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

I AM ruined, undone, blown-up, deſtroyed, and worſe than annihilated, that's certain! —But was not the news ſhocking enough, doſt thou think, without thy throwing into the too weighty ſcale, reproaches, which thou couldeſt have had no opportunity to make, but for my own voluntary communications? At a time too, when, as it falls out, I have another very ſenſible diſappointment to ſtruggle with?

I imagine, if there be ſuch a thing as future pu⯑niſhment, it muſt be none of the ſmalleſt mortifica⯑tions, that a new devil ſhall be puniſhed by a worſe old one. And, Take that! And, Take that! to have the old ſatyr cry to the ſcreaming ſufferer, lay⯑ing on with a cat-o'-nine-tails, with a ſtar of burn⯑ing [2] braſs at the end of each: And, For what! For what!—Why, if the truth might be fairly told, for not being ſo bad a devil as myſelf!

Thou art, ſurely, caſuiſt good enough to know (what I have inſiſted upon ^(a) heretofore), that the ſin of ſeducing a credulous and eaſy girl, is as great as that of bringing to your lure an incredulous and watchful one.

However ungenerous an appearance what I am going to ſay may have from my pen, let me tell thee, That if ſuch a lady as Miſs Harlowe choſe to enter into the matrimonial ſtate (I am reſolved to diſap⯑point thee in thy meditated triumph over my rage and deſpair!), and, according to the old patriarchal ſyſtem, to go on contributing to get ſons and daughters, with no other view, than to bring them up piouſly, and to be good and uſeful members of the commonwealth, what a devil had ſhe to do, to let her fancy run a gadding after a Rake? One whom ſhe knew to be a Rake?

O but truly, ſhe hoped to have the merit of re⯑claiming him. She had formed pretty notions, how charmingly it would look to have a penitent of her own making, dangling at her ſide, to church, thro' an applauding neighbourhood: And, as their family in⯑creaſed, marching with her thither, at the head of their boys and girls, proceſſionally, as it were, boaſting of the fruits of their honeſt deſires, as my good Lord Biſhop has it in his Licence. And then, what a comely fight, all kneeling down together in one pew, according to elderſhip, as we have ſeen in effigie, a whole family upon ſome old monument, where the honeſt chevalier, in armour, is preſented kneeling, with uplift hands, and half a dozen jolter-headed crop-eared boys behind him, ranged gradatim, or ſtep-faſhion, according to age and ſize, all in the ſame poſture—Facing his pious dame, with a ruff about her neck, and as many whey-faced girls, all [3] kneeling behind her: An altar between them, and an opened book upon it: Over their heads ſemilu⯑nary rays darting from gilded clouds, ſurrounding an atchievement-motto, IN COELO SALUS— or QUIES—perhaps, if they have happened to live the uſual married life of brawl and contradiction.

It is certainly as much my misfortune to have fallen in with Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, were I to have valued my reputation or eaſe, as it is that of Miſs Harlowe to have been acquainted with me. And, after all, what have I done more than proſecute the ma⯑xims, by which thou and I, and every Rake are go⯑verned, and which, before I knew this lady, we have purſued from pretty girl to pretty girl, as faſt as we had ſet one down, taking another up;—juſt as the fellows do, with their flying-coaches and flying-horſes at a country-fair—With a Who rides next! Who rides next!

But here, in the preſent caſe, to carry on the volant metaphor (for I muſt either be merry, or mad), is a pretty little Miſs, juſt come out of her hanging-ſleeve coat, brought to buy a pretty little fairing; for the world, Jack, is but a great fair, thou knoweſt; and, to give thee ſerious reflection for ſerious, all its toys but tinſelled hobby-horſes, gilt gingerbread, ſqueaking trumpets, painted drums, and ſo forth.—

Now, behold, this pretty little Miſs ſkimming from booth to booth, in a very pretty manner. One pretty little fellow called Wyerly, perhaps; another jiggeting raſcal called Biron, a third ſimpering var⯑let of the name of Symmes, and a more hideous villain than any of the reſt with a long bag under his arm, and parchment ſettlements tagg'd to his heels, y [...]leped Solmes; purſue her from raree-ſhow to raree-ſhow, ſhouldering upon one another at every turning, ſtopping when ſhe ſtops, and ſet a ſpinning again when ſhe moves.—And thus dangled after, but [4] ſtill in the eye of her watchful guardians, traverſes the pretty little Miſs thro' the whole fair, equally delighted and delighting: Till at laſt, taken with the invitation of the lac'd-hat orator, and ſeeing ſeveral pretty little bib-wearers ſtuck together in the flying-coaches, cutting ſafely the yielding air, in the One-go-up, the Other-go-down picture of-the-world ve⯑hicle, and all with as little fear as wit, is tempted to ride next.

In then ſuppoſe ſhe ſlily pops, when none of her friends are near her: And if, after two or three ups and downs, her pretty head turns giddy, and ſhe throws herſelf out of the coach, when at its eleva⯑tion, and ſo daſhes out her pretty little brains, who can help it!—And would you hang the poor fellow, whoſe profeſſed trade it was to ſet the pretty little creatures a flying?

'Tis true, this pretty little Miſs, being a very pretty little Miſs, being a very much-admired little Miſs, being a very good little Miſs, who always minded her book, and had paſſed thro' her ſamplar-doctrine with high applauſe; had even ſtitched out in gaudy propriety of colours, an Abraham offering up Iſaac, a Samſon and the Philiſtines, and flowers, and knots, and trees, and the ſun and the moon, and the ſeven ſtars, all hung up in frames with glaſſes before them, for the admiration of her future grand⯑children: Who likewiſe was intitled to a very pretty little eſtate: Who was deſcended from a pretty little family upwards of one hundred years gentility; which lived in a very pretty little manner, reſpected a very little on their own accounts, a great deal on hers:—

For ſuch a pretty little Miſs as this to come to ſo very great a misfortune, muſt be a very ſad thing: But, tell me, would not the loſing of any ordinary child, of any other leſs conſiderable family, of leſs ſhining or amiable qualities, have been as great and as [5] heavy a loſs to that family, as the loſing this pretty little Miſs to hers?

To deſcend to a very low inſtance, and that only as to perſonality; haſt thou any doubt, that thy ſtrong-muſcled bony face was as much admired by thy mother, as if it had been the face of a Lovelace, or any other handſome fellow; and had thy picture been drawn, would ſhe have forgiven the painter, had he not expreſſed ſo exactly thy lineaments, as that every one ſhould have diſcerned the likeneſs? The handſome likeneſs is all that is wiſhed for. Ugli⯑neſs made familiar to us, with the partiality natural to fond parents, will be beauty all the world over.— Do thou apply.

BUT, alas, Jack, all this is but a copy of my countenance, drawn to evade thy malice!—Tho' [...]t anſwer thy unfriendly purpoſe to own it, I cannot forbear to own it, that I am ſtung to the very ſoul with this unhappy— Accident, muſt I call it?—Have I nobody, whoſe throat, either for careleſſneſs or treachery, I ought to cut, in order to pacify my vengeance!—

When I reflect upon my laſt iniquitous intention, the firſt outrage ſo nobly reſented, as well as, ſo far as ſhe was able, ſo nobly reſiſted, I cannot but con⯑clude, that I was under the power of faſcination from theſe accurſed Circes; who, pretending to know their own ſex, would have it, that there is in every woman a yielding, or a weak-reſiſting moment to be met with: And that yet, and yet, and yet, I had not tried enough:—But that, if neither love nor terror ſhould enable me to hit that lucky moment, when, by help of their curſed arts, ſhe was once overcome, ſhe would be for ever overcome:—Appealing to all my experience, to all my knowlege of the ſex, for a juſtification of their aſſertion.

My appealed to experience, I own, was but too [6] favourable to their argument: For doſt thou think, I could have held my purpoſe againſt ſuch an angel as this, had I ever before met with one ſo much in earneſt to defend her honour againſt the unwearied artifices and perſeverance of the man ſhe loved? Why then were there not more examples of a virtue ſo immoveable? Or, why was this ſingular one to fall to my lot? Except indeed to double my guilt; and at the ſame time to convince all that ſhould hear of her ſtory, that there are angels as well as devils in the fleſh?

So much for confeſſion; and for the ſake of hu⯑mouring my conſcience; with a view likewiſe to diſarm thy malice by acknowlegement: Since no one ſhall ſay worſe of me, than I will of myſelf on this occaſion.

One thing I will nevertheleſs add, to ſhew the ſincerity of my contrition:—'Tis this, that if thou canſt by any means find her out within theſe three days, or any time before ſhe has diſcovered the ſtories relating to Captain Tomlinſon and her Uncle to be what they are; and if thou canſt prevail upon her to conſent; I will actually, in thy preſence, and his (he to repreſent her uncle), marry her.

I am ſtill in hopes it may be ſo—She cannot be long concealed—I have already ſet all engines at work to find her out; and if I do, what indifferent perſons (and no one of her friends, as thou obſerveſt, will look upon her) will care to imbroil themſelves with a man of my figure, fortune, and reſolution?—Shew her this part then, or any other part of this letter, at thy own diſcretion, if thou canſt find her: For, after all, methinks I would be glad, that this affair, which is bad enough in itſelf, ſhould go off without worſe perſonal conſequences to any-body elſe; and yet it runs in my mind, I know not why, that ſooner or later, it will draw a few drops of blood after it; except ſhe and I can make it up between [7] ourſelves. And this may be another reaſon why ſhe ſhould not carry her reſentment too far — Not that ſuch an affair would give me much concern neither, were I to chooſe my man or men; for I heartily hate all her family but herſelf; and ever ſhall.

LET me add, that the lady's plot to eſcape ap⯑pears to me no extraordinary one. There was much more luck than probability, that it ſhould do: Since, to make it ſucceed, it was neceſſary, that Dorcas and Will. and Sinclair and her nymphs, ſhould be all deceived, or off their guard. It belongs to me, when I ſee them, to give them my hearty thanks that they were; and that their ſelfiſh care to provide for their own future ſecurity, ſhould induce them to leave their outward door upon their bolt-latch, and be curs'd to them!—

Mabell deſerves a pitch-ſuit and a bonfire, rather than the luſtring; and as her cloaths are returned, let the lady's be put to her others, to be ſent to her, when it can be told whither.—But not till I give the word, neither; for we muſt get the dear fugitive back again, if poſſible.

I ſuppoſe that my ſtupid villain, who knew not ſuch a goddeſs-ſhaped lady with a mien ſo noble, from the aukward and bent-ſhouldered Mabell, has been at Hamſtead to ſee after her: And yet I hardly think ſhe would go thither. He ought to go thro' every ſtreet where bills for lodgings are up, to in⯑quire after a new-comer. The houſes of ſuch as deal in womens matters, and tea, coffee, and ſuch-like, are thoſe to be inquired at for her. If ſome tidings be not quickly heard of her, I would not have either Dorcas, Will. or Mabell, appear in my ſight, whatever their ſuperiors think fit to do.

This, tho' written in character, is a very long letter, conſidering it is not a narrative one, or a journal of proceedings, like ſome of my former; [8] for ſuch will unavoidably and naturally, as I may ſay, run into length. But I have ſo uſed myſelf to write a great deal of late, that I know not how to help it. Yet I muſt add to its length, in order to explain myſelf on a hint I gave at the beginning of it, which was, that I have another diſappointment, beſides this of Miſs Harlowe's eſcape, to bemoan.

