LETTER I. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I HAVE been under ſuch concern for the poor man, whoſe exit I almoſt hourly ex⯑pect, and at the ſhocking ſcenes his ill⯑neſs, and his agonies exhibit; that I have been only able to make memoranda of the melancholy paſſages, from which to draw up a more perfect account, for the inſtruction of us all, when the writing-appetite ſhall return.

IT is returned! Indignation has revived it, on re⯑ceipt of thy letters of Sunday and yeſterday; by which I have reaſon to reproach thee in very ſerious terms, that thou haſt not kept thy honour with me: And if thy breach of it be attended with ſuch effects as I fear it will be, I ſhall let thee know more of my mind on this head.

[2]If thou would'ſt be thought in earneſt in thy wiſhes, to move the poor lady in thy favour, thy ludicrous behaviour at Smith's, when it comes to be repreſented to her, will have a very conſiſtent appearance; will it not?—It will, indeed, confirm her in her opinion, that the grave is more to be wiſhed-for, by one of her ſerious and pious turn, than a husband incapable either of reflexion or re⯑morſe; juſt recovered, as thou art, from a dangerous, at leaſt a ſharp illneſs.

I am extremely concerned for the poor unprotected lady; ſhe was ſo exceſſively low and weak on Saturday, that I could not be admitted to her ſpeech: And to be driven out of her lodgings, when it was fitter for her to be in bed, is ſuch a piece of cruelty, as he only could be guilty of, who could act as thou haſt done, by ſuch an angel.

Canſt thou thyſelf ſay, on reflection, that it has not the look of a wicked and hardened ſportiveneſs, in thee, for the ſake of a wanton humour only, (ſince it can anſwer no end that thou propoſeſt to thyſelf, but the direct con⯑trary) to hunt from place to place a poor lady, who, like a harmleſs deer, that has already a barbed ſhaft in her breaſt, ſeeks only a refuge from thee, in the ſhades of death?

But I will leave this matter upon thy own conſcience, to paint thee ſuch a ſcene from my memoranda, as thou perhaps wilt be moved by more effectually than by any other: Becauſe it is ſuch a one, as thou thyſelf muſt one day be a principal actor in; and, as I thought, hadſt very lately in apprehenſion: And is the laſt ſcene of one of thy moſt intimate friends, who has been for the four paſt days labouring in the agonies of death. For, Lovelace, let this truth, this undoubted truth, be ingraven on thy me⯑mory, in all thy gaieties, That the life we are ſo fond of, is hardly life; a mere breathing-ſpace only; and that at the end of its longeſt date, ‘THOU MUST DIE, AS WELL AS BELTON.’

Thou knoweſt by Tourville what we had done as to the poor man's worldly affairs; and that we had got his unhappy ſiſter to come and live with him; (little did we think him [3] ſo very near his end); and ſo I will proceed to tell thee, that when I arrived at his houſe on Saturday night, I found him exceſſively ill: But juſt raiſed, and in his elbow-chair, held up by his nurſe and Mowbray, (the rougheſt and moſt untouched creature that ever enter'd a ſick man's chamber) while the maid-ſervants were trying to make that bed eaſier for him which he was to return to; his mind ten times uneaſier than That could be, and the true cauſe that the down was no ſofter to him.

He had ſo much longed to ſee me, his ſiſter told me, (whom I ſent for down to enquire how he was) that they all rejoiced when I entered: Here, ſaid Mowbray, Here Tommy, is honeſt Jack Belford!

Where, where? ſaid the poor man.

I hear his voice, cry'd Mowbray, coming up ſtairs.

In a tranſport of joy, he would have raiſed himſelf at my entrance, but had like to have pitched out of the chair: And when recover'd, call'd me his beſt friend! his kindeſt friend! but, burſt out into a flood of tears, O Jack! O Belford! ſaid he, ſee the way I am in! See how weak! So much, and ſo ſoon reduced! Do you know me? Do you know your poor friend Belton?

You are not ſo much altered, my dear Belton, as you think you are. But I ſee you are weak; very weak—And I am ſorry for it.

Weak! weak, indeed, my deareſt Belford, ſaid he, and weaker in my mind, if poſſible, than in my body; and wept bitterly—or I ſhould not thus unman myſelf. I, who never feared any thing, to be forced to ſhew myſelf ſuch a nurſling!—I am quite aſhamed of myſelf!—But don't deſpiſe me, dear Belford, don't deſpiſe me, I beſeech thee.

I ever honoured a man that could weep for the diſtreſſes of others; and ever ſhall, ſaid I; and ſuch a one cannot be inſenſible to his own.

However, I could not help being viſibly moved at the poor fellow's emotion.

Now, ſaid the brutal Mowbray, do I think thee inſuf⯑ferable, Jack. Our poor friend is already a peg too low; and here thou art letting him down lower and lower ſtill. This ſoothing of him in his dejected moments, and joining [4] thy womaniſh tears with his, is not the way; I am ſure it is not. If our Lovelace were here, he'd tell thee ſo.

Thou art an impenetrable creature, reply'd I; unfit to be preſent at a ſcene thou wilt not be able to feel the ter⯑rors of, till thou feeleſt them in thyſelf; and then, if thou haſt time for feeling, my life for thine, thou behaveſt as pitifully, as thoſe thou thinkeſt moſt pitiful.

Then turning to the poor ſick man, Tears, my dear Belton, are no ſigns of an unmanly, but, contrarily, of a humane nature; they eaſe the over-charged heart, which would burſt but for that kindly and natural relief.

I know, my dear Belton, thou uſedſt to take pleaſure in repetitions from the poets; but thou muſt be taſte⯑leſs of their beauties now: Yet be not diſcountenanced by this uncouth and unreflecting Mowbray, for as Juve⯑nal ſays, Tears are the prerogative of manhood.

'Tis, at leaſt, ſeaſonably ſaid, my dear Belford; it is kind to keep me in countenance for this womaniſh weak⯑neſs, as Mowbray has been upbraidingly calling it, ever ſince he has been with me. And in ſo doing (whatever I might have thought in ſuch high health as he enjoys) has convinced me, that bottle-friends feel nothing but what moves in that little circle.

Well, well proceed in your own way, Jack. I love my friend Belton as well as you can do; yet for the blood of me, I cannot but think, that ſoothing a man's weakneſs is increaſing it.

If it be a weakneſs, to be touched at great and concern⯑ing events, in which our humanity is concerned, ſaid I, thou mayeſt be right.

I have ſeen many a man, ſaid the rough creature, going up Holbourn-hill, that has behaved more like a man than either of you.

Ay, but Mowbray, reply'd the poor man, thoſe wretches have not had ſuch infirmities of body as I have long la⯑boured under, to enervate their minds. Thou art a ſhock⯑ing [5] fellow, and ever wert. But to be able to remember nothing in theſe moments, but what reproaches me, and to know, that I cannot hold it long, and what may then be my lot, if—But interrupting himſelf and turning to me, Give me thy pity, Jack, 'tis balm to my wounded ſoul; and let Mowbray ſit indifferent enough to the pangs of a dying friend, to laugh at us both.

The harden'd fellow then retired, with the air of a Lovelace; only more ſtupid; yawning and ſtretching, inſtead of humming a tune as thou didſt at Smith's.

I aſſiſted to get the poor man into bed. He was ſo weak and low, that he could not bear the fatigue, and fainted away; and I verily thought was quite gone. But recovering, and his doctor coming, and adviſing to keep him quiet, I retired, and joined Mowbray in the garden; who took more delight to talk of the living Lovelace and his levities, than of the dying Belton and his repen⯑tance.

I juſt ſaw him again on Saturday night before I went to bed: which I did early; for I was ſurfeited with Mow⯑bray's frothy inſenſibility, and could not bear him. It is ſuch a horrid thing to think of, that a man who had lived in ſuch ſtrict terms of amity with another (the proof does not come out ſo, as to ſay friendſhip); who had pretended ſo much love for him; could not bear to be out of his com⯑pany; would ride a hundred miles an end to enjoy it, and would fight for him, be the cauſe right or wrong: Yet now, could be ſo little moved to ſee him in ſuch miſery of body and mind as to be able to rebuke him, and rather ridicule than pity him, becauſe he was more affected by what he felt, than he had ſeen a malefactor (hardened perhaps by liquor, and not ſoftened by pre⯑vious ſickneſs) on his going to execution.

This put me ſtrongly in mind of what the divine Miſs HARLOWE once ſaid to me, talking of friendſhip, and what my friendſhip to you required of me: ‘'Depend up⯑on it, Mr. Belford,' ſaid ſhe, that one day you will be convinced, that what you call friendſhip, is chaff and ſtubble; and that nothing is worthy of that ſacred name, ‘'THAT HAS NOT VIRTUE FOR ITS BASE'’’

[6]Sunday morning, I was called up at ſix o' clock, at his earneſt requeſt, and found him in a terrible agony. O Jack! Jack! ſaid he, looking wildly, as if he had ſeen a ſpectre—Come nearer me! reaching out both arms.—Come nearer me!—Dear, dear Belford, ſave me! Then claſping my arm with both his hands, and rearing up his head towards me, his eyes ſtrangely rolling, Save me! dear Belford, ſave me! repeated he.

I put my other arm about him,—Save you from what, my dear Belton! Save you from what!—Nothing ſhall hurt you!—What muſt I ſave you from?

Recovering from his terror, he ſunk down again, O ſave me from myſelf! ſaid he; Save me from my own re⯑flections. O dear Jack! what a thing it is to die; and not to have one comfortable reflection to revolve!—What would I give for one year of my paſſed life?—only one year—and to have the ſame ſenſe of things that I now have?

I try'd to comfort him, as well as I could: But free-livers to free-livers are ſorry death-bed comforters. And he broke in upon me: O my dear Belford, ſaid he, I am told, (and I have heard you ridiculed for it) that the ex⯑cellent Miſs Harlowe has wrought a converſion in you. May it be ſo! you are a man of ſenſe; O may it be ſo! Now is your time! Now, that you are in full vigour of mind and body! But your poor Belton, alas! kept his vices, till they left him. And ſee the miſerable effects in debility of mind and deſpondency! Were Mowbray here, and were he to laugh at me, I would own that this is the cauſe of my deſpair: That God's juſtice cannot let his mercy operate for my comfort: For Oh! I have been very, very wicked; and have deſpiſed the offers of his grace, till he has withdrawn it from me for ever.

I uſed all the arguments I could think of, to give him conſolation; and what I ſaid, had ſuch an effect upon him, as to quiet his mind for the greateſt part of the day; and in a lucid hour his memory ſerved him to repeat thoſe lines of Dryden, graſping my hand, and looking wiſtfully upon me:

In the afternoon of Sunday, he was inquiſitive after you, and your preſent behaviour to Miſs Harlowe. I told him how you had been, and how light you made of it. Mowbray was pleaſed with your impenetrable hardneſs of heart, and ſaid, Bob Lovelace was a good edge-tool, and ſteel to the back: And ſuch coarſe but hearty praiſes he gave thee, as an abandon'd man might give, and only an abandon'd man could wiſh to deſerve.

But hadſt thou heard what the poor dying, wiſe-too-late Belton ſaid on this occaſion, perhaps it would have made thee ſerious an hour or two, at leaſt.

When poor Lovelace is brought, ſaid he, to a ſick-bed, as I am now, and his mind forebodes, that it is im⯑poſſible he ſhould recover, which his could not do in his late illneſs: If it had, he could not have behaved ſo lightly in it—When he revolves his paſt miſ-ſpent life; his actions of offence to helpleſs innocents; in Miſs Harlowe's caſe particularly: What then, will he think of himſelf, or of his paſt actions? His mind debilitated; his ſtrength turned into weakneſs; unable to ſtir or to move without help; not one ray of hope darting in upon his benighted ſoul; his conſcience ſtanding in the place of a thouſand wit⯑neſſes; his pains excruciating; weary of the poor rem⯑nant of life he drags, yet dreading that in a few ſhort hours, his bed will be changed to worſe, nay, to worſt of all; and that worſt of all, to laſt beyond time and to all eter⯑nity; O Jack! What will he then think of the poor tran⯑ſitory gratifications of ſenſe, which now engage all his attention? Tell him, dear Belford, tell him, how happy he is, if he knows his own happineſs; how happy, com⯑pared to his poor dying friend, that he has recovered from his illneſs, and has ſtill an opportunity lent him, for which I would give a thouſand worlds, had I them to give!

I approved exceedingly of what he ſaid, as reflections ſuited to his preſent circumſtances; and inferred conſo⯑lations to him from a mind ſo properly touched.

[8]He proceeded in the like penitent ſtrain. I have lived a very wicked life; ſo have we all. We have never made a conſcience of doing all the miſchief, that either force or fraud put it in our power [...]o do. We have laid ſnares for the innocent heart; and have not ſcrupled by the too-ready ſword to extend, as occaſions offer'd, the wrongs we did, to the perſons whom we had before injur'd in their deareſt relations. But yet I think in my heart, that I have leſs to anſwer for than either Lovelace or Mow⯑bray; for I, by taking to myſelf that accurſed deceiver from whom thou haſt freed me, (and who for years, un⯑known to me, was retaliating upon my own head ſome of the evils I had brought upon others) and retiring, and living with her as a wife, was not party to half the miſ⯑chiefs, that I doubt they, and Tourville, and even You, Belford, committed. As to the ungrateful Thomaſm, I hope I have met with my puniſhment in her. But not⯑withſtanding this, doſt thou not think, that ſuch an action—and ſuch an action—and ſuch an action, (and then he re⯑capitulated ſeveral enormities, in which, led on by falſe bravery, and the heat of youth and wine, we have all been concerned) Doſt thou not think that theſe villainies, (let me call them now by their proper name,) joined to the wilful and gloried-in neglect of every duty that our better ſenſe and education gave us to know were required of us as Men and Chriſtians, are not enough to weigh down my ſoul into deſpondency?—Indeed, indeed, they are! And now to hope for mercy! And to depend upon the efficacy of that gracious attribute when that no leſs ſhining one of juſtice forbids me to hope; How can I!—I, who have deſpiſed all warnings, and taken no advantage of the benefit I might have reap'd from the lingring conſumptive illneſs I have laboured under, but left all to the laſt ſtake; hoping for recovery, againſt hope, and driving off re⯑pentance, till that grace is denyed me; for oh! my dear Belford! I can now neither repent, nor pray, as I ought; my heart is harden'd, and I can do nothing but deſpair!—

More he would have ſaid; but, overwhelm'd with grief and infirmity, he bowed his head upon his pangful [9] boſom, endeavouring to hide from the ſight of the har⯑dened Mowbray, who juſt then enter'd the room, thoſe tears which he could not reſtrain.

Prefac'd by a phlegmatic hem; Sad, very ſad, truly! cry'd Mowbray; who ſat himſelf down on one ſide of the bed, as I on the other: His eyes half cloſed, and his lips pouting out to his turn'd-up noſe, his chin curdled (to uſe one of thy deſcriptions) leaving one at a loſs to know, whether ſtupid drowſineſs or intenſe contempla⯑tion had got moſt hold of him.

An excellent, however uneaſy leſſon, Mowbray, ſaid I! by my faith it is!—It may one day, who knows how ſoon? be our own caſe!

I thought of thy yawning fit, as deſcribed in thy letter of Aug. 13. For up ſtarted Mowbray, writhing and ſhak⯑ing himſelf as in an ague-fit; his hands ſtretch'd over his head—with thy hoy! hoy! hoy! yawning.—And then re⯑covering himſelf, with another ſtretch and a ſhake, What's a clock, cried he? pulling out his watch—And ſtalking by long tip-toe ſtrides thro' the room, down ſtairs he went; and meeting the maid, in the paſſage, I heard him ſay—Betty, bring me a bumper of claret; thy poor maſter, and this damn'd Belford are enough to throw a Hercules into the vapours.

Mowbray, after this, amuſing himſelf in our friend's library, which is, as thou knoweſt, chiefly claſſical and dramatical, found out a paſſage in Lee's Oedipus, which he [...]ould needs have to be extremely apt, and in he came full fraught with the notion of the courage it would give the dying man, and read it to him. 'Tis poetical and pretty. This is it.

He expected praiſes for finding this out. But Belton turning his head from him, Ah, Dick! (ſaid he) theſe are not the reflections of a dying man! What thou wilt one day feel, if it be what I now feel, will convince thee that the evils before thee, and with thee, are more than the effects of imagination.

I was called twice on Sunday-night to him; for the poor fellow, when his reflections on his paſt life annoy him moſt, is afraid of being left with the women; and his eyes, they tell me, hunt and roll about for me. Where's Mr. Belford?—But I ſhall tire him out, cries he—yet beg of him to ſtep to me—yet don't—yet do; were once the doubting and changeful orders he gave: And they called me accordingly.

But, alas! What could Belford do for him? Belford, who had been but too often the companion of his guilty hours, who wants mercy as much as he does; and is un⯑able to promiſe it to himſelf, tho' 'tis all he can bid his poor friend rely upon!

What miſcreants are we! What figures ſhall we make in theſe terrible hours!

If Miſs HARLOWE's glorious Example, on one hand, and the terrors of This poor man's on the other, affect me not, I muſt be abandoned to perdition; as I fear thou wilt be, if thou benefitteſt not thyſelf from both.

Among the conſolatory things I urged, when I was called up the laſt time on Sunday-night, I told him, That he muſt not abſolutely give himſelf up to deſpair: That many of the apprehenſions he was under, were ſuch as the beſt men muſt have, on the dreadful uncertainty of what was to ſucceed to this life. 'Tis well obſerved, ſaid I, by a poetical divine, who was an excellent chriſtian, ^(a) That

[11]About eight o'clock yeſterday (Monday) morning, I found him a little calmer. He aſked me, who was the author of the two lines I had repeated to him; and made me ſpeak them over again. A ſad retinue, indeed, ſaid the poor man! And then expreſſing his hopeleſſneſs of life, and his terrors at the thoughts of dying; and draw⯑ing from thence terrible concluſions with regard to his future ſtate, There is, ſaid I, ſuch a natural averſion to death in human nature, that you are not to imagine, that you, my dear Belton, are ſingular in the fear of it, and in the apprehenſions that fill the thoughtful mind upon its approach; but you ought, as much as poſſible, to ſeparate thoſe natural fears, which all men muſt have on ſo ſolemn an occaſion, from thoſe particular ones, which your juſtly-apprehended unfitneſs fills you with. Lord Roſcommon, in his Proſpect of Death, which I dipped into laſt night from a collection in your cloſet, and which I put into my pocket, ſays, (and turning to the place)

My Lord Roſcommon, therefore, proceeded I, had ſuch apprehenſions of this dark ſtate as you have: And the ex⯑cellent divine I hinted at laſt night, who had very little elſe but human frailties to reproach himſelf with, and whoſe Miſcellanies fell into my hands among my uncle's books, in my attendance upon him in his laſt hours, ſays,

Then follows, what I repeated,

Alas! my dear Belford, (inferr'd the unhappy deep-thinker) what poor creatures does this convince me we mor⯑tals are at beſt!—But what then muſt be the caſe of ſuch a profligate as I, who, by a paſt wicked life, have added force to theſe natural terrors? If death be ſo repugnant a thing to human nature, that good men will be ſtartled at it, what muſt it be to one who has lived a life of ſenſe and ap⯑petite; nor ever reflected upon the end which I now am within view of?

What could I ſay to an inference ſo fairly drawn? Mercy! mercy! unbounded mercy! was ſtill my plea, tho' his repeated oppoſition of juſtice to it, in a manner ſilenced it: And what would I have given to have had riſe to my mind, one good, one eminently good action, to have re⯑membered him of, in order to combat his fears with it?

I believe, Lovelace, I ſhall tire thee, and that more with the ſubject of my letter, than even with the length of it. But, really, I think thy ſpirits are ſo offenſively up, ſince thy recovery, that I ought, as the melancholy ſubjects offer, to endeavour by them to reduce thee to the ſtandard of humanity. And then thou canſt not but be curious to know every thing that concerns the poor man, for whom thou haſt always expreſſed a great re⯑gard. I will therefore proceed as I have begun: If thou likeſt not to read it now, lay it by, if thou wilt, till the like circumſtances befal thee, till like reflections from thoſe circumſtances ſeize thee; and then take it up, and compare the two caſes together.

AT his earneſt requeſt, I ſat up with him laſt night; and, poor man! it is impoſſible to tell thee, how eaſy and ſafe he thought himſelf in my company, for the firſt part of the night: A drowning man will catch at a ſtraw, [13] the Proverb well ſays: And a ſtraw was I, with reſpect to any real help I could give him. He often awaked in terrors, and once calling out for me, Dear Belford, ſaid he, Where are you!—Oh! There you are!—Give me your friendly hand!—Then graſping it, and putting his clam⯑my, half-cold lips to it—How kind! I fear every thing when you are abſent! But the preſence of a friend, a ſympathizing friend—Oh! how comfortable!—

But about four in the morning, he frighted me much: He waked with three terrible groans; and endeavoured to ſpeak, but could not preſently—and when he did,—Jack, Jack, Jack, five or ſix times repeated he as quick as thought, now, now, now, ſave me, ſave me, ſave me—I am going,—going indeed!

I threw my arms about him, and raiſed him upon his pillow, as he was ſinking (as if to hide himſelf) in the bed-cloaths—And ſtaring wildly, Where am I! ſaid he, a little recovering. Did you not ſee him! turning his head this way and that; horror in his countenance; Did you not ſee him?

See who! See what, my dear Belton!

O lay me upon the bed again, cry'd he!—Let me not die upon the floor! Lay me down gently! And ſtand by me! Leave me not! All, all will ſoon be over!

You are already, my dear Belton, upon the bed. You have not been upon the floor.—This is a ſtrong deli⯑rium; you are faint for want of refreſhment; (for he had refuſed ſeveral times to take any thing) Let me per⯑ſuade you to take ſome of this cordial julep. I will leave you, if you will not oblige me.

He then readily took it; but ſaid he could have ſworn that Tom Metcalfe had been in the room, and had drawn him out of bed by the throat, upbraiding him with the injuries he had firſt done his ſiſter, and then him, in the duel to which he owed that fever which coſt him his life.

Thou knoweſt the ſtory, Lovelace, too well, to need my repeating it: But mercy on us, if in theſe terrible mo⯑ments all the evils we do, riſe to our affrighted imagi⯑nations! If ſo, what ſhocking ſcenes have I, but ſtill more haſt thou, to go through, if, as the noble poet ſays, ‘If, any ſenſe at that ſad time remains.’

[14]The doctor ordered him an opiate, this morning early, which operated ſo well, that he doſed and ſlept ſeveral hours more quietly than he had done for the two paſt days and nights, tho' he had ſleeping draughts given him before. But it is more and more evident every hour, that nature is almoſt worn out in him.

MOWBRAY, quite tired with this houſe of mourning, intends to ſet out in the morning to find you. He was not a little rejoiced to hear you were in town; I believe to have a pretence to leave us.

He has juſt taken leave of his poor friend, intending to go away early: An everlaſting leave, I may venture to ſay; for I think he will hardly live till to-morrow night.

I believe the poor man would not have been ſorry had he left him when I arrived; for 'tis a ſhocking crea⯑ture, and enjoys too ſtrong health to know how to pity the ſick. Then (to borrow an obſervation from thee) he has, by nature, ſtrong bodily organs, which thoſe of his ſoul are not likely to whet out; and he, as well as the wicked friend he is going to, may laſt a great while from the ſtrength of their conſtitutions, tho' ſo greatly different in their talents; if neither the ſword nor the halter inter⯑poſe.

I muſt repeat, That I cannot but be very uneaſy for the poor lady, whom thou ſo cruelly perſecuteſt; and that I do not think thou haſt kept thy honour with me. I was apprehenſive, indeed, that thou wouldſt attempt to ſee her, as ſoon as thou gotteſt well enough to come up; and I told her as much, making uſe of it as an argument to prepare her for thy viſit, and to induce her to ſtand it. But ſhe could not, it is plain, bear the ſhock of it; and, indeed, ſhe told me, that ſhe would not ſee thee, tho' but for one half hour, for the world.

Could ſhe have prevailed upon herſelf, I know that the ſight of her would have been as affecting to thee, as thy viſit could have been to her; when thou hadſt ſeen to what a lovely ſkeleton (for ſhe is really lovely ſtill, nor can ſhe, with ſuch a form and features, be other⯑wiſe) thou haſt, in a few weeks, reduced one of the moſt [15] charming women in the world; and that in the full bloom of her youth and beauty.

Mowbray undertakes to carry This, that he may be more welcome to you, he ſays. Were it to be ſent un⯑ſealed, the characters we write in would be Hebrew to the dunce. I deſire you to return it; and I'll give you a copy of it upon demand; for I intend to keep it by me, as a guard againſt the infection of thy company which might otherwiſe, perhaps, ſome time hence, be apt to weaken the impreſſions I always deſire to have of the awful ſcene before me. God convert us both!

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

I BELIEVE no man has two ſuch ſervants as I have. Becauſe I treat them with kindneſs, and do not lord it over my inferiors, and damn and curſe them by looks and words like Mowbray; or beat their teeth out like Lovelace; but cry, Pr'ythee, Harry, do this, and Pr'ythee, Jonathan, do that, the fellows purſue their own devices, and regard nothing I ſay, but what falls in with theſe. Here, this vile Harry, who might have brought your letter of yeſterday in good time, came not in with it till paſt eleven laſt night (drunk, I ſuppoſe); and concluding that I was in bed, as he pretends, (becauſe he was told I ſat up the preceding night) brought it not to me; and having over ſlept himſelf, juſt as I had ſealed up my letter, in comes the villain with the forgotten one, ſhaking his ears, and looking as if he himſelf did not believe the ex⯑cuſes he was going to make. I queſtioned him about it, and heard his pitiful pleas, and tho' I never think it be⯑comes a gentleman to treat people inſolently who by their ſtations are humbled beneath his feet, yet could I not forbear to Lovelace and Mowbray-him, moſt cordially.

And this detaining Mowbray, (who was ready to ſet out to thee before) while I write a few lines upon it, the fierce fellow, who is impatient to exchange the company of a dying Belton, for that of a too lively Lovelace, affixed a ſupplement of curſes upon the ſtaring fellow that [16] was larger than my book—Nor did I offer to take off the Bear from ſuch a Mongrel, ſince he deſerved not of me, on this occaſion, the protection which every maſter owes to a good ſervant.

He has not done curſing him yet; for ſtalking about the court-yard with his boots on, (the poor fellow dreſſing his horſe, and unable to get from him) he is at him with⯑out mercy; and I will heighten his impatience (ſince be⯑ing juſt under the window where I am writing, he will not let me attend to my pen) by telling thee, how he fills my ears as well as the fellow's, with his—Hay, Sir! And G—d d—n ye, Sir! And were you my ſervant, ye dog ye! And muſt I ſtay here till the mid-day ſun ſcorches me to a parchment, for ſuch a mangey dog's drunken neglect?—Ye lye, Sirrah! Ye lye, I tell you—(I hear the fellow's voice in an humble excuſatory tone, tho' not articulately) Ye lye, ye dog!—I'd a good mind to thruſt my whip down your drunken throat: Damn me, if I would not flay the ſkin from the back of ſuch a raſcal, if thou wert mine, and have dog's-ſkin gloves made of it, for thy brother ſcoundrels to wear in remembrance of thy abuſes of ſuch a maſter.

The poor horſe ſuffers for this, I doubt not; for, What now! and, Stand ſtill, and be damn'd to ye, cries the fellow, with a kick, I ſuppoſe, which he better deſerves himſelf. For theſe varlets, where they can, are Mow⯑brays and Lovelaces to man or beaſt; and, not daring to anſwer him, is flaying the poor horſe.

I hear the fellow is juſt eſcaped, the horſe (better curryed than ordinary, I ſuppoſe, in half the uſual time) by his clanking ſhoes, and Mowbray's ſilence, letting me know, that I may now write on: And ſo, I will tell thee, that, in the firſt place, (little as I, as well as you, regard dreams,) I would have thee lay thine to heart; for I could give thee ſuch an interpretation of it, as would ſhock thee, perhaps: and if thou aſketh me for it, I will.

Mowbray calls to me from the court-yard, That 'tis a curſed hot day, and he ſhall be fry'd by riding in the noon of it: And, that poor Belton longs to ſee me. So I will only add, my earneſt deſire, that thou wilt give over all [17] thoughts of ſeeing the lady, if, when this comes to thy hand, thou haſt not ſeen her: And, that it would be kind, if thoud'ſt come, and, for the laſt time thou wilt ever ſee thy poor friend, ſhare my concern for him; and, in him, ſee what, in a little time, will be thy fate and mine, and That of Mowbray, Tourville, and the reſt of us:—For what are ten, fifteen, twenty, or thirty years, to look back to: In which period forward we ſhall all, perhaps, be mingled with the duſt we ſprung from?

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

ALL alive, dear Jack! and in ecſtaſy! Likely to be once more a happy man! For I have received a letter from my beloved Miſs HARLOWE; in conſe⯑quence, I ſuppoſe, of advices that I mentioned in my laſt from her ſiſter. And I am ſetting out for Berks directly, to ſhew the contents to my Lord M. and to receive the congratulations of all my kindred upon it.

I went, laſt night, as I intended, to Smith's: But the dear creature was not returned at near ten o'clock. And, lighting upon Tourville, I took him home with me, and made him ſing me out of my megrims. I went to bed tolerably eaſy at two; had bright and pleaſant dreams, not ſuch a frightful one as that I gave thee an account of: And at eight this morning, as I was dreſſing, to be in readineſs againſt Will came back, whom I had ſent to en⯑quire after his lady's return, I had this letter brought me by a chairman.

I diſpatched inſtantly a letter to the dear creature, aſſuring her, with the moſt thankful joy, ‘"That I would directly ſet out for Berks, and wait the iſſue of the happy reconci⯑liation, and the charming hopes ſhe had filled me with. I poured out upon her a thouſand bleſſings. I declared, that it ſhould be the ſtudy of my whole life to merit ſuch tranſcendent goodneſs. And that there was no⯑thing which her father or friends ſhould require at my hands, that I would not for her ſake comply with, in order to promote and complete ſo deſirable a recon⯑ciliation."’

I hurried it away, without taking a copy of it; and I have ordered the chariot-and-ſix to be got ready; and, hey for M. Hall!—Let me but know how Belton does. I hope a letter from thee is on the road. And if the poor fellow can ſpare thee, make haſte, I adviſe thee, to at⯑tend this truly divine lady, or elſe thou mayeſt not ſee her of months perhaps; at leaſt, not while ſhe is Miſs HARLOWE. And favour me with one letter before ſhe ſets out; if poſſible, confirming to me, and accounting for, this generous change.

But what accounting for it is neceſſary? The dear crea⯑ture cannot receive conſolation herſelf, but ſhe muſt com⯑municate it to others. How noble!—She would not ſee me in her adverſity: But no ſooner does the ſun of pro⯑ſperity begin to ſhine upon her, than ſhe forgives me.

I know to whoſe mediation all this is owing. It is to Col. Morden's. She always, as ſhe ſays, lov'd and ho⯑nour'd him: And he loved her above all his relations.

I ſhall now be convinced that there is ſomething in [19] dreams. The ceiling opening is the reconciliation in view. The bright form, lifting her up through it to an⯑other ceiling ſtuck round with golden Cherubims and Sera⯑phims, indicates the charming little boys and girls, that will be the fruits of this happy reconciliation. The welcomes, thrice repeated, are thoſe of her family, now no more to be deemed implacable. Yet are they a family too, that my ſoul cannot mingle with.

But then what is my tumbling over and over, thro' the floor, into a frightful hole (deſcending as ſhe aſcends)? Ho! only This; it alludes to my diſreliſh to matrimony: Which is a bottomleſs pit, a gulph, and I know not what. And I ſuppoſe, had I not awoke (in ſuch a plaguy fright) I had been ſouſed into ſome river at the bottom of the hole, and then been carried (mundified or purified from my paſt ini⯑quities) by the ſame bright form (waiting for me upon the moſſy banks) to my beloved girl; and we ſhould have gone on, cherubiming of it, and carolling, to the end of the chapter.

But what are the black ſweeping mantles and robes of my Lord M. thrown over my face, and what are thoſe of the Ladies? Oh, Jack! I have theſe too: They indicate no⯑thing in the world but that my Lord will be ſo good as to die, and leave me all he has. So, reſt to thy good na⯑tured ſoul, honeſt Lord M.

Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty Lawrance, will alſo die, and leave me ſwindging legacies.

Miſs Charlotte and her ſiſter—what will become of them?—O! they will be in mourning of courſe for their uncle and aunts—That's right!

As to Morden's flaſhing through the window, and cry⯑ing, Die, Lovelace, and be damn'd, if thou wilt not re⯑pair my couſin's wrongs! That is only, that he would have ſent me a challenge, had I not been diſpoſed to do the lady juſtice.

All I diſlike is This part of the dream: For, even in a dream, I would not be thought to be threatened into any meaſure, tho' I liked it ever ſo well.

And ſo much for my prophetic dream.

Dear charming creature! What a meeting will there be between her and her father and mother and uncles! What [20] tranſports, what pleaſure, will this happy, long-wiſhed for reconciliation give her dutiful heart! And indeed, now, methinks, I am glad ſhe is ſo dutiful to them; for her duty to parents is a conviction to me, that ſhe will be as dutiful to her huſband: Since duty upon principle is an uniform thing.

Why pr'ythee, now, Jack, I have not been ſo much to blame, as thou thinkeſt: For had it not been for me, who have led her into ſo much diſtreſs, ſhe could neither have received nor given the joy that will now overwhelm them all. So here riſes great and durable good out of temporary evil!

I knew they loved her, (the pride and glory of their fa⯑mily) too well to hold out long!

I wiſh I could have ſeen Arabella's letter. She has al⯑ways been ſo much eclipſed by her ſiſter, that, I dare ſay, ſhe has ſignified this reconciliation to her with intermingled phlegm and wormwood; and her invitation moſt cer⯑tainly runs all in the rock-water ſtyle.

I ſhall long to ſee the promiſed letter too, when ſhe is got thither, which I hope will give an account of the recep⯑tion ſhe will meet with.

There is a ſolemnity, however, I think, in the ſtyle of her letter, which pleaſes and affects me at the ſame time. But as it is evident ſhe loves me ſtill, and hopes ſoon to ſee me at her father's; ſhe could not help being a little ſolemn, and half-aſhamed, (dear bluſhing pretty rogue!) to own her love, after my uſage of her.

And then her ſubſcription: Till when, I am, CLARISSA HARLOWE: As much as to ſay, after that, I ſhall be, if not your own fault, CLARISSA LOVELACE!

O my beſt love! My ever generous and adorable crea⯑ture! How much does this thy forgiving goodneſs exalt us both!—I, for the occaſion given thee! Thou for turn⯑ing it ſo gloriouſly to thy advantage, and to the honour of both!

And if, my beloved creature, you will but connive at the imperfections of your adorer, and not play the wife upon me: If, while the charms of Novelty have their force with me, I ſhould happen to be drawn aſide by the intricacies of intrigue, and of plots that my ſoul loves to [21] form, and purſue; and if thou wilt not be open-eyed to the follies of my youth, (a tranſitory ſtate!) every excur⯑ſion ſhall ſerve but the more to endear thee to me, till in time, and in a very little time too, I ſhall get above ſenſe; and then, charmed by thy ſoul-attracting converſe, and brought to deſpiſe my former courſes, what I now, at diſtance, conſider as a painful duty, will be my joyful choice, and all my delight will centre in thee!

MOWBRAY is juſt arrived with thy letters. I there⯑fore cloſe my agreeable ſubject, to attend to one, which I doubt will be very ſhocking. I have engaged the rough varlet to bear me company in the morning to Berks; where I ſhall file off the ruſt he has contracted in his at⯑tendance upon the poor fellow.

He tells me, that between the dying Belton, and the preaching Belford, he ſhan't be his own man theſe three days. And ſays, that thou addeſt to the unhappy fellow's weakneſs, inſtead of giving him courage to help him to bear his deſtiny.

I am ſorry he takes the unavoidable lot ſo heavily. But he has been long ill; and ſickneſs enervates the mind, as well as the body; as he himſelf very ſignificantly ob⯑ſerved to thee.

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

I HAVE been reading thy ſhocking letter.—Poor Belton! what a multitude of lively hours have we paſſed together! 'Twas a fearleſs, chearful fellow!—Who'd ha' thought all ſhould end in ſuch dejected whim⯑pering and terror?

But, why didſt thou not comfort the poor man about the rencounter between him and that poltroon Metcalfe? He acted in that affair like a man of true honour, and as I ſhould have acted in the ſame circumſtances. Tell him I ſay ſo, and what happened, he could neither help nor foreſee.

[22]Some people are as ſenſible of a ſcratch from a pin's point, as others from a puſh of a ſword: And who can ſay any thing for the ſenſibility of ſuch fellows? Met⯑calfe would reſent for his ſiſter, when his ſiſter reſented not for herſelf. Had ſhe demanded her brother's pro⯑tection and reſentment, that would have been another man's matter, as Lord M. phraſes it: But ſhe herſelf thought her brother a coxcomb to buſy himſelf, unde⯑ſired, in her affairs, and wiſhed for nothing but to be provided for decently, and privately, in her lying-in; and was willing to take the chance of Maintenon-ing his conſcience in her favour ^(a), and getting him to marry, when the little ſtranger came; for ſhe knew what an eaſy, good-natured fellow he was. And, indeed, if ſhe had prevailed upon him, it might have been happy for both; as then he would not have fallen in with his curſed Thomaſin. But truly this officious brother of hers muſt interpoſe. This made a trifling affair important: And what was the iſſue? Metcalfe challenged; Belton met him; diſarmed him; gave him his life: But the fellow, more ſenſible in his skin than in his head, having received a ſcratch, he was frighted; it gave him firſt a puke, then a fever, and then he died. That was all. And how could Belton help that?—But ſickneſs, a long tedious ſickneſs, will make a bugbear of any thing to a lan⯑guiſhing heart, I ſee that. And ſo far was Mowbray apropos in the verſes from Nat. Lee; which thou haſt tran⯑ſcribed.

Merely to die, no man of reaſon fears; is a miſtake, ſay thou, or ſay thy author, what ye will. And thy ſolemn parading about the natural repugnance between life and death, is a proof that it is.

Let me tell thee, Jack, that ſo much am I pleaſed with this world, in the main; tho' in ſome points too, the world, (to make a perſon of it,) has been a raſcal to me; ſo delighted am I with the joys of youth; with my world⯑ly proſpects as to fortune; and now, newly, with the [23] charming hopes given me by dear, thrice dear, and for⯑ever dear Miſs HARLOWE; that were I even ſure that nothing bad would come hereafter, I ſhould be very loth, (very much afraid if thou wilt have it ſo) to lay down my life and them together; and yet upon a call of honour, no man fears death leſs than myſelf.

But I have not either inclination or leiſure to weigh thy leaden arguments, except in the pig, or, as thou wouldſt ſay, in the lump.

If I return thy letters, let me have them again ſome time hence, that is to ſay, when I am married, or when poor Belton is half-forgotten; or when time has inrolled the honeſt fellow among thoſe whom we have ſo long loſt, that we may remember them with more pleaſure than pain; and then I may give them a ſerious peruſal, and enter with thee as deeply as thou wilt into the ſubject.

When I am married, ſaid I?—What a ſound has that!

I muſt wait with patience for a ſight of this charming creature, till ſhe is at her father's: And yet, as the but bloſſoming beauty, as thou telleſt me, is reduced to a ſhadow, I ſhould have been exceedingly delighted to ſee her now, and every day till the happy one; that I might have the pleaſure of beholding how ſweetly, hour by hour, ſhe will riſe to her priſtine glories, by means of that ſtate of eaſe and contentment, which will take place of the ſtormy paſt, upon her reconciliation with her friends, and our happy nuptials.

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

WELL, but now my heart is a little at eaſe, I will condeſcend to take ſome brief notice of ſome other paſſages in thy letters.

I find, I am to thank thee, that the dear creature has avoided my viſit. Things are now in ſo good a train, that I muſt forgive thee; elſe, ſhouldeſt thou have heard more of this new inſtance of diſloyalty to thy general.

Thou art continually giving thyſelf high praiſe, by way of oppoſition, as I may ſay, to others; gently and artfully blaming thyſelf, for qualities, thou wouldeſt at [24] the ſame time have to be thought, and which generally are thought, praiſe-worthy.

Thus, in the airs thou aſſumeſt about thy ſervants, thou wouldſt paſs for a mighty humane mortal, and that at the expence of Mowbray and me; whom thou repre⯑ſenteſt as kings and emperors to our menials. Yet art thou always unhappy in thy attempts of this kind, and never canſt make us, who know thee, believe That to be a virtue in thee, which is but the effect of conſtitutional phlegm and abſurdity.

Knoweſt thou not, that ſome men have a native dig⯑nity in their manner, that makes them more regarded by a look, than either thou canſt be in thy low ſtyle, or Mowbray in his high?

I am fit to be a prince, I can tell thee; for I reward well, and I puniſh ſeaſonably and properly; and I am generally as well ſerved as any man.

The art of governing theſe under-bred varlets, lies more in the dignity of looks than in words, and thou art a ſorry fellow, to think humanity conſiſts in acting by thy ſervants, as men muſt act who are not able to pay them their wages; or had made them maſters of ſecrets, which if divulged, would lay them at the mercy of ſuch wretches.

Now to me, who never did any thing I was aſhamed to own, and who have more ingenuity than ever man had; who can call a villainy by its right name, tho' practiſed by myſelf, and (by my own readineſs to re⯑proach myſelf) anticipate all reproach from others; who am not ſuch a hypocrite, as to wiſh the world to think me other or better than I am: It is my part, to look a ſervant into his duty, if I can: Nor will I keep one, who knows not how to take me by a nod, or a wink; and who, when I ſmile, ſhall not be all tranſport; when I frown, all terror. If, indeed, I am out of the way a little, I always take care to reward the varlets for bearing patiently my diſpleaſure. But this I hardly ever am, but when a fellow is egregiouſly ſtupid in any plain points of duty, or will be wiſer than his maſter; and when he ſhall tell me, that he thought acting contrary to my or⯑ders, was the way to ſerve me beſt.

[25]One time or other, I will enter the liſts with thee upon thy conduct and mine to ſervants; and I will convince thee, that what thou wouldſt have paſs for humanity, if it be indiſcriminately practiſed to all tempers, will per⯑petually ſubject thee to the evils thou complaineſt of; and juſtly too; and that he only is fit to be a maſter of ſer⯑vants, who can command their attention as much by a nod, as if he were to pr'ythee a fellow to do his duty, on one hand, or to talk of flaying, and horſewhipping, like Mowbray, on the other: For the ſervant who being uſed to expect thy creeping ſtyle, will always be maſter of his maſter; and he who deſerves to be treated as the other, is not fit to be any man's ſervant; nor would I keep ſuch a fellow to rub my horſe's heels.

I ſhall be the readier to enter the liſts with thee upon this argument, becauſe I have preſumption enough to think, that we have not in any of our dramatic poets, that I can at preſent call to mind, one character of a ſervant of either ſex, that is juſtly hit off. So abſurdly wiſe ſome, and ſo ſottiſhly fooliſh others; and both ſometimes in the ſame perſon. Foils drawn from the lees or dregs of the people to ſet off the characters of their maſters and miſtreſſes; nay, ſometimes, which is ſtill more abſurd, introduced with more wit than the poet has to beſtow upon their principals.—Mere ſtints and ſteels to ſtrike fire with—Or, to vary the metaphor, to ſerve for whetſtones to wit, which other⯑wiſe could not be made apparent:—Or for engines to be made uſe of like the machinery of the ancien [...] poets (or the ſtill more unnatural Soliloquy) to help on a ſorry plot, or to bring about a neceſſary eclairciſſement, to ſave the poet the trouble of thinking deeply for a better way to wind up his bottoms.

Of this I am perſuaded, (whatever my practice be to my own ſervants) that thou wilt be benefited by my theory, when we come to controvert the point. For then I ſhall convince thee, that the dramatic as well as natural cha⯑racteriſtics of a good ſervant, ought to be fidelity, common ſenſe, chearful obedience, and ſilent reſpect: That wit in his ſtation, except to his companions, would be ſawci⯑neſs: That he ſhould never preſume to give his advice: That if he ventured to expoſtulate upon any unreaſonable [26] command, or ſuch a one as appeared to him to be ſo, he ſhould do it with humility and reſpect, and take a proper ſeaſon for it. But ſuch leſſons do moſt of the dramatic performances I have ſeen give, where ſervants are intro⯑duced as characters eſſential to the play, or to act very ſig⯑nificant or long parts in it (which, of itſelf, I think a fault); ſuch leſſons, I ſay, do they give to the footmens gallery, that I have not wondered we have ſo few modeſt or good men-ſervants among thoſe who often attend their maſters or miſtreſſes to plays. Then how miſerably evi⯑dent muſt that poet's conſcious want of genius be, who can ſtoop to raiſe or give force to a clap by the indiſcri⯑minative roar of the party-coloured gallery!

But this ſubject I will ſuſpend to a better opportunity; that is to ſay, to the happy one, when my nuptials with my Clariſſa will oblige me to increaſe the number of my ſervants, and of conſequence to enter more nicely into their qualifications.

ALTHOUGH I have the higheſt opinion that man can have, of the generoſity of my dear Miſs Harlowe, yet I cannot for the heart of me account for this agreeable change in her temper, but one way. Faith and troth, Belford, I verily believe, laying all circumſtances toge⯑ther, that the dear creature unexpectedly finds herſelf in the way I have ſo ardently wiſhed her to be in; and that this makes her, at laſt, incline to favour me, that ſhe may ſet the better face upon her geſtation, when at her father's.

If this be the caſe, all her ſailing away, and her fainting f [...]ts, are charmingly accounted for. Nor is it ſurpriſing that ſuch a ſweet novice in theſe matters ſhould not know to what to attribute her frequent indiſpoſitions. If this ſhould be the caſe, how ſhall I laugh at thee! and (when I am ſure of her) at the dear novice herſelf, that all her grievous diſtreſſes ſhall end in a man-child: which I ſhall love better than all the Cherubims and Seraphims that may come after; though there were to be as many of them as I beheld in my dream; in which a vaſt expanſe of ceiling was ſtuck as full of them as it could hold.

I ſhall be afraid to open thy next, leſt it bring me the account of poor Belton's death. Yet, as there are no [27] hopes of his recovery—But what ſhould I ſay, unleſs the poor man were better fitted—But thy heavy ſermon ſhall not affect me too much neither.

I incloſe thy papers: And do thou tranſcribe them for me, or return them; for, there are ſome things in them, which, at a proper ſeaſon, a mortal man ſhould not avoid attending to: And thou ſeemeſt to have entered deeply into the ſhocking ſubject—But here I will end, leſt I grow too ſerious.

THY ſervant called here about an hour ago, to know if I had any commands: I therefore hope that thou wilt have this early in the morning. And if thou canſt let me hear from thee, do. I'll ſtretch an hour or two in expec⯑tation of it. Yet I muſt be at Lord M.'s to-morrow night, if poſſible, though ever ſo late.

Thy fellow tells me the poor man is much as he was when Mowbray left him.

Wouldſt thou think, that this varlet Mowbray is ſorry, that I am ſo near being happy with Miſs Harlowe. And, 'egad, Jack, I know not what to ſay to it, now the fruit ſeems to be within my reach. But, let what will come, I'll ſtand to't: For I find I can't live without her.

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

THOUGH I left him, becauſe I could ſtay no longer, I can't be eaſy by myſelf, but muſt go to him again.

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

I Received thy letter in ſuch good time, by thy fellow's diſpatch, that it gives me an opportunity of throwing in a few paragraphs upon it. I read a paſſage or two of it to Mowbray; and we both agree, that thou art an ab⯑ſolute maſter of the Lamentable.

Poor Belton! what terrible conflicts were thy laſt con⯑flicts!—I hope, however, that he is happy: And I have the more hope, becauſe the hardneſs of his death is likely to be ſuch a warning to thee. If it have the effect thou declareſt it ſhall have, what a world of miſchief will it prevent! How much good will it do! How many poor wretches will rejoice at the occaſion, (if they know it) however melancholy in itſelf, which ſhall bring them in a compenſation for injuries they had been forced to ſit down contented with? But, Jack, tho' thy uncle's death has made thee a rich fellow, art thou ſure, that the making good of ſuch a vow, will not totally bankrupt thee?

Thou ſayeſt I may laugh at thee, if I will. Not I, Jack: I do not take it to be a laughing ſubject: And I am heartily concerned at the loſs we all have in poor Belton: And when I get a little ſettled, and have leiſure to contemplate the vanity of all ſublunary things, (a ſub⯑ject [35] that will now-and-then, in my gayeſt hours, obtrude itſelf upon me) it is very likely, that I may talk ſeriouſly with thee upon theſe topics; and, if thou haſt not got too much the ſtart of me in the repentance thou art en⯑tering upon, will go hand-in-hand with thee in it. If thou haſt, thou wilt let me juſt keep thee in my eye; for it is an up-hill work, and I ſhall ſee thee, at ſetting out, at a great diſtance; but as thou art a much heavier and clamſier fellow than myſelf, I hope that without much puffing and ſweating, only keeping on a good round dog⯑trot, I ſhall be able to overtake thee.

Mean time take back thy letter, as thou deſireſt; I would not have it in my pocket upon any account at pre⯑ſent; nor read it once more.

I am going down without ſeeing my Beloved. I was a haſty fool to write her a letter, promiſing that I would not come near her, till I ſaw her at her father's. For as ſhe is now actually at Smith's, and I ſo near her, one ſhort viſit could have done no harm.

I ſent Will. two hours ago with my grateful compli⯑ments, and to know how ſhe does. How muſt I adore this charming creature! For I am ready to think my ſer⯑vant a happier fellow than myſelf, for having been with⯑in a pair of ſtairs and an apartment of her!

Mowbray and I will drop a tear apiece, as we ride along, to the memory of poor Belton:—As we ride along, I ſay: For we ſhall have ſo much joy, when we arrive at Lord M's, and when I communicate to him and my couſins the dear creature's letter, that we ſhall forget every thing grievous: Since now their family-hopes in my reformation (the point which lies ſo near their hearts) will all revive; it being an article of their faith, that if I marry, repentance and mortification will follow of courſe.

Neither Mowbray nor I ſhall accept of thy verbal invitation to the funeral. We like not theſe diſmal for⯑malities. And as to the reſpect that is ſuppoſed to be ſhewn to the memory of a deceaſed friend in ſuch an at⯑tendance, why ſhould we do any thing to reflect upon thoſe who have made it a faſhion to leave this parade to people whom they hire for that purpoſe?

Adieu, and be chearful. Thou canſt now do no more for poor Belton, wert thou to howl for him to the end of thy life.

LETTER VIII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

ON Thurſday afternoon I aſſiſted at the opening of poor Belton's will, in which he has left me his ſole Executor, and bequeathed me a legacy of 100 guineas: which I ſhall preſent to his unfortunate ſiſter, to whom he has not been ſo kind as I think he ought to have been. He has alſo left 20 l. apiece to Mowbray, Tourville, thyſelf, and me, for a ring to be worn in remembrance of him.

After I had given ſome particular orders about the pre⯑parations to be made for his funeral, I went to town; but having made it late before I got in on Thurſday night, and being fatigued for want of reſt ſeveral nights before, and low in my ſpirits, [I could not help it, Love⯑lace!] I contented myſelf to ſend my compliments to the innocent ſufferer, to inquire after her health.

My ſervant ſaw Mrs. Smith, who told him, ſhe was very glad I was come to town; for that the lady was worſe than ſhe had yet been.

It is impoſſible to account for the contents of her letter to you; or, to reconcile thoſe contents to the facts I have to communicate.

I was at Smith's by ſeven yeſterday (Friday) morning; and found that the lady was juſt gone in a chair to St. Dunſtan's to prayers; ſhe was too ill to get out by ſix to Covent Garden church; and was forced to be ſupported to her chair by Mrs. Lovick. They would have perſuaded her againſt going; but ſhe ſaid ſhe knew not but it would be her laſt opportunity. Mrs. Lovick, dreading that ſhe would be taken worſe at church, walked thither before her.

Mrs. Smith told me, ſhe was ſo ill on Wedneſday night, that ſhe had deſired to receive the Sacrament; and ac⯑cordingly it was adminiſtred to her, by the parſon of the pariſh: Whom ſhe beſought to take all opportunities of aſſiſting her in her ſolemn Preparation.

This the gentleman promiſed: And called in the morn⯑ing to enquire after her health; and was admitted at the firſt word. He ſtaid with her about half an hour; and when he came down, with his face turned aſide, and a faltering accent, ‘'Mrs. Smith, ſaid he, you have an [37] angel in your houſe.—I will attend her again in the evening, as ſhe deſires, and as often as I think it will be agreeable to her.'’

Her increaſed weakneſs ſhe attributed to the fatigues ſhe had undergone by your means; and to a letter ſhe had received from her ſiſter, which ſhe anſwered the ſame day.

Mrs. Smith told me, that two different perſons had called there, one on Thurſday morning, one in the even⯑ing, to inquire after her ſtate of health; and ſeemed as if commiſſioned from her relations for that purpoſe; but aſked not to ſee her, only were very inquiſitive after her viſitors, (particularly, it ſeems, after me: What could they mean by that?) after her way of life, and expences; and one of them inquired after her manner of ſupporting them; to the latter of which, Mrs. Smith ſaid, ſhe had anſwered, as the truth was, that ſhe had been obliged to ſell ſome of her cloaths, and was actually about parting with more; at which the inquiriſt (a grave old farmer-looking man) held up his hands, and ſaid, Good God!—this will be ſad, ſad news to ſomebody! I believe I muſt not men⯑tion it. But Mrs. Smith ſays, ſhe deſired he would; let him co [...]e from whom he would. He ſhook his head, and ſaid, if ſhe died, the flower of the world would be gone, and the family ſhe belonged to, would be no more than a common family ^(a). I was pleaſed with the man's expreſſion.

You may be curious to know how ſhe paſſed her time, when ſhe was obliged to leave her lodging to avoid you.

Mrs. Smith tells me, ‘'That ſhe was very ill, when ſhe went out on Monday morning, and ſighed as if her heart would break as ſhe came down ſtairs, and as ſhe went through the ſhop into the coach, her nurſe with her, as you had informed me before: That ſhe order⯑ed the coachman (whom ſhe hired for the day) to drive any-whither, ſo it was [...]nto the air: He accordingly drove her to Hamſtead, and thence [...] [...]ate. There ſhe [...]lighted at the Bowling-gree [...] [...], [...]remely ill, and having breakfaſted, ordered [...] coa [...] [...] to drive very ſlowly, any-where. H [...] [...] [...]ell⯑hill, [38] and put up at a public houſe there; where ſhe employed herſelf two hours in writing, tho' exceedingly weak and low; till the dinner ſhe had ordered was brought in: She endeavoured to eat; but could not; her appe⯑tite was gone, quite gone, ſhe ſaid. And then ſhe wrote on for three hours more: After which, being heavy, ſhe dozed a little in an elbow-chair. When ſhe awoke, ſhe or⯑dered the coachman to drive her very ſlowly to town, to the houſe of a friend of Mrs. Lovick, whom, as agreed upon, ſhe met there: But, being extremely ill, ſhe would venture home at a late hour, altho' ſhe heard from the widow, that you had been there, and had reaſon to be ſhocked at your behaviour. She ſaid, She found there was no avoiding you: She was apprehenſive ſhe ſhould not live many hours, and it was not impoſſible but the ſhock the ſight of you muſt give her, would determine her fate in your preſence.’

‘'She accordingly went home. She heard the relation of your aſtoniſhing vagaries, with hands and eyes often lifted up; and with the words, Shocking creature! In⯑corrigible wretch! and, Will nothing make him ſe⯑rious! intermingled. And not being able to bear an interview with a man ſo hardened, ſhe took to her uſual chair early in the morning, and was carried to the Temple-ſtairs, whither ſhe had ordered her nurſe before her, to get a pair of oars in readineſs (for her fatigues the day before, made her unable to bear a coach); and then ſhe was rowed to Chelſea, where ſhe breakfaſted; and after rowing about, put in at the Swan at Brent⯑ford-Aight, where ſhe dined; and would have written, but had no conveniency either of tolerable pens, or ink, or private room; and then proceeding to Richmond, they rowed her back to Mortlack; where ſhe put in, and drank tea at a houſe her waterman recommended to her. She wrote there for an hour; and returned to the Temple; and, when ſhe landed, made one of the water⯑men get her a chair, and ſo was carried to the widow's friend, as the night before; where ſhe again met the widow, who informed her, that you had been after her twice that day.’

‘'Mrs. Lovick gave here there her ſiſter's letter ^(a); and [39] ſhe was ſo much affected with the contents of it, that ſhe was twice very near fainting away; and wept bit⯑terly, as Mrs. Lovick told Mrs. Smith; dropping ſome warmer expreſſions than ever they had heard proceed from her lips, in relation to her friends; calling them cruel, and complaining of ill offices done her, and of vile reports raiſed againſt her.’

‘'While ſhe was thus diſturbed, Mrs. Smith came to her, and told her, that you had been there a third time, and was juſt gone, (at half an hour after nine) having left word, how civil and reſpectful you would be; but that you was determined to ſee her at all events.’

‘'She ſaid, It was hard ſhe could not be permitted to die in peace: That her lot was a ſevere one: That ſhe began to be afraid ſhe ſhould not forbear repining, and to think her puniſhment greater than her fault; but re⯑calling herſelf immediately, ſhe comforted herſelf that her life would be ſhort, and with the aſſurance of a better.'’

By what I have mentioned, You will conclude with me, that the letter brought her by Mrs. Lovick (the ſuperſcrip⯑tion of which you ſaw to be written in her ſiſter's hand) could not be the letter on the contents of which ſhe grounded that ſhe wrote to you, on her return home. And yet neither Mrs. Lovick, nor Mrs. Smith, nor the ſervant of the latter, know of any other brought her. But as the women aſſured me, that ſhe actually did write to you, I was eaſed of a ſuſpicion which I had begun to entertain, that you (for ſome purpoſe I could not gueſs at) had forged the letter from her of which you ſent me a copy.

On Wedneſday morning, when ſhe received your letter in anſwer to hers, ſhe ſaid, Neceſſity may well be called the mother of Invention—But Calamity is the teſt of In⯑tegrity.—I hope I have not taken an inexcuſable ſtep—and there ſhe ſtopt a minute or two, and then ſaid, I ſhall now, perhaps, be allowed to die in peace.

I ſtaid till ſhe came in. She was glad to ſee me; but, being very weak, ſaid, ſhe muſt ſit down before ſhe could go up ſtairs; and ſo went into the back-ſhop; leaning upon Mrs. Lovick: And when ſhe had ſat down, ‘'I am glad to ſee you, Mr. Belford, ſaid ſhe; I muſt ſay ſo—let miſ⯑reporters ſay what they will.'’

