at a diſtance from him.

Mrs. Sorlings ſhew'd me a letter this morning, which ſhe had received from her ſiſter Greme laſt night; in which (hoping I will forgive her forward zeal, if her ſiſter thinks fit to ſhew her letter to me) ſhe ‘[153]'wiſhes for all the noble family's ſake, and ſhe hopes ſhe may ſay for my own, that I will be pleaſed to yield to make his honour, as ſhe calls him, happy'’ She grounds her officiouſneſs, as ſhe calls it, upon what he was ſo condeſcending [her word alſo] to ſay to her yeſterday, in his way to Windſor, on her preſuming to aſk, If ſhe might ſoon give him joy. ‘'That no man ever loved a woman as he loved me: That no woman ever ſo well deſerved to be beloved: That in every converſation, he admired me ſtill more: That he loved me with ſuch a purity, as he had ne⯑ver believed himſelf capable of, or that a mortal creature could have inſpired him with; looking up⯑on me as all ſoul; as an angel ſent down to ſave his;'’ and a great deal more of this ſort: ‘'But that he ap⯑prehended, my conſent to make him happy was at a greater diſtance than he wiſhed. And complain'd of my too ſevere reſtrictions upon him, before I honour'd him with my confidence: Which reſtri⯑ctions muſt be as ſacred to him, as if they were parts of the marriage-contract, &c.'’

What, my dear, ſhall I ſay to this?—How ſhall I take it? Mrs. Greme is a good woman. Mrs. Sorlings is a good woman. And this letter agrees with the converſation I thought, and ſtill think, ſo agreeable.—Yet what means the man by foregoing the opportuni⯑ties he has had to declare himſelf?—What mean his complaints of my reſtrictions to Mrs. Greme? He is not a baſhful man!—But you ſay, I inſpire people with an awe of me!—An awe, my dear!—As how?—

I am quite petulant at times, to find, that I am bound to ſee the workings of this ſubtle, or this giddy ſpirit; which ſhall I call it?

How am I puniſh'd, as I frequently think, for my vanity, in hoping to be an example to young perſons of my ſex! Let me be but a warning, and I will now be contented. For, be my deſtiny what it may, I ſhall [154] never be able to hold up my head again among my beſt friends and worthieſt companions.

It is one of the cruelleſt circumſtances that attends the faults of the inconſiderate, that ſhe makes all who love her unhappy, and gives joy only to her own ene⯑mies, and to the enemies of her family.

What an uſeful leſſon would this afford, were it properly inculcated at the time that the tempted mind was balancing upon a doubtful adventure?

You know not, my dear, the worth of a virtuous man; and noble-minded as you are in moſt particu⯑lars, you partake of the common weakneſs of human nature, in being apt to ſlight what is in your own power.

You would not think of uſing Mr. Lovelace, were be your ſuitor, as you do the much worthier Mr. Hickman—Would you? You know who ſays, in my mamma's caſe, ‘'Much will bear, much ſhall bear, all the world through ^(a).'’ Mr. Hickman, I fancy, would be glad to know the lady's name, who made ſuch an obſervation. He would think it hardly poſſible, but ſuch a one ſhould benefit by her own re⯑mark; and would be apt to wiſh his Miſs Howe ac⯑quainted with her.

Gentleneſs of heart, ſurely, is not deſpicable in a man. Why, if it be, is the higheſt diſtinction a man can arrive at, that of a Gentleman?—A diſtin⯑ction which a prince may not deſerve. For manners, more than birth, fortune, or title, are requiſite in this character. Manners are indeed the eſſenee of it. And ſhall it be generally ſaid, and Miſs Howe not be an exception to it [as once you wrote ^(b)], that our ſex are beſt dealt with by boiſtrous and unruly ſpi⯑rits?

Forgive me, my dear; and love me as you uſed to do. For altho' my fortunes are changed, my heart is not: Nor ever will, while it bids my pen tell you, that [155] it muſt ceaſe to beat, when it is not as much yours, as

LETTER XXVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

YOU may believe, my dear, that theſe letters put me in good humour with him. He ſaw it in my countenance, and congratulated himſelf upon it. But yet I wonder'd that I could not have the contents of them communicated to me laſt night.

He then urged me to go directly to Lady Betty's, on the ſtrength of her letter.

But how, ſaid I, can I do that, were I out of all hope of a reconciliation with my friends [which yet, however improbable to be brought about, is my duty to attempt] as her ladyſhip has given me no particular invitation?

That, he was ſure, was owing to her doubt that it would be accepted: Elſe ſhe had done it with the greateſt pleaſure in the world.

That doubt itſelf, I ſaid, was enough to deter me: Since her ladyſhip, who knew ſo well the boundaries of the fit and the unfit, by her not expecting I would accept of an invitation, had ſhe given it, would have reaſon to think me very forward, if I had accepted it; [160] and much more forward to go without it. Then, ſaid I, I thank you, Sir, I have no cloaths fit to go any-where, or to be ſeen by any-body.

O, I was fit to appear in the 'drawing-room, were full dreſs and jewels to be excuſed, and ſhould make the moſt amiable [extraordinary he muſt mean] figure there. He was aſtoniſh'd at the elegance of my dreſs. By what art he knew not, but I appeared to ſuch ad⯑vantage, as if I had a different ſuit every day. Beſides, his couſins Montague would ſupply me with all I wanted for the preſent; and he would write to Miſs Charlotte accordingly, if I would give him leave.

Do you think me the jay in the fable? ſaid I.—Would you have me viſit the owners of the borrowed dreſſes in their own cloaths?—Surely, Mr. Lovelace, you think I have either a very low, or a very con⯑fident mind.

Would I chooſe to go to London, for a few days only, in order to furniſh myſelf with cloaths?

Not at his expence. I was not prepared to wear his livery yet.

I could not have appeared in earneſt to him, in my diſpleaſure at his artful contrivances to get me away, if I were not occaſionally to ſhew my real fretfulneſs upon the deſtitute condition he has reduced me to. When people ſet out wrong together, it is very diffi⯑cult to avoid recriminations.

He wiſh'd he knew but my mind—That ſhould direct him in his propoſals, and it would be his delight to obſerve it, whatever it was.

My mind was, that he ſhould leave me out of hand.—How often muſt I tell him ſo?—

If I were any-where but here, he would obey me, he ſaid, if I inſiſted upon it. But if I would aſſert my right, that would be infinitely preferable, in his opi⯑nion, to any other meaſure but one; which he durſt only hint at: For then, admitting his viſits, or refuſe⯑ing them, as I pleaſed [granting a correſpondence by [161] letter only] it would appear to all the world, that what I had done, was but in order to do myſelf juſtice.

How often muſt I tell you, Sir, that I will not litigate with my papa?—Do you think that my un⯑happy circumſtances will alter my notions of my own duty, ſo far as it is practicable for me to perform it?—How can I obtain poſſeſſion without litigation, and but by my truſtees? One of them will be againſt me; the other is abroad. This muſt take up time, were I diſpoſed to fall upon this meaſure.—And what I want, is preſent independence, and your immediate abſence.

Upon his ſoul, the wretch ſwore, he did not think it ſafe, for the reaſons he had before given, to leave me here.—He hoped I would think of ſome place, to which I ſhould like to go. But he muſt take the liberty to ſay, that he hoped his behaviour had not been ſo exceptionable, as to make me ſo very earneſt for his abſence in the interim: And the leſs, ſurely, as I was almoſt eternally ſhutting up myſelf from him; altho' he preſumed, he ſaid, to aſſure me, that he never went from me, but with a corrected heart, and with ſtrengthened reſolutions of improving by my example.

Eternally ſhutting myſelf up from you! repeated I—I hope, Sir, that you will not pretend to take it amiſs, that I expect to be uninvaded in my retire⯑ments. I hope you do not think me ſo weak a crea⯑ture (novice as you have found me in a very capital inſtance) as to be fond of occaſions to hear your fine ſpeeches, eſpecially as no differing circumſtances require your over-frequent viſits; nor that I am to be addreſſed to as if I thought hourly profeſſions needful to aſſure me of your honour.

He ſeemed a little diſconcerted.

You know, Mr. Lovelace, proceeded I, why I am ſo earneſt for your abſence. It is, that I may appear [162] to the world independent of you; and in hopes, by that means, to find it leſs difficult to ſet on foot a recon⯑ciliation with my friends. And now let me add (in order to make you eaſier as to the terms of that hoped-for reconciliation) that ſince I find I have the good fortune to ſtand ſo well with your relations, I will, from time to time, acquaint you, by letter, when you are abſent, with every ſtep I ſhall take, and with every overture that ſhall be made to me. But not with an intention to render myſelf accountable to you, neither, as to my acceptance or non-acceptance of thoſe overtures. They know, that I have a power given me by my grandfather's will, to bequeath the eſtate he left me, together with my ſhare of the effects, in a way that may affect them, though not abſo⯑lutely from them: This conſideration, I hope, will pro⯑cure me ſome from them, when their paſſion ſubſides, and they know I am independent of you.

Charming reaſoning!—And let him tell me, that the aſſurance I had given him was all he wiſhed-for. It was more than he could aſk.—What a happineſs to have a woman of honour and generoſity to depend upon!—Had he, on his firſt entrance into the world, met with ſuch a one, he had never been other than a man of ſtrict virtue—But all, he hoped, was for the beſt; ſince, in that caſe, he had never, perhaps, had the happineſs now in his view; becauſe his relations had been always urging him to marry; and that before he had the honour to know me.—And now, as he had not been ſo bad as ſome peoples malice reported him to be, he hoped, he ſhould have more merit in his repentance, than if he had never err'd.

I ſaid, I took it for granted, that he aſſented to the reaſoning he ſeemed to approve, and would leave me. And then I aſked him, What he really, and in his moſt deliberate mind, would adviſe me to, in my pre⯑ſent ſituation? He muſt needs ſee, I ſaid, that I was at a great loſs what to reſolve upon; intirely a ſtran⯑ger [163] to London, having no adviſer, no protector, at preſent:—Himſelf, he muſt give me leave to tell him, greatly deficient in practice, if not in the knowlege, of thoſe decorums, which, I had apprehended, were indiſpenſable in the character of a man of birth, for⯑tune, and education.

He imagines himſelf, I find, to be a very polite man, and cannot bear to be thought otherwiſe. He put up his lip,—I am ſorry for it, Madam.—A man of breeding, a man of politeneſs, give me leave to ſay, colouring, is much more of a black ſwan with you, than with any lady I ever met with.

Then that is your misfortune, Mr. Lovelace, as well as mine, at preſent.—Every woman of diſcern⯑ment, I am confident, knowing what I know of you now, would ſay as I ſay [I had a mind to mortify a pride, that I am ſure deſerves to be mortify'd] that your politeneſs is not regular, nor conſtant. It is not habit. It is too much ſeen by fits, and ſtarts, and ſallies, and thoſe not ſpontaneous. You muſt be reminded into them.

O Lord! O Lord!—Poor I!—was the light, yet the half-angry wretch's ſelf-pitying expreſſion!—

I proceeded.—Upon my word, Sir, you are not the accompliſh'd man, which your talents and oppor⯑tunities would have led one to expect you to be.—You are indeed in your noviciate [He had, in a for⯑mer converſation, uſed that word] as to every laudable attainment.—

LETTER XXX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

I Was going on to tell him more of my mind, ſince the ſubject was introduced and treated by him ſo lightly; but he interrupted me—Dear, dear Madam, ſpare me, I am ſorry that I have lived to this hour [164] for nothing at all. But ſurely you could not have quitted a ſubject ſo much more agreeable, and ſo much more ſuitable, I will ſay, to our preſent ſituation, if you had not too cruel a pleaſure in mortifying a man, who before looked up to you with a diffidence in his own merits too great to permit him to ſpeak half his mind to you.—Be pleaſed but to return to the ſubject we were upon; and at another time I will gladly em⯑brace correction from the only mouth in the world ſo qualify'd to give it.

You talk of reformation, ſometimes, Mr. Lovelace; and in ſo talking acknowlege errors. But I ſee you can very ill bear the reproof, which perhaps you are not ſolicitous to avoid giving occaſion for.—Far be it from me to take delight in finding fault. I ſhould be glad for both our ſakes, ſince my ſituation is what it is, that I could do nothing but praiſe you. But fail⯑ures which affect a mind, that need not be very deli⯑cate to be affected by them, are too grating to be paſſed over in ſilence by a perſon, who wiſhes to be thought in earneſt in her own duties.

I admire your delicacy. Madam, again interrupted he.—Altho' I ſuffer by it, yet would I not have it otherwiſe: Indeed I would not, when I conſider of it. It is an angelic delicacy, which ſets you above all our ſex, and even above your own. It is natural to you, Madam; ſo you may not think it extraordinary—But there is nothing like it on earth, ſaid the flat⯑terer—[What company has he kept?]

But let us return to the former ſubject—You were ſo good as to aſk me, what I would adviſe you to do—I want but to make you eaſy, I want but to ſee you fixed to your liking—Your faithful Hannah with you.—Your reconciliation with thoſe with whom you wiſh to be reconciled, ſet on foot, and in a train.

And now let me mention to you different propoſals; in hopes that ſome one of them may be acceptable to you.

[165]I will go to Mrs. Howe, or to Miſs Howe, or to whomſoever you would have me go, and endeavour to prevail upon them to receive you.

Do you incline to go to Florence to your couſin Morden?—I will furniſh you with the opportunity of going thither, either by ſea to Leghorn, or by land through France.—Perhaps I may be able to procure one of the ladies of my family to attend you. Either Charlotte or Patty would rejoice in ſuch an opportu⯑nity of ſeeing France and Italy. As for myſelf, I will only be your eſcorte; in diſguiſe, if you will have it ſo, even in your livery, that your punctilio may not receive offence by my attendance.

I told him, I would conſider of all he had ſaid. But that I hoped for a line or two from my aunt Hervey, if not from my ſiſter, to both of whom I had written; which, if I were to be ſo favoured, might help to determine me. Mean time, if he would withdraw, I would particularly conſider of this propoſal of his, in relation to my couſin Morden. And if it held its weight with me, ſo far as to take your opinion upon it, he ſhould know my mind in an hour's time.

He withdrew with great reſpect: And in an hour's time returned:—And then I told him it was unneceſ⯑ſary to trouble you for your opinion about it. My couſin Morden was ſoon expected. I could not ad⯑mit of his accompanying me, in any ſhape, or upon any condition. It was highly improbable that I ſhould obtain the favour of either of his couſins company: And if that could be done, it would be the ſame thing in the world's eye, as if he went himſelf.

This led us into another conveſation; Which ſhall be the ſubject of my next.

LETTER XXXI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

MR. Lovelace told me, that on the ſuppoſition that his propoſal in relation to my couſin Morden might not be accepted, he had been ſtudying to find out, if poſſible, ſomewhat that might be agreeable, and which might convince me, that he preferr'd my ſatisfaction to his own.

He then offered to go himſelf, and procure my Hannah to come and attend me: As I had declin'd the ſervice of either of the young Mrs. Sorlings's, he was extremely ſolicitous, he ſaid, that I ſhould have a ſervant, in whoſe integrity I might confide.

I told him, that you would be ſo kind, as to ſend to engage Hannah, if poſſible.

If any thing, he ſaid, ſhould prevent her from come⯑ing, ſuppoſe he himſelf waited upon Miſs Howe, to deſire her, to lend me her ſervant till I was provided to my mind?

I ſaid, Your mamma's high diſpleaſure at the ſtep I had taken (as ſhe ſuppoſed, voluntarily), had deprived me of any open aſſiſtance of that ſort from you.

He was amazed, ſo much as Mrs. Howe herſelf uſed to admire me; and ſo great an influence as Miſs was ſuppoſed to have over her mamma (and deſerved to have) that that lady ſhould take upon herſelf to be ſo much offended with me. He wiſh'd, that the man, who took ſuch pains to keep up and inflame the paſ⯑ſions of my father and uncles, were not at the bottom of this miſchief too.

I was afraid, I ſaid, that my brother was; or elſe my uncle Antony, I dared to ſay, would not have taken ſuch pains to ſet Mrs. Howe againſt me, as I underſtood he had done.

Since I had declined viſiting his aunts, he aſked me, If I would admit of a viſit from his couſin [167] Montague, and accept of a ſervant of hers for the preſent?

That was not, I ſaid, an unacceptable propoſal: But I would firſt ſee, if my friends would ſend me my cloaths, that I might not make ſuch a giddy and run-away appearance to any of his relations.

If I pleaſed, he would make another journey to Windſor, to make more particular inquiry among the canons, or in any worthy family.

Were not his objections as to the publicneſs of the place, I aſked him, as ſtrong now as before?

I remember, my dear, in one of your former letters, you mentioned London, as the privateſt place to be in ^(a): And I ſaid, that ſince he made ſuch pretences againſt leaving me here, as ſhewed he had no inten⯑tion to do ſo; and ſince he engag'd to go from me, and to leave me to purſue my own meaſures, if I were elſewhere; and ſince his preſence made theſe lodgings inconvenient to me, I ſhould not be diſin⯑clined to go to London, did I know any-body there.

As he had ſeveral times propoſed London to me, I expected, that he would eagerly have embraced that motion from me. But he took not ready hold of it: Yet I thought his eye approved of it.

We are both great watchers of each other's eyes; and indeed ſeem to be more than half-afraid of each other.

He then made a grateful propoſal to me; that I would ſend for my Mrs. Norton to attend me.

He ſaw by my eyes, he ſaid, that he had at laſt been happy in an expedient, which would anſwer both our wiſhes. Why, ſays he, did not I think of it before?—And ſnatching my hand, Shall I write, Ma⯑dam? Shall I ſend? Shall I go and fetch the good woman myſelf?

[168]After a little conſideration, I told him, that this was indeed a grateful motion: But that I apprehended, it would put her to a difficulty, which ſhe would not be able to get over; as it would make a woman of her known prudence appear to countenance a fugitive daughter, in oppoſition to her parents: And as her coming to me would deprive her of my mamma's favour, without its being in my power to make it up to her.

O my beloved creature! ſaid he, generouſly enough, let not this be an obſtacle. I will do every thing for the good woman you wiſh to have done—Let me go for her.

More coolly than perhaps his generoſity deſerved, I told him, It was impoſſible but I muſt ſoon hear from my friends. I ſhould not, mean time, embroil any-body with them. Not Mrs. Norton eſpecially, from whoſe intereſt in, and mediation with, my mamma, I might expect ſome good, were ſhe to keep herſelf in a neutral ſtate: That, beſides, the good woman had a mind above her fortune; and would ſooner want, than be beholden to any-body impro⯑perly.

Improperly, ſaid he!—Have not perſons of merit a right to all the benefits conferr'd upon them?—Mrs. Norton is ſo good a woman, that I ſhall think ſhe lays me under an obligation, if ſhe will put it in my power to ſerve her; altho' ſhe were not to aug⯑ment it, by giving me the opportunity at the ſame time, of contributing to your pleaſure and ſatiſ⯑faction.

How could this man, with ſuch powers of right thinking, be ſo far deprav'd by evil habits, as to diſ⯑grace his talents by wrong acting?

Is there not room, after all, thought I, at th [...] time, for hope (as he ſo lately led me to hope) that the example it will behove me, for both ou [...] ſakes, to endeavour to ſet him, may influence him to [169] a change of manners, in which both may find their account?

Give me leave, Sir, ſaid I, to tell you, there is a ſtrange mixture in your mind. You muſt have taken pains to ſuppreſs many good motions and reflections, as they aroſe, or levity muſt have been ſurpriſingly predominant in it.—But as to the ſubject we were upon, there is no taking any reſolutions till I hear from my friends.

Well, Madam, I can only ſay, I would find out ſome expedient, if I could, that ſhould be agreeable to you. But ſince I cannot, will you be ſo good as to tell me, what you would wiſh to have done? Nothing in the world but I will comply with, except⯑ing leaving you here, at ſuch a diſtance from the place I ſhall be in, if any thing ſhould happen; and in a place where my goſſiping raſcals have made me in a manner public, for want of proper cautions at firſt.

Theſe vermin, added he, have a pride they can hardly rein-in, when they ſerve a man of family. They boaſt of their maſter's pedigree and deſcent, as if they were related to him. Nor is any thing they know of him, or of his affairs, a ſecret to one an⯑other, were it what would hang him.

If ſo, thought I, men of family ſhould take care to give them ſubjects worth boaſting of.

I am quite at a loſs, ſaid I, what to do, or whither to go. Would you, Mr. Lovelace, in earneſt, ad⯑viſe me to think of going to London?

And I looked at him with ſtedfaſtneſs. But no⯑thing could I gather from his looks.

At firſt, Madam, ſaid he, I was for propoſing London, as I was then more apprehenſive of purſuit. But as your relations ſeem cooler on that head, I am the more indifferent about the place you go to.—So as you are pleaſed—So as you are eaſy, I ſhall be happy.

This indifference of his to London, I cannot but [170] ſay, made me like going thither the better. I aſked him [to hear what he would ſay], if he could recom⯑mend me to any particular place in London?

No, he ſaid: None that was fit for me, or that I ſhould like. His friend Belford indeed, had very handſome lodgings, near Soho-Square, at a relation's, a lady of virtue and honour. Theſe, as Mr. Belford was generally in the country, he could borrow till I were better accommodated.

I was reſolved to refuſe theſe at the firſt mention, as I ſhould any other he had named. Nevertheleſs, I will ſee, thought I, if he has really thoughts of theſe for me. If I break off the talk here, and he reſume this propoſal with earneſtneſs in the morning, I ſhall apprehend, that he is leſs indifferent than he ſeems to be, about my going to London; and that he has al⯑ready a lodging in his eye for me.—And then I won't go at all.

But after ſuch generous motions from him, I really think it a little barbarous to act and behave as if I thought him capable of the blackeſt and moſt ingrate⯑ful baſeneſs. But his character, his principles, are ſo faulty!—He is ſo light, ſo vain, ſo various, that there is no certainty that he will be next hour what he is This. Then, my dear, I have no guardian now; no father, no mother! Nothing but God and my vi⯑gilance to depend upon. And I have no reaſon to expect a miracle in my favour.

Well, Sir, ſaid I, riſing, to leave him, ſomething muſt be reſolved upon: But I will poſtpone this ſubject till to-morrow morning.

He would fain have engag'd me longer; but I ſaid, I would ſee him as early as he pleaſed in the morning. He might think of any convenient place in London, or near it, mean time.

And ſo I retired from him. As I do from my pen; hoping for better reſt for the few hours that will re⯑main [171] for that deſirable refreſhment, than I have had of a long time.

LETTER XXXII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

LATE as I went to bed, I have had very little reſt. Sleep and I have quarrell'd; and altho' I court it, it will not be friends. I hope its Fellow-irreconcileables at Harlowe-Place, enjoy its balmy comforts. Elſe, that will be an aggravation of my fault. My brother and ſiſter, I dare ſay, want it not.

Mr. Lovelace, who is an early riſer, as well as I, join'd me in the garden about ſix; and, after the uſual ſalutations, aſk'd me to reſume our laſt night's ſubject. It was upon lodgings at London, he ſaid.

I think you mention'd one to me, Sir;—Did you not?

Yes, Madam, but (watching the turn of my coun⯑tenance) rather as what you'd be welcome to, than perhaps approve of.

I believe ſo too. To go to town upon an uncer⯑tainty, I own, is not agreeable; but to be oblig'd to any gentleman of your acquaintance, when I want to be thought independent of you; and to a gentleman eſpecially, to whom my friends are to direct to me, if they vouchſafe to take notice of me at all; is an ab⯑ſurd thing to mention.

He did not mention it as what he imagin'd I would accept, but only to confirm to me what he had ſaid, that he himſelf knew of none fit for me.

Has not your family, Madam, ſome one tradeſman they deal with, who has conveniencies of this kind? I would make it worth ſuch a perſon's while, to keep [172] the ſecret of your being at his houſe. Traders are dealers in pins, ſaid he; and will be more oblig'd by a peny cuſtomer than a pound preſent, becauſe it is in their way:—Yet will refuſe neither.

My father's tradeſmen, I ſaid, would, no doubt, be the firſt employ'd to find me out: So that propoſal was as abſurd as the other.

We had a good deal of diſcourſe upon the ſame topic. But, at laſt, the reſult of all was this.—He wrote a letter to one Mr. Doleman, a marry'd man of fortune and character [I excepting to Mr. Belford], deſiring him to provide decent apartments ready fur⯑niſh'd [for I had told him what they ſhould be] for a ſingle woman; conſiſting of a bedchamber; another for a maid-ſervant, with the uſe of a dining-room or parlour. This he gave me to peruſe; and then ſealed it up, and diſpatch'd it away in my preſence, by one of his own ſervants, who having buſineſs in town, is to bring back an anſwer.

I attend the iſſue of it; holding myſelf in readineſs to ſet out for London, unleſs you adviſe the contrary. I will only add, that I am

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

LETTER XXXIV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. In anſwer to Letters xxvii. to xxxii. incluſive.

YOU have a moſt implacable family. Another viſit from your uncle Antony has not only con⯑firm'd my mamma an enemy to our correſpondence, but has almoſt put her upon treading in their ſteps.

But, to other ſubjects:

You plead generouſly for Mr. Hickman:—Perhaps, with regard to him, I may have done, as I have often done in ſinging or muſic—Begun a note or key too high; and yet, rather than begin again, proceed, tho' I ſtrain my voice, or ſpoil my tune.—But this is evi⯑dent, the man is more obſervant for it; and you have taught me, that the ſpirit which is the humbler for ill-uſage, will be inſolent upon better. So, good and grave Mr. Hickman, keep your diſtance a little longer, I beſeech you. You have erected an altar to me; and I hope you will not refuſe to bow to it.

But you aſk me, if I would treat Mr. Lovelace, were he to be in Mr. Hickman's place, as I do Mr. Hickman?—Why really, my dear, I believe I ſhould not.—I have been very ſagely conſidering this point of behaviour, in general, on both ſides, in court⯑ſhip; and I will very candidly tell you the reſult. I have concluded, that politeneſs, even to exceſs, is ne⯑ceſſary on the mens part, to bring us to liſten to their firſt addreſſes, in order to induce us to bow our necks to a yoke ſo unequal. But, upon my conſcience, I very much doubt, whether a little intermingled inſo⯑lence is not requiſite from them, to keep up that in⯑tereſt, when once it has got footing. Men muſt not let us ſee, that we can make fools of them. And, I think, that ſmooth love, that is to ſay, a paſſion with⯑out [179] rubs; in other words, a paſſion without paſſion, is like a ſleepy ſtream that is hardly ſeen to give mo⯑tion to a ſtraw. So that, ſometimes to make us fear, and even, for a ſhort ſpace, to hate the wretch, is productive of the contrary extreme.

If this be ſo, Lovelace, than whom no man was ever more polite and obſequious at the beginning, has hit the very point. For his turbulence ſince, his rea⯑dineſs to offend, and his equal readineſs to humble himſelf, as he is known to be a man of ſenſe, and of courage too, muſt keep a woman's paſſion alive; and at laſt, tire her into a non-reſiſtance, that ſhall make her as paſſive as a tyrant huſband would wiſh her to be.

I verily think, that the different behaviour of our two heroes to their heroines, makes out this doctrine to demonſtration. I am ſo much accuſtom'd, for my own part, to Hickman's whining, creeping, ſub⯑miſſive courtſhip, that I now expect nothing but whine and cringe from him; and am ſo little moved with his nonſenſe, that I am frequently forced to go to my harpſichord, to keep me awake, and to ſilence his humdrum.—Whereas Lovelace keeps up the ball with a witneſs, and all his addreſs and converſation is one continual game at racket.

Your frequent quarrels and reconciliations verify this obſervation: And I really believe, that, could Hickman have kept my attention alive after the Love⯑lace manner, only that he had preſerv'd his morals, I ſhould have marry'd the man by this time. But then he muſt have ſet out accordingly. For now, he can never, never recover himſelf, that's certain; but muſt b [...] dangler to the end of the courtſhip chapter; and, what is ſtill worſe for him, a paſſive to the end of his life.

Poor Hickman! perhaps you'll ſay. I have been called your Echo—Poor Hickman! ſay I.

You wonder, my dear, that Mr. Lovelace took [180] not notice to you of his aunt's and couſin's letters to him, over-night. I don't like his keeping ſuch a ma⯑terial and relative circumſtance, as I may call it, one moment from you. By his communicating the con⯑tents of them to you next day, when you was angry with him, it looks as if he with-held them for occa⯑ſional pacifiers; and if ſo, muſt he not have had a forethought that he might give you cauſe for anger? Of all the circumſtances that have happen'd ſince you have been with him, I think I like this the leaſt. This alone, my dear, ſmall as it might look to an indif⯑ferent eye, in mine warrants all your cautions. Yet I think, that Mrs. Greme's letter to her ſiſter Sor⯑lings; his repeated motions for Hannah's attendance; and for that of one of the widow Sorlings's daughters; and, above all, for that of Mrs. Norton, are agreeable counterbalances. Were it not for thoſe circumſtances, I ſhould have ſaid a great deal more of the other. Yet the fooliſh man, to let you know over-night, that he had ſuch letters!—I can't tell what to make of him.

I am pleaſed with what theſe ladies write. And the more, as I have cauſed them to be again ſounded, and find, that the whole family are as deſirous as ever of your alliance.

I think there can be no objection to your going to London. There, as in the centre, you'll be in the way of hearing from every-body, and ſending to any-body. And then you will put all his ſincerity to the teſt, as to his promiſed abſence, and ſuch-like.

But really, my dear, I think you have nothing for it but marriage. You may try (that you may ſay you have try'd), what your relations can be brought to. But the moment they refuſe your propoſals, ſubmit to the yoke, and make the beſt of it. He will be a ſavage indeed, if he makes you ſpeak out. Yet, it is my opinion, that you muſt bend a little; for he can⯑not bear to be thought ſlightly of.

This was one of his ſpeechcs once; I believe de⯑ſign'd [181] for me— ‘'A woman who means one day to fa⯑vour a man, ſhould ſhew the world, for her own ſake, that ſhe diſtinguiſhes her adorer from the common herd.'’

Shall I give you another fine ſentence of his, and in the true libertine ſtile, as he ſpoke it, throwing out his challenging hand?— ‘'D—n him, if he would marry (indelicate as ſome perſons thought him to be) the firſt princeſs on earth, if he but thought ſhe balanced a minute in her choice of him, or of an emperor.'’

All the world, in ſhort, expect you to have this man. They think, that you left your father's houſe for this very purpoſe. The longer the ceremony is delay'd, the worſe appearance it will have in the world's eye. And it will not be the fault of ſome of your relations, if a ſlur be not thrown upon your re⯑putation, while you continue unmarried. Your uncle Antony in particular, ſpeaks rough and vile things, grounded upon the morals of his Brother-Orſon. But hitherto your admirable character has antidoted the poiſon; the ſpeaker is deſpiſed, and every one's in⯑dignation raiſed againſt him.

I have written thro' many interruptions: And you'll ſee the firſt ſheet creaſed and rumpled, occa⯑ſioned by putting it into my boſom, on my mamma's ſudden coming upon me. We have had one very pretty debate, I'll aſſure you; but it is not worth while to trouble you with the particulars.—But upon my word—No matter tho'—

Your Hannah cannot attend you. The poor girl left her place about a fortnight ago, on account of a rheumatic diſorder, which has confined her to her room ever ſince. She burſt into tears, when Kitty carried to her your deſire of having her, and called herſelf doubly unhappy, that ſhe could not wait upon a miſtreſs whom ſhe ſo dearly loved.

Were my mamma to have anſwer'd my wiſhes, I [182] ſhould have been ſorry Mr, Lovelace had been the firſt propoſer of my Kitty for your attendant, till Hannah could come. To be altogether among ſtrangers, and a ſtranger to attend you every time you remove, is a very diſagreeable thing. But your conſiderateneſs and bounty will make you faithful ones where-ever you go.

You muſt take your own way: But if you ſuffer any inconvenience, either as to cloaths or money, that is in my power to ſupply, I will never forgive you. My mamma [if that be your objection) need not know any thing of the matter.

Your next letter, I ſuppoſe, will be from London. Pray direct it, and your future letters, till further no⯑tice, to Mr. Hickman, at his own houſe. He is in⯑tirely devoted to you. Don't take ſo heavily my mamma's partiality and prejudices. I hope I am paſt a baby.

Heaven preſerve you, and make you as happy as I think you deſerve to be, prays

LETTER XXXV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I AM glad, my dear friend, that you approve of my removal to London.

The diſagreement between your mamma and you, gives me inexpreſſible affliction. I hope I think you both more unhappy than you are. But I beſeech you let me know the particulars of the debate you call a very pretty one. I am well acquainted with your dia⯑lect. When you acquaint me with the whole, be your mamma ever ſo ſevere upon me, I ſhall be eaſier a great deal.—Faulty people ſhould rather deplore the [183] occaſion, than reſent the anger that is but the conſe⯑quence of their fault.

If I am to be obliged to any-body in England for money, it ſhall be to you. Your mother need not know of your kindneſs to me, you ſay—But ſhe muſt know it, if it be done, and if ſhe challenge my be⯑loved friend upon it—For would you either falſify or prevaricate?—I wiſh your mamma could be made eaſy on this head.—Forgive me, my dear—But I know—Yet once ſhe had a better opinion of me.—O my inconſiderate raſhneſs!—Excuſe me once more, I pray you.—Pride, when it is native, will ſhew itſelf ſometimes, in the midſt of mortifications!—But my ſtomach is down already!

I AM unhappy that I cannot have my worthy Han⯑nah!—I am as ſorry for the poor creature's illneſs as for my own diſappointment by it. Come, my dear Miſs Howe, ſince you preſs me to be beholden to you; and would think me proud, if I abſolutely re⯑fuſed your favour, pray be ſo good as to ſend her two guineas in my name.

If I have nothing for it, as you ſay, but matrimony, it yields a little comfort, that his relations do not de⯑ſpiſe the fugitive, as perſons of their rank and quality-pride might be ſuppoſed to do, for having been a ſu⯑gitive.

But O my cruel, thrice cruel uncle! to ſuppoſe—But my heart checks my pen, and will not let it pro⯑ceed, on an intimation ſo extremely ſhocking as that which he ſuppoſes!—Yet, if thus they have been per⯑ſuaded, no wonder if they are irreconcileable. This is all my hard-hearted brother's doings!—His ſur⯑miſings!—God forgive him! Prays his injured ſiſter, and

LETTER XXXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MR. Lovelace's ſervant is already return'd with an anſwer from his friend Mr. Doleman, who has taken pains in his inquiries, and is very particular. Mr. Lovelace brought me the letter as ſoon as he had read it; and as he now knows, that I acquaint you with every thing that offers, I deſired him to let me ſend it to you for your peruſal. Be pleaſed to return it by the firſt opportunity. You will ſee by it, that his friends in town have a notion, that we are actually married.