And what doſt think it is? Why, the old peer pox of his tough conſtitution! (for that would have helped him on) has made ſhift by fire and brim⯑ſtone, and the devil knows what, to force the gout to quit the counterſcarp of his ſtomach, juſt as it had collected all its ſtrength, in order to ſtorm the citadel of his heart: In ſhort they have, by the mere force of ſtink-pots, hand-granades, and pop-guns, drove the ſlow-working pioneer quite out of the trunk into the extremities; and there it lies nibbling, and gnawing, upon his great toe; when I had hoped a fair end both of the diſtemper, and the diſtem⯑pered.

But I, who could write to thee of laudanum, and the wet cloth formerly, yet let 8000 l. a year ſlip thro' my fingers, when I had entered upon it, more than in imagination (for I had begun to aſk the ſtewards queſtions, and to hear them talk of fines and renewals, and ſuch ſort of ſtuff), deſerve to be mortified.

Thou canſt not imagine, how differently the ſer⯑vants, and even my couſins, look upon me ſince yeſterday, to what they did before. Neither the one nor the other bow and courteſy half ſo low.—Nor am I a quarter ſo often his honour, and your honour, as I was within theſe few hours, with the former: And as to the latter — It is couſin Bobby again, with the uſual familiarity, inſtead of Sir, and Sir, and, If you pleaſe, Mr. Lovelace. And now they have the inſolence to congratulate me on the recovery of the beſt of uncles, while I am forced to ſeem as much [9] delighted as they, when, would it do me good, I could ſit down and cry my eyes out.

I had beſpoken my mourning in imagination, after the example of a certain foreign miniſter, who, be⯑fore the death, or even laſt illneſs of Charles II. as honeſt White Kennet tells us, had half exhauſted Blackwell-hall of its fables: An indication, as the hiſtorian would inſinuate, that the monarch was to be poiſoned, and the ambaſſador in the ſecret—And yet, fool that I was, I could not take the hint!— What a devil does a man read hiſtory for, if he cannot profit by the examples he finds in it?

But thus, Jack, is an obſervation of the old peer's verified, That one misfortune ſeldom comes alone: And ſo concludes

LETTER II. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

ONCE more have I eſcaped—But, alas! I, my beſt felf, have not eſcaped!—Oh! your poor Clariſſa Harlowe! You alſo will hate me, I fear!— Yet you won't, when you know All!—

But no more of my ſelf! My loſt ſelf. You that can riſe in a morning, to be bleſt, and to bleſs; and go to reſt delighted with your own reflections, and in your unbroken, unſtarting ſlumbers, converſing with ſaints and angels, the former only more pure than yourſelf, as they have ſhaken off the incumbrance of body; YOU ſhall be my ſubject, as you have long, long, been my only pleaſure. And let me, at awful diſtance, revere my beloved Anna Howe, and in [10] her reflect upon what her Clariſſa Harlowe once was!—

FORGIVE, Oh! forgive my rambling. My peace is deſtroyed. My intellects are touched. And what flighty nonſenſe muſt you read, if now you will vouchſafe to correſpond with me, as formerly!—

Oh! my beſt, my deareſt, my only friend! What a tale have I to unfold!—But ſtill upon Self, this vile, this hated Self!—I will ſhake it off, if poſſible; and why ſhould I not, ſince I think, except one wretch, I hate nothing ſo much!—Self, then, be baniſhed from Self one moment (for I doubt it will for no longer) to inquire after a dearer object, my beloved Anna Howe!—Whoſe mind, all robed in ſpotleſs white, charms and irradiates — But what would I ſay?—

AND how, my deareſt friend, after this rhapſody, which, on re-peruſal, I would not let go, but to ſhew you, what a diſtracted mind dictates to my trembling pen; How do you? You have been very ill, it ſeems. That you are recovered, my dear, let me hear!—That your mamma is well, pray let me hear, and hear quickly!—This comfort, ſurely, is owing to me; for if life is no worſe than chequer-work, I muſt now have a little white to come, having ſeen nothing but black, all unchequered diſmal black, for a great, great while!

AND what is all this wild incoherence for?—It is only to beg to know how you have been, and how you now do, by a line directed for Mrs. Rachel Clark, at Mr. Smith's, a glove-ſhop, in King-ſtreet, Covent-garden; which (altho' my abode is a ſecret to every body elſe) will reach the hands of—Your unhappy—but that's not enough—

LETTER III. Mrs. HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.
(Superſcribed, as directed in the preceding.)

YOU will wonder to receive a letter from me. I am ſorry for the great diſtreſs you ſeem to be in. Such a hopeful young lady as you were!—But ſee what comes of diſobedience to parents!

For my part; altho' I pity you; yet I much more pity your poor father and mother. Such education as they gave you! ſuch improvements as you made! and ſuch delight as they took in you!—And all come to this!—

But pray, Miſs, don't make my Nancy guilty of your fault; which is that of diſobedience. I have charged her over and over not to correſpond with one, who has made ſuch a giddy ſtep. It is not to her reputation, I am ſure. You knew that I ſo charged her; yet you go on correſponding together, to my very great vexation; for ſhe has been very perverſe upon it, more than once. Evil communication, Miſs— You know the reſt.

Here, people cannot be unhappy by themſelves, but they muſt involve their friends and acquaintance, whoſe diſcretion has kept them clear of their errors, into near as much unhappineſs, as if they had run into the like of their own heads. Thus my poor daughter is always in tears and grief. And ſhe has poſtponed her own felicity truly, becauſe you are unhappy!

If people, who ſeek their own ruin, could be the only ſufferers by their headſtrong doings, it were ſomething: But, O Miſs, Miſs, what have you to anſwer for, who have made as many grieved hearts, as have known you? The whole ſex is indeed wounded [12] by you: For, who but Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe was propoſed by every father and mother for a pattern for their daughters?

I write a long letter, where I propoſed to ſay but a few words; and thoſe to forbid you writing to my Nancy: And this as well becauſe of the falſe ſtep you have made, as becauſe it will grieve her poor heart, and do you no good. If you love her, therefore, write not to her. Your ſad letter came into my hands, Nancy being abroad, and I ſhall not ſhew it her: For there would be no comfort for her, if ſhe ſaw it, nor for me, whoſe delight ſhe is—As you once was to your parents—

But you ſeem to be ſenſible enough of your errors now! So are all giddy girls, when it is too late— And what a creſt-fallen figure then does their ſelf-willed obſtinacy and headſtrongneſs compel them to make!

I may ſay too much: only as I think it proper to bear that teſtimony againſt your raſhneſs, which it behoves every careful parent to bear. And none more than▪

I ſend this by a ſpecial meſſenger, who has buſineſs only ſo far as Barnet, becauſe you ſhall have no need to write again; knowing how you love writing: And knowing likewiſe, that misfortune makes people plaintive.

LETTER IV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Mrs. HOWE.

PERMIT me, Madam, to trouble you with a few lines, were it only to thank you for your reproofs; which have nevertheleſs drawn freſh ſtreams of blood from a bleeding heart.

[13]My ſtory is a diſmal ſtory. It has circumſtances in it, that would engage pity, and poſſibly a judg⯑ment not altogether unfavourable, where thoſe cir⯑cumſtances known. But it is my buſineſs, and ſhall be all my buſineſs, to repent of my failings, and not endeavour to extenuate them.

But I will not ſeek to diſtreſs your worthy mind. If I cannot ſuffer alone, I will make as few parties as I can in my ſufferings. And, indeed, I took up my pen with this reſolution, when I wrote the letter which has fallen into your hands: It was only to know, and that for a very particular reaſon, as well as for affection unbounded, if my dear Miſs Howe, from whom I had not heard of a long time, were ill; as I had been told ſhe was; and if ſo, how ſhe now does. But my injuries being recent, and my diſtreſſes having been exceeding great, Self would croud into my letter. When diſtreſſed, the human mind is apt to turn itſelf to every one in whom it imagined or wiſhed an intereſt, for pity and conſo⯑lation—Or, to expreſs myſelf better and more con⯑ciſely, in your own words, Misfortune makes people plaintive: And to whom, if not to a friend, can the afflicted complain?

Miſs Howe being abroad, when my letter came, I flatter myſelf that ſhe is recovered. But it would be ſome ſatisfaction to me to be informed, if ſhe has been ill. Another line from your hand would be too great a favour. But, if you will be pleaſed to direct any ſervant to anſwer yes, or no, to that queſtion, I will not be farther troubleſome.

Nevertheleſs, I muſt declare, that my Miſs Howe's friendſhip was all the comfort I had, or expected to have, in this world; and a line from her would have been a cordial to my fainting heart. Judge then, deareſt Madam, how reluctantly I muſt obey your prohibition—But yet, I will endeavour to obey it; altho' I ſhould have hoped, as well from the tenor [14] of all that has paſſed between Miſs Howe and me, as from her eſtabliſhed virtue, that ſhe could not be tainted by Evil communication, had one or two letters been permitted. This, however, I aſk not for, ſince I think I have nothing to do, but to beg of God (who, I hope, has not yet withdrawn his grace from me, altho' he is pleaſed to let looſe his juſtice upon my faults) to give me a truly broken ſpirit, if it be not already broken enough, and then to take to his mercy

Two favours, good Madam, I have to beg of you.—The firſt;—that you will not let any of my relations know, that you have heard from me. The other,—that no living creature be appriſed where I am to be heard of, or directed to. This is a point that concerns me, more than I can expreſs.—In ſhort, my preſervation from further evils may depend upon it.

LETTER V. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To HANNAH BURTON.

STRANGE things have happened to me, ſince you were diſmiſſed my ſervice (ſo ſorely againſt my will), and your pert fellow-ſervant ſet over me. But that muſt be all forgotten now—

How do you, my Hannah? Are you recovered of your illneſs? If you are, Do you chooſe to come and be with me? Or can you conveniently?

I am a very unhappy creature, and, being among all ſtrangers, ſhould be glad to have you with me, of whoſe fidelity and love I have had ſo many accept⯑able inſtances.

[15]Living or dying, I will endeavour to make it worth your while, my Hannah.

If you are recovered, as I hope, and if you have a good place, it may be, they would bear with your abſence, and ſuffer ſomebody in your room, for a month or ſo: And, by that time, I hope to be pro⯑vided for, and you may then return to your place.

Don't let any of my friends know of this my deſire, whether you can come or not.

I am at Mr. Smith's, a hoſier's and glove-ſhop, in King-ſtreet, Covent-garden.

You muſt direct to me by the name of Rachel Clark.

Do, my good Hannah, come if you can, to your poor young miſtreſs, who always valued you, and always will, whether you come or not.

I ſend this to your mother at St. Alban's, not knowing where to direct to you. Return me a line, that I may know what to depend upon: And I ſhall ſee you have not forgotten the pretty hand you were taught, in happy days, by

LETTER VI. HANNAH BURTON, In Anſwer.

I HAVE not forgot to write, and never will for⯑get any thing you, my dear young lady, was ſo good as to larn me. I am very ſorrowfull for your misfortens, my deareſt young lady; ſo ſorrowfull, I do not know what to do. Gladd at harte would I be to be able to come to you. But indeed I have not been able to ſtir out of my rome here at my mother's, ever ſince I was forſed to leave my plaſe with a roomatiſe, which has made me quite and clene [16] helpleſs. I will pray for you night and day, my deareſt, my kindeſt, my goodeſt young lady, who have been ſo badly uſed; and I am very ſorry I cannot come to do you love and farvice; which will ever be in the harte of mee to do, if it was in my power: Who am

LETTER VII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Mrs. JUDITH NORTON.

I Addreſs myſelf to you after a very long ſilence (which, however, was not owing either to want of love or duty) principally to deſire you to ſatisfy me in two or three points, which it behoves me to know.