[40]I wondered at this expreſſion ^(a); but would not inter⯑rupt her.

Oh! Sir, ſaid ſhe, I have been grievouſly haraſſed. Your friend, who would not let me live with reputation, will not permit me to die in peace.—You ſee how I am—Is there not a great alteration in me within this week?—But 'tis all for the better.—Yet were I to wiſh for life, I muſt ſay, that your friend, your barbarous friend, has hurt me greatly.

She was ſo very weak, ſo ſhort-breath'd, and her words and action ſo very moving, that I was forced to walk from her; the two women and her nurſe, turning away their faces alſo, weeping.

I have had, Madam, ſaid I, ſince I ſaw you, a moſt ſhocking ſcene before my eyes for days together. My poor friend Belton is no more. He quitted the world yeſterday morning in ſuch dreadful agonies, that the impreſſion it has left upon me, has ſo weakened my mind—I was loth to have her think, that my grief was owing to the weak ſtate I ſaw her in, for fear of diſpiriting her.

That is only, Mr. Belford, interrupted ſhe, in order to ſtrengthen it, if a proper uſe be made of the impreſſion.—But I ſhould be glad, ſince you are ſo humanely affected with the ſolemn circumſtance, that you could have written an account of it in the ſtyle and manner you are maſter of, to your gay friend. Who knows, as it would have come from an aſſociate and of an aſſociate, how it might have af⯑fected him?

That I had done, I told her, in ſuch a manner as had, I believed, ſome effect upon you.

His behaviour in this honeſt family ſo lately, ſaid ſhe, and his cruel purſuit of me, give but little hopes, that any thing ſerious or ſolemn will affect him.

We had ſome [...]alk about Belton's dying behaviour, and I gave her ſeveral particulars of the poor man's impatience and deſpair; to which ſhe was very attentive; and made fine obſervations upon the ſubject of procraſtination.

A letter and pacq [...]et were brought her by a man on horſe-back from Miſs Howe, while we were talking. She retired up-ſtairs to read it; and while I was in diſ⯑courſe [41] with Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick, the doctor and apothecary both came in together. They confirmed to me my fears, as to the dangerous way ſhe is in. They had both been apprized of the new inſtances of impla⯑cableneſs in her friends, and of your perſecutions: And the doctor ſaid, He would not for the world be either the unfor⯑giving father of that lady, or the man who had brought her to this diſtreſs. Her heart's broke; ſhe'll die, ſaid he: There is no ſaving her. But how, were I either the one or the other of the people I have named, I ſhould ſupport myſelf afterwards, I cannot tell.

When ſhe was told we were all three together, ſhe de⯑ſired us to walk up. She aroſe to receive us, and after anſwering two or three general queſtions relating to her health, ſhe addreſſed herſelf to us, to the following effect.

As I may not, ſaid ſhe, ſee you three gentlemen toge⯑ther again, let me take this opportunity to acknowlege my obligations to you all. I am inexpreſſibly obliged to You, Sir, and to You, Sir (courteſying to the doctor and to Mr. Goddard) for your more than friendly, your pa⯑ternal care and concern for me. Humanity in your pro⯑feſſion, I dare ſay, is far from being a rare qualification, becauſe you are gentlemen by your profeſſion: But ſo much kindneſs, ſo much humanity, did never deſolate crea⯑ture meet with, as I have met with from you both. But indeed I have always obſerved, that where a perſon relies upon Providence, it never fails to raiſe up a new friend for every old one that falls off.

This gentleman, (bowing to me) who, ſome people think, ſhould have been one of the laſt I ſhould have thought of as my Executor—is nevertheleſs, (ſuch is the ſtrange chance of things!) the only one I can chooſe; and therefore I have choſen him for that charitable office, and he has been ſo good as to accept of it: For rich, as I may boaſt myſelf to be, I am rather ſo in right, than in fact, at this preſent. I repeat therefore my humble thanks to you all three, and beg of God to return to You and Yours, (looking to each) an hundredfold, the kindneſs and favour you have ſhewn me; and that it may be in the power of You and of Yours to the end of time, to confer [42] benefits, rather than to be obliged to receive them. This is a god-like power, gentlemen: I once rejoiced in it, in ſome little degree; and much more in the proſpect I had of its being inlarged to me; tho' I have had the mortifi⯑cation to experience the reverſe, and to be obliged almoſt to every body I have ſeen or met with: But all, origi⯑nally, thro' my own fault; ſo I ought to bear the puniſh⯑ment without repining: And I hope I do.—Forgive theſe impertinencies: A grateful heart, that wants the power it wiſhes for, to expreſs itſelf ſuitably to its own impulſes, will be at a loſs what properly to dictate to the tongue; and yet, unable to reſtrain its overflowings, will force it to ſay weak and ſilly things, rather than appear ingratefully ſilent. Once more then, I thank ye all three for your kindneſs to me: And God Almighty make you that amends which at preſent I cannot!

She retired from us to her cloſet with her eyes full; and left us looking upon one another.

We had hardly recovered ourſelves, when ſhe, quite eaſy, chearful, and ſmiling, returned to us. Doctor, ſaid ſhe (ſeeing we had been moved) you will excuſe me for the concern I give you; and ſo will You, Mr. Goddard, and You, Mr. Belford; for 'tis a concern that only gene⯑rous natures can ſhew; and to ſuch natures ſweet is the pain, if I may ſo ſay, that attends ſuch a concern. But as I have ſome few preparations ſtill to make, and would not (tho' in eaſe of Mr. Belford's future cares, which is, and ought to be, part of my ſtudy) undertake more than it is likely I ſhall have time lent me to perform, I would beg of you to give me your opinions, (You ſee my way of living; and you may be aſſured, that I will do nothing wilfully to ſhorten my life) how long it may poſſibly be, before I may hope to be releaſed from all my troubles.

They both heſitated, and looked upon each other. Don't be afraid to anſwer me, ſaid ſhe, each ſweet hand preſſing upon the arm of each gentleman, with that mingled freedom and reſerve, which virgin modeſty, mixed with conſcious dignity, can only expreſs, and with a look ſerenely earneſt, Tell me how long you think I may hold it? And believe me, gentlemen, the ſhorter [43] you tell me my time is likely to be, the more comfort you will give me.

With what pleaſing woe, ſaid the doctor, do you fill the minds of thoſe who have the happineſs to converſe with you, and ſee the happy frame you are in! What you have undergone within a few days paſt, has much hurt you: And ſhould you have freſh troubles of thoſe kinds, I could not be anſwerable for your holding it—And there he pauſed.

How long, doctor?—I believe I ſhall have a little more ruffling—I am afraid I ſhall—But there can happen only one thing that I ſhall not be tolerably eaſy under—How long then, Sir?—

He was ſilent.

A Fortnight, Sir?

He was ſtill ſilent.

Ten days?—A week?—How long, Sir? with ſmiling earneſtneſs.

If I muſt ſpeak, Madam, If you have not better treat⯑ment than you have lately met with, I am afraid—There again he ſtopt.

Afraid of what, doctor? Don't be afraid—How long▪ Sir?

That a fortnight or three weeks may deprive the world of the fineſt flower in it.

A fortnight or three weeks yet, doctor!—But, God's will be done! I ſhall, however, by this means, have full time, if I have but ſtrength and intellect, to do all that is now upon my mind to do. And ſo, Sirs, I can but once more thank you, turning to each of us, for all your good⯑neſs to me; and, having letters to write, will take up no more of your time—Only, doctor, be pleaſed to order me ſome more of thoſe drops: They chear me a little, when I am low; and, putting a fee into his unwilling hand—You know the terms, Sir!—Then, turning to Mr. God⯑dard, You'll be ſo good, Sir, as to look in upon me to⯑night, or to-morrow, as you have opportunity: And you, Mr. Belford, I know, will be deſirous to ſet out to prepare for the laſt office for your late friend: So I wiſh you a good journey, and hope to ſee you when that is performed.

[44]She then retired, with a chearful and ſerene air. The two gentlemen went away together. I went down to the women, and, inquiring, found, that Mrs. Lovick was this day to bring her twenty guineas more, for ſome other of her apparel.

The widow told me, that ſhe had taken the liberty to expoſtulate with her, upon the occaſion ſhe had for raiſing this money, to ſuch great diſadvantage; and it produced the following ſhort, and affecting converſation between them.

None of my friends will wear any thing of mine, ſaid ſhe. I ſhall leave a great many good things behind me—And as to what I want the money for—don't be ſur⯑prized:—but ſuppoſe I want it to purchaſe a houſe?

You are all myſtery, Madam, I don't comprehend you.

Why, then, Mrs. Lovick, I will explain myſelf: I have a man, not a woman, for my Executor: And think you that I will leave to his care any thing that concerns my own perſon?—Now, Mrs. Lovick, ſmiling, do you com⯑prehend me?

Mrs. Lovick wept.

O fie! proceeded the lady, drying up her tears with her own handkerchief, and giving her a kiſs—Why this kind weakneſs for one, whom you have been ſo little a while acquainted with? Dear, good Mrs. Lovick, don't be con⯑cerned for me on a proſpect which I have occaſion to be pleaſed with; but go to-morrow to your friends, and bring me the money they have agreed to give you.

Thus, Lovelace, is it plain, that ſhe means to beſpeak her laſt houſe! Here's preſence of mind; here's tranquil⯑lity of heart, on the moſt affecting occaſion!—This is magnanimity indeed!—Couldſt thou, or could I, with all our boiſt'rous bravery, and offenſive falſe courage, act thus?—Poor Belton! how unlike was thy behaviour?

Mrs. Lovick tells me, that the lady ſpoke of a letter ſhe had received from her favourite divine Dr. Lewin, in the time of my abſence. And of an anſwer ſhe had re⯑turned to it. But Mrs. Lovick knows not the contents of either.

When thou receiveſt this letter, thou wilt ſee what will ſoon be the end of all thy injuries to this divine lady. I [45] ſay, when thou receiveſt it; for I will delay it for ſome little time, leſt thou ſhouldſt take it into thy head (under pretence of reſenting the diſappointment her letter muſt give thee) to moleſt her again.

This letter having detained me by its length, I ſhall not now ſet out for Epſom till to-morrow.

I ſhould have mentioned, that the lady explained to me, what the one thing was, that ſhe was afraid might happen to ruffle her. It was the apprehenſion of what may reſult from a viſit which Col. Morden, as ſhe is informed, de⯑ſigns to make you.

LETTER IX. The Revd. Dr. LEWEN, To Miſs CL. HARLOWE.

PReſuming, deareſt and ever-reſpectable young lady, up⯑on your former favour, and upon your opinion of my judgment and ſincerity, I cannot help addreſſing you by a few lines, on your preſent unhappy ſituation.

I will not look back upon the meaſures which you have either been led or driven into: But will only ſay as to thoſe, that I think you are the leaſt to blame of any young lady that was ever reduced from happy to unhappy circum⯑ſtances; and I have not been wanting to ſay as much, where I hoped my freedom would have been better received, than I have had the mortification to find it to be.

What I principally write for now, is, to put you upon doing a piece of juſtice to yourſelf, and to your ſex, in the proſecuting for his life (I am aſſured his life is in your power) the moſt profligate and abandoned of men, as he muſt be, who could act ſo baſely, as I underſtand Mr. Lovelace has acted by you.

I am very ill; and am now forced to write upon my pillow; my thoughts confuſed; and incapable of method: I ſhall not therefore aim at method: But to give you in general my opinion; and that is, That your religion, your duty to your family, the duty you owe to your honour, and even charity to your ſex, oblige you to give public evidence againſt this very wicked man.

[46]And let me add, another conſideration; The prevention, by this means, of the miſchiefs that may otherwiſe happen between your brother and Mr. Lovelace, or between the latter and your couſin Morden, who is now, I hear, ar⯑rived, and reſolves to have juſtice done you.

A conſideration which ought to affect your conſcience; (Forgive me, deareſt young lady, I think I am now in the way of my duty) and to be of more concern to you, than that hard preſſure upon your modeſty, which I know the appearance againſt him in an open Court, muſt be of to ſuch a lady as you: And which, I conceive, will be your great difficulty. But I know, Madam, that you have dignity enough to become the bluſhes of the moſt naked truth, when neceſſity, juſtice and honour, exact it from you. Rakes and Raviſhers would meet with encouragement indeed, and moſt from thoſe who had the greateſt abhorrence of their actions, if violated modeſty were never to complain of the injury it received from the villainous attempters of it.

In a word, the reparation of your family diſhonour, now reſts in your own boſom: and which only one of theſe two alternatives can repair; to wit, either to Marry, or to proſecute him at Law. Bitter expedients for a ſoul ſo deli⯑cate as yours.

He, and all his friends, I underſtand, ſollicit you to the firſt: And it is certainly, now, all the amends within his power to make. But I am aſſured, that you have rejected their ſollicitations, and his, with the indignation and con⯑tempt that his foul actions have deſerved: But yet, that you refuſe not to extend to him the Chriſtian forgiveneſs he has ſo little reaſon to expect, provided he will not diſturb you further.

But, Madam, the proſecution I adviſe, will not let your preſent and future exemption from freſh diſturbance from ſo vile a moleſter, depend upon his courteſy: I ſhould think ſo noble and ſo rightly-guided a ſpirit as yours, would not permit that it ſhould, if you could help it.

And can indignities of any kind be properly pardoned, till we have it in our power to puniſh them? To pretend to pardon, while we are labouring under the pain or diſhonour of them, will be thought by ſome, to be but the vaunted mercy of a puſilanimous heart trembling to reſent them. [47] The remedy I propoſe, is a ſevere one; but what pain can be more ſevere than the injury? or how will injuries be believed to grieve us, that are never honourably com⯑plained of?

I am ſure, Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, however injured, and oppreſſed, remains unſhaken in her ſentiments of honour, and virtue: And although ſhe would ſooner die, than de⯑ſerve that her modeſty ſhould be drawn into queſtion; yet ſhe will think no truth immodeſt, that is to be uttered in the vindicated cauſe of innocence and chaſtity. Little, very little difference, is there, my dear young lady, be⯑tween a ſuppreſſed evidence, and a falſe one.

It is a terrible circumſtance, I once more own, for a young lady of your delicacy, to be under the obligation of telling ſo ſhocking a ſtory in public Court: But it is ſtill a worſe imputation, that ſhe ſhould paſs over ſo mortal an injury unreſented.

Conſcience, honour, juſtice, and the cares of heaven, are on your ſide: And modeſty would, by ſome, be thought but an empty name, ſhould you refuſe to obey their dictates.

I have been conſulted, I own, on this ſubject. I have given it, as my opinion, that you ought to proſecute the abandoned man. But without my reaſons. Theſe I re⯑ſerved, with a reſolution to lay them before you, unknown to any body; that the reſult (if what I wiſh) might be your own.

I will only add, that the misfortunes which have be⯑fallen you, had they been the lot of a child of my own, could not have affected me more, than yours have done. My own child I love: But I both love and honour you: Since to love you, is to love virtue, good ſenſe, prudence, and every thing that is good and noble in woman.

Wounded as I think all theſe are by the injuries, you have received, you will believe that the knowlege of your diſtreſſes muſt have afflicted, beyond what I am able to expreſs,

I juſt now underſtand, that your ſiſter will, by proper au⯑thority, propoſe this proſecution to you. I humbly pre⯑ſume, [48] that the reaſon why you reſolved not upon this ſtep from the firſt, was, that you did not know, that it would have the countenance and ſupport of your re⯑lations.

LETTER X. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To the Rev. Dr. LEWEN.

I Thought, till I received your affectionate and welcome letter, that I had neither father, uncle, brother left; nor hardly a friend among my former favourers of your ſex. Yet, knowing you ſo well, and having no reaſon to upbraid myſelf with a faulty will, I was to blame (even although I had doubted the continuance of your good opi⯑nion) to decline the tryal whether I had forfeited it or not; and if I had, whether I could not, honourably, re⯑inſtate myſelf in it.

But, Sir, it was owing to different cauſes that I did not; partly to ſhame, to think how high, in my happier days, I ſtood in your eſteem, and how much I muſt be ſunk in it, ſince thoſe ſo much nearer in relation to me, gave me up; partly to deep diſtreſs, which makes the humbled heart diffident; and made mine afraid to claim the kindred mind in yours, which would have ſupplied to me, in ſome mea⯑ſure, all the dear and loſt relations I have named.

Then, So loth, as I ſometimes was, to be thought to want to make a party againſt thoſe whom both duty and inclination bid me reverence: So long trailed on between hope and doubt: So little mine own miſtreſs at one time; ſo fearful of making or cauſing miſchief, at another; and not being encouraged to hope, by your kind notice, that my application to you would be acceptable;—apprehending, that my relations had engaged your ſilence at leaſt ^(a).

THESE—But why theſe unavailing retroſpections now? I was to be unhappy—in order to be happy; that is my hope:—Reſigning, therefore, to That hope, I will, without any further preamble, write a few lines (if writing [49] to you, I can write but a few) in anſwer to the ſubject of your kind letter.

Permit me, then, to ſay, That I believe your arguments would have been unanſwerable in almoſt every other caſe of This nature, but in That of the unhappy Clariſſa Harlowe.

It is certain, that creatures who cannot ſtand the ſhock of public ſhame, ſhould be doubly careful how they expoſe themſelves to the danger of incurring private guilt, which may poſſibly bring them to it: But as to myſelf, ſuppoſe there were no objections from the declining way I am in as to my health; and ſuppoſing I could have prevailed upon myſelf to appear againſt This man, was there not room to apprehend, that the end ſo much wiſhed for by my friends, (to wit, his condign puniſhment) would not have been ob⯑tained, when it came to be ſeen, that I had conſented to give him a clandeſtine meeting; and, in conſequence of that, had been weakly tricked out of myſelf; and further ſtill, had not been able to avoid living under one roof with him for ſeveral weeks; which I did, not only without com⯑plaint, but without cauſe of complaint.

Little advantage in a court (perhaps, bandied about, and jeſted profligately with) would ſome of thoſe pleas in my favour have been, which out of court, and to a private and ſerious audience, would have carried the greateſt weight againſt him—Such, particularly, as the infamous methods to which he had recourſe.

It would, no doubt, have been a ready retort from every mouth, that I ought not to have thrown myſelf into the power of ſuch a man, and that I ought to take for my pains what had befallen me.

But had the proſecution been carried on to effect, and had he even been ſentenced to death, can it be thought, that his family would not have had intereſt enough to ob⯑tain his pardon for a crime thought too lightly of, though one of the greateſt that can be committed againſt a crea⯑ture valuing her honour above her life?—While I had been cenſured as purſuing with ſanguinary views a man who offered me early all the reparation in his power to make?

[50]And had he been pardoned, would he not then have been at liberty to do as much miſchief as ever?

I dare ſay, Sir, ſuch is the aſſurance of the man upon whom my unhappy deſtiny threw me; and ſuch his inve⯑teracy to my family (which would then have appeared to be juſtified by their known inveteracy to him, and by their earneſt endeavours to take away his life) that he would not have been ſorry to have had an opportunity to confront me and my father, uncles, and brother, at the Bar of a court of juſtice, on ſuch an occaſion. In which caſe, would not, on his acquittal, or pardon, reſentments have been reciprocally heightened? And then would my bro⯑ther, or my couſin Morden, have been more ſecure than now?

How do theſe conſiderations aggravate my fault? My motives, at firſt, were not indeed blameable: But I had forgotten the excellent caution, which yet I was not ig⯑norant of, That we ought not to do evil that good may come of it.

In full conviction of the purity of my heart, and of the firmneſs of my principles (Why may I not, thus called upon, ſay what I am conſcious of, and yet, without faulty pride; ſince all is but a duty, and I ſhould be utterly inex⯑cuſable, could I not juſtly ſay what I do?) In this full con⯑viction, he has offered me marriage. He has avowed his penitence: A ſincere penitence I have reaſon to think it, tho' perhaps not a Chriſtian one. And his noble relations, (kinder to the poor ſufferer than her own) on the ſame conviction, and his own not ungenerous acknowlege⯑ments, have joined to intercede with me to forgive and accept of him. Altho' I cannot comply with the latter part of their interceſſion, have not you, Sir, from the beſt rules, and from the divineſt example, taught me to forgive in⯑juries?

The injury I have received from him is indeed of the higheſt nature, and it was attended with circumſtances of unmanly baſeneſs, and premeditation; yet, I bleſs God, it has not tainted my mind; it has not hurt my morals. No thanks, indeed, to the wicked man, that it has not. No vile courſes have followed it. My will is unviolated. The [51] evil (reſpecting myſelf, and not my friends) is merely per⯑ſonal. No credulity, no weakneſs, no want of vigilance, have I to reproach myſelf with. I have, thro' grace, triumphed over the deepeſt machinations. I have eſcaped from him. I have renounced him. The man whom once I could have loved, I have been enabled to deſpiſe: And ſhall not charity complete my triumph? And ſhall I not enjoy it?—And where would be my triumph, if he deſerved my forgiveneſs?—Poor man! He has had a loſs in loſing me! I have the pride to think ſo, becauſe I think I know my own heart. I have had none in loſing him!

But I have another plea to make, which alone would have been enough (as I preſume) to anſwer the contents of your very kind and friendly letter.

I know, my dear and reverend friend, the ſpiritual guide and director of my happier days! I know, that you will al⯑low of my endeavour to bring myſelf to this charitable diſ⯑poſition, when I tell you how near I think myſelf to that great and awful moment, in which, and even in the ardent preparation to which, every ſenſe of indignity or injury, that concerns not the immortal ſoul, ought to be abſorbed in higher and more important contemplations.

Thus much for myſelf.

And for the ſatisfaction of my friends and favourers. Miſs Howe is ſollicitous to have all thoſe letters and mate⯑rials preſerved, which will ſet my whole ſtory in a true light. The good Dr. Lewen is one of the principal of thoſe friends and favourers.

The warning that may be given from thoſe papers to all ſuch young creatures as may have known or heard of me, may be more efficacious, as I humbly preſume to think, to the end wiſhed for, than my appearance could have been in a court of juſtice, purſuing a doubtful event, under the diſadvantages I have mentioned. And if, my dear and good Sir, you are now, on conſidering every thing, of this opinion, and I could know it, I ſhould conſider it as a par⯑ticular felicity; being as ſollicitous as ever to be juſtified in what I may, in your eyes.

I am ſorry, Sir, that your indiſpoſition has reduced you to the neceſſity of writing upon your pillow. But how much am I obliged to that kind and generous concern for [52] me, which has impelled you, as I may ſay, to write a letter, containing ſo many paternal lines, with ſuch inconvenience to yourſelf!

May the Almighty bleſs you, dear and reverend Sir, for all your goodneſs to me, both of now, and of long ſtand⯑ing! Continue to eſteem me to the laſt, as I do, and will, venerate you! And let me beſpeak your prayers; the con⯑tinuance, I ſhould ſay, of your prayers; for I doubt not that I have always had them: And to them, perhaps, has in part been owing, (as well as to your pious precepts thro' my earlier youth) that I have been able to make the ſtand I have made; altho' every thing that you prayed for has not been granted to me, by that Divine Wiſdom, which knows what is beſt for its poor creatures.

My prayers for you are, That it will pleaſe God to re⯑ſtore you to your affectionate flock; and after as many years of life as ſhall be for His ſervice, and to your own comfort, give us a happy meeting in thoſe regions of bleſ⯑ſedneſs, which you have taught me, as well by example, as by precept, to aſpire to!

LETTER XI. Miſs ARAB. HARLOWE, To Miſs CL. HARLOWE.

I Find by your letters to my uncles, that they, as well as I, are in great diſgrace with you for writing our minds to you.

We can't help it, ſiſter Clary.

You don't think it worth your while, I find, to preſs for the bleſſing you pretend to be ſo earneſt about, a ſecond time: You think, no doubt, that you have done your duty in aſking for it: So you'll ſit down ſatisfy'd with That, I ſuppoſe, and leave it to your wounded parents to repent hereafter that they have not done Theirs, in giving it to you, at the firſt word; and in making ſuch enquiries about you, as you think ought to have been made. Fine encou⯑ragement [53] to inquire after a run-away daughter! living with her fellow, as long as he would live with her! You repent alſo, (with your full mind, as you modeſtly call it) that you wrote to me.

So we are not likely to be applied to any more, I find, in this way.

Well then, ſince This is the caſe, ſiſter Clary, let me, with all humility, addreſs myſelf with a propoſal or two to you; to which you will be graciouſly pleaſed to give an anſwer.

Now you muſt know, that we have had hints given us from ſeveral quarters, that you have been uſed in ſuch a manner by the villain you ran away with, that his life would be anſwerable for his crime, if it were fairly to be proved. And, by your own hints, ſomething like it ap⯑pears to us.

If, Clary, there be any thing but jingle and affecting pe⯑riod, in what proceeds from your full mind, and your du⯑tiful conſciouſneſs; and if there be truth in what Mrs. Nor⯑ton and Mrs. Howe have acquainted us with; you may yet juſtify your character to us, and to the world, in every thing but your ſcandalous elopement; and the Law may reach the villain: And, could we but bring him to the gal⯑lows, what a meritorious revenge would that be to our whole injured family, and to the innocents he has deluded, as well as the ſaving from ruin many others?

Let me, therefore, know (if you pleaſe) whether you are willing to appear to do Yourſelf, and Us, and your Sex, this juſtice? If not, ſiſter Clary, we ſhall know what to think of you; for neither you nor we can ſuffer more than we have done, from the ſcandal of your fall: And, if you will, Mr. Ackland and Counſellor Derham will both at⯑tend you to make proper enquiries, and to take minutes of your ſtory, to found a proceſs upon, if it will bear one, with as great a probability of ſucceſs, as we are told it may be proſecuted with.

But, by what Mrs. Howe intimates, this is not likely to be complied with; for it is what ſhe hinted to you, it ſeems, by her lively daughter, but without effect ^(a); and then, again, poſſibly, you may not at preſent behave ſo [54] prudently in ſome certain points, as to intitle yourſelf to public juſtice; which if true, the Lord have mercy upon you!

One word only more as to the above propoſal;—Your admirer, Dr. Lewen, is clear in his opinion, that you ſhould proſecute the villain.

But if you will not agree to this, I have another propoſal to make to you, and that in the name of every one in the family; which is, that you will think of going to Penſyl⯑vania to reſide there for ſome few years, till all is blown over; and, if it pleaſe God to ſpare you, and your unhappy parents, till they can be ſatisfied, that you behave like a true and uniform penitent; at leaſt till you are one-and-twenty; you may then come back to your own eſtate, or have the produce of it ſent you thither, as you ſhall chooſe. A period which my papa fixes, becauſe it is the cuſtom; and becauſe he thinks your grandfather ſhould have fixed it; and becauſe, let me add, you have fully proved by your fine conduct, that you were not at years of diſcretion at eighteen. Poor doting, tho' good old man!—Your grand⯑father he thought—But I would not be too ſevere.

Mr. Hartley has a widow-ſiſter at Penſylvania, with whom he will undertake you may board, and who is a ſo⯑ber, ſenſible, and well-read woman. And if you were once well there, it would rid your father and mother of a world of cares, and fears, and ſcandal; and I think is what you ſhould wiſh for of all things.

Mr. Hartley will engage for all accommodations in your paſſage ſuitable to your rank and fortune; and he has a concern in a ſhip, which will ſail in a month; and you may take your ſecret-keeping Hannah with you, or whom you will of your newer acquaintance. 'Tis preſumed it will be of your own ſex.

Theſe are what I had to communicate to you; and if you'll oblige me with an anſwer (which the hand that con⯑veys this will call for on Wedneſday Morning) it will be very condeſcending.

LETTER XII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs ARABELLA HARLOWE.

WRITE to me, my hard-hearted ſiſter, in what manner you pleaſe, I ſhall always be thankful to you for your notice. But (think what you will of me) I cannot ſee Mr. Ackland and the Counſellor on ſuch a buſineſs as you mention.

The Lord have mercy upon me indeed! For none elſe will.

Surely I am believed to be a creature paſt all ſhame, or it could not be thought of ſending two gentlemen to me on ſuch an errand.

Had my mother required of me (or would modeſty have permitted you to enquire into) the particulars of my ſad ſtory, or had Mrs. Norton been directed to receive them from me, methinks it had been more fit; and, I pre⯑ſume to think, more in every one's character too, had they been required of me before ſuch heavy judgment had paſſed upon me, as has been paſſed.

I know that this is Dr. Lewen's opinion. He has been ſo good as to inforce it in a kind letter to me. I have an⯑ſwered his letter; and given ſuch reaſons as I hope will ſatisfy him: I could wiſh it were thought worth while to aſk to ſee them ^(a).

To your other propoſal, of going to Penſylvania; this is my anſwer:—If nothing happen within a month which may full as effectually rid my parents and friends of that world of cares, and fears, and ſcandals, which you men⯑tion, and if I am then able to be carried on board of ſhip, I will chearfully obey my father and mother, altho' I were ſure to die in the paſſage. And, if I may be forgiven for ſaying ſo, you ſhall ſet over me, inſtead of my poor ob⯑liging, but really unculpable Hannah, your Betty Barnes; to whom I will be anſwerable for all my conduct. And I will make it worth her while to accompany me.

[56]I am equally ſurprized and concerned at the hints which both you and my uncle Antony give of new points of miſbehaviour in me!—What can be meant by them?

I will not tell you, Miſs Harlowe, how much I am af⯑flicted at your ſeverity, and how much I ſuffer by it, and by your hard-hearted levity of ſtyle, becauſe what I ſhall ſay may be conſtrued into jingle and period, and becauſe I know it is intended (very poſſibly for kind ends) to mortify me. All I will therefore ſay, is, That it does not loſe its end, if that be it.

But, nevertheleſs, (diveſting myſelf as much as poſſible of all reſentment) I will only pray, that heaven will give you, for your own ſake, a kinder heart, than at preſent; ſince a kind heart, I am convinced, is a greater bleſſing to its poſſeſſor, than it can be to any other perſon. Under this conviction I ſubſcribe myſelf, my dear Bella,

LETTER XIII. Mrs. JUDITH NORTON, To Miſs CL. HARLOWE. In anſwer to hers of Thurſday, Aug. 17.

THE Letters you ſent me, I now return by the hand that brings you this.

It is impoſſible for me to expreſs how much I have been affected by them, and your laſt of the 17th. Indeed, my dear Miſs Clary, you are very harſhly uſed; indeed you are! And if you ſhould be taken from us, what grief, and what puniſhment, are they not treaſuring up againſt them⯑ſelves, in the heavy reflections which their raſh cenſures and unforgiveneſs will occaſion them!

But I find what your uncle Antony's cruel letter is ow⯑ing to, as well as one you will be ſtill more afflicted by, (God help you, my poor dear child!) when it comes to your hand, written by your ſiſter, with propoſals to you.

It was finiſhed, to ſend you, yeſterday, I know; and I appriſe you of it, that you ſhould fortify your heart againſt the contents of it.

[57]The motives, which incline them all to this ſeverity, if well-grounded, would authorize any ſeverity, they could expreſs, and which, while they believe them to be ſo, both They and You are to be equally pitied.

They are owing to the information of that officious Mr. Brand, who has acquainted them from ſome enemy of yours in the neighbourhood about you, that viſits are made you, highly cenſurable, from a man of a free character, and an intimate of Mr. Lovelace; who is often in private with you; ſometimes twice or thrice a day.

Betty gives herſelf great liberties of ſpeech upon this occaſion, and all your friends are too ready to believe, that things are not as they ſhould be: which makes me wiſh, that, let the gentleman's views be ever ſo honourable, you could intirely drop acquaintance with him.

Something of this nature was hinted at by Betty to me before, but ſo darkly, that I could not tell what to make of it; and this made me mention it to you ſo generally, as I did in my laſt.

Your couſin Morden has been among them: He is ex⯑ceedingly concerned for your misfortunes; and as they will not believe Mr. Lovelace would marry you, he is de⯑termined to go to Lord M.'s, in order to inform himſelf from Mr. Lovelace's own mouth, whether he intends to do you That juſtice or not.

He was extremely careſſed by every one at his firſt ar⯑rival; but I am told there is ſome little coldneſs between them and him at preſent.

I was in hopes of getting a ſight of this letter of Mr. Brand's (a raſh, officious man!) But, it ſeems, Mr. Mor⯑den had it given him yeſterday to read, and he took it away with him.

God be your comfort, my dear Miſs! But indeed I am exceedingly diſturbed at the thoughts of what may ſtill be the iſſue of all theſe things. I am,

LETTER XIV. Mrs. NORTON, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

AFTER I had ſealed up the incloſed, I had the ho⯑nour of a private viſit from your aunt Hervey, who has been in a very low-ſpirited way, and kept her chamber for ſeveral weeks paſt; and is but juſt got a⯑broad.

She longed, ſhe ſaid, to ſee me, and to weep with me, on the hard fate that had befallen her beloved niece.

I will give you a faithful account of what paſſed be⯑tween us; as I expect, that it will, upon the whole, ad⯑miniſter hope and comfort to you.

‘'She pity'd very much your good mamma, who, ſhe aſſured me, is obliged to act a part entirely contrary to her inclinations; as ſhe herſelf, ſhe owns, had been in a great meaſure.’

‘'She ſaid, that the poor lady was with great difficulty with-held from anſwering your letter to her; which had (as was your aunt's expreſſion) almoſt broken the heart of every one: That ſhe had reaſon to think, that ſhe was neither conſenting to your two uncles writing; nor approving of what they wrote.’

‘'She is ſure they all love you dearly; but have gone 'ſo far, that they know not how to recede.’

‘'That, but for the abominable league which your bro⯑ther had got every-body into (he refuſing to ſet out for Scotland till it was renewed) and till they had all pro⯑miſed to take no ſtep towards a reconciliation in his ab⯑ſence but by his conſent; and to which your ſiſter's reſentments kept them up; all would before now have happily ſubſided.’

‘'That no-body knew the pangs which their inflexible behaviour gave them, ever ſince you had begun to write to them in ſo affecting and humble a ſtyle.’

‘'That, however, they were not inclined to believe that you were either ſo ill, or ſo penitent, as you really are; and ſtill leſs, that Mr. Lovelace is in earneſt in his offers of marriage.’

[59] ‘'She is ſure, ſhe ſays, that all will ſoon be well: And the ſooner for Mr. Morden's arrival: Who is very zea⯑lous in your behalf.’

‘'She wiſhed to heaven, that you would accept of Mr. Lovelace, wicked as he has been, if he were now in earneſt.’

‘'It had always, ſhe ſaid, been matter of aſtoniſhment to her, that ſo weak a pride in her couſin James, of making himſelf the whole family, ſhould induce them all to refuſe an alliance with ſuch a family as Mr. Love⯑lace's was.’

‘'She would have it, that your going-off with Mr. Love⯑lace was the unhappieſt ſtep for your honour and your intereſt that could have been taken; for that altho' you would have had a ſevere tryal the next day; yet it would probably have been the laſt; and your pathetic powers muſt have drawn you off ſome friends—hinting at your mamma, at your uncle Harlowe, at your uncle Hervey, and herſelf.'’

But here I muſt obſerve (that the regret that you did not truſt to the event of that meeting, may not in your preſent low way, too much afflict you) that it ſeems a little too evident from this opinion of your aunt's, that it was not ſo abſolutely determined that all compulſion was de⯑ſigned to be avoided, ſince your freedom from it muſt have been owing to the party to be made among them by your perſuaſive eloquence, and dutiful expoſtulation.

‘'She owned, that ſome of them, were as much afraid of meeting you, as you could be of meeting them:'’—But why ſo, if they deſigned, in the laſt inſtance, to give you your way?

She told me, ‘'That Mrs. Williams, your mamma's former houſe-keeper, had been with her, to aſk her opi⯑nion, i [...] it would be taken amiſs, if ſhe deſired leave to go up, to attend her deareſt young lady, in her calamity. She referred her to your mamma; but had heard no more of it.’

‘'Her daughter, Miſs Dolly, ſhe ſaid, had been fre⯑quently earneſt with her on the ſame ſubject; and re⯑newed her requeſt, with the greateſt fervor, when your firſt letter came to hand.’

[60] ‘'Your aunt ſays, that being then very ill, ſhe wrote to your mother upon it, hoping it would not be taken amiſs, if ſhe permitted Miſs Dolly to go; but that your ſiſter, as from your mamma, anſwered her, That now you ſeemed to be coming to, and to have a due ſenſe of your faults, you muſt be left entirely to their own management.’

‘'Miſs Dolly, ſhe ſaid, had pined ever ſince ſhe had heard of Mr. Lovelace's baſeneſs; being doubly mor⯑tified by it: Firſt, on account of your ſufferings; next, becauſe ſhe was one, who rejoiced in your getting off; and vindicated you for it: And had incurred cenſure and ill-will on that account; eſpecially from your bro⯑ther and ſiſter; ſo that ſhe ſeldom went to Harlowe-Place.'’

Make the beſt uſe of theſe intelligences, my deareſt young lady, for your conſolation.

I will only add, that I am, with the moſt fervent prayers for your recovery and reſtoration,

LETTER XV. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To Mrs. JUDITH NORTON.

THE relation of ſuch a converſation as paſſed be⯑tween my aunt and you, would have given me pleaſure, had it come ſome time ago; becauſe it would have met with a ſpirit more induſtrious than mine now is, to pick out remote comfort in the hope of a favourable turn that might one day have rewarded my patient duty.

I did not doubt my aunt's good-will to me. Her af⯑fection I did not doubt. But ſhall we wonder that kings and princes meet with ſo little controul in their paſſions, be they ever ſo violent, when in a private family, an aunt, nay, even a mother in that family, ſhall chooſe to give up a once favoured child againſt their own inclinations, rather than oppoſe an aſpiring young man, who had armed himſelf with the authority of a father, who, when once determined, never would be expoſtulated with?

[61]And will you not blame me, if I ſay, that good ſenſe, that relationly indulgence, muſt be a little offended at the treatment I have met with, and if I own, that I think, that great rigor has been exerciſed towards me? And yet I am now authorized to call it rigor by the judgment of two excellent ſiſters, my mother and my aunt, who ac⯑knowlege, (as you tell me from my aunt) that they have been obliged to join againſt me, contrary to their inclina⯑tions; and that, even in a point which concerns my eter⯑nal welfare.

But I muſt not go on at this rate. For may not the in⯑clination my mother has given up, be the effect of a too fond indulgence, rather than that I merit the indulgence? And yet, ſo petulantly perverſe am I, that I muſt tear my⯑ſelf from the ſubject.

All then that I will ſay further to it, at this time, is, that were the intended goodneſs to be granted to me but a week hence; it would poſſibly be too late—Too late, I mean, to be of the conſolation to me, that I would wiſh from it: For what an inefficacious preparation muſt I have been making, if it has not, by this time, carried me a⯑bove—But above what?—Poor miſtaken creature!—Un⯑happy ſelf-deluder!—that finds herſelf above nothing! Nor able to ſubdue her own faulty impatience!

But in deed to have done with a ſubject, that I dare not truſt myſelf with; if it come in your way, let my aunt Hervey, let my dear couſin Dolly, let the worthy Mrs. Williams, know, how exceedingly grateful to me their kind intentions and concern for me are: And, as the beſt warrant or juſtification of their good opinions (ſince I know that their favour for me is founded on the belief that I loved virtue) tell them, that I continued to love virtue to my laſt hour, as I preſume to hope it may be ſaid; and aſſure them, that I never made the leaſt wilful deviation, how⯑ever unhappy I became for one faulty ſtep; which never⯑theleſs was not owing to unworthy or perverſe motives.

I am very ſorry, that my couſin Morden has taken a re⯑ſolution to ſee Mr. Lovelace.

My apprehenſions on this intelligence, are a great abate⯑ment to the pleaſure I have in knowing that he ſtill loves me.

[62]My ſiſter's letter to me is a moſt afflicting one—So need⯑leſly, ſo ludicrouſly taunting.—But for that part of it that is ſo, I ought rather to pity her, than to be ſo much con⯑cerned at it as I am.

I wonder what I have done to Mr. Brand—I pray God to forgive both him and his informants, whoever they be. But if the ſcandal ariſe ſolely from Mr. Belford's viſits, a very little time will confute it.—Mean while, the pacquet I ſhall ſend you, which I ſent to Miſs Howe, will, I hope, ſatisfy you, my dear Mrs. Norton, as to my reaſons for admitting his viſits.

My ſiſter's taunting letter, and the inflexibleneſs of my dearer friends—But how do remoter-begun ſubjects tend to the point which lies neareſt the heart!—As new-caught bodily diſorders all croud to a fractured or diſtempered part.

I will break off, with requeſting your prayers, that I may be bleſſed with patience and due reſignation; and with aſſuring you, that I am, and will be to the laſt hour of my life,

LETTER XVI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. In reply to hers of Friday Aug. 11.

I HAVE read the letters and copies of letters you fa⯑voured me with: And I return them by a particular hand.

I am extremely concerned at your indifferent ſtate of health: But I approve all your proceedings and precautions, in relation to the naming of a man for an office, that, I hope, will not require to be filled up for many, many years.

I admire, and ſo we do all, that greatneſs of mind, which can make you ſo ſtedfaſtly deſpiſe (thro' ſuch inducements as no other woman could reſiſt, and in ſuch deſolate cir⯑cumſtances as you are in) the wretch that ought to be ſo heartily deſpiſed and deteſted.

[63]What muſt the contents of thoſe letters from your re⯑lations be, which you will not communicate to me! Fie upon them! How my heart riſes—But I dare ſay no more—Tho' you yourſelf now begin to think they uſe you with great ſeverity.

Every body here is ſo taken with Mr. Hickman, (and the more from the horror they conceive at the character of ſuch a wretch as Lovelace) that I have been teazed to death almoſt, to name a day. This has given him airs; and, did I not keep him to it, he would behave himſelf as careleſly, and as inſolently, as if he were ſure of me. I have been forced to mortify him no leſs than four times ſince we have been here.

I made him lately undergo a ſevere penance for ſome negligences, that were not to be paſſed over: Not deſigned ones, he ſaid: But that was a poor excuſe, as I told him: For, had they been deſigned, he ſhould never have come into my preſence more: That they were not, ſhewed his want of thought and attention; and thoſe were inexcuſe⯑able in a man only in his probatory ſtate.

He hoped he had been more than in a probatory ſtate, he ſaid.

And therefore, Sir, might be more careleſs?—So you add ingratitude to negligence, and make what you plead as accident, that itſelf wants an excuſe, deſign, which de⯑ſerves none.

I would not ſee him for two days, and he was ſo peni⯑tent, and ſo humble, that I had like to have loſt myſelf, to make him amends: For, as you have ſaid, a reſentment carried too high, often ends in an amends too humble.

I long to be nearer to you: But that muſt not yet be, it ſeems. Pray, my dear, let me hear from you as often as you can.

May heaven increaſe your comforts, and reſtore your health, are the prayers of

P. S. Excuſe me that I did not write before; it was owing to a little coaſting voyage I was obliged to give into.

LETTER XVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOU are very obliging, my dear Miſs Howe, to ac⯑count to me for your ſilence. I was eaſy in it, as I doubted not, that among ſuch near and dear friends as you are with, you was diverted from writing by ſome ſuch agreeable excurſion, as that you mention.

I was in hopes that you had given over, at this time of day, thoſe very ſprightly airs, which I have taken the li⯑berty to blame you for, as often as you have given me oc⯑caſion for it; and that has been very often.

I was always very grave with you upon this ſubject: And while your own and a worthy man's future happineſs are in the queſtion, I muſt enter into it, whenever you forget yourſelf, altho' I had not a day to live: And in⯑deed I am very ill.

I am ſure, it was not your intention to take your future huſband with you to the little iſland, to make him look weak and ſilly among thoſe of your relations who never before had ſeen him. Yet do you think it poſſible for them (however prepared and reſolved they may be to like him) to forbear ſmiling at him when they ſee him ſuffer⯑ing under your whimſical penances? A modeſt man ſhould no more be made little in his own eyes, than in the eyes of others. If he be, he will have a diffidence, which will give an aukwardneſs to every thing he ſays or does: And this will be no more to the credit of your choice, than to that of the approbation he meets with from your friends, or to his own credit.

I love an obliging, and even an humble deportment in a man to the woman he addreſſes. It is a mark of his po⯑liteneſs, and tends to give her that opinion of herſelf, which it may be ſuppoſed baſhful merit wants to be in⯑ſpired with. But if the lady exacts it with a high hand, ſhe ſhews not either her own politeneſs or gratitude; altho' I muſt confeſs ſhe does her courage. I gave you expecta⯑tion that I would be very ſerious with you.

O my dear, that had it been my lot (as I was not per⯑mitted [65] to live ſingle) to have met with a man by whom I could have acted generouſly and unreſervedly!

Mr. Lovelace, it is now plain, in order to have a pre⯑tence againſt me, taxed my behaviour to him, with ſtif⯑neſs and diſtance. You, at one time, thought me guilty of ſome degree of prudery. Difficult ſituations ſhould be allowed for; which often make occaſions for cenſure un⯑avoidable. I deſerved not blame from him who made mine difficult. And you, my dear, if I had had any o⯑ther man to deal with, or had he had but half the merit which Mr. Hickman has, ſhould have found that my doc⯑trine on this ſubject, ſhould have governed my practice!

But to put myſelf out of the queſtion—I'll tell you what I ſhould think, were I an indifferent by-ſtander, of theſe high airs of yours, in return for Mr. Hickman's humble demeanour. ‘"The lady thinks of having the gen⯑tleman, I ſee plainly, would I ſay. But I ſee, as plainly, that ſhe has a very great indifference to him. And to what may this indifference be owing? To one or all of theſe conſiderations, no doubt: That ſhe receives his addreſſes rather from motives of convenience than choice: That ſhe thinks meanly of his endowments and intellects; at leaſt more highly of her own: Or, ſhe has not the generoſity to uſe that power with modera⯑tion, which his great affection for her puts into her hands."’

How would you like, my dear, to have any of theſe things ſaid?

Then to give but the ſhadow of a reaſon for free-livers and free-ſpeakers to ſay, or to imagine, that Miſs Howe gives her hand to a man, who has no reaſon to expect any ſhare in her heart, I am ſure you would not wiſh that ſuch a thing ſhould be ſo much as ſuppoſed. Then, all the re⯑gard from you to come afterwards; none to be ſhewn before; muſt, I ſhould think, be capable of being con⯑ſtrued, as a compliment to the huſband, made at the ex⯑pence of the wife's delicacy.

There is no fear that attempts could be formed by the moſt audacious, [two Lovelaces there cannot be!] upon a character ſo revered for virtue, and ſo charmingly ſpirited as Miſs Howe's: Yet, to have any man encouraged to deſ⯑piſe [66] a huſband by the example of one who is moſt con⯑cerned to do him honour; what, my dear, think you o [...] that?—It is but too natural for envious men (and who that knows Miſs Howe, will not envy Mr. Hickman?) to ſco [...] at, and to jeſt upon thoſe who are treated with, or will bear indignity from a woman. If a man ſo treated, have a true and ardent love for the woman he addreſſes, h [...] will be eaſily over-awed by her diſpleaſure: And this will put him upon acts of ſubmiſſion, which will be called meanneſs. And what woman of true ſpirit would like to have it ſaid, that ſhe would impoſe any thing upon the man, from whom ſhe one day expected protection and de⯑fence, that ſhould be capable of being conſtrued as a mean⯑neſs, or unmanly abjectneſs in his behaviour, even to her⯑ſelf?—Nay, I am not ſure, and I aſk it of you, my dear, to reſolve me, whether in your own opinion, it is no [...] likely, that a woman of ſpirit will deſpiſe rather than val [...] more, the man who will take patiently an inſult at he hands; eſpecially before company?

I have always obſerved, that prejudices in disfavour [...] a perſon, at his firſt appearance, fix deeper, and are muc [...] more difficult to be removed when fixed, than prejudice in favour: Whether owing to envy, or to that malig⯑nant principle ſo eminently viſible in little minds, whic [...] makes them wiſh to bring down the more worthy charac⯑ters to their own low level, I pretend not to determine. When once, therefore, a woman of your good ſenſe give room to the world, to think ſhe has not an high opinio [...] of the lover, whom, nevertheleſs, ſhe entertains, it wi [...] be very difficult for her afterwards, to make that wor [...] think ſo well as ſhe would have it, of the husband ſhe ha [...] choſen.

Give me leave to obſerve, that to condeſcend with dig⯑nity, and to command with ſuch kindneſs, and ſweetneſs manners, as ſhould let the condeſcenſion, while ſingle, b [...] ſeen and acknowleged, are points, which a wiſe woma [...] knowing her man, ſhould aim at: And a wiſe woman, ſhould think, would chooſe to live ſingle all her life, ra⯑ther than give herſelf to a man, whom ſhe thinks unwo [...] ⯑thy of a treatment ſo noble.

[67]But when a woman lets her lover ſee, that ſhe has the generoſity to approve of and reward a well-meant ſer⯑vice; that ſhe has a mind that lifts her above the little captious follies, which ſome (too licentiouſly, I hope) at⯑tribute to the ſex in general: That ſhe reſents not (if ever ſhe thinks ſhe has reaſon to be diſpleaſed) with petulance, or through pride: Nor thinks it neceſſary to inſiſt upon little points, to come at or ſecure great ones, perhaps not proper to be aimed at: Nor leaves room to ſuppoſe ſhe has ſo much cauſe to doubt her own merit, as to put the love of the man ſhe intends to favour, upon diſagreeable or arrogant tryals: But lets reaſon be the principal guide of her actions:—She will then never fail of that true reſpect, of that ſincere veneration, which ſhe wiſhes to meet with; and which will make her judgment, after marriage, con⯑ſulted, ſometimes with a preference to a man's own, at other times, as a delightful confirmation of it.

And ſo much, my beloved Miſs Howe, for this ſubject now, and I dare ſay, for ever!

I will begin another letter by-and-by, and ſend both together.—Mean time, I am, &c.

But were they ever ſo favourably inclined to me now, what can they do for me? I wiſh, and that for their ſakes more than for my own, that they would yet relent—But I am very ill—I muſt drop my Pen—A ſudden Faintneſs overſpreads my heart—Excuſe my crooked writing!—Adieu, my dear!—Adieu!

LETTER XVIII. Mr. WYERLEY, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

YOU will be ſurpriſed to find renewed, at this diſtance of time, an addreſs ſo poſitively tho' ſo politely diſ⯑couraged: But, however it be received, I muſt renew it. Every body has heard, that you have been vilely treated by a man, who, to treat you ill, muſt be the vileſt of men. Every body knows your juſt reſentment of his baſe treatment: That you are determined never to be reconciled to him: And that you perſiſt in theſe ſentiments againſt all the in⯑treaties of his noble relations, againſt all the prayers and repentance of his ignoble ſelf. And all the world that have the honour to know you, or have heard of him, applaud your reſolution, as worthy of yourſelf; worthy of your virtue, and of that ſtrict honour which was always attributed to you by every one who ſpoke of you.

But, Madam, were all the world to have been of a dif⯑ferent opinion, it could never have altered mine. I ever loved you; I ever muſt love you. Yet have I endeavoured to reſign to my hard fate. When I had ſo many ways, in vain, ſought to move you in my favour, I ſat down, ſeem⯑ingly contented. I even wrote to you, that I would ſit down contented. And I endeavoured to make all my friends and companions think I was. But no body knows what pangs this ſelf-denial coſt me! In vain did the chace, in vain did travel, in vain did lively company, offer them⯑ſelves: Tho' embraced each in its turn, yet with redoubled force did my paſſion for you bring on my unhappineſs, when I looked into myſelf, into my own heart; for there did your charming image ſit inthroned; and you ingroſſed [...]ne all.

[70]I truly deplore thoſe misfortunes, and thoſe ſufferings, for your own ſake; which, nevertheleſs, encourage me to renew my bold hope. I know not particulars. I dare not inquire after them; becauſe my ſufferings would be in⯑creaſed with the knowlege of what yours have been. I therefore deſire not to know more than what common re⯑port wounds my ears with; and what is given me to know, by your abſence from your cruel family, and from the ſa⯑cred place, where I, among numbers of your rejected ad⯑mirers, uſed to be twice a week ſure to behold you, doing credit to that ſervice, of which your example gave me the higheſt notions. But whatever be thoſe misfortunes, of whatſoever nature thoſe ſufferings, I ſhall bleſs the occaſion for my own ſake, (tho' for yours curſe the author of them) if they may give me the happineſs to know, that this my renewed addreſs may not be abſolutely rejected. Only give me hope, that it may one day meet with encouragement, if in the interim nothing happen, either in my morals or behaviour, to give you freſh offence. Give me but hope of this—Not abſolutely to reject me is all the hope. I aſk for; and I will love you, if poſſible, ſtill more than I ever loved you—And that for your ſufferings; for well you de⯑ſerve to be loved, even to adoration, who can, for honour and for virtue's ſake, ſubdue a paſſion which common ſpi⯑rits (I ſpeak by cruel experience) find invincible; and this at a time when the black offender kneels and ſupplicates, as I am well aſſured he does, (all his friends likewiſe ſup⯑plicating for him) to be forgiven.

That you cannot forgive him; not forgive him ſo as to receive him again to favour, is no wonder. His offence is againſt virtue: That is a part of your eſſence—What magnanimity is this! How juſt to yourſelf, and to your ſpotleſs character! Is it any merit to admire more than ever ſo exalted a diſtinguiſher? It is not. I cannot plead it.

What hope have I left, may it be ſaid, when my ad⯑dreſs was before rejected, now, that your ſufferings, ſo nobly borne, have, with all good judges, exalted your cha⯑racter? Yet, Madam, I have to pride myſelf in this, That while your friends, (not looking upon you in the juſt light I do) perſecute and baniſh you; while your fortune and eſtate is with-held from you, and threatened (as I know) [71] to be with-held, as long as the chicaning Law, or rather the chicaneriers of its practicers, can keep it from you: While you are deſtitute of protection; every body ſtanding aloof, either thro' fear of the injurer of one family, or of the hard-hearted of the other; I pride myſelf, I ſay, to ſtand forth, and offer my fortune, and my life, at your devotion: With a ſelfiſh hope indeed: I ſhould be too great an hypocrite not to own this: And I know how much you abhor inſincerity.

But, whether you encourage that hope or not, accept my beſt ſervices, I beſeech you, Madam: And be pleaſed to excuſe me for a piece of hone ſtart, which the nature of the caſe, (doubting the honour of your notice otherwiſe) makes me chooſe to conclude with—It is this:

If I am to be ſtill the moſt unhappy of men, let your pen, by one line, tell me ſo. If I am permitted to indulge a hope, however diſtant, your ſilence ſhall be deemed by me, the happieſt indication of it that you can give—Ex⯑cept that ſtill happier—(the happieſt that can befal me) a ſignification that you will accept the tender of that life and fortune, which it would be my pride, and my glory, to ſacrifice in your ſervice, leaving the reward to yourſelf.

Be your determination as it may, I muſt for ever ad⯑mire and love you: Nor will I ever change my condition, while you live, whether you change yours or not: For, having once had the preſumption to addreſs You, I cannot ſtoop to think of any other woman: And this I ſolemnly declare in the preſence of that God, whom I daily pray to bleſs and protect you, be your determination what it will with regard to, deareſt Madam,

LETTER XIX. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To ALEX. WYERLEY, Eſq

THE generoſity of your purpoſe would have com⯑manded not only my notice, but my thanks, altho' you had not given me the alternative you are pleaſed to [72] call artful. And I do therefore give you my thanks for your kind letter.

At the time you diſtinguiſhed me by your favourable opinion, I told you, Sir, that my choice was the ſingle life. And moſt truly did I tell you ſo.

When that was not permitted me, and I looked round upon the ſeveral gentlemen who had been propoſed to me, and had reaſon to believe that there was not one of them againſt whoſe morals or principles there lay not ſome ex⯑ception, it would not have been much to be wondered at, if FANCY had been allowed to give a preference, where JUDGMENT was at a loſs to determine.

Far be it from me to ſay this with a deſign to upbraid you, Sir, or to reflect upon you. I always wiſhed you well. You had reaſon to think I did. You had the generoſity to be pleaſed with the frankneſs of my behaviour to you; as I had with that of yours to me: And I am ſorry to be now told, that the acquieſcence you obliged me with, gave you ſo much pain.

Had the option I have mentioned been allowed me af⯑terwards, (as I not only wiſhed but propoſed) things had not happened that did happen. But there was a kind of fatality, by which our whole family was impelled, as I may ſay; and which none of us were permitted to avoid. But this is a ſubject that cannot be dwelt upon.

As matters are, I have only to wiſh, for your own ſake, that you will encourage and cultivate thoſe good motions in your mind, to which many paſſages in your kind and generous letter now before me, muſt be owing. Depend upon it, Sir, that ſuch motions wrought into habit, will yield you pleaſure at a time when nothing elſe can. And at preſent, ſhining out in your actions and converſation, will commend you to the worthieſt of our Sex. For, Sir, the man who is good upon choice, as well as by education, has that quality in himſelf, which ennobles the human race, and without which the moſt dignified by birth or rank are ignoble.

As to the reſolution you ſo ſolemnly make not to marry while I live, I ſhould be concerned at it, were I not mo⯑rally ſure, that you may keep it, and yet not be detri⯑mented by it. Since a few, a very few days, will con⯑vince [73] you, that I am got above all human dependence—and that there is no need of that protection and favour, which you ſo generouſly offer to, Sir,

LETTER XX. Mr. LOVELACE, To J. BELFORD, Eſq

ABOUT the time of poor Belton's interrment laſt night, as near as we could gueſs, Lord M, Mowbray and myſelf toaſted once, To the memory of honeſt Tom Belton; and, by a quick tranſition to the living, Health to Miſs Harlowe; which Lord M. obligingly began, and, To the happy reconciliation; and then we ſtuck in a remembrance To honeſt Jack Belford, who, of late, we all agreed, was be⯑come an uſeful and humane man; preferring his friend's ſervice to his own.

But what is the meaning I hear nothing from thee, ^(a)? And why doſt thou not let me into the grounds of the ſudden reconciliation between my beloved and her friends, and the cauſe of the generous invitation which ſhe gives me of attending her at her father's ſome time hence?

Thou muſt certainly have been let into the ſecret by this time; and I can tell thee, I ſhall be plaguy jealous, if there be any one thing paſs between my Angel and Thee, that is to be concealed from me. For either I am a prin⯑cipal in this cauſe, or I am nothing. I have diſpatched Will. to know the reaſon of thy neglect.

But, let me whiſper a word or two in thy ear. I begin to be afraid, after all, that this letter was a ſtratagem to get me out of town, and for nothing elſe: for, in the f [...]rſt place, Tourville, in a letter I received this morning, tells me, that the lady is actually very ill—[I am ſorry for it with all my ſoul!] This, thou'lt ſay, I may think a reaſon, why ſhe cannot ſet out as yet: But then, I have heard, on the other hand, but laſt night, that the family is as implacable as ever; and my Lord and I expect this very afternoon a viſit from Colonel Morden; who undertakes, [74] it ſeems, to queſtion me as to my intention with regard to his couſin.