You will eaſily gueſs, my dear, when you have read the letter, which lodgings I made choice of. But firſt, to try him, as in ſo material a point I thought I could not be too circumſpect, I ſeemed to prefer thoſe in Norfolk-ſtreet, for the very reaſon the writer gives why he thought I would not; that is to ſay, for its neighbourhood to a city ſo well-govern'd as London is ſaid to be. Nor ſhould I have diſliked a lodging in the heart of it, having heard but indifferent accounts of the liberties ſometimes taken at the other end of the town.—Then ſeeming to incline to the lodgings in Cecil-ſtreet—Then to the Mercer's. But he made no viſible preference: And when I aſked his opinion of the widow-gentlewoman's, he ſaid, He thought theſe the moſt to my taſte and convenience: But as he hoped, that I would think lodgings neceſſary but for a [188] very little while, he knew not which to give his vote for.

I then fixed upon the widow's; and he has written accordingly to Mr. Doleman, making my compli⯑ments to his lady and ſiſter, for their kind offer.

I am to have the dining-room, the bedchamber, with the light cloſet (of which, if I ſtay any time at the widow's, I ſhall make great uſe), and a ſervant's room; and we propoſe to ſet out on Saturday morn⯑ing. As for a maid-ſervant, poor Hannah's illneſs is a great diſappointment to me: But, as he ſays, I can make the widow ſatisfaction for one of hers, till I can get one to my mind. And you know, I want not much attendance.

MR. Lovelace has juſt now, of his own accord, given me five guineas for poor Hannah. I ſend them incloſed. Be ſo good as to cauſe them to be convey'd to her; and to let her know from whom they came.

He has obliged me much by this little mark of his conſiderateneſs. Indeed I have the better opinion of him ever ſince he propoſed her return to me.

I HAVE juſt now another inſtance of his conſiderate⯑neſs. He came to me, and ſaid, that, on ſecond thoughts, he could not bear, that I ſhould go up to town without ſome attendant, were it but for the look of the thing to the widow and her nieces, who, according to his friend's account, lived ſo gen⯑teelly; and eſpecially as I required him to leave me ſoon after I arrived there; and ſo would be left alone among ſttrangers. He therefore thought, that I might engage Mrs. Sorlings to lend me one of her two maids, or to let one of her daughters go up with me and ſtay till I were provided. And if the latter, the young gentlewoman, no doubt, would be glad of ſo good an opportunity to ſee a little of the curioſities o [...] [189] the town, and would be a proper attendant to me on the ſame occaſions.

I told him, as I had done before, that the ſervants, and the two young gentlewomen, were ſo equally uſeful in their way (and ſervants in a buſy farm were ſo little to be ſpared), that I ſhould be loth to take them off of their laudable employments. Nor ſhould I think much of diverſions for one while; and ſo the leſs want an attendant out of doors.

And now, my dear, leſt any thing ſhould happen, in ſo variable a ſituation as mine, to overcloud my proſpects (which at preſent are more promiſing than ever yet they have been ſince I quitted Harlowe-Place), I will ſnatch the opportunity to ſubſcribe myſelf

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

Thou knoweſt the widow; thou knoweſt her nieces; thou knoweſt the lodgings: And didſt thou ever read a letter more artfully couch'd, than this of Tom Doleman? Every poſſible objection an⯑ticipated! Every accident provided againſt!—Every little of it plot proof!

Who could forbear ſmiling, to ſee my charmer, like a farcical dean and chapter, chooſe what was before [190] choſen for her; and ſagaciouſly (as they go in form to prayers, that God would direct their choice) pon⯑dering upon the different propoſals, as if ſhe would make me believe, ſhe has a mind for ſome other? The dear ſly rogue looking upon me, too, with a view to diſcover ſome emotion in me, that I can tell her, lay deeper than her eye could reach, tho' it had been a ſun-beam.

No confidence in me, fair-one! None at all, 'tis plain. Thou wilt not, if I were inclined to change my views, encourage me by a generous reliance on my honour!—And ſhall it be ſaid, that I, a maſter of arts in love, ſhall be overmatch'd by ſo unpractiſed a novice?

But to ſee the charmer ſo far ſatisfy'd with my con⯑trivance, as to borrow my friend's letter, in order to ſatisfy Miſs Howe likewiſe!

Silly little rogues! to walk out into by-paths on the ſtrength of their own judgments!—When no⯑thing but experience can teach them how to diſappoint us, and learn them grandmother-wiſdom! When they have it indeed, then may they ſit down, like ſo many Caſſandra's, and preach caution to others; who will as little mind them, as they did their inſtructreſſes, whenever a fine handſome confident fellow, ſuch a one as thou knoweſt who, comes croſs them.

But, Belford, didſt thou not mind that ſly rogue Doleman's naming Dover-ſtreet for the widow's place of abode?—What doſt think could be meant by that—'Tis impoſſible thou ſhouldſt gueſs. So, not to puzzle thee about it—Suppoſe the widow Sinclair's, in Dover-ſtreet, ſhould be inquired after by ſome offi⯑cious perſon, in order to come at characters [Miſs Howe is as ſly as the devil, and as buſy to the full]; and neither ſuch a name, nor ſuch a houſe, can be found in that ſtreet, nor a houſe to anſwer the deſcription then will not the keeneſt hunter in England be at a fault?

[191]But how wilt thou do, methinks thou aſkeſt, to hinder the Lady from reſenting the fallacy, and miſ⯑truſting thee the more on that account, when ſhe finds it out to be in another ſtreet?

Pho! never mind that: Either I ſhall have a way for it, or we ſhall thoroughly underſtand one another by that time; or, if we don't, ſhe'll know enough of me, not to wonder at ſuch a peccadillo.

But how wilt thou hinder the Lady from appriſing her friend of the real name?

She muſt firſt know it herſelf, monkey, muſt ſhe not?

Well, but, how wilt thou do to hinder her from knowing the ſtreet, and her friend from directing let⯑ters thither; which will be the ſame thing, as if the name were known?

Let me alone for that too.

It thou further objecteſt, that Tom Doleman is too great a dunce to write ſuch a letter in anſwer to mine;—Canſt thou not imagine, that, in order to ſave ho⯑neſt Tom all this trouble, I, who know the town ſo well, could ſend him a copy of what he ſhould write, and leave him nothing to do, but tranſcribe?

What now ſayſt thou to me, Belford?

And ſuppoſe I had deſign'd this taſk of inquiry for thee; and ſuppoſe the Lady excepted againſt thee, for no other reaſon in the world, but becauſe of my va⯑lue for thee? What ſayſt thou to the Lady, Jack?

This it is to have leiſure upon my hands!—What a matchleſs plotter thy friend! Stand by, and let me ſwell!—I am already as big as an elephant; and ten times wiſer! mightier too by far! Have I not reaſon to ſnuff the moon with my proboſcis?—Lord help thee for a poor, for a very poor creature!—Wonder not, that I deſpiſe thee heartily—Since the man who is diſpoſed immoderately to exalt himſelf, cannot do it but by deſpiſing every-body elſe in proportion.

I ſhall make good uſe of the Dolemanic hint of be⯑ing [192] marry'd. But I will not tell thee all at once. Nor, indeed, have I thoroughly digeſted that part of my plot. When a general muſt regulate himſelf by the motions of a watchful adverſary, how can he ſay beforehand what he will, or what he will not, do?

Widow SINCLAIR!—Didſt thou not ſay, Love⯑lace?—

Ay, SINCLAIR, Jack!—Remember the name! SINCLAIR, I repeat. She has no other. And her features being broad, and full-blown, I will ſuppoſe her to be of Highland extraction; as her huſband the colonel [mind that too] was a Scot, as brave, as ho⯑neſt.

I never forget the minutiae in my contrivances. In all doubtable matters the minutiae cloſely attended to, and provided for, are of more ſervice than a thouſand oaths, vows, and proteſtations made to ſupply the ne⯑glect of them, and when jealouſy has actually got in⯑to the working mind.

Thou wouldſt wonder if thou kneweſt one half of my providences. To give thee but one: I have already been ſo good as to ſend up a liſt of books to be procured for the Lady's cloſet, moſtly at ſecond-hand. And thou knoweſt, that the women there are all well read. But I will not anticipate—Beſides, it looks as if I were afraid of leaving any thing to my old friend CHANCE; which has many a time been an excellent ſecond to me; and ought not to be affronted or deſpiſed; eſpe⯑cially by one, who has the art of making unpromiſing incidents turn out in his favour.

LETTER XXXVIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Have a piece of intelligence to give you, which concerns you much to know.

Your brother having been aſſured, that you ar [...] [193] not married, has taken a reſolution to find you out, way-lay you, and carry you off. A friend of his, a captain of a ſhip, undertakes to get you on ſhip⯑board; and to ſail away with you, either by Hull or Leith, in the way to one of your brother's houſes.

They are very wicked: For in ſpite of all your virtues, they conclude you to be ruin'd. But if they can be aſſured, when they have you, that you are not, they will ſecure you, till they can bring you out Mrs. Solmes: And mean time, in order to give Mr. Love⯑lace full employment, they talk of a proſecution which will be ſet up againſt him, for ſome crime or other, that they have got a notion of, which they think, if it do not coſt him his life, will make him fly his country.

This is very early news. Miſs Bell told it in confi⯑dence, and with mighty triumph over Lovelace, to Miſs Lloyd; who is at preſent her favourite; though as much your admirer as ever. Miſs Lloyd, being very apprehenſive of the miſchief which might fol⯑low ſuch an attempt, told it to me, with leave to ap⯑prize you privately of it—And yet neither ſhe nor I would be ſorry, perhaps, if Lovelace were to be fairly hang'd—that is to ſay, if you, my dear, had no ob⯑jection to it. But we cannot bear, that ſuch an ad⯑mirable creature ſhould be made the tennis-ball of two violent ſpirits—Much leſs, that you ſhould be ſeized, and expoſed to the brutal treatment of wretches who have no bowels.

If you can engage Mr. Lovelace to keep his temper upon it, I think you ſhould acquaint him with it; but not to mention Miſs Lloyd. Perhaps his wicked agent may come at the intelligence, and reveal it to him. But I leave it to your own diſcretion to do as you think fit in it.—All my concern is, that this dare⯑ing and fooliſh project, if carried on, will be a means of throwing you more into his power than ever.—But as it will convince you, that there can [194] be no hope of a reconciliation, I wiſh you were actu⯑ally married, let the cauſe for the proſecution hinted at be what it will, ſhort of murder or a rape.

Your Hannah was very thankful for your kind preſent. She heaped a thouſand bleſſings upon you for it. She has Mr. Lovelace's too, by this time.

I am pleaſed with Mr. Hickman, I can tell you:—For he has ſent her two guineas by the perſon who carries Mr. Lovelace's five, as from an unknown hand: Nor am I, or you, to know it. The man⯑ner, more than the value, I am pleaſed with him for. But he does a great many things of this ſort; and is as ſilent as the night; for nobody knows of them, till the gratitude of the benefited will not let them be concealed. He is now-and-then my almoner, and I believe always adds to my little benefactions.

But his time is not come to be praiſed for theſe things; nor does he ſeem to want that encourage⯑ment.

The man has certainly a good mind. Nor can we expect in one man every good quality. But he is really a ſilly fellow, my dear, to trouble his head about me, when he ſees how much I deſpiſe his whole ſex; and muſt of courſe make a common man look like a fool, were he not to make himſelf look like one, by wiſhing to pitch his tent ſo oddly. Our likings, and diſlikings, as I have often thought, are ſeldom go⯑verned by prudence, or with a view to happineſs. The eye, my dear, the wicked eye—has ſuch a ſtrict alliance with the heart!—And both have ſuch enmity to the underſtanding!—What an unequal union, the mind and body! All the ſenſes, like the family at Harlowe-place, in a confederacy againſt that which would animate, and give honour to the whole, were it allowed its proper precedence.

Permit me, I beſeech you, before you go to Lon⯑don, to ſend you forty-eight guineas.—I mention that ſum to oblige you, becauſe, by accepting back the two [195] to Hannah, I will hold you indebted to me fifty.—Surely this will induce you!—You know that I can⯑not want the money. I told you, that I have near double that ſum; and that the half of it is more than my mamma knows I am miſtreſs of. With ſo little money as you have, what can you do at ſuch a place as London?—You don't know what occaſion you may have for meſſengers, intelligence, and ſuch-like.—If you don't oblige me, I ſhall not think your ſto⯑mach ſo much down as you ſay it is; and as, in this one particular, I think it ought to be.

As to the ſtate of things between my mamma and me, you know enough of her temper, not to need to be told, that ſhe never eſpouſes or reſents with indiffer⯑ence. Yet will ſhe not remember, that I am her daughter. No, truly, I am all my papa's girl.

She was very ſenſible, ſurely, of the violence of my poor papa's temper, that ſhe can ſo long remember that, when acts of tenderneſs and affection ſeem quite forgotten. Some daughters would be tempt⯑ed to think, that controul ſat very heavy upon a mother, who can endeavour to exert the power ſhe has over a child; and regret, for years after death, that ſhe had not the ſame over a huſband.

If this manner of expreſſion becomes not me, of my mother, it will be ſomewhat extenuated by the love I always bore my father, and by the reverence I ſhall ever pay to his memory: For he was a fond fa⯑ther, and perhaps would have been as tender a huſ⯑band, had not my mamma and he been too much of one temper to agree.

The misfortune was, in ſhort, that, when one was out of humour, the other would be ſo too: Yet nei⯑ther of their tempers comparatively bad. Notwith⯑ſtanding all which, I did not imagine, girl as I was, in my papa's life-time, that my mamma's part of the yoke ſat ſo heavy upon her neck, as ſhe gives me [196] room to think it did, whenever ſhe is pleaſed to diſ⯑claim her part of me.

Both parents, as I have often thought, ſhould be very careful, if they would ſecure to themſelves the undivided love of their children, that, of all things, they ſhould avoid ſuch durable contentions with each other, as ſhould diſtreſs their children in chooſing their party, when they would be glad to reverence both as they ought.

But here is the thing: There is not a better ma⯑nager of her affairs in the ſex, than my mamma; and I believe a notable wife is more impatient of con⯑troul, than an indolent one. An indolent one, per⯑haps, thinks ſhe has ſomewhat to compound for; while women of the other character, I ſuppoſe, know too well their own ſignificance to think highly of that of any-body elſe. All muſt be their own way. In one word, Becauſe they are uſeful, they will be more than uſeful.

I do aſſure you, my dear, were I a man, and a man who loved my quiet, I would not have one of theſe managing wives on any conſideration. I would make it a matter of ſerious inquiry beforehand, whe⯑ther my miſtreſs's qualifications, if I heard ſhe was notable, were maſculine or feminine ones. If indeed I were an indolent ſupine mortal, who might be in danger of becoming the property of my ſteward, I would then perhaps chooſe to marry for the qualifica⯑tions of a ſteward.

But, ſetting my mamma out of the queſtion, be⯑cauſe ſhe is my mamma, have I not ſeen how Lady Hartley pranks up herſelf above all her ſex, becauſe ſhe knows how to manage affairs that do not belong to her ſex to manage? Affairs that can do no credit to her, as a woman, to underſtand; practically, I mean; for the theory of them may not be amiſs to be known.

Indeed, my dear, I do not think a man-woman a pretty character at all: And, as I ſaid, were I a [197] man, I would ſooner chooſe for a dove, tho' it were fit for nothing, but, as the play ſays, to go tame about houſe, and breed, than a wife that is ſetting at work (my inſignificant ſelf preſent perhaps) every buſy hour my never-reſting ſervants, thoſe of the Stud not excepted; and who, with a beſom in her hand, as I may ſay, would be continually filling me with apprehenſions, that ſhe wanted to ſweep me out of my own houſe as uſeleſs lumber.

Were indeed the miſtreſs of the family, like the wonderful young Lady I ſo much and ſo juſtly admire, to know how to confine herſelf within her own re⯑ſpectable rounds of the needle, the pen, the houſe⯑keeper's bills, the dairy for her amuſement; to ſee the poor fed from ſuperfluities that would otherwiſe be waſted; and exert herſelf in all the really uſeful branches of domeſtic management; then would ſhe move in her proper ſphere; then would ſhe render herſelf amiably uſeful, and reſpectably neceſſary; then would ſhe become the miſtreſs-wheel of the family [Whatever you think of your Anna Howe, I would not have her be the maſter-wheel]; and every-body would love her; as every-body did you, before your inſolent brother came back, fluſh'd with his unmerit⯑ed acquirements, and turn'd all things topſy-turvy.

If you will be inform'd of the particulars of our contention, after you have known in general, that your unhappy affair was the ſubject; why then, I think, I muſt tell you.

Yet how ſhall I?—I feel my cheek glow with mingled ſhame and indignation—Know then, my dear—that I have been—as I may ſay—that I have been beaten—Indeed 'tis true.—My mamma thought fit to ſlap my hands to get from me a ſheet of a letter ſhe caught me writing to you; which I tore, becauſe ſhe ſhould not read it, and burnt it before her face.

I know this will trouble you: So ſpare yourſelf the labour to tell me it does.

[198]Mr. Hickman came in preſently after. I would not ſee him. I am either too much a woman to be beat, or too much a child to have an humble ſervant.—So I told my mother. What can one oppoſe but ſullens, when it would be unpardonable ſo much as to think of lifting up a finger!

In the Harlowe-ſtyle, ſhe will be obey'd, ſhe ſays: And even Mr. Hickman ſhall be forbid the houſe, if he contributes to the carrying-on of a correſpondence which ſhe will not ſuffer to be continu'd.

Poor man! He ſtands a whimſical chance between us. But he knows he is ſure of my mamma; but not of me. 'Tis eaſy then for him to chooſe his party, were it not his inclination to ſerve you, as it ſurely is. And this makes him a merit with me, which otherwiſe he would not have had; notwithſtanding the good qualities which I have juſt now acknowleged in his fa⯑vour. For, my dear, let my faults in other reſpects be what they may, I will pretend to ſay, that I have in my own mind thoſe qualities which I praiſed him for. And if we are to come together, I could for that reaſon better diſpenſe with them in him.—So if a huſband, who has a bountiful-temper'd wife, is not a niggard, nor ſeeks to reſtrain her, but has an opinion of all ſhe does, that is enough for him: As, on the contrary, if a bountiful-temper'd huſband has a frugal wife, it is beſt for both. For one to give, and t'other to give, except they have the prudence, and are at ſo good an underſtanding with each other, as to compare notes, they may perhaps put it out of their power to be juſt. Good frugal doctrine, my dear!—But this way of putting it, is middling the matter between what I have learnt of my mamma's over-prudent, and your enlarged, notions.—But from doctrine to fact.—

I ſhut myſelf up all that day; and what little I did eat, at alone. But at night ſhe ſent up Kitty, with [199] a command, upon my obedience, to attend her at ſupper.

I went down: But moſt gloriouſly in the ſullens. YES, and NO, were great words with me, to every thing ſhe aſked of me, for a good while.

That behaviour, ſhe told me, ſhould not do for her.

Beating ſhould not with me, I ſaid.

My bold reſiſtance, ſhe told me, had provoked her to ſlap my hand; and ſhe was ſorry to have been ſo provok'd. But again inſiſted, that I would either give up my correſpondence abſolutely, or let her ſee all that paſſed in it.

I muſt not do either, I told her. It was unſuit⯑able both to my inclination and to my honour, at the inſtigation of baſe minds, to give up a friend in di⯑ſtreſs.

She rung all the maternal changes upon the words duty, obedience, filial obligation, and ſo-forth.

I told her, that a duty too rigorouſly and unreaſon⯑ably exacted, had been your ruin, if you were ruin'd. If I were of age to be marry'd, I hop'd ſhe would think me capable of making, or at leaſt of keeping, my own friendſhips; ſuch a one eſpecially as this, with a young Lady, whoſe friendſhip ſhe herſelf, till this diſtreſsful point of time, had thought the moſt uſe⯑ful and edifying, that I ever had contracted.

The greater the merit, the worſe the action: The finer the talents, the more dangerous the example.

There were other duties, I ſaid, beſides that of a child to a parent; and I hoped I need not give up a ſuffering friend, eſpecially at the inſtigation of thoſe by whom ſhe ſuffered. I told her, that it was very hard to annex ſuch a condition as that to my duty; when I was perſuaded, that both duties might be performed, without derogating from either: That an unreaſonable command [She muſt excuſe me, I muſt [200] ſay it, tho' I were ſlapt again] was a degree of ty⯑ranny: And I could not have expected, that at theſe years I ſhould be allow'd no will, no choice of my own; where a woman only was concern'd, and the deviliſh ſex not in the queſtion.

What turn'd moſt in favour of her argument was, that I deſired to be excuſed from letting her read all that paſſes between us. She inſiſted much upon this: And ſince, ſhe ſaid, you were in the hands of the moſt intriguing man in the world; and a man, who had made a jeſt of her favourite Hickman, as ſhe has been told; ſhe knows not what conſequences, un⯑thought of by you or me, may flow from ſuch a cor⯑reſpondence.

So you ſee, my dear, that I fare the worſe on Mr. Hickman's account! My mamma might ſee all that paſſes between us, did I not know, that it would cramp your ſpirit, and reſtrain the freedom of your pen, as it would alſo the freedom of my own: And were ſhe not moreover ſo firmly attached to the con⯑trary ſide, that inferences, conſequences, ſtrained de⯑ductions, cenſures, and conſtructions the moſt partial, would for ever be hawled in to teaze me, and would perpetually ſubject us to the neceſſity of debating and canvaſſing.

Beſides, I don't chooſe that ſhe ſhould know how much this artful wretch has outwitted, as I may call it, a lady ſo much his ſuperior.

The generoſity of your heart, and the greatneſs of your mind (a mind above ſelfiſh conſiderations) full well I know; but do not offer to diſſuade me from this correſpondence.

Mr. Hickman, immediately on the contention above, offer'd his ſervice; and I accepted of it, as you'll ſee by my laſt. He thinks, tho' he has all ho⯑nour for my mamma, that ſhe is unkind to us both. He was pleaſed to tell me (with an air, as I thought), that he not only approved of our correſpondence, but [201] admires the ſteadineſs of my friendſhip; and having no opinion of your man, but a great one of me, thinks that my advice or intelligence, from time to time, may be of uſe to you; and, on this preſumption, ſaid, that it would be a thouſand pities, that you ſhould ſuffer for want of either.

Mr. Hickman pleaſed me in the main by his ſpeech; and it is well the general tenor of it was agreeable:—Otherwiſe, I can tell him, I ſhould have reckon'd with him for his word approve; for it is a ſtile I have not yet permitted him to talk to me in:—And you ſee, my dear, what theſe men are:—No ſooner do they find that you have favour'd them with the power of doing you an agreeable ſervice, but they take upon them to approve, forſooth, of your actions!—By which is imply'd a right to diſapprove, if they think fit.

I have told my mamma, how much you wiſh to be reconciled to your relations, and how independent you are on Mr. Lovelace.

Mark the end of the latter aſſertion, ſhe ſays.—And as to reconciliation, ſhe knows, nothing will do, and will have it, that nothing ought to do, but your re⯑turning back, without preſuming to condition with them. And this if you do, ſhe ſays, will beſt ſhew your independence on Lovelace.

You ſee, my dear, what your duty is, in my mam⯑ma's opinion.

I ſuppoſe your next directed to Mr. Hickman, at his own houſe, will be from London.

Heaven preſerve you in honour and ſafety, is my prayer.

What you do for change of cloaths, I cannot ima⯑gine.

It is amazing to me, what your relations can mean by diſtreſſing you as they ſeem reſolved to do. I ſee they will throw you into his arms, whether you will or not.

I ſend this by Robert, for diſpatch-ſake: And can [202] only repeat the hitherto rejected offer of my beſt ſer⯑vices! Adieu, my deareſt friend. Believe me ever

LETTER XXXIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Should think myſelf utterly unworthy of your friendſhip, did my own concerns, heavy as they are, ſo ingroſs me, that I could not find leiſure for a few lines, to declare to my beloved friend my ſincere diſapprobation of her conduct, in an inſtance where ſhe is ſo generouſly faulty, that the conſciouſneſs of that very generoſity may hide from her the fault, which I, more than any other, have reaſon to deplore, as being the unhappy occaſion of it.

You know, you ſay, that your account of the con⯑tentions between your mamma and you will trouble me; and ſo you bid me ſpare myſelf the labour to tell you that they do.

You did not uſe, my dear, to forbid me thus before⯑hand. You was wont to ſay, you loved me the bet⯑ter for my expoſtulations with you on that acknow⯑leged warmth and quickneſs of your temper, which your own good ſenſe taught you to be apprehenſive of. What tho' I have ſo miſerably fallen, and am un⯑happy; if ever I had any judgment worth regard⯑ing, it is now as much worth as ever, becauſe I can give it as freely againſt myſelf, as againſt any-body elſe. And ſhall I not, when there ſeems to be an in⯑fection in my fault, and that it leads you likewiſe to reſolve to carry on a correſpondence againſt prohibi⯑tion, expoſtulate with you upon it; when whatever conſequences flow from your diſobedience, but widen my error, which is as the evil root, from which ſuch bad branches ſpring?

[203]The mind that can glory in being capable of ſo noble, ſo firm, ſo unſhaken a friendſhip, as that of my dear Miſs Howe; a friendſhip which no caſualty or diſtreſs can leſſen, but which increaſes with the misfortunes of its friend—Such a mind muſt be above taking amiſs the well-meant admonitions of that di⯑ſtinguiſh'd friend. I will not therefore apologize for my freedom on this ſubject: And the leſs need I, when that freedom is the reſult of an affection, in the very inſtance, ſo abſolutely diſintereſted, that it tends to deprive myſelf of the only comfort left me.

Your acknowleged ſullens; your tearing from your mamma's hands the letter ſhe thought ſhe had a right to ſee; and burning it, as you own, before her face; your refuſal to ſee the man, who is ſo willing to obey you for the ſake of your unhappy friend; and this purely to vex your mamma; can you think, my dear, upon this brief recapitulation of hardly one half of the faulty particulars you give, that theſe faults are excuſable in one, who ſo well knows her duty?

Your mamma had a good opinion of me once: Is not that a reaſon why ſhe ſhould be more regarded now, when I have, as ſhe believes, ſo deſervedly for⯑feited it? A prejudice in favour is as hard to be totally overcome, as a prejudice in disfavour. In what a ſtrong light, then, muſt that error appear to her, that ſhould ſo totally turn her heart againſt me, herſelf not a principal in the caſe?

There are other duties, you ſay, beſides that of a child to a parent: But That muſt be a prior duty to all other duties; a duty anterior, as I may ſay, to your very birth: And what duty ought not to give way to That, when they come in competition?

You are perſuaded, that both duties may be per⯑formed without derogating from either. She thinks otherwiſe. What is the concluſion to be drawn from theſe premiſes?

When your mamma ſees, how much I ſuffer in [204] my reputation from the ſtep I have taken, from whom ſhe and all the world expected better things, how much reaſon has ſhe to be watchful over you! One evil draws another after it; and how knows ſhe, or any body, where it may ſtop?

Does not the perſon who will vindicate, or ſeek to extenuate, a faulty ſtep in another [In this light muſt your mamma look upon the matter in queſtion be⯑tween you], give an indication either of a culpable will, or a weak judgment?—And may not ſhe ap⯑prehend, that the cenſorious will think, that ſuch a one might probably have equally failed, under the ſame inducements and provocations, to uſe your own words in a former letter, apply'd to me?

Can there be a ſtronger inſtance in human life than mine has ſo early furniſhed within a few months paſt (not to mention the uncommon provocations to it, which I have met with), of the neceſſity of the con⯑tinuance of a watchful parent's care over a daughter; let that daughter have obtained ever ſo great a reputa⯑tion for her prudence?

Is not the ſpace from ſixteen to twenty-one, that which requires this care, more, than any time of a young woman's life? For in that period, do we not generally attract the eyes of the other ſex, and be⯑come the ſubject of their addreſſes, and not ſeldom of their attempts? And is not That the period in which our conduct or miſconduct gives us a reputation or diſreputation, that almoſt inſeparably accompanies us throughout our whole future lives?

Are we not then moſt in danger from ourſelves, becauſe of the diſtinction with which we are apt to behold particulars of that ſex?

And when our dangers multiply, both from within and without, do not our parents know, that their vi⯑gilance ought to be doubled?—And ſhall that neceſ⯑ſary increaſe of care ſit uneaſy upon us, becauſe we are grown up to ſtature and womanhood?

[205]Will you tell me, if ſo, what is the preciſe ſtature and age, at which a good child ſhall conclude herſelf abſolv'd from the duty ſhe owes to a parent?—And at which a parent, after the example of the dams of the brute creation, is to lay aſide all care and tender⯑neſs for her offſpring?

Is it ſo hard for you, my dear, to be treated like a child? And can you not think it as hard, for a good parent to imagine herſelf under the unhappy neceſſity of ſo treating her woman-grown daughter?

Do you think, if your mamma had been you, and you your mamma, and your daughter had ſtruggled with you, as you did with her, that you would not have been as apt, as your mamma was, to have ſlapt your daughter's hands, to have made her quit her hold to you, and give up the prohibited paper?

It is a great truth, that your mamma told you, that you provoked her to this harſhneſs; and a great con⯑deſcenſion in her (and not taken notice of by you, as it deſerv'd) to ſay, that ſhe was ſorry for it.

At every age on this ſide matrimony (for then we come under another ſort of protection, tho' that is far from abrogating the filial duty), it will be found, that the wings of our parents are our moſt neceſſary and moſt effectual ſafeguard, to preſerve us from the vul⯑turs, the hawks, the kites, and the other villainous birds of prey, that hover over us, with a view to ſeize and deſtroy us, the firſt time we are caught wan⯑dering out of the eye or care of our watchful and na⯑tural guardians and protectors.

Hard as you may ſuppoſe it to be deny'd the conti⯑nuance of a correſpondence once ſo much approved, even by the reverend denier;—Yet, if your mamma think, that my fault is of ſuch a nature, as that a cor⯑reſpondence with me will caſt a ſhade upon your reputation; all my own friends having given me up;—that hardſhip is to be ſubmitted to. And muſt it not make her the more ſtrenuous to ſupport her own [206] opinion, when ſhe ſees the firſt fruits of this tena⯑ciouſneſs of your ſide, is to be gloriouſly in the ſullens, as you call it; and in a diſobedient oppoſition?

I know, my dear, you mean an humorouſneſs in that expreſſion, which, in moſt caſes, gives a delight⯑ful poignancy, both to your converſation and corre⯑ſpondence—But indeed, my dear, this caſe will not bear it.

Will you give me leave to add to this tedious expo⯑ſtulation, that I by no means approve of ſome of the things you write, in relation to the manner in which your father and mother lived?—at times—Only at times, I dare ſay; tho' perhaps, too often.—

Your mamma is anſwerable to any-body, rather than to her child, for whatever was wrong in her con⯑duct, if any thing was wrong, towards Mr. Howe; a gentleman, of whoſe memory I will only ſay, that it ought to be revered by you—But yet, ſhould you not examine yourſelf, whether your diſpleaſure at your mamma had no part in your revived reverence for your papa, at the time you wrote?

No one is perfect: And altho' your mamma may not be ſo right to remember diſagreeableneſſes againſt the departed, yet ſhould you not want to be reminded, on whoſe account, and on what occaſion, ſhe re⯑membered them.—You cannot judge, nor ought you to attempt to judge, of what might have paſſed be⯑tween both, to keep awake, and imbitter diſagreeable remembrances in the ſurvivor.

LETTER XL. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

BUT this ſubject muſt not be purſued. Another might, with more pleaſure (tho' not with more approbation) upon one of your lively excurſions. It is upon the high airs you give yourſelf upon the word approve.

[207]How comes it about, I wonder, that a young lady ſo noted for a predominating generoſity, ſhould not be uniformly generous?—That your generoſity ſhould fail in an inſtance, where policy, prudence, gratitude, would not permit it to fail? Mr. Hickman (as you confeſs) has indeed a worthy mind. If I had not long ago known that, he would never have found an advo⯑cate in me for the favour of my Anna Howe. Often and often have I been concerned, when I was your happy gueſt, to ſee him, after a converſation in which he had well-ſupported his part in your abſence, ſink at once into ſilence the moment you came into com⯑pany.

I have told you of this before: And I believe I hinted to you once, that the ſuperciliouſneſs you put on only to him, was capable of a conſtruction, which at the time would have very little gratify'd your pride to have had made; ſince it was as much in his favour, as in your own disfavour.

Mr. Hickman, my dear, is a modeſt man. I never ſee a modeſt man, but I am ſure (if he has not wanted opportunities) that he has a treaſure in his mind, which requires nothing but the key of encouragement to unlock it, to make him ſhine: While a confident man, who, to be confident, muſt think as meanly of his company, as highly of himſelf, enters with ma⯑giſterial airs upon any ſubject; and depending upon his aſſurance to bring himſelf off when found out, talks of more than he is maſter of.

But a modeſt man!—O my dear, ſhall not a modeſt woman diſtinguiſh and wiſh to conſort with a modeſt man?—A man, before whom, and to whom, ſhe may open her lips ſecure of his good opinion of all ſhe ſays, and of his juſt and polite regard for her judgment? and who muſt therefore inſpire her with an agreeable con⯑fidence.

What a lot have I drawn!—We are all apt to turn teachers.—But, ſurely, I am better enabled to talk, [208] to write, upon theſe ſubjects, than ever I was!—But I will baniſh myſelf, if poſſible, from an addreſs which, when I began to write, I was determin'd to confine wholly to your own particular.

My deareſt, deareſt friend, how ready are you to tell us what others ſhould do, and even what a mother ſhould have done! But indeed you once, I remember, advanced, that, as different attainments required dif⯑ferent talents to maſter them, ſo, in the writing-way, a perſon might not be a bad critic upon the works of others, altho' he might himſelf be unable to write with excellence. But will you permit me to account for all this readineſs of finding fault, by placing it to human nature, which, being ſenſible of the defects of human nature (that is to ſay, of its own defects), loves to be correcting? But in exerciſing that talent, chooſes rather to turn its eye outward than inward?—In other words, to employ itſelf rather in the out-door ſearch, than in the in-door examination?

And here give me leave to add (and yet it is with tender reluctance) that altho' you ſay very pretty things of notable wives; and altho' I join with you in opi⯑nion, that huſbands may have as many inconvenien⯑cies to encounter with, as conveniencies to boaſt of, from women of that character; yet Lady Hartley, perhaps, would have had milder treatment from your pen, had it not been dipt in gall, with a mother in your eye.

LETTER XLI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

AND now, my dear, a few words, as to the pro⯑hibition laid upon you; a ſubject, that I have frequently touched upon, but curſorily; becauſe I was afraid to truſt myſelf with it, knowing that my judg⯑ment, if I did, would condemn my practice.

[209]You command me not to attempt to diſſuade you from this correſpondence; and you tell me how kindly Mr. Hickman approves of it; and how obliging he is to me, to permit it to be carry'd on under cover to him:—But this does not quite ſatisfy me.