My father, and all the family, I am informed, are to be at my uncle Harlowe's this day, as uſual. Pray acquaint me, if they have been there? And if they were chearful on the anniverſary occaſion? And alſo, if you have heard of any journey, or intended journey, of my brother, in company with Captain Singleton and Mr. Solmes.

Strange things have happened to me, my dear worthy and maternal friend!—Very ſtrange things! —Mr. Lovelace has proved a very barbarous and in⯑grateful man to me. But, God be praiſed, I have eſcaped from him!— Being among abſolute ſtrangers (tho' I think worthy folks), I have written to Hannah Burton to come and be with me. If the good crea⯑ture fall in your way, pray encourage her to come to me. I always intended to have her, ſhe knows: —But hoped to be in happier circumſtances.

[17]Say nothing to any of my friends, that you have heard from me.

Pray, do you think my father would be prevailed upon, if I were to ſupplicate him by letter, to take off the heavy curſe he laid upon me, at my going from Harlowe-Place?—I can expect no other favour from him: But that being literally fulfilled, as to my proſpects in this life, I hope it will be thought to have operated far enough.

I am afraid my Poor, as I uſed to call the good creatures to whoſe neceſſities I was wont to admi⯑niſter, by your faithful hands, have miſſed me of late. But now, alas! I am poor myſelf. It is not the leaſt aggravation of my fault, nor of my regrets, that with ſuch inclinations as God had given me, I have put it out of my power to do the good I once pleaſed myſelf to think I was born to do. It is a ſad thing, my deareſt Mrs. Norton, to render our⯑ſelves unworthy of the talents Providence has in⯑truſted to us!

But theſe reflections are now too late; and perhaps I ought to have kept them to myſelf. Let me, however, hope, that you love me ſtill. Pray let me hope that you do: And then, notwithſtanding my misfortunes, which have made me ſeem ingrateful to the kind and truly maternal pains you have taken with me from my cradle, I ſhall have the happineſs to think that there is One worthy perſon, who hates not

Pray remember me to my foſter-brother. I hope he continues dutiful and good to you.

Be pleaſed to direct for Rachel Clark, at Mr. Smith's in King-ſtreet, Covent-garden. But keep the direction an abſolute ſecret.

LETTER VIII. Mrs. NORTON. In Anſwer.

YOUR letter, my deareſt young lady, cuts me to the heart! Why will you not let me know all your diſtreſſes!—Yet you have ſaid enough!

My ſon is very good to me. A few hours ago he was taken with a feveriſh diſorder. But I hope it will go off happily, if his ardour for buſineſs will give him the receſs from it, which his good maſter is willing to allow him. He preſents his duty to you, and ſhed tears at hearing you ſad letter read.

You have been miſinformed as to your family's being at your uncle Harlowe's. They did not in⯑tend to be there. Nor was the day kept at all. Indeed, they have not ſtirred out, but to church (and that but there times), ever ſince the day you went away. — Unhappy day for them, and for-all who know you!—To me, I am ſure, moſt parti⯑cularly ſo!—My heart now bleeds more and more for you.

I have not heard a ſyllable of ſuch a journey as you mention, of your brother, Captain Singleton, and Mr. Solmes. There has been ſome talk, indeed, of your brother's ſetting out for his northern eſtates: But I have not heard of it lately.

I am afraid no letter will be received from you. It grieves me to tell you ſo, my deareſt young lady. No evil can have happened to you, which they do not expect to hear of; ſo great is their antipathy to the wicked man, and ſo bad is his character.

I cannot but think hardly of their unforgivingneſs: But there is no judging for others by one's ſelf. Ne⯑vertheleſs I will add, that, if you had had as gentle ſpirits to deal with as your own, or, I will be bold to ſay, as mine, theſe evils had never happened either [19] to them, or to you. I knew your virtue, and your love of virtue, from your very cradle; and I doubted not but that, with God's grace, would always be your guard: — But you could never be driven; nor was there occaſion to drive you—So generous, ſo noble, ſo diſcreet—But how does my love of your amiable qualities increaſe my affliction; as theſe re⯑collections muſt do yours!

You are eſcaped, my deareſt Miſs—Happily, I hope—That is to ſay, with your honour— Elſe, how great muſt be your diſtreſs!—Yet from your letter I dread the worſt.

I am very ſeldom at Harlowe Place. The houſe is not the houſe it uſed to be, ſince you went from it. Then they are ſo relentleſs! And, as I cannot ſay harſh things of the beloved child of my heart, as well as boſom, they do not take it amiſs, that I ſtay away.

Your Hannah left her place ill ſome time ago; and, as ſhe is ſtill at her mother's at St. Alban's, I am afraid ſhe continues ill. If ſo, as you are among ſtrangers, and I cannot encourage you at preſent to come into theſe parts, I ſhall think it my duty to attend you (let it be taken as it will) as ſoon as my Tommy's indiſpoſition will permit; which I hope will be ſoon.

I have a little money by me. You ſay you are poor yourſelf—How grievous are thoſe words from one intitled and accuſtomed to affluence! — Will you be ſo good to command it, my beloved young lady?—It is moſt of it your own bounty to me. And I ſhould take a pride to reſtore it to its original owner.

Your Poor bleſs you, and pray for you continually. I have ſo managed your laſt benevolence, and they have been ſo healthy, and have had ſuch conſtant employ, that it has held out; and will ſtill hold out, [20] till happier times, I hope, betide their excellent bene⯑factreſs.

Let me beg of you, my deareſt young lady, to take to yourſelf all thoſe aids, which good perſons, like you, draw from RELIGION, in ſupport of their calamities. Let your ſufferings be what they will, I am ſure you have been innocent in your intention. So do not deſpond. None are made to ſuffer above what they can, and therefore ought to bear.

We know not the methods of Providence, and what wiſe ends it may have to ſerve in its diſpenſa⯑tions to its poor creatures.

Few perſons have greater reaſon to ſay this than myſelf. And ſince we are apt in calamities to draw more comfort from example than precept, you will permit me to remind you of my own lot: For who has had a greater ſhare of afflictions than myſelf?

To ſay nothing of the loſs of an excellent mother, at a time of life when motherly care is moſt wanted; the death of a dear father, who was an ornament to his cloth (and who had qualified me to be his ſcribe and amanuenſis), juſt as he came within view of a preferment which would have made his family eaſy, threw me friendleſs into the wide world; threw me upon a very careleſs, and, which was much worſe, a very unkind huſband. Poor man!—But he was ſpared long enough, thank God, in a tedious illneſs, to re⯑pent of his neglected opportunities, and his light principles; which I have always thought of with pleaſure, altho' I was left the more deſtitute for his chargeable illneſs, and ready to be brought to bed, when he died, of my Tommy.

But this very circumſtance, which I thought the un⯑happieſt that I could have been leſt in (ſo ſhort-ſighted is human prudence), became the happy means of re⯑commending me to your mother, who, in regard to my character, and in compaſſion to my very deſtitute circumſtances, permitted me, as I made a conſcience [21] of not parting with my poor boy, to nurſe both you and him, born within a few days of each other. And I have never ſince wanted any of the humble bleſſings which God has made me contented with.

Nor have I known what a very great grief was, from the day of my poor huſband's death, till the day that your parents told me how much they were de⯑termined that you ſhould have Mr. Solmes; when I was appriſed not only of your averſion to him, but how unworthy he was of you: For then I began to dread the conſequences of forcing ſo generous a ſpirit; and, till then, I never feared Mr. Lovelace, attracting as was his perſon, and ſpecious his manners and addreſs. For I was ſure you would never have him, if he gave you not good reaſon to be convinced of his reforma⯑tion; nor till your friends were as well ſatisfied in it as yourſelf. But that unhappy miſunderſtanding be⯑tween your brother and Mr. Lovelace, and their joining ſo violently to force you upon Mr. Solmes, did all that miſchief, which has coſt you and them ſo dear, and poor me all my peace! O what has not this ingrateful, this doubly-guilty man to anſwer for!

Nevertheleſs, you know not what God has in ſtore for you yet!—But if you are to be puniſhed all your days here, for example-ſake, in a caſe of ſuch im⯑portance, for your one falſe ſtep, be pleaſed to con⯑ſider, That this life is but a ſtate of probation; and if you have your purification in it, you will have you reward hereafter in a greater degree, for ſub⯑mitting to the diſpenſation with patience and reſigna⯑tion.

You ſee, my deareſt Miſs Clary, that I make no ſcruple to call the ſtep you took a falſe one. In you it was leſs excuſeable than it would have been in any other young lady; not only becauſe of your ſuperior talents, but becauſe of the oppoſition between your character and his: So that if you had been provoked to quit your father's houſe, it needed not to have been [22] with him. Nor needed I, indeed, but as an inſtance of my impartial love, to have written this to you ^(a).

After this, it will have an unkind, and, perhaps, at this time, an unſeaſonable appearance, to expreſs my concern, that you have not before favour'd me with a line.—Yet, if you can account to yourſelf for your ſilence, I dare ſay I ought to be ſatisfied; for I am ſure you love me: As I both love and honour you, and ever will, and the more for your misfor⯑tunes.

One conſolation, methinks, I have, even when I am ſorrowing for your calamities; and that is, that I know not any young perſon ſo qualified to ſhine the brighter for the trials ſhe may be exerciſed with: And yet it is a conſolation that ends in adding to my regrets for your afflictions, becauſe you are bleſſed with a mind ſo well able to bear proſperity, and to make every-body round you the better for it.—Woe unto him!—O this wretched, wretched man!—But I will forbear till I know more.

Ruminating on every thing your melancholy letter ſuggeſts, and apprehending, from the gentleneſs of your mind, the amiableneſs of your perſon, and your youth, the further misfortunes and inconveniencies to which you may poſſibly be ſubjected, I cannot conclude with⯑out aſking for your leave to attend you, and that in a very earneſt manner:—And I beg of you not to deny me, on any conſideration relating to myſelf, or even to the indiſpoſition of my other beloved child; if I can be either of uſe or comfort to you. Were it, my deareſt young lady, but for two or three days, permit me to attend you, altho' my ſon's illneſs ſhould in⯑creaſe, and compel me to come down again at the end of thoſe two or thee days.—I repeat my re⯑queſt, [23] likewiſe that you will command from me the little ſum remaining in my hands, of your bounty to your Poor, as well as that diſpenſed to

LETTER IX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Lady BETTY LAWRANCE.

I Hope you'll excuſe the freedom of this addreſs, from one who has not the honour to be perſonally known to you, altho' you muſt have heard much of Clariſſa Harlowe. It is only to beg the favour of a line from your Ladyſhip's hand (by the next poſt, if convenient) in anſwer to the following que⯑ſtions.

Your Ladyſhip will probably gueſs, that theſe queſtions are not aſked for reaſons favourable to your nephew Lovelace. But be the anſwer what it will, it can do him no hurt, nor me any good; only that I think I owe it to my former hopes (however deceived in them), and even to charity, that a perſon, of whom I was once willing to think better, ſhould not prove ſo egregiouſly abandon'd, as to be wanting, in every inſtance, to that veracity, which is an indiſpenſable in the character of a gentleman.

Be pleaſed, Madam, to direct to me (keeping the direction a ſecret for the preſent) to be left at the Belle-Savage on Ludgate-hill, till call'd for. I am,

LETTER X. Lady BETTY LAWRANCE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Find, that all is not as it ſhould be between you and my nephew Lovelace. It will very much afflict me, and all his friends, if he has been guilty of any deſigned baſeneſs to a lady of your character and merit.