This convinces me, that if ſhe has appriſed them of my offers to her, they will not believe me to be in earneſt, till they are aſſured that I am ſo from my own mouth. And then I underſtand, that the intended viſit is an officiouſneſs of Morden's own, without the deſire of any of her friends.

Now, Jack, what can a man make of all this? My in⯑telligence as to the continuance of her family's impla⯑cableneſs is not to be doubted; and yet when I read her letter, what can one ſay? Surely, the dear little rogue will not lie!

I never knew her diſpenſe with her word, but once: And that was, when ſhe promiſed to forgive me, after the dread⯑ful fire that had like to have happened at our mother's, and yet would not ſee me next day, and afterwards made her eſcape to Hamſtead, in order to avoid forgiving me: And as ſhe ſeverely ſmarted for this departure from her ho⯑nour given (for it is a ſad thing for good people to break their word, when it is in their power to keep it) one would not expect, that ſhe ſhould ſet about deceiving again; more eſpecially by the premeditation of writing. You, perhaps, will aſk, What honeſt man is obliged to keep his promiſe with a highwayman? for well I know your unmannerly way of making compariſons: But I ſay, every honeſt man is—And I will give you an illuſtration.

Here is a marauding varlet, who demands your money, with his piſtol at your breaſt. You have neither money nor valuable effects about you; and promiſe ſolemnly, if he will ſpare your life, that you will ſend him an agreed-upon ſum, by ſuch a day, to ſuch a place. The queſtion is, If your life is not in the fellow's power?

How he came by the power is another queſtion; for which he muſt anſwer with his life, when caught—ſo he runs riſque for riſque.

Now if he gives you your life, does he not give, think you, a valuable conſideration for the money you engage your honour to ſend him? If not, the ſum muſt be exor⯑bitant, or your life is a very paltry one, even in your own opinion.

[75]I need not make the application; and I am ſure, that even thou thyſelf, who never ſpareſt me, and thinkeſt thou knoweſt my heart by thy own, canſt not poſſibly put the caſe in a ſtronger light againſt me.

Then, why do good people take upon themſelves to cenſure, as they do, perſons leſs ſcrupulous than them⯑ſelves? Is it not becauſe the latter allow themſelves in any liberty, in order to carry a point? And can my not doing my duty, warrant another for not doing his? Thou wilt not ſay it can.

And how would it ſound, to put the caſe as ſtrongly once more, as my greateſt enemy would put it, both as to fact and in words: Here has that profligate wretch Love⯑lace broken his vow with and deceived Miſs Clariſſa Har⯑lowe—A vile fellow! would an enemy ſay: But it is like him. But when it comes to be ſaid, that the pious Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe has broken her word with and deceived Lovelace; Good Lord! would every one ſay! Sure it cannot be!

Upon my ſoul, Jack, ſuch is the veneration I have for this admirable woman, that I am ſhocked barely at putting the caſe; and ſo wilt thou, if thou reſpecteſt her as thou oughteſt: For thou knoweſt, that men and women all the world over, form their opinions of one another, by each perſon's profeſſions and known practices. In this lady therefore it would be as unpardonable to tell a wilful un⯑truth, as it would be ſtrange if I kept my word.—In Love⯑caſes, I mean; for as to the reſt, I am an honeſt moral man, as all who know me can teſtify.

And what, after all, would this lady deſerve, if ſhe has deceived me in this caſe? For did ſhe not ſet me prancing away upon Lord M's beſt nag, to Lady Sarah's, and to Lady Betty's, with an erect and triumphing countenance, to ſhew them her letter to me? And I have received their congratulations upon it: Well, and now, Couſin Lovelace, cries one; Well and now, couſin Lovelace, cries t'other; I hope you'll make the beſt of huſbands to ſo excellent and ſo forgiving a lady! And now we ſhall ſoon have the plea⯑ſure of looking upon you as a reformed man, added one! And now we ſhall ſee you in the way we have ſo long wi [...]hed you to be in, exulted the other!

[76]My couſins Montague alſo have been ever ſince rejoicing in the new relationſhip. Their charming couſin, and their lovely couſin, at every word!—And how dearly they will love her!—What leſſons will they take from her!—And yet Charlotte, who pretends to have the eye of an eagle, was for finding out ſome myſtery in the ſtyle and man⯑ner, till I overbore her, and laughed her out of it.

As for Lord M. he has been in hourly expectation of being ſent to with propoſals of one ſort or other from the Harlowes: And ſtill will have it, that ſuch propoſals will be made by Colonel Morden when he comes; and that the Harlowes only put on a face of irreconcileableneſs, till they know the iſſue of Morden's viſit, in order to make the better terms with us.

Indeed, if I had not undoubted reaſon, as I ſaid, to be⯑lieve the continuance of their antipathy to me, and im⯑placableneſs to her, I ſhould be apt to think there might be ſome foundation for my Lord's conjecture; for there is a curſed deal of low cunning in all that family, except in the angel of it, who has ſo much generoſity of ſoul, that ſhe deſpiſes cunning, both name and thing.

What I mean by all This, is, to let thee ſee, what a ſtupid figure I ſhould make to all my own family, if my Clariſſa has been capable, as Gulliver in his abominable Yahoo-ſtory phraſes it, of ſaying the thing that is not. By my ſoul, Jack, if it were only that I ſhould be outwitted by ſuch a novice at plotting, and that it would make me look ſilly to my kinſwomen here, who know I value my⯑ſelf upon my contrivances, it would vex me to the heart; and I would inſtantly clap a feather-bed into a coach and fix, and fetch her away, ſick or well, and marry her at my leiſure.

But Col. Morden is come, and I muſt break off.

LETTER XXI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

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

I HAVE a converſation to give you that paſſed be⯑tween this admirable lady and Dr. H. which will fur⯑niſh a new inſtance of the calmneſs and ſerenity with which ſhe can talk of death, and prepare for it, as if it were an occurrence as familiar to her as dreſſing and un⯑dreſſing.

As ſoon as I had diſpatched my ſervant to you with my letters of the 26th, 28th, and yeſterday the 29th, I went to pay my duty to her, and had the pleaſure to find her, after a tolerable night, pretty lively and chearful. She was but juſt returned from her uſual devotions. And Doctor H. alighted as ſhe entered the door.

After enquiring how ſhe did, and hearing her com⯑plaints of ſhortneſs of breath (which ſhe attributed to inward decay, precipitated by her late haraſſes, as well from her friends as from you) he was for adviſing her to go into the air.

What will that do for me, ſaid ſhe? Tell me truly, good Sir, with a chearful aſpect, (you know you cannot diſturb me by it) whether now you do not put on the true [85] phyſician; and, deſpairing that any thing in medicine will help me, adviſe me to the air, as the laſt reſource?—Can you think the air will avail in ſuch a malady as mine?

He was ſilent.

I aſk, ſaid ſhe, becauſe my friends (who will poſſibly ſome time hence inquire after the means I uſed for my re⯑covery) may be ſatisfied that I omitted nothing which ſo worthy and ſo ſkilful a phyſician preſcribed?

The air, Madam, may poſſibly help the difficulty of breathing, which has ſo lately attacked you.

But, Sir, you ſee how weak I am. You muſt ſee that I have been conſuming from day to day; and now, if I can judge by what I feel in myſelf, putting her hand to her heart, I cannot continue long. If the air would very probably add to my days, tho' I am far from being de⯑ſirous to have them lengthened, I would go into it; and the rather, as I know Mrs. Lovick would kindly accom⯑pany me. But if I were to be at the trouble of remov⯑ing into new lodgings (a trouble which I think now would be too much for me) and this only to die in the country, I had rather the ſcene were to be ſhut up here. For here have I meditated the ſpot, and the manner, and every thing, as well of the minuteſt as of the higheſt conſequence, that can attend the ſolemn moments. So, Doctor, tell me truly, May I ſtay here, and be clear of any imputations of curtailing, thro' wilfulneſs or impatiency, or thro' reſentments which I hope I am got above, a life that might otherwiſe be prolonged?—Tell me, Sir, you are not talking to a coward in this reſpect; indeed you are not!—Unaffectedly ſmiling.

The doctor turning to me, was at a loſs what to ſay, lifting up his eyes only in admiration of her.

Never had any patient, ſaid ſhe, a more indulgent and more humane phyſician—But ſince you are loth to anſwer my queſtion directly, I will put it in other words. You don't injoin me to go into the air, Doctor, do you?

I do not, Madam. Nor do I now viſit you as a phyſi⯑cian; but as a perſon whoſe converſation I admire, and whoſe ſufferings I condole. And to explain myſelf more directly, as to the occaſion of this day's viſit in particular, I muſt tell you, Madam, that, underſtanding how much [86] you ſuffer by the diſpleaſure of your friends; and having no doubt, but that if they knew the way you are in, they would alter their conduct to you; and believing it muſt cut them to the heart, when too late they ſhall be informed of everything; I have reſolved to appriſe them by letter (ſtran⯑ger as I am to their perſons) how neceſſary it is for ſome of them to attend you very ſpeedily. For their ſakes, Madam, let me preſs for your approbation of this meaſure.

She pauſed, and at laſt ſaid, This is kind, very kind, in you, Sir. But I hope that you do not think me ſo per⯑verſe, and ſo obſtinate, as to have left till now any means uneſſayed, which I thought likely to move my friends in my favour. But now, Doctor, ſaid ſhe, I ſhould be too much diſturbed at their grief, if they were any of them to come or to ſend to me: And, perhaps, if I found they ſtill loved me, wiſh to live; and ſo ſhould quit unwil⯑lingly that life, which I am now really fond of quitting, and hope to quit, as becomes a perſon who has had ſuch a weaning-time as I have been favoured with.

I hope, Madam, ſaid I, we are not ſo near as you ap⯑prehend, to that deplorable deprivation you hint at with ſuch an amazing preſence of mind. And therefore I preſume to ſecond the doctor's motion, if it were only for the ſake of your father and mother, that they may have the ſatisfaction, if they muſt loſe you, to think, they were firſt reconciled to you.

It is very kindly, very humanely conſidered, ſaid ſhe. But, if you think me not ſo very near my laſt hour; let me deſire this may be poſtponed till I ſee what effect my couſin Morden's mediation may have. Perhaps he may vouchſafe to make me a viſit yet, after his intended inter⯑view with Mr. Lovelace is over; of which, who knows, Mr. Belford, but your next letters may give an account? I hope it will not be a fatal one to any body!—Will you promiſe me, Doctor, to forbear writing for two days only, and I will communicate to you any thing that occurs in that time; and then you ſhall take your own way? Mean time, I repeat my thanks for your goodneſs to me.—Nay, dear Doctor, hurry not away from me ſo precipitately (for he was going for fear of an offered fee) I will no more affront you with tenders that have pained you for ſome time paſt: [87] And ſince I muſt now, from this kindly offered favour, look upon you only as a friend, I will aſſure you hence⯑forth, that I will give you no more uneaſineſs on that head: And now, Sir, I know I ſhall have the pleaſure of ſeeing you oftener than heretofore.

The worthy gentleman was pleaſed with this aſſurance, telling her, that he had always come to ſee her with great pleaſure, but parted with her, on the account ſhe hinted at, with as much pain; and that he ſhould not have forborn to double his viſits, could he have had this kind aſſurance as early as he wiſhed for it.

There are few inſtances of like diſintereſtedneſs, I doubt, in this tribe. Till now I always held it for goſpel, That friendſhip and phyſician were incompatible things; and little imagined, that a man of medicine, when he had given over his patient to death, would think of any viſits but thoſe of ceremony, that he might ſtand well with the family, againſt it came to their turns to go thro' his turnpike.

After the Doctor was gone, ſhe fell into a very ſerious diſcourſe of the vanity of life, and the wiſdom of prepar⯑ing for death, while health and ſtrength remained, and be⯑fore the infirmities of body impaired the faculties of the mind, and diſabled them from acting with the neceſſary efficacy and clearneſs: The whole calculated for every⯑one's meridian, but particularly, as it was eaſy to obſerve, for Thine and Mine.

She was very curious to know further particulars of the behaviour of poor Belton in his laſt moments. You muſt not wonder at my inquiries, Mr. Belford, ſaid ſhe; for who is it that is to undertake a journey into a country they never travelled to before, that inquires not into the difficulties of the road, and what accommodations are to be expected in the way?

I gave her a brief account of the poor man's terrors, and unwillingneſs to die: And when I had done; Thus, Mr. Belford, ſaid ſhe, muſt it always be, with poor ſouls who have never thought of their long voyage till the mo⯑ment they are to imbark for it.

She made ſuch other obſervations upon this ſubject, as coming from the mouth of a perſon who will ſo ſoon be a companion for angels, I ſhall never forget. And indeed, [88] when I went home, that I might ingraft them the better on my memory, I entered them down in writing: But I will not let you ſee them until you are in a frame more proper to benefit by them, than you are likely to be in one while.

Thus far I had written, when the unexpected early return of my ſervant with your packet (yours and he meeting at Slough, and exchanging letters) obliged me to leave off to give its contents a reading.—Here, therefore, I cloſe this letter.

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

NOW, Jack, will I give thee an account of what paſſed on occaſion of the viſit made us by Col. Morden.

He came on horſeback, attended by one ſervant; and Lord M. received him as a relation of Miſs Harlowe's, with the higheſt marks of civility and reſpect.

After ſome general talk of the times, and of the weather, and ſuch nonſenſe as Engliſhmen generally make their in⯑troductory topics to converſation, the Colonel addreſſed himſelf to Lord M. and to me, as follows:

I need not, my Lord, and Mr. Lovelace, as you know the relation I bear to the Harlowe family, make any apo⯑logy for entering upon a ſubject, which, on account of that relation, you muſt think is the principal reaſon of the honour I have done myſelf in this viſit.

Miſs Harlowe, Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe's affair, ſaid Lord M. with his uſual forward bluntneſs. That, Sir, is what you mean. She is, by all accounts, the moſt ex⯑cellent woman in the world.

I am glad to hear that is your Lordſhip's opinion of her. It is every one's.

It is not only my opinion, Col. Morden (proceeded the prateing peer) but it is the opinion of all my family. Of my ſiſters, of my nieces, and of Mr. Lovelace himſelf.

Col. Would to heaven it had been always Mr. Love⯑lace's opinion of her!

Lovel. You have been out of England, Colonel, a good [89] many years. Perhaps you are not yet fully appriſed of all the particulars of this caſe.

Col. I have been out of England, Sir, about ſeven years. My couſin Clary Harlowe was then about twelve years of age: But never was there at twenty ſo diſcreet, ſo pru⯑dent, and ſo excellent a creature. All that knew her, or ſaw her, admired her. Mind and perſon, never did I ſee ſuch promiſes of perfection in any young lady: And I am told, nor is it to be wondered at, that as ſhe advanced to maturity, ſhe more than juſtified and made good thoſe promiſes.—Then, as to fortune—what her father, what her uncles, and what I myſelf intended to do for her, beſides what her grandfather had done—There is not a finer fortune in the county.

Lovel. All this, Colonel, and more than this, is Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe; and had it not been for the implacable⯑neſs and violence of her family, (all reſolved to puſh her upon a match as unworthy of her, as hateful to her) ſhe had ſtill been happy.

Col. I own, Mr. Lovelace, the truth of what you ob⯑ſerved juſt now, that I am not thoroughly acquainted with all that has paſſed between you and my couſin. But per⯑mit me to ſay, that when I firſt heard that you made your addreſſes to her, I knew but of one objection againſt you. That, indeed, a very great one: And upon a letter ſent me, I gave her my free opinion upon the ſubject ^(a). But had it not been for that, I own, that in my private mind, there could not have been a more ſuitable match: For you are a gallant gentleman, graceful in your perſon, eaſy and genteel in your deportment, and in your family, fortunes, and expectations happy as a man can wiſh to be. Then the knowlege I had of you in Italy (altho' give me leave to ſay, your conduct there was not wholly unexception⯑able) convinces me, that you are brave: And few gentle⯑men come up to you in wit and vivacity. Your educa⯑tion has given you great advantages; your manners are en⯑gaging, and you have travelled; and I know, if you'll excuſe me, you make better obſervations than you are go⯑verned by. All theſe qualifications make it not at all ſurpri⯑ſing, that a young lady ſhould love you: And that this love, [90] joined to that indiſcreet warmth wherewith my couſin's friends would have forced her inclinations in favour of men who are far your inferiors in the qualities I have named, ſhould throw her upon your protection: But then, if there were theſe two ſtrong motives, the one to induce, the other to impel her, let me aſk you, Sir, If ſhe were not doubly intitled to generous uſage from a man whom ſhe choſe for her protector; and whom, let me take the liberty to ſay, ſhe could ſo amply reward for the protection he was to afford her?

Lovel. Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe was intitled, Sir, to the beſt uſage that man could give her. I have no ſcruple to own it. I will always do her the juſtice ſhe ſo well de⯑ſerves. I know what will be your inference; and have only to ſay, That time paſt cannot be recalled. Perhaps I wiſh it could.

The Colonel then in a very manly ſtrain ſet forth the wickedneſs of attempting a woman of virtue, and cha⯑racter. He ſaid, that men had generally too many advan⯑tages over the weakneſs, credulity, and inexperience of the fair ſex, who were too apt to be hurried into acts of precipitation by their reading inflaming novels, and idle romances; that his couſin, however, he was ſure, was above the reach of common ſeduction, or to be influenced to the raſhneſs her parents accuſed her of, by weaker mo⯑tives than their violence, and the moſt ſolemn promiſes on my part: But, nevertheleſs, having thoſe motives, and her prudence (eminent as it was) being rather the effect of conſtitution than experience (a fine advantage, however, he ſaid, to ground an unblameable future life upon) ſhe might not be apprehenſive of bad deſigns, in a man ſhe loved: It was, therefore, a very heinous thing to abuſe the confidence of ſuch a lady.

He was going on in this trite manner: But, interrupting him, I ſaid; Theſe general obſervations, Colonel, perhaps, ſuit not this particular caſe. But you yourſelf are a man of gallantry; and, poſſibly, were you to be put to the queſtion, might not be able to vindicate every action of your life, any more than I.

Col. You are welcome, Sir, to put what queſtions you [91] pleaſe to me. And, I thank God, I can both own and be aſhamed of my errors.

Lord M. looked at me; but as the Colonel did not by his manner ſeem to intend a reflexion, I had no occaſion to take it for one; eſpecially as I can as readily own my errors, as he, or any man can his, whether aſhamed of them or not.

He proceeded. As you ſeem to call upon me, Mr. Lovelace, I will tell you (without boaſting of it) what has been my general practice, till lately, that I hope I have reformed it a good deal.

I have taken liberties, which the Laws of Morality will by no means juſtify; and once I ſhould have thought my⯑ſelf warranted to cut the throat of any young fellow, who ſhould make as free with a ſiſter of mine, as I have made with the ſiſters and daughters of others. But then I took care never to promiſe any thing I intended not to perform. A modeſt ear ſhould as ſoon have heard downright ob⯑ſcenity from my lips, as matrimony, if I had not intended it. Young ladies are generally ready enough to believe we mean honourably, if they love us; and it would look like a ſtrange affront to their virtue and charms, that it ſhould be ſuppoſed needful to put the queſtion whether in your addreſs you mean a wife. But when once a man makes a promiſe, I think it ought to be performed; and a woman is well warranted to appeal to every one againſt the per⯑fidy of a deceiver; and is always ſure to have the world of her ſide.

Now, Sir, continued he, I believe you have ſo much honour as to own, that you could not have made way to ſo eminent a virtue, without promiſing marriage; and that very explicitly and ſolemnly—

I know very well, Colonel, interrupted I, all you would ſay—You will excuſe me, I am ſure, that I break in upon you, when you find it is to anſwer the end you drive at.

I own to you then, that I have acted very unworthily by Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe; and I'll tell you further, that I heartily repent of my ingratitude and baſeneſs to her. Nay, I will ſay ſtill further, that I am ſo groſly culpable as to her, that even to plead, that the abuſes and affronts I daily received from her implacable relations, were in any [92] manner a provocation to me to act vilely by her, would be a mean and low attempt to excuſe myſelf—So low and ſo mean, that it would doubly condemn me. And if you can ſay worſe, ſpeak it.

He look'd upon Lord M. and then upon me, two or three times. And my Lord ſaid, My kinſman ſpeaks what he thinks, I'll anſwer for him.

Lovel. I do, Sir; and what can I ſay more? And what further, in your opinion, can be done?

Col. Done! Sir? Why, Sir, (in a haughty tone he ſpoke) I need not tell you that reparation follows repe [...] ⯑tance. And I hope you make no ſcruple of juſtifying your ſincerity as to the one, by the other.

I heſitated (for I reliſhed not the manner of his ſpeech and his haughty accent) as undetermined whether to take proper notice of it, or not.

Col. Let me put this queſtion to you, Mr. Lovelace:—Is it true, as I have heard it is, That you would many my couſin, if ſhe would have you?—What ſay you, Sir?—

This wound me up a peg higher?

Lovel. Some queſtions, as they may be put, imply com⯑mands, Colonel. I would be glad to know how I am to take yours? And what is to be the end of your interrogatories?

Col. My queſtions are not meant by me as commands, Mr. Lovelace. The end is, to prevail upon a gentleman to act like a gentleman, and a man of honour.

Lovel. (briſkly) And by what arguments, Sir, do you propoſe to prevail upon me?

Col. By what arguments, Sir, prevail upon a gentleman to act like a gentleman!—I am ſurpriſed at That queſtion from Mr. Lovelace.

Lovel. Why ſo, Sir?

Col. WHY so, Sir, (angrily) —Let me—

Lovel. (interrupting) I don't chooſe, Colonel, to be re⯑peated upon, in that accent.

Lord M. Come, come, gentlemen, I beg of you to be willing to underſtand one another. You young gentlemen are ſo warm—

Col. Not I, my Lord—I am neither very young, no [...] unduly warm. Your nephew, my Lord, can make me be every thing he would have me to be.

Lovel. And that ſhall be, whatever you pleaſe to be, Colonel.

Col. (fiercely) The choice be yours, Mr. Lovelace. Friend or foe! as you do or are willing to do juſtice to one of the fineſt women in the world.

Lord M. I gueſs'd from both your characters, what would be the caſe when you met. Let me interpoſe, gen⯑tlemen, and beg you but to underſtand one another. You both ſhoot at one mark; and if you are patient, will both hit it. Let me beg of you, Colonel, to give no chal⯑lenges—

Col. Challenges, my Lord!—They are things I ever was readier to accept than to offer. But does your Lord⯑ſhip think, that a man ſo nearly related as I have the ho⯑nour to be to the moſt accompliſhed woman on earth—

Lord M. (interrupting) We all allow the excellencies of the lady—And we ſhall all take it as the greateſt honour to be ally'd to her that can be conferred upon us.

Col. So you ought, my lord!—A perfect Chamont! thought I ^(a).

Lord M. So we ought, Colonel! And ſo we do!—And pray let every one do as he ought!—and no more than he ought; and you, Colonel, let me tell you, will not be ſo haſty.

Lovel. (coolly) Come, come, Col. Morden, don't let this diſpute, whatever you intend to make of it, go far⯑ther than with you and me. You deliver yourſelf in very high terms. Higher than ever I was talked to in my life, [...]ut here, beneath this roof, 'twould be inexcuſable for me to take that notice of it, which perhaps it would be⯑come me to take elſewhere.

Col. This is ſpoken as I wiſh the man to ſpeak, whom ſhould be pleaſed to call my friend, if all his actions [...]ere of a piece; and as I would have the man ſpeak, whom I would think it worth my while to call my foe, love a man of ſpirit, as I love my ſoul. But, Mr. Love⯑ [...]ce, as my Lord thinks we aim at one mark, let me ſay, at were we permitted to be alone for ſix minutes, I dare [...], we ſhould ſoon underſtand one another perfectly well. And he moved to the door.

Lovel. I am intirely of your opinion, Sir, and will at⯑tend you.

My Lord rung, and ſtept between us; Colonel, return, I beſeech you, ſaid he; for he had ſtept out of the room, while my Lord held me—Nephew, you ſhall not go out.

The bell, and my Lord's raiſed voice, brought in Mow⯑bray, and Clements, my lord's gentleman; the former in his careleſs way, with his hands behind him, What's the matter, Bobby? What's the matter, my Lord?

Only, only, only, ſtammer'd the agitated peer, theſe young gentlemen are, are, are—young gentlemen, that's all,—Pray, Colonel Morden (who again entered the room, with a ſedater aſpect) let this cauſe have a fair tryal, I be⯑ſeech you.

Col. With all my heart, my Lord.

Mowbray whiſper'd me, What is the cauſe, Bobby?—Shall I take the gentleman to taſk, for thee, my boy?

Not for the world, whiſpered I. The Colonel is a gen⯑tleman, and I deſire you'll not ſay one word.

Well, well, well, Bobby, I have done. I can turn thee looſe to the beſt man upon God's earth, that's all, Bobby; ſtrutting off to the other end of the room.

Col. I am ſorry, my Lord, I ſhould give your Lordſhip the leaſt uneaſineſs. I came not with ſuch a deſign.

Lord M. Indeed, Colonel, I thought you did, by your taking fire ſo quickly. I am glad to hear you ſay you did not. How ſoon a little ſpark kindles into a flame; eſpecially when it meets with ſuch combuſtible ſpirits!

Col. If I had had the leaſt thought of proceeding to extremities, I am ſure Mr. Lovelace would have given me the honour of a meeting where I ſhould have been leſs an intruder; but I came with an amicable intention;—To reconcile differences, rather than to widen them.

Lovel. Well then, Col. Morden, let us enter upon the ſubject in your own way. I don't know the man I ſhould ſooner chooſe to be upon terms with, than one whom Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe ſo much reſpects. But I cannot bear to be treated either in word or accent, in a menacing way.

Lord M. Well, well, well, well, gentlemen, this is ſome⯑what like. Angry men make to themſelves beds of nettles, and when they lie down in them, are uneaſy with every [95] body. But I hope you are friends. Let me hear you ſay you are.—I am perſuaded, Colonel, that you don't know all this unhappy ſtory. You don't know how deſirous my kinſman is, as well as all of us, to have this matter end happily. You don't know, do you, Colonel, that Mr. Lovelace, at all our requeſts, is diſpoſed to marry the lady?

Col. At all your requeſts, my Lord?—I ſhould have hoped, that Mr. Lovelace was diſpoſed to do juſtice, for the ſake of juſtice; and when, at the ſame time, the doing of juſtice, was doing himſelf the higheſt honour.

Mowbray lifted up his before half-cloſed eyes to the Colonel, and glanced them upon me.

Lovel. This is in very high language, Colonel.

Mowbr. By my ſoul, I thought ſo.

Col. High language, Mr. Lovelace? Is it not juſt lan⯑guage?

Lovel. It is, Colonel. And I think, the man that does honour to Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, does me honour. But, nevertheleſs, there is a manner in ſpeaking, that may be liable to exception, where the words, without that man⯑ner, can bear none.

Col. Your obſervation in the general is undoubtedly juſt; but if you have the value for my couſin, that you ſay you have, you muſt needs think—

Lovel. You muſt allow me, Sir, to interrupt you—IF have the value I ſay I have—I hope, Sir, when I ſay I [...]ave that value, there is no room for that if, pronounced you pronounced it with an emphaſis.

Col. You have broken in upon me twice, Mr. Lovelace. [...] am as little accuſtomed to be broken in upon, as you are [...] be repeated upon.

Lord M. Two barrels of gunpowder, by my con⯑ [...]ence; What a devil will it ſignify talking, if thus you [...] to blow one another up at every wry word?

Lovel. No man of honour, my Lord, will be eaſy to [...]e his veracity called in queſtion, though but by impli⯑ [...]ion.

Col. Had you heard me out, Mr. Lovelace, you would [...]e found, that my if was rather an if of inference, than doubt. But 'tis, really, a ſtrange liberty gentlemen of [96] free principles take; who at the ſame time that they would reſent unto death the imputation of being capable of tel⯑ling an untruth to a Man, will not ſcruple to break thro' the moſt ſolemn oaths and promiſes to a Woman. I muſt aſſure you, Mr. Lovelace, that I always made a conſcience of my vows and promiſes.

Lovel. You did right, Colonel. But let me tell you, Sir, that you know not the man you talk to, if you ima⯑gine he is not able to riſe to a proper reſentment, when he ſees his generous confeſſions taken for a mark of baſe⯑ſpiritedneſs.

Col. (warmly, and with a ſneer) Far be it from me, Mr. Lovelace, to impute to you the baſeneſs of ſpirit you ſpeak of; for what would that be, but to imagine, that a man who has done a very flagrant injury, is not ready to ſhew his bravery in defending it—

Mowbr. This is damn'd ſevere, Colonel. It is, by Jove. I could not take ſo much at the hands of any man breath⯑ing as Mr. Lovelace before this took at yours.

Col. Who are You, Sir? What pretence have you to interpoſe in a cauſe where there is an acknowleged guilt on one ſide, and the honour of a conſiderable family wounded in the tendereſt part by that guilt on the other?

Mowbr. (whiſpering to the Colonel.) My dear child, you will oblige me highly, if you will give me the op⯑portunity of anſwering your queſtion. And was going out.

The Colonel was held in by my Lord. And I brought in Mowbray.

Col. Pray, my good Lord, let me attend this officious gentleman. I beſeech you do. I will wait upon your Lord⯑ſhip in three minutes, depend upon it.

Lovel. Mowbray, is this acting like a friend by me, to ſuppoſe me incapable of anſwering for myſelf? And ſhall a man of honour and bravery, as I know Colonel Morden to be, (raſh as perhaps in this viſit he has ſhewn himſelf) have it to ſay, that he comes to my Lord M's houſe, in a manner naked as to attendants and friends, and ſhall not for That reaſon be rather borne with, than inſulted? This moment, my dear Mowbray, leave us. You have really no concern in this buſineſs; and if you are my friend, I deſire you'll aſk the Colonel pardon for interfering in it in the manner you have done.

Mowbr. Well, well, Bob; thou ſhalt be arbiter in this matter. I know I have no buſineſs in it—And, Colonel, (holding out his hand) I leave you to one who knows how to defend his own cauſe, as well as any man in England.

Col. (taking Mowbray's hand, at Lord M's requeſt) You need not tell me that, Mr. Mowbray. I have no doubt of Mr. Lovelace's ability to defend his own cauſe, were it a cauſe to be defended. And let me tell you, Mr. Love⯑lace, that I am aſtoniſhed to think, that a brave man, and a generous man, as you have appeared to be in two or three inſtances that you have given in the little knowlege I have of you, ſhould be capable of acting as you have done by the moſt excellent of her ſex.

Lord M. Well, but, gentlemen, now Mr. Mowbray is gone; and you have both ſhewn inſtances of courage and generoſity to boot, let me deſire you to lay your heads together amicably, and think whether there be any thing to be done to make all end happily for the lady?

Lovel. But hold, my Lord, let me ſay one thing, now Mowbray is gone; and that is, that I think a gentleman ought not to put up tamely one or two ſevere things that the Colonel has ſaid.

Lord M. What the devil canſt thou mean? I thought all had been over. Why, thou haſt nothing to do, but to confirm to the Colonel, that thou art willing to marry Miſs Harlowe, if ſhe will have thee.

Col. Mr. Lovelace will not ſcruple to ſay That, I ſup⯑poſe, notwithſtanding all that has paſſed: But if you think, Mr. Lovelace, I have ſaid any thing I ſhould not have ſaid, I ſuppoſe it is this: That the man who has ſhewn ſo little of the Thing Honour, to a defenceleſs un⯑protected woman, ought not to ſtand ſo nicely upon the empty name of it, with a man who is expoſtulating with him upon it. I am ſorry to have cauſe to ſay this, Mr. Lovelace; but I would on the ſame occaſion repeat it to a King in all his glory, and ſurrounded by all his guards.

Lord M. But what is all this, but more ſacks upon the mill? more coals upon the fire? You have a mind to quarrel both of you, I ſee that. Are you not willing, Nephew, are you not moſt willing, to marry this lady, if ſhe can be prevailed upon to have you?

Lovel. Damn me, my Lord, if I'd marry an Empreſs upon ſuch treatment as this.

Lord M. Why now, Bob, thou art more choleric than the Colonel. It was his turn juſt now. And now you ſee he is cool, you are all gunpowder.

Lovel. I own the Colonel has many advantages over me; but, perhaps, there is one advantage he has not, if it were put to the tryal.

Col. I came not hither, as I ſaid before, to ſeek the oc⯑caſion: But if it be offered me, I won't refuſe it—And ſince we find we diſturb my good Lord M. I'll take my leave, and will go home by the way of St. Alban's.

Lovel. I'll ſee you part of the way, with all my heart, Colonel.

Col. I accept your civility very chearfully, Mr. Love⯑lace.

Lord M. (interpoſing again, as we were both for going out) And what will this do, gentlemen? Suppoſe you kill one another, will the matter be better'd or worſted by that? Will the lady be made happier or unhappier, do you think by either or both of your deaths? Your cha⯑racters are too well known to make freſh inſtances of the courage of either needful. And, I think, if the honour of the lady is your view, Colonel, it can be no other way ſo effectually promoted, as by marriage. And, Sir, if you would uſe your intereſt with her, it is very probable, that you may ſucceed, tho' no body elſe can.

Lovel. I think, my Lord, I have ſaid all that a man can ſay (ſince what is paſſed cannot be recalled) and you ſee Col. Morden riſes in proportion to my coolneſs, till it is neceſſary for me to aſſert myſelf, or even he would de⯑ſpiſe me.

Lord M. Let me aſk you, Colonel; Have you any way, any method, that you think reaſonable and honourable to propoſe, to bring about a reconciliation with the lady? That is what we all wiſh for. And I can tell you, Sir, it is not a little owing to her family, and to their implacable uſage of her, that her reſentments are heighten'd againſt my kinſman; who, however, has uſed her vilely; but is willing to repair her wrongs.—

Lovel. Not, my Lord, for the ſake of her family; nor for this gentleman's haughty behaviour; but for her own ſake, and in full ſenſe of the wrongs I have done her.

Col. As to my haughty behaviour, as you call it, Sir, I am miſtaken if you would not have gone beyond it in the like caſe, of a relation ſo meritorious, and ſo unwor⯑thily injured. And, Sir, let me tell you, that if your mo⯑tives are not Love, Honour, and Juſtice, and if they have the leaſt tincture of mean Compaſſion for her, or of an unchearful aſſent on your part, I am ſure it will neither be deſired or accepted by a perſon of my couſin's merit and ſenſe; nor ſhall I wiſh that it ſhould.

Lovel. Don't think, Colonel, that I am meanly com⯑pounding off a debate, that I ſhould as willingly go thro' with you as to eat or drink, if I have the occaſion given me for it: But thus much I will tell you, That my Lord, that Lady Sarah Sadleir, Lady Betty Lawrance, my two couſins Montague, and myſelf, have written to her in the moſt ſolemn and ſincere manner, to offer her ſuch terms, as no one but herſelf would refuſe, and this long enough before Col. Morden's arrival was dreamt of.

Col. What reaſon, Sir, may I aſk, does ſhe give, againſt liſtening to ſo powerful a mediation, and to ſuch offers?

Lovel. It looks like capitulating, or elſe—

Col. It looks not like any ſuch thing to me, Mr. Love⯑lace, who have as good an opinion of your ſpirit as man can have. And what, pray, is the part I act, and my mo⯑tives for it? Are they not, in deſiring that juſtice may be done to my couſin Clariſſa Harlowe, that I ſeek to eſtabliſh the honour of Mrs. Lovelace, if matters can once be brought to bear?

Lovel. Were ſhe to honour me with her acceptance of That name, Mr. Morden, I ſhould not want you or any man to aſſert the honour of Mrs. Lovelace.

Col. I believe it. But till ſhe has honoured you with that acceptance, ſhe is nearer to me than to you, Mr. Love⯑lace. And I ſpeak this, only to ſhew you, that in the part I take, I mean rather to deſerve your thanks than your diſpleaſure, tho' againſt yourſelf, were there occaſion. Nor ought you to take it amiſs, if you rightly weigh the matter: For, Sir, whom does a lady want protection againſt, but [100] her injurers? And who has been her greateſt injurer?—Till, therefore, ſhe becomes intitled to your protection, as your wife, you yourſelf cannot refuſe me ſome merit in wiſhing to have juſtice done my couſin. But, Sir, you was going to ſay, that if it were not to look like capitulating, you would hint the reaſons my couſin gives againſt ac⯑cepting ſuch an honourable mediation?

I then told him of my ſincere offers of marriage; ‘'I made no difficulty, I ſaid, to own my apprehenſions, that my unhappy behaviour to her, had greatly affected her: But that it was the implacableneſs of her friends that had thrown her into deſpair, and given her a con⯑tempt for life.'’ I told him, ‘'That ſhe had been ſo good, as to ſend me a letter to divert me from a viſit my heart was ſet upon making her: A letter, on which I built great hopes, becauſe ſhe aſſured me in it, that ſhe was going to her father's; and that I might ſee her there, when ſhe was received, if it were not my own fault.'’

Col. Is it poſſible? And were you, Sir, thus earneſt? And did ſhe ſend you ſuch a letter?

Lord M. confirmed both; and alſo, that, in obedience to her deſires, and that intimation, I had come down with⯑out the ſatisfaction I had propoſed to myſelf in ſeeing her.

It is very true, Colonel, ſaid I: And I ſhould have told you This before: But your heat made me decline it; for, as I ſaid, it had an appearance of meanly capitulating with you. An abjectneſs of heart, of which had I been ca⯑pable, I ſhould have deſpiſed myſelf as much as I might have expected you would deſpiſe me.

Lord M. propoſed to enter into the proof of all this: He ſaid, in his phraſeological way, That one ſtory was good, till another was heard: That the Harlowe family and I, 'twas true, had behaved like ſo many Orſons to one another; and that they had been very free with all our family beſides: That nevertheleſs, for the lady's ſake, more than for theirs, or even for mine (he could tell me) he would do greater things for me, than they could aſk, if ſhe could be brought to have me: And that this he wanted to declare, and would ſooner have declared, if he could have brought us ſooner to patience, and a good under⯑ſtanding.

[101]The Colonel made excuſes for his warmth, on the ſcore of his affection to his couſin.

My regard for her, made me readily admit them: And ſo a freſh bottle of Burgundy, and another of Champagne, being put upon the table, we ſat down in good humour, after all this bluſtering, in order to enter cloſer into the particulars of the caſe: Which I undertook, at both their deſires, to do.

But theſe things muſt be the ſubject of another letter, which ſhall immediately follow this, if it do not accom⯑pany it.

Mean time you will obſerve, That a bad cauſe gives a man great diſadvantages: For I myſelf think, that the in⯑terrogatories put to me with ſo much ſpirit by the Co⯑lonel, made me look curſedly mean; at the ſame time that it gave him a ſuperiority which I know not how to allow to the beſt man in Europe. So that, literally ſpeak⯑ing, as a good man would infer, guilt is its own puniſher; in that it makes the moſt lofty ſpirit look like the miſ⯑creant he is—A good man, I ſay: So, Jack, proleptically, I add, Thou haſt no right to make the obſervation.

LETTER XXIV. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

I Went back in this part of our converſation to the day that I was obliged to come down to attend my Lord, in the dangerous illneſs which ſome feared would have been his laſt.

I told the Colonel ‘'What earneſt letters I had written to a particular friend, to engage him to prevail upon the lady not to ſlip a day that had been propoſed for the private celebration of our nuptials; and of my let⯑ters ^(a) written to herſelf on that ſubject;'’ for I had ſtept to my cloſet, and fetched down all the letters and draughts and copies of letters relating to this affair.

I read to him ‘'ſeveral paſſages in the copies of thoſe letters, which, thou wilt remember, make not a little to my honour. And I told him, 'That I wiſhed I had [102] kept copies of thoſe to my friend on the ſame occaſion; by which he would have ſeen how much in earneſt I was in my profeſſions to her, altho' ſhe would not an⯑ſwer one of them.'’ And thou mayſt remember, that one of thoſe four letters accounted to herſelf, why I was de⯑ſirous ſhe ſhould remain where I had left her ^(a).

I then proceeded to give him an account ‘'of the viſit made by Lady Sarah and Lady Betty to Lord M. and me, in order to induce me to do her juſtice. Of my readineſs to comply with their deſires; and of their high opinion of her merit. Of the viſit made to Miſs Howe by my couſins Montague, in the name of us all, to in⯑gage her intereſt with her friend in my behalf. Of my converſation with Miſs Howe, at a private aſſemblee, to whom I gave the ſame aſſurances, and beſought her intereſt with her friend.'’

I then read the copy of the letter, (tho' ſo much to my diſadvantage) which was written to her by Miſs Charlotte Montague, Aug. 1. ^(b) intreating her alliance in the names of all our family.

This made him ready to think, that his fair couſin car⯑ried her reſentment againſt me too far. He did not imagine, he ſaid, that either myſelf or our family had been ſo much in earneſt.

So thou ſeeſt, Belford, that it is but gloſſing over one part of a ſtory, and omitting another, that will make a bad cauſe a good one at any time. What an admirable Lawyer ſhould I have made! And what a poor hand would this charming creature, with all her innocence, have made of it in a court of juſtice againſt a man who had ſo much to ſay, and to ſhew for himſelf.

I then hinted at the generous annual tender which Lord M. and his ſiſters made to his fair couſin, in apprehenſion that ſhe might ſuffer by her friends implacableneſs.

And this alſo the Colonel highly applauded, and was pleaſed to lament the unhappy miſunderſtanding between the two families, which had made the Harlowes leſs fond of an alliance with a family of ſo much honour as this in⯑ſtance ſhewed ours to be.

[103]I then told him, ‘'That having, by my friend [mean⯑ing thee] who was admitted into her preſence (and who had always been an admirer of her virtues, and had given me ſuch advice from time to time in relation to her as I wiſhed I had followed) been aſſured, that a viſit from me would be very diſagreeable to her, I once more re⯑ſolved to try what a letter would do; and that accord⯑ingly, on the 7th of Auguſt, I wrote her one.’

‘'This, Colonel, is the copy of it. I was then out of humour with my Lord M. and the Ladies of my family. You will therefore read it to yourſelf ^(a).'’

This letter gave him high ſatisfaction. You write here, Mr. Lovelace, from your heart. 'Tis a letter full of pe⯑nitence and acknowlegement. Your requeſt is reaſonable,—To be forgiven only as you ſhall appear to deſerve it after a time of probation, which you leave to her to ſix. Pray, Sir, did ſhe return an anſwer to this letter?

She did, but with reluctance, I own, and not till I had declared, by my friend, that if I could not procure one, I would go up to town, and throw myſelf at her feet.

I wiſh I might be permitted to ſee it, Sir, or to hear ſuch parts of it read, as you ſhall think proper.

Turning over my papers. Here it is, Sir ^(b). I will make no ſcruple to put it into your hands.

This is very obliging, Mr. Lovelace.

He read it. My charming couſin!—How ſtrong her reſentments!—Yet how charitable her wiſhes! Good God! that ſuch an excellent creature!—But, Mr. Lovelace, it is to your regret, as much as to mine, I doubt not.—

Interrupting him, I ſwore that it was.

So it ought, ſaid he. Nor do I wonder that it ſhould be ſo. I ſhall tell you by-and-by, proceeded he, how much ſhe ſuffers with her friends, by falſe and villainous reports. But, Sir, will you permit me to take with me theſe two letters? I ſhall make uſe of them to the advan⯑tage of you both.

I told him, I would oblige him with all my heart. And this he took very kindly, as he had reaſon, and put them in his pocket-book, promiſing to return them in a few days.

I then told him, ‘'That upon this refuſal, I took upon [104] myſelf to go to town, in hopes to move her in my fa⯑vour; and that, tho' I went without giving her notice of my intention, yet had ſhe got ſome notion of my coming, and ſo contrived to be out of the way: And at laſt, when ſhe found I was fully determined at all events to ſee her, before I went abroad,' [which I ſhall do, ſaid I, if I cannot prevail upon her] 'ſhe ſent me the let⯑ter I have already mentioned to you, deſiring me to ſuſpend my purpoſed viſit: And that for a reaſon which amazes and confounds me, becauſe I don't find there is any thing in it: And yet I never knew her once diſpenſe with her word; for ſhe always made it a maxim, that it was not lawful to do evil, that good might come of it: And yet in this letter, for no reaſon in the world but to avoid ſeeing me (to gratify a humour only) has ſhe ſent me out of town, depending upon the aſſurance ſhe had given me.'’

Col. This is indeed ſurpriſing. But I cannot believe that my couſin, for ſuch an end only, or indeed for any end, according to the character I hear of her, ſhould ſtoop to make uſe of ſuch an artifice.

Lovel. This, Colonel, is the thing that aſtoniſhes me; and yet, ſee here!—This is the letter ſhe wrote me;—Nay, Sir, 'tis her own hand.

Col. I ſee it is; and a charming hand it is.

Lovel. You obſerve, Colonel, that all her hopes of re⯑conciliation with her parents are from you. You are her dear bleſſed friend! She always talked of you with de⯑light.

Col. Would to heaven I had come to England before ſhe left Harlowe-Place. Nothing of this had then hap⯑pened. Not a man of thoſe whom I have heard that her friends propoſed for her, ſhould have had her. Nor you, Mr. Lovelace, unleſs I had found you to be the man every one who ſees you, muſt wiſh you to be: And if you had been that man, no one living ſhould I have preferred to you for ſuch an excellence.

My Lord and I both joined in the wiſh: And 'faith, I wiſhed it moſt cordially.

The Colonel read the letter twice over, and then re⯑turned it to me. 'Tis all a myſtery, ſaid he: I can make [105] nothing of it. For, alas! her friends are as averſe to a re⯑conciliation as ever.

Lord M. I could not have thought it. But don't you think there is ſomething very favourable to my nephew in this letter?—Something that looks as if the lady would comply at laſt?

Col. Let me die if I know what to make of it. This letter is very different from her preceding one!—You re⯑turned an anſwer to it, Mr. Lovelace?

Lovel. An anſwer, Colonel! No doubt of it. And an anſwer full of tranſport. I told her, ‘'I would directly ſet out for Lord M's, in obedience to her will. I told her, that I would conſent to any thing ſhe ſhould command, in order to promote this happy reconciliation. I told her, that it ſhould be my hourly ſtudy, to the end of my life, to deſerve a goodneſs ſo tranſcendent.'’ But I cannot forbear ſaying, that I am not a little ſhocked and ſurpriſed, if nothing more be meant by it than to get me into the country without ſeeing her.

Col. That can't be the thing, depend upon it, Sir. There muſt be more in it than That. For were that all, ſhe muſt think you would ſoon be undeceived, and that you would then moſt probably reſume your intention—Unleſs, indeed, ſhe depended upon ſeeing me in the in⯑terim, as ſhe knew I was arrived. But I own, I know not what to make of it. Only that ſhe does me a great deal of honour, if it be me that ſhe calls her bleſſed friend, whom ſhe always loved and honoured. Indeed, I ever loved her: And if I die unmarried and without children, ſhall be as kind to her, as her grandfather was: And the rather, as I fear that there is too much of envy and ſelf-love in the reſentments her brother and ſiſter endeavour to keep up in her father and mother againſt her. But I ſhall know better how to judge of This, when my couſin James comes from Edinburgh; and he is every hour expected.

But let me aſk you, Mr. Lovelace, What is the name of your friend, who is admitted ſo eaſily into my couſin's preſence? Is it not Belford, pray?

Lovel. It is, Sir; a man of honour, and a great admirer of your fair couſin.

Was I right, as to the firſt, Jack? The laſt I have [106] ſuch ſtrong proof of, that it makes me queſtion the firſt; ſince ſhe would not have been out of the way of my in⯑tended viſit but for thee.

Col. Are you ſure, Sir, that Mr. Belford is a man of honour?

Lovel. I can ſwear for him, Colonel. What makes you put this queſtion?

Col. Only this: That an officious pragmatical novice has been ſent up to inquire into my couſin's life and con⯑verſation: And, would you believe it! the frequent viſits of this gentleman have been interpreted baſely to her diſ⯑reputation?—Read that letter, Mr. Lovelace, and you will be ſhocked at every part of it.

This curſed letter, no doubt, is from the young Levite, whom thou, Jack, deſcribedſt, as making inquiry of Mrs. Smith about Miſs Harlowe's character and viſiters ^(a).

I believe I was a quarter of an hour in reading it: For I made it, tho' not a ſhort one ſix times as long as it is, by the additions of oaths and curſes to every pedantic line. Lord M. too helped to lengthen it, by the like execra⯑tions. And thou, Jack, wilt have as much reaſon to curſe it, as we.

You cannot but ſee, ſaid the Colonel, when I had done reading it, that this fellow has been officious in his male⯑volence; for what he ſays is mere hearſay, and that hear⯑ſay conjectural ſcandal without fact, or the appearance of fact, to ſupport it; ſo that an unprejudiced eye, upon the face of the letter, would condemn the writer of it, as I did, and acquit my couſin. But yet, ſuch is the ſpirit by which the reſt of my relations are governed, that they run away with the belief of the worſt it inſinuates, and the dear creature has had ſhocking letters upon it; the pedant's hints are taken; and a voyage to one of the colonies has been propoſed to her, as the only way to avoid Mr. Bel⯑ford and you. I have not ſeen theſe letters indeed; but they took a pride in repeating ſome of their contents, which muſt have cut the poor ſoul to the heart; and theſe, joined to her former ſufferings—What have you not, Mr. Love⯑lace, to anſwer for?

Lovel. Who the devil could have expected ſuch conſe⯑quences as theſe? Who could have believed there could [107] be parents ſo implacable? Brother and ſiſter ſo envious? And, give me leave to ſay, a lady ſo immoveably fixed againſt the only means that could be taken to put all right with every body?—And what now can be done?

Lord M. I have great hopes, that Col. Morden may yet prevail upon his couſin. And by her laſt letter, it runs in my mind, that ſhe has ſome thoughts of forgiving all that's paſt. Do you think, Colonel, if there ſhould not be ſuch a thing as a reconciliation going forward at preſent, that her letter may not imply, that if we could bring ſuch a thing to bear with her friends, ſhe would be reconciled to Mr. Lovelace?

Col. Such an artifice would better become the Italian ſubtlety than the Engliſh ſimplicity. Your Lordſhip has been in Italy, I preſume?

Lovel. My Lord has read Boccacio, perhaps, and that's as well, as to the hint he gives, which may be borrowed from one of that author's ſtories. But Miſs Clariſſa Har⯑lowe is above all artifice. She muſt have ſome meaning I cannot fathom.

Col. Well, my Lord, I can only ſay, That I will make ſome uſe of the letters Mr. Lovelace has obliged me with: And after I have had ſome talk with my couſin James, who is hourly expected; and when I have diſ⯑patched two or three affairs that preſs upon me; I will pay my reſpects to my dear couſin; and ſhall then be able to form a better judgment of things. Mean time I will write to her; for I have ſent to inquire about her, and find ſhe wants conſolation.

Lovel. If you favour me, Colonel, with the damned letter of that fellow Brand, for a day or two, you will oblige me.

Col. I will. But remember, the man is a parſon, Mr. Lovelace; an innocent one too, they ſay. Elſe I had been at him before now. And theſe college novices, who think they know every thing in their cloyſters, and that all learn⯑ing lies in books, make diſmal figures when they come into the world among men and women.

Lord M. Brand! Brand! It ſhould have been Fire⯑brand, I think in my conſcience!

Thus ended this doughty conference.

[108]I cannot ſay, Jack, but I am greatly taken with Col. Morden. He is brave and generous, and knows the world; and then his contempt of the parſons is a certain ſign that he is one of Us.

We parted with great civility; Lord M. (not a little pleaſed that we did, and as greatly taken with the Colonel) repeated his wiſh, after the Colonel was gone, that he had arrived in time to ſave the lady; if that would have done it.

I wiſh ſo too. For by my ſoul, Jack, I am every day more and more uneaſy about her. But I hope ſhe is not ſo ill as I am told ſhe is.

I incloſe this Fire-Brand's letter, as my Lord calls him. I reckon it will rouze all thy phlegm into vengeance.

I know not what to adviſe as to ſhewing it to the lady. Yet, perhaps, ſhe will be able to reap more ſatisfaction than concern from it, knowing her own innocence; in that it will give her to hope, that her friends treatment of her, is owing as much to miſrepreſentation, as to their own natural implacableneſs. Such a mind as her's, I know, would be glad to find out the ſhadow of a reaſon for the ſhocking letters the Colonel ſays they have ſent her, and for their propoſal to her, of going to ſome one of the co⯑lonies. (Confound them all—But if I begin to curſe, I ſhall never have done)—Then it may put her upon ſuch a defence, as ſhe might be glad of an opportunity to make, and to ſhame them for their monſtrous credulity—But this I leave to thy own fat-headed prudence—Only it vexes me to the heart, that even ſcandal and calumny ſhould dare to ſurmiſe the bare poſſibility of any man's ſharing the fa⯑vours of a lady, whom now methinks I could worſhip with a veneration due only to a divinity.

Charlotte and her ſiſter could not help weeping at the baſe aſperſion: When, when, ſaid Patty, lifting up her hands, will this ſweet lady's ſufferings be at an end?—Oh couſin Lovelace!—

And thus am I blamed for every one's faults!—When her brutal father curſes her, it is I. I upbraid her with her ſevere mother. Her ſtupid uncle's implacableneſs is all mine. Her brother's virulence, and her ſiſter's ſpite and envy, are intirely owing to me. This raſcal Brand's letter is of my writing—O Jack, what a wretch is thy Lovelace!

[109]RETURNED without a letter!—This damned fellow Will is returned without a letter! Yet the raſcal tells me that he hears you have been writing to me theſe two days!

Plague confound thee, who muſt know my impatience, and the reaſon for it!

To ſend a man and horſe on purpoſe; as I did! My imagination chained to the belly of the beaſt, in order to keep pace with him! Now he is got to this place; Now to that; Now to London; Now to thee.

Now (a letter given him) whip and ſpur upon the re⯑turn. This town juſt entered, not ſtaying to bait: That village paſſed by: Leaves the wind behind him; in a foam⯑ing ſweat man and horſe.

And in this way did he actually enter Lord M.'s court⯑yard.

The reverberating pavement brought me down—The letter, Will! The letter, dog!—The letter, Sirrah!

No letter, Sir!—Then wildly ſtaring round me, fiſts clenched, and grinning like a maniac, Confound thee for a dog, and him that ſent thee without one!—This mo⯑ment out of my ſight, or I'll ſcatter thy ſtupid brains thro' the air; ſnatching from his holſters a piſtol, while the raſ⯑cal threw himſelf from the foaming beaſt, and run to avoid the fate, which I wiſhed with all my ſoul thou hadſt been within the reach of me, to have met with.

But, to be as meek as a lamb to one who has me at his mercy, and can wring and torture my ſoul as he pleaſes, What canſt thou mean to ſend back my varlet without a let⯑ter?—I will ſend away by day-dawn another fellow up⯑on another beaſt for what thou haſt written; and I charge thee on thy allegiance, that thou diſpatch him not back empty-handed.

LETTER XXV. Mr. BRAND, To JOHN HARLOWE, Eſq

I Arrived in town yeſterday, after a tolerable pleaſant journey (conſidering the hot weather and duſty roads), [110] I put up at the Bull and Gate in Holborn, and haſtened to Covent-garden. I ſoon found the houſe where the unhappy lady lodges. And, in the back-ſhop, had a good deal of diſcourſe ^(a) with Mrs. Smith, (her landlady) whom I found to be ſo highly prepoſſeſſed in her favour, that I ſaw it would not anſwer your deſires to take my in⯑formations altogether from her, and being obliged to at⯑tend my patron; who, to my ſorrow, ‘(Miſerum eſt aliena vivere quadra)’ I find wants much waiting upon, and is another ſort of man than he was at college: For, Sir, (inter nos) honours change manners. For the aforeſaid cauſes I thought it would beſt anſwer all the ends of the commiſſion you honoured me with, to engage, in the deſired ſcrutiny, the wife of a par⯑ticular friend, who lives almoſt over againſt the houſe where ſhe lodges, and who is a gentlewoman of character and ſobriety, a mother of children, and one who knows the world well.

To her I applied myſelf, therefore, and gave her a ſhort hiſtory of the caſe, and deſired ſhe would very particularly enquire into the conduct of the unhappy young lady; her preſent way of life and ſubſiſtence; her viſiters, her im⯑ployments, and ſuch-like; for theſe, Sir, you know, are the things whereof you wiſhed to be informed.

Accordingly, Sir, I waited upon the gentlewoman afore⯑ſaid, this day; and, to my very great trouble (becauſe I know it will be to yours, and likewiſe to all your worthy family's) I muſt ſay, that I do find things look a little more darkly, than I hoped they would. For, alas! Sir, the gentlewoman's report turns not out ſo favourable for Miſs's reputation, as I wiſhed, as you wiſhed, and as every one of her friends wiſhed. But ſo it is throughout the world, that one falſe ſtep generally brings on another; and peradventure a worſe, and a ſtill worſe; till the poor limed ſoul, (a very fit epithet of the divine Quarles's!) is quite entangled, and, (without infinite mercy) loſt for ever.

It ſeems, Sir, ſhe is, notwithſtanding, in a very ill ſtate of health. In this, both gentlewomen (that is to ſay, Mrs. Smith her landlady, and my friend's wife) agree. Yet ſhe goes often out in a chair, to prayers, (as it is ſaid). But [111] my friend's wife tells me, that nothing is more common in London, than that the frequenting of the church at morning prayers, is made the pretence and cover for pri⯑vate aſſignations. What a ſad thing is this! that what was deſigned for wholſome nouriſhment to the poor ſoul, ſhould be turned into rank poiſon! But as Mr. Daniel de Foe, an ingenious man, tho' a diſſenter, obſerves (But indeed it is an old proverb; only I think he was the firſt that put it into verſe)

Yet, to do the lady juſtice, no-body comes home with her: Nor, indeed can they, becauſe ſhe goes forward and backward in a ſedan or chair (as they call it). But then there is a gentleman of no good character (an intimado of Mr. Lovelace's) who is a conſtant viſiter of her, and of the people of the houſe, whom he regales and treats, and has (of conſequence) their high good words.

I have hereupon taken the trouble (for I love to be ex⯑act in any commiſſion I undertake) to inquire particularly about this gentleman, as he is called (albeit I hold no man ſo but by his actions: For, as Juvenal ſays, ‘—Nobilitas ſola eſt, atque unica virtus)’ And this I did before I would ſit down to write to you.

His name is Belford. He has a paternal eſtate of up⯑wards of 1000 pounds by the year; and is now in mourn⯑ing for an uncle who left him very conſiderably beſides. He bears a very profligate character as to women (for I en⯑quired particularly about That), and is Mr. Lovelace's more eſpecial privado, with whom he holds a regular cor⯑reſpondence; and has been often ſeen with Miſs (tête à tête) at the window: In no bad way, indeed: But my friend's wife is of opinion, that all is not as it ſhould be. And indeed, it is mighty ſtrange to me, if Miſs be ſo not⯑able a penitent (as is repreſented) and if ſhe have ſuch an averſion to Mr. Lovelace, that ſhe will admit his privado into her retirements, and ſee no other company.