I am a very bad caſuiſt; and the pleaſure I take in writing to you, who are the only one to whom I can diſburden my mind, may make me, as I have hinted, very partial to my own wiſhes:—Elſe, if it were not an artful evaſion beneath an open and frank heart to wiſh to be comply'd with, I would be glad methinks to be permitted ſtill to write to you; and only have ſuch occaſional returns by Mr. Hickman's pen, as well as cover, as might ſet me right when I am wrong; confirm me, when right; and guide me where I doubt. This would enable me to proceed in the diffi⯑cult path before me with more aſſuredneſs. For what⯑ever I ſuffer from the cenſures of others, if I can pre⯑ſerve your good opinion, I ſhall not be altogether un⯑happy, let what will befal me.

And indeed, my dear, I know not how to forbear writing. I have now no other employment or diver⯑ſion. And I muſt write on, altho' I were not to ſend it to any-body. You have often heard me own the advantages I have found from writing down every thing of moment that befals me; and of all I think, and of all I do, that may be of future uſe to me:—For, beſides that this helps to form one to a ſtyle, and opens and expands the ductile mind, every one will find, that many a good thought evaporates in thinking; many a good reſolution goes off, driven out of me⯑mory, perhaps, by ſome other, not ſo good. But when I ſet down what I will do, or what I have done, on this or that occaſion; the reſolution or action is before me, either to be adhered to, withdrawn, or amended; and I have entered into compact with my⯑ſelf, as I may ſay; having given it under my own [210] hand, to improve rather than go backward, as I live longer.

I would willingly therefore write to you, if I might; the rather as it would be more inſpiriting to have ſome end in view in what I write; ſome friend to pleaſe; beſides merely ſeeking to gratify my paſſion for ſcrib⯑bling.

But why, if your mamma will permit our corre⯑ſpondence on communicating to her all that paſſes in it, and if ſhe will condeſcend to one only condition, may it not be comply'd with?

Would ſhe not, do you think, my dear, be pre⯑vailed upon to have the communication made to her in confidence?

If there were any proſpect of a reconciliation with my friends, I ſhould not have ſo much regard for my pride, as to be afraid of any-body's knowing how much I have been outwitted, as you call it. I would in that caſe (when I had left Mr. Lovelace) acquaint your mamma, and all my own friends, with the whole of my ſtory. It would behove me ſo to do, for my own reputation, and for their ſatisfaction.

But if I have no ſuch proſpect, what will the com⯑munication of my reluctance to go away with Mr. Lovelace, and of his arts to frighten me away, avail me?—Your mamma has hinted, that my friends would inſiſt upon my returning to them (as a proof of the truth of my plea) to be diſpoſed of, without condition, at their pleaſure. If I ſcrupled this, my brother would rather triumph over me, than keep my ſecret.—Mr. Lovelace, whoſe pride already ſo ill brooks my regrets for meeting him (when he thinks, if I had not, I muſt have been Mr. Solmes's wife) would perhaps treat me with indignity:—And thus, deprived of all refuge and protection, I ſhould become the ſcoff of men of intrigue; and be thought a greater diſgrace than ever to my ſex:—Since Love, and con⯑ſequential [211] marriage, will find more excuſes, than per⯑haps ought to be found, for actions premeditatedly raſh.

But if your mamma will receive the communica⯑tions in confidence, pray ſhew her all that I have writ⯑ten, or ſhall write. If my paſt conduct deſerves not heavy blame, I ſhall then perhaps have the benefit of her advice, as well as yours. And if I ſhall wilfully deſerve blame for the time to come, I will be content⯑ed to be deny'd yours as well as hers for ever.

As to cramping my ſpirit, as you call it (were I to ſit down to write what I know your mamma muſt ſee), that, my dear, is already cramp'd. And do not think ſo unhandſomely of your mamma, as to fear that ſhe would make partial conſtructions againſt me. Neither you nor I can doubt, but that, had ſhe been left unprepoſſeſſedly to herſelf, ſhe would have ſhewn favour to me. And ſo, I dare ſay, would my uncle Antony.—Nay, my dear, I can extend my charity ſtill further: For I am ſometimes of opinion, that were my brother and ſiſter abſolutely certain, that they had ruin'd me beyond recovery in the opi⯑nion of both my uncles, ſo far, as that they need not be apprehenſive of my claſhing with their intereſts; they would not oppoſe a pardon, altho' they might not wiſh a reconciliation—Eſpecially if I would make a few ſacrifices to them:—Which, I aſſure you, I ſhould be inclined to make, were I wholly free, and independent of this man.—You know I never valued myſelf upon worldly acquiſitions, nor upon my grand⯑father's bequeſts, but as they inlarged my power to do things I loved to do. And if I were deny'd the power, I muſt, as I now do, curb my inclination.

Do not, however, think me guilty of an affectation in what I have ſaid of my brother and ſiſter. Severe enough I am ſure it is, in the moſt favourable ſenſe. And an indifferent perſon will be of opinion, that they are much better warranted than ever, for the ſake of the [212] family-honour, to ſeek to ruin me in the favour of all my friends.

But to the former topic—Try, my dear, if your mamma will, upon the condition above-given, per⯑mit our correſpondence, on ſeeing all we write. But if ſhe will not, what a ſelfiſhneſs would there be in my love to you, were I to wiſh you to forego your duty for my ſake?

And now, one word, as to the freedom I have treated you with in this tedious expoſtulatory addreſs, I preſume upon your forgiveneſs of it, becauſe few friendſhips are founded on ſuch a baſis as ours:—Which is, ‘'freely to give reproof, and thankfully to receive it, as occaſions ariſe; that ſo either may have opportunity to clear up miſtakes, to acknowlege and amend errors, as well in behaviour, as in words and deeds; and to rectify and confirm each other in the judgment each ſhall form upon perſons, things, and circumſtances.'’ And all this upon the following conſideration; ‘'That it is much more eli⯑gible, as well as honourable, to be corrected with the gentleneſs of an undoubted friend, than by con⯑tinuing either blind or wilful, to expoſe ourſelves to the cenſures of an envious, and perhaps malignant world.'’

But it is as needleſs, I dare ſay, to remind you of this, as it is to repeat my requeſt, that you will not, in your turn, ſpare the follies and the faults of

I ſaid, that I would avoid writing any thing of my own particular affairs in the above addreſs, if I could.

I will write one letter more, to inform you how we ſtand. But, my dear, you muſt permit that one (which will require your advice) and your anſwer to it, and the copy of one I have written to my aunt, to be the laſt [213] that ſhall paſs between us, while the prohibition con⯑tinues.

I fear, I very much fear, that my unhappy ſitua⯑tion will draw me in to be guilty of evaſion, of little affectations, and of curvings from the plain ſimple truth, which I was wont to value myſelf upon. But allow me to ſay, and this for your ſake, and in order to leſſen your mother's fears of any ill conſequences that ſhe might apprehend from our correſpondence, that if I am at any time guilty of a failure in theſe reſpects, I will not go on in it: But repent, and ſeek to recover my loſt ground, that I may not bring error into habit.

I have deferr'd going to town, at Mrs. Sorlings's earneſt requeſt. But have fixed my removal to Monday, as I ſhall acquaint you in my next. I have already made a progreſs in that next; but, having an unexpected opportunity, will ſend this by itſelf.

LETTER XLII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

MY mamma will not comply with your condition, my dear. I hinted it to her, as from myſelf.—But the Harlowes [Excuſe me] have got her intirely in with them. It is a ſcheme of mine, ſhe told me, to draw her into your party, againſt your parents.—Which, for her own ſake, ſhe is very careful about.

Don't be ſo much concern'd about my mamma and me, once more, I beg of you. We ſhall do well enough together: Now a falling-out, now a falling-in. It uſed to be ſo, when you were not in the que⯑ſtion.

Yet do I give you my ſincere thanks for every line of your reprehenſive letters; which I intend to read as often as I find my temper riſes.

[214]I will freely own, that I winced a little at firſt reading them. But I ſee, that in every reperuſal, I ſhall love and honour you ſtill more, if poſſible, than before.

Yet, I think, I have one advantage over you; and which I will hold thro' this letter, and thro' all my future letters; that is, that I will treat you as freely as you treat me; and yet will never think an apo⯑logy neceſſary to you for my freedom.

But this is the effect of your gentleneſs of temper; with a little ſketch of imply'd reflection on the warmth of mine.—Gentleneſs in a woman you hold to be no fault—Nor do I, a little due or provoked warmth—But what is this, but praiſing, on both ſides, what neither of us can help; nor perhaps wiſh to help? You can no more go out of your road, than I can go out of mine. It would be a pain to either to do ſo:—What then is it in either's approving of her own natural byaſs, but making a virtue of neceſſity?

But one obſervation I will add, that were your character, and my character, to be truly drawn, mine would be allowed to be the moſt natural. Shades and lights are equally neceſſary in a fine picture. Yours would be ſurrounded with ſuch a flood of brightneſs, with ſuch a glory, that it would indeed dazle; but leave one heartleſs to imitate it.

O may you not ſuffer from a baſe world for your gentleneſs; while my temper, by its warmth keeping all impoſition at diſtance, tho' leſs amiable in general, affords me not reaſon, as I have mentioned heretofore, to wiſh to make an exchange with you!

I ſhould indeed be inexcuſeable to open my lips by way of contradiction to my mamma, had I ſuch a fine ſpirit as yours to deal with—Truth is truth, my dear!—Why ſhould narrowneſs run away with the praiſes due to a noble expanſion of heart?—If every-body would ſpeak out, as I do [that is to ſay, give praiſe where only praiſe is due; diſpraiſe where due, like⯑wiſe], [215] ſhame, if not principle, would mend the world—Nay ſhame would introduce principle in a genera⯑tion or two.—Very true, my dear—Do you apply—I dare not—For I fear you, almoſt as much as I love you.

I will give you an inſtance, nevertheleſs, which will anew demonſtrate, that none but very generous and noble-minded people ought to be implicitly obey'd. You know what I ſaid above, that truth is truth.

Inconveniencies will ſometimes ariſe from having to do with perſons of modeſty and ſcrupulouſneſs. Mr. Hickman, you ſay, is a modeſt man. He put your corrective pacquet into my hand with a very fine bow, and a ſelf-ſatisfy'd air. [We'll conſider what you ſay of this honeſt man by-and-by, my dear]. His ſtrut was not gone off, when in came my mamma, as I was reading it.

When ſome folks find their anger has made them conſiderable, they will be always angry, or ſeeking occaſions for anger.

Why, now, Mr. Hickman!—Why, now, Nancy, as I was putting the pacquet into my boſom at her en⯑trance—You have a letter brought you this inſtant—While the modeſt man, with his pauſing brayings, Mad-da—Mad-dam, looked as if he knew not whe⯑ther he had beſt to run, and leave me and my mamma to fight it out, or to ſtand his ground, and ſee fair play.

It would have been poor to tell a lye for it.—She flung away. I went out at the oppoſite door, to read it; leaving Mr. Hickman to exerciſe his white teeth upon his thumb-nails.

When I had read your letters, I went to find out my mamma. I told her the generous contents, and that you deſired, that the prohibition might be ad⯑hered to.—I propoſed your condition, as from myſelf; and was rejected, as above.

[216]She ſuppoſed, ſhe was finely painted between two young creatures, who had more wit than prudence. And inſtead of being prevailed upon by the generoſity of your ſentiments, made uſe of your opinion only to confirm her own, and renewed her prohibitions, charging me to return no other anſwer, but that ſhe did renew them. Adding, that they ſhould ſtand, till your relations were reconciled to you; hinting, as if ſhe had engaged for as much; and expected my com⯑pliance.

I thought of your reprehenſions, and was meek, tho' not pleaſed. And let me tell you, my dear, that as long as I can ſatisfy my own mind, that good is intended, and that it is hardly poſſible that evil ſhould enſue from our correſpondence; as long as I know, that this prohibition proceeds originally from the ſame ſpightful minds, which have been the occaſion of all theſe miſchiefs; as long as I know, that it is not your fault, if your relations are not reconciled to you; and that upon conditions which no reaſonable people would refuſe—You muſt give me leave, with all deference to your judgment, and to your excellent leſſons [which would reach almoſt every other caſe of this kind, but the preſent], to inſiſt upon your writing to me, and that minutely, as if this prohibition had not been laid.

It is not from humour, from perverſeneſs, that I inſiſt upon this. I cannot expreſs how much my heart is in your concerns. And you muſt, in ſhort, allow me to think, that if I can do you ſervice by writing, I ſhall be better juſtify'd by continuing to write, than my mamma is by her prohibition.

But yet, to ſatisfy you all I can, I will as ſeldom return anſwers, while the interdict laſts, as may be conſiſtent with my notions of friendſhip, and the ſer⯑vice I owe you, and can do you.

As to your expedient of writing by Hickman [And now, my dear, your modeſt man comes in: And as [217] you love modeſty in that ſex, I will do my en⯑deavour, by a proper diſtance, to keep him in your favour] I know what you mean by it, my ſweet friend. It is to make that man ſignificant with me. As to the correſpondence, THAT ſhall go on, I do aſſure you, be as ſcrupulous as you pleaſe—So that that will not ſuffer, if I do not cloſe with your pro⯑poſal as to him.

I think, I muſt tell you, that it will be honour enough for him to have his name made uſe of ſo fre⯑quently betwixt us. This, of itſelf, is placing a con⯑fidence in him, that will make him walk bolt upright, and diſplay his white hand, and his fine diamond ring; and moſt mightily lay down his ſervices, and his pride to oblige, and his diligence, and his fidelity, and his contrivances, to keep our ſecret; and his excuſes, and his evaſions to my mamma, when challeng'd by her; with fifty and's beſide. And will it not more⯑over give him pretence and excuſe oftener than ever to pad-nag it hither to good Mrs. Howe's fair daugh⯑ter?

But to admit him into my company tête à tête, and into my cloſet, as often as I would wiſh to write to you; I only to dictate to his pen—my mamma all the time ſuppoſing that I was going to be heartily in love with him—To make him maſter of my ſenti⯑ments, and of my heart, as I may ſay, when I write to you—Indeed, my dear, I won't. Nor, were I married to the beſt HE in England, would I honour him with the communication of my correſpondencies.

No, my dear, it is ſufficient, ſurely, for him to parade it in the character of our letter-conveyer, and to be honour'd in a cover. And never fear but, modeſt as you think him, he will make enough of that.

You are always blaming me for want of generoſity to this man, and for abuſe of power. But I profeſs, my dear, I cannot tell how to help it. Do, dear, now, let me ſpread my plumes a little, and now-and-then [218] make myſelf feared. This is my time, you know, ſince it will be no more to my credit, than to his, to give myſelf thoſe airs when I am marry'd. He has a joy when I am pleaſed with him, that he would not know, but for the pain my diſpleaſure gives him.

This, I am ſatisfy'd, will be the conſequence, if I do not make him quake now-and-then, he will en⯑deavour to make me fear. All the animals in the creation are more or leſs in a ſtate of hoſtility with each other. The wolf, that runs away from a lion, will devour a lamb the next moment. I remember, that I was once ſo enraged at a game-chicken that was continually pecking at another (a poor humble one, as I thought him), that I had the offender caught, and without more ado, in a pet of humanity, wrung his neck off. What follow'd this execution?—Why that other grew inſolent, as ſoon as his inſulter was gone, and was continually pecking at one or two under him. Peck and be hang'd, ſaid I—I might as well have pre⯑ſerv'd the firſt; for I ſee it is the nature of the beaſt.

Excuſe my flippancies. I wiſh I were with you. I would make you ſmile in the midſt of your graveſt airs, as I uſed to do.—O that you had accepted of my offer to attend you!—But nothing that I offer, will you accept—Take care! you will make me very angry with you: And when I am, you know I value nobody.—For, dearly as I love you, I muſt be, and cannot always help it,

LETTER XLIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MR. Lovelace communicated to me this morning early, from his intelligencer, the news of my brother's ſcheme. I like him the better for making [219] very light of it; and for his treating it with contempt. And indeed, had I not had the hint of it from you, I ſhould have ſuſpected it to be ſome contrivance of his, in order to haſten me to town, where he has long wiſhed to be himſelf.

He read me the paſſage in that Leman's letter, pretty much to the effect of what you wrote to me from Miſs Lloyd; with this addition, that one Single⯑ton, a matter of a Scots veſſel, is the man, who is to be the principal in this act of violence.

I have ſeen him. He has been twice entertained at Harlowe-Place, as my brother's friend. He has the air of a very bold and fearleſs man; and I fancy it muſt be his project; as my brother, I ſuppoſe, talks to every-body of the raſh ſtep I have taken; having not ſpared me before he had this ſeeming reaſon to cen⯑ſure me.

This Singleton lives at Leith; ſo, perhaps, I am to be carried to my brother's houſe not far from that port.

Putting theſe paſſages together, I am not a little apprehenſive, that the deſign, lightly as Mr. Love⯑lace, from his fearleſs temper, treats it, may be attempted to be carried into execution; and of the conſequences that may attend it, if it be.

I aſked Mr. Lovelace, ſeeing him ſo frank and cool, what he would adviſe me to do?

Shall I aſk you, Madam, what are your own thoughts?—Why I return the queſtion, ſaid he, is, be⯑cauſe you have been ſo very earneſt that I ſhould leave you, as ſoon as you are in London, that I know not what to propoſe, without offending you.

My opinion is, ſaid I, that I ſhould ſtudiouſly con⯑ceal myſelf from the knowlege of every-body but Miſs Howe; and that you ſhould leave me out of hand; ſince they will certainly conclude, that where one is, the other is not far off: And it is eaſier to trace you than me.

[220]You would not ſurely wiſh, ſaid he, to fall into your brother's hands by ſuch a violent meaſure as this?—I propoſe not to throw myſelf officiouſly in their way; but ſhould they have reaſon to think I avoided them, would not that whet their diligence to find you, and their courage to attempt to carry you off; and ſub⯑ject me to inſults that no man of ſpirit can bear?

Lord bleſs me! ſaid I, to what has this one fatal ſtep that I have been betray'd into—

Deareſt Madam! Let me beſeech you to forbear this harſh language, when you ſee, by this new ſcheme, how determin'd they were upon carrying their old ones, had you not been betray'd, as you call it! Have I offer'd to defy the laws of ſociety, as this brother of yours muſt do, if any thing be intended by this project?—I hope you will be pleaſed to ob⯑ſerve, that there are as violent and as wicked enter⯑prizers as myſelf—But this is ſo very wild a project, that I think there can be no room for apprehenſions from it.—I know your brother well. When at College, he had always a romantic turn. But never had a head for any thing but to puzzle and confound himſelf: A half invention, and a whole conceit, and without any talents to do himſelf good, or others harm, but as thoſe others gave him the power by their own folly, built upon his preſumption.

This is very volubly run off, Sir!—But violent ſpirits are but too much alike; at leaſt in their me⯑thods of reſenting. You will not preſume to make yourſelf a leſs innocent man ſurely, who had deter⯑min'd to brave my whole family in perſon, if my folly had not ſaved you the raſhneſs, and them the inſult—

Dear Madam!—Still muſt it be folly, raſhneſs!—It is as impoſſible for you to think tolerably of any-body out of your own family, as it is for any one in it to deſerve your love!—Forgive me, deareſt crea⯑ture!—If I did not love you as no man ever loved a [221] woman, I might appear more indifferent to prefer⯑ences ſo undeſervedly made.—But let me aſk you, Ma⯑dam, What have you borne from me?—What cauſe have I given you to treat me with ſo much ſeverity, and ſo little confidence?—And what have you not borne from them?—My general character may have been againſt me: But what of your own knowlege have you againſt me?

I was ſtartled. But I was reſolved not to deſert myſelf.

Is this a time, Mr. Lovelace, is this a proper occa⯑ſion, to give yourſelf theſe high airs to me, a young creature deſtitute of protection?—It is a ſurprizing queſtion you aſk me. Had I aught againſt you of my own knowlege—I can tell you, Sir—And away I would have flung.

He ſnatched my hand, and beſought me not to leave him in diſpleaſure.—He pleaded his paſſion for me, and my ſeverity to him, and partiality for thoſe from whom I had ſuffer'd ſo much; and whoſe intended violence, he ſaid, was now the ſubject of our delibe⯑ration.

I was forced to hear him.

You condeſcended, deareſt creature, ſaid he, to aſk my advice.—It is very eaſy, give me leave to ſay, to adviſe you what to do. I hope I may, on this new occaſion, ſpeak without offence, notwithſtanding your former injunctions—You ſee that there can be no hope of reconciliation with your relations.—Can you, Madam, conſent to honour with your hand, a wretch whom you have never yet obliged with one voluntary favour?—

What a recriminating, what a reproachful way, my dear, was this, of putting a queſtion of this na⯑ture!—

I expected not from him, at the time, either the queſtion or the manner—I am aſhamed to recollect the confuſion I was thrown into;—all your advice in [222] my head at the moment: Yet his words ſo prohibi⯑tory. He confidently ſeemed to enjoy my confuſion [Indeed, my dear, he knows not what reſpectful love is!]; and gaz'd upon me, as if he would have looked me through.

He was ſtill more declarative afterwards indeed, as I ſhall mention by-and-by: But it was half-extorted from him.

My heart ſtruggled violently between reſentment and ſhame to be thus teazed by one, who ſeemed to have all his paſſions at command, at a time when I had very little over mine; till at laſt I burſt into tears, and was going from him in high diſguſt; when, throwing his arms about me, with an air, however, the moſt tenderly reſpectful, he gave a ſtupid turn to the ſubject.

It was far from his heart, he ſaid, to take ſo much advantage of the ſtreight, which the diſcovery of my brother's fooliſh project had brought me into, as to renew, without my permiſſion, a propoſal which I had hitherto diſcountenanced; and which for that reaſon—

And then he came with his half-ſentences, apolo⯑gizing for what he had hardly half propoſed.

Surely, he had not the inſolence to intend to teaze me, to ſee if I could be brought to ſpeak what became me not to ſpeak—But, whether he had or not; it did teaze me; inſomuch that my very heart was fretted, and I broke out at laſt into freſh tears, and a declara⯑tion, that I was very unhappy. And juſt then recol⯑lecting how like a tame fool I ſtood, with his arms about me, I flung from him with indignation. But he ſeized my hand, as I was going out of the room, and upon his knees beſought my ſtay for one moment: And then tendered himſelf, in words the moſt clear and explicit, to my acceptance, as the moſt effectual means to diſappoint my brother's ſcheme, and ſet all right.

[223]But what could I ſay to this?—Extorted from him, as it ſeem'd to me, rather as the effect of his compaſ⯑ſion, than of his love? What could I ſay?—I pauſed, I looked ſilly! I am ſure I looked very ſilly. He ſuffered me to pauſe, and look ſilly; waiting for me to ſay ſomething: And at laſt, aſhamed of my confu⯑ſion, and aiming to make an excuſe for it, I told him, that I deſired he would avoid ſuch meaſures, as might add to an uneaſineſs which was ſo viſible upon reflect⯑ing on the irreconcileableneſs of my friends, and what unhappy conſequences might follow from this unac⯑countable project of my brother.

He promiſed to be governed by me in every thing. And again the wretch aſked me, If I forgave him for the humble ſuit he had made to me? What had I to do, but to try for a palliation of my confuſion, ſince it ſerv'd me not?

I told him, I had hopes it would not be long before Mr. Morden arrived; and doubted not, that he would be the readier to engage in my favour, when he found, that I made no other uſe of his, Mr. Lovelace's, aſſiſtance, than to free myſelf from the addreſſes of a man ſo diſagreeable to me as Mr. Solmes: I muſt therefore wiſh, that every thing might remain as it was, till I could hear from my couſin.

This, altho' teazed by him as I was, was not a denial, you ſee, my dear. But he muſt throw him⯑ſelf into a heat, rather than try to perſuade; which any other man, in his ſituation, I ſhould think, would have done: And this warmth obliged me to adhere to my ſeeming negative.

This was what he ſaid, with a vehemence that muſt harden any woman's mind, who had a ſpirit above being frighted into paſſiveneſs:

Good God!—And will you, Madam, ſtill reſolve to ſhew me, that I am to hope for no ſhare in your favour, while any the remoteſt proſpect remains, that [224] you will be received by my bittereſt enemies, at the price of my utter rejection?

This was what I return'd, with warmth, and with a ſalving art too—You have ſeen, Mr. Lovelace, how much my brother's violence can affect me: But you will be miſtaken, if you let looſe yours upon me, with a thought of terrifying me into meaſures, the contrary of which you have acquieſced with.

He only beſought me to ſuffer his future actions to ſpeak for him; and, if I ſaw him worthy of any fa⯑vour, that I would not let him be the only perſon within my knowlege, who was not intitled to my conſideration.

You refer to a future time, Mr. Lovelace; ſo do I, for the future proof of a merit you ſeem to think for the paſt time wanting: And juſtly you think ſo. And I was again going from him.

One word more he begged me to hear:—He was determined ſtudiouſly to avoid all miſchief, and every ſtep that might lead to miſchief, let my brother's proceedings, ſhort of a violence upon my perſon, be what they would: But if any attempt, that ſhould extend to that, were to be made, would I have him to be a quiet ſpectator of my being ſeized, or carried back, or aboard, by this Singleton; or, in caſe of extremity, was he not permitted to ſtand up in my defence?

Stand up in my defence, Mr. Lovelace!—I ſhould be very miſerable, were there to be a call for that: But do you think I might not be ſafe and pri⯑vate in London?—By your friend's deſcription of the widow's houſe, I ſhould think I might be ſafe there.

The widow's houſe, he reply'd, as deſcribed by his friend, being a back-houſe within a front-one, and looking to a garden, rather than a ſtreet, had the appearance of privacy: But if, when there, it was not approved, it would be eaſy to find another more to my liking—Tho', as to his part, the method he [225] would adviſe ſhould be, to write to my uncle Harlowe as one of my truſtees, and wait the iſſue of it here at Mrs. Sorlings's, fearleſly directing it to be anſwered hither. To be afraid of little ſpirits, was but to en⯑courage inſults, he ſaid. The ſubſtance of the letter ſhould be, ‘'To demand as a right, what they would refuſe if requeſted as a courteſy: To acknowlege, that I had put myſelf [too well, he ſaid, did their treatment juſtify me] into the protection of the Ladies of his family (by whoſe orders, and Lord M.'s, he himſelf would appear to act): But that it was upon my own terms; which laid me under no obligation to them for the favour, it being no more than they would have granted to any one of my ſex, equally diſtreſſed:'’ If I approved not of this me⯑thod, happy ſhould he think himſelf, he ſaid, if I would honour him with the opportunity of making ſuch a claim in his own name.—But this was a point [with his buts again!] that he durſt but juſt touch upon. He hoped, however, that I would think their violence a ſufficient inducement for me to take ſuch a wiſhed-for reſolution.

Inwardly vexed, I told him, That he himſelf had propoſed to leave me when I was in town: That I expected he would: And that, when I was known to be abſolutely indepdent, I ſhould conſider what to write, and what to do: But that, while he was hanging about me, I neither would nor could.

He would be very ſincere with me, he ſaid: This project of my brother's had changed the face of things. He muſt, before he left me, ſee how I liked the Lon⯑don widow, and her family, if I choſe to go thither: They might be people whom my brother might buy. But if he ſaw they were perſons of integrity, he then might go for a day or two, or ſo. But he muſt needs ſay, he could not leave me longer.

Do you propoſe, Sir, ſaid I, to take up your lodg⯑ings in the ſame houſe?

[226]He did not, he ſaid; as he knew the uſe I intended to make of his abſence, and my punctilio—And yet the houſe where he had lodgings was new-fronting: But he could go to his friend Belford's, in Soho; or per⯑haps, to the ſame gentleman's houſe at Edgware, and return on mornings, till he had reaſon to think this wild project of my brother's laid aſide. But no farther till then would he venture.

The reſult of all was, to ſet out on Monday next for town. I hope it will be in a happy hour.

I cannot, my dear, ſay too often, how much I am

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

And now, Belford, what wilt thou ſay, if like the fly buzzing about the bright taper, I had like to have ſindg'd the ſilken wings of my liberty?—Never was man in greater danger of being caught in his own ſnares:—All his views anticipated: All his ſchemes untry'd; and not having brought the admirable crea⯑ture to town; nor made an effort to know if ſhe be really angel or woman.

I offer'd myſelf to her acceptance, with a ſudden⯑neſs, 'tis true, that gave her no time to wrap herſelf in reſerve; and in terms leſs tender than fervent, tend⯑ing to upbraid her for her paſt indifference, and re⯑minding her of her injunctions.—For it was her [227] brother's plot, not love of me, that had inclined her to diſpenſe with them.

I never beheld ſo ſweet a confuſion. What a glory to the pencil, could it do juſtice to it, and to the mingled impatience which viſibly inform'd every fea⯑ture of the moſt meaning and moſt beautiful face in the world. She hemm'd twice or thrice: Her look, now ſo charmingly ſilly, then ſo ſweetly ſignificant; till at laſt, the lovely teazer, teazed by my heſi⯑tating expectation of her anſwer, out of all power of articulate ſpeech, burſt into tears, and was turning from me, with precipitation, when, taking the liberty of folding her in my happy arms—O think not, beſt beloved of my heart, think not that this motion, which you may believe to be ſo contrary to your for⯑mer injunctions, proceeds from a deſign to avail my⯑ſelf of the cruelty of your relations: If I have diſoblig'd you by it [and you know with what reſpectful tender⯑neſs I have preſumed to hint it], it ſhall be my utmoſt care for the future—There I ſtopt—

Then ſhe ſpoke; but with vexation—I am—I am—very unhappy—Tears trickling down her crimſon cheeks; and her ſweet face, as my arms ſtill incircled the fineſt waiſt in the world, ſinking upon my ſhoulder; the dear creature ſo abſent, that ſhe knew not the honour ſhe permitted me.

But why, but why unhappy, my deareſt life, ſaid I?—All the gratitude that ever overflow'd the heart of the moſt oblig'd of men—Juſtice to myſelf there ſtopt my mouth; for what gratitude did I owe her for obligations ſo involuntary?

Then recovering herſelf, and her uſual reſerves, and ſtruggling to free herſelf from my claſping arms, How now. Sir! ſaid ſhe, with a cheek more indig⯑nantly glowing, and eyes of a fiercer luſtre.

I gave way to her angry ſtruggle;—but, abſolutely overcome by ſo charming a diſplay of innocent con⯑fuſion, [228] I caught hold of her hand, as ſhe was flying from me; and, kneeling at her feet, O my angel, ſaid I (quite deſtitute of reſerve, and hardly knowing the tenor of my own ſpeech; and had a parſon been there, I had certainly been a gone man), receive the vows of your faithful Lovelace—Make him yours, and only yours, for ever!—This will anſwer every end!—Who will dare to form plots and ſtratagems againſt my wife? That you are not ſo, is the ground of all their fooliſh attempts, and of their inſolent hopes in Solmes's favour.—O be mine!—I beſeech you [thus on my knee I beſeech you] to be mine.—We ſhall then have all the world with us: And every-body will applaud an event that every-body expects.

Was the devil in me!—I no more intended all this ecſtatic nonſenſe, than I thought the ſame moment of flying in the air!—All power is with this charm⯑ing creature!—It is I, not ſhe, at this rate, that muſt fail in the arduous tryal.

Didſt thou ever before hear of a man uttering ſo⯑lemn things by an involuntary impulſe, in defiance of premeditation, and of all his own proud ſchemes? But this ſweet creature is able to make a man forego every purpoſe of his heart, that is not favourable to her.—And I verily think, I ſhould be inclined to ſpare her all further tryal [and yet no tryal has ſhe had], were it not for the contention that her vigi⯑lance has ſet on foot, which ſhall overcome the other. Thou knoweſt my generoſity to my un-contending Roſebud.—And ſometimes do I qualify my ardent aſpirations after even this very fine creature, by this reflection:—That the charming'ſt woman on earth, were ſhe an empreſs, can excel the meaneſt, in the cuſtomary viſibles only.—Such is the equality of the diſpenſation, to the prince and the peaſant, in this prime gift, WOMAN.

Well, but what was the reſult of this involuntary impulſe on my part. Wouldſt thou not think, I [229] was taken at my offer?—An offer ſo ſolemnly made, and on one knee too?

No ſuch thing!—The pretty trifler let me off as eaſily as I could have wiſhed.

Her brother's project, and to find, that there were no hopes of a reconciliation for her; and the appre⯑henſion ſhe had of the miſchiefs that might enſue—Theſe, not my offer, nor love of me, were the cauſes to which ſhe aſcribed all her ſweet confuſion.—High-treaſon the aſcription againſt my ſovereign pride—To make marriage with me, but a ſecond-place refuge!—and as good as to tell me, that her confuſion was owing to her concern, that there were no hopes, that my enemies would accept of her intended offer to re⯑nounce a man, who had ventured his life for her, and was ſtill ready to run the ſame riſk in her behalf!

I re-urged her to make me happy—But I was to be poſtponed to her couſin Morden's arrival. On him are now placed all her hopes.

I raved; but to no purpoſe.

Another letter was to be ſent, or had been ſent, to her aunt Hervey; to which ſhe hoped an anſwer.

Yet ſometimes, I think, that fainter and fainter would have been her procraſtinations, had I been a man of courage.—But ſo fearful was I of offending!—

A confounded thing! The man to be ſo baſhful; the lady to want ſo much courting!—How ſhall two ſuch come together; no kind mediatreſs in the way?

But I can't help it. I muſt be contented. 'Tis ſeldom, however, that a love ſo ardent meets with a ſpirit ſo reſigned in the ſame perſon. But true love, I am now convinced, only wiſhes: Nor has it any active will but that of the adorable object.

But, O the charming creature! again to mention London of herſelf!—Had Singleton's plot been of my own contriving, it could not have been a happier ex⯑pedient to haſten her thither; after ſhe had deferr'd [230] her journey;—for what reaſon deferr'd it, I cannot divine.

I incloſe the letter from Joſeph Leman, which I mentioned to thee in mine of Monday laſt ^(a), with my anſwer to it. I cannot reſiſt the vanity that urges me to the communication. Otherwiſe, it were bet⯑ter, perhaps, that I ſuffer thee to imagine, that this Lady's ſtars fight againſt her, and diſpenſe the oppor⯑tunities in my favour, which are only the conſequences of my own ſuperlative invention.

LETTER XLV. JOSEPH LEMAN, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

HE acquaints Mr. Lovelace of the proſecution in⯑tended to be ſet up againſt him, by his matters, for a Rape upon Miſs Betterton, whom, by a ſtratagem, he had got into his hands; and who afterwards died in child-bed; the child ſtill living, but, as Joſeph ſays, not regarded by his Honour in the leaſt. His maſters, he ſays, call it a very vile affair; but God forbid that he ſhould, without his Honour's leave. He hears, he ſays, that his Honour went abroad to avoid the pro⯑ſecution which the lady's relations otherwiſe would have ſet on foot. And that his maſters will not reſt till they get the Bettertons to commence it.

Joſeph tells him, that this was one of the ſtories which 'Squire Solmes was to tell his young Lady of, would ſhe have heard him ^(b).