We have been long in expectation of an opportu⯑nity to congratulate you and ourſelves, upon an event moſt earneſtly wiſhed for by us all; ſince all our hopes of him are built upon the power you have over him: For if ever man adored a woman, he is that man, and you, Madam, are that woman.

Miſs Montague, in her laſt letter to me, in anſwer to one of mine, inquiring if ſhe knew, from him, whether he could call you his, or was likely ſoon to [25] have that honour; has theſe words: ‘I know not what to make of my couſin Lovelace, as to the point your Ladyſhip is ſo earneſt about. He ſome⯑times ſays, He is actually married to Miſs Cl. Har⯑lowe: At other times, that it is her own fault if he be not:—He ſpeaks of her not only with love, but with reverence: Yet owns, that there is a miſunderſtanding between them; but confeſſes, that ſhe is wholly faultleſs. An angel, and not a woman, he ſays ſhe is: And that no man living can be worthy of her.’— This is what my niece Montague writes.

God grant, my deareſt young lady, that he may not have ſo heinouſly offended you, that you cannot forgive him! If you are not already married, and refuſe to be his, I ſhall loſe all hopes that he ever will marry, or be the man I wiſh him to be. So will Lord M. So will Lady Sarah Sadleir.

I will now anſwer your queſtions: But indeed I hardly know what to write, for fear of widening ſtill more the unhappy difference between you. But yet ſuch a young lady muſt command every thing from me. This then is my anſwer.

Be what will the reaſon of your inquiry, let me intreat you, my dear young lady, for Lord M.'s ſake; for my ſake; for this giddy man's ſake, ſoul as well as body; and for all our family's ſakes; not to ſuffer this anſwer to widen differences ſo far as to make you re⯑fuſe him, if already he has not the honour of calling you his; as I am apprehenſive he has not, by your ſigning by your family-name.

And here let me offer to you my mediation to compoſe the difference between you, be it what it will. Your cauſe, my dear young lady, cannot be put into the hands of any-body living more devoted to your ſervice, than into thoſe of

LETTER XI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Mrs. HODGES.

I Am under a kind of neceſſity to write to you, having no one among my relations to whom I dare write, or hope a line from, if I did. It is but [...]o anſwer a queſtion. It is this:

Whether you know ſuch a man as Captain Tom⯑linſon? And, if you do, whether he be very intimate with my uncle Harlowe?

I will deſcribe his perſon, leſt, poſſibly, he ſhould go by another name among you; altho' I know not why he ſhould.

‘He is a thin, talliſh man, a little pock-fretten; of a ſallowiſh complexion. Fifty years of age, or more. Of a good aſpect, when he looks up. He ſeems to be a ſerious man, and one who [27] knows the world. He ſtoops a little in the ſhoulders. Is of Berkſhire. His wife of Oxfordſhire; and has ſeveral children. He removed lately into your parts from Northamptonſhire.’

I muſt deſire you, Mrs. Hodges, that you will not let my uncle, nor any of my relations, know that I write to you.

You uſed to ſay, that you would be glad to have it in your power to ſerve me. That, indeed, was in my proſperity. But, I dare ſay, you will not re⯑fuſe me in a particular that will oblige me, without hurting yourſelf.

I underſtand, that my father, mother, and ſiſter, and, I preſume, my brother, and my uncle Antony, are to be at my uncle Harlowe's this day. God pre⯑ſerve them all, and may they rejoice in many happy birth-days! You will write ſix words to me con⯑cerning their healths.

Direct, for a particular reaſon, To Mrs. Dorothy Salcomb; To be left, till call'd for, at the Four Swans Inn, Biſhopſgate-ſtreet.

You know my hand-writing well enough, were not the contents of the letter ſufficient to excuſe my name, or any other ſubſcription, than that of

LETTER XII. Mrs. HODGES. In Anſwer.

I Return you an anſer, as you wiſh me to doe. Maſter is acquented with no ſitch man. I am ſhure no ſitch ever came to our houſe. And maſter ſturs very little out. He has no harte to ſtur out. For why? Your obſtincy makes um not care to ſee one another. Maſter's birth-day never was keept ſoe before: For not a ſole heere; and nothing but ſikeing and ſorrowin from maſter, to think how it yuſed to bee.

[28]I axſed maſter, if ſoe bee he knoed ſitch a man as one Captain Tomlinſon? But ſayed not whirfor I axſed. He ſed, No, not he.

Shure this is no trix nor forgary bruing agenſt ma⯑ſter by won Tomlinſon—Won knoes not what cum⯑pany you may have bin forſed to keep, ſen you went away, you knoe, Maddam. Ecſcuſe me, Maddam; but Lundon is a peſtilent plaſe; and that Squire Luveleſs is a devil (for all he is ſitch a like gentleman to look to), as I hev herd every boddy ſay; and thinke as how you have found by thiſs.

I truſte, Maddam, you wulde not let maſter cum to harme, if you knoed it, by any boddy, whoe may pretend too be acquented with him: But, for fere, I querid with myſelf iff I ſhulde not tell him. Butt I was willin to ſhow you, that I wulde pleſſure you in advarſity, if advarſity bee youre lott, as well as proſ⯑prity; for I am none of thoſe as woulde doe otherwis. Soe noe more frum

LETTER XIII. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To Lady BETTY LAWRANCE.

I Cannot excuſe myſelf from giving your Ladyſhip this one trouble more; to thank you, as I moſt heartily do, for your kind letter.

I muſt own to you, Madam, that the honour of being related to Ladies, as eminent for their virtue as for their deſcent, was at firſt no ſmall inducement with me, to lend an ear to Mr. Lovelace's addreſs. And the rat [...]er, as I was determined, had it come to effect, to do every thing in my power to deſerve your favourable opinion.

I had another motive, which I knew would of it⯑ſelf give me merit with you your whole family; a pre⯑ſumptuous [29] one (a puniſhably preſumptuous one, as it has proved), in the hope that I might be an hum⯑ble means, in the hand of Providence, to reclaim a man, who had, as I thought, good ſenſe enough at bottom to be reclaimed; or, at leaſt, gratitude enough to acknowlege the intended obligation, whe⯑ther the generous hope were to ſucceed, or not.

But I have been moſt egregiouſly miſtaken in Mr. Lovelace; the only man, I perſuade myſelf, pre⯑tending to be a gentleman, in whom I could have been ſo much miſtaken: For while I was endeavour⯑ing to ſave a drowning wretch, I have been, not accidentally, but premeditatedly, and of ſet purpoſe, drawn in after him. And he has had the glory to add to the liſt of thoſe he has ruined, a name, that, I will be bold to ſay, would not have diſparaged his own. And this, Madam, by means that would ſhock humanity to be made acquainted with.

My whole end is ſerved by your Ladyſhip's an⯑ſwer to the queſtions I took the liberty to put to you in writing. Nor have I a wiſh to make the unhappy man more odious to you, than is neceſſary to excuſe myſelf for abſolutely declining your offered media⯑tion.

When your Ladyſhip ſhall be informed of the fol⯑lowing particulars;

That after he had compulſatorily, as I may ſay, tricked me into the act of going off with him, he could carry me to one of the vileſt houſes, as it proved, in London:

That he could be guilty of a wicked attempt, in reſentment of which, I found means to eſcape from him to Hamſtead:

That, after he had found me out there (I know not how), he could procure two women, dreſſed out richly, to perſonate your Ladyſhip and Miſs Monta⯑gue; who, under pretence of engaging me to make a viſit in town to your couſin Leeſon (promiſing to [30] return with me that evening to Hamſtead), betrayed me back again to the vile houſe: Where, again made a priſoner, I was firſt robbed of my ſenſes; and then (why ſhould I ſeek to conceal that diſgrace from others, which I cannot hide from myſelf?) of my honour:

When your Ladyſhip ſhall know, That, in the ſhocking progreſs to this ruin, wilful falſhoods, re⯑peated forgeries (particularly of one letter from your Ladyſhip, another from Miſs Montague, and a third from Lord M.), and numberleſs perjuries, were not the leaſt of his crimes:

You will judge, That I can have no principles that will make me worthy of an alliance with Ladies of yours and your noble ſiſter's character, if I could not from my ſoul declare, that ſuch an alliance can never now take place.

I will not offer to clear myſelf intirely of blame: But, as to him, I have no fault to accuſe myſelf of: My crime was, The correſponding with him at firſt, when prohibited ſo to do, by thoſe who had a right to my obedience; made ſtill more inexcuſable, by giving him a clandeſtine meeting, which put me into the power of his arts. And for this, I am content to be puniſhed: Thankful, that at laſt I have eſcaped from him; and have it in my power to reject ſo wicked a man for my huſband: And glad, if I may be a warning, ſince I cannot be an example: Which once (very vain, and very conceited as I was!) I pro⯑poſed to myſelf to be!

All the ill I wiſh him is, That he may reform; and that I may be the laſt victim to his baſeneſs. Perhaps this deſirable wiſh may be obtained, when he ſhall ſee how his wickedneſs, his unmerited wic⯑kedneſs, to a poor creature, made friendleſs by his cruel arts, will end.

I conclude with my humble thanks to your Lady⯑ſhip, [31] for your favourable opinion of me; and with the aſſurance, that I will be, while life is lent me,

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

HOW kindly, my beloved Mrs. Norton, do you ſoothe the anguiſh of a bleeding heart! Surely you are my own mamma; and, by ſome unaccount⯑able miſtake, I muſt have been laid to a family, that, having newly found out, or at leaſt ſuſpected, the impoſture, caſt me from their hearts, with the in⯑dignation that ſuch a diſcovery will warrant.

O that I had indeed been your own child, born to partake of your humble fortunes, an heireſs only to that content in which you are ſo happy! Then ſhould I have had a truly gentle ſpirit to have guided my ductile heart, which force and ungenerous uſage ſit ſo ill upon; and nothing of what has happened would have been.

But let me take heed, that I inlarge not, by im⯑patience, the breach already made in my duty, by my raſhneſs; ſince, had I not erred, my mother, at leaſt, could never have been thought hard-hearted and unforgiving: — Am I not then anſwerable, not only for my own faults, but for the conſequences of them; which tend to depreciate and bring diſgrace upon a maternal character never before called in queſtion?

It is kind however in you, to endeavour to exte⯑nuate the fault of one ſo greatly ſenſible of it:—And could it be wiped off intirely, it would render me more worthy of the pains you have taken in my edu⯑cation: For it muſt add to your grief, as it does to my confuſion, that, after ſuch promiſing beginnings, [32] I ſhould have ſo behaved, as to be a diſgrace inſtead of a credit to you, and my other friends.

But that I may not make you think me more guilty than I am, give me leave briefly to aſſure you, that when my ſtory is known, I ſhall be intitled to more compaſſion than blame, even on the ſcore of going away with Mr. Lovelace.

As to all that happened afterwards, let me only ſay, that, altho' I muſt call myſelf a loſt creature, as to this world, yet have I this conſolation left me, that I have not ſuffered either for want of circum⯑ſpection, or thro' credulity, or weakneſs. Not one moment was I off my guard, or unmindful of your early precepts. But (having been enabled to baffle many baſe contrivances) I was at laſt ruined by arts the moſt inhuman. But had I not been rejected by every friend, this low-hearted man had not dared, nor would have had opportunity, to treat me as he has treated me.

More I cannot, at this time, nor need I, ſay: And this I deſire you to keep to yourſelf, leſt reſnt⯑ments ſhould be taken up, when I am gone, that may ſpread the evil, which I hope will end with me.