I underſtand, from Mrs. Smith, that Mr. Hickman was to ſee her ſome time ago, from Miſs Howe; and I am told, by another hand (You ſee, Sir, how diligent I have been to execute the commiſſions you had given me) that he [112] had no extraordinary opinion of this Belford, at firſt; tho' they were ſeen together one morning by the oppoſite neigh⯑bour, at breakfaſt with Miſs: And another time this Bel⯑ford was obſerved to watch Mr. Hickman's coming from her; ſo that, as it ſhould ſeem, he was mighty zealous to in⯑gratiate himſelf with Mr. Hickman; no doubt, to engage him to make a favourable report to Miſs Howe of the inti⯑macy he was admitted into by her unhappy friend; who, (as ſhe is very ill) may mean no harm in allowing his viſits (for he, it ſeems, brought to her, or recommended, at leaſt, the doctor and apothecary that attend her): But I think, upon the whole, it looketh not well.

I am ſorry, Sir, I cannot give you a better account of the young lady's prudence. But, what ſhall we ſay? ‘Uvaque conſpectâ livorem ducit ab uvâ,’ as Juvenal obſerves.

One thing I am afraid of; which is, That Miſs may be under neceſſities; and that this Belford (who, as Mrs. Smith owns, has offered her money, which ſhe, at the time, refuſed) may find an opportunity to take advantage of thoſe neceſſities: And it is well obſerved by the poet, that

And this Belford (who is a bold man, and has, as they ſay, the look of one) may make good that of Horace (with whoſe writings you are ſo well acquainted; nobody better)

Forgive me, Sir, for what I am going to write: But if you could prevail upon the reſt of your family, to join in the ſcheme which you, and her virtuous ſiſter, Miſs Ara⯑bella, and the archdeacon, and I, once talked of, (which is, to perſuade the unhappy young lady to go, in ſome creditable manner, to ſome one of the foreign colonies) it might ſave not only her own credit and reputation, but the reputation and credit of all her family, and a great deal of vex⯑ation moreover. For it is my humble opinion, that you will hardly, any of you, injoy yourſelves while this (once inno⯑cent) young lady is in the way of being ſo frequently heard of by you: And this would put her out of the way both of [113] this Belford and of that Lovelace, and it might, peradven⯑ture, prevent as much evil as ſcandal.

You will forgive me, Sir, for this my plainneſs. Ovid pleads for me, ‘—Adulator nullus amicus erit.’

And I have no view but that of approving myſelf a zea⯑lous well-wiſher to all your worthy family (whereto I owe a great number of obligations) and very particularly, Sir,

P. S. I ſhall give you further hints when I come down (which will be in a few days;) and who my informants were; but by theſe you will ſee, that I have been very aſſiduous (for the time) in the taſk you ſet me upon.

The length of my letter you will excuſe; for I need not tell you, Sir, what narrative, complex, and converſation letters, (ſuch a one as mine) require. Every one to his talent. Letter-writing is mine, I will be bold to ſay; and that my correſpondence was much coveted at the Univerſity, on that account. But this I ſhould not have taken upon me to mention; only in defence of the length of my letter; for nobody writes ſhorter, or pithier, when the ſubject is upon common forms only—But in apologizing for my prolixity, I am adding to the fault, (if it were one, which, however, I cannot think it to be, the ſubject conſidered: But this I have ſaid before in other words:) So, Sir, if you will excuſe my poſtcript, I am ſure you will not find fault with my letter.

I think I have nothing to add until I have the honour of attending you in perſon; but that I am, as above, &c. &c. &c.

LETTER XXVI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

IT was lucky enough that our two ſervants met at Han⯑nah's ^(a), which gave them ſo good an opportunity of exchanging their letters time enough for each to return to his maſter early in the day.

Thou doſt well to brag of thy capacity for managing ſervants, and to ſet up for correcting our poets in their characters of this claſs of people ^(b), when, like a mad man, thou canſt beat their teeth out, and attempt to ſhoot them thro' the head, for not bringing to thee what they had no power to obtain.

[114]You well obſerve ^(a) that you would have made a thorough-pac'd Lawyer. The whole of the converſation-piece between you and the Colonel, affords a convincing proof, that there is a black and a white ſide to every cauſe: But what muſt the conſcience of a partial whitener of his own cauſe, or blackener of another's, tell him, while he is throwing duſt in the eyes of his judges, and all the time knows his own guilt?

The Colonel, I ſee, is far from being a faultleſs man: But while he ſought not to carry his point by breach of faith, he has an excuſe which thou haſt not. But with-re⯑ſpect to him, and to us all, I can now, with deteſtation of ſome of my own actions, ſee, that the taking advantage of another perſon's good opinion of us, to injure (perhaps to ruin) that other, is the moſt ungenerous wickedneſs that can be committed.

Man acting thus by man, we ſhould not be at a loſs to give ſuch actions a name: But is it not doubly and trebly aggravated, when ſuch advantage is taken of an inexpe⯑rienced and innocent young creature, whom we pretend to love above all the women in the world; and when we ſeal our pretences by the moſt ſolemn vows and proteſta⯑tions of inviolable honour, that we can invent?

I ſee that this gentleman is the beſt match thou ever couldeſt have had, upon all accounts: His ſpirit ſuch an⯑other impetuous one as thy own; ſoon taking fire: vin⯑dictive; and only differing in This, that the cauſe he in⯑gages in is a juſt one. But, commend me to honeſt brutal Mowbray, who, before he knew the cauſe, offers his ſword in thy behalf againſt a man who had taken the injured ſide, and whom he had never ſeen before.

As ſoon as I had run thro' your letters, and that incen⯑diary Brand's (by the latter of which I ſaw to what cauſe a great deal of this laſt implacableneſs of the Harlowe fa⯑mily is owing) I took coach to Smith's, altho' I had been come from thence but about an hour, and had taken leave of the lady for the night.

I ſent down for Mrs. Lovick, and deſired her, in the firſt place, to acquaint the lady (who was buſied in her cloſet) that I had letters from Berks: In which I was informed, [115] that the interview between Col. Morden and Mr. Love⯑lace had ended without ill conſequences; that the Colonel intended to write to her very ſoon, and was intereſting him⯑ſelf mean while in her favour, with her relations; that I hoped, that this agreeable news would be a means of giv⯑ing her good reſt; and I would wait upon her in the morn⯑ing, by the time ſhe ſhould return from prayers, with all the particulars.

She ſent me word, that ſhe ſhould be glad to ſee me in the morning; and was highly obliged to me for the good news I had ſent her up.

I then, in the back-ſhop, read to Mrs. Lovick and to Mrs. Smith, Brand's letter, and aſked them, If they could gueſs at the man's informant? They were not at a loſs, Mrs. Smith having ſeen the ſame fellow Brand who had talked with her, as I mentioned in a former ^(a), come out of a milliner's ſhop over-againſt them; which milliner, ſhe ſaid, had alſo been lately very inquiſitive about the lady.

I wanted no further hint; but, bidding them take no notice to the lady of what I had read, I ſhot over the way, and aſking for the miſtreſs of the houſe, ſhe came to me.

Retiring with her, at her invitation, into her parlour, I deſired to know, if ſhe was acquainted with a young coun⯑try clergyman of the name of Brand. She heſitatingly, ſeeing me in ſome emotion, owned, that ſhe had ſome ſmall know⯑lege of the gentleman. Juſt then came in her huſband, who is, it ſeems, a petty officer in the exciſe, and not an ill-behaved man, who owned a fuller knowlege of him.

I have the copy of a letter, ſaid I, from this Brand, in which he has taken great liberties with my character, and with That of the moſt unblameable lady in the world, which he grounds upon informations that you, Madam, have given him. And then I read to them ſeveral paſſages in his letter; and aſked, What foundation ſhe had for giving that fellow ſuch impreſſions of either of us?

They knew not what to anſwer: But, at laſt, ſaid, that he had told them how wickedly the young lady had run away from her parents: What worthy and rich people they were: In what favour he ſtood with them; and that they had imployed him to inquire after her behaviour, viſiters, &c.

[116]They ſaid, That indeed they knew very little of the young lady; but that [Curſe upon their cenſoriouſneſs!] it was but too natural to think, that where a lady had given way to a deluſion, and taken ſo wrong a ſtep, ſhe would not ſtop there: That the moſt ſacred places and things were but too often made a cloak for bad actions. That Mr. Brand had been informed (perhaps by ſome ene⯑my of mine) that I was a man of very free principles, and an intimado, as he calls it, of the man who had ruined her. And that their couſin Barker, a mantua-maker, who lodged up one pair of ſtairs, had often from her window, ſeen me with the lady in her chamber, talking very earneſtly together: And that Mr. Brand being unable to account for her admitting my viſits, and knowing I was but a new ac⯑quaintance of hers, and an old one of Mr. Lovelace's, thought himſelf obliged to lay theſe matters before her friends.

This was the ſum and ſubſtance of their tale. O how I curſed the cenſoriouſneſs of this plaguy triumvirate! A parſon, a milliner, and a mantua-maker! The two latter, not more by buſineſs led to adorn the perſon, than gene⯑rally by ſcandal to deſtroy the reputations of thoſe they have a mind to exerciſe their talents upon!

The two women took great pains to perſuade me, that they were people of conſcience:—Of conſequence, I told them, too much addicted, I doubted, to cenſure other people who pretended not to their ſtrictneſs; for that I had ever found cenſoriouſneſs, narrowneſs, and unchari⯑tableneſs to prevail too much with thoſe who affected to be thought more pious than their neighbours.

That was not them, they ſaid; and that they had ſince inquired into the lady's character and manner of life, and were very much concerned to think any thing they had ſaid ſhould be made uſe of againſt her: And as they heard from Mrs. Smith, that ſhe was not likely to live long, they ſhould be ſorry ſhe ſhould go out of the world a ſuf⯑ferer by their means, or with an ill opinion of them, tho' ſtrangers to her. The huſband offered to write, if I pleaſed to Mr. Brand, in vindication of the lady; and the two women ſaid, they ſhould be glad to wait upon her in per⯑ſon, to beg her pardon for any thing ſhe had reaſon to [117] take amiſs from them; becauſe they were now convinced that there was not ſuch another young lady in the world.

I told them, That the leaſt ſaid of the affair to the lady in her preſent circumſtances, was beſt. That ſhe was fond of taking all occaſions to find excuſes for her relati⯑ons on their implacableneſs to her; That therefore I ſhould take ſome notice to her of the uncharitable and weak ſurmizes which gave birth to ſo vile a ſcandal. But that I would have him, Mr. Walton, (for that is the huſ⯑band's name) write to his acquaintance Brand, as ſoon as poſſible, as he had offered.—And ſo I left them.

LETTER XXVII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

LETTER XXVIII. Colonel MORDEN, To Miſs CL. HARLOWE.

PERMIT me to condole thoſe misfortunes, which have occaſioned ſo unhappy a difference between you, and the reſt of your family: And to offer my aſſiſtance, to enable you to make the beſt of what has happened.

You have fallen into moſt unworthy hands. The letter I wrote to you from Florence ^(a) I find, came too late to have its hoped-for effect. I am very ſorry it did: As I am that I did not come ſooner to England in perſon.

[121]But, forgetting paſt things, let us look forward. I have been with Mr. Lovelace, and Lord M. I need not tell you, it ſeems, how deſirous all the family are of the ho⯑nour of an alliance with you; nor how exceedingly earneſt the former is to make you all the reparation in his power.

I think, my dear couſin, that you cannot now do bet⯑ter than to give him the honour of your hand. He ſays ſuch juſt and great things of your virtue, and ſo heartily condemns himſelf, that I think there is great and honour⯑able room for your forgiving him: And the more, as it ſeems you are determined againſt a legal proſecution.

Your effectual forgiveneſs of him, it is evident to me, will accelerate a general reconciliation: For, at preſent, my other couſins cannot perſuade themſelves, that he is in earneſt to do you juſtice; or that you would refuſe him, if you believed he was.

But, my dear couſin, there may poſſibly be ſomething in this affair, to which I may be a ſtranger. If there be, and you will acquaint me with it, all that a naturally warm heart can do in your behalf, ſhall be done.

Nothing but my endeavour to ſerve you here has hither⯑to prevented me from aſſuring you of this by word of mouth: For I long to ſee you, after ſo many years ab⯑ſence. I hope I ſhall be able, in my next viſits to my ſeveral couſins, to ſet all right. Proud ſpirits, when con⯑vinced that they have carried reſentments too high, want but a good excuſe to condeſcend: And parents muſt al⯑ways love the child they once loved.

Mean while, I beg the favour of a few lines, to know if you have reaſon to doubt Mr. Lovelace's ſincerity. For my part, I can have none, if I am to judge from the con⯑verſation that paſſed yeſterday between him and me, in preſence of Lord M.

You will be pleaſed to direct for me at your uncle An⯑tony's.

Permit me, my deareſt couſin, till I can procure a happy reconciliation between you and your father, and brother, and uncles, to ſupply the place to you of all thoſe near re⯑lations, as well as that of

LETTER XXIX. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To WM. MORDEN, Eſq

I MOST heartily congratulate you, dear Sir, on your return to your native country.

I heard with much pleaſure that you were come; but I was both afraid and aſhamed, till you encouraged me by a firſt notice, to addreſs myſelf to you.

How conſoling is it to my wounded heart to find, that you have not been carried away by that tide of reſent⯑ment and diſpleaſure, with which I have been ſo unhap⯑pily overwhelmed—But that, while my ſtill nearer rela⯑tions have not thought fit to examine into the truth of vile reports raiſed againſt me, you have informed yourſelf (and generouſly credited the information), that my error was owing more to my misfortune than my fault.

I have not the leaſt reaſon to doubt Mr. Lovelace's ſin⯑cerity in his offers of marriage: Nor that all his relations are heartily deſirous of ranking me among them. I have had noble inſtances of their eſteem for me, on their appre⯑hending that my father's diſpleaſure muſt have ſubjected me to difficulties: And this, after I had abſolutely refuſed their preſſing ſolicitations in their kinſman's favour, as well as his own.

Nor think me, my dear couſin, blameable for refuſing him. I had given Mr. Lovelace no reaſon to think me a weak creature. If I had, a man of his character might have thought himſelf warranted to endeavour to make ungene⯑rous advantage of the weakneſs he had been able to inſpire. The conſciouſneſs of my own weakneſs (in that caſe) might have brought me to a compoſition with his wickedneſs.

I can indeed forgive him. But that is, becauſe I think his crimes have ſet me above him. Can I be above the man, Sir, to whom I ſhall give my hand and my vows; and with them a ſanction to the moſt premeditated baſeneſs? No, Sir, let me ſay, that your couſin Clariſſa, were ſhe likely to live many years, and that (if ſhe married not this man) in penury and want, deſpiſed and forſaken by all her friends, puts not ſo high a value upon the conveniencies of [123] life, nor upon life itſelf, as to ſeek to re-obtain the one, or to preſerve the other, by giving ſuch a ſanction: A ſanction, which (were ſhe to perform her duty) would reward the vio⯑later.

Nor is it ſo much from Pride, as from Principle, that I ſay this. What, Sir, when Virtue, when Chaſtity is the crown of a woman, and particularly of a Wife, ſhall your couſin ſtoop to marry the man who could not form an at⯑tempt upon hers, but upon a preſumption, that ſhe was ca⯑pable of receiving his offered hand, when he had found him⯑ſelf miſtaken in the vile opinion he had conceived of her? Hitherto he has not had reaſon to think me weak. Nor will I give him an inſtance ſo flagrant, that weak I am, in a point in which it would be criminal to be found weak.

One day, Sir, you will perhaps know all my ſtory. But, whenever it is known, I beg, that the author of my cala⯑mities may not be vindictively ſought after. He could not have been the author of them, but for a ſtrange concur⯑rence of unhappy cauſes. As the Law will not be able to reach him when I am gone, any other ſort of vengeance terrifies me but to think of it: For, in ſuch a caſe, ſhould my friends be ſafe, what honour would his death bring to my memory? If any of them ſhould come to misfortune, how would my fault be aggravated!

God long preſerve you, my deareſt couſin, and bleſs you but in proportion to the conſolation you have given me, in letting me know that you ſtill love me; and that I have One near and dear relation who can pity and forgive me (and then will you be greatly bleſſed); is the prayer of

LETTER XXX. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq In anſwer to bis letters of Auguſt 26, 28-29.

I Cannot but own, that I am cut to the heart by this Miſs Harlowe's interpretation of her letter. She ought never to be forgiven. She, a meek perſon, and a penitent, and innocent, and pious, and I know not what, who can deceive with a foot in the grave!—

[124]'Tis evident, that ſhe ſat down to write this letter with a deſign to miſlead and deceive. And if ſhe be capable of That, at ſuch a criſis, ſhe has as much need of God's for⯑giveneſs, as I have of hers: And, with all her cant of Charity and Charity, if ſhe be not more ſure of it, than I am of her real pardon; and if ſhe take the thing in the light ſhe ought to take it in; ſhe will have a few darker moments yet to come than ſhe ſeems to expect.

Lord M. himſelf, who is not one of thoſe (to ſpeak in his own phraſe) who can penetrate a millſtone, ſees the de⯑ceit, and thinks it unworthy of her; tho' my couſins Mon⯑tague vindicate her. And no wonder: This curſed par⯑tial ſex [I hate 'em all—by my ſoul, I hate 'em all!] will never allow any-thing againſt an individual of it, where ours is concerned. And why? Becauſe, if they cenſure de⯑ceit in another, they muſt condemn their own hearts.

She is to ſend me a letter after ſhe is in heaven, is ſhe? The devil take ſuch allegories; and the devil take thee for calling this abſurdity an innocent artifice!

I inſiſt upon it, that if a woman of her character, at ſuch a critical time, is to be juſtified in ſuch a deception, a man in full health and vigour of body and mind, as I am, may be excuſed for all his ſtratagems and attempts againſt her. And, thank my ſtars, I can now ſit me down with a quiet conſcience on that ſcore. By my ſoul, I can, Jack. Nor has any-body, who can acquit her, a right to blame me. But with ſome, indeed, every-thing ſhe does muſt be good, every-thing I do muſt be bad—And why? Becauſe ſhe has always taken care to coax the ſtupid misjudging world, like a woman: While I have conſtantly defied and deſpiſed its cenſures, like a man.

But, notwithſtanding all, you may let her know from me, that I will not moleſt her, ſince my viſits would be ſo ſhocking to her: And I hope ſhe will take this into her conſideration, as a piece of generoſity, that ſhe could har [...]ly expect, after the deception ſhe has put upon me. And let her further know, that if there be any-thing in my power, that will contribute either to her eaſe or honour, I will obey her, at the very firſt intimation, however diſgraceful or de⯑trimental to myſelf. All this, to make her unapprehen⯑ſive, and that ſhe may have nothing to pull her back.

[125]If her curſed relations could be brought as chearfully to perform their parts, I'd anſwer life for life for her recovery.

But who, that has ſo many ludicrous images raiſed in his mind by thy aukward penitence, can forbear laughing at thee? Spare, I beſeech thee, dear Belford, for the future, all thy own aſpirations, if thou wouldſt not diſhonour thoſe of an angel indeed.

When I came to that paſſage, where thou ſayſt, that thou conſidereſt her ^(a) as one ſent from heaven, to draw thee after her—for the heart of me, I could not for an hour put thee out of my head, in the attitude of Dame Elizabeth Carteret, on her monument in Weſtminſter-Abbey. If thou never obſervedſt it, go thither on pur⯑poſe; and there wilt thou ſee this dame in effigie, with uplifted head and hand, the latter taken hold of by a Cu⯑pid every inch of ſtone, one clumſy foot lifted up alſo, aiming, as the ſculptor deſigned it, to aſcend; but ſo exe⯑cuted, as would rather make one imagine, that the figure (without ſhoe or ſtocken, as it is, tho' the reſt of the body is robed) was looking up to its corn-cutter: The other riveted to its native earth, bemired, like thee (immerſed thou call⯑eſt it), beyond the poſſibility of unſticking itſelf. Both fi⯑gures, thou wilt find, ſeem to be in a contention, the big⯑ger, whether it ſhould pull down the leſſer about its ears—the leſſer (a chubby fat little varlet, of a fourth part of the other's bigneſs, with wings not much larger than thoſe of a butterfly) whether it ſhould raiſe the larger to a heaven it points to, hardly big enough to contain the great toes of either.

Thou wilt ſay, perhaps, that the dame's figure in ſtone may do credit, in the compariſon, to thine, both in grain and ſhape, wooden as thou art all over. But that the lady, who, in every-thing but in the trick ſhe has played me ſo lately, is truly an angel, is but ſorrily repreſented by the fat flank'd Cupid. This I allow thee. But yet there is enough in thy aſpirations, to ſtrike my mind with a reſemblance of thee and the lady to the figures on the wretched monument; for thou oughteſt to remember, that, prepared as ſhe may be to mount to her native ſkies, it is impoſſible for her to draw after her a heavy fellow, who has ſo much to repent of, and amend.

[126]But now, to be ſerious once more, let me tell you, Bel⯑ford, that, if the lady be really ſo ill as you write ſhe is, it will become you (No Roman ſtyle here!) in a caſe ſo very affecting, to be a little leſs pointed and ſarcaſtic in your reflections. For, upon my ſoul, the matter begins to grate me moſt confoundedly.

I am now ſo impatient to hear oftener of her, that I take the hint accidentally given me by our two fellows meeting at Slough, and reſolve to go to our friend Doleman's at Ux⯑bridge; whoſe wife and ſiſter, as well as he, have ſo fre⯑quently preſſed me to give them my company for a week or two: There ſhall I be within two hours ride, if any⯑thing ſhould happen to induce her to ſee me: For it will well become her piety, and avowed charity, ſhould the worſt happen [The Lord of heaven and earth, however, avert that worſt!] to give me that pardon from her lips, which ſhe has not denied me by pen and ink. And as ſhe wiſhes my reformation, ſhe knows not what good effects ſuch an interview may have upon me.

I ſhall accordingly be at Doleman's to morrow morn⯑ing, by eleven at furtheſt. My fellow will find me there at his return from you (with a letter, I hope). I ſhall have Joel with me likewiſe, that I may ſend the oftener, as matters fall out. Were I to be ſtill nearer, or in town, it would be impoſſible to with-hold myſelf from ſeeing her.

But, if the worſt happen!—as, by your continual knell⯑ing, I know not what to think of it!—(Yet, once more, Heaven avert that worſt!—How natural is it to pray, when one cannot help one's ſelf!)—THEN ſay not, in ſo many dreadful words, what the event is—Only, that you adviſe me to take a trip to Paris: And that will ſtab me to the heart.

I SO well approve of your generoſity to poor Belton's ſiſter, that I have made Mowbray give up his legacy, as I do mine, towards her India Bonds. When I come to town, Tourville ſhall do the like; and we will buy each a ring, to wear in memory of the honeſt fellow, with our own money, that we may perform his will, as well as our own.

My fellow rides the reſt of the night. I charge you, Jack, if you would ſave his life, that you ſend him not back empty-handed.

LETTER XXXI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

WHEN I concluded my laſt, I hoped, that my next attendance upon this ſurpriſing lady would furniſh me with ſome particulars as agreeable as now could be hoped for from the declining way ſhe is in, by reaſon of the welcome letter ſhe had received from her couſin Mor⯑den. But it proved quite otherwiſe to me, tho' not to her⯑ſelf; for I think I never was more ſhocked in my life than on the occaſion I ſhall mention preſently.

When I attended her about ſeven in the evening, ſhe told me, that ſhe had found herſelf ſince I went in a very petulant way. Strange, ſhe ſaid, that the pleaſure ſhe had received from her couſin's letter ſhould have had ſuch an effect upon her. But ſhe had given way to a com⯑parative humour, as ſhe might call it, and thought it very hard, that her nearer relations had not taken the methods with her, which her couſin Morden had begun with; by inquiring into her merit or demerit, and giving her cauſe a fair audit before condemnation.

She had hardly ſaid this, when ſhe ſtarted, and a bluſh overſpread her face, on hearing, as I alſo did, a ſort of lumbering noiſe upon the ſtairs, as if a large trunk were bringing up between two people: And, looking upon me with an eye of concern, Blunderers! ſaid ſhe, they have brought in ſomething two hours before the time.—Don't be ſurpriſed, Sir: It is all to ſave you trouble.

Before I could ſpeak, in came Mrs. Smith: O Ma⯑dam, ſaid ſhe, What have you done?—Mrs. Lovick, en⯑tering, made the ſame exclamation. Lord have mercy upon me, Madam, cry'd I, what have you done!—For, ſhe ſtepping at the inſtant to the door, the women told me, it was a coffin.—O Lovelace! that thou hadſt been there at the moment!—Thou, the cauſer of all theſe ſhocking ſcenes! Surely thou couldſt not have been leſs affected than I, who have no guilt, as to her, to anſwer for.

With an intrepidity of a piece with the preparation, having directed them to carry it into her bedchamber, ſhe [128] returned to us: They were not to have brought it in till after dark, ſaid ſhe—Pray, excuſe me, Mr. Belford: And don't you, Mrs. Lovick, be concerned: Nor you, Mrs. Smith. Why ſhould you? There is nothing more in it, than the unuſualneſs of the thing. Why may we not be as reaſonably ſhocked at going to the church where are the monuments of our anceſtors, with whoſe duſt we even hope our duſt ſhall be one day mingled, as to be moved at ſuch a ſight as this?

We all remaining ſilent, the women having their aprons at their eyes—Why this concern for nothing at all, ſaid ſhe?—If I am to be blamed for any-thing, it is for ſhewing too much ſolicitude, as it may be thought, for this earthly part. I love to do every-thing for myſelf that I can do. I ever did. Every other material point is ſo far done and taken care of, that I have had leiſure for things of leſſer moment. Minuteneſſes may be obſerved, where greater articles are not neglected for them. I might have had this to order, perhaps, when leſs fit to order it. I have no mother, no ſiſter, no Mrs. Norton, no Miſs Howe, near me. Some of you muſt have ſeen this in a few days, if not now; perhaps have had the friendly trouble of direct⯑ing it. And what is the difference of a few days to you, when I am gratified, rather than diſcompoſed by it?—I ſhall not die the ſooner for ſuch a preparation.—Should not every-body make their will, that has any-thing to be⯑queath? And who, that makes a will, ſhould be afraid of a coffin?—My dear friends (to the women), I have con⯑ſidered theſe things; do not give me reaſon to think you have not, with ſuch an object before you, as you have had in me, for weeks.

How reaſonable was all this!—It ſhewed, indeed, that, ſhe herſelf had well conſidered of it. But yet we could not help being ſhocked at the thoughts of the coffin thus brought in: The lovely perſon before our eyes, who is in all likelihood ſo ſoon to fill it.

We were all ſilent ſtill, the women in grief, I in a man⯑ner ſtunned. She would not aſk me, ſhe ſaid; but would be glad, ſince it had thus earlier than ſhe had intended been brought in, that her two good friends would walk in and look upon it. They would be leſs ſhocked, when it was [129] made more familiar to their eye, than while their thoughts ran large upon it. Don't you lead back, ſaid ſhe, a ſtart⯑ing ſteed to the object he is apt to ſtart at, in order to fa⯑miliarize him to it, and cure his ſtarting? The ſame rea⯑ſon will hold in this caſe. Come, my good friends, I will lead you in.

I took my leave; telling her ſhe had done wrong, very wrong; and ought not, by any means, to have ſuch an object before her.

The women followed her in.—'Tis a ſtrange Sex! No⯑thing is too ſhocking for them to look upon, or ſee acted, that has but Novelty and Curioſity in it.

Down I poſted; got a chair; and was carried home, extremely ſhocked and diſcompoſed: Yet, weighing the lady's arguments, I know not why I was ſo affected—ex⯑cept, as ſhe ſaid, at the unuſualneſs of the thing.

While I waited for a chair, Mrs. Smith came down, and told me, that there were devices and inſcriptions upon the lid. Lord bleſs me! Is a coffin a proper ſubject to diſ⯑play fancy upon?—But theſe great minds cannot avoid do⯑ing extraordinary things!

LETTER XXXII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

IT is ſurpriſing, that I, a man, ſhould be ſo much affected as I was, at ſuch an object as is the ſubject of my for⯑mer letter; who alſo, in my late uncle's caſe, and poor Belton's, had the like before me, and the directing of it: When ſhe, a woman, of ſo weak and tender a frame, who was to fill it (ſo ſoon, perhaps, to fill it!) could give orders about it, and draw out the devices upon it, and explain them with ſo little concern as the women tell me ſhe did to them laſt night, after I was gone.

I really was ill, and reſtleſs all night. Thou wert the ſubject of my execration, as ſhe of my admiration, all the time I was quite awake: And, when I dozed, I dreamt of nothing but of flying hour-glaſſes, deaths heads, ſpades, mattocks, and Eternity; the hint of her devices (as given me by Mrs. Smith) running in my head.

[130]However, not being able to keep away from Smith's, I went thither about ſeven. The lady was juſt gone out: She had ſlept better, I found, than I, tho' her ſolemn repo⯑ſitory was under her window not far from her bed-ſide.

I was prevailed upon by Mrs. Smith and her nurſe Shel⯑burne (Mrs. Lovick being abroad with her) to go up and look at the devices. Mrs. Lovick has ſince ſhewn me a copy of the draught by which all was ordered. And I will give thee a ſketch of the ſymbols.

The principal device, neatly etched on a plate of white metal, is a crowned ſerpent, with its tail in its mouth, forming a ring, the emblem of Eternity, and in the circle made by it is this inſcription:

For ornaments: At top, an hour-glaſs winged. At bottom, an urn.

Under the hour-glaſs, on another plate this inſcription:

Over the urn, near the bottom:

Over this text is the head of a white lily ſnapt ſhort off, and juſt falling from the ſtalk; and this inſcription over that, between the principal plate and the lily:

She excuſed herſelf to the women, on the ſcore of her youth, and being uſed to draw for her needleworks, for having ſhewn more fancy than would perhaps be thought ſuitable on ſo ſolemn an occaſion.

The date, April 10. ſhe accounted for, as not being able [131] to tell what her cloſing-day would be; and as That was the fatal day of her leaving her father's houſe.

She diſcharged the undertaker's bill, after I was gone, with as much chearfulneſs as ſhe could ever have paid for the cloaths ſhe ſold to purchaſe this her palace: For ſuch the called it; reflecting upon herſelf for the expenſiveneſs of it, ſaying, That they might obſerve in her, that pride left not poor mortals to the laſt: But indeed ſhe did not know but her father would permit it, when furniſhed, to be carried down to be depoſited with her anceſtors; and, in that caſe, ſhe ought not to diſcredit them in her laſt ap⯑pearance.

It is covered with fine black cloth, and lined with white ſatten; ſoon, ſhe ſaid, to be tarniſhed by viler earth than any it could be covered by.

The burial-dreſs was brought home with it. The wo⯑men had curioſity enough, I ſuppoſe, to ſee her open That, if ſhe did open it.—And, perhaps, thou wouldſt have been glad to have been preſent, to have admired it too!

Mrs. Lovick ſaid, ſhe took the liberty to blame her; and wiſhed the removal of ſuch an object—from her bed⯑chamber, at leaſt: And was ſo affected with the noble an⯑ſwer ſhe made upon it, that ſhe entered it down, the mo⯑ment ſhe left her.

To perſons in health, ſaid ſhe, this ſight may be ſhock⯑ing; and the preparation, and my unconcernedneſs in it, may appear affected: But to me, who have had ſo gradual a weaning-time from the world, and ſo much reaſon not to love it, I muſt ſay, I dwell on, I indulge (and, ſtrictly ſpeaking, I enjoy) the thoughts of death. For, believe me (looking ſtedfaſtly at the awful receptacle): Believe what at this inſtant I feel to be moſt true, That there is ſuch a vaſt ſuperiority of weight and importance in the thought of death, and its hoped for happy conſequences, that it in a manner annihilates all other conſiderations and concerns. Believe me, my good friends, it does what nothing elſe can do; It teaches me, by ſtrengthening in me the force of the divineſt example, to forgive the injuries I have re⯑ceived; and ſhuts out the remembrance of paſt evils from my ſoul.

[132]And now let me aſk thee, Lovelace, Doſt thou think, that, when the time ſhall come that thou ſhalt be obliged to launch into the boundleſs ocean of Eternity, thou wilt be able (any more than poor Belton was) to act thy part with ſuch true heroiſm, as this ſweet and tender bloſſom of a woman has manifeſted, and continues to manifeſt!

O no! it cannot be!—And why cannot it be?—The reaſon is evident: She has no wilful errors to look back upon with ſelf-reproach—and her mind is ſtrengthened by the conſolations which flow from that religious rectitude which has been the guide of all her actions; and which has taught her rather to chooſe to be a ſufferer, than an aggreſſor!

This was the ſupport of the divine Socrates, as thou haſt read. When led to execution, his wife lamenting that he ſhould ſuffer being innocent, Thou fool, ſaid he, wouldſt thou wiſh me to be guilty?

LETTER XXXIII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

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

I Send you the papers with this. You muſt account to me honeſtly and fairly when I ſee you for the ear⯑neſtneſs with which you write for them. And then alſo will we talk about the contents of your laſt diſpatch, and about ſome of your ſevere and unfriendly reflections.

Mean time, whatever thou doſt, don't let the wonder⯑ful creature leave us! Set before her the ſin of her prepa⯑ration, as if ſhe thought ſhe could depart when ſhe pleaſed. She'll perſuade herſelf, at this rate, that ſhe has nothing to do, when all is ready, but to lie down, and go to ſleep: And ſuch a lively fancy as hers will make a reality of a jeſt at any time.

A jeſt, I call all that has paſſed between her and me; a mere jeſt to die for!—For has ſhe not, from firſt to laſt, infinitely more triumphed over me, than ſuffered from me?

Would the ſacred regard I have for her purity, even for her perſonal as well as intellectual purity, permit, I could prove this as clear as the ſun. Therefore tell the dear creature, ſhe muſt not be wicked in her piety. There is a too much, as well as a too little, even in righteouſneſs. Perhaps ſhe does not think of that.—O that ſhe would have permitted my attendance, as obligingly as ſhe does of thine!—The dear ſoul uſed to love humour. I remember the time that ſhe knew how to ſmile at a piece of apropos humour. And, let me tell thee, a ſmile upon the lips muſt have had its correſpondent chearfulneſſes in a heart ſo ſincere as hers.

[135]Tell the doctor, I will make over all my poſſeſſions, and all my reverſions, to him, if he will but prolong her life for one twelvemonth to come. But for one twelve⯑month, Jack!—He will loſe all his reputation with me, and I ſhall treat him as Belton did his doctor, if he cannot do this for me, on ſo young a ſubject. But Nineteen, Bel⯑ford!—Nineteen cannot ſo ſoon die of grief, if the doctor deſerve that name; and ſo blooming and ſo fine a conſti⯑tution as ſhe had but three or four months ago!

But what need the doctor have aſked her leave to write to her friends? Could he not have done it, without letting her know any-thing of the matter? That was one of the likelieſt means that could be thought of, to bring ſome of them about her, ſince ſhe is ſo deſirous to ſee them. At leaſt, it would have induced them to ſend up her favourite Norton. But theſe plaguy ſolemn fellows are great traders in parade: And, for the hearts of them, can⯑not get out of it, be the occaſion what it will. They'll cram down your throat their poiſonous drugs by wholeſale, without aſking you a queſtion; and have the aſſurance to own it to be preſcribing: But, when they are to do good, they are to aſk your conſent.

How the dear creature's character riſes in every line of thy letters!—But it is owing to the uncommon occaſions ſhe has met with that ſhe blazes out upon us with ſuch a meridian luſtre!—How, but for thoſe occaſions, could her noble ſentiments, her prudent conſideration, her forgiving ſpirit, her exalted benevolence, and her equanimity in view of the moſt ſhocking proſpects (which ſet her in a light ſo ſuperior to all her ſex, and even to the philoſo⯑phers of antiquity) have been manifeſted?

I know thou wilt think I am going to claim ſome me⯑rit to myſelf, for having given her ſuch opportunities of ſignalizing her virtues. But I am not; for, if I did, I muſt ſhare that merit with her implacable relations, who would juſtly be intitled to two thirds of it, at leaſt: And my ſoul diſdains a partnerſhip in any-thing with ſuch a family.

But this I mention as an anſwer to thy reproaches, that I could be ſo little edified by perfections, to which, thou ſuppoſeſt, I was for ſo long together daily and hourly a perſonal witneſs—When, admirable as ſhe was in all ſhe [136] ſaid, and in all ſhe did, occaſion had not at that time ri⯑pened, and called forth, thoſe amazing perfections which now aſtoniſh and confound me.

Hence it is, that I admire her more than ever I did; and that my love for her is leſs perſonal, as I may ſay, more intellectual, than ever I thought it could be to woman.

Hence alſo it is, that I am confident (would it pleaſe the Fates to ſpare her, and make her mine) I could love her with a purity that would draw on my own FUTURE, as well as inſure her TEMPORAL happineſs.—And hence, by neceſſary conſequence, ſhall I be the moſt miſerable of all men, if I am deprived of her.

Thou ſeverely reflecteſt upon me for my levity in the Abbey inſtance. And I will be ingenuous enough to own, that as thou ſeeſt not my heart, there may be paſſages in every one of my letters, which (the melancholy occaſion conſidered) deſerve thy moſt pointed rebukes. But, faith, Jack, thou art ſuch a tragi-comical mortal, with thy leaden aſpirations at one time, and thy flying hour-glaſſes and dreaming terrors at another, that, as Prior ſays, What ſerious is, thou turn'ſt to farce; and it is impoſſible to keep within the bounds of decorum or gravity, when one reads what thou writeſt.

But to reſtrain myſelf (for my conſtitutional gaiety was ready to run away with me again) I will repeat, I muſt ever repeat, that I am moſt egregiouſly affected with the circumſtances of the caſe: And, were this paragon actu⯑ally to quit the world, ſhould never enjoy myſelf one hour together, tho' I were to live to the age of Methuſa⯑lem.

Indeed it is to this deep concern, that my very levity is owing: For I ſtruggle and ſtruggle, and try to buffet down theſe reflections as they riſe; and when I cannot do it, I am forced, as I have often ſaid, to try to make my⯑ſelf laugh, that I may not cry; for one or other I muſt do: And is it not philoſophy carried to the higheſt pitch, for a man to conquer ſuch tumults of ſoul as I am ſome⯑times agitated by, and, in the very height of the ſtorm, to be able to quaver out an horſe-laugh?

Your Seneca's, your Epictetus's, and the reſt of your ſtoical tribe, with all their apathy-nonſenſe, could not [137] come up to this. They could forbear wry faces: Bodily pains they could well enough ſeem to ſupport; and that was all: But the pangs of their own ſmitten-down ſouls they could not laugh over, tho' they could at the follies of others. They read grave lectures; but they were grave. This high point of philoſophy, to laugh and be merry in the midſt of the moſt ſoul-harrowing woes, when the heart-ſtrings are juſt burſting aſunder, was reſerved for thy Love⯑lace.

There is ſomething owing to conſtitution, I own; and that this is the laughing-time of my life. For what a woe muſt that be, which for an hour together can mortify a man of ſix or ſeven and twenty, in high blood and ſpirits, of a naturally gay diſpoſition, who can ſing, dance, and ſcrib⯑ble, and take and give delight in them all?—But then my grief, as my joy, is ſharper-pointed than moſt other mens; and, like what Dolly Welby once told me, deſcribing the parturient throes, if there were not lucid intervals—if they did not come and go—there would be no bearing them.

AFTER all, as I am ſo little diſtant from the dear crea⯑ture, and as ſhe is ſo very ill, I think I cannot excuſe my⯑ſelf from making her one viſit. Nevertheleſs, if I thought her ſo near—(What word ſhall I uſe, that my ſoul is not ſhocked at!) and that ſhe would be too much diſcom⯑poſed by a viſit; I would not think of it.—Yet how can I bear the recollection, that, when ſhe laſt went from me (her innocence ſo triumphant over my premeditated guilt, as was enough to reconcile her to life, and to ſet her above the ſenſe of injuries ſo nobly ſuſtained) that ſhe ſhould then depart with an incurable fracture in her heart; and that that ſhould be the laſt time I ſhould ever ſee her!—How, how can I bear this reflection!

O Jack! how my conſcience, that gives edge even to [...]hy blunt reflections, tears me!—Even this moment would I give the world to puſh the cruel reproacher from me by one gay intervention!—Sick of myſelf!—Sick of the re⯑membrance of my vile plots; and of my light, my mom [...]n⯑ [...]ary ecſtaſy (Villainous burglar, felon, thief, that I was!) which has brought upon me ſuch durable and ſuch heavy [138] remorſe! what would I give that I had not been guilty of ſuch barbarous and ungrateful perfidy to the moſt ex⯑cellent of God's creatures!

I would end, methinks, with one ſprightlier line!—but it will not be.—Let me tell thee then, and rejoice at it if thou wilt, that I am

LETTER. XXXV. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I HAVE ſome little pleaſure given me by thine, juſt now brought me. I ſee now, that thou haſt a little humanity left. Would to heaven, for the dear lady's ſake, as well as for thy own, that thou hadſt romaged it up from all the dark forgotten corners of thy ſoul a little ſooner!

The lady is alive, and ſerene, and calm, and has all her noble intellects clear and ſtrong: But Nineteen will not however ſave her. She ſays, ſhe will now content herſelf with her cloſet-duties, and the viſits of the pariſh-miniſter; and will not attempt to go out. Nor, indeed, will ſhe, I am afraid, ever walk up or down a pair of ſtairs again.

I am ſorry at my ſoul to have this to ſay: But it would be a folly to flatter thee.

As to thy ſeeing her, I believe the leaſt hint of that ſort, now, would cut off ſome hours of her life.

What has contributed to her ſerenity, it ſeems, is, That, taking the alarm her fits gave her, ſhe has intirely finiſhed, and ſigned and ſealed, her laſt will: Which ſhe had defer⯑red doing till this time, in hopes, as ſhe ſaid, of ſome good news from Harlowe-Place; which would have occa⯑ſioned the alteration of ſome paſſages in it.

Miſs Howe's letter was not given her till four in the af⯑ternoon, yeſterday; at what time the meſſenger returned for an anſwer. She admitted him to her preſence in the dining-room, ill as ſhe then was; and would have written a few lines, as deſired by Miſs Howe; but, not being able to hold a pen, ſhe bid the meſſenger tell her, that ſhe hoped to be well enough to write a long letter by the next day's poſt; and would not now detain him.

LETTER XXXVI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Am at length returned to this place; and had intended to wait on you in London: But my mamma is very ill—Alas! my dear, ſhe is very ill indeed—And you are likewiſe very ill—I ſee that by yours of the 25th—What ſhall I do, if I loſe two ſuch near, and dear, and tender friends? She was taken ill yeſterday at our laſt ſtage in our return home—And has a violent ſurfeit and fever, and the doctors are doubtful about her.

If ſhe ſhould die, how will all my pertneſſes to her fly in my face!—Why, why, did I ever vex her?—She ſays I have been all duty and obedience!—She kindly forgets all my faults, and remembers every-thing I have been ſo happy as to oblige her in. And this cuts me to the heart.

I ſee, I ſee, my dear, you are very bad—And I cannot bear it. Do, my beloved Miſs Harlowe, if you can be [140] better, do, for my ſake, be better; and ſend me word of it. Let the bearer bring me a line. Be ſure you ſend me a line. If I loſe you, my more than ſiſter, and loſe my mamma, I ſhall diſtruſt my own conduct, and will not marry. And why ſhould I?—Creeping, cringing in court⯑ſhip:—O my dear, theſe men are a vile race of Reptil [...]s in our day, and mere Bears in their own. See in Lovelace all that was deſirable in figure, in birth, and in fortune: But in his heart a devil!—See in Hickman—Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell what any-body can ſee in Hickman, to be always preaching in his favour. And is it to be ex⯑pected, that I, who could hardly bear controul from a mother, ſhould take it from a huſband?—From one too, who has neither more wit, nor more underſtanding, than myſelf? Yet He to be my inſtructor!—So he will, I ſuppoſe; but more by the inſolence of his will, than by the merit of his counſel. It is in vain to think of it—I cannot be a wife to any man breathing whom I at preſent know.—This I the rather mention now, becauſe, on my mother's danger, I know you will be for preſſing me the ſooner to throw myſelf into another ſort of protection, ſhould I be deprived of her. But no more of this ſubject, or indeed of any other; for I am obliged to attend my mamma, who cannot bear me out of her ſight.

LETTER XXXVII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

THE Colonel thought fit once to ſpeak it to the praiſe of Lovelace's generoſity, that (as a man of honour ought) he took to himſelf all the blame, and acquitted you of the conſequences of the precipitate ſtep you had taken; ſince, he ſaid, as you loved him, and was in his power, he muſt have had advantages, which he would not have had, if you had continued at your father's, or at any friend's.

Mighty generous, I ſaid (were it as he ſuppoſed) in ſuch inſolent reflecters, the beſt of them; who pretend to clear reputations, which never had been ſullied, but by falling into their dirty acquaintance! But in this caſe, I added, that there was no need of any-thing but the ſtricteſt truth, to demonſtrate Lovelace to be the blackeſt of vil⯑lains, You the brighteſt of innocents.

This he catch'd at; and ſwore, that could he find, that there were any-thing uncommon or barbarous in the ſe⯑duction, as one of your letters had indeed ſeemed to im⯑ply (That is to ſay, my dear, any-thing worſe than per⯑jury, breach of faith, and abuſe of a generous confi⯑dence!—Sorry fellows!) he would avenge his couſin to the utmoſt.

I urged your apprehenſions on this he [...]d from your laſt letter to me: But he ſeemed capable of taking what I know to be real greatneſs of ſoul, in an unworthy ſenſe: For he mentioned directly upon it, the expectation your friends had, that you ſhould (previous to any reconcilia⯑tion with them) appear in a court of juſtice againſt the villain—IF you could do it with the advantage to your⯑ſelf that I hinted might be done.

And truly, if I would have heard him, he had indelicacy enough to have gone into the nature of the proof of the crime upon which they wanted to have Lovelace arraign⯑ed: Yet this is a gentleman improved by travel and learn⯑ing!—Upon my word, my dear, I, who have been ac⯑cuſtomed to the moſt delicate converſation ever ſince I [144] had the honour to know you, deſpiſe this Sex, from the gentleman to the peaſant.

Upon the whole, I find that Mr. Morden has a very ſlender notion of womens virtue, in particular caſes: For which reaſon I put him down, tho' your favourite, as one who is not intitled to caſt the firſt ſtone.

I never knew a man who deſerved to be well thought of himſelf for his morals, who had a ſlight opinion of the virtue of our Sex in general. For if from the difference of temperament and education, modeſty, chaſtity, and piety too (and theſe from principle) are not to be found in our Sex preferably to the other, I ſhould think it a ſign of a much worſe nature in ours.

He even hinted (as from your relations indeed) that it is impoſſible but there muſt be ſome will where there is much love. Theſe ſort of reflections are enough to make a woman, who has at heart her own honour and the ho⯑nour of her Sex, to look about her, and conſider what ſhe is doing, when ſhe enters into an intimacy with theſe wretches; ſince it is plain, that whenever ſhe throws her⯑ſelf into the power of a man, and leaves for him her pa⯑rents or guardians, every-body will believe it to be owing more to her good luck than to her diſcretion, if there be not an end of her virtue: And let the man be ever ſuch a villain to her, ſhe muſt take into her own boſom a ſhare of his guilty baſeneſs.

I am writing to general caſes. You, my dear, are out of the queſtion. Your ſtory, as I have heretofore ſaid, will afford a warning, as well as an example ^(a): For who is it that will not infer, That if a perſon of your fortune, character, and merit, could not eſcape ruin, after ſhe had put herſelf into the power of her hyaena, what can a thoughtleſs, fond, giddy creature expect?

Every man, they will ſay, is not a LOVELACE.—True: But then, neither is every woman a CLARISSA.—And al⯑low for the one and the other, the example muſt be of ge⯑neral uſe.

I prepared this gentleman to expect your appointment of Mr. Belford, for an office that we both hope he will have no occaſion to act in (nor any-body elſe) for many, very many years to come. He was at firſt ſtartled at it: [145] But, upon hearing your reaſons, which had ſatisfied me, he only ſaid, That ſuch an appointment, were it to take place, would exceedingly affect his other couſins.

He told me, he had a copy of Lovelace's letter to you, imploring your pardon, and offering to undergo any pe⯑nance to procure it ^(a); and alſo of your anſwer to it ^(b).

I find he is willing to hope, that a marriage between you may ſtill take place; which, he ſays, will heal up all breaches.

I would have written much more:—On the following particulars eſpecially; to wit, Of the wretched man's hunting you out of your lodgings: Of your relations ſtrange implacableneſs (I am in haſte, and cannot think of a word you would like better, juſt now): Of your laſt letter to Lovelace, to divert him from purſuing you: Of your aunt Hervey's penitential converſation with Mrs. Norton: Of Mr. Wyerley's renewed addreſs: Of your leſſons in Hickman's behalf, ſo approveable, were the man more ſo than he is: But indeed I am offended with him at this inſtant, and have been theſe two days:—Of your ſiſter's tranſportation-project:—And of twenty and twenty other things:—But am obliged to leave off, to attend my two couſins Spilſworth, and my couſin Herbert, who are come to viſit us on account of my mother's illneſs.—I will therefore diſpatch theſe by Rogers; and if my mother gets well ſoon (as I hope ſhe will) I am reſolved to ſee you in town, and tell you every-thing that now is upon my mind; and particularly, mingling my ſoul with yours, how much I am, and will ever be, my deareſt dear friend,

Let Rogers bring one line, I pray you. I thought to have ſent him this afternoon; but he cannot ſet out till to-morrow morning early.

I cannot expreſs how much your ſtaggering lines, and your concluſion, affect me!

LETTER XXXVIII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I Wonder not at the impatience your ſervant tells me you expreſs to hear from me. I was deſigning to write you a long letter, and was juſt returned from Smith's for that purpoſe; but, ſince you are ſo urgent, you muſt be contented with a ſhort one.

I attended the lady this morning, juſt before I ſet out for Edgware. She was ſo ill over-night, that ſhe was obliged to leave her letter to Miſs Howe unfiniſhed: But early this morning ſhe made an end of it, and had juſt ſealed it up as I came. She was ſo fatigued with writing, that ſhe told me ſhe would lie down after I was gone, and endeavour to recruit her ſpirits.

They had ſent for Mr. Goddard, when ſhe was ſo ill laſt night; and not being able to ſee him out of her own chamber, he, for the firſt time, ſaw her houſe, as ſhe calls it. He was extremely ſhocked and concerned at it; and chid Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick for not perſuading her to have ſuch an object removed from her bedchamber: And when they excuſed themſelves on the little authority it was reaſonable to ſuppoſe they muſt have with a lady ſo much their ſuperior, he reflected warmly on thoſe who had more authority, and who left her to proceed in ſuch a ſhocking and ſolemn whimſy, as he called it.

It is placed near the window, like a harpſichord, tho' covered over to the ground: And when ſhe is ſo ill, that ſhe cannot well go to her cloſet, ſhe writes and reads upon it, as others would upon a deſk or table. But (only as ſhe was ſo ill laſt night) ſhe chooſes not to ſee any-body in that apartment.

I went to Edgware; and, returning in the evening, at⯑tended her again. She had a letter brought her from Mrs. Norton (a long one, as it ſeems by its bulk) juſt before I came. But ſhe had not opened it; and ſaid, That as ſhe was pretty calm and compoſed, ſhe was afraid to look into the contents, leſt ſhe ſhould be ruffled; expecting, now, to hear of nothing that could do her good or give her [147] pleaſure from that good woman's dear hard-hearted neigh⯑bours, as ſhe called her own relations.

Seeing her ſo weak and ill, I withdrew; nor did ſhe deſire me to tarry, as ſometimes ſhe does, when I make a motion to depart.

By Mrs. Smith I had ſome hints, as I went away, that ſhe had appropriated that evening to ſome offices, that were to ſave trouble, as ſhe called it, after her departure; and had been giving her nurſe, and Mrs. Lovick, and Mrs. Smith, orders about what ſhe would have done when ſhe was gone; and I believe they were of a very delicate and affecting nature; but Mrs. Smith deſcended not to particulars.

The Doctor had been with her, as well as Mr. Goddard; and they both joined with great earneſtneſs to perſuade her to have her houſe removed out of her ſight: But ſhe aſſured them, that it gave her pleaſure and ſpirits; and, being a neceſſary preparation, ſhe wondered they ſhould be ſurpriſed at it, when ſhe had not any of her family about her, or any old acquaintance, on whoſe care and exactneſs in theſe punctilio's, as ſhe called them, ſhe could rely.

The Doctor told Mrs. Smith, that he believed ſhe would hold out long enough for any of her friends to have notice of her ſtate, and to ſee her, and hardly longer; and ſince he could not find, that ſhe had any certainty of hearing from or ſeeing her couſin Morden (which made it plain, that her relations continued inflexible) he would go home, and write a letter to her father, take it as ſhe would.

She had ſpent great part of the day in intenſe devo⯑tions; and to-morrow morning ſhe is to have with her the ſame clergyman who has often attended her; from whoſe hands ſhe will again receive the Sacrament.

Thou ſeeſt, Lovelace, that all is preparing, that all will be ready; and I am to attend her to-morrow afternoon, to take ſome inſtructions from her in relation to my part in the office to be performed for her. And thus, omitting the particulars of a fine converſation between her and Mrs. Lovick, which the latter acquainted me with, as well as another between her and the Doctor and Apothecary. which I had a deſign this evening to give you, they being [148] of a very affecting nature, I have yielded to your impa⯑tience.

I ſhall diſpatch Harry to-morrow morning early with her letter to Miſs Howe: An offer ſhe took very kindly; as ſhe is extremely ſolicitous to leſſen that young lady's apprehenſions for her on not hearing from her by Saturday's poſt: And yet, to write the truth, how can her apprehenſions be leſſened?

LETTER XXXIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XL. Mrs. NORTON, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER XLI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

THE lady would not read the letter ſhe had from Mrs. Norton, till ſhe had received the Communion, for fear it ſhould contain any-thing that might diſturb that happy calm, which ſhe had been endeavouring to obtain for it. And when that ſolemn office was over, ſhe was ſo compoſed, ſhe ſaid, that ſhe thought ſhe could receive any news, however affecting, with tranquillity.

Nevertheleſs, in reading it, ſhe was forced to leave off ſeveral times thro' weakneſs and a dimneſs in her ſight, of which ſhe complained; if I may ſay complained; for ſo eaſy and ſoft were her complaints, that they could hardly be called ſuch.

She was very much affected at divers parts of this letter. [166] She wept ſeveral times, and ſigh'd often. Mrs. Lovick told me, that theſe were the gentle exclamations ſhe broke out into, as ſhe read:—Her unkind, her cruel brother!—How unſiſterly!—Poor dear woman! ſeeming to ſpeak of Mrs. Norton. Her kind couſin!—O theſe flaming ſpirits!—And then reflecting upon herſelf more than once,—What a deep error is mine!—What evils have I been the occaſion of!—

When I was admitted to her preſence, I have received, ſaid ſhe, a long and not very pleaſing letter from my dear Mrs. Norton: It will ſoon be in your hands. I am ad⯑viſed againſt appointing you to the office you have ſo kindly accepted: But you muſt reſent nothing of theſe things. My choice will have an odd appearance to them: But it is now too late to alter it, if I would.

I would fain write an anſwer to it, continued ſhe: But I have no diſtinct ſight, Mr. Belford, no ſteadineſs of fingers.—This miſtineſs, however, will perhaps be gone by-and-by—Then turning to Mrs. Lovick, I don't think I am dying yet—not actually dying, Mrs. Lovick—For I have no bodily pain—No numbneſſes; no ſigns of imme⯑diate death, I think—And my breath, which uſed of late to be ſo ſhort, is now tolerable—My head clear, my in⯑tellects free—I think I cannot be dying yet—I ſhall have agonies, I doubt—Life will not give up ſo bleſſedly eaſy, I fear—Yet how merciful is the Almighty, to give his poor creature ſuch a ſweet ſerenity!—'Tis what I have prayed for!—What encouragement, Mrs. Lovick, ſo near one's diſſolution, to have it to hope, that one's prayers are anſwered!

Mrs. Smith, as well as Mrs. Lovick, was with her. They were both in tears; nor had I, any more than they, power to ſay a word in anſwer: Yet ſhe ſpoke all this, as well as what follows, with a ſurpriſing compoſure of mind and countenance.

But, Mr. Belford, ſaid ſhe, aſſuming a ſtill ſprightlier air and accent, let me talk a little to you, while I am thus able to ſay what I have to ſay.

Mrs. Lovick, don't leave us; for the women were riſing to go—Pray ſit down; and do you, Mrs. Smith, ſit [167] down too.—Dame Shelbourne, take this key, and open that upper drawer. I will move to it.

She did, with trembling knees. Here, Mr. Belford, is my will. It is witneſſed by three perſons of Mr. Smith's acquaintance.

I dare to hope, that my couſin Morden will give you aſſiſtance, if you requeſt it of him. My couſin Morden continues his affection for me: But as I have not ſeen him, I leave all the trouble upon you, Mr. Belford. This deed may want forms; and it does, no doubt: But the leſs, as I have my grandfather's will almoſt by heart, and have often enough heard that canvaſſed. I will lay it by itſelf in this corner; putting it at the further end of the drawer.

She then took up a parcel of letters, incloſed in one cover, ſealed with three ſeals of black wax: This, ſaid ſhe, I ſealed up laſt night. The cover, Sir, will let you know what is to be done with what it incloſes. This is the ſuperſcription (holding it cloſe to her eyes, and rubbing them); As ſoon as I am certainly dead, this to be broke open by Mr. Belford.—Here, Sir, I put it (placing it by the will).—Theſe folded papers are letters and copies of letters, diſpoſed according to their dates. Miſs Howe will do with thoſe as you and ſhe ſhall think fit. If I receive any more, or more come when I cannot receive them, they may be put into this drawer (pulling out and puſhing in the looking-glaſs drawer) [You'll be ſo kind as to ob⯑ſerve that, Mrs. Lovick, and dame Shelburne] to be given to Mr. Belford, be they from whom they will.

Here, Sir, proceeded ſhe, I put the keys of my appa⯑rel (putting them into the drawers with her papers). All is in order, and the inventory upon them, and an account of what I have diſpoſed of: So that no-body need to aſk Mrs. Smith any queſtions.