He deſires him to let him know, if his Honour's life is in danger from this proſecution; and hopes, if it be, ‘'that he will not be hanged like as a common man; but only have his head cut off, or ſo; and that he will natheleſs think of his faithful Joſeph Le⯑man, before his head ſhall be condemned, becauſe afterwards he underſtands, that all will be the king's, or the ſhreeve's.'’

[231]He then acquaints him, that Captain Singleton, and his young maſter and young miſtreſs, are often in cloſe conference together; and that his young maſter ſaid, before his face, to the captain, that his blood boiled over for revenge upon his Honour; and at the ſame time praiſed him (Joſeph) to the captain, for his fide⯑lity and for his good head, altho' he looked ſo ſeelie. And then he offers his ſervices, in order to prevent miſchief, and to deſerve his bounty, and his favour, as to the Blue Boar Inn, which he hears ſo good an account of—

‘'And then the Blue Boar is not all neither (ſays Joſeph), ſince, and pleaſe your Honour, the pretty Sow [God forgive me for jeſting in ſo ſerious a matter] runs in my head likewiſe. I believe I ſhall love her mayhap more than your Honour would have me; for ſhe begins to be kind and good-humoured, and liſtens, and pleaſe your Honour, like as if ſhe was among beans, when I talk about the Blue Boar, and all that.'’

‘'Pray your Honour forgive the jeſting of a poor plain man. We common folks have our joys, and pleaſe your Honour, like as our betters have; and if we be ſometimes ſnubbed, we can find our underlings to ſnub again: And if not, we can get a wiſe, mayhap, and ſnub her: So are maſters ſome how or other ourſelves.'’

He then tells him how much his conſcience ſmites him for what he has done; ſince, but for the ſtories his Honour taught him, it would have been impoſſible for his old maſters, and his lady, to have been ſo hard-hearted as they were, notwithſtanding the malice of his young maſter and young miſtreſs.

‘'And here is the ſad thing (proceeds he); they can⯑not come to clear up matters with my deareſt young lady, becauſe, as your Honour has ordered it, they have theſe ſtories as if bribed out of your Honour's ſervant; which muſt not be known, for fear your [232] Honour ſhould kill him and me too, and blacken the bribers!—Ah, your Honour!—I doubt, your Honour, as that I am a very vile fellow,—Lord bleſs my ſoul! and did not intend it.'’

‘'But if my deareſt young lady ſhould come to harm, and pleaſe your Honour, the Horſepond at the Blue Boar—But Lord preſerve me from all bad miſchiefs, and all bad ends, I pray the Lord!—For tho' your Honour is kind to me in worldly polf, yet what ſhall a man get to loſe his ſoul, as holy ſcripture ſays, and pleaſe your Honour?'’

‘'But natheleſs I am in hope of repentance here⯑after, being but a young man, if I do wrong thro' ignorance; your Honour being a great man, and a great wit; and I a poor creature, not worthy notice; and your Honour able to anſwer for all.’ But how⯑ſoever I am

LETTER XLVI. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOSEPH LEMAN.

HE tells him, That the affair of Miſs Betterton was a youthful frolick: That there was no Rape in the caſe:—That he went not abroad on her ac⯑count: That ſhe loved him, and he loved her: Yet that ſhe was but a tradeſman's daughter; the father grown rich, and aiming at a new line of gentry: That he never pretended marriage to her: That indeed they would have had her join to proſecute him: And that ſhe owed her death to her friends barbarity, becauſe ſhe would not. The boy, he ſays, is a fine boy; no father need to be aſhamed of him: That he had twice, unknown to the aunt who had the care of him, been to ſee him; and would have [233] provided for him, had there been occaſion. But that the whole family were fond of the child, tho' they were ſo wicked as to curſe the father.

Theſe, he ſays, were his rules in all his amours: ‘'To ſhun common women: To marry off a for⯑mer miſtreſs, before he took a new one: To ſet the mother above want, if her friends were cruel: To maintain a lady handſomely in her lying-in: To provide for the little one, according to the mother's degree: And to go in mourning for her, if ſhe dy'd in childbed:'’ —He challenges Joſeph to find out a man of more honour than himſelf in theſe re⯑ſpects. No wonder, he tells him, that the women love him as they do.

There is no room to fear for either his head or his neck, he tells him, from this affair: ‘'A lady dying in childbed eighteen months ago; no proceſs begun in her life-time; herſelf refuſing to proſecute: Pretty circumſtances, Joſeph, to found an indictment for a Rape upon!—Again, I ſay, I loved her: She was taken from me by her brutal friends while our joys were young.—But enough of dear Miſs Betterton.—Dear, I ſay—For death indears!—Reſt to her worthy ſoul!—There, Joſeph, off went a deep ſigh to the memory of Miſs Betterton!'’

He encourages him in his jeſting— ‘'Jeſting, ſays he, better becomes a poor man than qualms. All we ſay, all we do, all we wiſh for, is a jeſt: He that makes it not ſo, is a ſad fellow, and has the worſt of it.—Whoever grudges a poor man joy, ought to have none himſelf.'’

He applauds him for his love to his young Lady: Profeſſes his honourable deſigns by her: Values him⯑ſelf upon his word; and appeals to him on this head: ‘'You know, Joſeph, ſays he, that I have gone be⯑yond my promiſes to you. I do to every-body: And why?—Becauſe it is the beſt way of ſhewing, that I have not a grudging or narrow ſpirit. A juſt [234] man will keep his promiſe: A generous man will go beyond it. That is my rule.'’

He lays it wholly at the Lady's door, that they are not marry'd; and laments the diſtance ſee keeps him at; which he attributes to Miſs Howe, who, he ſays, is for ever putting her upon contrivances; which is the reaſon, he tells him, that has obliged him to play off the people at Harlowe-Place upon Mrs. Howe, by his aſſiſtance.

He then takes advantage of the hints Joſeph gives him of Singleton and James Harlowes cloſe con⯑ferences:— ‘'Since Singleton, ſays he, who has de⯑pendencies upon James Harlowe, is taught to have ſo good an opinion of you, Joſeph, cannot you (ſtill pretending an abhorrence of me, and of my contrivances) propoſe to Singleton to propoſe to James Harlowe (who ſo much thirſts for revenge upon me), to aſſiſt him with his whole ſhip's crew, upon occaſion, to carry off his ſiſter, to Leith, where both have houſes, or elſewhere?'’

‘'You may tell them, that if this can be effected, it will make, me raving mad; and bring your young Lady into all their meaſures. You can inform them, as from my ſervant, of the diſtance ſhe keeps me at, in hopes of procuring her father's forgiveneſs, by cruelly giving me up, if inſiſted upon. That as the only ſecret my ſervant has kept from you, is, the place we are in, you make no doubt, that a two guinea bribe will bring that out, and alſo an informa⯑tion when I ſhall be at diſtance from her, that the enterprize may be ſafely conducted. You may tell them (ſtill as from my ſervant) that we are about removing from inconvenient lodgings to others more convenient (which is true); and that I muſt be often abſent from her.'’

‘'If they liſten to your propoſal, you will promote your intereſt with Betty, by telling it to her as a ſecret. Betty will tell Arabella of it. Arabella will [235] be overjoy'd at any thing that will help forward her revenge upon me; and will reveal it (if her brother do not) to her uncle Antony. He probably will whiſper it to Mrs. Howe. She can keep nothing from her daughter, tho' they are always jangling. Her daughter will acquaint my beloved with it. And if it will not, or if it will, come to my ears from ſome of thoſe, you can write it to me, as in confidence, by way of preventing miſchief, which is the ſtudy of us both. I can then ſhew it to my be⯑loved. Then will ſhe be for placing a greater confi⯑dence in me. That will convince me of her love, which now I am ſometimes ready to doubt. She will be for haſtening to the ſafer lodgings. I ſhall have a pretence to ſtay about her perſon, as a guard. She will be convinced, that there is no expectation of a reconciliation. You can give James and Singleton continual falſe ſcents, as I ſhall direct you; ſo that no miſchief can poſſibly happen.'’

‘'And what will be the happy, happy, thrice happy conſequence?—The lady will be mine, in an honourable way. We ſhall all be friends in good time. The two guineas will be an agreeable addition to the many gratuities I have help'd you to, by like contrivances, from this ſtingy family. Your reputation, both for head and heart, will be heighten'd. The Blue Boar will alſo be yours. Nor ſhall you have the leaſt difficulty about raiſing money to buy the ſtock, if it be worth your while to have it.'’

‘'Betty will likewiſe then be yours. You have both ſaved money, it ſeems. The whole Harlowe family, whom you have ſo faithfully ſerv'd ['Tis ſerving them ſurely, to prevent the miſchief which their violent ſon would have brought upon them], will throw you in ſomewhat towards houſekeeping. I will ſtill add to your ſtore. So nothing but happineſs before you!'’

[236] ‘'Crow, Joſeph, crow! A dunghil of your own in view: Servants to ſnub at your pleaſure: A wiſe to quarrel with, or to love, as your humour leads you: Landlord and Landlady at every word: To be paid, inſtead of paying, for your eating and drinking.—But not thus happy only in yourſelf—Happy in promoting peace and reconciliation be⯑tween two good families, in the long run; without hurting any chriſtian ſoul.—O Joſeph, honeſt Jo⯑ſeph! what envy will you raiſe!—And who would be ſqueamiſh with ſuch proſpects before him!'’

‘'This one labour crowns your work. If you can get but ſuch a deſign entertained by them, whether they proſecute it or not, it will be equally to the purpoſe of’

LETTER XLVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Mrs. HERVEY. [Incloſed in her laſt to Miſs HOWE.]

HAVING not had the favour of an anſwer to a letter I took the liberty to write to you on the 14th, I am in ſome hopes that it may have miſcarried; for I had much rather it ſhould, than to have the mortification to think, that my aunt Hervey deem'd me unworthy of the honour of her notice.

In this hope, having kept a copy of it, and not being able to expreſs myſelf in terms better ſuited to the unhappy circumſtance of things, I tranſcribe and incloſe what I then wrote ^(a). And I humbly beſeech you to favour the contents of it with your intereſt.

Hitherto it is in my power to perform what I under⯑take for in this letter; and it would be very grievous [237] to me to be precipitated upon meaſures, which may render the deſireable reconciliation more difficult.

If, Madam, I were permitted to write to you with the hopes of being anſwer'd, I could clear my inten⯑tion with regard to the ſtep I have taken, altho' I could not acquit myſelf, perhaps, to ſome of my ſevereſt judges, of an imprudence previous to it.—You, I am ſure, would pity me, if you knew all I could ſay, and how miſerable I am in the forfeiture of the good opinion of all my friends.

I flatter myſelf, that their favour is yet retrievable. But whatever be the determination at Harlowe-Place, do not you, my deareſt aunt, deny me the favour of a few lines, to inform me if there can be any hope of a reconciliation upon terms leſs ſhocking than thoſe heretofore endeavoured to be impoſed upon me; or if, which God forbid! I am to be for ever repro⯑bated.

At leaſt, my dear aunt, procure for me the juſtice of my wearing apparel, and the little money, and other things, which I wrote to my ſiſter for, and men⯑tion in the incloſed to you; that I may not be de⯑ſtitute of common conveniencies, or be under a neceſ⯑ſity to owe an obligation for ſuch, where (at preſent, however) I would leaſt of all owe it.

Allow me to ſay, that had I deſigned what hap⯑pened, I might, as to the money and jewels, at leaſt, have ſaved myſelf ſome of the mortifications which I have ſuffer'd, and which I ſtill farther apprehend, if my requeſt be not comply'd with.

If you are permitted to encourage an eclairciſſement of what I hint, I will open my whole heart to you, and inform you of every thing.

If it be any pleaſure to have me mortify'd, be pleaſed to let it be known, that I am extremely mor⯑tify'd: And yet it is intirely from my own reflections that I am ſo:—Having nothing to find fault with, in the [238] behaviour of the perſon from whom every evil was apprehended.

The bearer having buſineſs your way, will bring me your anſwer on Saturday morning, if you favour me according to my hopes. I knew not that I ſhould have this opportunity till I had wrote the above.

I am, my deareſt aunt,

Be pleaſed to directed for me, if I am to be fa⯑voured with a few lines, to be left at Mr. Oſ⯑good's near Soho-ſquare; and nobody ſhall ever know of your goodneſs to me, if you deſire it to be kept a ſecret.

LETTER XLVIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Cannot for my life account for your wretch's teaz⯑ing ways. But he certainly doubts your love of him. In this he is a modeſt man, as well as ſomebody elſe; and tacitly confeſſes, that he does not deſerve it.

Your Iſraelitiſh hankerings after the Egyptian onions [teſtify'd ſtill more in your letter to your aunt] Your often-repeated regrets for meeting him; for being betrayed away by him: Theſe he cannot bear.

I have been retroſpecting the whole of his conduct, and comparing it with his general character; and find, that he is more conſiſtently, more uniformly, mean, re⯑vengeful, and proud, than either of us once ima⯑gin'd.

From his cradle, as I may ſay, as an only child, and a boy, humourſome, ſpoiled, miſchievous; the go⯑vernor of his governors.

[239]A libertine in his riper years, hardly regardful of appearances; and deſpiſing the Sex in general, for the faults of particulars of it, who made themſelves too cheap to him.

What has been his behaviour in your family, a CLARISSA in view (from the time your fooliſh bro⯑ther was obliged to take a life from him) but defiance for defiances?—Getting you into his power by terror, by artifice. What politeneſs can be expected from ſuch a man?

Well, but what in ſuch a ſituation is to be done?—Why, you muſt deſpiſe him—You muſt hate him—if you can—and run away from him—But whither?—Eſpecially now that your brother is laying fooliſh plots to put you in a ſtill worſe condition, as it may happen?

But if you cannot deſpiſe and hate him—If you care not to break with him, you muſt part with ſome pun⯑ctilio's; and if the ſo doing bring not on the ſolemnity, you muſt put yourſelf into the protection of the ladies of his family.

Their reſpect for you is of itſelf a ſecurity for his honour, if there could be any room for doubt. And at leaſt you ſhould remind him of his offer to bring one of the Miſs Montague's to attend you at your new lodgings in town, and accompany you, till all is happily over.

This, you'll ſay, will be as good as declaring your⯑ſelf to be his. And ſo let it. You ought not now to think of any thing elſe but to be his. Does not your brother's project convince you more and more of this?

Give over then, my deareſt friend, any thoughts of this hopeleſs reconciliation, which has kept you ba⯑lancing thus long. You own, in the letter before me, that he made very explicit offers, tho' you give me not the very words.—And he gave his reaſons, I per⯑ceive, [240] with his wiſhes that you ſhould accept them: Which very few of the ſorry fellows do; whoſe plea is generally but a compliment to our ſelf-love—That we muſt love them, however preſumptuous and un⯑worthy, becauſe they love us.

Were I in your place, and had your charming deli⯑cacies, I ſhould, perhaps, do as you do. No doubt but I ſhould expect that the man ſhould urge me with reſpectful warmth; that he ſhould ſupplicate with conſtancy, and that all his words and actions ſhould tend to the one principal point—Nevertheleſs, if I ſuſpected art or delay, founded upon his doubts of my love, I would either condeſcend to clear up his doubts, or renounce him for ever.

And in this laſt caſe, I, your Anna Howe, would exert myſelf, and either find you a private refuge, or reſolve to ſhare fortunes with you.

What a wretch, to be ſo eaſily anſwer'd by your reference to the arrival of your couſin Morden? But I am afraid that you was too ſcrupulous:—For did he not reſent that reference?

Could we have his account of the matter, I fancy, my dear, I ſhould think you over-nice, over-delicate. Had you laid hold of his acknowleged explicitneſs, he would have been as much in your power, as now you ſeem to be in his?—You wanted not to be told, that the perſon who had been tricked into ſuch a ſtep as you had taken, muſt of neceſſity ſubmit to many mortifications.

But were it to me, a girl of ſpirit, as I am thought to be, I do aſſure you, I would in a quarter of an hour (all the time I would allow to punctilio in ſuch a caſe as yours) know what he drives at. Since either he muſt mean well or ill. If ill, the ſooner you know it, the better. If well, whoſe modeſt, is it he diſtreſſes, but that of his own wife?

And methinks you ſhould endeavour to avoid all [241] exaſperating recriminations, as to what you have heard of his failure in morals; eſpecially while you are ſo happy, as not to have occaſion to ſpeak of them by experience.

I grant, that it gives a worthy mind ſome ſatisfaction, in having borne its teſtimony againſt a bad one: But if the teſtimony be not ſeaſonably borne, and when the faulty perſon be fitted to receive the correction, it may probably rather harden, or make an hypocrite, than reclaim him.

I am pleaſed, however, as well as you, with his making light of your brother's wiſe project.—Poor creature!—And muſt maſter Jemmy Harlowe, with his half-wit, pretend to plot, and contrive miſchief, yet rail at Lovelace for the ſame things?—A witty vil⯑lain deſerves hanging at once (and without ceremony, if you pleaſe); but a half-witted one deſerves broken bones firſt, and hanging afterwards. I think Love⯑lace has given his character in few words.

Be angry at me, if you pleaſe; but as ſure as you are alive, now that this poor creature, whom ſome call your brother, finds he has ſucceeded in making you fly your father's houſe, and that he has nothing to fear but your getting into your own, and into an inde⯑pendence of him, but he thinks himſelf equal to any thing, and ſo has a mind to fight Lovelace with his own weapons?

Don't you remember his pragmatical triumph, as told you by your aunt, and prided in by that ſawcy Betty Barnes, from his own fooliſh mouth ^(a)?

I expect nothing from your letter to your aunt. I hope Lovelace will never know the contents of it. In every one of yours, I ſee that he as warmly reſents as he dares, the little confidence you have in him. I ſhould reſent it too, were I him; and knew I deſerved better.

[242]Don't be ſcrupulous about cloaths, if you think of putting yourſelf into the protection of the ladies of his family. They know how matters ſtand between you and your relations; and love you never the worſe for their cruelty.—As to money, why will you let me offer in vain?

I know you won't demand poſſeſſion of your eſtate. But give him a right to demand it for you; and that will be ſtill better.

Adieu, my dear!—May Heaven guide and direct you in all your ſteps, is the daily prayer of

LETTER XLIX. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

THOU, Lovelace, haſt been long the entertainer; I the entertained. Nor have I been ſolicitous to animadvert, as thou wenteſt along, upon thy inven⯑tions, and their tendency. For I believed, that with all thy airs, the unequalled perfections and fine quali⯑ties of this lady would always be her protection and ſecurity. But now, that I find, thou haſt ſo far ſuc⯑ceeded, as to induce her to come to town, and to chooſe her lodgings in a houſe, the people of which will too probably damp and ſuppreſs any honourable motions, which may ariſe in thy mind in her favour; I cannot help writing: And that profeſſedly in her behalf.

My inducements to this are not owing to virtue:—But if they were, what hope could I have of affecting thee, by pleas ariſing from it?

Nor would ſuch a man as thou art be deterr'd, were I to remind thee of the vengeance which thou mayeſt one day expect, if thou inſulteſt a woman of her cha⯑racter, family, and fortune.

[243]Neither are gratitude and honour motives to be mentioned in a woman's favour, to men, ſuch as we are, who conſider all thoſe of the ſex as fair prize, whom we can obtain a power over. For our honour, and honour in the general acceptation of the word, are two things.

What then is my motive?—Why, the true friend⯑ſhip that I bear thee, Lovelace; which makes me plead Thy own ſake; and Thy family's ſake, in the juſtice thou oweſt to this incomparable creature; who, however, ſo well deſerves to have her ſake to be mentioned as the principal conſideration.

Laſt time I was at M. Hall, thy noble uncle ſo earneſtly preſſed me to uſe my intereſt to perſuade thee to enter the pale, and gave me ſo many family-reaſons for it, that I could not help engaging myſelf heartily on his ſide of the queſtion; and the rather, as I knew, that thy own intentions with regard to this fine woman, were then worthy of her. And of this I aſſured his lordſhip; who was half-afraid of thee, becauſe of the ill uſage thou receivedſt from her fa⯑mily. But now, that the caſe is altered, let me preſs the matter home to thee from other conſiderations.

By what I have heard of this lady's perfections from every mouth, as well as from thine, and from every letter thou haſt written, where wilt thou find ſuch another woman? And why ſhouldſt thou tempt her virtue?—Why ſhouldſt thou be for trying, where there is no reaſon to doubt?

Were I in thy caſe, and deſigned to marry, and if I preferred a lady, as I know thou doſt This, to all the women in the world, I ſhould dread to make fur⯑ther tryal, knowing what we know of the ſex, for fear of ſucceeding; and eſpecially if I doubted not, that if there were a woman in the world virtuous at heart, it is ſhe.

And let me tell thee, Lovelace, that in this lady's ſituation, the tryal is not a fair tryal.—Conſidering [244] the depth or thy plots and contrivances: Conſidering the opportunities which I ſee thou muſt have with her, in ſpite of her own heart; all her relations follies acting in concert, tho' unknown to themſelves, with thy wicked ſcheming head: Conſidering how deſtitute of protection ſhe is: Conſidering the houſe ſhe is to be in, where ſhe will be ſurrounded with thy imple⯑ments; ſpecious, well-bred, and genteel creatures, not eaſily to be detected when they are diſpoſed to pre⯑ſerve appearances, eſpecially by a young, inexpe⯑rienced lady wholly unacquainted with the town: Conſidering all theſe things, I ſay,—what glory, what cauſe of triumph, wilt thou have, if ſhe ſhould be overcome?—Thou, too, a man born for intrigue, full of invention, intrepid, remorſeleſs, able patiently to watch for thy opportunity; not hurried, as moſt men, by guſts of violent paſſion, which often nip a project in the bud, and make the ſnail that was juſt putting out its horns to meet the inviter, withdraw into its ſhell—A man who has no regard to his word or oath to the ſex; the lady ſcrupulouſly ſtrict to her word, incapable of art or deſign; apt therefore to believe well of others—It would be a miracle if ſhe ſtood ſuch an attempter, ſuch attempts, and ſuch ſnares, as I ſee will be laid for her. And after all, I ſee not when men are ſo frail without importunity, that ſo much ſhould be expected from women, daugh⯑ters of the ſame fathers and mothers, and made up of the ſame brittle compounds [education all the differ⯑ence], nor where the triumph is in ſubduing them.

May there not be other Lovelaces, thou aſkeſt, who, attracted by her beauty, may endeavour to pre⯑vail with her?

No; there cannot, I anſwer, be ſuch another man, perſon, mind, fortune, and thy character, as above given, taken in.—If thou imaginedſt there could, ſuch is thy pride, that thou wouldſt think the worſe of thyſelf.

[245]But let me touch upon thy predominant paſſion, Revenge; for Love [What can be the love of a rake?] is but ſecond to that, as I have often told thee, tho' it has ſet thee into raving at me—What poor pretences for revenge are the difficulties thou hadſt in getting her off; allowing that ſhe had run a riſque of being Solmes's wife, had ſhe ſtaid; her injunctions ſo cru⯑elly turn'd upon her; and her preference of the ſingle life!—If theſe are other than pretences, why thankeſt thou not thoſe who threw her into thy power?—Beſides, are not the pretences thou makeſt for further trial, moſt ingratefully, as well as contra⯑dictorily, founded upon the ſuppoſition of error in her, occaſioned by her favour to thee?

And let me, for the utter confuſion of thy poor pleas of this nature, aſk thee—Would ſhe, in thy opinion, had ſhe willingly gone off with thee, have been intitled to better quarter?—For a miſtreſs in⯑deed ſhe might: But wouldſt thou for a wife have had cauſe to like her half ſo well, as now?

That ſhe loves thee, wicked as thou art, and cruel as a panther, there is no reaſon to doubt. Yet, what a command has ſhe over herſelf, that ſuch a penetrate⯑ing ſelf-flatterer as thyſelf, art ſometimes ready to doubt it? Tho' perſecuted on the one hand, as ſhe was, by her own family, and attracted on the other, by the ſplendor of thine; every one of whom wiſhes for, and courts her to rank herſelf among them?

Thou wilt perhaps think, that I have departed from my propoſition, and pleaded the lady's ſake more than thine in the above—But no ſuch thing. All that I have written, is more in thy behalf than in hers—Since ſhe may make thee happy—But it is next to impoſſible, I ſhould think, if ſhe preſerves her delicacy, that thou canſt make her ſo. I need not give my reaſons. Thou'lt have ingenuity enough, I dare ſay, were there occaſion for it, to ſubſcribe to my opinion.

[246]I plead not for the ſtate from any great liking to it myſelf. Nor have I, at preſent, thoughts of en⯑tering into it. But as thou art the laſt of thy name; as thy family is of note and figure in thy country; and as thou thyſelf thinkeſt that thou ſhalt one day marry; is it poſſible, let me aſk thee, that thou canſt have ſuch another opportunity as thou now haſt, if thou letteſt this ſlip? A lady, in her fa⯑mily and fortune, not unworthy of thine own [tho' thou art ſo apt, from pride of anceſtry, and pride of heart, to ſpeak ſlightly of the families thou diſlikeſt]; ſo celebrated for beauty; and ſo noted at the ſame time for prudence, for ſoul (I will ſay, inſtead of ſenſe), and for virtue?

If thou art not ſo narrow-minded an elf, as to pre⯑fer thy own ſingle ſatisfaction to poſterity, thou, who ſhouldſt wiſh to beget children for duration, wilt not poſtpone till the rake's uſual time; that is to ſay, till diſeaſes or years, or both, lay hold of thee; ſince in that caſe thou wouldſt intitle thyſelf to the curſes of thy legitimate progeny for giving them a Being alto⯑gether miſerable: A Being, which they will be obliged to hold upon a worſe tenure than that tenant-courteſy, which thou calleſt the worſt ^(a); to wit, upon the doctor's courteſy; thy deſcendents alſo propagating (if they ſhall live, and be able to propagate) a wretched race, that ſhall intail the curſe, or the reaſon for it, upon remote generations.

Wicked as the ſober world accounts us, we have not yet, it is to be hoped, got over all compunction. Altho' we find religion againſt us, we have not yet preſumed to make a religion to ſuit our practices. We deſpiſe thoſe who do. And we know better than to be even doubters. In ſhort, we believe a future ſtate of rewards and puniſhments. But as we have ſo much youth and health in hand, we hope to have time for repentance. That is to ſay, in plain Engliſh [Nor [247] think thou me too grave, Lovelace: Thou art grave ſometimes, tho' not often], we hope to live to ſenſe, as long as ſenſe can reliſh, and purpoſe to reform when we can ſin no longer.

And ſhall this admirable woman ſuffer for her ge⯑nerous endeavours to ſet on foot thy reformation; and for inſiſting upon proofs of the ſincerity of thy profeſſions, before ſhe will be thine?

Upon the whole matter, let me wiſh thee to con⯑ſider well what thou art about, before thou goeſt a ſtep farther in the path which thou haſt chalk'd out for thyſelf to tread, and art juſt going to enter into. Hitherto all is ſo far right, that if the lady miſtruſts thy honour, ſhe has no proofs. Be honeſt to her, then, in her ſenſe of the word. None of thy companions, thou knoweſt, will offer to laugh at what thou doſt. And if they ſhould (on thy entering into a ſtate which has been ſo much ridiculed by thee, and by all of us), thou haſt one advantage: It is this; that thou canſt not be aſhamed.

Deferring to the poſt-day to cloſe my letter, I find one left for my couſin Oſgood, to be forwarded to the lady. It was brought within theſe two hours by a particular hand, and has a Harlowe-ſeal upon it. As it may therefore be of importance, I diſpatch it with my own, by my ſervant, poſt-haſte ^(a).

I ſuppoſe you will ſoon be in town. Without the lady, I hope. Farewel.

LETTER L. Mrs. HERVEY, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. [In anſwer to Letter xlvii.]

IT would be hard not to write a few lines, ſo much preſſed to write, to one I ever loved: Your for⯑mer letter I received, yet was not at liberty to anſwer it. I break my word to anſwer you now.

Strange informations are every day received about you. The wretch you are with, we are told, is every hour triumphing and defying—Muſt not theſe informations aggravate? You know the uncontroul⯑ableneſs of the man. He loves his own humour better than he loves you—tho' ſo fine a creature as you are! I warn'd you over and over: No young lady was ever more warn'd!—Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe to do ſuch a thing!

You might have given your friends the meeting. If you had held your averſion, it would have been comply'd with. As ſoon as I was intruſted myſelf with their intention to give up the point, I gave you a hint—a dark one perhaps ^(a)!—But who would have thought—O Miſs!—Such an artful ſlight!—Such cunning preparation!

But you want to clear up things—What can you clear up? Are you not gone off?—With a Lovelace too?—What, my dear, would you clear up?

You did not deſign to go, you ſay. Why did you meet him then, chariot-and-ſix, horſemen, all pre⯑pared by him? O, my dear, how Art produces Art!—Will it be believed?—If it would, what power will he be thought to have had over you!—He!—Who?—Lovelace!—The vileſt of libertines!—Over whom?—A Clariſſa Harlowe!—Was your [249] love for ſuch a man above your reaſon?—Above your reſolution?—What credit would a belief of this, if believed, bring you?—How mend the matter?—Oh! that you had ſtood the next meet⯑ing!—

I'll tell you all that was intended, if you had.

It was indeed imagined, that you would not have been able to reſiſt your father's intreaties and com⯑mands. He was reſolved to be all condeſcenſion, if anew you had not provoked him. I love my Clary Harlowe, ſaid he, but an hour before the killing tide⯑ings were brought him; I love her as my life; I will kneel to her, if nothing elſe will do, to prevail upon her to oblige me!

Your father and mother (reverſe to what ſhould have been!) would have humbled themſelves to you: And if you could have denied them, and refuſed to ſign the ſettlements previous to the meeting, they would have yielded, altho' with regret.

But it was preſumed, ſo naturally ſweet your tem⯑per, ſo ſelf-denying, as they thought you, that you could not have withſtood them, notwithſtanding all your diſlike of the one man, without a greater degree of headſtrong paſſion for the other, than you had given any of us reaſon to expect from you.

If you had, the meeting on Wedneſday would have been a lighter trial to you. You would have been preſented to all your aſſembled friends, with a ſhort ſpeech only, ‘'That this was the young creature, till very lately ſaultleſs, condeſcending, and ob⯑liging, now having cauſe to glory in a triumph over the wills of father, mother, uncles, the moſt in⯑dulgent; over family intereſts, family views, and preferring her own will to every-body's; and this for a tranſitory preference to perſon only; the mo⯑rals of the men not to be compared with each other's.'’

[250]Thus complied with, and perhaps bleſſed, by your father and mother, and the conſequences of your diſ⯑obedience deprecated in the ſolemneſt manner by your inimitable mother, your generoſity would have been appealed to, ſince your duty would have been found too weak an inducement, and you would have been bid to withdraw for one half-hour's conſidera⯑tion: Then would the ſettlements have been again tendered for your ſigning, by the perſon leaſt diſob⯑liging to you; by your good Norton perhaps; ſhe perhaps ſeconded by your father again: And if again refuſed, you would again have been led in, to declare ſuch your refuſal. Some reſtrictions, which you yourſelf had propoſed, would have been inſiſted upon. You would have been permitted to go home with me, or with your uncle Antony [which, not agreed upon, becauſe they hoped you might be prevailed with], there to tarry till the arrival of your couſin Morden; or till your father could have borne to ſee you; or till aſſured, that the views of Lovelace were at an end.

This the intention, your father ſo ſet upon your compliance, ſo much in hopes that you would have yielded, that you would have been prevailed upon by methods ſo condeſcending and ſo gentle; no wonder that he, in particular, was like a diſtracted man, when he heard of your flight—of your flight, ſo premedi⯑tated;—with your ivy ſummer-houſe dinings, your arts to blind me, and all of us!—naughty, naughty young creature!

I, for my part, would not believe it, when told of it. Your uncle Hervey would not believe it. We rather expected, we rather feared, a ſtill more deſperate ad⯑venture. There could be but one more deſperate; and I was readier to have the caſcade firſt reſorted to, than the garden back-door.—Your mamma fainted away, while her heart was torn between the two ap⯑prehenſions.—Your father, poor man! your father, was beſide himſelf for near an hour. To this day he [251] can hardly bear your name: Yet can think of nobody elſe. Your merits, my dear, but aggravate your fault.—Something of freſh aggravation almoſt every hour.—How can any favour be expected?

I am ſorry for it; but am afraid, nothing you aſk will be complied with.

Why mention you, my dear, the ſaving you from mortifications; who have gone off with a man? What a poor pride is it to ſtand upon any thing elſe?

I dare not open my lips in your favour. Nobody dare. Your letter muſt ſtand by itſelf. This has cauſed me to ſend it to Harlowe-place. Expect there⯑fore great ſeverity. May you be enabled to ſupport the lot you have choſen! O my dear! how unhappy have you made every-body! Can you expect to be happy? Your father wiſhes you had never been born. Your poor mother—But why ſhould I afflict you? There is now no help!—You muſt be changed in⯑deed, if you are not very unhappy yourſelf in the reflections your thoughtful mind muſt ſuggeſt to you.

You muſt now make the beſt of your lot. Yet not married, it ſeems!

It is in your power, you ſay, to perform whatever you ſhall undertake to do: You may deceive your⯑ſelf: You hope that your reputation, and your friends favour, may be retrieved. Never, never, both, I doubt; if either. Every offended perſon (and that is all who loved you, and are related to you) muſt join to reſtore you: When can theſe be of one mind, in a caſe ſo notoriouſly wrong?

It would be very grievous, you ſay, to be preci⯑pitated upon meaſures, that may make the deſirable reconciliation more difficult. Is it now, my dear, a time for you to be afraid of being precipitated? At preſent, if ever, there can be no thought of reconci⯑liation. The upſhot of your precipitation muſt firſt be ſeen. There may be murder yet, as far as we know. [252] Will the man you are with, part willingly with you? If not, what may be the conſequence? If he will, Lord bleſs me! what ſhall we think of his reaſons for it?—I will fly this thought. I know your purity—But, my dear, are you not out of all protection?—Are you not unmarry'd?—Have you not (making your daily prayers uſeleſs) thrown yourſelf into tem⯑ptation? And is not the man the moſt wicked of plotters?

You have hitherto, you ſay (and I think, my dear, with an air unbecoming your declared penitence), no fault to find with the behaviour of a man from whom every evil was apprehended: Like Caeſar to the Ro⯑man augur, which I heard you tell of, who had bid him Beware of the ides of March: The ides of March, ſaid Caeſar, ſeeing the augur among the croud, as he marched in ſtate to the ſenate-houſe, which he never was to return from alive, The ides of March are come. But they are not paſt, the augur reply'd. Make the application, my dear: May you be able to make this reflection upon his good behaviour to the laſt of your knowlege of him! May he behave himſelf better to you, than he ever did to any-body elſe whom he had power over! Amen!

No anſwer, I beſeech you. I hope your meſſenger will not tell any-body that I have written to you. And I dare ſay you will not ſhew what I have written to Mr. Lovelace—For I have written with the leſs reſerve, depending upon your prudence.