I have been miſinformed, you ſay, as to my prin⯑cipal relations being at my uncle Harlowe's. The day, you ſay, was not kept. Nor have my brother and Mr. Solmes — Aſtoniſhing—What complicated wickedneſs has his wretched man to anſwer for!— Were I to tell you, you would hardly believe there could have been ſuch a heart in man—

But one day you may know my whole ſtory!— At preſent I have neither inclination nor words—O my burſting heart!—Yet a happy, a wiſhed relief!— Were you preſent, my tears would ſupply the reſt!

I RESUME my pen!

And ſo you fear no letter will be received from me. But DON'T grieve to tell me ſo! I expect every⯑thing [33] bad!—And ſuch is my diſtreſs, that had you not bid me hope for mercy from the Throne of Mercy, I ſhould have been afraid, that my father's dreadful curſe would be completed, with regard to both worlds.

For, here, an additional misfortune!—In a fit of phrenſical heedleſneſs, I ſent a letter to my beloved Miſs Howe, without recollecting her private addreſs; and it is fallen into her angry mother's hands: And ſo that dear friend perhaps has anew incurred diſplea⯑ſure on my account. And here too, your worthy ſon is ill; and my poor Hannah, you think, cannot come to me.— O my dear Mrs. Norton, will you, can you, cenſure thoſe whoſe reſentments againſt me Heaven ſeems to approve of? and will you acquit her whom that condemns?

Yet you bid me not deſpond.—I will not, if I can help it.— And, indeed, moſt ſeaſonable conſo⯑lation has your kind letter afforded me.— Yet to God Almighty do I appeal, to avenge my wrongs, and vindicate my inno—

But huſhed be my ſtormy paſſions!—Have I not but this moment ſaid, that your letter gave me con⯑ſolation? — May thoſe be forgiven, who hinder my father from forgiving me!—And this, as to them, ſhall be the harſheſt thing that ſhall drop from my pen.

But altho' your ſon ſhould recover, I charge you, my dear Mrs. Norton, that you do not think of coming to me. I don't know ſtill, but your media⯑tion with my mother (altho' at preſent your interpo⯑ſition would be ſo little attended to) may be of uſe to procure me the revocation of that moſt dreadful part of my father's curſe, which only remains to be ful⯑filled. The voice of nature muſt at laſt be heard in my favour, ſurely. It will only plead at firſt to my friends in the ſtill, conſcious plaintiveneſs of a young and unhardened beggar! — But it will grow more [34] clamorous when I have the courage to be ſo, and ſhall demand, perhaps, the paternal protection from further ruin; and that forgiveneſs, which thoſe will be little intitled to expect, for their own faults, who ſhall interpoſe to have it refuſed to me, for a acci⯑dental, not a premeditated, error: And which, but for them, I had never fallen into.

But again impatiency, founded, perhaps, on ſelf-partiality, that ſtrange miſleader! prevails.

Let me briefly ſay, that it is neceſſary to my pre⯑ſent and future hopes, that you keep well with my family. And, moreover, ſhould you come, I may be traced out, by your means, by the moſt aban⯑doned of men. Say not then, that you think you ought to come up to me, let it be taken as it will:— For my ſake, let me repeat (were my foſter-brother recovered, as I hope he is), you muſt not come. Nor can I want your advice, while I can write, and you can anſwer me. And write I will, as often as I ſtand in need of your counſel.

Then the people I am now with ſeem to be both honeſt and humane: And there is in the ſame houſe a widow-lodger, of low fortunes, but of great merit— Almoſt ſuch another ſerious and good woman, as the dear one, to whom I am now writing; who has, as ſhe ſays, given over all other thoughts of the world, but ſuch as ſhall aſſiſt her to leave it happily.—How ſuitable to my own views!—There ſeems to be a comfortable providence in this, at leaſt!—So that at preſent there is nothing of exigence; nothing that can require, or even excuſe, your coming, when ſo many better ends may be anſwered by your ſtaying where you are. A time may come, when I ſhall want your laſt and beſt aſſiſtance: And then, my dear Mrs. Norton — And then, I will beſpeak it, and em⯑brace it with my whole heart — And then, will it not be denied me by any-body.

You are very obliging in your offer of money. But [35] altho' I was forced to leave my cloaths behind me, yet I took ſeveral things of value with me, which will keep me from preſent want. You'll ſay, I have made a miſerable hand of it — So indeed I have!— and, to look backward, in a very little while too.

But what ſhall I do, if my father cannot be pre⯑vailed upon to recal his grievous malediction?—Of all the very heavy evils wherewith I have been af⯑flicted, this is now the heavieſt; for I can neither live nor die under it.

O my dear Mrs. Norton, what a weight muſt a father's curſe have upon a mind ſo apprehenſive of it, as mine is!—Did I think I ſhould ever have this to deprecate?

But you muſt not be angry with me, that I wrote not to you before. You are very right, and very kind, to ſay, You are ſure I love you. Indeed I do. And what a generoſity is there (ſo like yourſelf) in your praiſe, to attribute to me more than I merit, in order to raiſe an emulation in me to deſerve your praiſes! — You tell me, what you expect from me in the calamities I am called upon to bear. May I but behave anſwerably!

I can a little account to myſelf for my ſilence to you, my kind, my dear maternal friend [how equally ſweetly and politely do you expreſs yourſelf on this occaſion!] — I was very deſirous, for your ſake, as well as for my own, that you ſhould have it to ſay, that we did not correſpond: Had they thought we did, every word you could have dropt in my favour, would have been rejected; and my mother would have been forbid to ſee you, or to pay any regard to what you ſhould ſay.

They I had ſometimes better and ſometimes worſe proſpects before me. My worſt would only have troubled you to know: My better made me fre⯑quently hope, that, by the next poſt, or the next, and ſo on for weeks, I ſhould have the beſt news to [36] impart to you, that then could happen; cold as the wretch had made my heart to that Beſt.—For how could I think to write to you, with a confeſſion, that I was not married, yet lived in the houſe (nor could I help it) with ſuch a man?—Who likewiſe had given it out to ſeveral, that we were actually mar⯑ried, altho' with reſtrictions that depended on the reconciliation with my friends? And to diſguiſe the truth, or be guilty of a falſhood either direct or equi⯑vocal, that was what you had never learnt me.

But I might have written to you for advice, in my precarious ſituation, perhaps you will think. But, indeed, my dear Mrs. Norton, I was not loſt for want of advice. And this will appear clear to you, from what I have already hinted, were I to explain myſelf no further:— For what need had the cruel ſpoiler to have had recourſe to unprecedented arts—I will ſpeak out plainer ſtill (but you muſt not at pre⯑ſent report it); to ſtupefying potions, and to the moſt brutal and outrageous force; had I been want⯑ing in my duty?

A few words more upon this grievous ſubject—

When I reflect upon all that has happened to me, it is apparent, that this generally-ſuppoſed thought⯑leſs ſeducer, has acted by me upon a regular and preconcerted plan of villainy.

In order to ſet all his vile plots in motion, nothing was wanting from the firſt, but to prevail upon me, either by force or fraud, to throw myſelf into his power: And when this was effected, nothing leſs than the intervention of the paternal authority (which I had not deſerved to be exerted in my behalf) could have ſaved me from the effect of his deep machina⯑tions. Oppoſition from any other quarter would but too probably have precipitated his barbarous and in⯑grateful violence: And had you yourſelf been with me, I have reaſon now to think, that ſome-how or other you would have ſuffered in endeavouring to ſave me: [37] For never was there, as now I ſee, a plan of wicked⯑neſs more ſteadily and uniformly purſued, than his has been, againſt an unhappy creature, who merited better of him: But the Almighty has thought fit, ac⯑cording to the general courſe of his providence, to make the fault bring on its own puniſhment: And that, perhaps, in conſequence of my father's dread⯑ful imprecation, "That I might be puniſhed here" [O my mamma Norton, pray with me, that here it ſtop!] ‘by the very wretch in whom I had placed my wicked confidence!’

I am ſorry, for your ſake, to leave off ſo heavily. Yet the reſt muſt be brief.

Let me deſire you to be ſecret in what I have com⯑municated to you; at leaſt, till you have my con⯑ſent to divulge it.

God preſerve to you your more faultleſs child!

I will hope for His mercy, altho' I ſhould not ob⯑tain that of any other perſon.

And I repeat my prohibition:—You muſt not think of coming up to

The obliging perſon, who left yours for me this day, promiſed to call to-morrow, to ſee if I ſhould have any-thing to return. I would not loſe ſo good an opportunity.

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

O The barbarous villainly of this deteſtable man!

And is there a man in the world, who could offer violence to ſo ſweet a creature!

And are you ſure you are now out of his reach?

You command me to keep ſecret the particulars of the vile treatment you have met with; or elſe, upon an unexpected viſit which Miſs Harlowe fa⯑voured [38] me with, ſoon after I had received your me⯑lancholy letter, I ſhould have been tempted to own I had heard from you, and to have communicated to her ſuch parts of your two letters as would have de⯑monſtrated your penitence, and your earneſtneſs to obtain the revocation of your father's malediction, as well as his protection from outrages, that may ſtill be offered to you. But then your ſiſter would pro⯑bably have expected a ſight of the letters, and even to been have permitted to take them with her to the family.

Yet they muſt one day be acquainted with the ſad ſtory:—And it is impoſſible but they muſt pity you, and forgive you, when they know your early peni⯑tence, and your unprecedented ſufferings; and that you have fallen by the brutal force of a barbarous raviſher, and not by the vile arts of a ſeducing lover.

The wicked man gives it out, at Lord M.'s, as Miſs Harlowe tells me, that he is actually married to you:—Yet ſhe believes it not; nor had I the heart to let her know the truth.

She put it cloſe to me, Whether I had not cor⯑reſponded with you from the time of your going away? I could ſafely tell her (as I did), that I had not: But I ſaid, that I was well informed, that you took extremely to heart your father's imprecation; and that, if ſhe would excuſe me, I would ſay, it would be a kind and ſiſterly part, if ſhe would uſe her intereſt to get you diſcharged from it.

Among other ſevere things, ſhe told me, that my partial fondneſs for you made me very little conſider the honour of the reſt of the family: But, if I had not heard this from you, ſhe ſuppoſed I was ſet on by Miſs Howe.

She expreſſed herſelf with a good deal of bitterneſs againſt that young lady: Who, it ſeems, every-where, and to every-body (for you muſt think, that your ſtory is the ſubject of all converſations), rails [39] againſt your family; treating them, as your ſiſter ſays, with contempt, and even with ridicule.

I am ſorry ſuch angry freedoms are taken, for two reaſons; firſt, Becauſe ſuch liberties never do any good. I have heard you own, that Miſs Howe has a ſatiri⯑cal vein; but I ſhould hope, that a young lady of her ſenſe, and right caſt of mind, muſt know, that the end of ſatire is not to exaſperate, but amend; and ſhould never be perſonal. If it be, as my good father uſed to ſay, it may make an impartial perſon ſuſpect, that the ſatiriſt has a natural ſpleen to gra⯑tify; which may be as great a fault in him, as any of thoſe which he pretends to cenſure and expoſe in others.

Perhaps a hint of this from you, will not be thrown away.

My ſecond reaſon is, That theſe freedoms, from ſo warm a friend to you as Miſs Howe is known to be, are moſt likely to be charged to your account.

My reſentments are ſo ſtrong againſt this vileſt of men, that I dare not touch upon the ſhocking par⯑ticulars which you mention, of his baſeneſs. What defence, indeed, could there be againſt ſo determined a wretch, after you were in his power? I will only repeat my earneſt ſupplication to you, that, black as appearances are, you will not deſpair. You cala⯑mities are exceeding great, but then you have ta⯑lents proportioned to your trials. This every-body allows.