There will be no immediate need to open or inſpect the trunks which contain my wearing apparel. Mrs. Norton will open them, or order ſomebody to do it for her, in your preſence. Mrs. Lovick; for ſo I have di⯑rected in my will. They may be ſealed up now: I ſhall never more have occaſion to open them.

She then, tho' I expoſtulated to the contrary, cauſed me to ſeal them up with my ſeal.

[168]After this, ſhe locked the drawer where were her pa⯑pers; firſt taking out her book of Meditations, as ſhe called it; ſaying, She ſhould, perhaps, have uſe for that; and then deſired me to take the key of that drawer; for ſhe ſhould have no further occaſion for that neither.

All this in ſo compoſed and chearful a manner, that we were equally ſurpriſed and affected with it.

You can witneſs for me, Mrs. Smith, and ſo can you, Mrs. Lovick, proceeded ſhe, if any one aſk after my life and converſation, ſince you have known me, that I have been very orderly; have kept good hours, and never have lain out of your houſe, but when I was in priſon; and then, you know, I could not help it.

O Lovelace! that thou hadſt heard her, or ſeen her, unknown to herſelf, on this occaſion!—Not one of us could ſpeak a word.

I ſhall leave the world in perfect charity, proceeded ſhe. And turning towards the women, Don't be ſo much con⯑cerned for me, my good friends. This is all but needful preparation; and I ſhall be very happy.

Then again rubbing her eyes, which ſhe ſaid were miſty, and looking more intently round upon each, par⯑ticularly on me—God bleſs you all, ſaid ſhe! how kindly are you concerned for me!—Who ſays, I am friendleſs? Who ſays, I am abandoned, and among ſtrangers?—Good Mr. Belford, don't be ſo generouſly humane!—Indeed (putting her handkerchief to her charming eyes) you will make me leſs happy, than I am ſure you wiſh me to be.

While we were thus ſolemnly engaged, a ſervant came with a letter from her couſin Morden:—Then, ſaid ſhe, he is not come himſelf!

She broke it open; but every line, ſhe ſaid, appeared two to her: So that, being unable to read it herſelf, ſhe deſired I would read it to her. I did ſo; and wiſh'd it were more conſolatory to her: But ſhe was all patient at⯑tention; tears, however, often trickling down her cheeks. By the date, it was written yeſterday; and this is the ſub⯑ſtance of it.

He tells her, ‘'That the Thurſday before he had pro⯑cured a general meeting of her principal relations, at her father's; tho' not without difficulty, her haughty [169] brother oppoſing it, and, when met, rendering all his endeavours to reconcile them to her ineffectual. He cen⯑ſures him, as the moſt ungovernable young man he ever knew: Some great ſickneſs, he ſays, ſome heavy miſ⯑fortune, is wanted to bring him to a knowlege of him⯑ſelf, and of what is due from him to others; and he wiſhes, that he were not her brother, and his couſin. Nor does he ſpare her father and uncles, for being ſo implicitly led by him.'’

He tells her, ‘'That he parted with them all in high diſ⯑pleaſure, and thought never more to darken any of their doors: That he declared as much to her two uncles, who came to him on Saturday, to try to accommodate with him; and who found him preparing to go to London to attend her; and that, notwithſtanding their preſſing in⯑treaties, he determined ſo to do, and not to go with them to Harlowe-Place, or to either of their own houſes; and accordingly diſmiſſed them with ſuch an anſwer.’

‘'But that her noble letter, as he calls it, of Aug. 31. ^(a) being brought him about an hour after their departure, he thought it might affect them as much as it did him; and give them the exalted opinion of her virtue and ho⯑nour, which was ſo well deſerved; and at the ſame time convince them of what they made ſuch difficulty to be⯑lieve; to wit, that you, and all your relations, were ſol⯑licitous to obtain the honour of her alliance, on her own terms: And that this induced him to turn his horſe's head back to her uncle Antony's, inſtead of forward towards London.’

‘'That accordingly arriving there, and finding her two uncles together, he read to them the affecting letter; which left neither of the three a dry eye: That the ab⯑ſent, as is uſual in ſuch caſes, bearing all the load, they accuſed her brother and ſiſter; and beſought him to put off his journey to town, till he could carry with him the bleſſings which ſhe had formerly in vain ſolicited for; and (as they hoped) the happy tidings of a general re⯑conciliation.’

‘'That not doubting but his viſit would be the more welcome to her, if theſe good ends could be obtained, [170] he the more readily complied with their deſires. But not being willing to ſubject himſelf to the poſſibility of receiving freſh inſults from her brother, he had given her uncles a copy of her letter, for the family to aſſem⯑ble upon; and deſired to know, as ſoon as poſſible, the reſult of their deliberations’

‘'He tells her, that he ſhall bring her up the accounts relating to the produce of her grandfather's eſtate, and adjuſt them with her; having actually in his hands the arrears due to her from it.’

‘'He highly applauds the noble manner in which ſhe re⯑ſents your uſage of her. It is impoſſible, he owns, that you can either deſerve her, or to be forgiven. But as you do juſtice to her virtue, and offer to make her all the reparation now in your power; and as ſhe is ſo very earneſt with him not to reſent that uſage; and declares, that you could not have been the author of her calami⯑ties but through a ſtrange concurrence of unhappy cauſes; and as he is not at a loſs to know how to place to a pro⯑per account that ſtrange concurrence; he deſires her not to be apprehenſive of any vindictive meaſures from him.’

Nevertheleſs (as may be expected) ‘'he inveighs againſt you; as he finds, that ſhe gave you no advantage over her. But he forbears to enter further into this ſubject, he ſays, till he has the honour to ſee her; and the ra⯑ther, as ſhe ſeems ſo much determined againſt you. How⯑ever, he cannot but ſay, that he thinks you a gallant man, and a man of ſenſe; and that you have the repu⯑tation of being thought a generous man in every inſtance but where the Sex is concerned. In ſuch, he owns, that you have taken inexcuſable liberties. And he is ſorry to ſay, that there are very few young men of fortune but who allow themſelves in the ſame. Both Sexes, he ob⯑ſerves, too much love to have each other in their power: Yet he hardly ever knew man or woman who was very fond of power, make a right uſe of it.’

‘'If ſhe be ſo abſolutely determined againſt marrying you, as ſhe declares ſhe is, he hopes, he ſays, to prevail upon her to take (as ſoon as her health will permit) a little tour abroad with him, as what will probably eſta⯑bliſh it; ſince traveling is certainly the beſt phyſic for [171] all thoſe diſorders which owe their riſe to grief and diſ⯑appointment. An abſence of two or three years will endear her to every one, on her return, and every-one to her.’

‘'He expreſſes his impatience to ſee her. He will ſet out, he ſays, the moment he knows the reſult of her fa⯑mily's determination; which he doubts not will be fa⯑vourable. Nor will he wait long for that.'’

When I had read the letter thro' to the languiſhing lady, And ſo, my friends, ſaid ſhe, have I heard of a patient who actually died, while five or ſix principal phyſicians were in a conſultation, and not agreed upon what name to give to his diſtemper. The patient was an Emperor: The Emperor Joſeph, I think.

I aſked, If I ſhould write to her couſin, as he knew not how ill ſhe was, to haſten up.

By no means, ſhe ſaid; ſince, if he were not already ſet out, ſhe was perſuaded that ſhe ſhould be ſo low by the time he could receive my letter, and come, that his pre⯑ſence would but diſcompoſe and hurry her, and afflict him.

I hope, however, ſhe is not ſo very near her end. And without ſaying any more to her, when I retired, I wrote to Colonel Morden, that if he expects to ſee his beloved couſin alive, he muſt loſe no time in ſetting out. I ſent this letter by his own ſervant.

Dr. H. ſent away his letter to her father by a particular hand this morning.

Mrs. Walton the milaner has alſo juſt now acquainted Mrs. Smith, that her huſband had a letter brought by a ſpecial meſſenger from parſon Brand, within this half-hour, incloſing the copy of one he had written to Mr. John Harlowe, recanting his officious one.

And as all theſe, and the copy of the lady's letter to Col. Morden, will be with them pretty much at a time, the de⯑vil's in the family if they are not ſtruck with a remorſe that ſhall burſt open the double-barred doors of their hearts.

Will. engages to reach you with this (late as it will be) before you go to reſt. He begs that I will teſtify for him the hour and the minute I ſhall give it him. It is juſt half an hour after ten.

I pretend to be (now by uſe) the ſwifteſt ſhort-hand writer [172] in England, next to yourſelf. But were matter to ariſe every hour to write upon, and I had nothing elſe to do, I cannot write ſo faſt as you expect. And let it be remembered, that your ſervants cannot bring letters or meſſages before they are written or ſent.

LETTER XLII. Dr. H. To JAMES HARLOWE, ſenior, Eſq

IF I may judge of the hearts of other parents by my own, I cannot doubt but you will take it well to be informed, that you have yet an opportunity to ſave yourſelf and family great future regret, by diſpatching hi⯑ther ſome one of it, with your laſt bleſſing, and your la⯑dy's, to the moſt excellent of her ſex.

I have ſome reaſon to believe, Sir, that ſhe has been repreſented to you in a very different light from the true one. And this it is that induces me to acquaint you, that I think her, on the beſt grounds, abſolutely irreproach⯑able in all her conduct which has paſſed under my eye, or come to my ear; and that her very misfortunes are made glorious to her, and honourable to all that are re⯑lated to her, by the uſe ſhe has made of them; and by the patience and reſignation with which ſhe ſupports herſelf in a painful, lingering, and diſpiriting decay; and by the greatneſs of mind with which ſhe views her approaching diſſolution. And all this from proper motives; from mo⯑tives in which a dying ſaint might glory.

She knows not that I write. I muſt indeed acknow⯑lege, that I offered to do ſo, ſome days ago, and that very preſſingly: Nor did ſhe refuſe me from obſtinacy—She ſeems not to know what that is—But deſired me to forbear for two days only, in hopes that her newly-arrived couſin, who, as ſhe heard, was ſoliciting for her, would be able to ſucceed in her favour.

I hope I ſhall not be thought an officious man on this occaſion: But if I am, I cannot help it; being driven to write, by a kind of parental and irreſiſtible impulſe.

But, Sir, whatever you do, or permit to be done, muſt [173] be ſpeedily done; for ſhe cannot, I verily think, live a week: And how long of that ſhort ſpace ſhe may enjoy her admirable intellects, to take comfort in the favours you may think proper to confer upon her, cannot be ſaid. I am, SIR,

LETTER XLIII. Mr. BELFORD, To WILLIAM MORDEN, Eſq

THE urgency of the caſe, and the opportunity by your ſervant, will ſufficiently apologize for this trouble from a ſtranger to your perſon; who, however, is not a ſtranger to your merit.

I underſtand you are imploying your good offices with Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe's parents, and other relations, to reconcile them to the moſt meritorious daughter and kinſ⯑woman, that ever family had to boaſt of.

Generouſly as this is intended by you, we here have too much reaſon to think all your ſolicitudes on this head will be unneceſſary: For, it is the opinion of every one who has the honour of being admitted to her preſence, that ſhe cannot live over three days: So that if you wiſh to ſee her alive you muſt loſe no time to come up.

She knows not that I write. I had done it ſooner, if I had had the leaſt doubt that before now ſhe would not have received from you ſome news of the happy ef⯑fects of your kind mediation in her behalf. I am, SIR,

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

AND can it be, that this admirable creature will ſo ſoon leave this curſed world? For curſed I ſhall think it, and more curſed myſelf, when ſhe is gone. O Jack! thou, [174] who canſt ſit ſo cool, and, like Addiſon's Angel, direct, and even enjoy, the ſtorm, that tears up my happineſs by the roots, blame me not for my impatience, however un⯑reaſonable! If thou kneweſt, that already I feel the tor⯑ments of the damned, in the remorſe that wrings my heart, on looking back upon my paſt actions by her, thou wouldſt not be the devil thou art, to halloo on a worrying conſci⯑ence, which, without thy mercileſs aggravations, is alto⯑gether intolerable.

I know not what I write, nor what I would write. When the company that uſed to delight me is as uneaſy to me as my reflections are painful, and I can neither help nor di⯑vert myſelf, muſt not every ſervant about me partake in a perturbation ſo ſincere?

Shall I give thee a faint picture of the horrible uneaſi⯑neſs with which my mind ſtruggles? And faint indeed it muſt be; for nothing but outrageous madneſs can exceed it; and that only in the apprehenſion of others; ſince, as to the ſufferer, it is certain, that actual diſtraction (take it out of its lucid intervals) muſt be an infinitely more happy ſtate than the ſuſpenſe and anxieties that bring it on.

Forbidden to attend the dear creature, yet longing to ſee her, I would give the world to be admitted once more to her beloved preſence. I ride towards London three or four times a day, reſolving pro and con. twenty times in two or three miles; and at laſt ride back; and in view of Uxbridge, loathing even the kind friend and hoſpi⯑table houſe, turn my horſe's head again towards the town, and reſolve to gratify my humour, let her take it as ſhe will; but, at the very entrance of it, after infinite can⯑vaſings, once more alter my mind, dreading to offend and ſhock her, leſt by that means I ſhould curtail a life ſo pre⯑cious.

Yeſterday, in particular, to give you an idea of the ſtrength of that impatience which I cannot avoid ſuffer⯑ing to break out upon my ſervants, I had no ſooner diſ⯑patched Will, than I took horſe to meet him on his return.

In order to give him time, I loiter'd about on the road, riding up this lane to the one highway, down that to the other, juſt as my horſe pointed; all the way curſing my very being; and tho' ſo lately looking down upon all the [175] world, wiſhing to change conditions with the pooreſt beg⯑gar that cried to me for charity as I rode by him—and throwing him money, in hopes to obtain by his prayers the bleſſing my heart pants after.

After I had ſauntered-about an hour or two (which ſeemed three or four tedious ones) fearing I had ſlipt the fellow, I inquired at every turnpike, whether a ſervant in ſuch a livery had not paſſed thro' in his return from London, on a full gallop (for woe had been to the dog, had I met him on a ſluggiſh trot!). And leſt I ſhould miſs him at one end of Kenſington, as he might take either the Acton or Hamerſmith road; or at the other, as he might come thro' the Park, or not; how many ſcore times did I ride backwards and forwards from the palace to the Gore, making myſelf the ſubject of obſervation to all paſ⯑ſengers, whether on horſeback or on foot; who, no doubt, wondered to ſee a well-dreſſed and well-mounted man, ſometimes ambling, ſometimes prancing (as the beaſt had more fire than his maſter) backwards and forwards in ſo ſhort a compaſs!

Yet all this time, tho' longing to eſpy the fellow, did I dread to meet him, leſt he ſhould be charged with fatal tidings.

When at diſtance I ſaw any man galloping towards me, my reſemblance-forming fancy immediately made it to be him; and then my heart bounded to my mouth, as if it would have choaked me. But when the perſon's nearer approach undeceived me, how did I curſe the var⯑let's delay, and thee by turns; and how ready was I to draw my piſtol at the ſtranger, for having the impudence to gal⯑lop; which none but my meſſenger, I thought, had ei⯑ther right or reaſon to do! For all the buſineſs of the world, I am ready to imagine, ſhould ſtand ſtill on an oc⯑caſion ſo melancholy, and ſo intereſting to myſelf. Nay, for this week paſt, I could cut the throat of any man or woman I ſee laugh, while I am in ſuch dejection of mind.

I am now convinced, that the wretches who fly from a heavy ſcene, labour under ten times more diſtreſs in the intermediate ſuſpenſe and apprehenſion, than they can do who are preſent at it, and ſee and know the worſt; ſo much greater are the evils we dread than thoſe we ſee!— [176] And ſo able is fancy or imagination, the more immediate offspring of the ſoul, to outdo fact, let the ſubject be ei⯑ther joyous or grievous.

And hence, as I conceive, it is, that all pleaſures are greater in the expectation, or in the reflection, than in frui⯑tion; as all pains, which preſs heavy upon both parts of that unequal union by which frail mortality holds its pre⯑carious tenure, generally are moſt acute in the preſent tenſe: For how eaſy ſit upon the reflection the heavieſt miſ⯑fortunes, eſpecially when ſurmounted!—But moſt eaſy, I confeſs, thoſe in which Body has more concern than Soul. This, however, is a point of philoſophy I have neither time nor head juſt now to weigh: So take it as it falls from a madman's pen.

Woe be to either of the wretches who ſhall bring me the fatal news that ſhe is no more! For it is but too likely that a ſhriek-owl ſo hated will never whoot or ſcream again; unleſs the ſhock, that will probably diſorder my whole frame on ſo ſad an occaſion (by unſteadying my hand) ſhall divert my aim from his head, heart, or bow⯑els, if it turn not againſt my own.

But, ſurely, ſhe will not, ſhe cannot yet die! Such a matchleſs excellence,

could not be lent to be ſo ſoon demanded back again!

But may it not be, that thou, Belford, art in a plot with the dear creature (who will not let me attend her to convince myſelf) in order to work up my ſoul to the deepeſt remorſe and penitence; and that, when ſhe is con⯑vinced of the ſincerity of both, and when my mind is made ſuch wax, as to be fit to take what impreſſion ſhe pleaſes to give it, ſhe will then raiſe me up with the joy⯑ful tidings of her returning health and acceptance of me?

What would I give to have it ſo! And when the hap⯑pineſs of hundreds, as well as the peace and reconciliation of ſeveral eminent families, depend upon her reſtoration and happineſs, why ſhould it not be ſo?

But let me preſume it will. Let me indulge my former hope, however improbable.—I will; and enjoy it too. And [177] let me tell thee how ecſtatic my delight would be on the unravelling of ſuch a plot as this!

Do, dear Belford, let it be ſo!—And, O my deareſt, and ever-dear Clariſſa, keep me no longer in this cruel ſuſpenſe; in which I ſuffer a thouſand times more than ever I made thee ſuffer. Nor fear thou that I will reſent, or recede, on an eclairciſſement ſo deſirable: For I will adore thee for ever, and, without reproaching thee for the pangs thou haſt tortured me with, confeſs thee as much my ſuperior in noble and generous contrivances, as thou art in virtue and honour!

But, once more—Should the worſt happen—ſay not what that worſt is—and I am gone from this hated iſland—Gone for ever—And may eternal—But I am crazed al⯑ready—and will therefore conclude myſelf,

LETTER XLV. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

LETTER XLVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Mrs. NORTON.

I Am afraid I ſhall not be able to write all that is upon my mind to ſay to you upon the ſubject of your laſt. Yet I will try.

As to my friends, and as to the ſad breakfaſting, I can⯑not help being afflicted for them. What, alas! has not my mother, in particular, ſuffered by my raſhneſs!—Yet to allow ſo much for a ſon!—ſo little for a daughter!—But all now will ſoon be over, as to me. I hope they will bury all their reſentments in my grave.

As to your advice in relation to Mr. Belford, let me only ſay, that the unhappy reprobation I have met with, and my ſhort time, muſt be my apology now.—I wiſh I could have written to my mother and my uncles, as you adviſe. And yet, favours come ſo ſlowly from them!—

The granting of one requeſt only now remains as a de⯑ſirable from them. Which nevertheleſs, when granted, I ſhall not be ſenſible of. It is, that they will be pleaſed to permit my remains to be laid with thoſe of my an⯑ceſtors—Placed at the feet of my dear grandfather, as I have mentioned in my will. This, however, as they pleaſe. For, after all, this vile body ought not ſo much to engage my cares. It is a weakneſs—But let it be called a natural weakneſs, and I ſhall be excuſed; eſpecially when a re⯑verential gratitude ſhall be known to be the foundation of it. You know, my dear woman, how my grandfather [181] loved me. And you know how much I honoured him, and that from my very infancy to the hour of his death. How often ſince, have I wiſhed, that he had not loved me ſo well!

I wiſh not now, at the writing of this, to ſee even my couſin Morden. O my bleſſed woman! My dear mater⯑nal friend! I am entering upon a better tour, than to France or Italy either!—Or even than to ſettle at my once beloved dairy-houſe!—All theſe proſpects and plea⯑ſures, which uſed to be ſo agreeable to me in health, how poor ſeem they to me now!—

Indeed, indeed, my dear mamma Norton, I ſhall be happy! I know I ſhall!—I have charming forebodings of happineſs already!—Tell all my dear friends, for their comfort, that I ſhall!—Who would not bear the puniſh⯑ments I have borne, to have the proſpects and aſſurances I rejoice in!—Aſſurances I might not have had, were all my own wiſhes to have been granted me!

Neither do I want to ſee even you, my dear Mrs. Nor⯑ton. Nevertheleſs, I muſt, in juſtice to my own grati⯑tude, declare, that there was a time, that your preſence and comfortings would have been balm to my wounded mind, could you have been permitted to come, without incurring diſpleaſure from thoſe whoſe eſteem it is neceſ⯑ſary for you to cultivate and preſerve. But were you now, even by conſent, and with reconciliatory tidings, to come, it would but add to your grief: And the ſight of one I ſo dearly love, ſo happily fraught with good news, might but draw me back to wiſhes I have had great ſtruggles to get above. And let me tell you for your comfort, that I have not left undone, any-thing that ought to be done, either reſpecting mind or perſon; no, not to the minuteſt prepara⯑tion: So that nothing is left for you to do for me. Every one has her direction, as to the laſt offices.—And my deſk, that I now write upon—O my deareſt Mrs. Norton, All is provided!—All is ready! And all will be as decent, as it ſhould be!

And pray let my Miſs Howe know, that by the time you will receive This, and ſhe your ſignification of the contents of it, it will, in all probability, be too late for her to do me the ineſtimable favour, as I ſhould once have [182] thought it, to ſee me. God will have no rivals in the hearts of thoſe he ſanctifies. By various methods he deadens all other ſenſations, or rather abſorbs them all in the love of Him.

I ſhall nevertheleſs love you, my mamma Norton, and my Miſs Howe, whoſe love to me has paſſed the love of women, to my lateſt hour!—But yet, I am now above the quick ſenſe of thoſe pleaſures, which once moſt delighted me: And once more I ſay, that I do not wiſh to ſee ob⯑jects ſo dear to me, which might bring me back again into ſenſe, and rival my Supreme Love.

TWICE have I been forced to leave off. I wiſhed, that my laſt writing might be to You, or to Miſs Howe, if it might not be to my deareſt ma—

Mamma, I would have wrote—Is the word diſtinct?—My eyes are ſo miſty!—If, when I apply to you, I break off in half-words, do you ſupply them—The kindeſt are your due.—Be ſure take the kindeſt, to fill up chaſms with, if any chaſms there be—

ANOTHER breaking off!—But the new day ſeems to riſe upon me with healing in its wings. I have gotten, I think, a recruit of ſtrength: Spirits, I bleſs God, I have not of late wanted.

Let my deareſt Miſs Howe purchaſe her wedding gar⯑ments—And may all temporal bleſſings attend the charm⯑ing preparation!—Bleſſings will, I make no queſtion, not⯑withſtanding the little cloudineſſes that Mr. Hickman en⯑counters with now-and-then, which are but prognoſtics of a future golden day to him: For her heart is good, and her head not wrong—But great merit is coy, and that coyneſs has not always its foundation in pride: But, if it ſhould ſeem to be pride, take off the ſkin-deep covering, and, in her, it is noble diffidence, and a love that wants but to be aſſured!

Tell Mr. Hickman I write this, and write it, as I be⯑lieve, with my laſt pen; and bid him bear a little at firſt, and forbear; and all the future will be crowning gratitude, and rewarding love: For Miſs Howe has great ſenſe, fine judgment, and exalted generoſity; and can ſuch a one [183] be ingrateful or eaſy under thoſe obligations which his aſſiduity and obligingneſs (when he ſhall be ſo happy as to call her his) will lay her under to him!

As for me, never bride was ſo ready as I am. My wedding garments are bought—And tho' not fine or gawdy to the ſight, tho' not adorned with jewels, and ſet off with gold and ſilver (for I have no beholders eyes to wiſh to glitter in) yet will they be the eaſieſt, the happieſt ſuit, that ever bridal maiden wore—for they are ſuch as carry with them a ſecurity againſt all thoſe anxieties, pains, and perturbations, which ſometimes ſucceed to the moſt pro⯑miſing outſettings.

And now, my dear Mrs. Norton, do I wiſh for no other.

O haſten, good God, if it be thy bleſſed will, the happy moment that I am to be decked out in this all-quieting garb! And ſuſtain, comfort, bleſs, and protect with the all-ſhadowing wing of thy mercy, my dear parents, my uncles, my brother, my ſiſter, my couſin Morden, my ever-dear and ever-kind Miſs Howe, my good Mrs. Norton, and every deſerving perſon to whom they wiſh well! is the ar⯑dent prayer, firſt and laſt, of every beginning hour, as the clock tells it me (Hours now are days, nay years) of

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

I Am not the ſavage which you and my worſt enemies think me. My ſoul is too much penetrated by the contents of the letter which you incloſed in your laſt, to ſay one word more to it, than that my heart has bled over it from every vein!—I will fly from the ſubject—But what other can I chooſe, that will not be as grievous, and lead into the ſame?

I could quarrel with all the world; with thee, as well as the reſt; obliging as thou ſuppoſeſt thyſelf for writing to me hourly. How daredſt thou (tho' unknown to her) to preſume to take an apartment under the ſame roof with her?—I cannot bear to think, that thou [184] ſhouldſt be ſeen at all hours paſſing to and repaſſing from her apartments, while I, who have ſo much reaſon to call her mine, and once was preferred by her to all the world, am forced to keep aloof, and hardly dare to enter the city where ſhe is!

If there be any-thing in Brand's letter that will divert me, haſten it to me. But nothing now will ever divert me, will ever again give me joy or pleaſure! I can nei⯑ther eat, drink, nor ſleep. I am ſick of all the world.

Surely it will be better when all is over—when I know the worſt the fates can do againſt me—Yet how ſhall I bear that worſt?—O Belford, Belford! write it not to me; but, if it muſt happen, get ſomebody elſe to write; for I ſhall curſe the pen, the hand, the head, and the heart, em⯑ployed in communicating to me the fatal tidings. But what is this ſaying, when already I curſe the whole world except her—Myſelf moſt?

In fine, I am a moſt miſerable being. Life is a burden to me. I would not bear it upon theſe terms for one week more, let what would be my lot; for already is there a hell begun in my own mind. Never more mention to me, let her or who will ſay it, the priſon—I cannot bear it—May damnation ſeize quick the accurſed woman, who could ſet death upon taking that large ſtride, as the dear creature calls it!—I had no hand in it! But her relations, her implacable relations, have done the buſineſs. All elſe would have been got over. Never perſuade me but it would. The fire of youth, and the violence of paſſion, would have pleaded for me to good purpoſe, with an in⯑dividual of a Sex, which loves to be addreſſed with paſſion⯑ate ardor, even to tumult, had it not been for that cruelty and unforgivingneſs, which (the object and the penitence conſidered) have no example, and have aggravated the heinouſneſs of my faults.

Unable to reſt, tho' I went not to bed till two, I diſ⯑patch this ere the day dawn—Who knows what this night, this diſmal night, may have produced!

I muſt after my meſſenger. I have told the varlet I will meet him, perhaps at Knightſbridge, perhaps in Pic⯑cadilly; and I truſt not myſelf with piſtols, not only on his account, but my own: For piſtols are too ready a miſ⯑chief.

[185]I hope thou haſt a letter ready for him. He goes to thy lodgings firſt: For ſurely thou wilt not preſume to take thy reſt in an apartment near hers. If he miſs thee there, he flies to Smith's, and brings me word whether in being, or not.

I ſhall look for him thro' the air as I ride, as well as on horſeback; for if the prince of it ſerve me, as well as I have ſerved him, he will bring the dog by his ears, like another Habakkuk, to my ſaddle-bow, with the tidings that my heart pants after.

Nothing but the excruciating pangs the condemned ſoul feels, at its entrance into the eternity of the torments we are taught to fear, can exceed what I now feel, and have felt for almoſt this week paſt; and mayſt thou have a ſpice of thoſe, if thou haſt not a letter ready written for

LETTER XLVIII. Mr. BELFORD. In Continuation.

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

AND is ſhe ſomewhat better?—Bleſſings upon thee without number or meaſure! Let her ſtill be better and better! Tell me ſo at leaſt, if it be not ſo: For thou knoweſt not what a joy that poor temporary reprieve, that ſhe will hold out yet a day or two, gave me.

But who told this hard-hearted and death-pronouncing Doctor, that ſhe will hold it no longer? By what war⯑rant ſays he this? What preſumption in theſe parading ſolemn fellows of a college, which will be my contempt to the lateſt hour of my life, if this brother of it (eminent [190] as he is deemed to be) cannot work an ordinary miracle in her favour, or rather in mine.

Let me tell thee, Belford, that already he deſerves the utmoſt contempt, for ſuffering this charming clock to run down ſo low. What muſt be his art, if it could not wind it up in a quarter of the time he has attended her, when, at his firſt viſits, the ſprings and wheels of life and motion were ſo good, that they ſeemed only to want common care and oiling!

I am obliged to you for endeavouring to engage her to ſee me. 'Twas like a friend. If ſhe had vouchſafed me that favour, ſhe ſhould have ſeen at her feet the moſt abject adorer that ever kneeled to juſtly offended beauty.

What ſhe bid you, and what ſhe forbid you, to tell me (the latter for tender conſiderations); That ſhe forgives me; and that, could ſhe have made me a good man, ſhe could have made me a happy one! That ſhe even loved me! At ſuch a moment to own that ſhe once loved me! Never before loved any man! That ſhe prays for me! That her laſt tear ſhould be ſhed for me, could ſhe by it ſave a ſoul, without her, doomed to perdition!—O Belford, Belford! I cannot bear it!—What a dog, what a devil, have I been to ſo ſuperlative a goodneſs!—Why does ſhe not inveigh againſt me?—Why does ſhe not execrate me?—O the triumphant ſubduer! Ever above me!—And now to leave me ſo infinitely below her!

Marry and repair, at any time. This (wretch that I was!) was my plea to myſelf. To give her a lowering ſenſibi⯑lity; to bring her down from among the ſtars which her beamy head was ſurrounded by, that my wife, ſo greatly above me, might not too much deſpiſe me—This was part of my reptile envy, owing to my more reptile appre⯑henſion of inferiority.—Yet, from ſtep to ſtep, from di⯑ſtreſs to diſtreſs, to maintain her ſuperiority; and, like the ſun, to break out upon me with the greater refulgence for the clouds that I had contrived to caſt about her—And now to eſcape me thus!—No power left me to repair her wrongs!—No alleviation to my ſelf-reproach!—No dividing of blame with her!—

Tell her, O tell her, Belford, that her prayers and wiſhes, her ſuperlatively generous prayers and wiſhes, [191] ſhall not be vain: That I can, and do, repent—and long have repented:—Tell her of my frequent deep remorſes—It was impoſſible that ſuch remorſe ſhould not at laſt pro⯑duce effectual remorſes—Yet ſhe muſt not leave me—She muſt live, if ſhe would wiſh to have my contrition per⯑fect—For what can deſpair produce?—

I WILL do every-thing you would have me do, in the return of your letters. You have infinitely obliged me by this laſt, and by preſſing for an admiſſion for me, tho' it ſucceeded not.

Once more, how could I be ſuch a villain to ſo divine a creature! Yet love her all the time, as never man loved woman!—Curſe upon my contriving genius! Curſe upon my intriguing head, and upon my ſeconding heart!—To ſport with the ſame, with the honour, with the life, of ſuch an angel of a woman!—O my damn'd incredulity!—That, believing her to be a woman, I muſt hope to find her a woman!—On my incredulity, that there could be ſuch virtue (virtue for virtue's ſake) in the Sex, founded I my hope of ſucceeding with her.

But ſay not, Jack, that ſhe muſt leave us yet.—If ſhe recover—And if I can but re-obtain her favour, then in⯑deed will life be life to me.—The world never ſaw ſuch an huſband as I will make. I will have no will but hers: She ſhall conduct me in all my ſteps: She ſhall open and direct my proſpects, and turn every motion of my heart, as ſhe pleaſes.

You tell me in your letter, that at eleven o'clock ſhe had ſweet reſt; and my ſervant acquaints me from Mrs. Smith, that ſhe has had a good night. What hopes does this fill me with! I have given the fellow five guineas for his good news, to be divided between him and his fellow-ſervant.

Dear, dear Jack! confirm this to me in thy next—For Heaven's ſake do!—Tell the Doctor I will make him a preſent of a thouſand guineas if he recover her.—Aſk if a conſultation be neceſſary.

Adieu, dear Belford!—Confirm, I beſeech thee, the hopes that now with ſovereign gladneſs have taken poſ⯑ſeſſion of a heart, that, next to Hers, is

LETTER L. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

LETTER LI. Mr. LOVELACE, To J. BELFORD, Eſq

LIKE Aeſop's traveller, thou bloweſt hot and cold, life and death, in the ſame breath, with a view, no doubt, to diſtract me. How familiarly doſt thou uſe the words, dying, dimneſs, tremor? Never did any mortal ring ſo many changes on ſo few bells. Thy true father, I dare ſwear, was a butcher, or an undertaker, by the delight thou ſeemeſt to take in ſcenes of horror and death. Thy barbarous reflection, that thou loſeſt her not by thy own fault, is never to be forgiven. Thou haſt but one way to atone for the torments thou giveſt me, and that is, by ſend⯑ing me word that ſhe is better, and will recover. Whether it be true or not, let me be told ſo, and I will go abroad rejoicing and believing it, and my wiſhes and imagination ſhall make out all the reſt.

If ſhe live but one year, that I may acquit myſelf to myſelf (no matter for the world!) that her death is not owing to me, I will compound for the reſt.

Will neither vows nor prayers ſave her? I never prayed in my life, put all the years of it together, as I have done for this fortnight paſt: And I have moſt ſincerely repented of all my baſeneſs to her—And will nothing do?

[194]But after all, if ſhe recover not, this reflection muſt be my comfort; and it is truth; That her departure will be owing rather to wilfulneſs, to downright female wilfulneſs, than to any other cauſe.

It is difficult for people who purſue the dictates of a vio⯑lent reſentment, to ſtop where firſt they deſigned to ſtop.

I have the charity to believe, that even James and Ara⯑bella Harlowe, at firſt, intended no more by the confe⯑deracy they formed againſt this their angel ſiſter, than to diſgrace and keep her down, leſt (ſordid wretches!) their uncles ſhould follow the example her grandfather had ſet, to their detriment.

Many a man, who at firſt intended only to try if a girl would reſent a petty freedom, finding himſelf unchecked, or only lightly and laughingly put by, has been encou⯑raged to attempt the laſt point, and has triumphed where once he preſumed not to make the moſt diſtant approach but with fear and trembling and previous ſtudy how to come off, in caſe of a high reſentment.

To bring theſe illuſtrations home; This lady, I ſuppoſe, in her reſentment, intended only at firſt to vex and plague me; and, finding ſhe could do it to purpoſe, her deſire of revenge became ſtronger in her than the deſire of life; and now ſhe is willing to die, as an event which ſhe ſup⯑poſes will cut my heart-ſtrings aſunder. And ſtill the more to be revenged, puts on the Chriſtian, and forgives me.

But I'll have none of her forgiveneſs! My own heart tells me, I do not deſerve it; and I cannot bear it!—And what is it, but a mere verbal forgiveneſs, as oſtentatiouſly as cruelly given with a view to magnify herſelf, and wound me deeper? A little, dear, ſpecious—But let me ſtop—leſt I blaſpheme!

READING over the above, I am aſhamed of my ram⯑blings: But what wouldſt have me do?—See'ſt thou not that I am but ſeeking to run out of myſelf, in hope to loſe myſelf; yet, that I am unable to do either?

If ever thou lovedſt but half ſo fervently as I love—But of that thy heavy ſoul is not capable.

Send me word by thy next, I conjure thee, in the names of all her kindred ſaints and angels, that ſhe is living, and [195] likely to live!—If thou ſendeſt ill news; thou wilt be anſwerable for the conſequence, whether it be fatal to the meſſenger, or to

LETTER LII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

DR. H. has juſt been here. He tarried with me till the miniſter had done praying by the lady; and then we were both admitted. Mr. Goddard (who came while the doctor and the clergyman were with her) went away with them when they went. They took a ſolemn and everlaſting leave of her, as I have no ſcruple to ſay, bleſſing her, and being bleſſed by her; and wiſhing (when it came to be their lot) for an exit as happy as hers is likely to be

She had again earneſtly requeſted of the doctor, his opinion how long it was now probable that ſhe could continue: And he told her, that he apprehended ſhe would hardly ſee to-morrow night. She ſaid, She ſhould number the hours with greater pleaſure than ever ſhe num⯑bered any in her life, on the moſt joyful occaſion.

How unlike poor Belton's laſt hours, hers! See the in⯑finite difference in the effects, on the ſame awful and af⯑fecting occaſion, between a good and a bad conſcience!

This moment a man is come from Miſs Howe with a letter. Perhaps I ſhall be able to ſend you the contents.

SHE endeavoured ſeveral times with earneſtneſs, but in vain, to read the letter of her dear friend.—The writing, ſhe ſaid, was too fine for her groſſer ſight, and the lines ſtaggered under her eye. And indeed ſhe trembled ſo, ſhe could not hold the paper: And at laſt, deſired Mrs. Lo⯑vick to read it to her, the meſſenger waiting for an an⯑ſwer.

Thou wilt ſee, in Miſs Howe's letter, how different the expreſſion of the ſame impatiency, and paſſionate love, is, when dictated by the gentler mind of a woman, from that which reſults from a mind ſo boiſterous and knotty, as [196] thine. For Mrs. Lovick will tranſcribe it; and I ſhall ſend it—To be read in this place, if thou wilt.

The effect this letter had on the lady, who is ſo near the end which the fair writer ſo much apprehends and deplores, obliged Mrs. Lovick to make many breaks in reading it, and many changes of voice.

This is a friend, ſaid the divine lady, (taking the letter in her hand, and kiſſing it) worth wiſhing to live for.—O my dear Anna Howe! How uninterruptedly ſweet and no⯑ble, has been our friendſhip!—But we ſhall one day, I hope (and that muſt comfort us both) meet, never to part again! Then, diveſted of the ſhades of body, ſhall we be all light and all mind—Then how unalloyed, how perfect, will be our friendſhip! Our Love then will have one and the ſame adorable object, and we ſhall enjoy it and each other to all Eternity!

She ſaid, her dear friend was ſo earneſt for a line or two, that ſhe would fain write, if ſhe could: And ſhe tried; but to no purpoſe. She could dictate, however, ſhe be⯑lieved, and deſired Mrs. Lovick would take pen and paper. Which ſhe did, and then ſhe dictated to her. I would have withdrawn; but at her deſire ſtaid.

She wandered a good deal, at firſt—She took notice that ſhe did—And when ſhe got into a little train, not pleaſing herſelf, ſhe apologized to Mrs. Lovick for making her begin again and again; and ſaid, That third time ſhould go, let it be as it would.

She dictated the farewel part, without heſitation; and when ſhe came to the bleſſing and ſubſcription, ſhe took the pen, and dropping on her knees, ſupported by Mrs. Lovick, wrote the concluſion; but Mrs. Lovick was forced to guide her hand.

You will find the ſenſe ſurprizingly intire, her weakneſs conſidered.

I made the meſſenger wait, while I tranſcribed it. I have endeavoured to imitate the ſubſcriptive part.

When I had tranſcribed and ſealed this letter, by her direction, I gave it to the meſſenger myſelf; who told me that Miſs Howe waited for nothing but his return, to ſet out for London.

Thy ſervant is juſt come; ſo I will cloſe here. Thou art a mercileſs maſter. The two fellows are battered to death by thee, to uſea female word; and all female words, tho' we are not ſure of their derivation, have very ſignifi⯑cant meanings. I believe, in their hearts, they wiſh the angel in the heaven that is ready to receive her, and thee at thy proper place, that there might be an end of their flurries; another word of the ſame gender.

[199]What a letter haſt thou ſent me!—Poor Lovelace!—is all the anſwer I will return.

Five o' clock.] Colonel Morden is this moment arrived.

LETTER LIII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I Had but juſt time in my former, to tell you, that Co⯑lonel Morden was arrived. He was on horſeback, attended by two ſervants, and alit at the door, juſt as the clock ſtruck five. Mrs. Smith was then below in her back⯑ſhop, weeping, her huſband with her, who was as much affected as ſhe; Mrs. Lovick having left them a little be⯑fore, in tears likewiſe; for they had been bemoaning one another; joining in opinion, that the admirable lady would not live the night over. She had told them, it was her opi⯑nion too, from ſome numbneſſes, which ſhe called the fore⯑runners of death, and from an increaſed inclination to doze.

The Colonel, as Mrs. Smith told me afterwards, aſked with great impatience, the moment he alit, how Miſs Har⯑lowe was? She anſwered, Alive; but, ſhe feared, drawing on apace. Good God! ſaid he, with his hands and eyes lifted up. Can I ſee her? My name is Morden. I have the honour to be nearly related to her. Step up, pray; and let her know [She is ſenſible, I hope] that I am here. Who is with her?

No-body but her Nurſe, and Mrs. Lovick, a widow gentlewoman, who is as careful of her, as if ſhe were her mother.

And more careful too, interrupted he, or ſhe is not care⯑ful at all.—

Except a gentleman be with her, one Mr. Belford, con⯑tinued Mrs. Smith, who has been the beſt friend ſhe has had.

If Mr. Belford be with her, ſurely I may—But, pray, ſtep up, and let Mr. Belford know, that I ſhall take it for a favour to ſpeak with him firſt.

Mrs. Smith came up to me in my new apartment. I had but juſt diſpatched your ſervant, and was aſking her nurſe, if I might be again admitted; who anſwered, that [200] ſhe was dozing in the elbow-chair, having refuſed to lie down, ſaying, She ſhould ſoon, ſhe hoped, lie down for good.

The Colonel, who is really a fine gentleman, received me with great politeneſs. After the firſt compliments, My kinſwoman, Sir, ſaid he, is more obliged to you than to any of her own family. For my part, I have been endea⯑vouring to move ſo many rocks in her favour; and, little thinking the dear creature ſo very bad, have neglected to attend her, as I ought to have done the moment I ar⯑rived; and would, had I known how ill ſhe was, and what a taſk I ſhould have had with the family. But, Sir, your friend has been exceſſively to blame; and you being ſo intimately his friend, has made her fare the worſe for your civilities to her. But is there no hope of her recovery?

The doctors have left her, with the melancholy decla⯑ration, that there is none.

Has ſhe had good attendance, Sir? A ſkilful phyſician? I hear theſe good folks have been very civil and obliging to her—

Who could be otherwiſe, ſaid Mrs. Smith, weeping? She is the ſweeteſt lady in the world!

The character, ſaid the Colonel, lifting up his eyes and one hand, that ſhe has from every living creature!—Good God! How could your accurſed friend—

And how could her cruel parents, interrupted I?—We may as eaſily account for him, as for them.

Too true! returned he, the vileneſs of the profligates of our ſex conſidered, whenever they can get any of the other into their power.

I ſatisfied him about the care that had been taken of her; and told him of the friendly and even paternal attend⯑ance ſhe had had from Dr. H. and Mr. Goddard.

He was impatient to attend her, having not ſeen her, as he ſaid, ſince ſhe was twelve years old; and that then ſhe gave promiſes of being one of the fineſt women in Eng⯑land.

She was ſo, replied I, a very few months ago: And, tho' emaciated, ſhe will appear to you to have confirmed thoſe promiſes: For her features are ſo regular and ex⯑act, her proportion ſo fine, and her manner ſo inimitably [201] graceful, that were ſhe only ſkin and bone, ſhe muſt be a beauty.

Mrs. Smith, at his requeſt, ſtept up, and brought us down word, that Mrs. Lovick and her Nurſe were with her; and that ſhe was in ſo ſound a ſleep, leaning upon the former in her elbow-chair, that ſhe neither heard her enter the room, nor go out. The Colonel begged, if not improper, that he might ſee her, tho' ſleeping. He ſaid, That his impatience would not let him ſtay till ſhe awaked. Yet he would not have her diſturbed; and ſhould be glad to contemplate her ſweet features, when ſhe ſaw not him; and aſked, If ſhe thought he could not go in, and come out, without diſturbing her?

She believ'd he might, ſhe anſwer'd; for her chair's back was towards the door.

He ſaid, He would take care to withdraw, if ſhe awoke, that his ſudden appearance might not ſurpriſe her.

Mrs. Smith, ſtepping up before us, bid Mrs. Lovick and the Nurſe not ſtir, when we entered: And then we went up ſoftly together.

We beheld the lady, in a charming attitude. Dreſſed, as I told you before, in her virgin white, ſhe was ſitting in her elbow-chair, Mrs. Lovick cloſe by her, in another chair, with her left arm round her neck, ſupporting it, as it were; for, it ſeems, the lady had bid her do ſo, ſaying, She had been a Mother to her, and ſhe would delight herſelf in thinking ſhe was in her Mamma's arms; for ſhe found herſelf drowſy; perhaps, ſhe ſaid, for the laſt time ſhe ſhould ever be ſo.

One faded cheek reſted upon the good woman's boſom, the kindly warmth of which had overſpread it with a faint, but charming fluſh; the other paler, and hollow, as if al⯑ready iced over by death. Her hands, white as the lily, with her meandring veins more tranſparently blue, than ever I had ſeen even hers (veins ſo ſoon, alas! to be choaked up by the congealment of that purple ſtream, which already ſo languidly creeps rather than flows thro' them!) her hands hanging lifeleſly, one before her, the other graſped by the right-hand of the kind widow, whoſe tears bedew'd the ſweet face which her motherly boſom ſupported, though unfelt by the fair ſleeper; and either inſenſibly to the good woman, or what ſhe would not diſ⯑turb [202] her to wipe off, or to change her poſture: Her aſpect was ſweetly calm and ſerene: And tho' ſhe ſtarted now-and-then, yet her ſleep ſeemed eaſy; her breath indeed ſhort and quick; but tolerably free, and not like that of a dying perſon.

In this heart-moving attitude ſhe appeared to us when we approached her, and came to have her lovely face be⯑fore us.

The Colonel ſighing often, gazed upon her with his arms folded, and with the moſt profound and affectionate attention; till at laſt, on her ſtarting, and fetching her breath with greater difficulty than before, he retired to a ſcreen, that was drawn before her houſe, as ſhe calls it, which, as I have heretofore obſerved, ſtands under one of the windows. This ſcreen was placed there, at the time ſhe found herſelf obliged to take to her chamber; and in the depth of our concern, and the fulneſs of other diſ⯑courſe at our firſt interview, I had forgotten to appriſe the Colonel of what he would probably ſee.

Retiring thither, he drew out his handkerchief, and, drowned in grief, ſeemed unable to ſpeak: But, on caſting his eye behind the ſcreen, he ſoon broke ſilence; for, ſtruck with the ſhape of the coffin, he lifted up a purpliſh-coloured cloth that was ſpread over it, and, ſtarting back, Good God! ſaid he, what's here!

Mrs. Smith ſtanding next him, Why, ſaid he, with great emotion, is my couſin ſuffered to indulge her ſad reflections with ſuch an object before her?

Alas! Sir, reply'd the good woman, who ſhould con⯑troul her? We are all ſtrangers about her, in a manner: And yet we have expoſtulated with her upon this ſad occaſion.

I ought, ſaid I, (ſtepping ſoftly up to him, the lady again falling into a doze) to have appriſed you of this. I was here when it was brought in, and never was ſo ſhocked in my life. But ſhe had none of her friends about her, and no reaſon to hope for any of them to come near her; and, aſſured ſhe ſhould not recover, ſhe was reſolved to leave as little as poſſible, eſpecially as to what related to her perſon, to her executor. But it is not a ſhocking object to her, tho' it be to every body elſe.

[203]Curſe upon the hard-heartedneſs of thoſe, ſaid he, who occaſion'd her to make ſo ſad a proviſion for herſelf! What muſt her reflections have been, all the time ſhe was thinking of it, and giving orders about it? And what muſt they be, every time ſhe turns her head towards it? Theſe uncommon genius's—But indeed ſhe ſhould have been con⯑trouled in it, had I been here.

The lady fetched a profound ſigh, and, ſtarting, it broke off our talk; and the Colonel then withdrew further be⯑hind the ſcreen, that his ſudden appearance might not ſurpriſe her.

Where am I! ſaid ſhe. How drowſy I am! How long have I dozed? Don't go, Sir (for I was retiring). I am very ſtupid, and ſhall be more and more ſo, I ſuppoſe.

She then offered to raiſe herſelf; but, being ready to faint thro' weakneſs, was forced to ſit down again, re⯑clining her head on her chair-back; and, after a few mo⯑ments, I believe now, my good friends, ſaid ſhe, all your kind trouble will ſoon be over. I have ſlept, but am not refreſhed, and my fingers ends ſeem numb'd—have no feeling! (holding them up.)—'Tis time to ſend the letter to my good Mrs. Norton.

Shall I, Madam, ſend my ſervant poſt with it?

O no, Sir, I thank you. It will reach the dear woman too ſoon (as ſhe will think) by the poſt.

I told her, this was not poſt-day.

Is it Wedneſday ſtill? ſaid ſhe: Bleſs me! I know not how the time goes: But very tediouſly, 'tis plain. And now I think I muſt ſoon take to my bed. All will be moſt conveniently and with leaſt trouble over there—Will it not, Mrs. Lovick?—I think, Sir, turning to me, I have left nothing to theſe laſt incapacitating hours: Nothing either to ſay, or to do: I bleſs God, I have not: If I had, how unhappy ſhould I be? Can you, Sir, remind me of any thing neceſſary to be done or ſaid to make your office eaſy?

If, Madam, your couſin Morden ſhould come, you would be glad to ſee him, I preſume?

I am too weak to wiſh to ſee my couſin now. It would but diſcompoſe me, and him too. Yet, if he come while I can ſee, I will ſee him, were it but to thank him for [204] former favours, and for his preſent kind intentions to me. Has any body been here from him?

He has called, and will be here, Madam, in half an hour; but he feared to ſurpriſe you.

Nothing can ſurpriſe me now, except my Mamma were to favour me with her laſt bleſſing in perſon. That would be a welcome ſurpriſe to me even yet. But did my Couſin come purpoſely to town to ſee me?

Yes, Madam. I took the liberty to let him know by a line laſt Monday, how ill you were.

You are very kind, Sir. I am and have been greatly obliged to you. But I think I ſhall be pained to ſee him now, becauſe he will be concerned to ſee me. And yet, as I am not ſo ill as I ſhall preſently be—the ſooner he comes, the better. But if he come, what ſhall I do about that ſcreen? He will chide me very probably; and I can⯑not bear chiding now. Perhaps (leaning upon Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith) I can walk into the next apartment to re⯑ceive him.

She motion'd to riſe; but was ready to faint again, and forced to ſit ſtill.

The Colonel was in a perfect agitation behind the ſcreen, to hear this diſcourſe; and twice, unſeen by his couſin, was coming from it towards her; but retreated, for fear of ſurpriſing her too much.

I ſtept to him, and favoured his retreat; ſhe only ſay⯑ing, Are you going, Mr. Belford? Are you ſent for down? Is my Couſin come? For ſhe heard ſomebody ſtep ſoftly croſs the room; and thought it me, her hearing being more perfect than her ſight.

I told her, I believed he was; and ſhe ſaid, We muſt make the beſt of it, Mrs. Lovick, and Mrs. Smith. I ſhall otherwiſe moſt grievouſly ſhock my poor couſin: For he loved me dearly once. Pray give me a few of the doctor's laſt drops in water, to keep up my ſpirits for this one in⯑terview; and that is all, I believe, that can concern me now.

The Colonel (who heard all this) ſent in his name; and I, pretending to go down to him, introduced the afflicted gentleman; ſhe having firſt ordered the ſcreen to be put as cloſe to the window as poſſible, that he might not ſee [205] what was behind it; while he, having heard what ſhe had ſaid about it, was determined to take no notice of it.

He folded the angel in his arms as ſhe ſat, dropping down on one knee; for, ſupporting herſelf upon the two elbows of the chair, ſhe attempted to riſe, but could not. Excuſe, my dear Couſin, ſaid ſhe, excuſe me, that I can⯑not ſtand up—I did not expect this favour now. But I am glad of this opportunity to thank you for all your generous goodneſs to me.

I never, my beſt beloved and deareſt couſin, ſaid he, (with eyes running over,) ſhall forgive myſelf, that I did not attend you ſooner. Little did I think you were ſo ill; nor do any of your friends believe it. If they did—

If they did, repeated ſhe, interrupting him, I ſhould have had more compaſſion from them. I am ſure I ſhould. But pray, Sir, how did you leave them? Are you recon⯑ciled to them? If you are not, I beg, if you love your poor Clariſſa, that you will: For every widen'd difference augments but my fault; ſince that is the foundation of all.

I had been expecting to hear from them in your favour, my dear couſin, ſaid he, for ſome hours, when this gen⯑tleman's letter arrived, which haſtened me up: But I have the account of your grandfather's eſtate to make up with you, and have bills and draughts upon their banker for the ſums due to you; which they deſire you may receive, leſt you ſhould have occaſion for money. And this is ſuch an earneſt of an approaching reconciliation, that I dare to anſwer for all the reſt being according to your wiſhes, if—

Ah! Sir, interrupted ſhe, with frequent breaks and pauſes, I wiſh, I wiſh, this does not rather ſhew, that were I to live, they would have nothing more to ſay to me. I never had any pride in being independent of them: All my actions, when I might have made myſelf more inde⯑pendent, ſhew this—But what avail theſe reflections now?—I only beg, Sir, that You, and this gentleman—to whom I am exceedingly obliged—will adjuſt thoſe matters—ac⯑cording to the will I have written. Mr. Belford will ex⯑cuſe me; but it was in truth more neceſſity than choice, that made me think of giving him the trouble he ſo kindly accepts. Had I had the happineſs to ſee you, my couſin, ſooner—or to know, that you ſtill honoured me with your [206] regard—I ſhould not have had the aſſurance to aſk this fa⯑vour of him—But—tho' the friend of Mr. Lovelace, he is a man of honour, and he will make peace rather than break it. And, my dear couſin, let me beg of you—to con⯑tribute your part to it—and remember, that, while I have nearer relations than my couſin Morden, dear as you are, and always were to me, you have no title to avenge my wrongs upon Him who has been the occaſion of them. But I wrote to you my mind on this ſubject; and my rea⯑ſons; and hope I need not further urge them.

I muſt do Mr. Lovelace ſo much juſtice, anſwered he, wiping his eyes, as to witneſs, how ſincerely he repents him of his ingrateful baſeneſs to you, and how ready he is to make you all the amends in his power. He owns his wickedneſs, and your merit. If he did not, I could not paſs it over, tho' you have nearer relations: For, my dear couſin, did not your grandfather leave me in truſt for you? And ſhould I think myſelf concerned for your fortune, and not for your honour?—But, ſince he is ſo deſirous to do you juſtice, I have the leſs to ſay; and you may make yourſelf intirely eaſy on that account.

I thank you, thank you, Sir, ſaid ſhe: All is now as I wiſhed: But I am very faint, very low. I am ſorry I cannot hold up; that I cannot better deſerve the honour of this viſit: But it will not be—And ſaying this, ſhe ſunk down in her chair, and was ſilent.

Hereupon we both withdrew, leaving word, that we would be at the Bedford-Head, if any thing extraordinary happened.

We beſpoke a little repaſt, having neither of us dined; and, while it was getting ready, you may gueſs at the ſubject of our diſcourſe. Both joined in lamentation for the lady's deſperate ſtate: Admired her manifold excel⯑lencies: Severely condemned you, and her friends. Yet, to bring him into better opinion of you, I read to him ſome paſſages from your laſt letters, which ſhew'd your concern for the wrongs you had done her, and your deep remorſe: And he ſaid, It was a dreadful thing to labour under the ſenſe of a guilt ſo irremediable.

We procured Mr. Goddard (Dr. H. being not at home) once more to viſit her, and to call upon us in his return. [207] He was ſo good as to do ſo; but he tarried with her not five minutes; and told us, That ſhe was drawing on apace; that he feared ſhe would not live till morning; and that ſhe wiſhed to ſee Colonel Morden directly.

The Colonel made excuſes where none were needed; and tho' our little refection was juſt brought in, he went away immediately.

I could not touch a morſel; and took pen and ink to amuſe myſelf, and oblige you, knowing how impatient you would be for a few lines: For, from what I have re⯑cited, you will ſee it was impoſſible I could withdraw to write, when your ſervant came at half an hour after five, or have an opportunity for it till now; and This is acci⯑dental: And yet your poor fellow was afraid to go away with the verbal meſſage I ſent, importing, as no doubt he told you, that the Colonel was with us, the Lady exceſ⯑ſively ill, and that I could not ſtir to write a line.

LETTER LIV. Mr. BELFORD. In Continuation.

LETTER LV. Mr. BELFORD. In Continuation.

THE Colonel tells me, That he has written to Mr. John Harlowe, by his ſervant, ‘'That they might ſpare themſelves the trouble of debating about a recon⯑ciliation; for that his dear couſin would probably be no more, before they could reſolve.'’

He aſked me after his couſin's means of ſubſiſting; and whether ſhe had accepted of any favour from me: He was ſure, he ſaid, ſhe would not from you.

I acquainted him with the truth of her parting with ſome of her apparel. This wrung his heart; and bitterly did he exclaim as well againſt you, as againſt her implacable relations.

He wiſhed he had not come to England at all, or had come time enough; and hoped I would apprize him of the whole mournful ſtory, at a proper ſeaſon. He added, that he had thoughts when he came over, of fixing here for the remainder of his days: But now, as it was impoſ⯑ſible his couſin could recover, he would go abroad again, and reſettle himſelf at Florence or Leghorn.

THE lady has been giving orders, with great preſence of mind, about her body: directing her nurſe and the maid of the houſe to put her into her coffin as ſoon as ſhe was cold. Mr. Belford, ſhe ſaid, would know the reſt by her will.

SHE has juſt now given from her boſom, where ſhe al⯑ways wore it, a miniature picture, ſet in gold, of Miſs Howe: She gave it to Mrs. Lovick, deſiring her to fold it up in white paper, and direct it, To Charles Hickman, Eſq and to give it to me, when ſhe was departed, for that gentleman.

She looked upon the picture, before ſhe gave it her—Sweet and ever-amiable friend—companion—ſiſter—lover! ſaid ſhe.—And kiſſed it four ſeveral times, once at each tender appellation.

[211]YOUR other ſervant is come.—Well may you be im⯑patient!—Well may you!—But do you think I can leave off in the middle of a converſation, to run and ſet down what offers, and ſend it away piecemeal as I write?—If I could, muſt I not loſe one half, while I put down the other?

This event is nearly as intereſting to me as it is to you. If you are more grieved than I, there can be but one rea⯑ſon for it; and that's at your heart! I had rather loſe all the friends I have in the world (yourſelf included,) than this divine lady; and ſhall be unhappy when ever I think of her ſufferings, and her merit; tho' I have nothing to reproach myſelf upon the former.