You have my prayers.

My Dolly knows not that I write. Nobody does: Not even Mr. Hervey.

Dolly would have ſeveral times written: But, hav⯑ing defended your fault with heat, and with a partia⯑lity, that alarmed us [Such a fall as yours, my dear, muſt be alarming to all parents], ſhe has been forbid⯑den, on pain of loſing our favour for ever: And this at your family's requeſt, as well as by her father's commands.

[253]You have the poor girl's hourly prayers, however, I will tell you, tho' ſhe knows not that I do, as well as thoſe of

LETTER LI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; To Miſs HOWE. [With the preceding.]

I Have juſt now received the incloſed from my aunt Hervey. Be pleaſed, my dear, to keep her ſecret of having written to the unhappy wretch, her niece.

I may go to London, I ſee, or where I will. No matter what becomes of me.

I was the willinger to ſuſpend my journey thither, till I heard from Harlowe-Place. I thought, if I could be encouraged to hope for a reconciliation, I would let this man ſee, that he ſhould not have me in his power, but upon my own terms, if at all.

But I find I muſt be his, whether I will or not; and perhaps thro' ſtill greater mortifications than thoſe great ones which I have already met with.—And muſt I be ſo abſolutely thrown upon a man, with whom I am not at all ſatisfied!

My letter is ſent, you ſee, to Harlowe-Place. My heart akes for the reception it may meet with there. One comfort only ariſes to me from its being ſent; That my aunt will clear herſelf, by the communica⯑tion, from the ſuppoſition of having correſponded with the poor creature whom they have all determined to reprobate. It is no ſmall part of my misfortune, that I have weaken'd the confidence one dear friend has in another, and made one look cool upon another. My poor couſin Dolly, you ſee, has reaſon to regret this, as well as my aunt. Miſs Howe, my dear Miſs [254] Howe, is but too ſenſible of the effects of my fault, having had more words with her mother on my ac⯑count, than ever ſhe had on any other. Yet the man who has drawn me into all this evil, I muſt be thrown upon!—Much did I conſider, much did I apprehend, before my fault, ſuppoſing I were to be guilty of it: But I ſaw it not in all its ſhocking lights.

And now, to know that my father, an hour before he received the tidings of my ſuppoſed flight, owned that he loved me as his life: That he would have been all condeſcenſion: That he would—Oh! my dear, how tender, how mortifyingly-tender, now in him! My aunt need not have been afraid, that it ſhould be known, that ſhe has ſent me ſuch a letter as this!—A father to KNEEL to a daughter!—There would not indeed have been any bearing of that!—What I ſhould have done in ſuch a caſe, I know not. Death would have been much more welcome to me, than ſuch a fight, on ſuch an occaſion, in behalf of a man ſo very, very diſguſtful to me! But I had deſerved annihilation, had I ſuffered my father to kneel in vain.

Yet, had but the ſacrifice of inclination and perſonal preference, been all, leſs than KNEELING ſhould have done. My duty ſhould have been the conqueror of my inclination. But an averſion—an averſion ſo very ſincere!—The triumph of a cruel and ambitious brother, ever ſo uncontroulable, joined with the in⯑ſults of an envious ſiſter, bringing wills to theirs, which otherwiſe would have been favourable to me: The marriage-duties ſo very ſtrong, ſo ſolemnly to be engaged for: The marriage-intimacies (permit me to ſay to you, my friend, what the pureſt, altho' with apprehenſion, muſt think of) ſo very intimate: My⯑ſelf one, who never looked upon any duty, much leſs a voluntarily-vow'd one, with indifference; could it have been honeſt in me to have given my hand to an [255] odious hand, and to have conſented to ſuch a more than reluctant, ſuch an immiſcible union, if I may ſo call it?—For life too!—Did I not think more and deeper than moſt young creatures think; did I not weigh, did I not reflect; I might perhaps have been leſs obſtinate.—Delicacy (may I preſume to call, it?), thinking, weighing, reflection, are not bleſſings (I have not found them ſuch) in the degree I have them. I wiſh I had been able, in ſome very nice caſes, to have known what indifference was; yet not to have my ig⯑norance imputable to me as a fault. Oh! my dear! the finer ſenſibilities, if I may ſuppoſe mine to be ſuch, make not happy!

What a method had my friends intended to take with me!—This, I dare ſay, was a method chalked out by my brother. He, I ſuppoſe, was to have pre⯑ſented me to all my aſſembled friends, as the daugh⯑ter capable of preferring her own will to the wills of them all. It would have been a ſore trial, no doubt. Would to heaven, however, I had ſtood it—Let the iſſue have been what it would, would to heaven I had ſtood it!

There may be murder, my aunt ſays. This looks as if ſhe knew of Singleton's raſh plot. Such an up⯑ſhot, as ſhe calls it, of this unhappy affair, Heaven avert!

She flies a thought, that I can leſs dwell upon—A cruel thought!—But ſhe has a poor opinion of the purity ſhe compliments me with, if ſhe thinks, that I am not, by God's grace, above temptation from this ſex. Altho' I never ſaw a man, whoſe perſon I could like, before this man; yet his faulty character allowed me but little merit from the indifference I pre⯑tended to on his account. But, now I ſee him in nearer lights, I like him leſs than ever.—Indeed, I never liked him ſo little as now. Upon my word, I think I could hate him (if I do not already hate him) ſooner than any man I ever thought tolerably of.—A [256] good reaſon why: Becauſe I have been more diſap⯑pointed in my expectations of him; altho' they never were ſo high, as to have made him my choice in pre⯑ference to the ſingle life, had that been permitted me. Still, if the giving him up for ever will make my path to reconciliation eaſy, and if they will ſignify as much to me, they ſhall ſee that I never will be his: For I have the vanity to think my ſoul his ſoul's ſuperior.

You will ſay I rave: Forbid to write to my aunt, and taught to deſpair of reconciliation, you, my dear, muſt be troubled with my paſſionate reſent⯑ments. What a wretch was I to meet him, and thereby to leave it not in my power to ſtand the ge⯑neral meeting with my friends!—All would now have been over!—And who can tell, when my pre⯑ſent diſtreſſes will?—Rid of both men, I had been now perhaps at my aunt Hervey's, or at my uncle Antony's; wiſhing for my couſin Morden's arrival; who might have accommodated all.

I intended, indeed, to have ſtood it—And, if I had, how know I by whoſe name I might now have been called? For how ſhould I have reſiſted a con⯑deſcending, a kneeling father, had he been able to have kept his temper with me!

Yet my aunt ſays, he would have relented, if I had not. Perhaps he would have been moved by my humility, before he could have ſhewn ſuch undue condeſcenſion. Such temper as he would have re⯑ceived me with, might have been improved upon in my favour. And that he had deſign'd ultimately to relent, how it clears my friends, at leaſt to them⯑ſelves, and condemns me! O why were my aunt's hints [I remember them now] ſo very dark?—Yet I intended to have returned after the interview; and then perhaps ſhe would have explain'd herſelf.—O this artful, this deſigning Lovelace!—Yet I muſt re⯑peat, that moſt ought I to blame myſelf for meeting him.

[257]But far, far, be baniſh'd from me, fruitleſs recri⯑mination! Far baniſhed, becauſe fruitleſs! Let me wrap myſelf about in the mantle of my own inte⯑grity, and take comfort in my unfaulty intention! Since it is now too late to look back, let me collect all my fortitude, and endeavour to ſtand thoſe ſhafts of angry providence, which it will not permit me to ſhun! That, whatever the trials may be, which I am deſtined to undergo, I may not behave unworthily in them; but come out amended by them.

Join with me in this prayer, my beloved friend; for your own honour's ſake, as well as for love's ſake, join with me in it: Leſt a deviation on my ſide ſhould, with the cenſorious, caſt a ſhade upon a friend⯑ſhip, which has no body, no levity, in it, and whoſe baſis is improvement, as well in the greater as leſſer duties.

LETTER LII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

O My beſt, my only friend! Now indeed is my heart broken!—It has received a blow it never will recover! Think not of correſponding with a wretch who now ſeems abſolutely devoted! How can it be otherwiſe, if a parent's curſes have the weight I always attributed to them, and have heard ſo many inſtances of their being follow'd by!—Yes, my dear Miſs Howe, ſuperadded to all my afflictions, I have the conſequences of a father's curſe to ſtruggle with! How ſhall I ſupport this reflection!—My paſt and my preſent ſituation ſo much authorizing my appre⯑henſions!

I have, at laſt, a letter from my unrelenting ſiſter. Would to heaven I had not provoked it, by my ſe⯑cond [258] letter to my aunt Hervey. It lay ready for me, it ſeems. The thunder ſlept, till I awaken'd it. I incloſe the letter itſelf. Tranſcribe it I cannot. There is no bearing the thoughts of it: For (ſhocking re⯑flection!) the curſe extends to the life beyond this.

I am in the depth of vapouriſh deſpondency. I can only repeat, Shun, fly, correſpond not with a wretch ſo devoted, as

LETTER LIII. To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; To be left at Mr. Oſgood's, near Sollo-Square.

LETTER LIV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

BE comforted; be not dejected; do not deſpond, my deareſt and beſt-beloved friend. God Al⯑mighty is juſt and gracious, and gives not his aſſent to raſh and inhuman curſes. If he did, malice, envy, and the blackeſt paſſions, in the blackeſt hearts, would triumph, and the beſt (blaſted by the malignity of the worſt) would be miſerable in both worlds.

This malediction ſhews only, what manner of ſpirit they are of, and how much their ſordid views exceed their parental love. 'Tis all rage and diſappointment, my dear; diſappointment in deſigns proper to be fru⯑ſtrated; and all you have to grieve for is, that their own raſhneſs will turn upon their own hearts. God Almighty cannot ſucceed a curſe ſo preſumptuous, as to be carried into his futurity!

Fie upon them!—Fie upon them, will all the world ſay, who ſhall come to the knowlege of ſuch overflowing venom!—And the more, when all ſhall know, that what they reſent ſo outrageouſly, is owe⯑ing to themſelves!

My mother blames them for this wicked letter; and ſhe pities you; and, of her own accord, wiſh'd me to write to comfort you, for this once: For ſhe ſays, It is pity your heart, which was ſo noble (and when the ſenſe of your fault, and the weight of a pa⯑rent's curſe, are ſo ſtrong upon you), ſhould be quite broken.

[262]Lord bleſs me, how your aunt writes!—Can there be two rights and two wrongs in palpable caſes!—But, my dear, ſhe muſt be wrong: So they all have been, juſtify themſelves now as they will. They can only juſtify themſelves to themſelves from ſelfiſh prin⯑ciples, reſolving to acquit, not fairly to try themſelves. Did your unkind aunt, in all the tedious progreſs of your contentions with them, give you the leaſt hope of their relenting?—Her dark hints I now recollect, as well as you. But why was any thing good or hope⯑ful to you, to be darkly hinted?—How eaſy was it for her, who pretended always to love you ſo well; for her, who can give ſuch flowing licence to her pen for your hurt; to have given you one word, one line (in confidence) of their pretended change of meaſures!

But don't mind their after-pretences, my dear—All of them ſerve but for tacit confeſſions of their vile uſage of you. I will keep your aunt's ſecret, never fear. I would not, on any conſideration, that my mother ſhould ſee it.

You will now ſee, that you have nothing left, but to overcome all ſcrupulouſneſs, and marry, as ſoon as you have opportunity. Determine upon this, my dear.

I will give you a motive for it, regarding myſelf. For this I have reſolved, and this I have vowed [O friend, the beſt beloved of my heart, be not angry with me for it!] ‘'That ſo long as your happineſs is in ſuſpenſe, I will never think of marrying."’ In juſtice to the man I ſhall have, I have vowed this: For, my dear, muſt I not be miſerable, if you are ſo? And what an unworthy wife muſt I be to any man, who cannot have intereſt enough in my heart, to make his obligingneſs a balance for an affliction he has not cauſed?

I would ſhew Lovelace your ſiſter's abominable letter, were it to me. I incloſe it. It ſhall not have a place in this houſe. This will enter him of courſe into [263] the ſubject, which now you ought to have moſt in view. Let him ſee what you ſuffer for him. He cannot prove baſe to ſuch an excellence. I ſhould never enjoy my head or my ſenſes, ſhould this man prove a villain to you! With a merit ſo exalted, you may have puniſhment more than enough for your involuntary fault, in that huſband.

I would not have you be too ſure, that their pro⯑ject to ſeize you is over. The words intimating, that it is over, in the letter of that abominable Arabella, ſeem calculated to give you ſecurity.—She only ſays, ſhe believes that deſign is over.—And I do not yet find from Miſs Lloyd, that it is diſavow'd. So it will be beſt, when you are at London, to be private, and to let every direction be to a third place; for fear of the worſt; for I would not, for the world, have you fall into the hands of ſuch flaming and malevo⯑lent ſpirits, by ſurprize.

I will myſelf be content to direct to you at ſome third place; and that I may have it to averr to my mother, or to any other, if occaſion be, that I know not where you are.

Beſides, this meaſure will make you leſs apprehen⯑ſive of the conſequences of their violence, ſhould they reſolve to attempt to carry you off in ſpite of Lovelace.

I would have you direct to Mr. Hickman, even your anſwer to this. I have a reaſon for it. Beſides, my mamma, notwithſtanding this particular indulg⯑ence, is very poſitive.

I would not have you dwell on the ſhocking occa⯑ſion. I know how it muſt affect you. But don't let it. Try to make light of it [Forget it you can't]: And purſue other ſubjects—The ſubjects before you. And let me know your progreſs, and what he ſays [So far may you enter into this hateful ſubject] to this abominable letter, and diabolical curſe. I expect that this will aptly introduce the grand topic between you, without needing a mediator.

[264]Come, my dear, when things are at worſt, they muſt mend. Good often comes, when evil is expect⯑ed. Happily improv'd upon, this very curſe may turn to a bleſſing.—But if you deſpond, there can be no hopes of cure.—Don't let them break your heart; for that, it is plain to me, is now what ſome people have in view to do.

How poor, to with-hold from you your books, your jewels, and your money!—The latter is all you can at preſent want, ſince they will vouchſafe to ſend your cloaths.—I ſend fifty guineas by the bearer, incloſed in ſingle papers in my Norris's Miſcellanies. I charge you, as you love me, return them not.

I have more at your ſervice. So if you like not your lodgings, or his behaviour, when you get to town, leave both out of hand.

I would adviſe you to write to Mr. Morden with⯑out delay. If he intends for England, it may haſten him. And you'll do very well till he can come. But ſurely Lovelace is bewitched, if he takes not his hap⯑pineſs from your conſent, before that of Mr. Morden's is made needful by his arrival.

Come, my dear, be comforted. All is haſtening to be well. This very violence ſhews that it is. Suppoſe yourſelf to be me, and me to be you [You may—for your diſtreſs is mine]; and then give to yourſelf thoſe conſolations which, in that caſe, you would give me. Nothing but words has paſſed, vehement and horrid as thoſe are. The divine goodneſs will not let them be more. Can you think that heaven will ſeal to the black paſſions of its depraved creatures? Manage with your uſual prudence the ſtake before you, and all will be ſtill happy.

I have as great apprehenſions as you of the weight of a parent's curſe: But not of the curſe of thoſe parents, who have more to anſwer for, than the child, in the very errors they ſo much reſent. To intitle thoſe horrid words to efficacy, the parents views [265] ſhould be pure, ſhould be altogether juſtifiable; and the child's ingratitude and undutifulneſs, without ex⯑cuſe; and her choice too, as totally inexcuſable.

This is the true light, as I humbly conceive, that this matter ſhould appear to you in, and to every⯑body. If you let not deſpondency ſeize you, you will ſtrengthen, you will add more day to this but glimmering light, from

I hurry This away by Robert. I will inquire into the truth of your aunt's pretences, about their change of meaſures, had you not gone away.

LETTER LV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOUR letter, my beloved Miſs Howe, gives me great comfort. How ſweetly do I experience the truth of the wiſe man's obſervation, That a faith⯑ful friend is the medicine of life!

Your meſſenger finds me juſt ſetting out for Lon⯑don: The chaiſe at the door. Already I have taken leave of the good widow, who has oblig'd me with the company of her eldeſt daughter, at Mr. Love⯑lace's requeſt, while he rides by us. The young gentlewoman is to return in two or three days with the chaiſe, in its way to my Lord M.'s Hertfordſhire ſeat.

I received this dreadful letter on Sunday, when Mr. Lovelace was out. He ſaw, on his return, my extreme anguiſh and dejection; and he was told how much worſe I had been: For I had fainted away twice.

I think it has touch'd my head as well as my heart.

[266]He would fain have ſeen it. But I would not per⯑mit that, becauſe of the threatnings he would have found in it, againſt himſelf. As it was, the effect it had upon me, made him break out into execrations and menaces. I was ſo ill, that he himſelf adviſed me to delay going to town on Monday, as I propoſed to do.

He is extremely regardful and tender of me. All that you ſuppoſed would follow this violent letter, from him, has followed it. He has offer'd himſelf to my acceptance, in ſo unreſerv'd a manner, that I am concern'd I have written ſo freely and ſo diffidently of him. Pray, my deareſt friend, keep to yourſelf every thing that may appear diſreputable of him from me.

I muſt own to you, that his kind behaviour, and my low-ſpiritedneſs, co-operating with your former advice, and my unhappy ſituation, made me that very Sunday evening receive unreſervedly his declarations: And now, indeed, I am more in his power than ever.

He preſſes me every hour for freſh tokens of my eſteem for him, and confidence in him. He owns, that he doubted the one, and was ready to deſpair of the other. And, as I have been brought to ſome verbal conceſſions, if he ſhould prove unworthy, I am ſure, I ſhall have great reaſon to blame this violent letter: For I have no reſolution at all. Abandon'd thus of all my natural friends, and only you to pity me; and you reſtrained as I may ſay; I have been forced to turn my deſolate heart to ſuch protection as I could find.

All my comfort is, that your advice repeatedly given to the ſame purpoſe, in your kind letter before me, warrants me. Upon the ſtrength of that, I now ſet out the more chearfully to London: For, before, a heavy weight hung upon my heart, and, altho' I thought it beſt and ſafeſt to go, yet my ſpirit ſunk, I [267] know not why, at every motion I made towards a preparation for it.

I hope no miſchief will happen on the road.—I hope theſe violent ſpirits will not meet.

Every one is waiting for me.—Pardon me, my beſt, my kindeſt friend, that I return your Norris. In theſe more promiſing proſpects, I cannot have occa⯑ſion for your favour. Beſides, I have ſome hope, that with my cloaths they will ſend me what I wrote for, altho' it is deny'd me in the letter. If they do not, and if I ſhould have occaſion, I can but ſignify my wants to ſo ready a friend. But I had rather me⯑thinks you ſhould have it ſtill to ſay, if challeng'd, that nothing of this nature has been either requeſted or done. I ſay This, with a view intirely to my future hopes of recovering your mamma's favour, which, next to that of my own father and mother, I am moſt ſolicitous to recover.

I muſt add one thing more, notwithſtanding my hurry; and that is: Mr. Lovelace offered to attend me to Lord M.'s, or to ſend for his chaplain, yeſter⯑day: He preſs'd me to conſent to this propoſal, moſt earneſtly; and even ſeem'd more deſirous to have the ceremony paſs here, than at London: For when there, I had told him, it was time enough to conſider of ſo weighty and important a matter. Now, upon the receipt of your kind, your conſolatory letter, me⯑thinks I could almoſt wiſh it had been in my power to comply with his earneſt ſolicitations. But this dread⯑ful letter has unhing'd my whole frame. Then ſome little punctilio ſurely is neceſſary. No preparation made. No articles drawn. No licence ready. Grief ſo extreme: No pleaſure in proſpect, nor ſo much as in wiſh—O my dear, who could think of entering into ſo ſolemn an engagement! Who, ſo unprepared, could ſeem to be ſo ready!

If I could flatter myſelf, that my indifference to all the joys of this life proceeded from proper motives, [268] and not rather from the diſappointments and mortifi⯑cations my pride has met with, how much rather, I think, ſhould I chooſe to be wedded to my ſhroud, than to any man on earth!

Indeed I have at preſent no pleaſure, but in your friendſhip. Continue That to me, I beſeech you. If my heart riſes hereafter to more, it muſt be built on that foundation.

My ſpirits ſink again, on ſetting out. Excuſe this depth of vapouriſh dejection, which forbids me even hope, the cordial that keeps life from ſtagnating, and which never was deny'd me, till within theſe eight-and-forty hours.

But 'tis time to relieve you.

Adieu, my beſt beloved and kindeſt friend! Pray for your

LETTER LVI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Am ſorry you return'd my Norris. But you muſt be allow'd to do as you pleaſe. So muſt I, in return. We muſt neither of us, perhaps, expect ab⯑ſolutely of the other what is the righteſt to be done: And yet few folks, ſo young, better know, what that righteſt is. I cannot ſeparate myſelf from you, my dear; altho' I give a double inſtance of my vanity in this particular compliment to myſelf.

I am moſt heartily rejoiced, that your proſpects are ſo much mended; and that, as I hoped, good has been produced out of evil. What muſt the man have been, what muſt have been his views, had he not taken ſuch a turn, upon a letter ſo vile, and treatment ſo unna⯑tural, himſelf principally the occaſion of it?

You know beſt your motives for ſuſpending: But I wiſh you had taken him at offers ſo earneſt. Why [269] ſhould you not have permitted him to ſend for Lord M.'s chaplain? If punctilio only was in the way, and want of a licence, and of proper preparations, and ſuch-like, my ſervice to you, my dear: And there is ceremony tantamount to your ceremony.

Don't, don't, my dear friend, again be ſo very melancholy a decliner, as to prefer a ſhroud, when the matter you wiſh for is in your power; and when, as you have ſaid juſtly heretofore, perſons cannot die when they will.

But it is a ſtrange perverſeneſs in human nature, that we covet at a diſtance, what when near we flight.

You have now but one point to purſue: That is marriage. Let that be compaſſed. Leave the reſt to Providence; and follow as that leads. You'll have a handſome man, a genteel man; he would be a wiſe man, if he were not vain of his endowments, and wild and intriguing: But while the eyes of many of our ſex, taken by ſo ſpecious a form, and ſo brilliant a ſpirit, encourage that vanity, you muſt be contented to ſtay till grey hairs and prudence enter upon the ſtage together. You would not have every thing in the ſame man.

I believe Mr. Hickman treads no crooked paths; but he hobbles moſt ungracefully in a ſtrait one. Yet Hickman, tho' he pleaſes not my eye, nor diverts my ear, will not, as I believe, diſguſt the one, nor ſhock the other. Your man, as I have lately ſaid, will al⯑ways keep up attention; you will always be alive with him, tho' perhaps more from fears than hopes: While Hickman will neither ſay any thing to keep one awake, nor yet, by ſhocking adventures, make one's ſlumbers uneaſy.

I believe I now know which of the two men ſo pru⯑dent a perſon as you would, at firſt, have choſen; nor doubt I, that you can gueſs which I would have made choice of, if I might. But proud as we are, [270] the proudeſt of us all can only refuſe, and many of us accept the but half-worthy, for fear a ſtill worſe ſhould offer.

If the men had choſen for ſpirits like their own, al⯑tho' Mr. Lovelace, at the long run, might have been too many for me, I don't doubt but I ſhould have given heart-ake for heart-ake, for one half-year at leaſt; while you, with my dull-ſwift, would have glided on as ſerenely, as calmly, as accountably, as the ſuccceding ſeaſons; and varying no otherwiſe than as they, to bring on new beauties and conve⯑niencies to all about you.

I WAS going on in this ſtile—But my mamma broke in upon me, with a prohibitory aſpect. ‘"She gave me leave but for one letter only."’ —She has ſeen your odious uncle; and they have been in cloſe conference again.

She has vexed me; I muſt lay this by till I hear from you again; not knowing where to ſend it.

Direct me to a Third place, as I deſired in my for⯑mer.

I told my mother (on her challenging me), that I was writing indeed, and to you: But it was only to amuſe myſelf; for I proteſted, that I knew not where to ſend to you.

I hope that your next may inform me of your nup⯑tials, altho' the next to that were to acquaint me, that he was the ungratefulleſt monſter on earth; as he muſt be, if not the kindeſt huſband in it.

My mamma has vexed me. But ſo, on reviſing, I wrote before.—But ſhe has unhing'd me, as you call it—Pretended to catechiſe Hickman, I aſſure you, for contributing to our ſuppoſed correſpondence. Ca⯑techiſe him ſeverely too, upon my word!—I believe I have a ſneaking kindneſs for the ſneaking fellow; for [271] I can't endure that any-body ſhould treat him like a fool but myſelf.

I believe, between you and me, the good Lady for⯑got herſelf. I heard her loud.—She poſſibly imagin'd, that my papa was come to life again!—Yet the man's meekneſs might have ſooner convinced her, I ſhould have thought; for my papa, it ſeems, would talk as loud as ſhe:—I ſuppoſe, tho' within a few yards of each other, as if both were out of their way, and were hollowing at half a mile's diſtance, to get in again.

I know you'll blame me for this ſaucineſs.—But I told you I was vexed: And if I had not a ſpirit, my parentage on both ſides might be doubted.

You muſt not chide me too ſeverely, however, be⯑cauſe I have learn'd of you not to defend myſelf in an error:—And I own I am wrong:—And that's enough. You won't be ſo generous in this caſe, as you are in every other, if you don't think it is.

Adieu, my dear!—I muſt, I will love you; and love you for ever! So ſubſcribes your

LETTER LVII. From the ſame. Incloſed in the above.

I HAVE been making inquiry, as I told you I would, whether your relations had really (before you left them) reſolved upon that change of meaſures which your aunt mentions in her letter:—And by laying together ſeveral pieces of intelligence, ſome drawn from my mamma, by your uncle Antony's communications; ſome from Miſs Lloyd, by your ſiſters; and ſome by a third way, that I ſhall not tell you of; I have reaſon to think the following a true ſtate of the caſe.

That there was no intention of a change of mea⯑ſures, [272] till within two or three days of your going away. On the contrary, your brother and ſiſter, tho' they had no hope of prevailing with you in Solmes's favour, were reſolved never to give over their perſecutions, till they had puſh'd you upon take⯑ing ſome ſtep, which, by help of their good offices, ſhould be deemed inexcuſable by the half-witted ſouls they had to play upon.

But that at laſt your mamma (tired with and per⯑haps aſhamed of the paſſive part ſhe had acted) thought fit to declare to Miſs Bell, that ſhe was deter⯑mined to try to put an end to the family-feuds; and to get your uncle Harlowe to ſecond her endeavours.

This alarmed your brother and ſiſter; and then a change of meaſures was reſolved upon. Solmes's of⯑fers were however too advantageous to be given up; and your father's condeſcenſion was now to be their ſole dependence, and (as they give out) your laſt trial.

And, indeed, my dear, this muſt have ſucceeded, I verily think, with ſuch a daughter as they had to deal with, could that father, who never, I dare ſay, kneeled in his life, but to God, have ſo far conde⯑ſcended, as your aunt writes he would.

But then, my dear, what would this have done?—Perhaps you would have given Lovelace the meeting, in hopes to pacify him, and prevent miſchief; ſup⯑poſing that they had given you time, and not hurried you directly into the ſtate. But if you had not met him, you ſee, that he was reſolved to viſit them, and well attended too: And what muſt have been the con⯑ſequence?

So that, upon the whole, we know not but matters may be beſt as they are, however undeſirable that beſt is.

I hope your conſiderate and thoughtful mind will make a good uſe of this hint. Who would not with patience ſuſtain even a great evil, if ſhe could per⯑ſuade [273] herſelf, that it was kindly diſpenſed, in or⯑der to prevent a ſtill greater?—Eſpecial]y, if ſhe could ſit down, as you can, and acquit her own heart?

Permit me one further obſervation—Do we not ſee, from the above ſtate of the matter, what might have been done before, by the worthy perſon of your fa⯑mily, had ſhe exerted the mother, in behalf of a child ſo meritorious, yet ſo much oppreſſed?

Adieu, my dear. I will be ever yours.

Miſs Harlowe, in her anſwer to the firſt of the two laſt letters, chides her friend for giving ſo little weight to her advice, in relation to her behaviour to her mother:—It may be proper to inſert here the following extracts from that anſwer; tho' a little before their time.

‘'I will not repeat, ſays ſee, what I have before written in Mr. Hickman's behalf. I will only re⯑mind you of an obſervation I have made to you more than once, that you have outlived your firſt paſſion; and had the ſecond man been an angel, he would not have been more than indifferent to you.'’

‘'My motives for ſuſpending, proceeds ſhe, were not merely ceremonious ones. I was really very ill. I could not hold up my head. The contents of my ſiſters letters had pierced my heart. And was I, my dear, to be as ready to accept his offer, as if I were afraid, he never would repeat it?'’

To the ſecond letter, among other things, ſhe ſays:

‘'So, my dear, you ſeem to think, that there was a fate in my error. The cordial, the conſidering friend, is ſeen in the obſervation you make on this occaſion. Yet ſince things have happen'd as they have, would to heaven I could hear, that all the world acquitted my father, or, at leaſt, my mo⯑ther; [274] for her character, before theſe family-feuds broke out, was every-one's admiration. Don't let any-body ſay from you, ſo that it may come to her ear, that ſhe might, by a timely exertion of her fine talents, have ſaved her unhappy child. You'll obſerve, my dear, that in her own good time, when ſhe ſaw that there was not likely to be an end to my brother's perſecutions, ſhe was reſolved to exert herſelf. But the pragmatical daughter, by the fa⯑tal meeting, precipitated all, and fruſtrated her in⯑dulgent deſigns. O my dear, I am now convinced, by dear experience, that while children are ſo happy as to have parents or guardians, whom they may conſult, they ſhould not preſume (no, not with the beſt and pureſt intentions) to follow their own con⯑ceits, in material caſes.'’

‘'A ray of hope of future reconciliation, adds ſhe, darts in upon my mind, from the intention you tell me my mother had to exert herſelf in my favour, had I not gone away. And my hope is the ſtronger, as this communication points out to me, that my uncle Harlowe's intereſt is likely, in my mother's opinion, to be of weight, if it could be engaged. It will behove me, perhaps, to apply to that dear uncle, if a proper occaſion offer.'’

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

FATE is weaving a whimſical web for thy friend; and I ſee not but I ſhall be inevitably manacled.

Here have I been at work, dig, dig, dig, like a cunning miner, at one time, and ſpreading my ſnares, like an artful fowler, at another, and exulting in my contrivances to get this inimitable creature ab⯑ſolutely into my power;—Every thing made for me. [275] —Her brother and uncle were but my pioneers: Her father ſtorm'd as I directed him to ſtorm. Mrs. Howe was acted by the ſprings I ſet at work: Her daughter was moving for me, and yet imagin'd herſelf plumb againſt me: And the dear creature herſelf had already run her ſtubborn neck into my gin, and knew not that ſhe was caught; for I had not drawn my ſprindges cloſe about her.—And juſt as all this was completed, wouldſt thou believe, that I ſhould be my own ene⯑my, and her friend?—That I ſhould be ſo totally di⯑verted from all my favourite purpoſes, as to propoſe to marry her before I went to town, in order to put it out of my own power to reſume them?

When thou knoweſt This, wilt thou not think that my black angel plays me booty, and has taken it into his head, to urge me on to the indiſſoluble tie, that he might be more ſure of me (from the complex tranſgreſſions to which he will certainly ſtimulate me, when wedded) than perhaps he thought he could be from the ſimple ſins, in which I have ſo long allowed myſelf, that they ſeem to have the plea of habit?

Thou wilt be ſtill the more ſurprized, when I tell thee, that there ſeems to be a coalition going forward between the black angels and the white ones; for here has hers induced her in one hour, and by one re⯑trograde accident, to acknowlege what the charming creature never before acknowleged, a preferable fa⯑vour for me. She even owns an intention to be mine;—Mine, without reformation-conditions:—She per⯑mits me to talk of love to her: Of the irrevocable ce⯑remony: Yet, another extraordinary! poſtpones that ceremony; chooſes to ſet out for London; and even to go to the widow's in town.

Well, but how comes all this about, methinks thou aſkeſt?—Thou, Lovelace, dealeſt in wonders, yet aimeſt not at the Marvellous.—How did all this come about?

I'll tell thee—I was in danger of loſing my charmer [276] for ever.—She was ſoaring upward to her native ſkies. She was got above earth, by means, too, of the Earth-born: And ſomething extraordinary was to be done to keep her with us Sublunaries. And what ſo effectually as the ſoothing voice of Love, and the at⯑tracting offer of Matrimony from a man not hated, can fix the attention of the maiden heart aking with uncertainty; and before impatient of the queſtionable queſtion?

This, in ſhort, was the caſe.—While ſhe was re⯑fuſing all manner of obligation to me, keeping me at haughty diſtance; in hopes that her couſin Morden's arrival would ſoon fix her in a full and abſolute inde⯑pendence of me: Diſguſted likewiſe at her adorer, for holding himſelf the reins of his own paſſions, inſtead of giving them up to her controul:—She writes a letter, urging an anſwer to a letter before written, for her apparel, her jewels, and ſome gold, which ſhe had left behind her; all which was to ſave her pride from obligation, and to promote the independence her heart was ſet upon.—And what follow'd but a ſhocking anſwer, made ſtill more ſhocking by the communi⯑cation of a paternal curſe upon a daughter, deſerving only bleſſings?—A curſe upon the curſer's heart, and a double one upon the tranſmitter's, the ſpiteful, the envious Arabella!

Abſent when it came; on my return, I found her, recovering from fits, again to fall into ſtronger fits; and no-body expecting her life; half a dozen meſſen⯑gers diſpatch'd to find me out.—Nor wonder at her being ſo affected; ſhe, whoſe filial piety gave her dread⯑ful faith in a father's curſes; and the curſe of this gloomy tyrant extending, to uſe her own words, when ſhe could ſpeak, to both worlds.—O that it had turn'd, in the moment of its utterance, to a mortal quinſey, and ſticking in his gullet, had choak'd the old exe⯑crator, as a warning to all ſuch unnatural fathers.

What a miſcreant had I been, not to have endea⯑voured [277] to bring her back, by all the endearments, by all the vows, by all the offers that I could make her?

I did bring her back. More than a father to her; for I have given her a life her unnatural father had well-nigh taken away; ſhall I not cheriſh the fruits of my own benefaction?—I have been in earneſt in my vows to marry, and my ardour to urge the pre⯑ſent time was a real ardour. But extreme dejection, with a mingled delicacy, that in her dying moments I doubt not ſhe will preſerve, have cauſed her to refuſe me the time, tho' not the ſolemnity; for ſhe has told me, that now ſhe muſt be wholly in my protection, being deſtitute of every other!—More indebted ſtill, thou ſeeſt, to her cruel friends, than to herſelf, for her favour!

She has written to Miſs Howe an account of their barbarity; but has not acquainted her, how very ill ſhe was.