Suppoſe the worſt, and that your family will not be moved in your favour, your couſin Morden will ſoon arrive, as Miſs Harlowe told me. If he ſhould even be got over to their ſide, he will however ſee juſtice done you; and then may you live an exem⯑plary life, making hundreds happy, and teaching young ladies to ſhun the ſnares in which you have been ſo dreadfully intangled.

As to the man you have loſt, Is an union with [40] ſuch a perjured heart as his with ſuch an admirable one as yours, to be wiſhed for? A baſe, low-hearted wretch, as you juſtly call him, with all his pride of anceſtry; and more an enemy to himſelf, with re⯑gard to his preſent and future happineſs, than to you, in the barbarous and ingrateful wrongs he has done you; I need not, I am ſure, exhort you to deſpiſe ſuch a man as this; ſince not to be able to do ſo, would be a reflection upon a ſex to which you have always been an honour.

Your moral character is untainted: The very na⯑ture of your ſufferings, as you well obſerve, demon⯑ſtrates that. Chear up, therefore, your dear heart, and do not deſpair: For is it not GOD who governs the world, and permits ſome things, and directs others, as He pleaſes? And will he not reward tem⯑porary ſufferings, innocently incurred, and piouſly ſupported, with eternal felicity? — And what, my dear, is this poor needle's point of NOW to a bound⯑leſs ETERNITY?

My heart, however, labours under a double af⯑fliction: For my poor boy is very, very bad!—A violent fever!—Nor can it be brought to intermit! — Pray for him, my deareſt Miſs; — for his recovery, if God ſee fit. — I hope God will ſee fit?—If not (how can I bear to ſuppoſe That!)— pray for me, that he will give me that patience and reſignation, which I have been wiſhing to you. I am, my deareſt young lady,

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

I Ought not, eſpecially at this time, to add to your afflictions—But yet I cannot help communicating [41] to you (who now are my only ſoothing friend) a new trouble that has befallen me.

I had but one friend in the world, beſides you; and ſhe is utterly diſpleaſed with me ^(a): It is griev⯑ous, but for one moment, to lie under a beloved perſon's cenſure; and this through imputations that affect one's honour and prudence. There are points ſo delicate, you know, my dear Mrs. Norton, that it is a degree of diſhonour to have a vindication of one's ſelf from them appear to be neceſſary. In the preſent caſe, my misfortune is, that I know not how to account, but by gueſs (ſo ſubtle have been the workings of the dark ſpirit I have been unhap⯑pily intangled by), for ſome of the facts that I am called upon to explain.

Miſs Howe, in ſhort, ſuppoſes ſhe has found a flaw in my character. I have juſt now received her ſevere letter: But I ſhall anſwer it, perhaps, in bet⯑ter temper, if I firſt conſider yours. For indeed my patience is almoſt at an end. And yet I ought to conſider, That faithful are the wounds of a friend. But ſo many things at once! — O, my dear Mrs. Norton, how ſhall ſo young a ſcholar in the ſchool of affliction be able to bear ſuch heavy and ſuch va⯑rious evils!

But to leave this ſubject for a while, and turn to your letter.

I am very ſorry Miſs Howe is ſo lively in her re⯑ſentments on my account. I have always blamed her very freely for her liberties of this ſort, with my friends. I once had a good deal of influence over her kind heart, and ſhe made all I ſaid a law to her. But people in calamity have but little weight in any-thing, or with any-body. Proſperity and independ⯑ence are charming things on this account, that they give force to the counſels of a friendly heart; while [42] it is thought inſolence in the miſerable to adviſe, or ſo much as remonſtrate.

Yet is Miſs Howe an invaluable perſon: And is it to be expected, that ſhe ſhould preſerve the ſame regard for my judgment, that ſhe had before I for⯑feited all title to diſcretion? With what face can I take upon me to reproach a want of prudence in her? But if I can be ſo happy as to re-eſtabliſh myſelf in her ever-valued opinion, I ſhall endeavour to inforce upon her your juſt obſervations on this head.

You need not, you ſay, exhort me to deſpiſe ſuch a man as him, by whom I have ſuffered:—Indeed▪ you need not: For I would chooſe the cruelleſt death, rather than to be his. And yet, my dear Mrs. Norton, I will own to you, that once I could have loved him— Ingrateful man! — had he permitted me, I once could have loved him. Yet he never deſerved my love. And was not this a fault? But now, if I can but keep out of his hands, and procure the revocation of my father's malediction, it is all I wiſh for.

Reconciliation with my friends I do not expect; nor pardon from them; at leaſt, till in extremity, and as a viaticum.

O, my beloved Mrs. Norton, you cannot imagine what I have ſuffered!—But indeed my heart is bro⯑ken! I am ſure I ſhall not live to take poſſeſſion of that independence, which you think would enable me to atone in ſome meaſure for my paſt conduct.

While this is my opinion, you may believe, I ſhall not be eaſy, till I can procure the revocation of that dreadful curſe; and, if poſſible, a laſt forgiveneſs.

I wiſh to be left to take my own courſe, in en⯑deavouring to procure this grace. Yet know I not, at preſent, what that courſe ſhall be.

I will write. But to whom is my doubt. Cala⯑mity has not yet given me the aſſurance to addreſs myſelf to my FATHER. My UNCLES (well as they [43] once loved me) are hard-hearted. They never had their maſculine paſſions humanized by the tender name of FATHER. Of my BROTHER I have no hope. I have then but my MOTHER, and my SIS⯑TER, to whom I can apply.—‘And may I not, my deareſt Mamma, be permitted to lift up my trembling eye, to your all-chearing, and your once more than indulgent, your fond eye, in hopes of ſeaſonable mercy, to the poor ſick heart, that yet beats with life drawn from your own dearer heart? — Eſpecially when pardon only, and not reſtoration, is implored?’

Yet were I able to engage my mother's pity, would it not be a means to make her ſtill more unhappy, than I have already made her, by the oppoſition ſhe would meet with, were ſhe to try to give force to that pity?

To my SISTER, then, I think, I will apply — Yet how hard hearted has my ſiſter been!—But I will not aſk for protection; and yet I am in hourly dread, that I ſhall want protection. — All I will aſk for, ſhall be only to be freed from the heavy curſe, that has operated as far as it can operate, as to this life. —And ſurely, it was paſſion, and not intention, that carried it ſo very far, as to the other!

But why do I thus add to your diſtreſſes? — It is not, my dear Mrs. Norton, that I have ſo much feeling for my own calamity, that I have none for yours: Since yours is indeed an addition to my own. But you have one conſolation (a very great one) which I have not:—That your afflictions, whether reſpect⯑ing your more or your leſs deſerving child, riſe not from any fault of your own.

But what can I do for you more than pray?—Aſ⯑ſure yourſelf, that in every ſupplication I put up for myſelf, I will, with equal fervor, remember both you and your ſon. For I am, and ever will be,

LETTER XVII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, For Mrs. RACHEL CLARK, &c.

I Have at laſt heard from you from a quarter I little expected.

From my mamma.

She had for ſome time ſeen me uneaſy and grieving; and juſtly ſuppoſed it was about you. And this morn⯑ing dropt a hint, which made me conjecture that ſhe muſt have heard ſomething of you, more than I knew. And when ſhe found that this added to my uneaſineſs, ſhe owned ſhe had a letter in her hands of yours, dated the 29th of June, directed for me.

You may gueſs, that this occaſion'd a little warmth, that could not be wiſhed for by either.

[It is ſurpriſing, my dear, mighty ſurpriſing! that, knowing the prohibition I lay under of correſponding with you, you could ſend a letter for me to our own houſe: Since it muſt be fifty to one that it would fall into my mother's hands, as you find it did.]

In ſhort, ſhe reſented that I ſhould diſobey her: I was as much concerned that ſhe ſhould open and with-hold from me my letters: And at laſt ſhe was pleaſed to compromiſe the matter with me, by giving up the letter, and permitting me to write to you once or twice; ſhe to ſee the contents of what I wrote. For, beſides the value ſhe has for you, ſhe could not but have a great curioſity to know the oc⯑caſion of ſo ſad a ſituation, as your melancholy let⯑ter ſhews you to be in.

[But I ſhall get her to be ſatisfied with hearing me read what I write; putting in between hooks, thus [], what I intend not to read to her.]

Need I to remind you, Miſs Cl. Harlowe, of three letters I wrote to you, to none of which I had any [45] anſwer; except to the firſt, and that a few lines only, promiſing a letter at large; tho' you were well enough, the day after you received my ſecond, to go joyfully back again with him to the vile houſe? But more of theſe by-and-by. I muſt haſten to take notice of your letter of Wedneſday laſt week; which you could contrive ſhould fall into my mother's hands.

Let me tell you, that that letter has almoſt broken my heart. Good God! what have you brought yourſelf to, Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe?—Could I have believed, that after you had eſcaped from the miſ⯑creant (with ſuch mighty pains and earneſtneſs eſcaped), and after ſuch an attempt as he had made, you would have been prevailed upon, not only to forgive him, but (without being married too) to re⯑turn with him to that horrid houſe!—A houſe I had given you ſuch an account of!—Surpriſing!—What an intoxicating thing is this Love?—I always feared, that You, even You, were not proof againſt it.

You your beſt ſelf have not eſcaped! — Indeed I ſee not how you could expect to eſcape.

What a tale have you to unfold! — You need not un⯑fold it, my dear: I would have engaged to prognoſti⯑cate all that has happen'd, had you but told me, that you would once more have put yourſelf into his power, after you had taken ſuch pains to get out of it.

Your peace is deſtroyed!—I wonder not at it: Since now you muſt reproach yourſelf for a credulity ſo ill-placed.

Your intellect is touch'd!—I am ſure my heart bleeds for you: But, excuſe me, my dear, I doubt your intellect was touch'd before you left Hamſtead; or you would never have let him find you out there; or, when he did, ſuffer him to prevail upon you to return to the horrid brothel.

I tell you, I ſent you three letters: The firſt of which, dated the 7th and 8th of June ^(a) (for it was [46] wrote at twice), came ſafe to your hands, as you ſent me word by a few lines dated the ninth: Had it not, I ſhould have doubted my own ſafety; ſince in it I gave you ſuch an account of the abominable houſe, and threw ſuch cautions in your way, as to that Tomlinſon, as the more ſurpriſed me that you could think of going back to it again, after you had eſcaped from it, and from Lovelace—O my dear!— But nothing now will I ever wonder at!

The ſecond, dated June 10 ^(a). was given into your own hand at Hamſtead, on Sunday the 11th, as you was lying upon a couch, in a ſtrange way, ac⯑cording to my meſſenger's account of you, bloated, and fluſh-coloured; I don't know how.

The third was dated the 20th of June ^(b). Hav⯑ing not heard one word from you ſince the promiſing billet of the 9th, I own I did not ſpare you in it. I ventured it by the uſual conveyance, by that Wil⯑ſon's, having no other: So cannot be ſure you re⯑ceived it. Indeed I rather think you might not; be⯑cauſe in yours, which fell into my mamma's hands, you make no mention of it: And if you had had it, I believe it would have touch'd you too much, to have been paſſed by unnoticed.

You have heard, that I have been ill, you ſay. I had a cold indeed; but it was ſo ſlight a one, that it confined me not an hour. But I doubt not, that ſtrange things you have heard, and been told, to induce you to take the ſtep you took. And, till you did take that ſtep (the going back with this villain, I mean), I knew not a more pitiable caſe than yours:— For every body muſt have excuſed you before, who knew how you was uſed at home, and was ac⯑quainted with your prudence and vigilance. But, alas! my dear, we ſee that the wiſeſt people are not to be depended upon, when Love, like an ignis fatuus, holds up its miſleading lights before their eyes.