I ſay not this, juſt now, ſo much to reflect upon you, as to expreſs my own grief; tho' your conſcience, I ſuppoſe, will make you think otherwiſe.

Your poor fellow, who ſays, that he begs for his life, in deſiring to be diſpatched back with a letter, tears this from me. Elſe, perhaps, (for I am juſt ſent for down) a quarter of an hour would make you—not eaſy indeed—but certain—And that, in a ſtate like yours, to a mind like yours, is a relief.

Thurſday afternoon, 4 o'Clock.

LETTER LVI. Mr. BELFORD, To RICHARD MOWBRAY, Eſq

I AM glad to hear you are in town. Throw yourſelf the moment this comes to your hand (if poſſible with Tourville) in the way of the man, who leaſt of all men deſerves the love of the worthy heart; but moſt That of Thine and His: Elſe, the news I ſhall moſt probably ſend him within an hour or two, will make annihilation the greateſt bleſſing he has to wiſh for.

You will find him between Piccadilly and Kenſington, moſt probably on horſeback, riding backwards and for⯑wards in a crazy way; or put up, perhaps, at ſome inn or tavern in the way; a waiter poſſibly, if ſo, watching for his ſervant's return to him from me.

[212]His man Will is juſt come to me. He will carry this to you in his way back, and be your director. Hie away, in a coach, or any how. Your being with him may ſave either his or a ſervant's life. See the bleſſed effects of tri⯑umphant libertiniſm! Sooner or later it comes home to us, and all concludes in gall and bitterneſs! Adieu.

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

CURSE upon the Colonel, and curſe upon the writer of the laſt letter I received, and upon all the world! Thou to pretend to be as much intereſted in my Clariſſa's fate as myſelf! 'Tis well for one of us, that this was not ſaid to me, inſtead of written—Living or dying, ſhe is mine—and only mine. Have I not earned her dearly?—Is not Damnation likely to be the purchaſe to me, tho' a happy Eternity will be hers?

An eternal ſeparation! O God! O God!—How can I bear that thought!—But yet there is Life—Yet, therefore, hope—Inlarge my Hope, and thou ſhalt be my good ge⯑nius, and I will forgive thee every thing.

For this laſt time—But it muſt not, ſhall not, be the laſt—Let me hear, the moment thou receiveſt this—what I am to be—For, at preſent, I am

My fellow tells me, that thou art ſending Mowbray and Tourville to me. I want them not. My ſoul's ſick of them, and of all the world; but moſt of myſelf—Yet, as they ſend me word, they will come to me immediately, I will wait for them, and for thy next. O Belford! let it not be—But haſten it, haſten it, be it what it may!

LETTER LVIII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I HAVE only to ſay at preſent—Thou wilt do well to take a tour to Paris; or where-ever elſe thy deſtiny ſhall lead thee!!!—

LETTER LIX. Mr. MOWBRAY, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I SEND by poor Lovelace's deſire, for particulars of the fatal breviate thou ſenteſt him this night. He can⯑not bear to ſet pen to paper; yet wants to know every minute paſſage of Miſs Harlowe's departure. Yet, why he ſhould, I cannot ſee; for, if ſhe is gone, ſhe is gone; and who can help it?

I never heard of ſuch a woman in my life. What great matters has ſhe ſuffered, that grief ſhould kill her thus?

I wiſh the poor fellow had never known her. From firſt to laſt, what trouble has ſhe coſt him! The charming fellow has been half loſt to us, ever ſince he purſued her. And what is there in one woman more than another, for matter of that?

It was well we were with him when your Note came. You ſhewed your true friendſhip in your foreſight. Why, Jack, the poor fellow was quite beſide himſelf—Mad as any man ever was in Bedlam.

Will brought him the letter, juſt after we had joined him, at the Bohemia-Head, where he had left word at the Roſe at Knightſbridge he ſhould be; for he had been ſauntering up and down, backwards and forwards, ex⯑pecting us, and his fellow. Will, as ſoon as he delivered it, got out of his way; and when he opened it, never was ſuch a piece of ſcenery. He trembled like a devil at receiving it: Fumbled at the ſeal, his fingers in a palſy, like Tom Doleman's; his hand ſhake, ſhake, ſhake, that [214] he tore the letter in two, before he could come at the con⯑tents: And, when he had read them, off went his hat to one corner of the room, his wig to the other—Damna⯑tion ſeize the world! and a whole volley of ſuch-like exe⯑cratious wiſhes; running up and down the room, and throwing up the ſaſh, and pulling it down, and ſmiting his forehead with his double fiſt, with ſuch force as would have felled an ox, and ſtamping and tearing, that the landlord ran in, and faſter out again. And this was the diſtraction-ſcene for ſome time.

In vain was all Jemmy or I could ſay to him. I offered once to take hold of his hands, becauſe he was going to do himſelf a miſchief, as I believed, looking about for his piſtols, which he had laid upon the table, but which Will. unſeen, had taken out with him [a faithful honeſt dog, that Will, I ſhall for ever love the fellow for it] and he hit me a damned dowſe of the chops, as made my noſe bleed. 'Twas well 'twas he; for I hardly knew how to take it.

Jemmy raved at him, and told him, How wicked it was in him, to be ſo brutiſh to abuſe a friend, and run mad for a woman. And then he ſaid, he was ſorry for it; and then Will ventured in with water and a towel; and the dog rejoiced, as I could ſee by his looks, that I had it ra⯑ther than he.

And ſo, by degrees, we brought him a little to his rea⯑ſon, and he promiſed to behave more like a man. And ſo I forgave him: And we rode on in the dark to here at Doleman's. And we all try'd to ſhame him out of his mad ungovernable fooliſhneſs: For we told him, as how ſhe was but a woman, and an obſtinate, perverſe woman too; and how could he help it?

And you know, Jack, [As we told him, moreover] that it was a ſhame to manhood, for a man, who had ſerved twenty and twenty women as bad or worſe, let him have ſerved Miſs Harlowe never ſo bad, ſhould give him⯑ſelf ſuch obſtropulous airs, becauſe ſhe would die: And we adviſed him never to attempt a woman proud of her cha⯑racter and virtue, as they call it, any more: For why? The conqueſt did not pay trouble; and what was there in [215] one woman more than another? Hay you know, Jack!—And thus we comforted him, and adviſed him.

But yet his damned addled pate runs upon this lady as much now ſhe's dead, as it did when ſhe was living. For, I ſuppoſe, Jack, it is no joke. She is certainly and bona fide dead; i'n't ſhe? If not, thou deſerveſt to be doubly damned for thy fooling, I tell thee that. So he will have me write for particulars of her departure.

He won't bear the word dead on any account. A ſquea⯑miſh puppy! How Love unmans, and ſoftens, and ener⯑vates! And ſuch a noble fellow as this too! Rot him for an idiot, and an oaf! I have no patience with the fooliſh duncical dog—Upon my ſoul, I have not!

So ſend the account, and let him howl over it, as I ſup⯑poſe he will.

But he muſt and ſhall go abroad: And in a month or two Jemmy, and you, and I, will join him, and he'll ſoon get the better of this chicken-hearted folly, never fear; and will then be aſhamed of himſelf: And then we'll not ſpare him; tho' now, poor fellow, it were pity to lay him on ſo thick, as he deſerves. And do thou, till then, ſpare all reflections upon him; for, it ſeems, thou haſt worked him unmercifully.

I was willing to give thee ſome account of the hand we have had with the tearing fellow, who had certainly been a loſt man, had we not been with him; or he would have killed ſomebody or other—I have no doubt of it. And now he is but very middling; ſits grinning like a man in ſtraw; curſes and ſwears, and is confounded gloomy; and creeps into holes and corners, like an old hedghog hunted for his greaſe. And ſo adieu, Jack. Tourville and all of us wiſh for thee; for no one has the influence upon him that thou haſt.

As I promiſed him that I would write for the particu⯑lars aboveſaid, I write this after all are gone to bed; and the fellow is to ſet out with it by day-break.

LETTER LX. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I MAY as well try to write; ſince, were I to go to bed, I ſhall not ſleep. I never had ſuch a weight of grief upon my mind in my life, as upon the demiſe of this ad⯑mirable woman; whoſe ſoul is now rejoicing in the regions of light.

You may be glad to know the particulars of her happy exit. I will try to proceed; for all is huſh and ſtill; the family retired; but not one of them, and leaſt of all her poor couſin, I dare ſay, to reſt.

At four o'clock, as I mentioned in my laſt, I was ſent for down; and, as thou uſedſt to like my deſcriptions, I will give thee the woeful ſcene that preſented itſelf to me, as I approached the bed.

The Colonel was the firſt that took my attention, kneel⯑ing on the ſide of the bed, the lady's right-hand in both his, which his face covered, bathing it with his tears; altho' ſhe had been comforting him, as the women ſince told him, in elevated ſtrains, but broken accents.

On the other ſide of the bed ſat the good Widow; her face overwhelmed with tears, leaning her head againſt the bed's head in a moſt diſconſolate manner; and turning her face to me, as ſoon as ſhe ſaw me, O Mr. Belford, cried ſhe, with folded hands—The dear lady—a heavy ſob not permitting her to ſay more.

Mrs. Smith, with claſped fingers, and uplifted eyes, as if imploring help from the Only Power which could give it, was kneeling down at the bed's feet, tears in large drops trickling down her cheeks.

Her Nurſe was kneeling between the widow and Mrs. Smith, her arms extended. In one hand ſhe held an ineffectual cordial, which ſhe had juſt been offering to her dying miſtreſs; her face was ſwoln with weeping (tho' uſed to ſuch ſcenes as this) and ſhe turned her eyes to⯑wards me, as if ſhe called upon me by them to join in the helpleſs ſorrow; a freſh ſtream burſting from them as I approached the bed.

[217]The maid of the houſe, with her face upon her folded arms, as ſhe ſtood leaning againſt the wainſcot, more audibly expreſſed her grief than any of the others.

The lady had been ſilent a few minutes, and ſpeechleſs as they thought, moving her lips without uttering a word; one hand, as I ſaid, in her couſin's. But when Mrs. Lo⯑vick on my approach pronounced my name, Oh! Mr. Belford, ſaid ſhe, in broken periods; and with a faint in⯑ward voice, but very diſtinct nevertheleſs—Now!—Now!—(I bleſs God for his mercies to his poor creature) will all ſoon be over—A few—A very few moments—will end this ſtrife—And I ſhall be happy!

Comfort here, Sir—turning her head to the Colonel—Comfort my couſin—See!—the blameable kindneſs—He would not wiſh me to be happy—ſo ſoon!

Here, ſhe ſtopt, for two or three minutes, earneſtly looking upon him: Then reſuming, My deareſt couſin, ſaid ſhe, be comforted—What is dying but the common lot?—The mortal frame may ſeem to labour—But that is all!—It is not ſo hard to die, as I believed it to be!—The preparation is the difficulty—I bleſs God, I have had time for That—The reſt is worſe to beholders, than to me!—I am all bleſſed hope—Hope itſelf.

She looked what ſhe ſaid, a ſweet ſmile beaming over her countenance.

After a ſhort ſilence, Once more, my dear couſin, ſaid ſhe, but ſtill in broken accents, commend me moſt dutifully to my Father and Mother—There ſhe ſtopt. And then proceeding—To my Siſter, To my Brother, To my Uncles—And tell them, I bleſs them with my parting breath—for all their goodneſs to me—Even for their diſpleaſure, I bleſs them—Moſt happy has been to me my puniſhment here!—Happy indeed!

She was ſilent for a few moments, lifting up her eyes, and the hand her couſin held not between his. Then, O death! ſaid ſhe, where is thy ſting! [The words I remember to have heard in the Burial-ſervice read over my Uncle and poor Belton]. And after a pauſe—It is good for me that I was afflicted!—Words of Scripture, I ſuppoſe.

Then turning towards us, who were loſt in ſpeechleſs ſorrow—O dear, dear gentlemen, ſaid ſhe, you know not [218] what foretaſtes—what aſſurances. And there ſhe again ſtopt, and looked up, as if in a thankful rapture, ſweetly ſmiling.

Then turning her head towards me—Do you, Sir, tell your friend, that I forgive him! And I pray to God to for⯑give him!—Again pauſing, and lifting up her eyes, as if praying that He would—Let him know how happily I die.—And that ſuch as my own, I wiſh to be his laſt hour.

She was again ſilent for a few moments: And then re⯑ſuming—My ſight fails me!—Your voices only—[for we both applauded her chriſtian, her divine frame, tho' in accents as broken as her own] And the voice of grief is alike in all. Is not this Mr. Morden's hand? preſſing one of his with that he had juſt let go. Which is Mr. Bel⯑ford's? holding out the other. I gave her mine. God Almighty bleſs you both, ſaid ſhe, and make you both—in your laſt hour—for you muſt come to this—happy as I am.

She pauſed again, her breath growing ſhorter; and, after a few minutes, And now, my deareſt couſin, give me your hand—nearer—ſtill nearer—drawing it towards her; and ſhe preſſed it with her dying lips—God protect you, dear, dear Sir—And once more, receive my beſt and moſt grateful thanks—And tell my dear Miſs Howe—and vouchſafe to ſee, and to tell my worthy Mrs. Nor⯑ton—She will be one day, I fear not, tho' now lowly in her fortunes, a Saint in Heaven—Tell them both, that I remember them with thankful bleſſings in my laſt moments!—And pray God to give them happineſs here for many, many years, for the ſake of their friends and lovers; and an heavenly crown hereafter; and ſuch aſſurances of it, as I have, thro' the all-ſatisfying merits of my bleſſed Re⯑deemer.

Her ſweet voice and broken periods methinks ſtill fill my ears, and never will be out of my memory.

After a ſhort ſilence, in a more broken and faint accent;—And you, Mr. Belford, preſſing my hand, may God pre⯑ſerve you and make you ſenſible of all your errors—You ſee, in me, how All ends—May you be—And down ſunk her head upon her pillow, ſhe fainting away, and drawing from us her hands.

[219]We thought ſhe was then gone; and each gave way to a violent burſt of grief.

But ſoon ſhewing ſigns of returning life, our attention was again engaged; and I beſought her, when a little recovered, to complete in my favour her half-pronounced bleſſing. She waved her hand to us both, and bowed her head ſix ſeveral times, as we have ſince recollected, as if diſtinguiſh⯑ing every perſon preſent; not forgetting the nurſe and the maid-ſervant; the latter having approached the bed, weep⯑ing, as if crowding in for the divine lady's laſt bleſſing; and ſhe ſpoke faltering and inwardly,—Bleſs—bleſs—bleſs—you All—And now—And now—(holding up her almoſt lifeleſs hands for the laſt time) Come—O come—Bleſſed Lord—JESUS!

And with theſe words, the laſt but half-pronounced, ex⯑pired: Such a ſmile, ſuch a charming ſerenity over-ſpread⯑ing her ſweet face at the inſtant as ſeemed to manifeſt her eternal happineſs already begun.

O Lovelace!—But I can write no more!

I RESUME my pen to add a few lines.

While warm, tho' pulſeleſs, we preſſed each her hand with our lips; and then retired into the next room.

We looked at each other, with intent to ſpeak: But, as if one motion governed as one cauſe affected both, we turned away ſilent.

The Colonel ſighed as if his heart would burſt: At laſt, his face and hands uplifted, his back towards me, Good Heaven! ſaid he to himſelf, ſupport me!—And is it thus, O Flower of Nature!—Then pauſing—And muſt we no more—Never more!—My bleſſed, bleſſed couſin! utter⯑ing ſome other words, which his ſighs made inarticulate:—And then, as if recollecting himſelf—Forgive me, Sir!—Excuſe me, Mr. Belford; and ſliding by me; anon I hope to ſee you, Sir—And down ſtairs he went, and out of the houſe, leaving me a ſtatue.

When I recovered myſelf, it was almoſt to repine at what I then called an unequal diſpenſation; forgetting her happy preparation, and ſtill happier departure; and that ſhe had but drawn a common lot, triumphing in it; and leaving behind her, every one leſs aſſured of happi⯑neſs, [220] tho' equally certain that it would one day be their own lot.

She departed exactly at 40 minutes after 6 o'clock, as by her watch on the table.

And thus died Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, in the bloſ⯑ſom of her youth and beauty: And who, her tender years conſidered, has not left behind her her ſuperior in ex⯑tenſive knowlege, and watchful prudence; nor hardly her equal for unblemiſhed virtue, exemplary piety, ſweet⯑neſs of manners, diſcreet generoſity, and true chriſtian charity: And theſe all ſet off by the moſt graceful mo⯑deſty and humility; yet on all proper occaſions mani⯑feſting a noble preſence of mind and true magnanimity: So that ſhe may be ſaid to have been not only an ornament to her Sex, but to Human nature.

A better pen than mine may do her fuller juſtice:—Thine, I mean, O Lovelace! For well doſt thou know how much ſhe excelled in the graces both of mind and per⯑ſon, natural and acquired, all that is woman. And thou alſo canſt beſt account for the cauſes of her immature death, thro' thoſe calamities which in ſo ſhort a ſpace of time from the higheſt pitch of felicity (every one in a manner adoring her) brought her to an exit ſo happy for herſelf, but, that it was ſo early, ſo much to be deplored by all who had the honour of her acquaintance.

This taſk, then, I leave to thee: But now I can write no more, only that I am a ſympathizer in every part of thy diſtreſs, except (and yet it is cruel to ſay it) in That which ariſes from thy guilt.

One o' clock, Friday morning.

LETTER LXI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I HAVE no opportunity to write at length, having ne⯑ceſſary orders to give on the melancholy occaſion. Joel, who got to me by ſix in the morning, and whom I diſ⯑patched inſtantly back with the letter I had ready from laſt night, gives me but an indifferent account of the ſtate of your mind. I wonder not at it; but Time (and nothing [221] elſe can) will make it eaſier to you: If (that is to ſay) you have compounded with your conſcience; elſe it may be heavier every day than other.

TOURVILLE tells me what a way you are in. I hope you will not think of coming hither. The lady in her Will deſires you may not ſee her. Four copies are making of it. It is a long one; for ſhe gives her reaſons for all ſhe wills. I will write to you more particularly as ſoon as poſſibly I can.

THREE letters are juſt brought by a ſervant in livery, directed To Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe. I will ſend copies of them to you. The contents are enough to make one mad. How would this poor lady have rejoiced to receive them—And yet, if ſhe had, ſhe would not have been enabled to ſay, as ſhe nobly did ^(a), That God would not let her depend for comfort upon any but Himſelf—And, indeed, for ſome days paſt, ſhe had ſeemed to have got above all worldly conſiderations—Her fervent love, even for her Miſs Howe, as ſhe acknowleged, having given way to ſupremer fervors ^(b).

LETTER LXII. Mrs. NORTON, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

AT length, my beſt beloved Miſs Clary, every thing is in the wiſhed train—For all your relations are unanimous in your favour—Even your brother and ſiſter are with the foremoſt to be reconciled to you.

I knew it muſt end thus!—By patience, and perſever⯑ing ſweetneſs, what a triumph have you gained!

This happy change is owing to letters received from your phyſician, from your couſin Morden, and from Mr. Brand.

Colonel Morden will be with you no doubt before this can reach you, with his pocket-book filled with money-bills, that nothing may be wanting to make you eaſy.

[222]And now, all our hopes, all our prayers are, that this good news may reſtore you to ſpirits and health; and that (ſo long with-held) it may not come too late.

I know how much your dutiful heart will be raiſed with the joyful tidings I write you, and ſtill ſhall more particularly tell you of, when I have the happineſs to ſee you: Which will be by next Saturday, at furtheſt; per⯑haps on Friday afternoon, by the time you can receive this.

For this day, by the general voice, being ſent for, I was received by every one with great goodneſs and con⯑deſcenſion, and intreated (for that was the word they were pleaſed to uſe, when I needed no intreaty, I am ſure) to haſten up to you, and to aſſure you of all their affectionate regards to you: And your father bid me ſay all the kind things that were in my heart to ſay, in order to comfort and raiſe you up; and they would hold themſelves bound to make them good.

How agreeable is this commiſſion to your Norton! My heart will overflow with kind ſpeeches, never fear!—I am already meditating what I ſhall ſay, to chear and raiſe you up, in the names of every one dear and near to you. And ſorry I am, that I cannot this moment ſet out, as I might, inſtead of writing, would they favour my eager impatience with their chariot; but as it was not offered, it would be preſumption to have aſked for it: And to⯑morrow a hired chaiſe and pair will be ready; but at what hour I know not.

How I long once more to fold my dear precious young lady to my fond, my more than fond, my maternal boſom!

Your Siſter will write to you, and ſend her letter, with This, by a particular hand.

I muſt not let them ſee what I write, becauſe of my wiſh about the chariot.

Your uncle Harlowe will alſo write, and (I doubt not) in the kindeſt terms: For they are all extremely alarmed and troubled at the dangerous way your doctor repreſents you to be in; as well as delighted with the character he gives you. Would to heaven the good gentleman had written ſooner! And yet he writes, that you know not he has now written. But it is all our confidence, and our [223] conſolation, that he would not have written at all, had he thought it too late.

They will preſcribe no conditions to you, my dear young lady; but will leave all to your own duty and diſcretion. Only your brother and ſiſter declare, they will never yield to call Mr. Lovelace brother: Nor will your father, I believe, be eaſily brought to think of him for a ſon.

I am to bring you down with me as ſoon as your health and inclination will permit. You will be received with open arms. Every one longs to ſee you. All the ſervants pleaſe themſelves, that they ſhall be permitted to kiſs your hands. The pert Betty's note is already changed; and ſhe now runs over in your juſt praiſes. What friends does proſperity make! What enemies adverſity! It always was, and always will be ſo, in every ſtate of life from the throne to the cottage—But let all be forgotten now on this jubilee change: And may you, my deareſt Miſs, be capable of rejoicing in this good news; as I know you will rejoice, if capable of any thing.

God preſerve you to our happy meeting! And I will, if I may ſay ſo, weary Heaven with my inceſſant prayers to preſerve and reſtore you afterwards!

I need not ſay how much I am, my dear young lady,

An unhappy delay as to the chaiſe, will make it Satur⯑day morning, before I can fold you to my fond heart.

LETTER LXIII. Miſs ARAB. HARLOWE, To Miſs CL. HARLOWE.

WE have juſt heard that you are exceedingly ill. We all loved you as never young creature was loved: You are ſenſible of That, Siſter Clary. And you have been very naughty—But we could not be angry always.

We are indeed more afflicted with the news of your be⯑ing ſo very ill than I can expreſs: For I ſee not but, after this ſeparation (as we underſtand that your misfortune has been greater than your fault, and that, however un⯑happy, you have demeaned yourſelf like the good young [224] creature you uſed to be) we ſhall love you better, if poſ⯑ſible, than ever.

Take comfort therefore, Siſter Clary; and don't be too much caſt down—Whatever your mortifications may be from ſuch noble proſpects over-clouded, and from the re⯑flections you will have from within, on your faulty ſtep, and from the ſullying of ſuch a charming character by it, you will receive none from any of us: And, as an earneſt of your Papa's and Mamma's favour and reconciliation, they aſſure you by me of their Bleſſing and hourly prayers.

If it will be any comfort to you, and my mother finds this letter is received as we expect (which we ſhall know by the good effect it will have upon your health) ſhe will herſelf go to town to you. Mean time, the good woman you ſo dearly love will be haſtened up to you; and ſhe writes by this opportunity, to acquaint you of it, and of all our returning love.

I hope you'll rejoice at this good news. Pray let us hear that you do. Your next grateful letter on this occa⯑ſion, eſpecially if it gives us the pleaſure of hearing you are better upon this news, will be received with the ſame (if not greater) delight, that we uſed to have in all your prettily-penn'd epiſtles. Adieu, my dear Clary! I am

LETTER LXIV. To his dear Niece Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

WE were greatly grieved, my beloved Miſs Clary, at your fault; but we are ſtill more, if poſſible, to hear you are ſo very ill; and we are ſorry things have been carried ſo far.

We know your talents, my dear, and how movingly you could write, whenever you pleaſed; ſo that nobody could ever deny you any thing; and, believing you depended on your pen, and little thinking you were ſo ill, and that you had lived ſo regular a life, and were ſo truly pe⯑nitent, are much troubled every one of us, your brother and all, for being ſo ſevere. Forgive my part in it, my [225] deareſt Clary. I am your Second-Papa, you know. And you uſed to love me.

I hope you'll ſoon be able to come down, and, after a⯑while, when your indulgent parents can ſpare you, that you will come to me for a whole month, and rejoice my heart, as you uſed to do. But if, thro' illneſs, you cannot ſo ſoon come down as we wiſh, I will go up to you: For I long to ſee you. I never more longed to ſee you in my life; and you was always the darling of my heart, you know.

My brother Antony deſires his hearty commendations to you, and joins with me in the tendereſt aſſurance, that all ſhall be well, and, if poſſible, better than ever; for we now have been ſo long without you, that we know the miſs of you, and even hunger and thirſt, as I may ſay, to ſee you, and to take you once more to our hearts: Whence indeed you was never baniſhed ſo far, as our con⯑cern for the unhappy ſtep made us think and you believe you were. Your ſiſter and brother both talk of ſeeing you in town: So does my dear ſiſter your indulgent mother.

God reſtore your health, if it be his will: Elſe, I know not what will become of

LETTER LXV. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I Will now take up the account of our proceedings from my letter of laſt night, which contained the dying words of this incomparable lady.

As ſoon as we had ſeen the laſt ſcene cloſed (ſo bleſſedly [...]) we left the body to the care of the good wo⯑men, who, according to the orders ſhe had given them that very night, removed her into that laſt houſe which ſhe had diſplay'd ſo much fortitude in providing.

In the morning, between 7 and 8 o'clock, according to appointment, the Colonel came to me here. He was very much out of order. We went together, accompanied by Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith, into the deceaſed's cham⯑ber. [226] We could not help taking a view of the lovely corpſe, and admiring the charming ſerenity of her noble aſpect. The women declared, they never ſaw death ſo lovely be⯑fore; and that ſhe looked as if in an eaſy ſlumber, the colour having not quite left her cheeks and lips.

I unlocked the drawer, in which (as I mentioned in a ^(a) former) ſhe had depoſited her papers. I told you in mine of Monday laſt, that ſhe had the night before ſealed up with three black ſeals a parcel inſcribed, As ſoon as I am certainly dead, this to be broken open by Mr. Belford. I accuſed myſelf for having not done it over night. But really I was then incapable of any thing.

I broke it open accordingly, and found in it no leſs than eleven letters, each ſealed with her own ſeal and black wax, one of which was directed to me.

I will incloſe a copy of it.

The other letters are directed, To her Father, To her Mother, One to her two Uncles, To her Brother, To her Siſter, To her Aunt Hervey, To her Couſin Morden, To Miſs Howe, To Mrs. Norton, and laſtly one to You, in performance of her promiſe, that a letter ſhould be ſent you when ſhe arrived at her Father's houſe!—I will with⯑hold this laſt till I can be aſſured, that you will be fitter [...]o receive it than Tourville tells me You are at preſent.

Copies of all theſe are ſealed up, and intitled, Copies of my Ten poſthumous letters, for J. Belford, Eſq and put in among the bundle of papers left to my direction, which I have not yet had leiſure to open.

No wonder, while able, that ſhe was always writing, ſince thus only of late could ſhe employ that time which heretofore, from the long days ſhe made, cauſed ſo many beautiful works to ſpring from her fingers. It is my opi⯑nion, that there never was a lady ſo young, who wrote ſo much, and with ſuch celerity. Her thoughts keeping pace, as I have ſeen, with her pen, ſhe hardly ever ſtopp'd or heſitated; and very ſeldom blotted out, or altered. It was a natural talent ſhe was miſtreſs of, among many other extraordinary ones.

I gave the Colonel his letter, and ordered Harry in⯑ſtantly to get ready to carry the others.

Mean time (retiring into the next apartment) we opened the Will. We were both ſo much affected in peruſing it, that at one time the Colonel, breaking off, gave it to me to read on; at another, I gave it back to him to proceed with; neither of us being able to read it thro', without ſuch tokens of ſenſibility as affected the voices of each.

[229]Mrs. Lovick, Mrs. Smith, and her Nurſe, were ſtill more touched, when we read thoſe articles in which they are reſpectively remembered: But I will avoid mentioning the particulars (except in what relates to the thread of my narration) as I ſhall ſend you a copy of it in proper time.

The Colonel told me, he was ready to account with me for the moneys he had brought up from her friends; which would enable me, as he ſaid, directly to execute the le⯑gacy-parts of it; and he would needs at that inſtant force into my hands a paper relating to that ſubject. I put it in my pocket-book, without looking into it; telling him, That as I hoped he would do all in his power to promote a literal performance of the will, I muſt beg his advice and aſſiſtance in the execution of it.

Her requeſt to be buried with her anceſtors, made a letter of the following import neceſſary, which I prevailed upon the Colonel to write; being unwilling myſelf (ſo early at leaſt) to appear off [...]cious in the eye of a family which probably wiſhes not any communication with me.

[230]By the time this was written, and by the Colonel's leave tranſcribed, Harry came booted and ſpurred, his horſe at the door; and I delivered him the letters to the family, with thoſe to Mrs. Norton and Miſs Howe (eight in all) together with the above of the Colonel to Mr. James Harlowe; and gave him orders to make the utmoſt diſpatch with them.

The Colonel and I have beſpoke mourning for our ſelves and ſervants.

LETTER LXVI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

POOR Mrs. Norton is come. She was ſet down at the door; and would have gone up ſtairs directly. But Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick being together and in tears, and the former hinting too ſuddenly to the truly ve⯑nerable woman the fatal news, ſhe ſunk down at her feet, in fits; ſo that they were forced to breathe a vein, to bring her to herſelf; and to a capacity of exclamation: And then ſhe run on to Mrs. Lovick and to me, who en⯑tered juſt as ſhe recovered, in praiſe of the lady, in la⯑mentations for her, and invectives againſt you: But yet ſo circumſcribed were her invectives, that I could obſerve in them the woman well-educated, and in her lamenta⯑tions the paſſion chriſtianized, as I may ſay.

She was impatient to ſee the corpſe. The women went up with her. But they owned, that they were too much affected themſelves on this occaſion to deſcribe her ex⯑tremely affecting behaviour.

With trembling impatience ſhe puſhed aſide the coffin⯑lid. She bathed the face with her tears, and kiſſed her cheeks and forehead, as if ſhe were living. It was Her indeed, ſhe ſaid! Her ſweet young lady! Her very ſelf! Nor had death, which changed all things, a power to alter her lovely features! She admired the ſerenity of her aſpect. She no doubt was happy, ſhe ſaid, as ſhe had written to her ſhe ſhould be: But how many miſerable creatures had ſhe left behind her!—The good woman lamenting that ſhe herſelf had lived to be one of them.

[231]It was with difficulty they prevailed upon her to quit the corpſe; and when they went into the next apartment, I joined them, and acquainted her with the kind legacy her beloved young lady had left her: But This rather augmented, than diminiſhed her concern. She ought, ſhe ſaid, to have attended her in perſon. What was the world to her, wringing her hands, now the child of her boſom and of her heart was no more? Her principal conſo⯑lation, however, was, that ſhe ſhould not long ſurvive her. She hoped, ſhe ſaid, that ſhe did not ſin, in wiſhing ſhe might not.

It was eaſy to obſerve by the ſimilitude of ſentiments ſhewn in This and other particulars, that the divine lady owed to this excellent woman many of her good notions.

I thought it would divert the poor gentlewoman, and not altogether unſuitably, if I were to put her upon furniſhing mourning for herſelf; as it would rouſe her, by a ſea⯑ſonable and neceſſary employment from that diſmal le⯑thargy of grief, which generally ſucceeds the too violent anguiſh with which a gentle nature is accuſtomed to be torn upon the firſt communication of the unexpected loſs of a dear friend. I gave her therefore the thirty guineas bequeathed to her and to her ſon for mourning; the only mourning which the fair teſtatrix has mentioned: And deſired her to loſe no time in preparing her own, as I doubted not, that ſhe would accompany the corpſe, if it were permitted to be carried down.

The Colonel propoſes to attend the herſe, if his kindred give him not freſh cauſe of diſpleaſure; and will take with him a copy of the Will. And being intent to give the fa⯑mily ſome favourable impreſſions of me, he will alſo, at his own deſire, take with him the copy of the poſthumous letter to me.

He is ſo kind as to promiſe me a minute account of all that ſhall paſs on the melancholy occaſion. And we have begun a friendſhip and ſettled a correſpondence, which but one incident can poſſibly happen to interrupt to the end of our lives. And that I hope will not happen.

But what muſt be the grief, the remorſe, that will ſeize upon the hearts of this hitherto inexorable family, on the [232] receiving of the poſthumous letters, and that of the Co⯑lonel apprizing them of what has happened!

I have given orders to an undertaker, on the ſuppo⯑ſition that the body will be permitted to be carried down; and the women intend to fill the coffin with aromatic herbs.

The Colonel has obliged me to take the bills and draughts which he brought up with him, for the conſiderable ſums accrued ſince the grandfather's death from the lady's eſtate.

I could have ſhewn to Mrs. Norton the copies of the two letters which ſhe miſſed by coming up. But her grief wants not the heightenings which the reading of them would have given her.

I HAVE been dipping into the copies of the poſthumous letters to the family, which Harry has carried down. Well may I call this admirable Lady divine. They are all calculated to give comfort rather than reproach, tho' their cruelty to her merited nothing but reproach. But were I in any of their places, how much rather had I, that ſhe had quitted ſcores with me by the moſt ſevere re⯑criminations, than that ſhe ſhould thus nobly triumph over me by a generoſity that has no example?

I will incloſe ſome of them, which I deſire you to re⯑turn as ſoon as you can.

LETTER LXVII. To the Ever-honoured JAMES HARLOWE, ſen. Eſq

WITH exulting confidence now does your em⯑boldened daughter come into your awful preſence by th [...]ſe lines, who dared not, but upon This occaſion, to look up to you with hopes of favour and forgiveneſs; ſince, when This comes to your hands it will be out of her power ever to offend you more.

And now let me bleſs you, my honoured papa, and bleſs you, as I write, upon my knees, for all the benefits I have received from your indulgence: For your fond love to me in the days of my prattling innocence: For the virtuous education you gave me: And, for the crown [233] of all, the happy end, which, thro' Divine Grace, by means of that virtuous education, I hope, by the time you will receive This, I ſhall have made. And let me beg of you, dear venerable Sir, to blot from your remem⯑brance, if poſſible, the laſt unhappy eight months; and then I ſhall hope to be remembered with advantage for the pleaſure you had the goodneſs to take in your Clariſſa.

Still on her knees, let your poor penitent implore your forgiveneſs of all her faults and follies; more eſpecially of that fatal error which threw her out of your protection.

When you know, Sir, that I have never been faulty in my will: That ever ſince my calamity became irretriev⯑able, I have been in a ſtate of preparation: That I have the ſtrongeſt aſſurances, that the Almighty has accepted my unfeigned repentance; and that by this time you will (as I humbly preſume to hope) have been the means of adding One to the number of the Bleſſed; you will have reaſon for joy rather than ſorrow. Since, had I eſcaped the ſnares by which I was intangled, I might have wanted thoſe exerciſes which I look upon now as ſo many mercies diſpenſed to wean me betimes from a world that preſented itſelf to me with proſpects too alluring: And, in that caſe (too eaſily ſatisfied with worldly felicity) I might not have attained to that bleſſedneſs, which now, on your reading of This, I humbly preſume (thro' the Di⯑vine goodneſs) I am rejoicing in.

That the Almighty, in His own good time, will bring you, Sir, and my ever-honoured mother, after a ſeries of earthly felicities, of which may my unhappy fault be the only interruption, (and very grievous I know that muſt have been) to rejoice in the ſame bleſſed ſtate, is the re⯑peated prayer of, Sir,

LETTER LXVIII. To the Ever-honoured Mrs. HARLOWE.

THE laſt time I had the boldneſs to write to you, it was with all the conſciouſneſs of a ſelf-convicted [...]minal, ſupplicating her offended judge for mercy and [234] pardon. I now, by theſe lines, approach you with more aſſurance; but nevertheleſs, with the higheſt degree of reverence, gratitude, and duty. The reaſon of my aſ⯑ſurance, my letter to my Papa will give: And as I humbly on my knees implored his pardon, ſo now, in the ſame dutiful manner, do I ſupplicate yours, for the grief and trouble I have given you.

Every vein of my heart has bled for an unhappy raſh⯑neſs; which (altho' involuntary as to the act) from the moment it was committed, carried with it its own puniſh⯑ment; and was accompanied with a true and ſincere pe⯑nitence.

God, who has been a witneſs of my diſtreſſes, knows, that great as they have been, the greateſt of all was the diſtreſs that I knew I muſt have given to you, Madam, and to my Father, by a ſtep that had ſo very ugly an ap⯑pearance in your eyes, and his; and indeed, in all my family's: A ſtep ſo unworthy of your daughter, and of the education you had given her!

But HE, I preſume to hope, has forgiven me; and at the inſtant This will reach your hands, I humbly truſt, I ſhall be rejoicing in the bleſſed fruits of His forgiveneſs. And be This your comfort, my ever-honoured Mamma, that the principal end of your pious care for me is attained, tho' not in the way ſo much hoped for.

May the grief which my fatal error has given to you both, be the only grief that ſhall ever annoy you in this world!—May you, Madam, long live to ſweeten the cares, and heighten the comforts of my Papa!—May my Siſter's continued, and, if poſſible, augmented duty, happily make up to you the loſs you have ſuſtained in me! And when⯑ever my Brother and ſhe change their ſingle ſtate, may it be with ſuch ſatisfaction to you both, as may make you forget my offence; and remember me only in thoſe days, in which you took pleaſure in me: And, at laſt, may a happy meeting with your forgiven penitent, in the eternal manſions, augment the bliſs of her, who, purify'd by ſuf⯑ferings, already, when This ſalutes your hands, preſumes ſhe ſhall be

LETTER LXIX. To JAMES HARLOWE, jun. Eſq

THERE was but one time, but one occaſion, after the raſh ſtep I was precipitated upon, that I could hope to be excuſed looking up to you in the character of a brother and a friend. And NOW is that time, and THIS the occaſion. Now, at reading This, will you pity your late unhappy ſiſter! NOW will you forgive her faults, both ſuppoſed and real. And NOW will you afford to her memory that kind concern which you refuſed to her before!

I write, my brother, in the firſt place, to beg your par⯑don for the offence my unhappy ſtep gave to you and to the reſt of a family ſo dear to me.

Virgin purity ſhould not ſo behave, as to be ſuſpected: Yet, when you come to know all my ſtory, you will find further room for pity, if not for more than pity, for your late unhappy ſiſter!

O that paſſion had not been deaf! That miſconception would have given way to enquiry! That your rigorous heart, if it could not itſelf be ſoftened (moderating the power you had obtained over every one) had permitted other hearts more indulgently to expand!

But I write not to give pain. I had rather you ſhould think me faulty ſtill, than take to yourſelf the conſequence that will follow from acquitting me.

Abandoning therefore a ſubject which I had not intended to touch upon (for I hope, at the writing of this, I am above the ſpirit of recrimination) let me tell you, Sir, that my next motive for writing to you in this laſt and moſt ſolemn manner, is, To beg of you to forego any active reſentments (which may endanger a life ſo precious to all your friends) againſt the man to whoſe elaborate baſeneſs I owe my worldly ruin.

For, ought an innocent man to run an equal riſque with a guilty one?—A more than equal riſque, as the guilty one has been long inured to acts of violence, and is ſkilled in the arts of offence?

You would not arrogate to yourſelf God's province, [236] who has ſaid, Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it. If you would, I tremble for the conſequence; For will it not be ſuitable to the Divine Juſtice to puniſh the pre⯑ſumptuous Innocent as you would be in this caſe) in the very error, and that by the hand of the Self-defending Guilty—Reſerving him for a future day of vengeance for his accumulated crimes?

Leave then the poor wretch to the Divine Juſtice. Let your ſiſter's fault die with her. At leaſt, let it not be re⯑vived in blood. Life is a ſhort ſtage where longeſt. A little time hence, the now green head will be gray, if it lives this little time: And if Heaven will afford him time for repentance, why ſhould not you?

Then think, my brother, what will be the conſe⯑quence to your dear parents, if the guilty wretch who has occaſioned to them the loſs of a daughter, ſhould likewiſe deprive them of their beſt hope, an only ſon, more worth in the family-account than ſeveral daughters?

Would you add, my brother, to thoſe diſtreſſes which you hold your ſiſter ſo inexcuſable for having (altho' from involuntary and undeſigned cauſes) given?

Seek not then, I beſeech you, to extend the evil con⯑ſequences of your ſiſter's error. His conſcience, when it ſhall pleaſe God to touch it, will be ſharper than your ſword.

I have ſtill another motive for writing to you in this ſolemn manner: It is, to intreat you to watch over your paſſions. The principal fault I know you to be guilty of, is, the violence of your temper when you think yourſelf in the right: which you would oftner be, but for that very violence.

You have ſeveral times brought your life into danger by it.

Is not the man guilty of a high degree of ſelf-partiality, who is leſs able to bear contradiction, than apt to give it?—How often, with you, has impetuoſity brought on abaſe⯑ment?—A conſequence too natural.

Let me then caution you, dear Sir, againſt a warmth of temper, an impetuoſity when moved, and you ſo ready to be moved, that may hurry you into unforeſeen difficulties; and which it is in ſome meaſure a ſin not to endeavour to [237] reſtrain. God enable you to do it for the ſake of your own peace and ſafety, as well preſent as future! And for the ſake of your family and friends, who all ſee your fault, but are tender of ſpeaking to you of it!

As for me, my brother, my puniſhment has been ſea⯑ſonable. God gave me grace to make a right uſe of my ſufferings. I early repented. I never loved the man half ſo m [...]ch as I hated his actions, when I ſaw what he was capable of. I gave up my whole heart to a better hope. God bleſſed my penitence, and my reliance upon Him. And now I preſume to ſay, I AM HAPPY.

May Heaven preſerve you in ſafety, health, and honour, and long continue your life for a comfort and ſtay to your honoured parents: And may you in the change of your ſingle ſtate meet with a wife as agreeable to every one elſe as to yourſelf, and be happy in a hopeful race, and not have one Clariſſa among them, to imbitter your com⯑forts when ſhe ſhould give you moſt comfort. But may my example be of uſe to warn the dear creatures whom once I hoped to live to ſee, and to cheriſh, of the evils with which this deceitful world abounds, are the prayers of

LETTER LXX. To Miſs HARLOWE.

NOW may you, my dear Arabella, unreſtrained by the ſeverity of your virtue, let fall a pitying tear on the paſt faults and ſufferings of your late unhappy ſiſter; ſince, Now, ſhe can never offend you more. The Divine Mercy, which firſt inſpired her with repentance (an early repentance it was; ſince it preceded her ſufferings) for an error which ſhe offers not to extenuate altho' perhaps it were capable of ſome extenuation, has now, at the inſtant that you are reading This, as I humbly hope, bleſſed her with the fruits of it.

Thus already, even while ſhe writes, in imagination, purified and exalted, ſhe the more fearleſly writes to her ſiſter; and NOW is aſſured of pardon for all thoſe little oc⯑caſions [238] of diſpleaſure which her frowarder youth might give you; and for the diſgrace which her fall has fixed upon you, and upon her family.

May you, my ſiſter, continue to bleſs thoſe dear and honoured relations, whoſe indulgence ſo well deſerves your utmoſt gratitude, with thoſe chearful inſtances of duty and obedience which have hitherto been ſo acceptable to Them, and praiſe-worthy in You! And may you, when a ſuitable propoſal ſhall offer, fill up more worthily that chaſm, which the loſs they have ſuſtained in me has made in their family!

Thus, my Arabella! my only Siſter! and for many happy years, my Friend! moſt fervently prays That Siſter, whoſe affection for you, no acts of unkindneſs, no miſcon⯑ſtruction of her conduct, could cancel! And who NOW, made perfect (as ſhe hopes) thro' ſufferings, ſtyles herſelf,

LETTER LXXI. To JOHN and ANTONY HARLOWE, Eſqrs.

LETTER LXXII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I Underſtand, that thou breatheſt nothing but revenge againſt me, for treating thee with ſo much freedom; and againſt the accurſed woman and her infernal crew. I am not at all concerned for thy menaces againſt myſelf. It is my deſign to make thee feel. It gives me pleaſure to find my intention anſwered. And I congratulate thee, that thou haſt not loſt that ſenſe.

As to the curſed crew, well do they deſerve the fire here, that thou threateneſt them with, and the fire here⯑ after that ſeems to await them. But I have this moment received news which will, in all likelihood, ſave thee the guilt of puniſhing the old wretch for her ſhare of wicked⯑neſs as thy agent. But if that happens to her which is likely to happen, wilt thou not tremble for what may befal the principal?

Not to keep thee longer in ſuſpenſe; laſt night, it ſeems, the infamous woman got ſo heartily intoxicated [243] with her beloved liquor, arrack punch, at the expence of Colonel Salter, that, miſtaking her way, ſhe fell down a pair of ſtairs, and broke her leg: And now, after a dread⯑ful night, ſhe lies foaming, raving, roaring, in a burning fever, that wants not any other fire to ſcorch her into a feeling more exquiſite and durable than any thy vengeance could make her ſuffer.

The wretch has requeſted me to come to her: And leſt I ſhould refuſe a common meſſenger, ſent her vile aſſo⯑ciate Sally Martin; who not finding me at Soho, came hither; another part of her buſineſs being to procure the divine lady's pardon for the old creature's wickedneſs to her.

This devil incarnate Sally was never ſo ſhocked in her life, as when I told her the lady was dead.

She took out her ſalts to keep her from fainting; and when a little recovered, ſhe accuſed herſelf for her part of the injuries the lady had ſuſtained; as ſhe ſaid Polly Horton would do for hers; and ſhedding tears, declared, that the world never produced ſuch another woman. She called her the ornament and glory of her Sex; acknowleged, that her r [...]in was owing more to their inſtigations than even (ſavage as thou art) to thy own vileneſs: Since thou wert in⯑clined to have done her juſtice more than once, had they not kept up thy profligate ſpirit to its height.

This wretch would fain have been admitted to a ſight of the corpſe. But I refuſed her requeſt with execrations.

She could forgive herſelf, ſhe ſaid, for every thing but her inſults upon the admirable lady at Rowland's: Since all the reſt was but in purſuit of a livelihood, to which ſhe had been reduced, as ſhe boaſted, from better ex⯑pectations, and which hundreds follow as well as ſhe. I did not aſk her, By whom reduced.

At going away, ſhe told me, that the old monſter's bruiſes are of more dangerous conſequence than the frac⯑ture: That a mortification is apprehended: And that the vile wretch has ſo much compunction of heart, on recol⯑lecting her treatment of Miſs Harlowe, and is ſo much ſet upon procuring her forgiveneſs, that ſhe is ſure the news ſhe has to carry her, will haſten her end.

LETTER LXXIII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

THY ſervant gives me a dreadful account of thy raving unmanageableneſs. I wonder not at it. But as nothing violent is laſting, I dare ſay, that thy habitual gaiety of heart will quickly get the better of thy frenzy: And the rather do I judge ſo, as thy fits are of the raving kind (ſuitable to thy natural impetuoſity) and not of that melancholy ſpecies which ſeizes ſlower ſouls.

For this reaſon I will proceed in writing to thee, that my narrative may not be broken by thy diſcompoſure; and that the contents of it may find thee, and help thee to reflection, when thou ſhalt be reſtored.

Harry is returned from carrying the poſthumous letters to the family and to Miſs Howe; and that of the Colonel which acquaints James Harlowe with his ſiſter's death, and with her deſire to be interred near her grandfather.

Harry was not admitted into the preſence of any of the family. They were all aſſembled together, it ſeems, at Harlowe-place, on occaſion of the Colonel's letter which informed them of the lady's dangerous way ^(a); and were comforting themſelves, as Harry was told, with hopes, that Mr. Morden had made the worſt of her ſtate, in order to quicken their reſolutions.

It is eaſy then to judge what muſt be their grief and ſurpriſe on receiving the fatal news which the letters Harry ſent in to them communicated.

He ſtaid there long enough to find the whole houſe in confuſion; the ſervants running different ways; lamenting and wringing their hands as they run; the female ſer⯑vants particularly; as if ſome body (poor Mrs. Harlowe no doubt; and perhaps Mrs. Hervey too) were in fits.

All were in ſuch diſorder, that he could get no com⯑mands, nor obtain any notice of himſelf. The ſervants ſeemed more inclined to execrate than welcome him—O maſter! O young man! cry'd three or four together, what diſmal tidings have you brought!—They helped him to his horſe (which with great civility they had put up on [245] his arrival) at the very firſt word: And he went to an inn; and purſued on foot his way to Mrs. Norton's; and finding her come to town, left the letter he carried down for her with her ſon (a fine youth:) who, when he heard the fatal news, burſt out into a flood of tears—firſt lamenting the lady's death, and then crying out, What, what, would be⯑come of his poor mother?—How would ſhe ſupport her⯑ſelf, when ſhe ſhould find on her arrival in town, that the dear lady who was ſo deſervedly the darling of her heart, was no more!

He proceeded to Miſs Howe's, with the letter for her. That lady, he was told, had juſt given orders for a young man, a tenant's ſon, to poſt to London, to bring her news of her dear friend's condition, and whether ſhe ſhould herſelf be encouraged, by an account of her being ſtill alive, to make her a viſit; every thing being ordered to be in readineſs for her going up, on his return with the news ſhe wiſhed and prayed for with the utmoſt impa⯑tience. And Harry was juſt in time to prevent the man's ſetting out.

He had the precaution to deſire to ſpeak with Miſs Howe's woman or maid, and communicated to her the fatal tidings, that ſhe might break them to her young lady. The maid was herſelf ſo affected, that her old lady (who, Harry ſaid, ſeemed to be every where at once) came to ſee what ailed her; and was herſelf ſo ſtruck with the communication, that ſhe was forced to ſit down in a chair; O the ſweet creature! ſaid ſhe—And is it come to this!—O my poor Nancy!—How ſhall I be able to break the matter to my Nancy!

Mr. Hickman was in the houſe. He haſtened in to comfort the old lady—But he could not reſtrain his own tears. He feared, he ſaid, when he was laſt in town, that this ſad event would ſoon happen: But little thought it would be ſo very ſoon!—But ſhe is happy, I am ſure, ſaid he!

Mrs. Howe, when a little recovered, went up, in order to break the news to her daughter. She took the letter, and her ſalts in her hand. And Harry could perceive, that they had occaſion for them. For the houſekeeper ſoon came hurrying down into the kitchen, [246] her face overſpread with tears—Her young miſtreſs had fainted away, ſhe ſaid—Nor did ſhe wonder at it—Never did there live a lady more deſerving of general admiration and lamentation, than Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe! And never was there a ſtronger friendſhip diſſolved by death than be⯑tween her young lady and her. She hurried with a lighted wax-candle, and with feathers, to burn under the noſe of her young miſtreſs; which ſhewed that ſhe continued in fits.

Mr. Hickman afterwards, with his uſual humanity, di⯑rected that Harry ſhould be taken care of all night; it being then the cloſe of day. He aſked him after my health. He expreſſed himſelf exceſſively afflicted, as well for the deprivation, as for the juſt grief of the lady whom he ſo paſſionately loves. But he called the departed lady an Angel of Light. We dreaded, ſaid he (tell your maſter) to read the letter ſent—But we needed not—'Tis a bleſſed letter, written by a bleſſed hand!—But the conſolation ſhe aims to give, will for the preſent heighten the ſenſe we all ſhall have of the loſs of ſo excellent a creature! Tell Mr. Belford, that I thank God I am not the man who had the unmerited honour to call himſelf her brother.

I know how terribly this great cataſtrophe (as I may call it, ſince ſo many perſons are intereſted in it) affects thee. I ſhould have been glad to have had particulars of the diſtreſs which the firſt communication of it muſt have given to the Harlowes. Yet who but muſt pity the unhappy mother?

The anſwer which James Harlowe returned to Colonel Morden's letter of notification of his ſiſter's death, and to her requeſt as to interrment, will give a faint idea of what their concern muſt be. Here follows a copy of it.

[248] Every thing that is Fit or Reaſonable, to be performed? (repeated I to the Colonel, from the above letter on his reading it to me) That is every thing which ſhe has di⯑rected, that can be performed. I hope, Colonel, that I ſhall have no contention with them. I wiſh no more for their acquaintance than they do for mine. But you, Sir, muſt be the mediator between them and me; for I ſhall inſiſt upon a literal performance in every article.

The Colonel was ſo kind as to declare that he would join to ſupport me in my reſolution.

LETTER LXXIV. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I Staid at Smith's till I ſaw the laſt of all that was mor⯑tal of the divine lady.

As ſhe has directed Rings by her Will to ſeveral perſons, with her hair to be ſet in cryſtal, the afflicted Mrs Norton cut off before the coffin was cloſed four charming ringlets; one of which the Colonel took for a locket, which, he ſays, he will cauſe to be made, and wear next his heart in me⯑mory of his beloved couſin.

Between four and five in the morning, the corpſe was put into the herſe; the coffin before being filled, as in⯑tended, with flowers and aromatic herbs, and proper care taken to prevent the corpſe ſuffering (to the eye) from the jolting of the horſe.

Poor Mrs. Norton is extremely ill. I gave particular directions to Mrs. Smith's maid (whom I have ordered to attend the good woman in a mourning chariot) to take care of her. The Colonel, who rides with his ſervants within view of the herſe, ſays, that he will ſee my orders in re⯑lation to her inforced.

When the herſe moved off and was out of ſight, I locked up the lady's chamber, into which all that had be⯑longed to her was removed.

I expect to hear from the Colonel as ſoon as he is got down, by a ſervant of his own.

LETTER LXXV. Mr. MOWBRAY, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I SEND you incloſed a letter from Mr. Lovelace; which, tho' written in the curſed Algebra, I know to be ſuch a one as will ſhew what a queer way he is in; for he read it to us with the air of a tragedian. You will ſee by it what the mad fellow had intended to do, if we had not all of us interpoſed. He was actually ſetting out with a Sur⯑geon of this place, to have the lady opened and embalmed.—Rot me if it be not my full perſuaſion, that if he had, her heart would have been found to be either iron or marble.

We have got Lord M. to him. His Lordſhip is alſo much afflicted at the Lady's death. His ſiſters and nieces, he ſays, will be ready to break their hearts. What a rout's here about a woman? For after all ſhe was no more.

We have taken a pailful of black bull's blood from him; and this has lowered him a little. But he threatens Colonel Morden, he threatens you for your curſed reflections (Curſed reflections indeed, Jack!) and curſes all the world and himſelf ſtill.

Laſt night his mourning (which is full as deep as for a wife) was brought home, and his fellows mourning too. And tho' 8 o'clock he would put it on and make them at⯑tend him in theirs.

Every-body blames him on this Lady's account. But I ſee not for why. She was a vixen in her virtue. And her relations are ten times more to blame than he. I will prove this to the teeth of them all. If they could uſe her ill, why ſhould they expect him to uſe her well?—You, or I, or Tourville, in his ſhoes, would have done as he has done. Are not all the girls forewarned?— ‘'Has he done by her as that Caitiffe Miles did to the farmer's daughter, whom he tri [...]ked up to town ſ [...] pretty girl alſo, juſt ſuch another as B [...]b's Roſebud!) under a notion of waiting on a lady—Drill'd her on, pretending the lady was abroad. Drank her light-hearted; then carried her to a Play; then it was too late, you know, to ſee the pretended lady: Then to a Bagnio: Ruined her, as they call it, and all the [250] ſame day. Kept her on (an ugly dog too!) a fortnight or three weeks; then left her to the mercy of the peo⯑ple of the Bagnio (never paying for any thing;) who ſtript her of all her cloaths, and becauſe ſhe would not take on, threw her into priſon; where ſhe died in want and in deſpair!'’ —A true ſtory thou knoweſt, Jack—This fellow deſerved to be damn'd. But has our Bob been ſuch a villain as this?—And would he not have married this flinty-hearted lady?—So he is juſtified very evidently.

Why then ſhould ſuch curſed quawms take him?—Who would have thought he had been ſuch poor blood? Now (Rot the puppy!) to ſee him ſit ſilent in a corner, when he has tired himſelf with his mock-majeſty, and with his ar⯑gumentation (who ſo fond of arguefying as he?) and teach⯑ing his ſhadow to make mouths againſt the wainſcot—Lords-zounter, if I have patience with him!

But he has had no reſt for theſe ten days: That's the thing!—You muſt write to him; and pr'ythee coax him, Jack, and ſend him what he writes for, and give him all his way: There will be no bearing him elſe. And get the lady buried as faſt as you can; and don't let him know where.

This letter ſhould have gone yeſterday. We told him it did. But were in hopes he would not have inquired after it again. But he raves as he has not any anſwer.

What he vouchſafed to read of other of your letters has given my Lord ſuch a curioſity, as makes him deſire you to continue your accounts. Pray do: But not in your helliſh Araback; and we will let the poor fellow only into what we think fitting for his preſent way.

I live a curſed dull poking life here. With what I ſo lately ſaw of poor Belton, and what I now ſee of this charming fellow, I ſhall be as crazy as he ſoon, or as dull as thou, Jack; ſo muſt ſeek for better company in town than either of you. I have been forced to read ſome⯑times to divert me; and you know I hate reading. It preſently ſets me into a fit of drowſineſs, and then I yawn and ſtretch like a devil.

Yet in Dryden's Palemon and Arcite have I juſt now met with a paſſage, that has in it much of our Bob's caſe. Theſe are ſome of the lines,

[251]

Let me tell you that had I begun to write as early as you and Lovelace, I might have cut as good a figure as either of you. Why not? But boy or man I ever hated a book. 'Tis a folly to lie. I loved action, my boy. I hated droning; and have led in former days more boys from their book, than ever my maſter made to profit by it. Kicking and cuffing and orchard-robbing, were my early glory.

But I am tired of writing. I never wrote ſuch a long letter in my life. My wriſts and my fingers and thumb ake damnably. The pen is an hundred weight at the leaſt. And my eyes are ready to drop out of my head upon the paper.—The cramp but this minute in my fingers. Rot the gooſe and the gooſe-quill! I will write no more long letters for a twelvemonth to come. Yet one word: We think the mad fellow coming to. Adieu.

LETTER LXXVII. Mr. BELFORD, To RICHARD MOWBRAY, Eſq

I HAVE yours, with our unhappy friend's incloſed. I am glad my Lord is with him. As I preſume that his frenzy will be but of ſhort continuance, I moſt earneſtly wiſh that on his recovery he could be prevailed upon to go abroad. Mr. Morden, who is inconſolable, has ſeen by the Will, that the caſe was more than a common ſeduction; and has dropt hints already, that he looks upon himſelf on that account to be freed from his promiſes made to the dying lady, which were, that he would not ſeek to avenge her death. You muſt make the recovery of his health the motive for urging him on this head; for, if you hint at his own ſafety, he will not ſtir, but rather ſeek the Colonel.