Low, very low, ſhe remains; yet, dreading her ſtupid brother's enterprize, ſhe wants to be in Lon⯑don: Where, but for this accident, and (wouldſt thou have believed it?) my perſuaſions, ſeeing her ſo very ill, ſhe would have been this night; and we ſhall actually ſet out on Wedneſday morning, if ſhe be not worſe.

And now for a few words with thee, on thy heavy preachment of Saturday laſt.

Thou art apprehenſive, that the Lady is now in danger indeed; and it is a miracle thou telleſt me, if ſhe ſtand ſuch an attempter: ‘'Knowing what we know of the ſex, thou ſayeſt, thou ſhouldſt dread, wert thou me, to make farther trial, leſt thou ſhouldſt ſucceed.'’ And, in another place, telleſt me, ‘'That thou pleadeſt not for the ſtate, for any favour thou haſt for it.'’

What an advocate art thou for matrimony!—Thou wert ever an unhappy fellow at argument. Does the [278] trite ſtuff with which the reſt of thy letter abounds, in favour of wedlock, ſtrike with the force that this does againſt it?

Thou takeſt great pains to convince me, and that from the diſtreſſes the Lady is reduced to [chiefly by her friends perſecutions and implacableneſs, I hope thou wilt own, and not from me as yet], that the propoſed trial will not be a fair trial. But let me aſk thee, Is not calamity the teſt of virtue? And wouldſt thou not have me value this charming creature upon proof of her merits?—Do I not intend to reward her by marriage, if ſhe ſtand that proof?

But why repeat I, what I have ſaid before?—Turn back, thou egregious arguer, turn back to my long letter of the 13th ^(a); and thou wilt there find every ſyllable of what thou haſt written, either anſwer'd or invalidated.

But I am not angry with thee, Jack. I love op⯑poſition. As gold is try'd by fire, and virtue by temptation; ſo is ſterling wit by oppoſition. Have I not, before thou ſettedſt out as an advocate for my fair one, often brought thee in, as making objections to my proceedings, for no other reaſon than to exalt myſelf by proving thee a man of ſtraw? As Homer raiſes up many of his champions, and gives them terrible names, only to have them knock'd on the head by his heroes.

However, take to thee this one piece of advice—Evermore be ſure of being in the right, when thou preſumeſt to ſit down to correct thy maſter.

Well, but to return to my principal ſubject; let me obſerve, that be my future reſolutions what they will, as to this lady, the contents of the violent letter ſhe has received, have ſet me at leaſt a month forward with her. I can now, as I hinted, talk of Love and Marriage, without controul or reſtriction; her in⯑junctions no more my terror.

[279]In this ſweetly familiar way ſhall we ſet out together for London. Mrs. Sorlings's eldeſt daughter, at my motion, is to attend her in the chaiſe; while I ride by way of eſcorte: For ſhe is extremely apprehenſive of the Singleton plot; and has engag'd me to be all patience, if any thing ſhould happen on the road. But nothing I am ſure will happen: For, by a letter re⯑ceived juſt now from Joſeph, I underſtand, that James Harlowe has already laid aſide his ſtupid project: And This by the earneſt deſire of all his friends to whom he had communicated it; who were afraid of the conſequences that might attend it. But it is not over with me, however; altho' I am not determin'd at preſent, as to the uſes I may make of it.

My beloved tells me, ſhe ſhall have her cloaths ſent her: She hopes alſo her jewels, and ſome gold, which ſhe left behind her. But Joſeph ſays, cloaths only will be ſent. I will not, however, tell her that: On the contrary, I ſay, there is no doubt, but they will ſend all ſhe wrote for, of perſonals. The greater her diſappointment from them, the greater muſt be her dependence on me.

But, after all, I hope I ſhall be enabled to be honeſt to a merit ſo tranſcendent. The devil take thee tho', for thy opinion given ſo mal-à-propo', that ſhe may be overcome.

If thou deſigneſt to be honeſt, methinks thou ſay'ſt, why ſhould not Singleton's plot be over with thee, as it is with her brother?

Becauſe, if I muſt anſwer thee, where people are ſo modeſtly doubtful of what they are able to do, it is good to leave a loop-hole. And let me add, that when a man's heart is ſet upon a point, and any thing occurs to beat him off, he will find it is very difficult, when the ſuſpending reaſon ceaſes, to forbear re⯑ſumng it.

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

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

AT laſt, my lucky ſtar has directed us into the deſired port, and we are ſafely landed. Well ſays Rowe:

But in the midſt of my exultation, ſomething, I know not what to call it, checks my joys, and glooms over my brighter proſpects. If it be not conſcience, it is wondrouſly like what I thought ſo, many, many years ago.

Surely, Lovelace, methinks thou ſayſt, thy good motions are not gone off already! Surely thou wilt not now at laſt be a villain to this lady.

I can't tell what to ſay to it.—Why would not the dear creature accept of me, when I ſo ſincerely offer'd myſelf to her acceptance? Things already appear with a very different face now I have got her here. Already have our mother and her daughters been about me. ‘'Charming Lady! What a complexion! What eyes! What majeſty in her perſon!—O Mr. Lovelace, you are a happy man!—You owe us ſuch a Lady!'’ —Then they remind me of my re⯑venge, and of my hatred to her whole family. Sally was ſo ſtruck with her, at firſt ſight, that ſhe broke out to me in thoſe lines of Dryden:

[284]I ſent to thy lodgings within half an hour after our arrival, to receive thy congratulations upon it: But thou wert at Edgware, it ſeems.

My beloved, who is charmingly amended, is re⯑tired to her conſtant employment, writing. I muſt content myſelf with the ſame amuſement, till ſhe ſhall be pleaſed to admit me to her preſence: Having already given to every one her cue.

But here comes the widow, with Dorcas Wykes in her hand.—Dorcas Wykes, Jack, is to be the maid-ſervant to my fair-one; and I am to introduce them both to her. In ſo many ways will it be in my power to have the dear creature now, that I ſhall not know which of them to chooſe!—

So! The honeſt girl is accepted!—Of good pa⯑rentage: But, thro' a neglected education, plaguy illiterate:—She can neither write, nor read writing. A kinſwoman of Mrs. Sinclair's: So could not well be refuſed, the widow in perſon recommending her; and the wench only taken till her Hannah can come. What an advantage has an impoſing or forward nature over a courteous one!—So here may ſomething ariſe to lead into correſpondencies, and ſo forth!—To be ſure, a perſon need not be ſo wary, ſo cautious of what ſhe writes, or what ſhe leaves upon her table or toilet, when her attendant cannot read.

Dorcas is a neat girl both in perſon and dreſs; a countenance not vulgar. And I am in hopes that ſhe accept of her for her bedfellow, in aſtrange houſe, for a week or ſo. But I ſaw ſhe had a diſlike to her at her very firſt appearance:—Yet I thought the girl behaved very modeſtly—Over-did it a little per⯑haps!—She ſhrunk back, and looked ſhy upon her. The doctrine of ſympathies and antipathies is a ſur⯑priſing doctrine.—But Dorcas will be exceſſively ob⯑liging, and win her Lady's favour ſoon, I doubt not.—I am ſecure in her incorruptibility. A great [285] point that!—For a Lady and her Maid of one party will be too hard for half a ſcore devils.

The dear creature was no leſs ſhy when the widow firſt accoſted her, at her alighting. Yet, I thought, that honeſt Doleman's letter had prepared her for her maſculine appearance.

And now I mention that letter, why doſt thou not wiſh me joy, Jack?

Joy of what?

Why, joy of my nuptials.—Know then, that ſaid, is done with me, when I have a mind to have it ſo; and that we are actually man and wife. Only that conſummation has not paſſed: Bound down to the contrary of that, by a ſolemn vow, till a reconcilia⯑tion with her family take place. The women here are told ſo. They know it, before my beloved knows it; and that's odd, thou'lt ſay.

But how ſhall I do to make my fair-one temperate on the intimation? Why is ſhe not here?—At Mrs. Sinclair's?—But if ſhe will hear reaſon, I doubt not to convince her, that ſhe ought to acquieſce.

She will inſiſt, I ſuppoſe, upon my leaving her, and that I ſhall not take up my lodgings under the ſame roof. But circumſtances are changed ſince I firſt made her that promiſe. I have taken all the vacant apartments; and muſt carry this point alſo.

I hope in a while to get her with me to the public entertainments. She knows nothing of the town, and has ſeen leſs of its diverſions than ever woman of her taſte, her fortune, her endowments, did ſee. She has indeed a natural politeneſs, which tranſcends all acquirement. The moſt capable of any one I ever knew, of judging what an hundred things are, by ſee⯑ing one of a like nature. Indeed ſhe took ſo much pleaſure in her own choſen amuſements till perſecuted out of them, that ſhe had neither leiſure nor inclina⯑tion for the town diverſions.

Theſe diverſions will amuſe. And the duce is in [286] it, if a little ſuſceptibility will not put forth, now ſhe receives my addreſs, and if I can manage it ſo, as to be allowed to live under one roof with her. What tho' the appearance be at firſt no more than that of an early ſpring-flower in froſty weather, that ſeems afraid of being nipp'd by an eaſterly blaſt; that will be enough for me.

I hinted to thee in a former ^(a), that I had pro⯑vided for the lady's in-door amuſement. Sally and Polly are readers. My beloved's light cloſet was their library. And ſeveral pieces of devotion have been put in, bought on purpoſe, at ſecond-hand.

I was always for forming a judgment of the reading part of the ſex by their books. The obſervations I have made on this occaſion have been of great uſe to me, as well in England as out of it. This ſagacious lady may poſſibly be as curious in this point, as her Lovelace.

So much for the preſent. Thou ſeeſt, that I have a great deal of buſineſs before me. Yet I will write again ſoon.

Mr. Lovelace ſends another letter with this; in which he takes notice of young Mrs. Sorlings's ſet⯑ting out with them, and leaving them at Barnet: But as its contents are nearly the ſame with thoſe in the lady's next, it is omitted.

LETTER LXI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

AT length, my deareſt Miſs Howe, I am in Lon⯑don, and in my new lodgings. They are neatly furniſh'd, and the ſituation, for the town, is pleaſant. But, I think, you muſt not aſk me, how I like the old gentlewoman. Yet ſhe ſeems courteous and ob⯑liging. Her kinſwomen juſt appeared to welcome me [287] at my alighting. They ſeem to be genteel young women. But more of their aunt and of them, as I ſhall ſee more.

Miſs Sorlings has an uncle at Barnet, whom ſhe found ſo very ill, that her uneaſineſs to ſtay to attend him (having large expectations from him) made me comply with her deſire. Yet I wiſh'd, as her uncle did not expect her, that ſhe would firſt ſee me ſettled in London; and Mr. Lovelace was ſtill more earneſt that ſhe would, offering to ſend her back again in a day or two, and urging, that her uncle's malady inti⯑mated not a ſudden change. But leaving the matter to her choice, after ſhe knew what would have been mine, ſhe made me not the expected compliment up⯑on it. Mr. Lovelace, however, made her a hand⯑ſome preſent at parting.

His genteel ſpirit on all occaſions makes me often wiſh him more conſiſtent.

As ſoon as I arrived, I took poſſeſſion of my apart⯑ment. Shall make good uſe of the light cloſet in it, if I ſtay here any time.

One of his attendants returns in the morning to the Lawn; and I made writing to you by him, an ex⯑cuſe for my retiring.

And now give me leave to chide you, my deareſt friend, for your raſh, and I hope revocable reſolution, not to make Mr. Hickman the happieſt man in the world, while my happineſs is in ſuſpenſe. Suppoſe I were to be unhappy, what, my dear, would your re⯑ſolution avail me? Marriage is the higheſt ſtate of friendſhip: If happy, it leſſens our cares, by divide⯑ing them, at the ſame time that it doubles our plea⯑ſures by a mutual participation. Why, my dear, if you love me, will you not rather give another friend to one who has not two that ſhe is ſure of?—Had you marry'd on your mother's laſt birth-day, as ſhe would have had you, I ſhould not, I dare ſay, [288] have wanted a refuge, that would have ſaved me ſo many mortifications, and ſo much diſgrace.

HERE I was broken in upon by Mr. Lovelace; introducing the widow leading in a kinſwoman of hers to attend me, if I approved of her, till my Hannah ſhould come, or till I had provided myſelf with ſome other ſervant. The widow gave her many good qua⯑lities; but ſaid, that ſhe had one great defect; which was, that ſhe could not write, nor read writing; that part of her education having been neglected when ſhe was young: But for diſcretion, fidelity, obligingneſs, ſhe was not to be outdone by any-body. She com⯑mended her likewiſe for her ſkill in the needle.

As for her defect, I can eaſily forgive that. She is very likely and genteel; too genteel indeed, I think, for a ſervant. But what I like leaſt of all in her, ſhe has a ſtrange ſly eye. I never ſaw ſuch an eye:—Half-confident, I think. But indeed Mrs. Sinclair herſelf (for that is the widow's name) has an odd winking eye; and her reſpectfulneſs ſeems too much ſtudied, methinks, for the London eaſe and freedom. But people can't help their looks, you know; and after all, ſhe is extremely civil and obliging: And as for the young woman (Dorcas her name), ſhe will not be long with me.

I accepted her: How could I do otherwiſe (if I had a mind to make objections, which in my preſent ſitua⯑tion I had not), her aunt preſent, and the young wo⯑man alſo preſent; and Mr. Lovelace officious in his introducing of them for my ſake?—But upon their leaving me, I told him, who ſeem'd inclinable to be⯑gin a converſation with me, that I deſired that this apartment might be conſider'd as my retirement: That when I ſaw him, it might be in the dining-room; and that I might be as little broke in upon as poſſible, when I am here. He withdrew very reſpect⯑fully to the door; but there ſtopt; and aſked for my [289] company then in the dining-room. If he was about ſetting out for other lodgings, I would go with him now, I told him: But if he did not juſt then go, I would firſt finiſh my letter to Miſs Howe.

I ſee he has no mind to leave me, if he can help it. My brother's ſcheme may give him a pretence to try to engage me to diſpenſe with his promiſe. But if I now do, I muſt acquit him of it intirely.

My approbation of his tender behaviour in the midſt of my grief, has given him a right, as he ſeems to think, of addreſſing me with all the freedom of an approved lover. I ſee by this man, that when once a woman embarks with this ſex, there is no re⯑ceding. One conceſſion is but the prelude to an⯑other with them. He has been ever ſince Sunday laſt continually complaining of the diſtance I keep him at; and thinks himſelf intitled now, to call in queſtion my value for him; ſtrengthening his doubts by my de⯑clared readineſs to give him up to a reconciliation with my friends—And yet has himſelf fallen off from that obſequious tenderneſs, if I may couple the words, which drew from me the conceſſions he builds upon.

While we were talking at the door, my new ſer⯑vant came up, with an invitation to us both to tea. I ſaid he might accept of it, if he pleaſed; but I muſt purſue my writing; and not chooſing either tea or ſupper, I deſired him to make my excuſes below, as to both; and inform them of my choice to be retired as much as poſſible; yet to promiſe for me my at⯑tendance on the widow and her nieces at breakfaſt in the morning.

He objected particularity in the eye of ſtrangers, as to avoiding ſupper.

You know, ſaid I, and can tell them, that I ſel⯑dom eat ſuppers. My ſpirits are low. You muſt never urge me againſt a declared choice. Pray, Mr. Lovelace, inform them of all my particularities. If [290] they are obliging, they will allow for them. I come not here to make new acquaintance.

I have turned over the books I have found in my cloſet; and am not a little pleaſed with them; and think the better of the people of the houſe for their ſakes.

Stanhope's Goſpels; Sharp's, Tillotſon's, and South's Sermons; Nelſon's Feaſts and Faſts; a Sa⯑cramental piece of the Biſhop of Man, and another of Dr. Gauden, Biſhop of Exeter; and Inett's De⯑votions; are among the devout books: And among thoſe of a lighter turn, theſe not ill-choſen ones; A Telemachus in French, another in Engliſh; Steele's, Rowe's, and Shakeſpeare's Plays; that genteel Co⯑medy of Mr. Cibber, The Careleſs Huſband, and others of the ſame Author; Dryden's Miſcellanies; the Tattlers, Spectators, and Guardians; Pope's, and Swift's, and Addiſon's Works.

In the blank leaves of the Nelſon and Biſhop Gau⯑den, is Mrs. Sinclair's name; in thoſe of moſt of the others, either Sarah Martin, or Mary Horton, the names of the two nieces.

I AM exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Love⯑lace: And have great reaſon to be ſo: As you will allow, when you have read the converſation I am going to give you an account of; for he would not let me reſt till I gave him my company in the dining-room.

He began with letting me know, that he had been out to inquire after the character of the widow; which was the more neceſſary, he ſaid, as he ſuppoſed that I would expect his frequent abſence.

I did, I ſaid; and that he would not think of taking up his lodging in the ſame houſe with me. But what was the iſſue of his inquiry?

[291]Why, indeed, it was, in the main, what he liked well enough. But as it was Miſs Howe's opinion, as I had told him, that my brother had not given over his ſcheme; as the widow lived by letting lodgings; and had others to let in the ſame part of the houſe, which might be taken by an enemy; he knew no better way, than for him to take them all, as it could not be for a long time; unleſs I would think of re⯑moving to others.

So far was well enough: But as it was eaſy for me to ſee, that he ſpoke the ſlighter of the widow, in order to have a pretence to lodge here himſelf, I aſked him his intention in that reſpect. And he frankly own'd, that if I choſe to ſtay here, he could not, as matters ſtood, think of leaving me for ſix hours together; and he had prepared the widow, to expect, that we ſhould be here but for a few days;—only till we could fix ourſelves in a houſe ſuitable to our condition; and this, that I might be under the leſs embarraſs, if I pleaſed to remove.

Fix our-ſelves in a houſe, and we and our, Mr. Lovelace—Pray, in what light—

He interrupted me,—Why, my deareſt life, if you will hear me with patience—Yet I am half afraid, that I have been too forward, as I have not conſulted you upon it.—But as my friends in town, according to what Mr. Doleman has written, in the letter you have ſeen, conclude us to be marry'd—

Surely, Sir, you have not preſumed—

Hear me out, deareſt creature—You have received with favour my addreſſes—You have made me hope for the honour of your conſenting hand: Yet, by de⯑clining my moſt fervent tender of myſelf to you at Mrs. Sorlings's, have given me apprehenſions of delay: I would not for the world be thought ſo ungenerous a wretch, now you have honoured me with your confi⯑dence, as to wiſh to precipitate you: Yet your brother's ſchemes are not given up. Singleton, I am afraid, is [292] actually in town; his veſſel lies at Rotherhith—Your brother is abſent from Harlowe-Place [indeed not with Singleton yet, as I can hear]. If you are known to be mine, or if you are but thought to be ſo, there will probably be an end of your brother's contrivances. The widow's character may be as worthy as it is ſaid to be. But the worthier ſhe is, the more danger, if your brother's agent ſhould find us out; ſince ſhe may be perſuaded, that ſhe ought in conſcience to take a parent's part, againſt a child who ſtands in op⯑poſition to them. But if ſhe believes us married, her good character will ſtand us in ſtead, and ſhe will be of our party.—Then I have taken care to give her a reaſon why two apartments are requiſite for us, at the hour of retirement.

I perfectly raved at him. I would have flung from him in reſentment; but he would not let me: And what could I do? Whither go, the evening ad⯑vanced?

I am aſtoniſh'd at you! ſaid I:—If you are a man of honour, what need of all this ſtrange obliquity? You delight in crooked ways.—Let me know, ſince I muſt ſtay in your company (for he held my hand), let me know all you have ſaid.—Indeed, indeed, Mr. Lovelace, you are a very unaccountable man.

My deareſt creature, need I to have mentioned any thing of this; and could I not have taken up my lodg⯑ings in this houſe, unknown to you, if I had not in⯑tended to make you the judge of all my proceedings?—But this is what I have told the widow before her kinſwomen, and before your new ſervant,—That in⯑deed we were privately married at Hertford; but that you had preliminarily bound me under a ſolemn vow, which I am moſt religiouſly reſolved to keep, to be contented with ſeparate apartments, and even not to lodge under the ſame roof, till a certain reconciliation ſhall take place, which is of high conſequence to both. And further, that I might convince you of the purity [293] of my intentions, and that my whole view in this was to prevent miſchief, I have acquainted them, that I have ſolemnly promiſed to behave to you before every body, as if we were only betrothed, and not mar⯑ried; not even offering to take any of thoſe innocent freedoms which are not refuſed in the moſt puncti⯑lious loves.

And then he ſolemnly vowed to me the ſtricteſt obſervance of the ſame reſpectful behaviour to me.

I told him, that I was not by any means ſatisfied with the tale he had told, nor with the neceſſity he wanted to lay me under, of appearing what I was not: That every ſtep he took was a wry one, a needleſs wry one: And ſince he thought it neceſſary to tell the people below any thing about me, I inſiſt⯑ed, that he ſhould unſay all he had ſaid, and tell them the truth.

What he had told them, he ſaid, was with ſo many circumſtances, that he could ſooner die than contradict it. And ſtill he inſiſted upon the propriety of appearing to be married, for the reaſons he had given before.—And, deareſt creature, ſaid he, why this high diſpleaſure with me upon ſo well-intended an expedient? You know, that I cannot wiſh to ſhun your brother, or his Singleton, but upon your ac⯑count. The firſt ſtep I would take, if leſt to myſelf, would be to find them out. I have always acted in this manner, when any-body has preſumed to give out threatnings againſt me.

'Tis true, I ſhould have conſulted you firſt, and had your leave. But ſince you diſlike what I have ſaid, let me implore you, deareſt Madam, to give the only proper ſanction to it, by naming an early day. Would to heaven that were to be to-morrow!—For God's ſake, let it be to-morrow! But if not [Was it his buſineſs, my dear, before I ſpoke (yet he ſeemed to be afraid of me), to ſay, If not?], let me beſeech you, Madam, if my behaviour ſhall not be to your [294] diſlike, that you will not to-morrow at breakfaſt-time, diſcredit what I have told them. The moment I give you cauſe to think, that I take any advantage of your conceſſion, that moment revoke it, and expoſe me, as I ſhall deſerve.—And once more, let me remind you, that I have no view either to ſerve or ſave my⯑ſelf by this expedient.—It is only to prevent a probable miſchief, for your own minds ſake; and for the ſake of thoſe who deſerve not the leaſt conſideration from me.

What could I ſay? What could I do?—I verily think, that had he urged me again, in a proper man⯑ner, I ſhould have conſented (little ſatisfy'd as I am with him) to give him a meeting to-morrow morn⯑ing at a more ſolemn place than in the parlour below.

But this I reſolve, that he ſhall not have my con⯑ſent to ſtay a night under this roof. He has now given me a ſtronger reaſon for this determination than I had before.

ALAS! my dear, how vain a thing to ſay, what we will or what we will not do, when we have put ourſelves into the power of this ſex!—He went down to the people below, on my deſiring to be left to my⯑ſelf; and ſtaid till their ſupper was juſt ready; and then, deſiring a moment's audience, as he called it, he beſought my leave to ſtay that one night, promiſing to ſet out either for Lord M.'s, or for Edgware, to his friend Belford's, in the morning after breakfaſt. But if I were againſt it, he ſaid, he would not ſtay ſup⯑per; and would attend me about eight next day.—Yet he added, that my denial would have a very par⯑ticular appearance to the people below, from what he had told them; and the more, as he had actually agreed for all the vacant apartments (indeed only for a month), for the reaſon he had before hinted at: But I need not ſtay here two days, if, upon converſing [295] with the widow and her nieces in the morning, I ſhould have any diſlike to them.

I thought, notwithſtanding my reſolution above-mentioned, that it would ſeem too punctilious to deny him; under the circumſtances he had mentioned:—Having, beſides, no reaſon to think he would obey me; for he looked, as if he were determin'd to debate the matter with me. And, as now, I ſee no likelihood of a reconciliation with my friends, and had actually received his addreſſes with leſs reſerve than ever; I thought I would not quarrel with him, if I could help it, eſpecially as he aſked to ſtay but for one night, and could have done ſo without my knowing it; and you being of opinion, that the proud wretch, diſtruſting his own merits with me, or at leaſt my regard for him, will probably bring me to ſome conceſſions in his fa⯑vour: For all theſe reaſons, I thought proper to yield this point; yet I was ſo vexed with him on the other, that it was impoſſible for me to comply with that grace which a conceſſion ſhould be made with, or not made at all.

This was what I ſaid.—What you will do, you muſt do, I think. You are very ready to promiſe; very ready to depart from your promiſe. You ſay, however, that you will ſet out to-morrow for the country. You know how ill I have been. I am not well enough now to debate with you upon your in⯑croaching ways. I am utterly diſſatisfied with the tale you have told below. Nor will I promiſe to ap⯑pear to the people of the houſe to-morrow, what I am not.

He withdrew, in the moſt reſpectful manner, be⯑ſeeching me only to favour him with ſuch a meeting in the morning, as might not make the widow and her nieces think he had given me reaſon to be offended with him.

I retired to my own apartment, and Dorcas came to me ſoon after to take my commands. I told her, that [296] I required very little attendance, and always dreſſed and undreſſed myſelf.

She ſeemed concerned, as if ſhe thought I had re⯑pulſed her, and ſaid, It ſhould be her whole ſtudy to oblige me.

I told her, that I was not difficult to pleaſe. And ſhould let her know from time to time what aſſiſtances I ſhould expect from her. But for that night I had no occaſion for her further attendance.

She is not only genteel, but is well-bred, and well-ſpoken.—She muſt have had what is generally thought to be the polite part of education: But it is ſtrange, that fathers and mothers ſhould make ſo light, as they generally do, of that preferable part, in girls, which would improve their minds, and give a grace to all the reſt.

As ſoon as ſhe was gone, I inſpected the doors, the windows, the wainſcot, the dark cloſet as well as the light one; and finding very good faſtenings to the door, and to all the windows, I again had recourſe to my pen.

MRS. SINCLAIR is juſt now gone from me. Dor⯑cas, ſhe told me, had acquainted her, that I had diſ⯑miſſed her for the night. She came to aſk me how I liked my apartment, and to wiſh me good reſt. She expreſſed her concern, that they could not have my company at ſupper. Mr. Lovelace, ſhe ſaid, had in⯑formed them of my love of retirement. She aſſured me, that I ſhould not be broken in upon. She highly extolled him, and gave me a ſhare in the praiſe, as to perſon. But was ſorry, ſhe ſaid, that ſhe was likely to loſe us ſo ſoon as Mr. Lovelace talked of.

I anſwered her with ſuitable civility; and ſhe with⯑drew with great tokens of reſpect. With greater, I think, than ſhould be from diſtance of years, as ſhe was the wife of a gentleman; and as the appearance [297] of every thing about her, as well houſe as dreſs, carries the marks of ſuch good circumſtances, as re⯑quire not abaſement.

If, my dear, you will write againſt prohibition, be pleaſed to direct, To Miſs Laetitia Beaumont; To be left till called for, at Mr. Wilſon's in Pall-Mall.

Mr. Lovelace propoſed this direction to me, not knowing of your deſire that our letters ſhould paſs by a third hand. As his motive for it was, that my bro⯑ther might not trace out where we are, I am glad, as well from this inſtance, as from others, that he ſeems to think he has done miſchief enough already.

Do you know how my poor Hannah does?

Mr. Lovelace is ſo full of his contrivances and ex⯑pedients, that I think it may not be amiſs to deſire you to look carefully to the ſeals of my letters, as I ſhall to thoſe of yours. If I find him baſe in this particular, I ſhall think him capable of any evil; and will fly him as my worſt enemy.

LETTER LXII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. [With her two laſt Letters, N^o lvi.lvii. incloſed.]

I Have yours, juſt brought me. Mr. Hickman has help'd me to a lucky expedient, which, with the aſſiſtance of the poſt, will enable me to correſpond with you every day. An honeſt higgler (Simon Col⯑lins his name), by whom I ſhall ſend this, and the two incloſed (now I have your direction where), goes to town conſtantly on Mondays, Wedneſdays, and Fridays, and can bring back to me from Wilſon's what you ſhall have cauſed to be left for me.

I congratulate you on your arrival in town, ſo much amended in ſpirits. I muſt be brief. I hope you'll [298] have no cauſe to repent returning my Norris. It is forth-coming on demand.

I am ſorry your Hannah can't be with you. She is very ill ſtill; but not in danger.

I long for your account of the women you are with. If they are not right people, you'll find them out in one breakfaſting.

I know not what to write upon his reporting to them, that you are actually married. His reaſons for it are plauſible. But he delights in odd expedients and inventions.

Whether you like the people or not, don't, by your noble ſincerity and plain-dealing, make yourſelf enemies. You are in the world now, you know.

I am glad you had thoughts of taking him at his offer, if he had re-urged it. I wonder he did not. But if he don't ſoon, and in ſuch a way as you can accept of it, don't think of ſtaying with him.

Depend upon it, my dear, he will not leave you, either night or day, if he can help it, now he has got footing.

I ſhould have abhorred him for his report of your marriage, had he not made it with ſuch circumſtances, as leave it ſtill in your power to keep him at diſtance. If once he offer at the leaſt familiarity—But this is needleſs to ſay to you. He can have, I think, no other deſign, but what he profeſſes; becauſe he muſt needs think, that his report muſt increaſe your vigi⯑lance.

You may depend upon my looking narrowly into the ſealings of your letters. If, as you ſay, he be baſe in that point, he will be ſo in every-thing. But to one of your merit, of your fortune, of your vir⯑tue, he cannot be baſe. The man is no fool. It is his intereſt, as well with regard to his expectations from his own friends, as from you, to be honeſt. Would to heaven, however, that you were really married! This is the predominant wiſh of

LETTER LXIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER LXIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

LETTER LXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I HAVE juſt eſcaped from the very diſagreeable company I was obliged, ſo much againſt my will, to be in. As a very particular relation of this even⯑ing's converſation would be painful to me, you muſt content yourſelf with what you ſhall be able to collect from the outlines, as I may call them, of the cha⯑racters of the perſons, aſſiſted by the little hiſtories Mr. Lovelace gave me of each yeſterday.

The names of the gentlemen are Belton, Mow⯑bray, Tourville, and Belford. Theſe four, with Mrs. Sinclair, Miſs Partington, the great heireſs men⯑tioned in my laſt, Mr. Lovelace, and myſelf, made up the company.

I gave you before the favourable ſide of Miſs Par⯑tington's character, ſuch as it was given me by Mrs. Sinclair, and her nieces. I will now add a few words from my own obſervations upon her behaviour in this company.

In better company, perhaps, ſhe would have ap⯑peared to leſs diſadvantage: But, notwithſtanding her innocent looks, which Mr. Lovelace alſo highly praiſed, he is the laſt perſon whoſe judgment I would take upon real modeſty. For I obſerved, that, upon ſome talk from the gentlemen, not free enough to be openly cenſured, yet too indecent in its implication to come from well-bred perſons, in the company of vir⯑tuous people, this young lady was very ready to ap⯑prehend; and yet, by ſmiles and ſimperings, to en⯑courage, rather than diſcourage, the culpable freedoms of perſons, who, in what they went out of their way to ſay, muſt either be guilty of abſurdity, meaning no⯑thing; or, meaning ſomething, of rudeneſs.

But indeed I have ſeen ladies, of whom I have had a better opinion, than I can ſay I have of Mrs. Sin⯑clair, [322] who have allowed gentlemen, and themſelves too, in greater liberties of this ſort, than I have thought conſiſtent with that purity of manners which ought to be the diſtinguiſhing characteriſtic of our ſex: For what are words, but the body and dreſs of thought? And is not the mind indicated ſtrongly by its outward dreſs?

But to the gentlemen, as they muſt be called in right of their anceſtors, it ſeems; for no other do they appear to have.

Mr. BELTON has had univerſity-education, and was deſigned for the gown; but that not ſuiting with the gaiety of his temper, and an uncle dying, who be⯑queathed to him a good eſtate, he quitted the college, came up to town, and commenced fine gentleman. He is ſaid to be a man of ſenſe. He dreſſes gaily, but not quite foppiſhly; drinks hard; keeps all hours, and glories in doing ſo; games, and has been hurt by that pernicious diverſion: He is about thirty years of age: His face is of a fiery red, ſomewhat bloated and pimply; and his irregularities threaten a brief duration to the ſenſual dream he is in; for he has a ſhort con⯑ſumptive cough, which ſeems to indicate bad lungs; yet makes himſelf and his friends merry, by his ſtupid and inconſiderate jeſts upon very threatening ſym⯑ptoms, which ought to make him more ſerious.

Mr. MOWBRAY has been a great traveller; ſpeaks as many languages as Mr. Lovelace himſelf, but not ſo fluently: Is of a good family: Seems to be about thirty-three or thirty-four: Tall and comely in his perſon: Bold and daring in his look: Is a large-boned ſtrong man: Has a great ſcar in his forehead, with a dent, as if his ſkull had been beaten in there; and a ſeamed ſcar in his right cheek. He dreſſes likewiſe very gaily: Has his ſervants always about him, whom he is continually calling upon, and ſending on the moſt trifling meſſages; half a dozen inſtances of which we had in the little time I was among them; while [323] they ſeem to watch the turn of his fierce eye, to be ready to run, before they have half his meſſage, and ſerve him with fear and trembling. Yet to his equals the man ſeems tolerable: Talks not amiſs upon pub⯑lic entertainments and diverſions, eſpecially upon thoſe abroad: Yet has a romancing air; and averrs things ſtrongly, which ſeem quite improbable. In⯑deed, he doubts nothing, but what he ought to be⯑lieve: For he jeſts upon ſacred things; and profeſſes to hate the clergy of all religions: Has high notions of honour, a word hardly ever out of his mouth; but ſeems to have no great regard to morals.

Mr. TOURVILLE occaſionally told his age; juſt turn'd of thirty-one. He alſo is of an antient family; but, in his perſon and manners, more of what I call the coxcomb, than any of his companions: He dreſſes richly; would be thought elegant in the choice and faſhion of what he wears; yet, after all, appears ra⯑ther tawdry than fine. One ſees, by the care he takes of his outſide, and the notice he beſpeaks from every one, by his own notice of himſelf, that the inſide takes up the leaſt of his attention. He dances finely, Mr. Lovelace ſays: Is a maſter of muſic; and ſinging is one of his principal excellencies. They prevailed upon him to ſing; and he obliged them both in Italian and French; and, to do him juſtice, his ſongs in both were decent. They were all highly delighted with his performance; but his greateſt admirers were Mrs. Sinclair, Miſs Partington, and himſelf. To me he appeared to have a great deal of affectation.

Mr. Tourville's converſation and addreſs are inſuf⯑ferably full of thoſe really groſs affronts upon the un⯑derſtandings of our ſex, which the moderns call com⯑pliments, and are intended to paſs for ſo many inſtances of good breeding, tho' the moſt hyperbolical, unna⯑tural ſtuff that can be conceived, and which can only ſerve to ſhew the inſincerity of the complimenter; and the ridiculous light in which the complimented appears [324] in his eyes, if he ſuppoſes a woman capable of reliſh⯑ing the romantic abſurdities of his ſpeeches.