[47]My mother tells me, ſhe ſent you an anſwer, de⯑ſiring you not to write to me, becauſe it would grieve me. To be ſure I am grieved; exceedingly grieved; and, diſappointed too, you muſt permit me to ſay. For I had always thought, that there never was ſuch a woman, at your years, in the world.

But I remember once an argument you held, on occaſion of a cenſure paſſed in company upon an ex⯑cellent preacher, who was not a very excellent liver: Preaching and practiſing, you ſaid, required quite different talents: Which, when united in the ſame perſon, made the man a ſaint; as wit and judgment going together conſtituted a genius.

You made it out, I remember, very prettily: But you never made it out, excuſe me, my dear, more convincingly, than by that part of your late conduct, which I complain of.

My love for you, and my concern for your honour, may poſſibly have made me a little of the ſevereſt: If you think ſo, place it to its proper account; To That love, and to That concern: Which will but do juſtice, to

My mother would not be ſatisfied without reading my letter herſelf; and that before I had fixed my propoſed hooks. She knows, by this means, and has excuſed, our former correſpondence.

She indeed ſuſpected it before: And ſo ſhe very well might; know⯑ing Me, and knowing my love of You.

She has ſo much real concern for your misfortunes, that, thinking it will be a conſolation to you, and that it will oblige me, ſhe con⯑ſents that you ſhall write to me the particulars at large of your ſad ſtory: But it is on condition, that I ſhew her all that has paſſed between us, relating to yourſelf and the vileſt of men: I have the more chearfully complied, as the communication cannot be to your diſadvantage.

You may therefore write freely, and direct to our own houſe.

My mother promiſes to ſhew me the copy of her letter to you, and your reply to it; which latter ſhe has but juſt told me of. She already apologizes for the ſeverity of hers: And thinks the ſight of your reply will affect me too much. But having her promiſe, I will not diſpenſe with it.

[48]I doubt hers is ſevere enough. So I fear you will think mine: But you have taught me never to ſpare the fault for the friend's ſake; and that a great error ought rather to be more inexcuſeable in the perſon we value, than in one we are indifferent to; becauſe it is a reflection upon our choice of that perſon, and tends to a breach of the love of mind; and to expoſe us to the world for our partiality. To the love of mind, I repeat; ſince it is impoſſible but the errors of the deareſt friend muſt weaken our inward opinion of that friend; and thereby lay a foundation for future diſtance, and perhaps diſguſt.

God grant, that you may be able to clear your conduct after you had eſcaped from Hamſtead; as all before that time was noble, gene⯑rous, and prudent: The man a devil, and you a ſaint!—Yet I hope you can; and therefore expect it from you.

I ſend by a particular hand. He will call for your anſwer at your own appointment.

I am afraid this horrid wretch will trace out by the poſt-offices where you are, if not careful.

To have Money, and Will, and Head, to be a villain, is too much for the reſt of the world, when they meet in one man.

LETTER XVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

FEW young perſons have been able to give more convincing proofs than myſelf, how little true happineſs lies in the enjoyment of our own wiſhes.

To produce one inſtance only of the truth of this ob⯑ſervation; What would I have given for weeks paſt, for the favour of a letter from my dear Miſs Howe, in whoſe friendſhip I placed all my remaining comfort? Little did I think, that the next letter ſhe would honour me with, ſhould be in ſuch a ſtile, as ſhould make me look more than once at the ſubſcription, that I might be ſure (the name not being written at length) that it was not ſigned by another A. H. For ſurely, thought I, this is my ſiſter Arabella's ſtyle: Surely Miſs Howe (blame me as ſhe pleaſes in other points) could never repeat ſo ſharply upon her friend, words written in the bitterneſs of ſpirit, and in the diſorder of head; nor remind her, with aſperity, and with mingled ſtrokes of wit, of an argument held in the gaiety of an heart elated with proſperous fortunes (as [49] mine then was), and very little apprehenſive of the ſevere turn that argument would one day take againſt herſelf.

But what have I, ſunk in my fortunes; my cha⯑racter forfeited; my honour loſt [While I know it, I care not who knows it]; deſtitute of friends, and even of hope; What have I to do to ſhew a ſpirit of repining and expoſtulation to a dear friend, becauſe ſhe is not more kind than a ſiſter?—

I find, by the riſing bitterneſs which will mingle with the gall in my ink, that I am not yet ſubdued enough to my condition: And ſo, begging your par⯑don, that I ſhould rather have formed my expecta⯑tions of favour from the indulgence you uſed to ſhew me, than from what I now deſerve to have ſhewn me, I will endeavour to give a particualr anſwer to your letter; altho' it will take me up too much time to think of ſending it by your meſſenger to-morrow: He can put off his journey, he ſays, till Saturday. I will endeavour to have the whole narrative ready for you by Saturday.

But how to defend myſelf in every thing that has happened, I cannot tell: Since in ſome part of the time, in which my conduct appears to have been cen⯑ſurable, I was not myſelf; and to this hour know not all the methods taken to deceive and ruin me.

You tell me, that in your firſt letter you gave me ſuch an account of the vile houſe I was in, and ſuch cautions about that Tomlinſon, as make you won⯑der how I could think of going back.

Alas, my dear! I was trick'd, moſt vilely trick'd back, as you ſhall hear in its place.

Without knowing the houſe was ſo very vile a houſe from your intended information, I diſliked the people too much, ever voluntarily to have returned to it. But had you really written ſuch cautions about Tomlinſon, and the houſe, as you ſeem to have pur⯑poſed to do, they muſt, had they come in time, have [50] been of infinite ſervice to me. But not one word of either, whatever was your intention, did you men⯑tion to me, in that firſt of the three letters you ſo warmly TELL ME you did ſend me. I will incloſe it to convince you ^(a).

But your account of your meſſenger's delivering to me your ſecond letter, and the deſcription he gives of me, as lying upon a couch, in a ſtrange way, bloated and fluſh-coloured, you don't know how, abſolutely puzzles and confounds me.

Lord have mercy upon the poor Clariſſa Harlowe! What can this mean!—Who was the meſſenger you ſent? Was he one of Lovelace's creatures too! — Could no-body come near me but that man's con⯑federates, either ſetting out ſo, or made ſo?—I know not what to make of any one ſyllable of this!—In⯑deed I don't!

Let me ſee. You ſay, this was before I went from Hamſtead!—My intellects had not then been touch'd!—Nor had I ever been ſurpriſed by wine (ſtrange if I had!): How then could I be found in ſuch a ſtrange way, bloated, and fluſh-coloured; you don't know how! — Yet what a vile, what a hateful figure has your meſſenger repreſented me to have made!

But indeed, I know nothing of ANY meſſenger from you.

Believing myſelf ſecure at Hamſtead, I ſtaid longer there than I would have done, in hopes of the letter promiſed me in your ſhort one of the 9th, brought me by my own meſſenger, in which you undertake to ſend for and engage Mrs. Townſend in my fa⯑vour ^(b).

I wonder'd I heard not from you: And was told you were ſick; and, at another time, that your [51] mother and you had had words on my account, and that you had refuſed to admit Mr. Hickman's viſits upon it: So that I ſuppoſed at one time, that you was not able to write; at another, that your mo⯑ther's prohibition had its due force with you. But now I have no doubt, that the wicked man muſt have intercepted your letter; and I wiſh he found not means to corrupt your meſſenger to tell you ſo ſtrange a ſtory.

It was on Sunday June 11. you ſay, that the man gave it me. I was at church twice that day with Mrs. Moore. Mr. Lovelace was at her houſe the while, where he boarded, and wanted to have lodged; but I would not permit that, tho' I could not help the other. In one of theſe ſpaces it muſt be that he had time to work upon the man. You'll eaſily, my dear, find that out, by inquiring the time of his arrival at Mrs. Moore's, and other circumſtances of the ſtrange way he pretended to ſee me in, on a couch, and the reſt.

Had any-body ſeen me afterwards, when I was betray'd back to the vile houſe, ſtruggling under the operation of wicked potions, and robb'd indeed of my intellects (for this, as you ſhall hear, was my dreadful caſe!), I might then, perhaps, have ap⯑peared bloated, and fluſh-coloured, and I know not how myſelf. But were you to ſee your poor Clariſſa now (or even to have ſeen her at Hamſtead, before ſhe ſuffered the vileſt of all outrages), you would not think her bloated, or fluſh-coloured: Indeed you would not.

In a word, it could not be me your meſſenger ſaw; nor (if any-body) who it was can I divine.

I will now, as briefly as the ſubject will permit, enter into the darker part of my ſad ſtory: And yet I muſt be ſomewhat circumſtantial, that you may not think me capable of reſerve or palliation. The latter I am not conſcious that I need. I ſhould be utterly [52] inexcuſeable, were I guilty of the former to you. And yet, if you knew how my heart ſinks under the thoughts of a recollection ſo painful, you would pity me.

As I ſhall not be able, perhaps, to conclude what I have to write in even two or three letters, I will be⯑gin a new one, with my ſtory; and ſend the whole of it together, altho' written at different periods, as I am able.

Allow me a little pauſe, my dear, at this place; and to ſubſcribe my ſelf

LETTER XIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE. [Referred to in Vol. V. p. 222.]

HE had found me out at Hamſtead: Strangely found me out; for I am ſtill at a loſs to know by what means.

I was loth, in my billet of the 9th ^(a), to tell you ſo, for fear of giving you apprehenſions for me; and be⯑ſides, I hoped then to have a ſhorter and happier iſſue account to you for, thro' your aſſiſtance, than I met with.

Mr. Lovelace, finding all he could ſay, and all Capt. Tomlinſon could urge, ineffectual, to prevail upon me to forgive an outrage ſo flagrantly premeditated; reſted all his hopes on a viſit which was to be paid me by Lady Betty Lawrance and Miſs Montague.

In my uncertain ſituation, my proſpects all ſo dark, I knew not to whom I might be obliged to have recourſe in the laſt reſort: And as thoſe ladies had the beſt of cha⯑racters, inſomuch that I had reaſon to regret, that I had not from the firſt thrown my ſelf upon their protection (when I had forfeited that of my own friends), I thought [53] I would not ſhun an interview with them, though I was too indifferent to their kinſman, to ſeek it, as I doubted not, that one end of their viſit would be to reconcile me to him.

On Monday the 12th of June, theſe pretended ladies came to Hamſtead, and I was preſented to them, and they to me, by their kinſman.

They were richly dreſſed, and ſtuck out with jewels; the pretended Lady Betty's were particularly very fine.

They came in a coach and four, hired, as was con⯑feſſed, while their own was repairing in town: A pre⯑tence made, I now perceive, that I ſhould not gueſs at the impoſture by the want of the real Lady's arms upon it. Lady Betty was attended by her woman, whom ſhe called Morriſon; a modeſt country-looking perſon.

I had heard, that Lady Betty was a fine woman, and that Miſs Montague was a beautiful young lady, genteel, and graceful, and full of vivacity: Such were theſe im⯑poſtors; and having never ſeen either of them, I had not the leaſt ſuſpicion, that they were not the ladies they perſonated; and being put a little out of countenance by the richneſs of their dreſſes, I could not help, fool that I was! to apologize for my own.

The pretended Lady Betty then told me, that her ne⯑phew had acquainted them with the ſituation of affairs between us. And altho' ſhe could not but ſay, that ſhe was very glad, that he had not put ſuch a ſlight upon his Lordſhip and them, as report had given them cauſe to ap⯑prehend (the reaſons for which report, however, ſhe much approved of); yet it had been matter of great concern to her, and to her niece Montague, and would to the whole family, to find ſo great a miſunderſtanding ſubſiſting be⯑tween us, as, if not made up, might diſtance all their hopes.