As to the lock of hair, you may eaſily pacify him (as you once ſaw the angel) with hair near the colour, if he be intent upon it.

At my Lord's deſire I will write on, and in my com⯑mon hand; that you may judge what is, and what is not fit to read to Mr. Lovelace at preſent. But as I ſhall not forbear reflections as I go along, in hopes to reach his heart on his recovery; I think it beſt to direct myſelf to him ſtill; and that as if he were not diſordered.

As I ſhall not have leiſure to take copies, and yet am willing to have the whole ſubject before me, for my own future contemplation, I muſt inſiſt upon a return of my letters ſome time hence. Mr. Lovelace knows that this is one of my conditions; and has hitherto complied with it.

Thy letter, Mowbray, is an inimitable performance. Thou art a ſtrange impenetrable creature. But let me moſt earneſtly [...]njure thee, and the idle flutterer Tourville, from what ye have ſeen of poor Belton's exit; from our friend Lovelace's frenzy, and the occaſion of i [...]: and from the terrible condition in which the wretched [...]clair lies; to ſet about an immediate change of life and manners. For my own part, I am determined, be your reſolutions what they may, to take the advice I give.

LETTER LXXVIII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

O Lovelace! I have a ſcene to paint in relation to the wretched Sinclair, that, if I do it juſtice, will make thee ſeriouſly ponder and reflect, or nothing can. I will lead to it in order; and that in my uſual hand, that thy compeers may be able to read it as well as thyſelf.

When I had written the preceding letter; not knowing what to do with myſelf; recollecting, and in vain wiſhing for that delightful and improving converſation, which I had now for ever loſt; I thought I had as good begin the taſk, which I had for ſome time paſt reſolved to begin; that is to ſay, To go to church; and ſee if I could not reap ſome benefit from what I ſhould hear there. Ac⯑cordingly I determined to go to hear the celebrated preacher at St. James's church. But as if the devil (for ſo I was then ready to conclude) thought himſelf concerned to pre⯑vent my intention, a viſit was made me juſt as I was dreſſed, which took me off from my purpoſe.

Whom ſhould this be from, but Sally Martin, accom⯑panied by Mrs. Carter, the ſiſter of the infamous Sinclair; the ſame, I ſuppoſe I need not tell you, who keeps the Bagnio near Bloomſbury.

Theſe told me that the ſurgeon, apothecary, and phy⯑ſician, had all given the wretched woman over; but that ſhe ſaid, She could not die nor be at reſt till ſhe ſaw me: And they beſought me to accompany them in the coach they came in, if I had one ſpark of charity, of Chriſtian charity, as they called it, left.

I was very loth to be diverted from my purpoſe by a re⯑queſt ſo unwelcome, and from people ſo hated; but at laſt went, and we got thither by ten: Where a ſcene ſo ſhock⯑ing preſented itſelf to me, that the death of poor deſponding Belton is not, I think, to be compared with it.

The old wretch had once put her leg out by her rage and violence, and had been crying, ſcolding, curſing, ever ſince the preceding evening, that the ſurgeon had told her it was impoſſible to [...] her; and that a morti⯑fication had begun to ſhew itſelf; inſomuch that purely in [257] compaſſion to their own ears, they had been forced to ſend for another ſurgeon, purpoſely to tell her, tho' againſt his judgment, and (being a friend of the other) to ſeem to convince him, that he miſtook her caſe; and that, if ſhe would be patient, ſhe might recover. But, neverthe⯑leſs her apprehenſions of death and her antipathy to the thoughts of dying were ſo ſtrong, that their impoſture had not the intended effect, and ſhe was raving, crying, cur⯑ſing, and even howling, more like a wolf than a human creature, when I came; ſo that as I went up ſtairs, I ſaid, Surely this noiſe, this howling, cannot be from the un⯑happy woman! Sally ſaid it was, and aſſured me, that it was nothing to the noiſe ſhe had made all night; and ſtepping into her room before me, Dear Madam Sinclair, ſaid ſhe, forbear this noiſe! It is more like that of a bull than a woman!—Here comes Mr. Belford; and you'll fright him away, if you bellow at this rate.

There were no leſs than eight of her curſed daughters ſurrounding her bed when I entered; one of her partners, Polly Horton, at their head; and now Sally, her other partner, and Madam Carter, as they called her (for they are all Madams with one another) made the number Ten: All in ſhocking diſhabille, and without ſtays, except Sally, Carter, and Polly; who, not daring to leave her, had not been in bed all night.

The other ſeven ſeemed to have been but juſt up, riſen perhaps from their cuſtomers in the fore-houſe, and their nocturnal Orgies, with faces, three or four of them, that had run, the paint lying in ſtreaky ſeams not half blowz'd off, diſcovering coarſe wrinkled ſkins: The hair of ſome of them of divers colours, obliged to the black-lead comb where black was affected; the artificial jet, however, yielding apace to the natural brindle: That of others plaiſtered with oil and powder; the oil predominating: But every one's hanging about her ears and neck in broken curls, or ragged ends; and each at my entrance taken with one motion, ſtroaking their matted locks with both hands under their coifs, mobs, or pinners, every one of which was awry. They were all ſlip-ſhoed; ſtockenleſs ſome; only under-petticoated all; their gowns, made to cover ſtraddling hoops, hanging trolloppy, and tangling [258] about their heels; but haſ [...]ily wrapt round them, as ſoon as I came up ſtairs And half of them (unpadded, ſhoulder⯑bent, pallid-lipp'd, ſeeble-jointed wretches) appearing from a blooming Nineteen or Twenty perhaps over-night, hag⯑gard well-worn ſtrumpets of Thirty-eight or Forty.

I am the more particular in deſcribing to thee the ap⯑pearance theſe creatures made in my eyes when I came into the room, becauſe I believe thou never ſaweſt any of them, much leſs a group of them, thus unprepared for being ſeen ^(a). I, for my part, never did before; nor had I now, but upon this occaſion, been thus favoured. If thou hadſt, I believe thou wouldſt hate a profligate woman, as one of Swift's Yahoos, or Virgil's obſcene Harpyes, ſquirting their ordure upon the Trojan trenchers; ſince the perſons of ſuch in their retirements are as filthy as their minds—Hate them as much as I do; and as much as I admire, and next to adore a truly virtuous and elegant woman: For to me it is evident, that as a neat and clean woman muſt be an angel of a creature, ſo a ſluttiſh one is the impureſt animal in nature.

But theſe were the veterans, the choſen band; for now-and-then flitted in, to the number of half a dozen or more, by turns, ſubordinate ſinners, under-graduates, younger than ſome of the choſen phalanx, but not leſs obſcene in their appearance, tho' indeed not ſo much beholden to the plaiſtering fucus; yet unpropt by ſtays, ſqualid, looſe in attire, fluggiſh-haired, under-petticoated only as the for⯑mer, eyes half opened, winking and pinking, miſpatched, yawning, ſtretching, as if from the unworn-off effects of the midnight revel; all armed in ſucceſſion with ſupplies of cordials, of which every one preſent was either taſter or partaker, under the direction of the Praetorian Dorcas, who now-and-then popp'd in to ſee her ſlops duly given and taken.

But when I approached the old wretch, what a ſpectacle preſented itſelf to my eyes!

Her misfortune has not at all ſunk, but rather, as I [259] thought, increaſed her fleſh; rage and violence perhaps ſwelling her muſ [...]ly features. Behold her then, ſpreading the whole tumbled bed with her huge quaggy carcaſe: Her mill-poſt arms held up; her broad hands clenched with violence; her big eyes, goggling and flaming-red as we may ſuppoſe thoſe of a ſalamander; her matted grieſly hair, made irreverend by her wickedneſs (her clouted head⯑dreſs being half off) ſpread about her fat ears and brawny neck; her livid lips parched, and working violently; her broad chin in convulſive motion; her wide mouth, by reaſon of the contraction of her forehead (which ſeemed to be half-loſt in its own frightful furrows) ſplitting her face, as it were, into two parts; and her huge tongue hideouſly rolling in it; heaving, puffing, as if for breath, her bellows-ſhaped and various-coloured breaſts aſcending by turns to her chin, and deſcending out of ſight, with the violence of her gaſpings.

This was the ſpectacle, as recollection has enabled me to deſcribe it, that this wretch made to my eye, when I approached her bed-ſide, ſurrounded, as I ſaid, by her ſ [...]ffragans and daughters, who ſurveyed her with ſcouling frighted attention, which one might eaſily ſee had more in it of horror, and ſelf-concern (and ſelf-condemnation too) than of love or pity; as who ſhould ſay, See! what we ourſelves muſt one day be!

As ſoon as ſhe ſaw me, her naturally big voice, more hoarſened by her ravings, broke upon me: O Mr. Bel⯑ford! O Sir! ſee what I am come to!—See what I am brought to!—To have ſuch a curſed crew about me, and not one of them to take care of me!—But to let me tumble down ſtairs ſo diſtant from the room I went from! ſo diſtant from the room I meant to go to! O curſed be every careleſs devil!—May this or worſe be their fate every one of them!

And then ſhe curſed and ſwore more vehemently, and the more, as two or three of them were excuſing them⯑ſelves on the ſcore of their being at that time as unable to help themſelves as ſhe.

As ſoon as ſhe had cleared the paſſage of her throat by the oaths and curſes which her wild impatience made her utter, ſhe began in a more hollow and whining ſtrain to [260] bemoan herſelf. And here, ſaid ſhe—Heaven grant me patience! (clenching and unclenching her hands) am I to die thus miſerably!—of a broken leg in my old age!—ſnatch'd away by means of my own intemperance! Self-do! Self-undone!—No time for my affairs! No time to repent!—And in a few hours (Oh!—Oh!—with another long howling O—h!—U—gh—o! a kind of ſcreaming key terminating it) who knows, who can tell where I ſhall be!—Oh! that indeed I never, never, had had a being!

What could one ſay to ſuch a wretch as this! whoſe whole life has been ſpent in the moſt diffuſive wickedneſs, and who has more ſouls to anſwer for, of both ſexes, than the beſt Divine in England ever ſaved?—Yet I told her, She muſt be patient: That her violence made her worſe: And that, if ſhe would compoſe herſelf, ſhe might get into a frame more proper for her preſent circumſtances.

Who I? interrupted ſhe: I get into a better frame! I, who can neither cry, nor pray! Yet already feel the torments of the damn'd! What mercy can I expect! What hope is left for me?—Then, that ſweet creature! That incomparable Miſs Harlowe!—She, it ſeems, is dead and gone!—O that curſed Man! Had it not been for him! I had never had This, the moſt crying of all my ſins, to anſwer for! And then ſhe ſet up another howl.

And is ſhe dead?—Indeed dead? proceeded ſhe, when her howl was over—O what an angel have I been the means of deſtroying!—For tho' it was that wicked man's fault that ever ſhe was in my houſe, yet it was Mine, and Yours, and Yours, and Yours, Devils as we all were (turning to Sally, to Polly, and to one or two more) that he did not do her juſtice! And That, That is my curſe, and will one day be yours! And then again ſhe howled.

I ſtill adviſed patience. I ſaid, that if her time was ſo ſhort as ſhe apprehended it to be, the more ought ſhe to endeavour to compoſe herſelf: And then ſhe would at leaſt die with more eaſe to herſelf—and ſatisfaction to her friends, I was going to ſay—But the word die put her into a violent raving, and thus ſhe broke in upon me.

Die, did you ſay, Sir?—Die!—I will not, I cannot die!—I know not how to die!—Die, Sir!—And muſt I then die!—Leave this world!—I cannot bear it!—And [261] who brought You hither, Sir, (her eyes ſtriking fire at me) Who brought you hither to tell me I muſt die, Sir?—I cannot, I will not leave this world. Let others die, who wiſh for another! who expect a better!—I have had my plagues in This; but would compound for all future hopes, ſo as I may be nothing after This! And then ſhe howled and bellowed by turns.

By my faith, Lovelace, I trembled in every joint; and looking upon her who ſpoke This, and roared Thus, and upon the company round me, I more than once thought myſelf to be in one of the infernal manſions!

Yet will I proceed and try for thy good if I can ſhock thee but half as much with my deſcriptions, as I was ſhocked by what I ſaw and heard.

Sally—Polly—Siſter Carter! ſaid ſhe, did you not tell me I might recover? Did not the ſurgeon tell me I might?

And ſo you may, cry'd Sally; Mr. Garon ſays you may, if you'll be patient. But, as I have often told you this bleſſed morning, you are readier to take deſpair from your own fears, than comfort from all the hope we can give you.

Yet, cry'd the wretch, interrupting, does not Mr. Bel⯑ford (and to him you have told the truth, tho' you won't to me; Does not he) tell me I ſhall die?—I cannot bear it! I cannot bear the thoughts of dying!—

And then, but that half a dozen at once endeavoured to keep down her violent hands, would ſhe have beaten herſelf; as it ſeems ſhe had often attempted to do from the time the ſurgeon popt out the word mortification to her.

Well, but to what purpoſe, ſaid I (turning aſide to her Siſter, and to Sally and Polly) are theſe hopes given her, if the gentlemen of the faculty give her over? You ſhould let her know the worſt, and then ſhe muſt ſubmit; for there is no running away from death. If ſhe has any mat⯑ters to ſettle, put her upon ſettling them; and do not, by telling her ſhe will live when there is no room to expect it, take from her the opportunity of doing needful things. Do the ſurgeons actually give her over?

They do, whiſpered they. Her groſs habit, they ſay, gives no hopes. We have ſent for both ſurgeons, whom we expect every minute.

[262]Both the ſurgeons (who are French, for Mrs. Sinclair has heard Tourville launch out in the praiſe of French Surgeons) came in while we were thus talking. I retired to the further end of the room, and threw up a window for a little air, being half poiſoned by the effluvia ariſing from ſo many contaminated carcaſſes; which gave me no imperfect idea of the ſtench of gaols, which corrupting the ambient air, give what is called the priſon-diſtemper.

I came back to the bed-ſide, when the ſurgeons had in⯑ſpected the fracture; and aſked them, If there were any expectation of her life?

One of them whiſpered me, There was none: That ſhe had a ſtrong fever upon her, which alone, in ſuch a habit, would probably do the buſineſs; and that the mortification had viſibly gained upon her, ſince they were there ſix hours ago.

Will amputation ſave her? Her affairs and her mind want ſettling. A few days added to her life may be of ſervice to her in both reſpects.

They told me the fracture was high in her leg; that the knee was greatly bruiſed; that the mortification, in all probability, had ſpread half-way of the Femur: And then, getting me between them (three or four of the wo⯑men joining us, and liſtening with their mouths open, and all the ſigns of ignorant wonder in their faces, as there appeared of ſelf-ſufficiency in thoſe of the artiſts) did they by turns fill my ears with an anatomical deſcription of the leg and thigh, running over with terms of art; of the Tarſus, the Metatarſus, the Tibia, the Fibula, the Patella, the Os Tali, the Os Tibiae, the Tibialis Poſticus and Tibialis Anticus, up to the Os Femoris, to the Acetabulum of the Os Iſchion, the Great Troch [...]nter, Glutes, Triceps, Levidus, and Little Rotators; in ſhort, of all the muſcles, cartilages, and bones, that conſtitute the leg and thigh from the great toe to the hip; as if they would ſhew me, that all their ſcience had penetrated their heads no farther than their mouths; while Sally lifted up her hands with a Laud bleſs me! Are all Surgeons ſo learned!—But at laſt both the gentlemen declared, That if ſhe and her friends would conſent to amputation, they would whip off her leg in a moment.

[263]Mrs. Carter aſked, To what purpoſe, if the operation would not ſave her?

Very true, they ſaid; but it might be a ſatisfaction to the patient's friends, that all was done that could be done.

And ſo [...]e poor wretch was to be lanced and quartered, as I may ſay, for an experiment only! And, without any hope of benefit from the operation, was to pay the ſur⯑geons for tormenting h [...]r!

I cannot but ſay I have a mean opinion of both theſe gentlemen, who, tho' they make a figure it ſeems in their way of living, and boaſt not only a French extraction, but a Paris education, never will make any in their practice.

How unlike my honeſt Engliſh friend Tomkins, a plain, ſerious, intelligent man, whoſe art lies deeper than in words; who always avoids parade and jargon: and en⯑deavours to make every one as much a judge of what he is about as himſelf.

All the time the ſurgeons run on with their anato⯑mical proceſs, the wretched woman moſt frightfully roared and bellowed; which the gentlemen (who ſhewed them⯑ſelves to be of the claſs of thoſe who are not affected with the evils they do not feel) took no other notice of, than by raiſing their voices to be heard, as ſhe raiſed hers—Be⯑ing evidently more ſollicitous to increaſe their acquain⯑tance, and to propagate the notion of their ſkill, than to attend to the clamours of the poor wretch whom they were called in to relieve; tho' by this very means, like the dog and the ſhadow in the fable, they loſt both aims with me; for I never was deceived in one rule, which I made early; to wit, That the ſtilleſt water is the deepeſt, while the bubbling ſtream only betrays ſhallowneſs; and that ſtones and pebbles lie there ſo near the ſurface, to point out the beſt place to ford a river dry-ſhod.

As no body cared to tell the unhappy wretch what every one apprehended muſt follow, and what the ſurgeons con⯑vinced me ſoon would, I undertook to be the denouncer of her doom. Accordingly, the operators being with⯑drawn, I ſat down by the bed-ſide, and ſaid, Come, Mrs. Sinclair, let me adviſe you to forbear theſe ravings at the carel [...]ſſneſ [...] of thoſe, who, I find, at the time, could take no care of themſelves; and ſince the accident has happened, [264] and cannot be remedied, to reſolve to make the beſt of the matter: For all this violence but enrages the malady, and you will probably fall into a delirium, if you give way to it, which will deprive you of that reaſon which you ought to make the beſt of, for the time it may be lent you.

She turned her head towards me, and hearing me ſpeak with a determined voice, and ſeeing me aſſume as deter⯑mined an air, became more calm and attentive.

I went on, telling her, that I was glad, from the hints ſhe had given, to find her concerned for her paſt miſ-ſpent life, and particularly for the part ſhe had had in the ruin of the moſt excellent woman on earth; That if ſhe would compoſe herſelf, and patiently ſubmit to the con⯑ſequence of an evil ſhe had brought upon herſelf, it might poſſibly be happy for her yet. Mean time, continued I, tell me, with temper and calmneſs, Why you was ſo de⯑ſirous to ſee me?

She ſeemed to be in great confuſion of thought, and turned her head this way and that; and at laſt, after much heſitation, ſaid, Alas for me! I hardly know what I wanted with you. When I awoke from my intemperate trance, and found what a curſed way I was in, my con⯑ſcience ſmote me, and I was for catching, like a drowning wretch, at every ſtraw. I wanted to ſee every-body and any-body but thoſe I did ſee; every-body whom I thought could give me comfort. Yet could I expect none from You neither; for you had declared yourſelf my enemy, altho' I had never done you harm: For what, Jackey, in her old tone, whining thro' her noſe, was Miſs Har⯑lowe to you?—But ſhe is happy!—But oh! what will be⯑come of me?—Yet tell me (for the ſurgeons have told you the truth, no doubt) tell me, Shall I do well again? May I recover? If I may, I will begin a new courſe of life: As I hope to be ſaved I will. I'll renounce you all—every one of you (looking round her) and ſcrape all I can toge⯑ther, and live a life of penitence; and when I die, leave it all to charitable uſes—I will, by my ſoul—Every doit of it to charity—But this once, lifting up her rolling eyes, and folded hands (with a wry-mouthed earneſtneſs, in which every muſcle and feature of her face bore its part) [265] this one time—Good God of heaven and earth, but this once! this once! repeating thoſe words five or ſix times, ſpare thy poor creature, and every hour of my life ſhall be penitence and atonement: Upon my ſoul it ſhall!

Leſs vehement! a little leſs vehement! ſaid I—It is not for me, who have led ſo free a life, as you but too well know, to talk to you in a reproaching ſtrain, and to ſet before you the iniquity you have lived in, and the many ſouls you have helped to deſtroy. But as you are in ſo penitent a way, if I might adviſe, it ſhould be to ſend for a good Clergyman, the purity of whoſe liſe and manners may make all theſe things come from him with a better grace than they can from me.

How, Sir! What, Sir! interrupting me; Send for a Parſon!—Then you indeed think I ſhall die! Then you think there is no room for hope!—A Parſon, Sir!—Who ſends for a Parſon, while there is any hope left? The ſight of a Parſon would be death immediate to me!—I cannot, cannot die!—Never tell me of it!—What! die!—What! cut off in the midſt of my ſins!

And then ſhe began to rave again.

I cannot bear, ſaid I, riſing from my ſeat with a ſtern air, to ſee a reaſonable creature behave ſo outrageouſly!—Will this vehemence, think you, mend the matter? Will it avail you any thing? Will it not rather ſhorten the life you are ſo deſirous to have lengthened, and deprive you of the only opportunity you can ever have to ſettle your affairs for both worlds?—This is but the common lot: And if it will be yours ſoon, looking at her, it will be alſo yours, and yours, and yours, ſpeaking with a raiſed voice, and turning to every trembling devil round her (for they all ſhook at my forcible application); and mine alſo. And you have reaſon to be thankful, that you did not periſh in that act of intemperance, which brought you to this: For it might have been your neck, as well as your leg; and then you had not had the opportunity you now have for repentance—And the Lord have mercy upon you! into what a State might you have awaked?

Then did the poor wretch ſet up an inarticulate fright⯑ful howl, ſuch a one as I never before heard uttered, as if already pangs infernal had taken hold of her; and ſeeing [266] every one half-frighted, and me motioning to withdraw, O pity me, pity me, Mr. Belford, cried ſhe, her words interrupted by groans. I find you think I ſhall die! And what I may be, and where, in a very few hours—Who can tell?

I told her it was in vain to flatter her: It was my opi⯑nion ſhe would not recover.

I was going to re-adviſe her to calm her ſpirits, and en⯑deavour to reſign herſelf, and to make the beſt of the opportunity yet left her; but this declaration ſet her into a moſt outrageous raving. She would have torn her hair, and beaten her breaſt, had not ſome of the wretches held her hands by force, while others kept her as ſteady as they could, leſt ſhe ſhould again put out her new-ſet leg: So that, ſeeing her thus incapable of advice, and in a per⯑fect phrenſy, I told Sally Martin, that there was no bear⯑ing the room; and that their beſt way was to ſend for a Miniſter to pray by her, and to reaſon with her, as ſoon as ſhe ſhould be capable of it.

And ſo I left them; and never was ſo ſenſible of the bene⯑fit of freſh air, as I was the moment I entered the ſtreet.

Nor is it to be wondered at, when it is conſidered, that to the various ill ſmells, that will be always found in a cloſe ſick-bed room (ſince generally when the Phyſician comes, the Air is ſhut out) This of Mrs. Sinclair was the more particularly offenſive, as, to the ſcent of plaiſters, em⯑brocations, and ointments, were added the ſtenches of ſpi⯑rituous liquors, burnt and unburnt, of all denominations: For one or other of the creatures, under pretence of colics, gripes, qualms, or inſurrections, were continually calling for ſupplies of theſe, all the time I was there. And yet this is thought to be a genteel houſe of the ſort: And all the proſtitutes in it, are proſtitutes of price, and their viſiters people of note.

O Lovelace! what lives do moſt of us Rakes and Liber⯑tines lead! What company do we keep! And, for ſuch company, what ſociety renounce, or endeavour to make like theſe!

What woman, nice in her perſon, and of purity in her mind and manners, did ſhe know what miry wallowers the generality of men of our claſs are in themſelves, and [267] conſtantly trough and ſty with, but would deteſt the thoughts of aſſociating with ſuch filthy ſenſualiſts, whoſe favourite taſte carries them to mingle with the dregs of ſtews, brothels, and common-ſewers.

Yet, to ſuch a choice are many worthy women be⯑trayed, by that falſe and inconſiderate notion, raiſed and propagated, no doubt, by the author of all deluſion, That a reformed Rake makes the beſt husband. We Rakes, in⯑deed, are bold enough to ſuppoſe, that women in general are as much Rakes in their hearts, as the Libertines ſome of them ſuffer themſelves to be taken with, are in their practice. A ſuppoſition therefore, which, it behoves per⯑ſons of true honour of that Sex, to diſcountenance, by rejecting the addreſs of every man, whoſe character will not ſtand the teſt of that virtue, which is the glory of a woman: And indeed, I may ſay, of a man too: Why ſhould it not?

How, indeed, can it be, if this point be duly weighed, that a man who thinks alike of all the Sex, and knows it to be in the power of a wife to do him the greateſt diſ⯑honour man can receive, and doubts not her will to do it, if opportunity offer, and importunity be not wanting: That ſuch a one, from principle, ſhould be a good hus⯑band to any woman? And, indeed, little do innocents think, what a total revolution of manners, what a change of fixed habits, nay, what a conqueſt of a bad nature, is required, to make a man a good husband, a worthy fa⯑ther, and true friend, from principle; eſpecially when it is conſidered, that it is not in a man's own power to re⯑form when he will. This (to ſay nothing of my own expe⯑rience) thou haſt found in the progreſs of thy attempts upon the divine Miſs Harlowe. For whoſe remorſes could be either deeper, or more frequent? and whoſe more tran⯑ſient?

Don't be diſguſted, that I mingle ſuch grave reflections as theſe with my narratives. It becomes me, in my preſent way of thinking, to do ſo, when I ſee in Miſs Har⯑lowe, how all human excellence, and in poor Belton, how all inhuman libertiniſm, and am near ſeeing in this abandon'd woman, how all diabolical profligateneſs, end. And glad ſhould I be, for your own ſake, for your [268] ſplendid family's ſake, and for the ſake of all your inti⯑mates and acquaintance, that you were labouring under the ſame impreſſions, that ſo we, who have been com⯑panions in (and promoters of one another's) wickedneſs, might join in a general atonement to the utmoſt of our power.

I came home reflecting upon all theſe things, more edi⯑fying to me than any Sermon I could have heard preached: And I ſhall conclude this long letter with obſerving, that altho' I left the wretched howler in a high phrenſy-fit, which was exceſſively ſhocking to the by-ſtanders; yet her phrenſy is the happieſt part of her dreadful condition: For when ſhe is herſelf, as it is called, what muſt be her reflections upon her paſt profligate life, throughout which it has been her conſtant delight and buſineſs, devil-like, to make others as wicked as herſelf! What muſt her terrors be (a Hell already begun in her mind!) on look⯑ing forward to the dreadful State ſhe is now upon the verge of!—But I drop my trembling pen.

LETTER LXXIX. Colonel MORDEN, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

ACcording to my promiſe, I ſend you an account of matters here. Poor Mrs. Norton was ſo very ill upon the road, that, ſlowly as the herſe moved, and the chariot followed, I was afraid we ſhould not have got her to St. Alban's. We put up there as I had intended. I was in hopes that ſhe would have been better for the ſtop: But I was forced to leave her behind me. I ordered the ſervant⯑maid you was ſo conſiderately kind as to ſend down with her, to be very careful of her; and left the chariot to [269] attend her. She deſerves all the regard that can be paid her; not only upon my couſin's account, but on her own. She is an excellent woman.

When we were within five miles of Harlowe-place, I put on a hand-gallop. I ordered the herſe to proceed more ſlowly ſtill, the croſs-road we were in being rough, and having more time before us than I wanted; for I wiſhed not the herſe to be in till near duſk.

I got to my couſin's about 4 o'clock. You may believe I found a mournful houſe. You deſire me to be very mi⯑nute.

At my entrance into the court, they were all in motion. Every ſervant whom I ſaw had ſwelled eyes, and looked with ſo much concern, that at firſt I apprehended ſome new diſaſter had happened in the family.

Mr. John and Mr. Antony Harlowe and Mrs. Hervey were there. They all helped on one another's grief, as they had before each other's hardneſs of heart.

My couſin James met me at the entrance of the hall. His countenance expreſſed a fixed concern; and he de⯑ſired me to excuſe his behaviour the laſt time I was there.

My couſin Arabella came to me full of tears and grief: O couſin! ſaid ſhe, hanging upon my arm, I dare not aſk you any queſtions!—About the approach of the herſe, I ſuppoſe ſhe meant.

I myſelf was full of grief; and without going farther or ſpeaking, ſat down in the hall, in the firſt chair.

The brother ſat down on one hand of me, the ſiſter on the other. Both were ſilent. The latter in tears.

Mr. Antony Harlowe came to me ſoon after. His face was overſpread with all the appearance of woe. He re⯑queſted me to walk into the parlour; where, as he ſaid, were all his fellow-mourners.

I attended him in. My couſins James and Arabella followed me.

A perfect concert of grief, as I may ſay, broke out the moment I entered the parlour.

My couſin Harlowe, the dear creature's Father, as ſoon as he ſaw me, ſaid, O couſin, couſin, of all our family, you are the only one, who have nothing to reproach your⯑ſelf with!—You are a happy man!

[270]The poor Mother bowing, her head to me in ſpeechleſs grief, ſat with her handkerchief held to her eyes, with one hand. The other hand was held by her ſiſter Hervey, between both hers; Mrs. Hervey weeping upon it.

Near the window ſat Mr. John Harlowe. His face and his body were turned from the ſorrowing company. His eyes were red and ſwelled.

My couſin Antony, at his re-entering the parlour, went towards Mrs. Harlowe—Don't—dear ſiſter, ſaid he!—Then towards my couſin Harlowe—Don't—dear brother!—Don't thus give way—And without being able to ſay another word, went to a corner of the parlour, and, want⯑ing himſelf the comfort he would fain have given, ſunk into a chair, and audibly ſobbed.

Miſs Arabella followed her uncle Antony, as he walked in before me; and ſeemed as if ſhe would have ſpoken to the pierced mother ſome words of comfort. But ſhe was unable to utter them, and got behind her mother's chair; and inclining her face over it on the unhappy lady's ſhoul⯑der, ſeemed to claim the conſolation that indulgent parent uſed, but then was unable to afford her.

Young Mr. Harlowe with all his vehemence of ſpirit, was now ſubdued. His ſelf-reproaching conſcience, no doubt, was the cauſe of it.

And what, Sir, muſt their thoughts be, which at that moment, in a manner deprived them all of motion, and turned their ſpeech into ſighs and groans!—How to be pitied, how greatly to be pitied, all of them! But how much to be curſed that abhorred Lovelace, who, as it ſeems, by arts uncommon, and a villainy without example, has been the ſole author of a woe ſo complicated and extenſive!—God judge me, as—But I ſtop—The man is your friend!—He already ſuffers, you tell me, in his intellect—Reſtore him heaven to That—If I find the matter come out, as I apprehend it will—Indeed her own hints of his uſage of her, as in her Will, and in her firſt Letter to me, are enough!—Nor think, my beloved couſin, thou darling of my heart! that thy gentle ſpirit, breathing charity and forgiveneſs to the vileſt of men, ſhall avail him!

But once more I ſtop—Forgive me, Sir!—Who could behold ſuch a ſcene, who could recollect it, in order to [271] deſcribe it (as minutely as you wiſhed me to relate how this unhappy family were affected on this ſad occaſion) every one of the mourners nearly related to himſelf, and not be exaſperated againſt the author of all?

As I was the only perſon (grieved as I was myſelf, from whom any of them, at that inſtant, could derive comfort; Let us not, ſaid I, my dear couſin, approaching the in⯑conſolable Mother, give way to a grief, which however juſt, can now avail us nothing. We hurt ourſelves, and can⯑not recall the dear creature for whom we mourn. Nor would you wiſh it, if you knew with what aſſurances of eternal happineſs ſhe left the world.—She is happy, Madam!—Depend upon it, ſhe is happy! And comfort yourſelves with that aſſurance.

O couſin, couſin! cried the unhappy mother, with⯑drawing her hand from her ſiſter Hervey, and preſſing mine with it, You know not what a child I have loſt!—Then in a lower voice, And how loſt!—That it is that makes the loſs inſupportable.

They all joined in a kind of melancholy chorus, and each accuſed him and herſelf, and ſome of them one an⯑other. But the eyes of all in turn, were caſt upon my couſin James as the perſon who had kept up the general reſentment againſt ſo ſweet a creature. While he was hardly able to bear his own remorſe: Nor Miſs Harlowe hers; She breaking out into words, How tauntingly did I write to her! How barbarouſly did I inſult her! Yet how patiently did ſhe take it!—Who would have thought ſhe had been ſo near her end!—O brother, brother!—but for you!—But for you!—

Double not upon me, ſaid he, my own woes!—I have every thing before me that has paſſed!—I thought only to reclaim a dear creature that had erred! I intended not to break her tender heart!—But it was the villainous Love⯑lace who did that—Not any of us!—Yet, couſin, did ſhe not attribute all to me?—I fear ſhe did!—Tell me only, did ſhe name me, did ſhe ſpeak of me, in her laſt hours? I hope ſhe, who could forgive the greateſt villain on earth, and plead that he may be ſafe from our vengeance; I hope ſhe could forgive me.

[272]She died bleſſing you all; and juſtified rather than con⯑demned your ſeverity to her.

Then they ſet up another general lamentation. We ſee, ſaid her father; Enough we ſee, in her heart-piercing letters to us, what a happy frame ſhe was in a few days before her death: But did it hold to the laſt? Had ſhe no repinings? Had the dear child no heart-burnings?

None at all!—I never ſaw, and never ſhall ſee, ſo bleſſed a departure: And no wonder, for I never heard of ſuch a preparation. Every hour for weeks together was taken up in it. Let this be our comfort—We need only to wiſh for ſo happy an end for ourſelves and for thoſe who are neareſt to our hearts. We may any of us be grieved, for acts of unkindneſs to her: But had all happened that once ſhe wiſhed for, ſhe could not have made a happier, per⯑haps not ſo happy, an end.

Dear ſoul! and dear ſweet ſoul! the Father, Uncles, Siſter, my couſin Hervey cried out all at once in accents of anguiſh inexpreſſibly affecting.

We muſt for ever be diſturbed for thoſe acts of unkind⯑neſs to ſo ſweet a child, cried the unhappy Mother!—Indeed, indeed (ſoftly to her Siſter Hervey) I have been too paſſive, much too paſſive, in this caſe!—The tem⯑porary quiet I have been ſo ſtudious all my life to pre⯑ſerve, has coſt me everlaſting diſquiet!—

There ſhe ſtopt.

Dear Siſter! was all Mrs. Hervey could ſay.

I have done but half my duty to the deareſt and moſt meritorious of children, reſumed the ſorrowing mother!—Nay, not half!—How have we hardened our hearts againſt her!—

Again her tears choaked up the paſſage of her words.

My deareſt, deareſt Siſter! again was all Mrs. Hervey could ſay.

Would to Heaven, proceeded, exclaiming, the poor mother, I had but once ſeen her! Then turning to my Couſin James and his Siſter—O my Son! O my Arabella! if WE were to receive as little mercy—

And there again ſhe ſtopt, her tears interrupting her further ſpeech: Every one, all the time, remaining ſilent; [273] their countenances ſhewing a grief in their hearts too big for expreſſion.

Now you ſee, Mr. Belford, that my deareſt couſin could be allowed all her merit!—What a dreadful thing is after-reflection upon a conduct ſo perverſe and unna⯑tural?

O this curſed friend of yours, Mr. Belford! This de⯑teſted Lovelace!—To him, To him is owing—

Pardon me, Sir. I will lay down my pen till I have re⯑covered my temper.

LETTER LXXX. Colonel MORDEN. In Continuation.

WHEN the unhappy mourners were all retired, I directed the lid of the coffin to be unſcrewed, and cauſed ſome freſh aromatics and flowers to be put into it.

The corpſe was very little altered, notwithſtanding the journey. The ſweet ſmile remained.

The maids who brought the flowers were ambitious of ſtrewing them about it: They poured forth freſh lamen⯑tations over her; each wiſhing ſhe had been ſo happy as to have been allowed to attend her in London. One of them particularly, who is, it ſeems, my couſin Arabella's perſonal ſervant, was more clamorous in her grief than the reſt; and the moment ſhe turned her back, all the others allowed ſhe had reaſon for it. I enquired after⯑wards about her, and found, that this creature was ſet over my dear couſin, when ſhe was confined to her chamber by their indiſcreet ſeverity.

Good heaven! that they ſhould treat, and ſuffer thus to be treated, a young lady, who was qualified to give laws to all her family!

[278]When my couſins were told, that the lid was unſcrew'd, they preſs'd in again, all but the mournful Father and Mother, as if by conſent. Mrs. Hervey kiſſed her pale lips. Flower of the world! was all ſhe could ſay; and gave place to Miſs Arabella; who kiſſing the forehead of her whom ſhe had ſo cruelly treated, could only ſay, to my couſin James (looking upon the corpſe, and upon him) O Brother!—While he, taking the fair lifeleſs hand, kiſſed it, and retreated with precipitation.

Her two Uncles were ſpeechleſs. They ſeemed to wait each other's example, whether to look upon the corpſe, or not. I ordered the lid to be replaced; and then they preſſed forward, as the others again did, to take a laſt farewel of the caſket which ſo lately contained ſo rich a jewel.

Then it was that the grief of each found fluenter ex⯑preſſion; and the fair corpſe was addreſſed to with all the tenderneſs that the ſincereſt love and warmeſt admi⯑ration could inſpire) by each, according to their different degrees of relationſhip, as if none of them had before looked upon her. She was their very Niece, both uncles ſaid; The injured Saint, her uncle Harlowe; The ſame ſmiling Siſter, Arabella!—The dear creature! all of them—The ſame benignity of countenance! The ſame ſweet compoſure! The ſame natural dignity—She was queſtionleſs happy! That ſweet ſmile betokened her being ſo; Themſelves moſt unhappy!—And then, once more, the Brother took the lifeleſs hand, and vowed Revenge upon it, on the curſed author of all this diſtreſs.

The unhappy parents propoſed to take one laſt view and farewel of their once darling daughter. The Father was got to the parlour-door, after the inconſolable Mo⯑ther: But neither of them were able to enter it. The Mother ſaid, he muſt once more ſee the child of her heart, or ſhe ſhould never enjoy herſelf. But they both agreed to refer their melancholy curioſity till the next day; and hand in hand retired inconſolable, and ſpeechleſs both, their faces overſpread with woe, and turned from each other, as unable each to behold the diſtreſs of the other.

When all were withdrawn, I retired, and ſent for my couſin James, and acquainted him with his ſiſter's requeſt [279] in relation to the diſcourſe to be pronounced at her interr⯑ment; telling him, how neceſſary it was, that the Mi⯑niſter, whoever he were to be, ſhould have the earlieſt no⯑tice given him that the caſe would admit.

He lamented the death of the reverend Dr. Lewen, who, as he ſaid, was a great admirer of his ſiſter, as ſhe was of him, and would have been the fitteſt of all men for that office.

He ſpoke with great aſperity of Mr. Brand, upon whoſe light enquiry after his ſiſter's character in town, he was willing to lay ſome of the blame due to himſelf.

Mr. Melvill, Dr. Lewen's aſſiſtant, muſt, he ſaid, be the man; and he praiſed him for his abilities, his elocution, and unexceptionable manners; and promiſed to engage him early in the morning.

He called out his Siſter, and ſhe was of his opinion. So I left this upon them.

They both, with no little warmth, hinted their diſap⯑probation of you, Sir, for their ſiſter's Executor, on the ſcore of your intimate friendſhip with the author of her ruin.

You muſt not reſent any thing I ſhall communicate to you of what they ſay on this occaſion. Depending that you will not, I ſhall write with the greater freedom.

I told them how much my dear couſin was obliged to your friendſhip and humanity: The injunctions ſhe had laid you under, and your own inclination to obſerve them. I ſaid, That you were a man of honour: That you were deſirous of conſulting me, becauſe you would not willingly give offence to any of them; and that I was very fond of cultivating your favour and correſpondence.

They ſaid, There was no need of an Executor out of their family, and they hoped that you, Sir, would relin⯑quiſh ſo unneceſſary a truſt, as they called it. My couſin James declared, that he would write to you as ſoon as the funeral was over, to deſire that you would do ſo, upon proper aſſurances that all that the Will preſcribed ſhould be performed.

I ſaid, You were a man of reſolution: That I thought he would hardly ſucceed; for that you made a point of honour of it.

[280]I then ſhewed them their Siſter's poſthumous Letter to you; in which ſhe confeſſes her obligations to you, and regard for you, and for your future welfare ^(a). You may believe, Sir, they were extremely affected with the peru⯑ſal of it.

They were ſurprized, that I had given up to you the proceed of her grandfather's eſtate, ſince his death. I told them plainly, that they muſt thank themſelves if any thing diſagreeable to them occurred from their ſiſter's de⯑viſe; deſerted and thrown into the hands of ſtrangers, as ſhe had been.

They ſaid, they would report all I had ſaid to their father and mother; adding, That great as their trouble was, they found they had more ſtill to come. But if Mr. Belford were to be the Executor of her Will, contrary to their hopes, they beſought me to take the trouble of tranſacting every thing with you; that a friend of the man, to whom they owed all their calamity, might not appear to them.

They were extremely moved at the text their ſiſter had choſen for the ſubject of the funeral diſcourſe ^(b). I had extracted from the Will that article, ſuppoſing it pro⯑bable, that I might not ſo ſoon have an opportunity to ſhew them the Will itſelf, as would otherwiſe have been neceſſary, on account of the interrment: Which cannot be delayed.

LETTER LXXXI. Colonel MORDEN. In Continuation.

WE are ſuch bad company here to one another, that it is ſome relief to retire, and write.

I was ſummoned to breakfaſt about half an hour after nine. Slowly did the mournful congreſs meet. Each, liftleſs and ſpiritleſs, took our place, with ſwollen eyes inquiring, without expecting any tolerable account, how each had reſted.

The ſorrowing Mother gave for anſwer, That ſhe ſhould never more know what Reſt was.

By the time we were well ſeated, the bell ringing, the outward gate opening, a chariot rattling over the pave⯑ment of the court-yard, put them into emotion.

I left them; and was juſt time enough to give Miſs Howe my hand, as ſhe alighted: Her maid in tears remaining in the chariot.

I think you told me, Sir, you never ſaw Miſs Howe. She is a fine graceful young lady. A fixed melancholy on her whole aſpect, overclouded a vivacity and fire, which, nevertheleſs, darted now-and-then through the awful gloom. I ſhall ever reſpect her for her love to my dear couſin.

Never did I think, ſaid ſhe, as ſhe gave me her hand, to enter more theſe doors: But, living or dead, my Cla⯑riſſa brings me after her any-whither!

She entered with me the little parlour. The moment ſhe ſaw the coffin, ſhe withdrew her hand from mine, and with impatience puſhed aſide the lid. As impatiently ſhe re⯑moved the face-cloth. In a wild air, ſhe claſped her uplifted hands together; and now looked upon the corpſe, now up to Heaven, as if appealing her woes to that? Her bo⯑ſom heaved and flutter'd diſcernible thro' her handker⯑chief, [282] and at laſt ſhe broke ſilence;—O Sir!—See you not here!—See you not here—the Glory of her Sex?—Thus by the moſt villainous of yours—Thus—laid low!

O my bleſſed Friend, ſaid ſhe!—My ſweet Compa⯑nion!—My lovely Monitreſs!—kiſſing her lips at every tender invocation. And is this All!—Is it All, of my CLARISSA's Story!

Then, after a ſhort pauſe, and a profound ſigh, ſhe turned to me, and then to her breathleſs friend—But is ſhe, can ſhe, be really dead!—O no! no!—She only ſleeps—Awake, my beloved Friend! My ſweet clay-cold Friend, awake! Let thy Anna Howe revive thee, my dear creature!—by her warm breath revive thee! And, kiſſing her again, Let my warm lips animate thy cold ones!

Then, ſighing again, as from the bottom of her heart, and with an air, as if diſappointed that ſhe anſwered not, And can ſuch perfection end thus!—And art thou really and indeed flown from thy Anna Howe!—O my unkind CLARISSA!

She was ſilent a few moments, and then, ſeeming to re⯑cover herſelf, ſhe turned to me—Forgive, forgive, Mr. Morden, this wild frenſy!—I am not myſelf!—I never ſhall be!—You know not the Excellence, no, not half the Excellence, that is thus laid low!—Repeating, This can⯑not, ſurely, be All of my CLARISSA's Story!

Again pauſing, One tear, my beloved friend, didſt thou allow me!—But this dumb ſorrow!—O for a tear to eaſe my full-ſwoln heart, that is juſt burſting!—

But why, Sir, why, Mr. Morden, was ſhe ſent hither? Why not to me?—She has no Father, no Mother, no Re⯑lations; no, not one!—They had all renounced her. I was her ſympathizing friend—And had not I the beſt right to my dear creature's remains?—And muſt Names, without Nature, be preferred to ſuch a Love as mine?

Again ſhe kiſſed her lips, each cheek, her forehead—and ſighed as if her heart would break—

But why, why, ſaid ſhe, was I with-held from ſeeing my deareſt dear friend, before ſhe commenced Angel?—Delaying ſtill, and too eaſily perſuaded to delay, the friendly viſit that my heart panted after; what pain will this re⯑flection give me!—O my bleſſed Friend! Who knows, [283] who knows, had I come in time, what my cordial com⯑fortings might have done for thee!

But—looking round her, as if ſhe apprehended ſeeing ſome of the family—One more kiſs, my Angel, my Friend, my ever-to-be-regretted loſt Companion! And let me fly this hated houſe, which I never loved but for thy ſake!—Adieu, then, my deareſt CLARISSA!—Thou art happy, I doubt not, as thou aſſuredſt me in thy laſt letter!—O may we meet, and rejoice together, where no villainous Love⯑laces, no hard-hearted Relations, will ever ſhock our inno⯑cence, or ruffle our felicity!

Again ſhe was ſilent, unable to go, tho' ſeeming to in⯑tend it; ſtruggling, as it were, with her grief, and heav⯑ing with anguiſh: At laſt, happily, a flood of tears guſhed from her eyes—Now!—Now!—ſaid ſhe, ſhall I—ſhall I—be eaſier. But for this kindly relief, my heart would have burſt aſunder—More, many more tears than theſe are due to my CLARISSA, whoſe counſel has done for me what mine could not do for her!—But why, looking earneſtly upon her, her hands claſped and lifted up—But why do I thus lament the HAPPY? And that thou art ſo, is my comfort. It is, it is, my dear creature! kiſſing her again.

Excuſe me, Sir (turning to me, who was as much moved as herſelf); I loved the dear creature, as never woman loved another. Excuſe my frantic grief. How has the Glory of her Sex fallen a victim to villainy, and to hard-heartedneſs!

Madam, ſaid I, they All have it!—Now indeed they have it.—

And let them have it!—I ſhould bely my Love for the friend of my heart, were I to pity them!—But how unhappy am I (looking upon the Corpſe) that I ſaw her not before theſe Eyes were ſhut, before theſe Lips were for ever cloſed!—Oh! Sir, you know not the wiſdom that con⯑tinually flowed from theſe Lips, when ſhe ſpoke!—Nor what a Friend I have loſt!

Then, ſurveying the Lid, ſhe ſeemed to take in at once the meaning of the emblems: And this gave her ſo much freſh grief, that tho' ſhe ſeveral times wiped her eyes, ſhe was unable to read the inſcription and texts: Turning [284] therefore to me, Favour me, Sir, I pray you, by a line, with the deſcription of theſe emblems, and with theſe texts: And if I might be allowed a lock of the dear creature's hair—

I told her, that her Executor would order both; and would alſo ſend her a copy of her Will; in which ſhe would find the moſt grateful remembrances of her Love for her, whom ſhe calls The Siſter of her Heart.

Juſtly, ſaid ſhe, does ſhe call me ſo; for we had but one heart, but one ſoul, between us: And now my better half is torn from me—what ſhall I do?

But looking round her, on a ſervant's ſtepping by the door, as if again ſhe had apprehended it was ſome of the family—Once more, ſaid ſhe, a ſolemn, an everlaſting adieu!—Alas! for me, a ſolemn, an everlaſting adieu!

Then again embracing her face with both her hands, and kiſſing it, and afterwards the hands of the dear de⯑ceaſed, firſt one, then the other, ſhe gave me her hand; and, quitting the room with precipitation, ruſh'd into her chariot; and, when there, with profound ſighs, and a freſh burſt of tears, unable to ſpeak, ſhe bowed her head to me, and was driven away.

The inconſolable company ſaw how much I had been moved, on my return to them. Mr. James Harlowe had been telling them what had paſſed between him and me: And, finding myſelf unfit for company, and obſerving, that they broke off talk at my coming-in; I thought it proper to leave them to their conſultations.

And here I will put an end to this letter; for indeed, Sir, the very recollection of this affecting ſcene has left me nearly as unable to proceed, as I was, juſt after it, to con⯑verſe with my couſins. I am, Sir, with great truth,

LETTER LXXXII. Colonel MORDEN. In Continuation.

THE good Mrs. Norton is arrived, a little amended in her ſpirits: Owing to the very poſthumous letters, [285] as I may call them, which you, Mr. Belford, as well as I, apprehended would have had fatal effects upon her.

I cannot but attribute this to the right turn of her mind. It ſeems ſhe has been inured to afflictions; and has lived in a conſtant hope of a better life, and, having no acts of unkindneſs to the dear deceaſed to reproach herſelf with, is moſt conſiderately reſolved to exert her utmoſt fortitude, in order to comfort the ſorrowing Mother.

O Mr. Belford, how does the character of my dear de⯑parted couſin riſe upon me from every mouth!—Had ſhe been my own child, or my ſiſter!—But do you think, that the man who occaſioned this great, this extended ruin—But I forbear.

The Will is not to be looked into, till the funeral rites are performed. Preparations are making for the ſolem⯑nity; and the ſervants, as well as principals, of all the branches of the family are put into deep mourning.

I have ſeen Mr. Melvill. He is a ſerious and ſenſible man. I have given him particulars to go upon in the diſ⯑courſe he is to pronounce at the funeral: But had the leſs need to do this, as I find he is extremely well acquainted with the whole unhappy ſtory; and was a perſonal ad⯑mirer of my dear couſin, and a ſincere lamenter of her misfortunes and death. The reverend Dr. Lewen, who is but very lately dead, was his particular friend, and had once intended to recommend him to her favour.

I AM juſt returned from attending the afflicted parents, in an effort they made to ſee the corpſe of their beloved child. They had requeſted my company, and that of the good Mrs. Norton. A laſt leave, the Mother ſaid, ſhe muſt take.

An effort, however, it was, and no more. The mo⯑ment they came in ſight of the coffin, before the lid could be put aſide, O my dear, ſaid the Father, retreating, I can⯑not, I find I cannot, bear it!—Had I—Had I—Had I never been hard-hearted!—Then turning round to his Lady, he had but juſt time to catch her in his arms, and prevent her ſinking on the floor. O my deareſt life! ſaid he, This is too much!—Too much indeed!—Let us, let us retire. Mrs. Norton, who (attracted by the aw⯑ful [286] receptacle) had but juſt left the good Lady, haſtened to her—Dear, dear woman, cried the unhappy Parent, flinging her arms about her neck, Bear me, bear me, hence!—O my child! my child! My own Clariſſa Har⯑lowe! Thou pride of my life ſo lately!—Never, never more, muſt I behold thee!

I ſupported the unhappy father, Mrs. Norton the ſink⯑ing mother, into the next parlour. She threw herſelf on a ſettee there: He into an elbow-chair by her: The good woman at her feet, her arms claſped round her waiſt. The two Mothers, as I may call them, of my beloved couſin, thus tenderly engaged!—What a variety of diſtreſs in theſe woeful ſcenes!

The unhappy father, in endeavouring to comfort his lady, loaded himſelf. Would to God, my dear, ſaid he, would to God, I had no more to charge myſelf with, than you have!—You relented!—You would have prevailed upon me to relent!

The greater my fault, ſaid ſhe, when I knew that diſpleaſure was carried too high, to acquieſce, as I did! What a barbarous parent was I, to let two angry children make me forget that I was mother to a third—To ſuch a third!—

Mrs. Norton uſed arguments and prayers to comfort her—O my dear Norton, anſwered the unhappy lady, You was the dear creature's more natural Mother!—Would to heaven I had no more to anſwer for than you have!

Thus the unhappy pair unavailingly recriminated, till my couſin Hervey entered, and, with Mrs. Norton, con⯑ducted up to her own chamber the inconſolable Mother. The two Uncles, and Mr. Hervey, came in at the ſame time, and prevailed upon the afflicted Father to retire with them to his—Both giving up all thoughts of ever ſeeing more the child, whoſe death was ſo deſervedly regretted by them.

Time only, Mr. Belford, can combat with advantage ſuch a heavy deprivation as this. Advice will not do, while the loſs is recent. Nature will have way given to it (and ſo it ought) till ſorrow has in a manner exhauſted itſelf; and then Reaſon and Religion will come in ſeaſonably with their powerful aids, to raiſe the drooping heart.

[287]I ſee here no face that is the ſame I ſaw at my firſt arri⯑val. Proud and haughty every countenance then, unyielding to intreaty: Now, how greatly are they humbled!—The utmoſt diſtreſs is apparent in every protracted feature, and in every burſting muſcle, of each diſconſolate mourner. Their eyes, which ſo lately flaſhed anger and reſentment, now are turned to every one that approaches them, as if imploring pity!—Could ever wilful hard-heartedneſs be more ſeverely puniſhed?

The following lines of Juvenal are, upon the whole, applicable to this Houſe and Family. I have revolved them many times ſince Sunday evening:

Let me add, That Mrs. Norton has communicated to the family the poſthumous letter ſent her. This letter affords a foundation for future conſolation to them; but at preſent it has new-pointed their grief, by making them reflect on their cruelty to ſo excellent a Daughter, Niece, and Siſter ^(a). I am, dear Sir,

LETTER LXXXIII. Colonel MORDEN. In Continuation.

WE are juſt returned from the ſolemnization of the laſt mournful Rite. My couſin James and his Siſter, Mr. and Mrs. Hervey, and their daughter, a young Lady whoſe affection for my departed Couſin ſhall ever bind me to her; my couſins John and Antony Harlowe, myſelf, and ſome other more diſtant relations of the names of Fuller and Allinſon (who to teſtify their reſpect to the memory of the dear deceaſed, had put themſelves in mourn⯑ing, ſelf-invited) attended it.

The Father and Mother would have joined in theſe laſt honours, had they been able: But they were both very much indiſpoſed; and continue to be ſo.

The inconſolable Mother told Mrs. Norton, that the two Mothers of the ſweeteſt Child in the world, ought not, on this occaſion, to be ſeparated. She therefore de⯑ſired her to ſtay with her.

The whole ſolemnity was performed with great decency and order. The diſtance from Harlowe-place to the Church is about half a mile. All the way the corpſe was attended by great numbers of people of all conditions.

[289]It was nine when it entered the church. Every corner of which was cro [...]ded. Such a profound, ſuch a ſilent reſpect did I never ſee paid at the funeral of princes. An attentive ſadneſs overſpread the face of All.

The Eulogy pronounced by Mr. Melvill was a very pa⯑thetic one. He wiped his own eyes often; and made every body preſent ſtill oftener wipe theirs.

The auditors were moſt particularly affected, when he told them, that the ſolemn text was her own choice.

He enumerated her fine qualities, naming with honour their late worthy Paſtor for his authority.

Every enumerated excellence was witneſſed to in dif⯑ferent parts of the church in reſpectful whiſpers by dif⯑ferent perſons, as of their own knowlege, as I have been ſince informed.

When he pointed to the pew where (doing credit to Re⯑ligion by her example) ſhe uſed to ſit or kneel, the whole auditory, as one perſon, turned to the p [...]w with the moſt reſpectful ſolemnity, as if ſhe had been herſelf there.

When the gentleman attributed condeſcenſion and min⯑gled dignity to her, a buzzing approbation was given to the attribute throughout the church; and a poor neat wo⯑man under my pew added, ‘'That ſhe was indeed all gra⯑ciouſneſs, and would ſpeak to any body.'’

Many eyes ran over, when he mentioned her charities, her well-judged charities. And her reward was decreed from every mouth, with interjections from ſome, and theſe words from others, ‘'The poor will dearly miſs her.'’

The chearful giver, whom God is ſaid to love, was al⯑lowed to be her: And a young lady, I am told, ſaid, It was Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe's care to find out the unhappy, upon a ſudden diſtreſs, before the ſighing heart was over⯑whelmed by it.

She had a ſet of poor people, choſen for their remark⯑able honeſty and ineffectual induſtry. Theſe voluntarily paid their laſt attendance on their benefactreſs; and mingling in the church as they could croud near the eyle where the corpſe was on Stands, it was the leſs wonder that her praiſes from the Preacher met with ſuch general and ſuch grateful whiſpers of approbation.

[290]Some it ſeems there were who knowing her unhappy ſtory, remarked upon the dejected looks of the Brother, and the drowned eyes of the Siſter; ‘'O what would they now give, they'd warrant, had they not been ſo hard⯑hearted!'’ —Others purſued, as I may ſay, the ſevere Father and unhappy Mother into their chambers at home.— ‘'They anſwered for their relenting, now, that it was too late!—What muſt be their grief?—No wonder they could not be preſent!'’

Several expreſſed their aſtoniſhment, as people do every hour, ‘'that a man could live whom ſuch perfections could not engage to be juſt to her,'’ to be humane, I may ſay.—And who, her rank and fortune conſidered, could be ſo diſregardful of his own intereſt, had he had no other motive to be juſt!—

The good Divine, led by his text, juſt touched upon the unhappy ſtep that was the cauſe of her untimely fate. He attributed it to the State of things below, in which there could not be abſolute perfection. He very politely touched upon the noble diſdain ſhe ſhewed (tho' earneſtly ſollicited by a whole ſplendid family) to join intereſts with a man, whom ſhe found unworthy of her eſteem and con⯑fidence; and who courted her with the utmoſt earneſtneſs to accept of him.

What he moſt inſiſted upon was, the happy End ſhe made; and thence drew conſolation to her relations, and inſtruction to the auditory.

In a word, his performance was ſuch as heightened the reputation which he had before in a very eminent degree obtained.

When the corpſe was to be carried down into the vault, (a very ſpacious one, within the church) there was great crouding to ſee the coffin-lid, and the devices upon it. Particularly two gentlemen, muffled up in cloaks, preſſed forward. Theſe it ſeems were Mr. Mullins and Mr. Wyer⯑ley: Both of them proſeſſed admirers of my dear couſin.

When they came near the coffin, and caſt their eyes upon the lid, ‘'In that little ſpace, ſaid Mr. Mullins, is included all human excellence!'’ —And then Mr. Wyer⯑ley, unable to contain himſelf, was forced to quit the church; and we hear is very ill.

[291]It is ſaid, that Mr. Solmes was in a remote part of the church, wrapped round in a horſeman's coat: And that he ſhed tears ſeveral times. But I ſaw him not.

Another gentleman was there incognito, in a pew near the entrance of the vault, who had not been taken notice of, but for his great emotion when he looked over his pew, at the time the coffin was carried down to its laſt place. This was Miſs Howe's worthy Mr. Hickman.