He affects to introduce into his common talk Italian and French words; and often anſwers an Engliſh queſtion in French, which language he greatly pre⯑fers to the barbarouſly hiſſing Engliſh. But then he never fails to tranſlate, into this his odious native tongue, the words, and the ſentences, he ſpeaks in the other two—Leſt, perhaps, it ſhould be queſtion⯑ed, whether he underſtands what he ſays.

He loves to tell ſtories: Always calls them merry, facetious, good, or excellent, before he begins, in or⯑der to beſpeak the attention of the hearers; but never gives himſelf concern, in the progreſs or concluſion of them, to make good what he promiſes in his preface. Indeed he ſeldom brings any of them to a concluſion; for, if his company have patience to hear him out, he breaks in upon himſelf by ſo many parenthetical intru⯑ſions, as one may call them, and has ſo many inci⯑dents ſpringing in upon him, that he frequently drops his own thread, and ſometimes ſits down ſatisfied half⯑way; or, if at other times he would reſume it, he ap⯑plies to his company to help him in again, with a Devil fetch him if he remembers what he was driving at. But enough, and too much, of Mr. Tourville.

Mr. BELFORD is the fourth gentleman, and one of whom Mr. Lovelace ſeems more fond than any of the reſt—Being a man of try'd bravery, it ſeems; for this pair of friends came acquainted upon occaſion of a quarrel (poſſibly about a lady), which a rencounter at Kenſington gravelpits ended, by the mediation of three gentlemen ſtrangers.

Mr. Belford is about ſeven or eight and-twenty, it ſeems; the youngeſt of the five, except Mr. Love⯑lace: And theſe are, perhaps, the wickedeſt; for they ſeem capable of leading the other three as they pleaſe. Mr. Belford, as the others, dreſſes gaily: But has not thoſe advantages of perſon, nor from his [325] dreſs, which Mr. Lovelace is too proud of. He has, however, the appearance of a gentleman. He is well read in claſſical authors, and in the beſt Engliſh poets and writers: And, by his means, the conver⯑ſation took now-and-then a more agreeable turn: And I, who endeavoured to put the beſt face I could upon my ſituation, as I paſſed for Mrs. Lovelace with them, made ſhift to join in it, at ſuch times; and received abundance of compliments from all the company, on the obſervations I made.

Mr. Belford ſeems good-natured and obliging; and, altho' very complaiſant, not ſo fulſomely ſo, as Mr. Tourville; and has a polite and eaſy manner of ex⯑preſſing his ſentiments on all occaſions. He ſeems to delight in a logical way of argumentation, as alſo does Mr. Belton; theſe two attacking each other in this way; and both looking at us women, as if to obſerve whether we did not admire their learning, or their wit, when they had ſaid a ſmart thing. But Mr. Belford had viſibly the advantage of the other, having quicker parts, and, by taking the worſt ſide of the argument, ſeemed to think he had: All together, he put me in mind of that character in Milton:

How little ſoever matters in general may be to our liking, we are apt to endeavour, when hope is ſtrong enough to permit it, to make the beſt we can of the lot we have drawn; and I could not but obſerve often, how much Mr. Lovelace excelled all his four friends in every thing they ſeemed deſirous to excel in. But, as to wit and vivacity, he had no equal preſent. All the others gave up to him, when his lips began to open. [326] The haughty Mowbray would call upon the prating Tourville for ſilence, and with his elbow would punch the ſupercilious Belton into attention, when Lovelace was going to ſpeak. And when he had ſpoken, the words, Charming fellow! with a free word of admira⯑tion or envy, fell from every mouth. He has indeed ſo many advantages in his perſon and manner, that what would be inexcuſable in another, if one took not great care to watch over one's ſelf, and to diſtinguiſh what is the eſſence of right and wrong, would look becoming in him.

'See him among twenty men,' ſaid Mr. Belford; who, to my no ſmall vexation and confuſion, with the forwardneſs of a favoured and intruſted friend, ſingled me out, on Mr. Lovelace's being ſent for down, to make me congratulatory compliments on my ſuppoſed nuptials; which he did with a caution, not to inſiſt too long on the rigorous vow I had im⯑poſed upon a man ſo univerſally admired—

'See him among twenty men,' ſaid he, ‘'all of di⯑ſtinction, and nobody is regarded but Mr. Love⯑lace.'’

It muſt, indeed, be confeſſed, that there is in his whole deportment a natural dignity, which renders all inſolent or imperative demeanour as unneceſſary as inexcuſable. Then that deceiving ſweetneſs which appears in his ſmiles, in his accent, in his whole aſpect and addreſs, when he thinks it worth his while to oblige, or endeavour to attract, how does this ſhew, that he was born innocent, as I may ſay; that he was not naturally the cruel, the boiſterous, the im⯑petuous creature, which the wicked company he may have fallen into have made him! For he has, beſides, an open, and, I think, an honeſt countenance. Don't you think ſo too?—On all theſe ſpecious appearances, have I founded my hopes of ſeeing him a reformed man.

But 'tis amazing to me, I own, that with ſo much [327] of the gentleman, ſuch a general knowlege of books and men, ſuch a ſkill in the learned as well as mo⯑dern languages, he can take ſo much delight as he does in the company of ſuch perſons as I have de⯑ſcribed, and in ſubjects of frothy impertinence, un⯑worthy of his talents, and natural and acquired advan⯑tages. I can think of but one reaſon for it, and that muſt argue a very low mind; his VANITY; which makes him deſirous of being conſidered as the head of the people he conſorts with. A man to love praiſe; yet to be content to draw it from ſuch contaminated ſprings!

One compliment paſſed from Mr. Belford to Mr. Lovelace, which haſtened my quitting the ſhocking company—'You are a happy man, Mr. Lovelace,' ſaid he, upon ſome fine ſpeeches made him by Mrs. Sinclair, and aſſented to by Miſs Partington: ‘'You have ſo much courage, and ſo much wit, that nei⯑ther man nor woman can ſtand before you.'’

Mr. Belford looked at me, when he ſpoke: Yes, my dear, he ſmilingly looked at me: And he looked upon his complimented friend: And all their aſſenting, and therefore affronting eyes, both mens and womens, were turned upon your Clariſſa: At leaſt, my ſelf-reproaching heart made me think ſo; for that would hardly permit my eye to look up.

Oh! my dear, were but a woman, who is thought to be in love with a man (and this muſt be believed to be my caſe; or to what can my ſuppoſed voluntary going off with Mr. Lovelace be imputed to?) to re⯑flect one moment on the exaltation ſhe gives him, and the diſgrace ſhe brings upon herſelf, the low pity, the ſilent contempt, the inſolent ſneers and whiſpers, to which ſhe makes herſelf obnoxious from a cenſuring world of both ſexes, how would ſhe deſpiſe herſelf! And how much more eligible would ſhe think death itſelf to ſuch a diſcovered debaſement!

What I have thus in general touched upon, will [328] account to you, why I could not more particularly relate what paſſed in the evening's converſation: Which, as may be gathered from what I have written, abounded with approbatory accuſations, and ſuppoſed witry retorts.

LETTER LXVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Am very much vexed and diſturbed at an odd inci⯑dent.

Mrs. Sinclair has juſt now left me, I believe in diſpleaſure, on my declining to comply with a requeſt ſhe made me: Which was, To admit Miſs Partington to a ſhare in my bed; her houſe being crouded by her nieces gueſts, and their attendants, as well as by thoſe of Miſs Partington.

There might be nothing in it; and my denial car⯑ried a ſtiff and ill-natured appearance. But inſtantly, all at once, upon her making the requeſt, it came into my thought, that I was, in a manner, a ſtranger to every-body in the houſe: Not ſo much as a ſervant I could call my own, or of whom I had any great opi⯑nion: That there were four gentlemen of free man⯑ners in the houſe, avowed ſupporters of Mr. Love⯑lace in matters of offence; himſelf a man of enter⯑prize; all, as far as I knew (and had reaſon to think by their noiſy mirth after I had left them), drinking deeply: That Miſs Partington herſelf is not ſo baſh⯑ful a lady, as ſhe was repreſented to me to be: That officious pains were taken to give me a good opinion of her: And that Mrs. Sinclair made a greater pa⯑rade in prefacing the requeſt, than ſuch a requeſt needed. To deny, thought I, can carry only an ap⯑pearance of ſingularity, to people who already think me ſingular. To conſent, may poſſibly, if not pro⯑bably, be attended with inconveniences. The conſe⯑quences of the alternative ſo very diſproportionate, I [329] thought it more prudent to incur the cenſure, than riſk the inconvenience.

I told her, that I was writing a long letter: That I ſhould chooſe to write till I were ſleepy: And that Miſs would be a reſtraint upon me, and I upon her.

She was loth, ſhe ſaid, that ſo delicate a young crea⯑ture, and ſo great a fortune, as Miſs Partington was, ſhould be put to lie with Dorcas in a preſs-bed. She ſhould be very ſorry, if ſhe had aſked an improper thing: She had never been ſo put to it before: And Miſs would ſtay up with her, till I had done writing.

Alarmed at this urgency, and it being eaſier to per⯑ſiſt in a denial given, than to give it at firſt, I offered Miſs my whole bed, and to retire into the dining⯑room, and there, locking myſelf in, write all the night.

The poor thing, ſhe ſaid, was afraid to lie alone. To be ſure Miſs Partington would not put me to ſuch an inconvenience.

She then withdrew: But returned; begged my pardon for returning: But the poor child, ſhe ſaid, was in tears. Miſs Partington had never ſeen a young lady ſhe ſo much admired, and ſo much wiſhed to imi⯑tate, as me. The dear girl hoped that nothing had paſſed in her behaviour, to give me diſlike to her. Should ſhe bring her to me?

I was very buſy, I ſaid. The letter I was writing was upon a very important ſubject. I hoped to ſee Miſs in the morning; when I would apologize to her for my particularity. And then Mrs. Sinclair heſi⯑tating, and moving towards the door (tho' ſhe turned round to me again), I deſired her (lighting her) to take care how ſhe went down.

Pray, Madam, ſaid ſhe, on the ſtairs head, don't give yourſelf all this trouble. God knows my heart, I meant no affront: But, ſince you ſeem to take my freedom amiſs, I beg you will not acquaint Mr. Love⯑lace [330] with it; for he, perhaps, will think me bold and impertinent.

Now, my dear, is not this a particular incident; either as I have made it, or as it was deſigned? I don't love to do an uncivil thing. And if nothing were meant by the requeſt, my refuſal deſerves to be called ſo. Then I have ſhewn a ſuſpicion of foul uſage by it, which ſurely dare not be meant. If juſt, I ought to apprehend every thing, and fly the houfe, and the man, as I would an infection. If not juſt, and if I cannot contrive to clear myſelf of having en⯑tertained ſuſpicions, by aſſigning ſome other plauſible reaſon for my denial, the very ſtaying here will have an appearance not at all reputable to myſelf.

I am now out of humour with him, with myſelf, with all the world but you. His companions are ſhocking creatures. Why, again I repeat, ſhould he have been deſirous to bring me into ſuch company? Once more, I like him not. I am, my dear,

LETTER LXVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

WITH infinite regret I am obliged to tell you, that I can no longer write to you, or receive letters from you. Your mother has ſent me a letter incloſed in a cover to Mr. Lovelace, directed for him at Lord M.'s (and which was brought him juſt now), reproaching me on this ſubject in very angry terms, and forbidding me, as I would not be thought to in⯑tend to make her and you unhappy, to write to you, without her leave.

This, therefore, is the laſt you muſt receive from me, till happier times: And as my proſpects are not very bad, I preſume we ſhall ſoon have leave to write [331] again; and even to ſee each other: Since an alliance with a family ſo honourable as Mr. Lovelace's is, will not be a diſgrace.

She is pleaſed to write, that if I would wiſh to in⯑flame you, I ſhould let you know her written prohibi⯑tion: But otherwiſe find ſome way of my own accord (without bringing her into the queſtion) to decline a correſpondence, which I muſt know ſhe has for ſome time paſt forbidden. But all I can ſay, is, to beg of you not to be inflamed;—to beg of you, not to let her know, or even by your behaviour to her, on this occaſion, gueſs, that I have acquainted you with my reaſon for declining to write to you. For how elſe, after the ſcruples I have heretofore made on this very ſubject, yet proceeding to correſpond, can I honeſtly ſatisfy you about my motives for this ſudden ſtop? So, my dear, I chooſe, you ſee, rather to rely upon your diſcretion, than to feign reaſons you would not be ſatisfy'd with, but, with your uſual active pene⯑tration, ſift to the bottom, and at laſt find me to be a mean and low qualifier; and that, with an implica⯑tion injurious to you, that I ſuppoſed you had not pru⯑dence enough to be truſted with the naked truth.

I repeat, that my proſpects are not bad. The houſe, I preſume, will ſoon be taken. The people here are very reſpectful, notwithſtanding my nicety about Miſs Partington. Miſs Martin, who is near mar⯑riage with an eminent tradeſman in the Strand, juſt now, in a very reſpectful manner, aſked my opinion of ſome patterns of rich ſilks for the occaſion. The widow has a leſs forbidding appearance than at firſt. Mr. Lovelace, on my declared diſlike of his four friends, has aſſured me, that neither they nor any-body elſe ſhall be introduced to me, without my leave.

Theſe circumſtances I mention, as you will ſup⯑poſe, that your kind heart may be at eaſe about me; that you may be induced by them to acquieſce with your mother's commands, chearfully acquieſce, and [332] that for my ſake, leſt I ſhould be thought an inflamer; who am, with very contrary intentions, my deareſt, and beſt-beloved friend,

LETTER LXIX. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Am aſtoniſhed that my mother ſhould take ſuch a ſtep—purely to exerciſe an unreaſonable act of authority; and to oblige the moſt remorſeleſs hearts in the world. If I find, that I can be of uſe to you either by advice or information, do you think I will not give it?—Were it to any other perſon, leſs dear to me than you are, do you think, in ſuch a caſe, I would forbear giving it?—

Mr. Hickman, who pretends to a little caſuiſtry in ſuch nice matters, is of opinion, that I ought not to decline a correſpondence thus circumſtanced. And 'tis well he is; for my mother having ſet me up, I muſt have ſomebody to quarrel with.

This I will come into, if it will make you eaſy: I will forbear to write to you for a few days, if nothing extraordinary happen;—and till the rigour of her pro⯑hibition is abated. But be aſſured, that I will not di⯑ſpenſe with your writing to me. My heart, my con⯑ſcience, my honour, will not permit it.

But how will I help myſelf?—How!—Eaſy enough. For I do aſſure you, that I want but very little fur⯑ther provocation to fly privately to London: And if I do, I will not leave you till I ſee you either honour⯑ably married, or abſolutely quit of the wretch: And in this laſt caſe, I will take you down with me, in defiance of the whole world: Or, if you refuſe to go with me, ſtay with you, and accompany you as your ſhadow whitherſoever you go.

[333]Don't be frighted at this declaration. There is but one conſideration, and but one hope, that with-hold me; watched as I am in all my retirements; obliged to read to her without a voice; to work in her pre⯑ſence without fingers; and to lie with her every night againſt my will. The conſideration is, Leſt you ſhould apprehend that a ſtep of this nature would look like a doubling of your fault, in the eyes of ſuch as think your going away a fault. The hope is, That things will ſtill end happily, and that ſome people will have reaſon to take ſhame to themſelves for the ſorry parts they have acted—Nevertheleſs I am often ba⯑lancing. But your reſolving to give up the correſpond⯑ence at this criſis, will turn the ſcale. Write there⯑fore, or take the conſequence.

A few words upon the ſubject of your laſt letters.—I know not whether your brother's wiſe project be given up or not. A dead ſilence reigns in your fa⯑mily. Your brother was abſent three days; then at home one; and is now abſent: But whether with Singleton or not, I cannot find out.

By your account of your wretch's companions, I ſee not but they are a ſet of infernals, and he the Beelzebub. What could he mean, as you ſay, by his earneſtneſs to bring you into ſuch company, and to give you ſuch an opportunity to make him and them reflecting-glaſſes to one another? The man's a fool, to be ſure, my dear.—A ſilly fellow, at leaſt.—They muſt put on their beſt before you, no doubt.—Lords of the creation!—Noble fellows theſe!—Yet who knows how many poor deſpicable ſouls of our ſex the worſt of them has had to whine after him!

You have brought an inconvenience upon yourſelf, as you obſerve, by your refuſal of Miſs Partington for your bedfellow. Pity you had not admitted her. Watchful as you are, what could have happened? If violence were intended, he would not ſtay for the night. You might have ſat up after her, or not gone [334] to bed. Mrs. Sinclair preſſed it too far. You was over-ſcrupulous.

If any thing happens to delay your nuptials, I would adviſe you to remove: But if you marry, you may, perhaps, think it no great matter to ſtay where you are, till you take poſſeſſion of your own eſtate. The knot once tied, and with ſo reſolute a man, it is my opinion, your relations will ſoon reſign what they can⯑not legally hold: And, were even a litigation to fol⯑low, you will not be able, nor ought you to be will⯑ing, to help it: For your eſtate will then be his right; and it will be unjuſt to wiſh it to be with-held from him.

One thing I would adviſe you to think of; and that is, of proper ſettlements: It will be to the credit of your prudence, and of his juſtice (and the more as mat⯑ters ſtand), that ſomething of this ſhould be done, before you marry. Bad as he is, nobody accounts him a ſordid man. And I wonder he has been hither⯑to ſilent on that ſubject.

I am not diſpleaſed with his propoſal about the widow lady's houſe. I think it will do very well. But if it muſt be three weeks before you can be cer⯑tain about it; ſurely you need not put off his day for that ſpace: And he may beſpeak his equipages. Sur⯑priſing to me, that he could be ſo acquieſcent!

I repeat—Continue to write to me:—I inſiſt upon it; and that as minutely as poſſible: Or, take the conſequence. I ſend this by a particular hand. I am, and ever will be,

LETTER LXX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Forego every other engagement, I ſuſpend every wiſh, I baniſh every other fear, to take up my pen, to beg of you, that you will not think of being guilty of ſuch an act of love as I can never thank you for; but muſt for ever regret. If I muſt continue to write to you, I muſt. I know full well your impa⯑tience of controul, when you have the leaſt imagina⯑tion that your generoſity or friendſhip is likely to be wounded by it.

My deareſt, deareſt creature, would you incur a maternal, as I have a paternal, malediction? Would not the world think there was an infection in my fault, if it were to be followed by Miſs Howe? There are ſome points ſo flagrantly wrong, that they will not bear to be argued upon. This is one of them. I need not give reaſons againſt ſuch a raſhneſs. Heaven forbid, that it ſhould be known, that you had it but once in your thought, be your motives ever ſo noble and generous, to follow ſo bad an example! The ra⯑ther, as that you would, in ſuch a caſe, want the ex⯑tenuations that might be pleaded in my favour; and particularly that one of being ſurpriſed into the un⯑happy ſtep.

The reſtraint your mamma lays you under, would not have appeared heavy, but on my account. Would you have once thought it a hardſhip to be admitted to a part of her bed?—How did I uſe to be delighted with ſuch a favour from my mother!—How did I love to work in her preſence!—So did you in the preſence of yours once. And to read to her on win⯑ter-evenings I know was one of your joys.—Do not give me cauſe to reproach myſelf on the reaſon that may be aſſigned for the change.

[336]Learn, my dear, I beſeech you learn, to ſubdue your own paſſions. Be the motives what they will, exceſs is exceſs. Thoſe paſſions in our ſex, which we take no pains to ſubdue, may have one and the ſame ſource with thoſe infinitely blacker paſſions, which we uſed ſo often to condemn in the violent and headſtrong of the other ſex; and which may be height⯑ened in them only by cuſtom, and their freer education. Let us both, my dear, ponder well this thought; look into ourſelves, and fear.

If I write, as I find I muſt, I inſiſt upon your for⯑bearance.—Your ſilence to this ſhall be the ſign to me, that you will not think of the raſhneſs you threaten me with; and that you will obey your mamma as to your own part of the correſpondence, however: Eſpecially, as you can inform or adviſe me in every weighty caſe, by Mr. Hickman's pen.

My trembling writing will ſhew you, what a trem⯑bling heart you, my dear impetuous creature, have given to

My cloaths were brought to me juſt now. But you have ſo much diſcompoſed me, that I have no heart to look into the trunks.

A ſervant of Mr. Lovelace carries this to Mr. Hickman for diſpatch-ſake. Let that worthy man's pen relieve my heart from this new un⯑eaſineſs.

LETTER LXXI. Mr. HICKMAN, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. [Sent to Wilſon's by a particular hand.]

I Have the honour of dear Miſs Howe's commands, to acquaint you, without knowing the occaſion, ‘'that ſhe is exceſſively concerned for the concern ſhe has given you in her laſt letter: And that, if you will but write to her, under cover as before, ſhe will have no thoughts of what you are ſo very ap⯑prehenſive about."’ —Yet ſhe bid me write, ‘'That if ſhe has but the leaſt imagination that ſhe can ſerve you, and ſave you,'’ thoſe are her words, ‘'all the cenſures of the world will be but of ſecond conſider⯑ation with her.'’ I have great temptations on this occaſion, to expreſs my own reſentments upon your preſent ſtate; but not being fully appriſed of what that is—Only conjecturing from the diſturbance up⯑on the mind of the deareſt Lady in the world to me, and the moſt ſincere of friends to you, that that is not altogether ſo happy as were to be wiſh'd; and being, moreover, forbid to enter into the cruel ſubject; I can only offer, as I do, my beſt and faithfulleſt ſervices; and to wiſh you a happy deliverance from all your troubles. For I am,

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

MERCURY, as the Fabuliſt tells us, having the curioſity to know the eſtimation he ſtood in [338] among mortals, deſcended in diſguiſe, and, in a ſta⯑tuary's ſhop, cheapens a Jupiter, then a Juno, then one, then another, of the Dii majores; and, at laſt, aſks, What price that ſame ſtatue of Mercury bore? O, ſays the artiſt, buy one of the others, Sir; and I'll throw ye in that for nothing. How ſheepiſh muſt the god of thieves look, upon this rebuff to his va⯑nity!

So thou!—A thouſand pounds wouldſt thou give for the good opinion of this ſingle lady: To be only thought tolerably of, and not quite unworthy of her converſation, would make thee happy: And, at part⯑ing laſt night, or rather this morning, thou madeſt me promiſe a few lines to Edgware, to let thee know, what ſhe thinks of thee, and thy brother varlets.

Thy thouſand pounds, Jack, is all thy own: For moſt heartily does ſhe diſlike ye all: Thee as much as any.

I am ſorry for it too, as to thy part; for two rea⯑ſons: One, that I think thy motive for thy curioſity was fear, and conſciouſneſs: Whereas that of the arch-thief was vanity, intolerable vanity: And he was therefore juſtly ſent away with a bluſh upon his cheeks to heaven, and could not brag: The other; that I am afraid, if ſhe diſlikes thee, ſhe diſlikes me: For are we not birds of a feather?

I muſt never talk of reformation, ſhe told me, having ſuch companions, and taking ſuch delight as I ſeemed to take, in their frothy converſation.

I, no more than you, imagined ſhe could poſſibly like ye: But then, as my friends, I thought a perſon of her education would have been more ſparing of her cenſures.

I don't know how it is, Belford; but women think themſelves intitled to take any freedoms with us; while we are unpolite, forſooth, and I can't tell what, if we don't tell a pack of curſed lyes, and make black [339] white, in their favour—teaching us to be hypocrites, yet ſtigmatizing us, at other times, for deceivers.

I defended ye all, as well as I could: But you know, there was no attempting ought but a palliative defence, to one of her principles. I will ſummarily give thee a few of my pleas.

To the pure, every little deviation ſeemed offen⯑ſive: Yet I ſaw not, that there was any thing amiſs the whole evening, either in your words or behaviour. Some people could talk but upon one or two ſubjects: She upon every-one: No wonder, therefore, they talked to what they underſtood beſt; and to mere objects of ſenſe.—Had ſhe honour'd us with more of her converſation, ſhe would have been leſs diſguſted with ours; for ſhe ſaw how every-one was prepared to admire her, whenever ſhe opened her lips. You, in particular, had ſaid, when ſhe retired, that virtue itſelf ſpoke, when ſhe ſpoke: But that you had ſuch an awe upon you, after ſhe had favoured us with an obſervation or two on a ſubject ſtarted, that you ſhould ever be afraid, in her company, to be found moſt ex⯑ceptionable, when you intended to be leaſt ſo.

Plainly, ſhe ſaid, ſhe neither liked my companions, nor the houſe ſhe was in.

I liked not the houſe any more than ſhe: Tho' the people were very obliging, and ſhe had owned they were leſs exceptionable to herſelf, than at firſt: And were we not about another of our own?

She did not like Miſs Partington: Let her fortune be what it would, ſhe ſhould not chooſe an intimacy with her. She thought it was a hardſhip to be put upon ſuch a difficulty, as ſhe was put upon the pre⯑ceding night, when there were lodgers in the front-houſe, whom they had reaſon to be freer with, than, upon ſo ſhort an acquaintance, with her.

I pretended to be an utter ſtranger as to this parti⯑cular; and, when ſhe explained herſelf upon it, con⯑demned the requeſt, and call'd it a confident one.

[340]She, artfully, made lighter of her denial of Miſs for a bedfellow, than ſhe thought of it, I could ſee that; for it was plain, ſhe ſuppoſed there was room for me to think ſhe had been either over-nice, or over-cautious.

I offered to reſent Mrs. Sinclair's freedom.

No; there was no great matter in it: It was beſt to let it paſs: It might be thought more particular in her to deny, than in Mrs. Sinclair to aſk, or Miſs to ex⯑pect: But as the people below had a large acquaint⯑ance, ſhe did not know how much ſhe might have her retirements invaded, if ſhe gave way. And in⯑deed there were levities in Miſs's behaviour, which ſhe could not ſo far paſs over, as to wiſh an intimacy with her. But if ſhe were ſuch a vaſt fortune, ſhe could not but ſay, that Miſs ſeemed a much more ſuitable perſon for me to make my addreſſes to, than—

Interrupting her, with gravity, I ſaid I liked Miſs Partington as little as ſhe could like her. She was a ſilly young creature; who ſeemed too likely to juſtify her guardians watchfulneſs over her. But, neverthe⯑leſs, as to her general converſation and behaviour laſt night, I muſt own, that I thought the girl (for girl ſhe was, as to diſcretion) not exceptionable; only car⯑rying herſelf as a free good-natured creature, who thought herſelf ſecure in the honour of her com⯑pany.

It was very well ſaid of me, ſhe replied: But, if Miſs were ſo well ſatisfied with her company, ſhe left it to me, whether I was not very kind to ſuppoſe her ſuch an innocent—For her own part, ſhe had ſeen nothing of the London world: But thought, ſhe muſt tell me plainly, that ſhe never was in ſuch company in her life; nor ever again wiſh'd to be in it.

There, Belford!—Worſe off than Mercury!—Art thou not?

I was nettled. Hard would be the lot of more diſ⯑creet ladies, as far as I knew, than Miſs Partington, were they to be judged by ſo rigid a virtue as hers.

[341]Not ſo, ſhe ſaid: But if I really ſaw nothing excep⯑tionable to a virtuous mind, in that young lady's be⯑haviour, my ignorance of better behaviour was, ſhe muſt needs tell me, as pitiable as hers: And it were to be wiſhed, that minds ſo paired, for their own ſakes, ſhould never be ſeparated.

See, Jack, what I get by my charity!

I thank'd her heartily. But I muſt take the liberty to ſay, that good folks were generally ſo uncharit⯑able, that, devil take me, if I would chooſe to be good, were the conſequence to be, that I muſt think hardly of the whole world beſides.

She congratulated me upon my charity: But told me, that, to enlarge her own, ſhe hoped it would not be expected of her to approve of the low company I had brought her into laſt night.

No exception for thee, Belford! Safe is thy thou⯑ſand pounds.

I ſaw not, I ſaid, begging her pardon, that ſhe liked any-body [Plain-dealing for plain-dealing!—Why then did ſhe abuſe my friends?—Love me, and love my dogs, as Lord M. would ſay].—However, let me but know, whom, and what, ſhe did, or did not like; and, if poſſible, I would like, and diſlike, the very ſame perſons and things.

She bid me then, in a pet, diſlike myſelf.

Curſed ſevere!—Does ſhe think ſhe muſt not pay for it one day, or one night?—And if one, many; that's my comfort!

I was in a train of being ſo happy, I ſaid, before my earneſtneſs to procure her to favour my friends with her company, that I wiſh'd the devil had had as well my friends, as Miſs Partington—And yet I muſt ſay, that I ſaw not how good people could anſwer half their end, which was, by their example, to amend the world, were they to accompany only with the good.

I had like to have been blaſted by two or three [342] flaſhes of lightning from her indignant eyes; and ſhe turned ſcornfully from me, and retired to her own apartment.—Once more, Jack, ſafe, as thou ſeeſt, is thy thouſand pounds.—She ſays, I am not a polite man—But is ſhe, in the inſtance before us, more po⯑lite for a lady?

And now, doſt thou not think, that I owe my charmer ſome revenge for her cruelty, in obliging ſuch a fine young creature, and ſo vaſt a fortune, as Miſs Partington, to croud into a preſs-bed with her maid-ſervant Dorcas!—Miſs Partington too (with tears) declaring by Mrs. Sinclair, that, would Mrs. Lovelace honour her at Barnet, the beſt bed and beſt room in her guardian's houſe ſhould be at her ſervice.—Thinkeſt thou, that I could not gueſs at her diſ⯑honourable fears of me!—That ſhe apprehended, that the ſuppoſed huſband would endeavour to take poſſeſſion of his own?—And that Miſs Partington would be willing to contribute to ſuch a piece of juſtice?

Thus, then, thou both remindeſt, and defieſt me, charmer!—And ſince thou relieſt more on thy own precaution than upon my honour; be it unto thee as thou apprehendeſt, fair one!

And now, Jack, let me know, what thy opinion, and the opinions of thy brother varlets, are of my Gloriana.

I have juſt now heard, that her Hannah hopes to be ſoon well enough to attend her young lady, when in London. It ſeems the girl has had no phyſician. I muſt ſend her one, out of pure love and reſpect to her miſtreſs. Who knows but medicine may weaken nature, and ſtrengthen the diſeaſe?—As her malady is not a fever, very likely it may do ſo.—But perhaps her hopes are too forward. Bluſtering weather in this month yet—And that is bad for rheumatic com⯑plaints.

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

JUST as I had ſealed up the incloſed, comes a let⯑ter to my beloved, in a cover to me, directed to Lord M.'s. From whom, thinkeſt thou?—From Mrs. Howe!—

And what the contents!

How ſhould I know, unleſs the dear creature had communicated them to me? But a very cruel letter I believe it is, by the effect it had upon her. The tears ran down her checks as ſhe read it; and her co⯑lour changed ſeveral times. No end of her perſecu⯑tions, I think.

‘'What a cruelty in her ſate!'’ ſaid the ſweet la⯑menter.— ‘'Now the only comfort of her life muſt be given up!'’

Miſs Howe's correſpondence, no doubt.

But ſhould ſhe be ſo much grieved at this? This correſpondence was prohibited before, and that, to the daughter, in the ſtrongeſt terms: But yet carried on by both: Altho' a brace of impeccables, and pleaſe ye. Could they expect, that a mother would not vindicate her authority?—And finding her prohibition ineffectual with her perverſe daughter, was it not rea⯑ſonable to ſuppoſe ſhe would try what effect it would have upon her daughter's friend?—And now I be⯑lieve the end will be effectually anſwer'd: For my beloved, I dare ſay, will make a point of conſcience of it.

I hate cruelty, eſpecially in women; and ſhould have been more concerned for this inſtance of it in Mrs. Howe, had I not had a ſtronger inſtance of the ſame in my beloved to Miſs Partington; for how did ſhe know, ſince ſhe was ſo much afraid for herſelf, [344] whom Dorcas might let in to that innocent and leſs watchful young lady? But nevertheleſs I muſt needs own, that I am not very ſorry for this prohibition, let it originally come from the Harlowes, or from whom it will; becauſe I make no doubt, that it is owing to Miſs Howe, in a great meaſure, that my beloved is ſo much upon her guard, and thinks ſo hardly of me. And who can tell, as characters here are ſo tender, and ſome diſguiſes ſo flimſy, what conſequences might follow this undutiful correſpondence?—I ſay, there⯑fore, I am not ſorry for it: Now will ſhe have no⯑body to compare notes with: No-body to alarm her: And I may be ſaved the guilt and diſobligation of in⯑ſpecting into a correſpondence that has long made me uneaſy.

How every thing works for me!—Why will this charming creature make ſuch contrivances neceſſary, as will increaſe my trouble, and my guilt too, as ſome would account it? But why, rather I would aſk, will ſhe fight againſt her ſtars?—

LETTER LXXIV. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

WIthout ſtaying for the promiſed letter from you to inform us what the lady ſays of us, I write to tell you, That we are all of one opinion with regard to her; which is, that there is not of her age a finer lady in the world, as to her underſtanding. As for her perſon, ſhe is at the age of bloom, and an admir⯑able creature; a perfect beauty: But this poorer praiſe a man can hardly deſcend to give, who has been ho⯑nour'd with her converſation; and yet ſhe was brought amongſt us againſt her will.

Permit me, dear Lovelace, to be a means of ſaving this excellent creature from the dangers ſhe hourly runs from the moſt plotting heart in the world. In [345] a former, I pleaded your own family, Lord M.'s wiſhes particularly; and then I had not ſeen her: But now, I join her ſake, honour's ſake, motives of juſtice, generoſity, gratitude, and humanity, which are all concern'd in the preſervation of ſo fine a crea⯑ture.—Thou knoweſt not the anguiſh I ſhould have had (whence ariſing, I cannot deviſe), had I not known before I ſet out this morning, that the in⯑comparable creature had diſappointed thee in thy curſed view of getting her to admit the ſpecious Par⯑tington for a bedfellow!

There is ſomething ſo awful, and yet ſo ſweet, in this lady's aſpect [I have done nothing but talk of her ever ſince I ſaw her], that were I to have the Virtues and the Graces all drawn in one piece, they ſhould be taken, every one of them, from different airs and at⯑titudes in her. She was born to adorn the age ſhe was given to, and would be an ornament to the firſt dignity. What a piercing, yet gentle eye, every glance, I thought, mingled with love and fear of you: What a ſweet ſmile darting through the cloud that overſpread her fair face; demonſtrating, that ſhe had more apprehenſions and grief at her heart, than ſhe cared to expreſs!