My couſins John and Antony, and their nephew James, choſe not to deſcend into the vault among their departed anceſtors.

Miſs Harlowe was extremely affected. Her Conſcience, as well as her Love, was concerned on the occaſion. She would go down with the corpſe of her dear, her only Siſter, ſhe ſaid: But her Brother would not permit it. And her overwhelmed eye purſued the coffin till ſhe could ſee no more of it: And then ſhe threw herſelf on the [...]eat, and was near fainting away.

I accompanied it down, that I might not only ſatisfy myſelf, but you, Sir, her Executor, that it was depoſited, as ſhe had directed, at the feet of her grandfather.

Mr. Melvill came down, contemplated the lid, and ſhed a few tears over it. I was [...]o well ſatisfied with his diſcourſe and behaviour, that I preſented him on the ſo⯑lemn ſpot with a ring of ſome value; and thanked him for his performance.

And here I left the Remains of my beloved co [...]ſin; having beſpoken my own place by the ſide of her coffin.

On my return to Harlowe-place, I con [...]nted myſelf with ſending my compliments to the ſorrowing parents, and retired to my chamber. Nor am I aſhamed to own, that I could not help giving way to a repeated fit of hu⯑manity, as ſoon as I entered it.

P. S. You will have a letter from my couſin James, who hopes to prevail upon you to relinquiſh the Executorſhip. It has not my encouragement.

LETTER LXXXIV. Mr. BELFORD, To WILLIAM MORDEN, Eſq

I Once had thoughts to go down privately, in order, diſguiſed, to ſee the laſt ſolemnity performed. But there was no need to give myſelf this melancholy trouble, ſince your laſt letter ſo naturally deſcribes all that paſſed, that I have every ſcene before my eyes.

You croud me, Sir, methinks, into the ſilent ſlow pro⯑ceſſion—Now with the ſacred bier do I enter the awf [...]l porch: Now meaſ [...]e I, with ſolemn paces, the ven [...]rable eyle: Now, emula [...]ive of a relationſhip to her, placed in a near pew to the eye-attracting coffin, do I liſten to the moving Eulogy. Now, thro' the buz of gaping, eye-ſwoln crouds, do I deſcend into the clammy vault, as a true Executor, to ſee that part of her Will performed with my own eyes. There, with a ſoul filled with muſing, do I number the ſurrounding monuments of mortality, and contemplate the preſent ſtillneſs of ſo many once buſy vanities, crouded all into one poor vaulted nook, as if the living grudged room for the corps of thoſe, which when animated, the earth, the air, and the waters, could hardly find room for. Then ſeeing her placed at the feet of him whoſe earthly delight ſhe was; and who, as I find, aſcribes to the pleaſure ſhe gave him, the prolongation of his own life ^(a); ſighing, and with averted face, I quit the ſolemn manſion, the ſymbolic coffin, and, for ever, the glory of her Sex, and aſcend with thoſe, who, in a few years, after a very ſhort blaze of life, will fill up other ſpaces of the ſame vault, which now (while they mourn only for her, whom they jointly perſecuted) they preſs with their feet.

Nor do your affecting deſcriptions permit me here to ſtop: But, aſcended, I mingle my tears and my praiſes with thoſe of the numerous ſpectators. I accompany the af⯑flicted mourners back to their uncomfortable manſion; and make one in the general concert of unavailing woe; till [293] retiring, as I imagine, as they retire, like them, in reality, I give up to new ſcenes of ſolitary and ſleepleſs grief; re⯑flecting upon the perfections I have ſeen the end of; and having no relief but from an indignation, which makes me approve of the reſentments of others againſt the un⯑happy man, and thoſe equally unhappy relations of hers, to whom the irreparable loſs is owing.

Forgive me, Sir, theſe reflections; and permit me with This, to ſend you what you declined receiving till the Fu⯑neral was over—.

Theſe expeditious proceedings, ſays he, will convince Mr. James Harlowe, that I am reſolved to ſee the Will completely executed; and yet, by my manner of doing it, that I deſire not to give unneceſſary mortifications to the family, ſince every thing that relates to them ſhall paſs thro' your hands.

LETTER [LXXXV.] Mr. JAMES HARLOWE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Hope from the character my worthy couſin Morden gives you, that you will excuſe the application I make to you, to oblige a whole family in an affair that much concerns their peace, and cannot equally concern any body elſe. You will immediately judge, Sir, that This is the Executorſhip which my Siſter has given you the trouble of by her Laſt Will.

We ſhall all think ourſelves extremely obliged to you, if you pleaſe to relinquiſh this Truſt to our own family; [292] [...] [293] [...] [294] Theſe reaſons pleading for our expectation of this favour from you:

Firſt, Becauſe ſhe never would have had the thought of troubling you, Sir, if ſhe had believed any of her near relations would have taken it upon themſelves.

Secondly, I underſtand, that ſhe recommends to you in the Will to truſt to the honour of any of our family, for the performance of ſuch of the articles as are of a domeſtic nature. We are any of us, and all of us, if you requeſt it, willing to ſtake our honours upon this occaſion: And all you can wiſh for, as a man of honour, is, That the Truſt be executed.

We are the more concerned, Sir, to wiſh you to de⯑cline this office, becauſe of your ſhort and accidental knowlege of the dear Teſtatrix, and long and intimate ac⯑quaintance with the man to whom ſhe owed her ruin, and we the greateſt loſs and diſappointment (her manifold ex⯑cellencies conſidered) that ever befel a family.

You will allow due weight, I dare ſay, to this plea, if you make our caſe your own: And ſo much the readier, when I aſſure you, that your interfering in this matter ſo much againſt our inclinations [Excuſe, Sir, my plain-dealing] will very probably occaſion an oppoſition in ſome points, where otherwiſe there might be none.

What therefore I propoſe is, Not that my Father ſhould aſſume this Truſt: He is too much afflicted to undertake it—Nor yet myſelf—I might be thought too much con⯑cerned in intereſt: But that it may be allowed to devolve upon my two uncles; whoſe known honour, and whoſe affection to the dear deceaſed, nobody ever doubted: And they will treat with you, Sir, thro' my Couſin Morden, as to the points they will undertake to perform.

The trouble you have already had, will well intitle you to the legacy ſhe bequeaths you, together with the re⯑imburſement of all the charges you have been at, and al⯑lowance of the legacies you have diſcharged, altho' you ſhould not have qualified yourſelf to act as an Executor; as I preſume you have not yet done; nor will now do.

Your compliance, Sir, will oblige a family (who have already diſtreſs enough upon them, in the circumſtance [295] that occaſions this application to you; and more particu⯑larly, Sir,

I ſend this by one of my ſervants, who will attend your diſpatch.

LETTER [LXXXVI.] Mr. BELFORD, To JAMES HARLOWE, jun. Eſq

LETTER [LXXXVII.] Colonel MORDEN, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Have been employed in a moſt melancholy taſk. In reading the Will of the dear deceaſed.

The unhappy Mother and Mrs. Norton choſe to be ab⯑ſent on the affecting occaſion. But Mrs. Harlowe made it her earneſt requeſt, that every article of it ſhould be ful⯑filled.

They were all extremely touched with the preamble.

The firſt words of the Will— ‘'I Clariſſa Harlowe, now by ſtrange melancholy accidents, lodging,'’ &c. drew tears from ſome, ſighs from all.

The directions for her funeral, in caſe ſhe were or were not permitted to be carried down; the mention of her or⯑ders having been given for the manner of her being laid out, and the preſence of mind ſo viſible throughout the whole, obtained their admiration, expreſſed by hands and eyes lifted up, and by falling tears.

When I read the direction, ‘'That her body was not to be viewed, except any of her relations ſhould vouchſafe for the laſt time to look upon her;'’ they turned away, and turned to me, three or four times alternately. Mrs. Hervey and Miſs Arabella ſobbed; the Uncles wiped their eyes; the Brother looked down; the Father wrung his hands.

I was obliged to ſtop at the words, ‘'That ſhe was No-body's.'’

But when I came to the addreſs to be made to the ac⯑curſed man, ‘'if he were not to be diverted from ſeeing her dead, whom once before he had ſeen in a manner dead'’ —execration, and either vows or wiſhes of re⯑venge, filled every mouth.

Theſe were ſtill more fervently renewed, when they came to hear read her forgiveneſs of even this man.

You remember, Sir, on our firſt reading of the Will i [...] town, the obſervations I made on the foul play which it is evident the excellent creature met with from this aban⯑doned man, and what I ſaid upon the occaſion. I am not uſed to repeat things of that nature.

[311]The dear creature's noble contempt of the Nothing, as ſhe as nobly calls it, about which ſhe had been giving ſuch particular directions, to wit, her Body; and her apolo⯑gizing for the particularity of thoſe directions from the circumſtances ſhe was in—had the ſame, and as ſtrong an effect upon me, as when I firſt read the animated para⯑graph; and, pointed by my eye (by turns caſt upon them all) affected them all.

When the article was read which bequeathed to the fa⯑ther the grandfather's eſtate, and the reaſon aſſigned for it (ſo generous and ſo dutiful) the father could ſit no longer, but withdrew, wiping his eyes, and lifting up his hands at Mr. James Harlowe; who aroſe to attend him to the door, as Arabella likewiſe did—All he could ſay—O Son! Son!—O Girl! Girl!—as if he reproached them for the parts they had acted, and put him upon acting.

But yet, on ſome occaſions, this Brother and Siſter ſhew⯑ed themſelves to be true Will-diſputants.

Let tongue and eyes expreſs what they will, Mr. Bel⯑ford, the reading of a Will, where a perſon dies worth any⯑thing conſiderable, generally affords a true teſt of love to the deceaſed.

The cloaths, the thirty guineas for mourning to Mrs. Norton, with the recommendation of the good woman for houſekeeper at The Grove, were thought ſufficient, had the article of 600 l. which was called monſtrous, been omitted. Some other paſſages in the Will were called flights, and ſuch whimſies as diſtinguiſh people of imagina⯑tion from thoſe of judgment.

My couſin Dolly Hervey was grudged the Library. Miſs Harlowe ſaid, That as ſhe and her ſiſter never bought the ſame books, ſhe would take that to herſelf, and would make it up to her couſin Dolly one way or other.

I intend, Mr. Belford, to ſave you the trouble of inter⯑poſing—The Library ſhall be my couſin Dolly's.

Mrs. Hervey could hardly keep her ſeat. On this oc⯑caſion, however, ſhe only ſaid, That her late dear and ever dear niece, was too good to her and hers. But, at another [...]m [...], ſhe declared, with tears, that ſhe could not forgive [...]erſelf for a letter ſhe wrote ^(a) (looking at Miſs Arabella, [312] whom, it ſeems, unknown to any-body, ſhe had conſulted before ſhe wrote it) and which, ſhe ſaid, muſt have wound⯑ed a ſpirit, that now, ſhe ſaw, had been too deeply wound⯑ed before.

O my aunt, ſaid Arabella, no more of that!—Who would have thought that the dear creature had been ſuch a penitent?

Mr. John and Mr. Antony Harlowe were ſo much af⯑fected with the articles in their favour (bequeathed to them without a word or hint of reproach or recrimination) that they broke out into ſelf accuſations; and lamented, that their ſweet niece, as they called her, was now got above all grateful acknowlegement and returns.

Indeed, the mutual upbraidings and grief of all preſent, upon thoſe articles in which every one was remembered for good, ſo often interrupted me, that the reading took up above ſix hours. But curſes upon the accurſed man were a refuge to which they often reſorted, to exonerate themſelves.

How wounding a thing, Mr. Belford, is a generous and well-diſtinguiſhed forgiveneſs! What Revenge can be more effectual and more noble, were Revenge intended, and were it wiſhed to ſtrike remorſe into a guilty or in⯑grateful heart! But my dear couſin's motives were all Duty and Love. She ſeems indeed to have been, as much as mortal could be, LOVE itſelf. Love ſublimed by a purity, by a true delicacy, that hardly any woman before her could boaſt of. O Mr. Belford, what an Example would ſhe have given in every ſtation of life (as Wife, Mother, Miſtreſs, Friend, had her lot fallen upon a man bleſſed with a mind like her own!

The 600 l. bequeathed to Mrs. Norton, the Library to Miſs Hervey, and the Remembrances to Miſs Howe, were not the only articles grudged. Yet to what purpoſe did they regret the pecuniary bequeſts, when the Poors fund, and not themſelves, would have had the benefit, had not thoſe legacies been bequeathed?

But enough paſſed to convince me, that my couſin was abſolutely right in her choice of an Executor out of the family. Had ſhe choſen one in it, I dare ſay, that her Will would have been no more regarded than if it had been [313] the Will of a dead King; than that of Louis XIV. in particular; ſo flagrantly broken thro' by his nephew the Duke of Orleans before he was cold. The only will of that Monarch perhaps which was ever diſputed.

But little does Mr. James Harlowe think, that while he is graſping at hundreds, he will moſt probably loſe thou⯑ſands, if he be my ſurvivor. A man of a ſpirit ſo ſelfiſh and narrow, ſhall not be my heir.

You will better conceive, Mr. Belford, than I can ex⯑preſs, how much they were touched at the hint, that the dear creature had been obliged to part with ſome of her cloaths.

Silent reproach ſeized every one of them, when I came to the paſſage where ſhe mentions, that ſhe deferred filling up ſome blanks, in hopes of receiving their laſt bleſſing and forgiveneſs.

I will only add, that they could not bear to hear read the concluding part, ſo ſolemnly addreſſed to her Redeem⯑er. They all aroſe from their ſeats, and crouded out of the apartment we were in. And then, as I afterwards found, ſeparated, in order to ſeek that conſolation in ſoli⯑tary retirement, which, tho' they could not hope for from their own reflections, yet, at the time, they had leſs rea⯑ſon to expect in each other's company. I am, SIR,

LETTER LXXXV. Mr. BELFORD, To the Right Honourable Lord M.

I AM very apprehenſive, that the affair between Mr. Lovelace and the late excellent Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe will be attended with further bad conſequences, notwith⯑ſtanding her dying injunctions to the contrary. I would therefore humbly propoſe, that your Lordſhip and his other relations will forward the purpoſe your kinſman lately had to go abroad; where I hope he will ſtay till all is blown over. But as he will not ſtir, if he know the true motives of your wiſhes, the avowed inducement, as I hinted once to Mr. Mowbray, may be ſuch as reſpects [314] his own health both of perſon and mind. To Mr. Mow⯑bray and Mr. Tourville all countries are alike; and they perhaps will accompany him.

I am glad to hear that he is in a way of recovery: But this the rather induces me to preſs the matter. And I think no time ſhould be loſt.

Your Lordſhip has heard, that I have the honour to be the Executor of this admirable lady's laſt Will. I tran⯑ſcribe from it the following paragraph.

LETTER LXXXVI. Miſs MONTAGUE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

[315]This collection having run into a much greater length than was wiſhed, it is thought proper to omit ſeveral Let⯑ters that paſſed between Colonel Morden, Miſs Howe, Mr. Belford, and Mr. Hickman, in relation to the execution of the Lady's Will, &c.

It is however neceſſary to obſerve on this ſubject, That the unhappy mother, being ſupported by the two uncles, influenced the afflicted father to over-rule all his ſon's ob⯑jections, and to direct a literal obſervation of the Will; and at the ſame time to give up all the ſums which he was impowered by it to reimburſe himſelf; as alſo to take upon himſelf to defray the funeral expences.

Mr. Belford ſo much obliged Miſs Howe by his ſtea⯑dineſs, equity, and diſpatch, and by his readine [...]s to contri⯑bute to the directed collection, that ſhe voluntarily entered into a correſpondence with him, as the repreſentative of her beloved friend. In the courſe of which, he communicated to her (in confidence) the Letters which paſſed between him and Mr. Lovelace, and, by Colonel Morden's conſent, thoſe which paſſed between that gentleman and himſelf.

He ſent with the firſt parcel of letters which he had tranſcribed out of ſhort-hand for Miſs Howe, a letter to Mr. Hickman, dated the 16th of September; in which he expreſſes himſelf as follows:

‘'But I ought, Sir, in this parcel to have kept out one letter. It is that which relates to the interview between yourſelf and Mr. Lovelace, at Mr. Dormer's ^(a). In which Mr. Lovelace treats you with an air of levity, which neither your perſon, your character, nor your com⯑miſſion, deſerved; but which was his uſual way of treating every one whoſe buſineſs he was not pleaſed with. I hope, Sir, you have too much greatneſs of mind, to be diſturbed at this letter, ſhould Miſs Howe communicate it to you; and the rather, as it is impoſſible that you ſhould ſuffer with her on that account.'’ He then excuſes Mr. Lovelace, as a good-natured man, with all his faults: and gives inſtances of his ſtill greater freedoms with himſelf.

To this Mr. Hickman anſwers, in his letter of the 18th.

‘'As to Mr. Lovelace's treatment of me in the letter you are pleaſed to mention, I ſhall not be concerned at it, [316] whatever it be. I went to him prepared to expect odd behaviour from him; and was not diſappointed. I ar⯑gue to myſelf, in all ſuch caſes as this, as Miſs Howe, from her ever-dear friend, argues, That if the reflections thrown upon me are juſt, I ought not only to forgive them, but to endeavour to profit by them: If unjuſt, that I ought to deſpiſe them, and the reflecter too; ſince it would be in⯑excuſable to ſtrengthen by anger an enemy whoſe malice might be diſarmed by contempt. And, moreover, I ſhould be almoſt ſorry to find myſelf ſpoken well of by a man who could treat as he treated a lady who was an orna⯑ment to her ſex, and to human nature.’

‘'I thank you, however, Sir, adds he, for your conſi⯑deration for me in this particular; and for your whole letter, which gives me ſo deſirable an inſtance of that friendſhip which you honoured me with the aſſurances of, when I was laſt in town; and which I as cordially embrace, as wiſh to cultivate.'’

Miſs Howe, in hers of the 20th, acknowleging the re⯑ceipt of the letters, and papers, and legacies, ſent with Mr. Belford's letter to Mr. Hickman, aſſures him, ‘'That no uſe ſhall be made of his communications, but what he ſhall approve of.'’

He had mentioned with compaſſion the diſtreſſes of the Harlowe family— ‘'Perſons of a pitiful nature, ſays ſhe, may pity them. I am not one of thoſe. You, I think, pity the infernal man likewiſe; while I from my heart grudge him his phrenſy, becauſe it deprives him of that remorſe, which, I hope, on his recovery, will never leave him. At times, Sir, let me tell you, that I hate your whole Sex for his ſake; even men of unblameable cha⯑racters; whom at thoſe times I cannot but look upon as perſons I have not yet found out.’

‘'If my dear creature's perſonal jewels, proceeds ſhe, be ſent up to you for ſale, I deſire that I may be the pur⯑chaſer of them, at the higheſt price—Of the necklace and ſolitaire particularly.’

‘'O what tears did the peruſal of my beloved's Will coſt me!—But I muſt not touch upon the heart-piercing ſub⯑ject. I can neither take it up, nor quit it, but with exe⯑cration of the villain whom all the world muſt execrate.'’

[317]Mr. Belford, in his anſwer, promiſes, that ſhe ſhall be the purchaſer of the jewels, if they come into his hands.

He acquaints her, that the family had given Col. Morden the keys of all that belonged to the dear departed: That the unhappy mother had (as the Will allows) ordered a piece of needlework to be ſet aſide for her, and had de⯑ſired Mrs. Norton to get the little book of Meditations tranſcribed, and to let her have the original, as it was all of her dear daughter's hand-writing; and as it might, when ſhe could bear to look into it, adminiſter conſolation to herſelf. And that ſhe had likewiſe reſerved for herſelf her picture in the Vandyke taſte.

Mr. Belford ſends with this letter to Miſs Howe the la⯑dy's memorandum-book; and promiſes to ſend her copies of the ſeveral poſthumous letters. He tells her, that Mr. Lovelace being upon the recovery, he had incloſed the poſthumous letter directed for him to Lord M. that his Lordſhip might give it to him, or not, as he ſhould find he could bear it. The following is a copy of that Letter.

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

EVER ſince the fatal ſeventh of this month, I have been loſt to myſelf, and to all the joys of life. I might have gone farther back than that fatal ſeventh; which, for the future, I will never ſee anniverſarily revolve but in fables; only till that curſed day I had ſome gleams of hope now and then darting in upon me.

They tell me of an odd letter I wrote to you ^(a). I remember I did write. But very little of the contents of what I wrote do I remember.

I have been in a curſed way. Methinks ſomething has been working ſtrangely retributive. I never was ſuch a fool as to diſbelieve a Providence: Yet am I not for re⯑ſolving into judgments every-thing that temporarily chances to wear an avenging face. Yet if we muſt be puniſhed either here or hereafter for our miſdeeds, better here, ſay I, than hereafter. Have I not then an intereſt to think my puniſhment already not only begun, but completed; ſince what I have ſuffered, and do ſuffer, paſſes all deſcription?

To give but one inſtance of the retributive—Here I, who was the barbarous cauſe of the loſs of ſenſes for a week together to the moſt inimitable of women, have been puniſhed with the loſs of my own—Preparative to—Who knows what?—When, O when, ſhall I know a joyful hour?

I am kept exceſſively low; and exceſſively low I am. This ſweet creature's poſthumous letter ſticks cloſe to me. All her excellencies riſe up hourly to my remem⯑brance.

Yet dare I not to indulge in theſe melancholy reflections. I find my head ſtrangely working again?—Pen, begone!

SATURDAY, Sunday, Nothing done. Incapable of any⯑thing.—

I WILL ſoon quit this kingdom. For now my Clariſſa is no more, what is there in it (in the world indeed) worth living for?—But ſhould I not firſt, by ſome maſterly miſ⯑chief, avenge her and myſelf upon her curſed family?

The accuſed woman, they tell me, has broken her leg. Why was it not her neck?—All, all, but what is owing to her relations, is the fault of that woman, and of her hell-born nymphs. The greater the virtue, the nobler the tri⯑umph, was a ſentence for ever in their mouths.—I have had it ſeveral times in my head to ſet fire to the execrable houſe; and to watch at the doors and windows, that not a devil in it eſcape the conſuming flames. Had the houſe ſtood by itſelf, I had certainly done it.

But, it ſeems, the old wretch is in the way to be re⯑warded, without my help. A ſhocking letter is received of ſomebody's, in relation to her—Yours, I ſuppoſe—Too ſhocking for me, they ſay, to ſee at preſent ^(a).

They govern me as a child in ſtrings: Yet did I ſuffer ſo much in my fever, that I am willing to bear with them, till I can get tolerably well.

At preſent I can neither eat, drink, nor ſleep. Yet are my diſorders nothing to what they were: For, Jack, my brain was on fire day and night: And had it not been of the aſbeſtos kind, it had all been conſumed.

I had no diſtinct ideas, but of dark and confuſed miſery: It was all conſcience and horror indeed! Thoughts of hang⯑ing, drowning, ſhooting; then rage, violence, miſchief, and deſpair, took their turns with me. My lucid inter⯑vals [325] ſtill worſe, giving me to reflect upon what I was the hour before, and what I was likely to be the next, and perhaps for life—The ſport of enemies! the laughter of fools! and the hanging-ſleev'd, go-carted property of hired ſlaves; who were perhaps to find their account in ma⯑nacling, and (abhorr'd thought!) in perſonally abuſing me by blows and ſtripes!

Who can bear ſuch reflections as theſe? To be made to fear only, to ſuch a one as me, and to fear ſuch wretches too!—What a thing was this, but remotely to apprehend! And yet, for a man to be in ſuch a ſtate, as to render it neceſſary for his deareſt friends to ſuffer this to be done for his own ſake, and in order to prevent further miſ⯑chief!—There is no thinking of theſe things!

I will not think of them, therefore: But will either get a train of chearful ideas, or hang myſelf, by to-morrow morning.

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

I Write to demand back again my laſt letter. I own it was my mind at the different times I wrote it; and, whatever ailed me, I could not help writing it. Such a gloomy impulſe came upon me, and increaſed as I wrote, that, for my ſoul, I could not forbear running into the Miſerable.

'Tis ſtrange, very ſtrange, that a man's conſcience ſhould be able to force his fingers to write whether he will or not; and to run him into a ſubject he more than once, at the very time, reſolved not to think of.

Nor is it leſs ſtrange, that (no new reaſon occurring) he ſhould, in a day or two more, ſo totally change his mind; have his mind, I ſhould rather ſay, ſo wholly illuminated by gay hopes, and riſing proſpects, as to be aſhamed of what he had written.

For, on reperuſal of a copy of my letter, which fell into my hands by accident, in the hand-writing of my couſin [326] Charlotte, who, unknown to me, had tranſcribed it, I find it to be ſuch a letter as an enemy would rejoice to ſee.

This I know, that were I to have continued but one week more in the way I was in when I wrote the latter part of it, I ſhould have been confined, and in ſtraw, the next: For I now recollect, that all my diſtemper was returning upon me with irreſiſtible violence—and that in ſpite of water-gruel and ſoupe maigre.

I own, that I am ſtill exceſſively grieved at the diſap⯑pointment this admirable woman made it ſo much her whimſical choice to give me. But, ſince it has thus fallen out; ſince ſhe was determined to leave the world; and ſince ſhe actually ceaſes to be; ought I, who have ſuch a ſhare of life and health in hand, to indulge gloomy re⯑flections upon an event that is paſſed; and being paſſed, cannot be recalled?—Have I not had a ſpecimen of what will be my caſe, if I do?

For, Belford ('tis a folly to deny it) I have been, to uſe an old word, quite beſtraught.

Why, why, did my mother bring me up to bear no controul? Why was I ſo educated, as that to my very tutors it was a requeſt, that I ſhould not know what con⯑tradiction or diſappointment was?—Ought ſhe not to have known what cruelty there was in her kindneſs?

What a puniſhment, to have my firſt very great diſap⯑pointment touch my intellect!—And intellects once touched—But that I cannot bear to think of—Only thus far; The very repentance and amendment wiſhed me ſo heartily by my kind and croſs dear, have been invali⯑dated and poſtponed, who knows for how long? the amendment at leaſt:—Can a madman be capable of either?

Once touch'd therefore, I muſt endeavour to baniſh thoſe gloomy reflections, which might otherwiſe have brought on the right turn of mind; and this, to expreſs myſelf in Lord M.'s ſtyle, that my wits may not be ſent a wooll-gathering.

For, let me moreover own to thee, that Dr. Hale, who was my good Aſtolfo [You read Arioſto, Jack] and has brought me back my wit-jar, had much ado, by ſtarving diet, by profuſe phlebotomy, by flaying bliſters, eylet-hole-cupping, a dark room, a midnight ſolitude in a mid⯑day [327] ſun, to effect my recovery. And now, for my com⯑fort, he tells me, that I may ſtill have returns upon full moons—Horrible! moſt horrible!—and muſt be as care⯑ful of myſelf at both Equinoctials, as Caeſar was warned to be of the ides of March.

How my heart ſickens at looking back upon what I was. Denied the Sun, and all comfort: All my viſiters, low-born, tiptoe attendants: Even thoſe tiptoe ſlaves never approaching me but periodically, armed with gallipots, bolus's, and cephalic draughts; delivering their orders to me in hated whiſpers; and anſwering other cur⯑tain-holding impertinents, inquiring how I was, and how I took their execrable potions, whiſperingly too! What a curſed ſtill-life this!—Nothing active in me, or about me, but the worm that never dies.

Again I haſten from the recollection of ſcenes, which will, at times, obtrude themſelves upon me.

Adieu, Belford!

But return me my laſt letter—and build nothing upon its contents. I muſt, I will, I have already, overcome theſe fruitleſs gloomineſſes. Every hour my conſtitution riſes ſtronger and ſtronger to befriend me; and, except a tributary ſigh now and then to the memory of my heart's beloved, it gives me hope, that I ſhall quickly be what I was,—Life, ſpirit, gaiety, and once more the plague of a Sex, that has been my plague, and will be every man's plague, at one time or other of his life.

I repeat my deſire, however, that you will write to me as uſual. I hope you have good ſtore of particulars by you to communicate, when I can better bear to hear of the diſpoſitions that were made for all that was mortal of my beloved Clariſſa.

But it will be the joy of my heart to be told, that her implacable friends are plagued with remorſe. Such things as thoſe you may now ſend me: For company in miſery is ſome relief; eſpecially when a man can think thoſe he hates as miſerable as himſelf.

Once more adieu, Jack!

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

I Am preparing to leave this kingdom. Mowbray and Tourville promiſe to give me their company in a month or two.

I'll give thee my route.

I ſhall firſt to Paris; and, for amuſement and diverſion ſake, try to renew ſome of my old friendſhips: Thence to ſome of the German courts: Thence, perhaps, to Vi⯑enna: Thence deſcend thro' Bavaria and the Tyrol to Venice, where I ſhall keep the carnival: Thence to Flo⯑rence and Turin: Thence again over mount Cenis to France: And, when I return again to Paris, ſhall expect to ſee my friend Belford, who by that time, I doubt not, will be all cruſted and bearded over with penitence, ſelf-denial, and mortification; a very anchorite, only an itine⯑rant one, journeying over in hope to cover a multitude of his own ſins, by proſelyting his old companion.

But let me tell thee, Jack, if ſtock riſes on, as it has done ſince I wrote my laſt letter, I am afraid thou wilt find a difficult taſk in ſucceeding, ſhould ſuch be thy purpoſe.

Nor, I verily think, can thy own penitence and re⯑formation hold. Strong habits are not ſo eaſily rooted out. Old Satan has had too much benefit from thy faith⯑ful ſervices, for a ſeries of years, to let thee ſo eaſily get out of his clutches, He knows what will do with thee. A fine ſtrapping Bona Roba, in the Chartres-taſte, but well-limb'd, clear-complexion'd, and Turkiſh-ey'd; thou the firſt man with her, or made to believe ſo, which is the ſame thing; how will thy froſty face ſhine upon ſuch an object! How will thy triſtful viſage be illumined by it! A compoſition will be made between thee and the grand tempter: Thou wilt promiſe to do him ſuit and ſervice till old age and inability come. And then will he, in all probability, be ſure of thee for ever. For, wert thou to outlive thy preſent reigning appetites, he will trump up ſome other darling ſin, or make a now ſecondary one darling, in order to keep thee firmly attached to his in⯑fernal intereſts. Thou wilt continue reſolving to amend, [329] but never amending, till grown old before thou art aware, (a dozen years after thou art old with every-body elſe) thy for-time-built tenement having laſted its allotted period, he claps down upon thy grizzled head the univerſal trap-door: And then all will be over with thee in his own way.

Thou wilt think theſe hints uncharacteriſtic from me. But yet I cannot help warning thee of the danger thou art actually in; which is the greater, as thou ſeemeſt not to know it. A few words more, therefore, on this ſubject.

Thou haſt made good reſolutions. If thou keepeſt them not, thou wilt never be able to keep any. But, neverthe⯑leſs, the devil and thy time of life are againſt thee: And ſix to one thou faileſt. Were it only that thou haſt re⯑ſolved, ſix to one thou faileſt. And if thou doſt, thou wilt become the ſcoff of men, and the triumph of devils.—Then how will I laugh at thee! For this warning is not from principle. Perhaps I wiſh it were: But I never lyed to man, and hardly ever ſaid truth to woman. The firſt is what all free livers cannot ſay: The ſecond, what every one can.

I am mad again, by Jupiter!—But, thank my ſtars, not gloomily ſo!—Farewel, farewel, farewel, for the third or fourth time, concludes

I believe Charlotte and you are in private league to⯑gether. Letters, I find, have paſſed between her, and you, and Lord M. I have been kept ſtrangely in the dark of late: But will ſoon break upon you all, as the Sun upon a midnight thief. Re⯑member, that you never ſent me the copy of my Beloved's Will.

LETTER XC. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

JUST as I was ſitting down to anſwer yours of the 14th to the 18th, in order to give you all the con⯑ſolation in my power, came your revoking letter of Wed⯑neſday.

[330]I am really concerned, and diſappointed, that your firſt was ſo ſoon followed by one ſo contrary to it.

The ſhocking letter you mention, which your friends with-hold from you, is indeed from me. They may now, I ſee, ſhew you any-thing. Aſk them, then, for that let⯑ter, if you think it worth while to read aught about the true mother of your mind.

I WILL ſuppoſe, that thou haſt juſt read the letter thou calleſt ſhocking; and which I intended to be ſo. And let me aſk, What thou thinkeſt of it? Doſt thou not tremble at the horrors the vileſt of women labours with, on the apprehenſions of death, and future judgment?—How ſit the reflections that muſt have been raiſed by the peruſal of this letter upon thy yet uncloſed eylet-holes? Will not ſome ſerious thoughts mingle with thy melilot, and tear off the callus of thy mind, as that may flay the leather from thy back, and as thy epiſpaſtics may ſtrip the parchment from thy plotting head? If not, then indeed is thy conſcience feared, and no hopes will lie for thee.

If this move thee not, I have news to acquaint thee with, of another diſmal cataſtrophe that is but within this hour come to my ear, of another of thy bleſſed agents. Thy TOMLINSON!—Dying, and, in all probability, be⯑fore this can reach thee, dead, in Maidſtone gaol. As thou ſayſt in thy firſt letter, ‘'ſomething ſtrangely retri⯑butive ſeems to be working.'’

This his caſe. He was at the head of a gang of ſmugglers, endeavouring to carry off run goods, landed laſt Tueſday, when a party of dragoons came up with them in the evening. Some of his comrades fled. M^cDonald being ſurrounded, attempted to fight his way thro', and wounded his man; but having received a ſhot in his neck, and being cut deeply in the head by a broad-ſword, he fell from his horſe, was taken, and carried to Maidſtone-gaol: And there my informant left him, juſt dying, and aſſured of hanging if he recover.

Abſolutely deſtitute, he got a kinſman of his to apply to [331] me, and, if in town, to the reſt of the confraternity, for ſomething, not to ſupport him was the word (for he ex⯑pected not to live till the fellow returned) but to bury him.

I never employed him but once; and then he ruined my project. I now thank Heaven that he did. But I ſent him three guineas; and promiſed him more, as from you, and Mowbray, and Tourville, if he live a few days, or to take his tryal. And I put it upon you to make fur⯑ther inquiry of him, and to give him what you think fit.

His meſſenger tells me, That he is very penitent: That he weeps continually. He cries out, that he has been the vileſt of men: Yet palliates, that his neceſſities made him worſe than he ſhould otherwiſe have been [An excuſe which none of us can plead]: But that what touched him moſt of all, was a vile impoſture he was put upon, to ſerve a certain gentleman of fortune, to the ruin of the moſt excellent woman that ever lived; and who, he had heard, was dead of grief.

Let me conſider, Lovelace—Whoſe turn can be next?—I wiſh it may not be thine. But ſince thou giveſt me one piece of advice (which I ſhould indeed have thought out of character, hadſt thou not taken pains to convince me, that it proceeds not from principle) I will give thee another: And that is, ‘'Proſecute, as faſt as thou canſt, thy intended tour.'’ Change of ſcene, and of climate, may eſtabliſh thy health: While this groſs air, and the approach of winter, may thicken thy blood; and, with the help of a conſcience, that is upon the ſtruggle with thee, and like a cunning wreſtler watches its opportunity to give thee an⯑other fall, may make thee miſerable for thy life.

I return your revoked letter. Don't deſtroy it, how⯑ever. The ſame dialect may one day come in faſhion with you again.

As to the family at Harlowe-Place, I have moſt affect⯑ing letters from Colonel Morden relating to their grief and diſtreſs. You, to whom the occaſion is owing, do well to rejoice in their compunction: But, as one well ob⯑ſerves, Averſe as they were to you, they muſt and they would have been reconciled in time, had you done her juſtice.

I ſhould be ſorry, if I could not ſay, that what you have warned me of in ſport, makes me tremble in earneſt. [332] I hope (for this is a ſerious ſubject with me, tho' nothing can be ſo with you) that I never ſhall deſerve, by my apoſtaſy, to be the ſcoff of men, and the triumph of devils.

All that you ſay, of the difficulty of conquering rooted habits, is but too true. Thoſe, and time of life, are in⯑deed too much againſt me: But, when I reflect upon the ends (ſome untimely) of thoſe of our companions whom we have formerly loſt; upon Belton's miſerable exit; up⯑on the howls and ſcreams of Sinclair, which are ſtill in my ears; and now upon your miſerable Tomlinſon; and compare their ends with the happy and deſirable end of the inimitable Miſs Harlowe; I hope I have reaſon to think my footing morally ſecure. Your caution, never⯑theleſs, will be of uſe, however you might deſign it: And ſince I know my weak ſide, I will endeavour to for⯑tify myſelf in that quarter by marriage, as ſoon as I can make myſelf worthy of the confidence and eſteem of ſome virtuous woman; and, by this means, become the ſub⯑ject of your envy, rather than of your ſcoffs.

I have already begun my retributory purpoſes, as I may call them. I have ſettled an annual ſum for life upon poor John Loftus, whom I diſabled, while he was endeavouring to protect his young miſtreſs from my lawleſs attempts. I rejoice, that I ſucceeded not in that; as I do in recollect⯑ing many others of the like ſort, in which I miſcarried.

Poor Farley, who had become a bankrupt, I have ſet up again: But have declared, that the annual allowance I make her ſhall ceaſe, if I hear ſhe returns to her former courſes: And I have made her accountable for her con⯑duct to the good widow Lovick, whom I have taken, at a handſome ſalary, for my houſekeeper at Edgeware (for I have let the houſe at Watford); and ſhe is to diſpenſe the quarterly allotment to her, as ſhe merits.

This good woman ſhall have other matters of the like nature under her care, as we grow better acquainted: And I make no doubt that ſhe will anſwer my expectations, and that I ſhall be both confirmed and improved by her con⯑verſation: For ſhe ſhall generally ſit at my own table.

The undeſerved ſufferings of Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, her exalted merit, her exemplary preparation, and her happy end, will be ſtanding ſubjects with us.

[333]She ſhall read to me, when I have no company; write for me, out of books, paſſages ſhe ſhall recommend. Her years (turn'd of fifty) and her good character, will ſecure me from ſcandal; and I have great pleaſure in reflecting, that I ſhall be better myſelf for making her happy.

Then, whenever I am in danger, I will read ſome of the admirable lady's papers: Whenever I would abhor my former ways, I will read ſome of thine, and copies of my own.

The conſequence of all this will be, that I ſhall be the delight of my own relations of both ſexes, who were wont to look upon me as a loſt man. I ſhall have good order in my own family, becauſe I ſhall give the example my⯑ſelf. I ſhall be viſited and reſpected, not perhaps by Lovelace, by Mowbray, and by Tourville, becauſe they cannot ſee me upon the old terms, and will not, perhaps, ſee me upon the new, but by the beſt and worthieſt gentle⯑men, clergy as well as laity, all around me. I ſhall look upon my paſt follies with contempt; upon my old compa⯑nions with pity. Oaths and curſes ſhall be for ever baniſhed from my mouth: In their place ſhall ſucceed converſation becoming a rational being, and a gentleman. And in⯑ſtead of acts of offence, ſubjecting me perpetually to acts of defence, will I endeavour to atone for my paſt evils, by doing all the good in my power, and by becoming an uni⯑verſal benefactor to the extent of that power.

Now, tell me, Lovelace, upon this faint ſketch of what I hope to do, and to be, if this be not a ſcheme infinitely preferable to the wild, the pernicious, the dangerous ones, both to body and ſoul, which we have purſued?

I wiſh I could make my ſketch as amiable to you, as it appears to me. I wiſh it with all my ſoul: For I always loved you. It has been my misfortune that I did: For this led me into infinite riots and follies, which otherwiſe, I verily think, I ſhould not have been guilty of.

You have a great deal more to anſwer for, than I have, were it only in the temporal ruin of this admirable wo⯑man. Let me now, while yet you have youth, and health, and intellect, prevail upon you: For I am afraid, very much afraid, that ſuch is the enormity of this ſingle wickedneſs, in depriving the world of ſuch a ſhining light, [334] that if you do not quickly reform, it will be out of your power to reform at all; and that Providence, which has already given you the fates of your agents Sinclair and Tomlinſon to take warning by, will not let the principal offender eſcape, if he ſlight the warning.

You will, perhaps, laugh at me for theſe ſerious reflec⯑tions. Do, if you will. I had rather you ſhould laugh at me for continuing in this way of thinking and acting, than triumph over me, as you threaten, on my ſwerving from purpoſes I have determined upon with ſuch good reaſon, and from ſuch good examples.

And ſo much for this ſubject at preſent.

I ſhould be glad to know when you intend to ſet out. I have too much concern for your welfare, not to wiſh you in a thinner air, and more certain climate.

What have Tourville and Mowbray to do, that they cannot ſet out with you? They will not cove [...] my company, I dare ſay; and I ſhall not be able to en⯑dure theirs, when you are gone: Take them therefore with you.

I will not, however, forſwear making you a viſit at Paris, at your return from Germany and Italy: But hardly with the hope of reclaiming you, if due reflection upon what I have ſet before you, and upon what you have written in your two laſt, will not by that time have done it.

I ſuppoſe I ſhall ſee you before you go. Once more, I wiſh you were gone. This heavy iſland-air cannot do for you what that of the continent will.

I do not think I ought to communicate with you, as I uſed to do, on this ſide the Channel: Let me then hear from you on the oppoſite ſhore, and you ſhall command the pen, as you pleaſe; and, honeſtly, the power, of

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

FATE, I believe in my conſcience, ſpins threads for tragedies, on purpoſe for thee to weave with—Thy Watford uncle, poor Bel [...]on, the fair Inimitable (Exalted [335] creature! and is ſhe to be found in ſuch a liſt!) the ac⯑curſed woman, and Tomlinſon, ſeem to have been all doomed to give thee a theme for the Diſmal and the Hor⯑rible!—And, by my ſoul, as Lord M. would phraſe it, thou doſt work it going.

That's the horrid thing: A man cannot begin to think, but cauſes for thought croud in upon him: The gloomy takes place; and mirth and gaiety abandon his heart for ever!

Poor M^cDonald!—I am really ſorry for the fel⯑low.—He was an uſeful, faithful, ſolemn varlet, who could act incomparably any part given him, and knew not what a bluſh was.—He really took honeſt pains for me in the laſt affair; which has coſt him and me ſo dearly in reflection. Often gravell'd, as we both were, yet was he never daunted.—Poor M^cDonald, I muſt once more ſay!—For carrying on a ſolemn piece of roguery, he had no equal.

I was ſo ſolicitous to know if he were really as bad as thou haſt a knack of painting every-body whom thou ſingleſt out to exerciſe thy murdering pen upon, that I diſpatched a man and horſe to Maidſtone, as ſoon as I had thine; and had word brought me, that he died in two hours after he had received thy three guineas. And all thou wroteſt of his concern in relation to the ever-dear Miſs Harlowe, it ſeems, was true.

I can't help it, Belford!—I have only to add, that it is happy that the poor fellow lived not to be hanged; as it ſeems he would have been: For who knows, as he had got into ſuch a penitential ſtrain, what might have been in his dying ſpeech?

When a man has not great good to comfort himſelf with, it is right to make the beſt of the little that may of⯑fer. There never was any diſcomfort happened to mortal man, but ſome little ray of conſolation would dart in, if the wretch was not ſo much a wretch, as to draw, inſtead of undraw, the curtain, to keep it out.

And ſo much, at this time, and for ever, for poor Capt. Tomlinſon, as I called him.

Your ſolicitude to get me out of this heavy changeable climate, exactly tallies with every-body's here. They all [336] believe, that travelling will eſtabliſh me. Yet I think I am quite well. Only theſe plaguy new's and full's, and the equinoctials, fright me a little when I think of them; and that is always: For the whole family are continually ringing theſe changes in my ears, and are more ſedulouſly intent, than I can well account for, to get me out of the kingdom.

But wilt thou write often, when I am gone? Wilt thou then piece the thread where thou brokeſt it off? Wilt thou give me the particulars of their diſtreſs, who were my auxiliaries in bringing on the event that affects me?—Nay, principals rather: Since, ſay what thou wilt, what did I do worth a woman's breaking her heart for?

Faith and troth, Jack, I have had very hard uſage, as I have often ſaid:—To have ſuch a plaguy ill name given me, pointed at, ſcreamed out upon, run away from, as a mad dog would be; all my own friends ready to renounce me!—

Yet I think I deſerve it all: For have I not been as ready to give up myſelf, as others are to condemn me?

What madneſs, what folly, this!—Who will take the part of a man that condemns himſelf?—Who can? He that pleads guilty to an indictment, leaves no room for ought but the ſentence. Out upon me, for an impolitic wretch! I have not the art of the leaſt artful of any of our Chriſtian princes; who every day are guilty of ten times worſe breaches of faith; and yet, iſſuing out a manifeſto, they wipe their mouths, and go on from in⯑fraction to infraction, from robbery to robbery; commit devaſtation upon devaſtation; and deſtroy—for their glory! And are rewarded with the names of Conquerors, and are dubb'd Le Grand; praiſed, and even deified, by orators and poets, for their butcheries and depredations.

While I, a poor, ſingle, harmleſs prowler; at leaſt com⯑paratively harmleſs; in order to ſatisfy my hunger, ſteal but one poor lamb; and every mouth is opened, every hand is lifted up, againſt me.

Nay, as I have juſt now heard. I am to be manifeſto [...]d againſt, tho' no prince: For Miſs Howe threatens to have the caſe publiſhed to the whole world.

I have a good mind not to oppoſe it; and to write an [337] anſwer to it, as ſoon as it comes forth, and exculpate my⯑ſelf, by throwing all the fault upon the old ones. And this I have to plead, ſuppoſing all that my worſt enemies can allege againſt me were true,—That I am not anſwerable for all the extravagant and unforeſeen conſequences that this affair has been attended with.

And this I will prove demonſtrably by a caſe, which, but a few hours ago, I put to Lord M. and to the two Miſſes Montague. This it is:

Here Miſs Montague put in very ſmartly.—A thief, Sir, ſaid ſhe, that ſteals what is and ought to be dearer to me than my life, deſerves leſs to be forgiven, than he who murders me.

But what is this, couſin Charlotte, ſaid I, that is dearer to you, than your life? Your honour, you'll ſay—I will not talk to a lady (I never did) in a way ſhe cannot an⯑ſwer me—But in the inſtance for which I put my caſe (allowing all you attribute to the phantom) what honour is loſt, where the will is not violated, and the perſon can⯑not help it? But, with reſpect to the caſe put, how knew [338] we, till the theft was committed, that the miſer did actu⯑ally ſet ſo romantic a value upon the treaſure?

Both my couſins were ſilent; and my Lord curſed me, becauſe he could not anſwer me; and I proceeded.

Well then, the reſult is, that B can only be a thief; that's plain—To purſue, therefore, my caſe—

And now to apply, ſaid I—

None of your applications, cried my couſins, both in a breath.

None of your applications, and be d—n'd to you, the paſſionate Peer.

Well then, returned I, I am to conclude it to be a caſe ſo plain, that it needs none; looking at the two girls, who tried for a bluſh apiece. And I hold myſelf, of conſe⯑quence, acquitted of the death.

Not ſo, cried my Lord [Peers are judges, thou knoweſt, Jack, in the laſt reſort]: For if, by committing an un⯑lawful act, a capital crime is the conſequence, you are anſwerable for both.

Say you ſo, my good Lord?—But will you take upon you to ſay, ſuppoſing (as in the preſent caſe) a Rape (ſaving your preſence, couſin Charlotte, ſaving your preſence, couſin Patty); Is death the natural conſequence of a Rape?—Did you ever hear, my Lord, or did you, Ladies, that it was?—And if not the natural conſequence, and a lady will deſtroy herſelf, whether by a lingering death, as of grief; or by the dagger, as Lucretia did; Is there more than one fault the man's?—Is not the other her's?—Were it not ſo, let me tell you, my dears, chucking each of my bluſhing couſins under the chin, we either have had no men ſo wicked as young Tarquin was, or no women ſo virtuous as Lucretia, in the ſpace of—How many thou⯑ſand years, my Lord?—And ſo Lucretia is recorded as a ſingle wonder!

You may believe I was cry'd out upon. People who [339] cannot anſwer, will rave: And this they all did. But I inſiſted upon it to them, and ſo I do to you, Jack, that I ought to be acquitted of every-thing but a common theft, a private larceny, as the lawyers call it, in this point. And were my life to be a forfeit to the Law, it would not be for murder.

Beſides, as I told them, there was a circumſtance ſtrong⯑ly in my favour in this caſe: For I would have been glad, with all my ſoul, to have purchaſed my forgiveneſs by a compliance with the terms I firſt boggled at. And this I offered; and my Lord, and Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, and my two couſins, and all my couſins couſins, to the fourteenth generation, would have been bound for me—But it would not do: The ſweet miſer would break her heart, and die; and how could I help it?

Upon the whole, Jack, had not the lady died, would there have been half ſo much ſaid of it, as there is? Was I the cauſe of her death? or, Could I help it? And have there not been, in a million of caſes like this, nine hun⯑dred and ninety-nine thouſand that have not ended as this has ended?—How hard, then, is my fate!—Upon my ſoul, I won't bear it as I have done; but, inſtead of take⯑ing guilt to myſelf, claim pity. And this (ſince yeſterday cannot be recalled) is the only courſe I can purſue to make myſelf eaſy. Proceed anon.

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

BUT what a pretty ſcheme of life haſt thou drawn out for thyſelf, and thy old widow! By my ſoul, Jack, I am mightily taken with it. There is but one thing wanting in it; and that will come of courſe: Only to be in the commiſſion, and one of the quorum. Thou art al⯑ready provided with a clerk, as good as thou'lt want; for thou underſtandeſt Law, and ſhe Conſcience: A good Lord Chancellor between ye!—I ſhould take prodi⯑gious pleaſure to hear thee decide in a baſtard caſe, upon thy new notions, and old remembrances.

But raillery apart [All gloom at heart, by Jupiter! al⯑tho' the pen and the countenance aſſume airs of levity!]: [340] If, after all, thou canſt ſo eaſily repent and reform, as thou thinkeſt thou canſt: If thou canſt thus ſhake off thy old ſins, and thy old habits: And if thy old maſter will ſo readily diſmiſs ſo tried and ſo faithful a ſervant, and permit thee thus calmly to enjoy thy new ſyſtem; no room for ſcandal; all temptation ceaſing: And if at laſt (thy reformation warranted and approved by time) thou mar⯑rieſt, and liveſt honeſt:—Why, Belford, I cannot but ſay, that if all theſe IF's come to paſs, thou ſtandeſt a good chance to be a happy man!

All I think, as I told thee in my laſt, is, that the devil knows his own intereſt too well, to let thee off ſo eaſily. Thou thyſelf telleſt me, that we cannot repent when we will. And indeed I found it ſo: For, in my lucid inter⯑vals, I made good reſolutions: But, as health turned its blyth ſide to me, and opened my proſpects of recovery, all my old inclinations and appetites returned; and this letter, perhaps, will be a thorough conviction to thee, that I am as wild a fellow as ever, or in the way to be ſo.

Thou aſkeſt me, very ſeriouſly, If, upon the faint ſketch thou haſt drawn, thy new ſcheme be not infinitely prefer⯑able to any of thoſe which we have ſo long purſued?—Why, Jack—Let me reflect—Why, Belford—I can't ſay but it is. It is really, as Biddy in the play ſays, a good comfortable ſcheme.

But when thou telleſt me, That it was thy misfortune to love me, becauſe thy value for me made thee a wickeder man than otherwiſe thou wouldſt have been; I deſire thee to revolve this aſſertion: And I am perſuaded, that thou wilt not find thyſelf in ſo right a train as thou imagineſt.

No falſe colourings, no gloſſes, does a true penitent aim at. Debaſement, diffidence, mortification, contrition, are all near of kin, Jack, and inſeparable from a repentant ſpirit.—If thou knoweſt not this, thou art not got three ſteps (out of threeſcore) towards repentance and amend⯑ment. And let me remind thee, before the grand accuſer comes to do it, that thou wert ever above being a paſſive follower in iniquity. Tho' thou hadſt not ſo good an in⯑vention as he to whom thou writeſt, thou hadſt as act⯑ive an heart for miſchief, as ever I met with in man.

Then for improving an hint, thou wert always a true [341] Engliſhman. I never ſtarted a roguery, that did not come out of thy forge in a manner ready anvilled and ham⯑mered for execution, when I have ſometimes been at a loſs to make any-thing of it myſelf.

What indeed made me appear to be more wicked than thee, was, that I being a handſome fellow, and thou an ugly one, when we had ſtarted a game, and hunted it down, the poor frighted puſs generally choſe to throw herſelf into my paws, rather than into thine: And then, diſappointed, haſt thou wiped thy blubber-lips, and march⯑ed off to ſtart a new game, calling me a wicked fellow all the while.

In ſhort, Belford, thou wert an excellent ſtarter and ſetter. The old women were not afraid for their daugh⯑ters, when they ſaw ſuch a face as thine. But, when I came, whip, was the key turned upon their girls. And yet all ſignified nothing; for Love, upon occaſion, will draw an elephant thro' a key-hole. But for thy HEART, Belford, who ever doubted that?

Nor even in this affair, that ſticks moſt upon me, and which my conſcience makes ſuch a handle of againſt me, art thou ſo innocent as thou fanſieſt thyſelf. Thou wilt ſtare at this: But it is true; and I will convince thee of it in an inſtant.

Thou ſayſt, thou wouldſt have ſaved the lady from the ruin ſhe met with. Thou art a pretty fellow for this: For how wouldſt thou have ſaved her? What methods didſt thou take to ſave her?

Thou kneweſt my deſigns all along. Hadſt thou a mind to make thyſelf a good title to the merit to which thou now pretendeſt to lay claim, thou ſhouldeſt, like a true knight-errant, have ſought to ſet the lady free from her inchanted caſtle. Thou ſhouldſt have appriſed her of her danger; have ſtolen in, when the giant was out of the way; or, hadſt thou the true ſpirit of chivalry upon thee, and nothing elſe would have done, have killed the giant; and then ſomething wouldſt thou have had to brag of.

‘'O but the giant was my friend: He repoſed a confi⯑dence in me: And I ſhould have betrayed my friend, and his confidence!'’ This thou wouldſt have pleaded, no doubt. But try this plea upon thy preſent principles, [342] and thou wilt ſee what a caitiff thou wert to let it have weight with thee, upon an occaſion where a breach of con⯑fidence is more excuſeable than to keep the ſecret.

Thou canſt not pretend, and I know thou wilt not, that thou wert afraid of thy life by taking ſuch a meaſure: For a braver fellow lives not, nor a more fearleſs, than Jack Belford. I remember ſeveral inſtances, and thou canſt not forget them, where thou haſt ventured thy bones, thy neck, thy life, againſt numbers, in a cauſe of roguery; and hadſt thou had a ſpark of that virtue, which now thou art willing to flatter thyſelf thou haſt, thou wouldſt ſurely have run a riſk to ſave an innocence, and a virtue, that it became every man to protect and eſpouſe. This is the truth of the caſe, greatly as it makes againſt myſelf. But I hate an hypocrite from my ſoul.

I believe I ſhould have killed thee at the time, if I could, hadſt thou betrayed me thus. But I am ſure now, that I would have thanked thee for it, with all my heart; and thought thee more a father, and a friend, than my real father, and my beſt friend—And it was natural for thee to think, with ſo exalted a merit as this lady had, that this would have been the caſe, when conſideration took place of paſſion; or, rather, when that damn'd fondneſs for in⯑trigue ceaſed, which never was my pride ſo much, as it is now, upon reflection, my curſe.

Set about defending thyſelf, and I will probe thee ſtill deeper, and convict thee ſtill more effectually, that thou haſt more guilt than merit even in this affair. And as to all the others, in which we have hunted in couples, thou wert always the forwardeſt whelp, and more ready, by far, to run away with me, than I with thee. Yet canſt thou now compoſe thy horſe-muſcles, and cry out, How much more haſt thou, Lovelace, to anſwer for, than I have!—Saying nothing, neither, when thou ſayſt this, were it true:—For thou wilt not be tried, when the time comes, by compariſon.

In ſhort, thou mayſt, at this rate, ſo miſerably deceive thyſelf, that, notwithſtanding all thy ſelf-denial and mor⯑tification, when thou cloſeſt thy eyes, thou mayſt perhaps open them in a place where thou thoughteſt leaſt to be.

However, conſult thy old woman on this ſubject. I [343] ſhall be thought to be out of character, if I go on in this ſtrain. But really, as to a title to merit in this affair, I do aſſure thee, Jack, that thou leſs deſerveſt praiſe than an horſe-pond: And I wiſh I had the ſouſing of thee.

I AM actually now employed in taking leave of my friends in the country. I had once thoughts of taking Tomlinſon, as I called him, with me: But his deſtiny has fruſtrated that intention.

Next Monday I think to ſee you in town; and then you, and I, and Mowbray, and Tourville, will laugh off that evening together. They will both accompany me (as I expect you will) to Dover, if not croſs the water. I muſt leave you and them good friends. They take ex⯑tremely amiſs the treatment you have given them in your laſt letters. They ſay, you ſtrike at their underſtandings. I laugh at them; and tell them, that thoſe people who have leaſt, are the moſt apt to be angry when it is called in queſtion.

Make up all the papers and narratives you can ſpare me againſt the time. The Will particularly I expect to take with me. Who knows but that thoſe things, which will help to ſecure you in the way you are got into, may convert me?

Thou talkeſt of a wife, Jack: What thinkeſt thou of our Charlotte? Her family and fortune, I doubt, accord⯑ing to thy ſcheme, are a little too high. Will thoſe be an objection? Charlotte is a ſmart girl. For piety (thy preſent turn) I cannot ſay much: Yet ſhe is as ſerious as moſt of her Sex, at her time of life—Would flaunt it a little, I believe too, like the reſt of them, were her repu⯑tation under covert.

But it won't do neither, now I think of it:—Thou art ſo homely, and ſo aukward a creature! Haſt ſuch a boat-ſwain like air!—People would think ſhe had picked thee up in Wapping, or Rotherhith; or in going to ſee ſome new ſhip launched, or to view the docks at Chatham, or Portſmouth. So gaudy and ſo clumſy! Thy tawdrineſs won't do with Charlotte!—So ſit thee down contented, Belford.

[344]Yet would I fain ſecure thy morals too, if matrimony will do it.

Let me ſee!—Now I have it.

Has not the widow Lovick a daughter, or a niece? It is not every girl of fortune and family that will go to prayers with thee once or twice a day. But ſince thou art for take⯑ing a wife to mortify with, what if thou marrieſt the wi⯑dow herſelf?—She will then have a double concern in thy converſion. You and ſhe may tête à tête paſs many a comfortable winter's evening together, comparing expe⯑riences, as the good folks call them.

I am ſerious, Jack. Faith I am. And I would have thee take it into thy wiſe conſideration.

LETTER XCIII. Mr. BELFORD, To Colonel MORDEN.