You may think what I am going to write too flighty; but, by my faith, I have conceived ſuch a profound reverence for her ſenſe and judgment, that, far from thinking the man excuſable who ſhould treat her baſely, I am ready to regret that ſuch an angel of a lady ſhould even marry. She is, in my eye, all mind: And were ſhe to meet with a man all mind likewiſe, why ſhould the charming qualities ſhe is miſtreſs of, be endangered? Why ſhould ſuch an angel be plunged ſo low as into the vulgar offices of domeſtic life? Were ſhe mine, I ſhould hardly wiſh to ſee her a mother, unleſs there were a kind of mo⯑ral certainty, that minds like hers could be propagated. For why, in ſhort, ſhould not the work of bodies be [346] left to mere bodies? I know, that you yourſelf have an opinion of this lady little leſs exalted than mine. Belton, Mowbray, Tourville, are all of my mind; are full of her praiſes; and ſwear, it would be a million of pities to ruin a lady, in whoſe fall none but devils can rejoice.

What muſt that merit and excellence be, that can extort this from us, free livers, like yourſelf, and all of us your partial friends, who have joined with you in your juſt reſentments againſt the reſt of her family, and offered our aſſiſtance to execute your ven⯑geance on them? But we cannot think it reaſonable, that you ſhould puniſh an innocent lady, who loves you ſo well; and who is in your protection, and has ſuf⯑fered ſo much for you, for the faults of her relations.

And here, let me put a ſerious queſtion, or two. Thinkeſt thou, truly admirable as this lady is, that the end thou propoſeſt to thyſelf, if obtained, is an⯑ſwerable to the means, to the trouble thou giveſt thy⯑ſelf, and the perfidies, tricks, ſtratagems, and con⯑trivances thou haſt already been guilty of, and ſtill meditateſt? In every real excellence ſhe ſurpaſſes all her ſex. But in the article thou ſeekeſt to ſubdue her for, a mere ſenſualiſt of her ſex, a Partington, a Horton, a Martin, would make a ſenſualiſt a thou⯑ſand times happier than ſhe either will or can. ‘Sweet are the joys that come with willingneſs.’ And wouldſt thou make her unhappy for her whole life, and thyſelf not happy for a ſingle moment?

Hitherto, it is not too late; and that, perhaps, is as much as can be ſaid, if thou meaneſt to preſerve her eſteem and good opinion, as well as perſon; for I think it is impoſſible ſhe can get out of thy hands, now ſhe is in this curſed houſe: O that damn'd hypocritical Sinclair, as thou calleſt her! How was it poſſible ſhe ſhould behave ſo ſpeciouſly as ſhe did, all the time the lady ſtaid with us! Be honeſt, and marry; and be [347] thankful, that ſhe will condeſcend to have thee. If thou doſt not, thou'lt be the worſt of men; and will be condemned in this world and the next: As I am ſure thou oughteſt, and ſhouldeſt too, wert thou to be judged by one, who never before was ſo much touched in a woman's favour: And whom thou knoweſt to be

Our companions conſented, that I ſhould withdraw to write to the above effect. They can make nothing of the characters we write in; ſo I read this to them; and they approve of it; and of their own motion each man would ſet his name to it. I would not delay ſending it, for fear of ſome deteſtable ſcheme taking place.

Juſt now are brought me both thine. I vary not my opinion, nor forbear my earneſt prayers to thee in her behalf, notwithſtanding her diſlike of me.

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

WHEN I have already taken pains to acquaint thee in full with my views, deſigns, and reſolutions, with regard to this admirable creature, it is very ex⯑traordinary, that thou ſhouldſt vapour as thou doſt, in her behalf, when I have made no trial, no attempt: And yet, giveſt it as thy opinion in a former letter, that advantage may be taken of the ſituation ſhe is in; and that ſhe may be overcome.

Moſt of thy reflections, particularly that, which reſpects the difference as to the joys to be given by [348] the Virtuous and the Libertine of the ſex, are fitter to come in as after-reflections, than as antecedencies.

I own with thee, and with the poet, That ſweet are the joys that come with willingneſs—But is it to be ex⯑pected, that a woman of education, and a lover of forms, will yield before ſhe is attacked?—And have I ſo much as ſummon'd This to ſurrender?—I doubt not but I ſhall meet with difficulty. I muſt therefore make my firſt effort by ſurprize.—There may poſſibly be ſome cruelty neceſſary. But there may be conſent in ſtruggle; there may be yielding in reſiſtance: But the firſt conflict over, whether the following may not be weaker and weaker, till willingneſs follow, is the point to be try'd.—I will illuſtrate what I have ſaid by the ſimile of a bird new-caught. We begin with birds, as boys, and, as men, go on to ladies; and both perhaps, in turns, experience our ſportive cruelty.

Haſt thou not obſerved the charming gradations, by which the inſnared volatile has been brought to bear with its new condition? How at firſt, refuſing all ſuſtenance, it beats and bruiſes itſelf againſt its wires, till it makes its gay plumage fly about, and overſpread its well-ſecured cage. Now it gets out its head; ſticking only at its beautiful ſhoulders: Then, with difficulty, drawing back its head, it gaſps for breath, and erectedly perched, with meditating eyes, firſt ſurveys, and then attempts, its wired cano⯑py. As it gets breath, with renew'd rage, it beats and bruiſes again its pretty head and ſides, bites the wires, and pecks at the fingers of its delighted tamer. Till at laſt, finding its efforts ineffectual, quite tired and breathleſs, it lays itſelf down, and pants at the bottom of the cage, ſeeming to bemoan its cruel fate and forfeited liberty. And after a few days, its ſtruggles to eſcape ſtill diminiſhing, as it finds it to no purpoſe to attempt it, its new habitation becomes familiar; and it hops about from perch to perch, reſumes its [349] wonted chearfulneſs, and every day ſings a ſong to amuſe itſelf, and reward its keeper.

Now, let me tell thee, that I have known a bird actually ſtarve itſelf, and die with grief, at its being caught and caged—But never did I meet with a lady who was ſo ſilly.—Yet have I heard the dear ſouls moſt vehemently threaten their own lives on ſuch an occa⯑ſion. But it is ſaying nothing in a woman's favour, if we do not allow her to have more ſenſe than a bird. And yet we muſt all own, that it is more diffi⯑cult to catch a bird than a lady.

And now, Belford, were I to go no further, how ſhall I know whether this ſweet bird may not be brought to ſing me a fine ſong, and, in time, to be as well contented with her condition as I have brought other birds to be; ſome of them very ſhy ones?

But I gueſs at thy principal motive in this thy ear⯑neſtneſs in behalf of this charming creature. I know that thou correſpondeſt with Lord M. who is impa⯑tient, and long has been deſirous, to ſee me ſhackled. And thou wanteſt to build up a merit with that noble podagra-man, with a view to one of his nieces. But knoweſt thou not, that my conſent will be wanting to complete it?—And what a commendation will it be of thee to ſuch a girl as Charlotte, when I ſhall ac⯑quaint her with the affront thou putteſt upon the whole ſex, by aſking, whether I think my reward, when I have ſubdued the moſt charming woman in the world, will be equal to my trouble?—Which, thinkeſt thou, a woman of ſpirit will ſooneſt forgive, the undervaluing varlet who can put ſuch a queſtion; or him, who prefers the purſuit and conqueſt of a fine woman to all the joys of life?—Have I not known even a virtuous woman, as ſhe would be thought, vow everlaſting antipathy to a man, who gave out, that ſhe was too old for him to attempt?

But another word or two, as to thy objection re⯑lating to my trouble and my reward.

[350]Does not the keen foxhunter endanger his neck and his bones in purſuit of a vermin, which, when killed, is neither fit food for men nor dogs?

Do not the hunters of the nobler game value the veniſon leſs than the ſport?

Why then ſhould I be reflected upon, and the Sex affronted, for my patience and perſeverance in the moſt noble of all chaces; and for not being a poacher in love, as thy queſtion may be made to imply?

Learn of thy maſter, for the future, to treat more reſpectfully a ſex that yields us our principal diverſions and delights.

Proceed anon.

LETTER LXXVI. Mr. LOVELACE; In Continuation.

WELL ſay'ſt thou, that mine is the moſt plotting heart in the world. Thou doſt me honour; and I thank thee heartily. Thou art no bad judge. How like Boileau's parſon, I ſtrut behind my double chin! Am I not obliged to deſerve thy compliment?—And wouldſt thou have me repent of a murder be⯑fore I have committed it?

The Virtues and Graces are this Lady's handmaids. ‘'She was certainly born to adorn the age ſhe was given to.'’ —Well ſaid, Jack— ‘'And would be an ornament to the firſt dignity.'’ —But what praiſe is that, unleſs the firſt dignity were adorned with the firſt merit?—Dignity! gewgaw!—Firſt dignity! Thou idiot!—Art thou, who knoweſt me, ſo taken with ermine and tinſel?—I, who have won the gold, am only fit to wear it. For the future therefore cor⯑rect thy ſtile, and proclaim her the ornament of the happieſt man, and (reſpecting herſelf and Sex) the greateſt conqueror in the world.

Then, that ſhe loves me, as thou imagineſt, by no means appears clear to me.—Her conditional of⯑fers [351] to renounce me; the little confidence ſhe places in me; intitle me to aſk, What merit can ſhe have with a man, who won her in ſpight of herſelf; and who fairly, in ſet and obſtinate battle, took her pri⯑ſoner?

As to what thou inferreſt from her eye when with us, thou knoweſt nothing of her heart from that, if thou imagineſt, there was one glance of love ſhot from it. Well did I note her eye, and plainly did I ſee, that it was all but juſt civil diſguſt to me and to the company I had brought her into. Her early re⯑tiring that night againſt all intreaty, might have con⯑vinced thee, that there was very little of the gentle in her heart for me. And her eye never knew what it was to contradict her heart.

She is thou ſayeſt, All mind. So ſay I. But why ſhouldſt thou imagine, that ſuch a mind as hers, meeting with ſuch a one as mine; and, to dwell upon the word, meeting with an inclination in hers to meet, ſhould not propagate minds like her own?

No doubt of it, as thou ſayeſt, The devils would rejoice in the fall of ſuch a lady. But this is my con⯑fidence, that I ſhall have it in my power to marry when I will. And if I do her this juſtice, ſhall I not have a claim to her gratitude? And will ſhe not think herſelf the Obliged, rather than the Obliger? Then, let me tell thee, Belford, it is impoſſible ſo far to hurt the morals of this lady, as thou and thy brother-varlets have hurt others of the Sex, who now are caſting about the town firebrands and double death.—Take ye that thiſtle to mumble upon.

You will, perhaps, tell me, that among all the objects of your reſpective attempts, there was not one of the rank and merit of my charming Miſs Harlowe.

But let me aſk, Has it not been a conſtant maxim with us, that the greater the merit on the woman's ſide, the nobler the victory on the man's?—And as to rank, ſenſe of honour, ſenſe of ſhame, pride of fa⯑mily, [352] may make rifled rank get up, and ſhake itſelf to rights: And if any thing come of it, ſuch a one may ſuffer only in her pride, by being obliged to take up with a ſecond-rate match inſtead of a firſt; and, as it may fall out, be the happier, as well as the more uſeful, for the miſadventure; ſince (taken off of her public gaddings, and domeſticated by her diſgrace) ſhe will have reaſon to think herſelf obliged to the man who has ſaved her from further reproach; while her fortune and alliance will lay an obligation upon him; and her paſt fall, if ſhe have prudence and conſciouſ⯑neſs, will be his preſent and future ſecurity.

But a poor girl; ſuch a one as my Roſebud for in⯑ſtance; having no recalls from education—Being driven out of every family that pretends to reputation; perſecuted moſt perhaps by ſuch as have only kept their ſecret better; and having no refuge to fly to—The common, the ſtews, the ſtreet, is the fate of ſuch a poor wretch; penury, want, and diſeaſe, her ſure attendants; and an untimely end perhaps cloſes the miſerable ſcene.

And will ye not now all join to ſay, that it is more manly to attack a lion than a ſheep?—Thou knoweſt, that I always illuſtrated my eagleſhip, by aiming at the nobleſt quarries; and by diſdaining to make a ſtoup at wrens, phil-tits, and wagtails.

The worſt, reſpecting myſelf, in the caſe before me, is, that my triumph, when completed, will be ſo glorious a one, that I ſhall never be able to keep up to it. All my future attempts muſt be poor to this. I ſhall be as unhappy after a while, from my re⯑flections upon this conqueſt, as Don John of Auſtria was, in his, on the renowned victory of Lepanto, when he found, that none of his future atchievements could keep pace with his early glory.

I am ſenſible, that my pleas and my reaſonings may be eaſily anſwer'd, and perhaps juſtly cenſured; but by whom cenſured? Not by any of the Confraternity, [353] whoſe conſtant courſe of life, even long before I be⯑came your general, to this hour, has juſtified what ye now, in a fit of ſqueamiſhneſs, and thro' envy, condemn. Having therefore vindicated myſelf and my intentions to YOU, that is all I am at preſent con⯑cerned for.

Be convinced then, that I (according to our prin⯑ciples) am right, thou wrong; or, at leaſt, be ſilent. But I command thee to be convinced. And in thy next, be ſure to tell me that thou art.

LETTER LXXVII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq.

I Know that thou art ſo abandoned a man, that to give thee the beſt reaſons in the world againſt what thou haſt once reſolved upon, will be but acting the madman, whom once we ſaw trying to buffet down a hurricane with his hat. I hope, however, that the Lady's merit will ſtill avail her with thee. But if thou perſiſteſt; if thou wilt avenge thyſelf on this ſweet lamb, which thou haſt ſingled out from a flock thou hateſt, for the faults of the dogs who kept it: If thou art not to be moved by beauty, by learning, by prudence, by innocence, all ſhining out in one charm⯑ing object; but ſhe muſt fall; fall by the man whom ſhe has choſen for her protector; I would not for a thouſand worlds have thy crime to anſwer for.

Upon my faith, Lovelace, the ſubject ſticks with me, notwithſtanding I find I have not the honour of the Lady's good opinion. And the more, when I re⯑flect upon her father's brutal curſe, and the villainous hard-heartedneſs of all her family.—But, nevertheleſs, I ſhould be deſirous to know (if thou wilt proceed) by what gradations, arts, and contrivances, thou effecteſt thy ingrateful purpoſe.—And, O Lovelace, I conjure thee, if thou art a man, let not the ſpecious devils [354] thou haſt brought her among, be ſuffered to triumph over her; nor make her the victim of unmanly artifices, If ſhe yield to fair ſeduction, if I may ſo expreſs my⯑ſelf; if thou canſt raiſe a weakneſs in her by love, or by arts not inhuman; I ſhall the leſs pity her. And ſhall then conclude, that there is not a woman in the world who can reſiſt a bold and reſolute lover.

A meſſenger is juſt now arrived from my uncle. The mortification, it ſeems, is got up to his knee; and the ſurgeons declare, that he cannot live many days. He therefore ſends for me directly, with theſe ſhocking words, That I will come and cloſe his eyes. My ſervant, or his, muſt of neceſſity, be in town every-day on his caſe, or on other affairs, and one of them ſhall regularly attend you for any letter or com⯑mands: And it will be charity to write to me as often as you can. For altho' I am likely to be a conſider⯑able gainer by the poor man's death, yet I can't ſay, that I at all love theſe ſcenes of Death and the Doctor ſo near me. The Doctor and Death I ſhould have ſaid; for that's the natural order; and, generally ſpeaking, the one is but the harbinger to the other.

If therefore you decline to oblige me, I ſhall think you are diſpleaſed with my freedom. But let me tell you at the ſame time, that no man has a right to be diſpleaſed at freedoms taken with him for faults he is not aſhamed to be guilty of.

LETTER LXXVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Thank you and Mr. Hickman for his letter ſent me with ſuch kind expedition; and proceed to obey my dear menacing tyranneſs.

He is conſtantly accuſing me of over-ſcrupulouſ⯑neſs. He ſays, I am always out of humour with him. That I could not have behaved more reſervedly to Mr. Solmes: And that it is contrary to all his hopes and notions, that he ſhould not, in ſo long a time, find himſelf able to inſpire the perſon whom he hoped ſo ſoon to have the honour to call his, with the leaſt diſtinguiſhing tenderneſs for him beforehand.

Silly and partial incroacher! not to know to what to attribute the reſerve I am forced to treat him with. But his pride has eaten up his prudence. It is indeed a dirty low pride, that has ſwallowed up the true pride, which ſhould have ſet him above the vanity that has over-run him. Have you not beheld the man, when I was your happy gueſt, as he walked to his chariot, looking about him, as if to obſerve what eyes his ſpe⯑cious perſon and air had attracted? But indeed we have ſeen homely coxcombs as proud as if they had perſons to be proud of; at the ſame time, that it was apparent, that the pains they took about themſelves but the more expoſed their defects.—The man who is fond of being thought more or better than he is, as I have often thought, but provokes a ſcrutiny into his pretenſions; and that generally produces contempt. For pride, as I believe I have heretofore obſerved, is an infallible ſign of weakneſs; of ſomething wrong in the head or heart. He that exalts himſelf, inſults his neigh⯑bour; who is provoked to queſtion in him even that merit, which, were he modeſt, would perhaps be al⯑lowed to be his due.

You will ſay, that I am very grave: And ſo I am. Mr. Lovelace is extremely ſunk in my opinion ſince Monday night: Nor ſee I before me any thing that [356] can afford me a pleaſing hope. For what, with a mind ſo unequal as his, can be my beſt hope?

I think I mentioned to you, in my former, that my cloaths were brought me. You flutter'd me ſo, that I am not ſure I did. But I know I deſign'd it. They were brought me on Thurſday; but neither my few guineas with them, nor any of my books, except a Drexelius on Eternity, the good old Practice of Piety, and a Francis Spira. My brother's wit, I ſuppoſe. He thinks he does well to point out death and deſpair to me. I wiſh for the one, and every now-and-then, am on the brink of the other.

You will the leſs wonder at my being ſo very ſo⯑lemn, when, added to the above, and to my uncertain ſituation, I tell you, that they have ſent me with theſe books a letter from my couſin Morden. It has ſet my heart againſt Mr. Lovelace. Againſt myſelf too. I ſend it incloſed. If you pleaſe, my dear, you may read it here.

LETTER LXXIX. To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I AM extremely concerned to hear of a difference betwixt the reſt of a family, ſo near and dear to me, and You ſtill dearer to me than any of the reſt.

My couſin James has acquainted me with the offers you have had, and your refuſals. I wonder not at either. Such charming promiſes at ſo early an age, as when I left England; and thoſe promiſes, as I have often heard, ſo greatly exceeded, as well in your per⯑ſon as mind, how much muſt you be admir'd! How few muſt there be worthy of you!

Your parents, the moſt indulgent in the world, to a child the moſt deſerving, have given way, it ſeems, to your refuſals of ſeveral gentlemen:—They have [357] contented themſelves at laſt to name One with earneſt⯑neſs to you, becauſe of the addreſs of Another they cannot approve of.

They had not reaſon, it ſeems, from your beha⯑ [...]iour, to think you greatly averſe; ſo they proceed⯑ed:—Perhaps too haſtily for a delicacy like yours. But when all was fixed on their parts, and moſt ex⯑traordinary terms concluded in your favour; terms, which abundantly ſhew the gentleman's juſt value for you; you fly off with a warmth and vehemence little ſuited to that ſweetneſs which gave grace to all your actions.

I know very little of either of the gentlemen: But of Mr. Lovelace I know more than of Mr. Solmes. I wiſh I could ſay, more to his advantage than I can. As to every qualification but one, your brother owns there is no compariſon:—But That one outweighs all the reſt together—It cannot be thought, that Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe will diſpenſe with MORALS in a huſband.

What, my deareſt couſin, ſhall I firſt plead to you on this occaſion? Your duty, your intereſt, your temporal, and your eternal welfare, do, and may all depend upon this ſingle point, The morality of a huſ⯑band. A wife cannot always have it in her power to be good, or to do good, if ſhe has a wicked huſband, as a good huſband may, if he has a bad wife.—You preſerve all your religious regards, I underſtand;—I wonder not that you do: I ſhould have wonder'd, had you not: But what can you promiſe yourſelf, as to perſeverance in them, with an immoral huſband?

If your parents and you differ in ſentiment on this important occaſion, let me aſk you, my dear couſin, who ought to give way?—I own to you, that I ſhould have thought there could not any-where have been a more ſuitable match for you, than with Mr. Lovelace, had he been a moral man. I ſhould have very little to ſay againſt a man, of whoſe actions I [358] am not to ſet up myſelf as a judge, did he not addreſs my couſin. But, on this occaſion, let me tell you, my dear Clariſſa, that Mr. Lovelace cannot poſſibly deſerve you. He may reform, you'll ſay; but he may not. Habit is not ſoon ſhook off. Libertines, who are libertines in defiance of talents, of ſuperior lights, of conviction, hardly ever reform but by mi⯑racle, or by incapacity. Well do I know my own ſex. Well am I able to judge of the probability of the reformation of a licentious young man, who has not been faſten'd upon by ſickneſs, by affliction, by calamity: Who has a proſperous run of fortune be⯑fore him: His ſpirits high: His will uncontroulable: The company he keeps, perhaps ſuch as himſelf, con⯑firming him in all his courſes, aſſiſting him in all his enterprizes.

As to the other gentleman, ſuppoſe, my dear cou⯑ſin, you don't like him at preſent, it is far from being unlikely, that you will hereafter: Perhaps the more, for not liking him now. He can hardly ſink lower in your opinion: He may riſe. Very ſeldom is it, that high expectations are ſo much as tolerably anſwered. How indeed can they, when a fine and extenſive ima⯑gination carries its expectation infinitely beyond reality, in the higheſt of our ſublunary enjoyments? A lady adorn'd with ſuch an imagination ſees no de⯑fect in a favour'd object, becauſe ſhe is not conſcious of any in herſelf, till it is too late to rectify the miſ⯑takes occaſioned by her generous credulity.

But ſuppoſe a perſon of your talents were to marry a man of inferior talents; who, in this caſe, can be ſo happy in herſelf, as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe? What delight do you take in doing good? How hap⯑pily do you devote the ſeveral portions of the natural day to your own improvement, and to the advantage of all that move within your ſphere?—And then ſuch is your taſte, ſuch are your acquirements in the po⯑liter ſtudies, and in the politer amuſements; ſuch [359] your excellence in all the different parts of oeconomy, fit for a young lady's inſpection and practice, that your friends would wiſh you to be taken off, as little as poſ⯑ſible, by regards that might be called merely perſonal?

But as to what may be the conſequence reſpecting yourſelf, reſpecting a young lady of your exalted ta⯑lents, from the preference you are ſuſpected to give to a libertine, I would have you, my dear couſin, conſider what That may be.—A mind ſo pure, to mingle with a mind more impure than moſt of his ſpecies! Such a man as This will ingroſs all your ſolicitudes. He will perpetually fill you with anxieties for him and for yourſelf. The divine and civil powers defied, and their ſanctions broke thro' by him, on every not merely accidental, but meditated occaſion. To be agreeable to him, and to hope to preſerve an intereſt in his af⯑fections, you muſt probably be obliged to abandon all your own laudable purſuits. You muſt enter into his pleaſures and diſtaſtes: You muſt give up your own virtuous companions for his profligate ones: Perhaps be forſaken by yours, becauſe of the ſcandal he daily gives. Can you hope, couſin, with ſuch a man as This, to be long ſo good as you now are?—If not, conſider, which of your preſent laudable delights you would chooſe to give up?—Which of his culpable ones to follow him in? How could you brook to go back⯑ward, inſtead of forward, in thoſe duties which you now ſo exemplarily perform? And how do you know, if you once give way, where you ſhall be ſuf⯑fer'd, where you ſhall be able, to ſtop?

Your brother acknowleges, that Mr. Solmes is not near ſo agreeable in perſon, as Mr. Lovelace. But what is perſon, with ſuch a lady as I have the honour to be now writing to?—He owns likewiſe, that he has not the addreſs of Mr. Lovelace: But what a mere perſonal advantage is addreſs, without morals?—A lady had better take a huſband whoſe manners ſhe were to faſhion, than to find them ready-faſhion'd [360] to her hand, at the price of his morality; a price that is often paid for travelling accompliſhments. O my dear couſin, were you but with us here at Florence, or at Rome, or at Paris (where alſo I reſided for ma⯑ny months), to ſee the gentlemen, whoſe ſuppoſed rough Engliſh manners at ſetting out are to be poliſh'd, and what their improvements are in their return thro' the ſame places, you would infinitely prefer the man in his firſt ſtage, to the ſame man in his laſt. You find the difference on their return: Foreign faſhions, foreign vices, and foreign diſeaſes too, often complete the man, and to deſpiſe his own country and coun⯑trymen, himſelf ſtill more deſpicable, than the moſt deſpicable of thoſe he deſpiſes: Theſe too generally make up, with a mixture of an unbluſhing effrontery, the travelled gentleman!

Mr. Lovelace, I know, deſerves to have an ex⯑ception made in his favour; for he is really a man of parts and learning: He was eſteemed ſo both here and at Rome; and a fine perſon, and a generous turn of mind, gave him great advantages. But you need not be told, that a libertine man of ſenſe does infi⯑nitely more miſchief, than a libertine of weak parts is able to do. And this I will tell you farther, that it was Mr. Lovelace's own fault that he was not ſtill more reſpected than he was, among the Literati here. There were, in ſhort, ſome liberties, in which he in⯑dulged himſelf, that endangered his perſon and his liberty; and made the beſt and moſt worthy of thoſe who honour'd him with their notice, give him up; and his ſtay both at Florence and at Rome ſhorter than he deſigned.

This is all I chooſe to ſay of Mr. Lovelace. I had much rather have had reaſon to give him a quite con⯑trary character. But as to rakes or libertines in gene⯑ral, I, who know them well, muſt be allowed, becauſe of the miſchiefs they have always in their hearts, and [361] too often in their power, to do your Sex, to add ſtill a few more words upon this topic.

A Libertine, my dear couſin, a plotting, an in⯑triguing Libertine, muſt be generally remorſeleſs;—Unjuſt he muſt always be. The noble rule, of doing to others what he would have done to himſelf, is the firſt rule he breaks; and every day he breaks it; the oftener, the greater his triumph. He has great contempt for your ſex: He believes no woman chaſte, becauſe he is a profligate: Every woman who fa⯑vours him, confirms him in his wicked incredulity. He is always plotting to extend the miſchiefs he de⯑lights in. If a woman loves ſuch a man, how can ſhe bear the thought of dividing her intereſt in his affections, with half the town, and that, perhaps, the dregs of it?—Then ſo ſenſual!—How will a young lady of your delicacy bear with ſo ſenſual a man? a man who makes a jeſt of his vows; and who, perhaps, will break your ſpirit by the moſt unmanly inſults. To be a libertine, at ſetting out, all compunction, all huma⯑nity, muſt be overcome. To continue to be a liber⯑tine, is to continue to be every thing vile and inhu⯑man. Prayers, tears, and the moſt abject ſubmiſ⯑ſion, are but fuel to his pride: Wagering perhaps with lewd companions, and, not improbably, with lewder women, upon inſtances which he boaſts of to them of your patient ſufferings and broken ſpirit, and bringing them home to witneſs to both. I write what I know has been.

I mention not fortunes ſquander'd, eſtates mortgaged or ſold, and poſterity robb'd: Nor yet a multitude of other evils, too groſs, too ſhocking, to be men⯑tioned to a delicacy like yours.

All theſe, my dear couſin, to be ſhunn'd, all the evils I have named to be avoided; the power of doing all the good you have been accuſtomed to do, pre⯑ſerved, nay, increaſed, by the ſeparate proviſion that will be made for you: Your charming diverſions, and [362] exemplary employments all maintained; and every good habit perpetuated: And all by one ſacrifice, the fading pleaſure of the eye: Who would not (ſince every thing is not to be met with in one man; who would not) to preſerve ſo many eſſentials, give up ſo light, ſo unpermanent a pleaſure?

Weigh all theſe things, which I might inſiſt upon to more advantage, did I think it needful to one of your prudence: Weigh them well, my beloved couſin; and if it be not the will of your parents that you ſhould continue ſingle, reſolve to oblige them; and let it not be ſaid, that the powers of fancy ſhall (as in many others of your ſex) be too hard for your duty and your prudence. The leſs agreeable the man, the more obliging the compliance: Remember, that he is a ſo⯑ber man: A man who has reputation to loſe, and whoſe reputation therefore is a ſecurity for his good behaviour to you.

You have an opportunity offer'd you, to give the higheſt inſtance that can be given, of filial duty:—Embrace it; it is worthy of you; it is expected from you; however, for your inclination ſake, one may be ſorry that you are called upon to give it. Let it be ſaid, that you have been able to lay an obligation up⯑on your parents (A proud word, my couſin!) which you could not do, were it not laid againſt your incli⯑nation!—Upon parents, who have laid a thouſand up⯑on you: Who are ſet upon this point: Who will not give it up: Who have given up many points to you, even of this very nature: And in their turn, for the ſake of their own authority, as well as judgment, ex⯑pect to be obliged.

I hope I ſhall ſoon, in perſon, congratulate you upon This your meritorious compliance. To ſettle and give up my truſteeſhip, is one of the principal mo⯑tives of my leaving theſe parts. I ſhall be glad to ſettle it, to every one's ſatisfaction; to Yours particularly. If on my arrival I find a happy union, as formerly, [363] reign in a family ſo dear to me, it will be an unſpeak⯑able pleaſure to me; and I ſhall perhaps ſo diſpoſe my affairs, as to be near you for ever.

I have written a very long letter, and will add no more, than that I am, with the greateſt reſpect, my deareſt couſin,

I will ſuppoſe, my dear Miſs Howe, that you have read my couſin's letter. It is now in vain to wiſh it had come ſooner. But if it had, I might perhaps have been ſo raſh as to give Mr. Lovelace the fatal meeting, as I little thought of going off with him.

But I ſhould hardly have given him the expectation of ſo doing, previous to the meeting, which made him come prepared; and the revocation of which he ſo artfully made ineffectual.

Perſecuted as I was, and little expecting ſo much condeſcenſion, as my aunt, to my great mortification, has told me (and you confirm) that I ſhould have met with, it is, however, hard to ſay, what I ſhould or ſhould not have done, as to meeting him, had it come in time: But this effect I verily believe it would have had,—To have made me inſiſt with all my might, on going over, out of all their ways, to the kind writer of the inſtructive letter, and made a fa⯑ther, a protector, as well as a friend, of a couſin, who is one of my truſtees. This, circumſtanced as I was, would have been a natural, at leaſt an unexception⯑able protection.—But I was to be unhappy! And how it cuts me to the heart to think, that I can already ſubſcribe to my couſin's character of a libertine, ſo well drawn in the letter which I ſuppoſe you now to have read!

That ſuch a vile character, which ever was my abhorrence, ſhould fall to my lot!—But depending on my own ſtrength; having no reaſon to apprehend [364] danger from headſtrong and diſgraceful impulſes, I too little, perhaps, caſt up my eyes to the Supreme Director: In whom, miſtruſting myſelf, I ought to have placed my whole confidence!—And the more, when I ſaw myſelf ſo perſiſtingly addreſſed by a man of this character.

Inexperience and preſumption, with the help of a brother and ſiſter, who have low ends to anſwer in my diſgrace, have been my ruin!—A hard word, my dear! But I repeat it upon deliberation: Since, let the beſt happen, which now can happen, my reputa⯑tion is deſtroyed; a Rake is my portion: And what That portion is, my couſin Morden's letter has ac⯑quainted you.

Pray keep it by you, till called for. I ſaw it not myſelf (having not the heart to inſpect my trunks) till this morning. I would not for the world This man ſhould ſee it; becauſe it might occaſion miſchief between the moſt violent ſpirit, and the moſt ſettled brave one, in the world, as my couſin's is ſaid to be.

This letter was incloſed (opened) in a blank cover. Scorn and deteſt me as they will, I wonder that one line was not ſent with it—were it but to have more particularly pointed the deſign of it, in the ſame ge⯑nerous ſpirit, that ſent me the Spira.—The ſealing of the cover was with black wax. I hope there is no new occaſion in the family to give reaſon for black wax. But if there were, it would, to be ſure, have been mention'd, and laid at my door—perhaps too juſtly!

I had begun a letter to my couſin; but laid it by, becauſe of the uncertainty of my ſituation, and expect⯑ing every-day, for ſeveral days paſt, to be at a greater certainty. You bid me write to him, ſome time ago, you know. Then it was I began it: For I have great pleaſure in obeying you in all I may. So I ought to have; for you are the only friend left me: And more⯑over, you generally honour me with your own ob⯑ſervance [365] of the advice I take the liberty to offer you: For I pretend to ſay, I give better advice than I have taken. And ſo I had need. For, I know not how it comes about, but I am, in my own opinion, a poor loſt creature: And yet cannot charge myſelf with one criminal or faulty inclination. Do you know, my dear, how This can be?

Yet I can tell you how, I believe:—One devious ſtep at ſetting out!—That muſt be It:—Which purſued, has led me ſo far out of my path, that I am in a wil⯑derneſs of doubt and error; and never, never, ſhall find my way out of it: For, altho' but one pace awry at firſt, it has led me hundreds and hundreds of miles out of my path: And the poor eſtray has not one kind friend, nor has met with one directing paſ⯑ſenger, to help her to recover it.

But I, preſumptuous creature! muſt rely ſo much upon my own knowlege of the right path!—little ap⯑prehending that an ignis fatuus with its falſe fires (and yet I had heard enough of ſuch) would ariſe to miſ⯑lead me!—And now, in the midſt of fens and quag⯑mires, it plays around me, and around me, throwing me back again, whenever I think myſelf in the right track.—But there is one common point, in which all ſhall meet, err widely as they may. In That I ſhall be laid quietly down at laſt: And then will all my ca⯑lamities be at an end.

But how I ſtray again; ſtray from my intention! I would only have ſaid, that I had begun a letter to my couſin Morden ſome time ago: But that, now, I can never end it. You will believe I cannot: For how ſhall I tell him, that all his compliments are miſ⯑beſtowed: That all his advice is thrown away: All his warnings vain: And that even my higheſt expecta⯑tion is to be the wife of that free liver, whom he ſo pathetically warns me to ſhun?

Let me, however, have your prayers joined with my own, (my fate depending, as it ſeems, upon the [366] lips of ſuch a man), ‘'That, whatever ſhall be my de⯑ſtiny, That dreadful part of my father's malediction, That I may be puniſhed by the man in whom he ſuppoſes I put my confidence, may not take place! That This for Mr. Lovelace's own ſake, and for the ſake of human nature, may not be!—Or, if it be neceſſary, in ſupport of the parental authority, that I ſhould be puniſhed by him, that it may not be by his premeditated or wilful baſeneſs; but that I may be able to acquit his intention, if not his action!'’ Otherwiſe, my fault will appear to be doubled in the eye of the event judging world. And yet, methinks, I would be glad, that the unkindneſs of my father and uncles, whoſe hearts have already been too much wounded by my error, may be juſtify'd in every ar⯑ticle, excepting in this heavy curſe: And that my father will be pleaſed to withdraw That, before it be generally known, at leaſt that moſt dreadful part of it, which regards futurity!

I muſt lay down my pen: I muſt brood over theſe reflections: Once more, before I incloſe my couſin's letter, I will peruſe it: And then I ſhall have it by heart.