She could eaſily tell who was in fault, ſhe ſaid.— And gave him a look both of anger and diſdain; aſking him, How it was poſſible for him to give an offence of ſuch a nature to ſo charming a lady (ſo ſhe called me), as ſhould occaſion a reſentment ſo ſtrong?

He pretended to be awed into ſhame and ſilence.

My deareſt niece, ſaid ſhe, and took my hand (I muſt call you niece, as well from love, as to humour your un⯑cle's [54] laudable expedient), permit me to be, not an advo⯑cate, but a mediatrix for him; and not for his ſake, ſo much as for my own, my Charlotte's, and all our family's. The indignity he has offered to you, may be of too ten⯑der a nature to be inquired into. But as he declares, that it was not a premeditated offence; whether, my dear (for I was going to riſe upon it in my temper), it were or not; and as he declares his ſorrow for it (and never did creature expreſs a deeper ſorrow for any offence than he!); and as it is a reparable one; let Us, for this one time, forgive him; and thereby lay an obligation upon this man of errors—Let US, I ſay, my dear: For, Sir (turn⯑ing to him), an offence againſt ſuch a peerleſs lady as This, muſt be an offence againſt me, againſt your couſin, here; and againſt all the virtuous of our Sex.

See, my dear, what a creature he had picked out! Could you have thought there was a woman in the world who could thus expreſs herſelf, and yet be vile? But ſhe had her principal inſtructions from him, and thoſe written down too, as I have reaſon to think: For I have recollected ſince, that I once ſaw this Lady Betty (who often roſe from her ſeat, and took a turn to the other end of the room with ſuch emotion as if the joy of her heart would not let her ſit ſtill) take out a paper from her ſtays, and look into it, and put it there again. She might oftener, and I not obſerve it; for I little thought, that there could be ſuch impoſtors in the world.

I could not forbear paying great attention to what ſhe ſaid. I found tears ready to ſtart; I drew out my hand⯑kerchief, and was ſilent. I had not been ſo indulgently treated a great while by a perſon of character and diſtin⯑ction (ſuch I thought her), and durſt not truſt to the accent of my voice.

The pretended Miſs Montague joined in, on this occa⯑ſion; and, drawing her chair cloſe to me, took my other hand, and beſought me to forgive her couſin; and conſent to rank myſelf as one of the principals of a family, that had long, very long, coveted the honour of my alliance.

I am aſhamed to repeat to you, my dear, now I know what wretches they are, the tender, the obliging, and the reſpectful things I ſaid to them.

[55]The wretch himſelf then came forward. He threw himſelf at my feet. How was I beſet!—The women graſping one my right hand, the other my left: The pre⯑tended Miſs Montague preſſing to her lips more than once the hand ſhe held: The wicked man on his knees, imploring my forgiveneſs; and ſetting before me my happy and my unhappy proſpects, as I ſhould forgive or not forgive him. All that he thought would affect me in his former pleas, and thoſe of Capt. Tomlinſon, he repeated. He vowed, he promiſed, he beſpoke the pre⯑tended ladies to anſwer for him; and they engaged their honours in his behalf.

Indeed, my dear, I was diſtreſſed, perfectly diſtreſſed. I was ſorry that I had given way to this viſit. For I knew not how, in tenderneſs to relations (as I thought them) ſo worthy, to treat ſo freely as he deſerved, a man nearly allied to them:—So that my arguments, and my reſolutions, were deprived of their greateſt force.

I pleaded, however, my application to you. I expected every hour, I told them, an anſwer from you to a letter I had written, which would decide my future deſtiny.

They offered to apply to you themſelves in perſon, in their own behalf, as they politely termed it. They be⯑ſought me to write to you to haſten your anſwer.

I ſaid, I was ſure, that you would write the moment that the event of an application to be made to a third perſon enabled you to write.—But as to the ſucceſs of their re⯑queſts in behalf of their kinſman, That depended not upon the expected anſwer; for that, I begged their pardon, was out of the queſtion. I wiſhed him well. I wiſhed him happy. But I was convinced, that I neither could make him ſo, nor he me.

Then, again, how the wretch promiſed!—How he vow⯑ed!—How he intreated!—And how the women pleaded! And they engaged themſelves, and the honour of their whole family, for his juſt, his kind, his tender behaviour to me.

In ſhort, my dear, I was ſo hard ſet, that I was obliged to come to a more favourable compromiſe with them, than I had intended. I would wait for your anſwer to my letter, I ſaid: And if it made doubtful or difficult [56] the change of meaſures I had reſolved upon, and the ſcheme of life I had formed, I would then conſider of the matter; and, if they would permit me, lay all before them, and take their advice upon it, it conjunction with yours, as if the one were my own aunt, and the other were my own couſin.

They ſhed tears upon this—Of joy they called them— But ſince, I believe, to their credit, bad as they are, that they were tears of temporary remorſe; for the pretended Miſs Montague turned about, and, as I remember, ſaid, There was no ſtanding it.

But Mr. Lovelace was not ſo eaſily ſatisfied. He was fixed upon his villainous meaſures perhaps; and ſo might not be ſorry to have a pretence againſt me. He bit his lip—He had been but too much uſed, he ſaid, to ſuch indifference, ſuch coldneſs, in the very midſt of his happieſt proſpects.—I had on twenty occaſions, ſhewn him, to his infinite regret, that any favour I was to confer upon him was to be the reſult of—There he ſtop—And not of my choice.

This had like to have ſet all back again. I was exceed⯑ingly offended. But the pretended ladies interpoſed. The elder ſeverely took him to t [...]ſk. He ought, ſhe told him, to be ſatisfied with what I had ſaid. She d [...]ſired no other condition. And what, Sir, ſaid ſhe, with an air of authority, would you commit errors, and expect to be rewarded for them?

They then engaged me in more agreeable converſa⯑tion—The pretended Lady declared, that ſhe, Lord M. and Lady Sarah, would directly and perſonally intereſt them⯑ſelves to bring about a general reconciliation between the two families, and this either in open or private concert with my uncle Harlowe, as ſhould be thought fit. Ani⯑moſities on one ſide had been carried a great way, ſhe ſaid; and too little care had been ſhewn on the other to mollify or heal. My father ſhould ſee, that they could treat him as a brother and a friend; and my brother and ſiſter ſhould be convinced, that there was no room either for the jealouſy or envy they had conceived from mo⯑tives too unworthy to be avowed.

Could I help, my dear, being pleaſed with them?—

[57]Permit me here to break off. The taſk grows too heavy, at preſent, for the heart of

LETTER XX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

I WAS very ill, and obliged to lay down my pen. I thought I ſhould have fainted. But am better now—So will proceed.

The pretended Ladies, the more we talked, ſeemed to be the fonder of me. And The Lady Betty had Mrs. Moore called up; and aſked her, If ſhe had accommodations for her niece and ſelf, her woman, and two men-ſervants, for three or four days?

Mr. Lovelace anſwered for her, that ſhe had.

She would not aſk her dear niece Lovelace [Permit me, my dear, whiſpered ſhe, this charming ſtyle before ſtrangers! —I will keep your uncle's ſecret] whether ſhe ſhould be welcome or not to be ſo near her. But for the time ſhe ſhould ſtay in theſe parts, ſhe would come up every night—What ſay you, niece Charlotte?

The pretended Charlotte anſwered, ſhe ſhould like to do ſo, of all things.

The Lady Betty called her an obliging girl. She liked the placed, ſhe ſaid. Her couſin Leeſon would excuſe her. The air, and my company, would do her good. She ne⯑ver choſe to lie in the ſmoaky town, if ſhe could help it. In ſhort, my dear, ſaid ſhe to me, I will ſtay till you hear from Miſs Howe; and till I have your conſent to go with me to Glenham-Hall. Not one moment will I be out of your company, when I can have it. Stedman my ſolicitor, as the diſtance from town is ſo ſmall, may attend me here for inſtructions. Niece Charlotte, one word with you, child.

They retired to the farther end of the room, and talked about their night-dreſſes.

The Miſs Charlotte ſaid, Morriſon might be diſpatched for them.

True, the other ſaid:—But ſhe had ſome letters in [58] her private box, which ſhe muſt have up. And you know, Charlotte, that I truſt nobody with the keys of that.

Could not Morriſon bring up that box?

No. She thought it ſafeſt where it was. She had heard of a robbery committed but two days ago, at the foot of Hamſtead-hill; and ſhe ſhould be ruined, if ſhe loſt her box.

Well then, it was but going to town to undreſs, and ſhe would leave her jewels behind her, and return; and ſhould be the eaſier a great deal on all accounts.

For my part, I wondered they came up with them. But that was to be taken as a reſpect paid to me. And then they hinted at another viſit of ceremony which they had thought to make, had they not found me ſo inex⯑preſſibly engaging.

They talked loud enough for me to hear them; on purpoſe, no doubt, tho' in affected whiſpers; and con⯑cluded with high praiſes of me.

I was not fool enough to believe, or to be puffed up with their encomiums; yet not ſuſpecting them, I was not diſpleaſed at ſo favourable a beginning of acquaint⯑ance with ladies (whether I were to be related to them or not) of whom I had always heard honourable men⯑tion. And yet at the time, I thought, highly as they exalted me, that in ſome reſpects (tho' I hardly knew in what) they fell ſhort of what I expected them to be.

The grand deluder was at the farther end of the room, another way; probably to give me an opportunity to hear theſe preconcerted praiſes—looking into a book, which, had there not been a preconcert, would not have taken his attention for one moment. It was Taylor's Holy Living and Dying.

When the pretended ladies joined me, he approached me, with it in his hand—A ſmart book, This, my dear! —This old divine affects, I ſee, a mighty flowery ſtile upon a very ſolemn ſubject. But it puts me in mind of an ordinary country funeral, where the young women, in honour of a defunct companion, eſpecially if ſhe were a virgin, or paſſed for ſuch, make a flower-bed of her coffin.

And then, laying down the book, turning upon his [59] heel, with one of his uſual airs of gaiety, And are you determined, Ladies, to take up your lodgings with my charming creature?

Indeed they were.

Never were there more cunning, more artful impoſtors, than theſe women. Practiſed creatures, to be ſure: Yet genteel; and they muſt have been well-educated—Once, perhaps, as much the delight of their parents, as I was of mine: And who knows by what arts ruined, body and mind!—O my dear! how pregnant is this reflection!

But the man!—Never was there a man ſo deep! Never ſo conſummate a deceiver! except that deteſted Tomlin⯑ſon; whoſe years, and ſeriouſneſs, joined with a ſolidity of ſenſe and judgment, that ſeemed uncommon, gave him, one would have thought, advantages in villainy, the other had not time for. Hard, very hard, that I ſhould fall into the knowlege of two ſuch wretches; when two more ſuch I hope are not to be met with in the world:—Both ſo determined to carry on the moſt bar⯑barous and perfidious projects againſt a poor young crea⯑ture, who never did or wiſhed harm to either!

Take the following ſlight account of theſe womens and of this man's behaviour to each other before me.

Mr. Lovelace carried himſelf to his pretended aunt with high reſpect, and paid a great deference to all ſhe ſaid. He permitted her to have all the advantage over him in the repartees and retorts that paſſed between them. I could, indeed, eaſily ſee, that it was permitted; and that he forbore that acumen, that quickneſs, which he never ſpared ſhewing to the pretended Miſs Montague; and which a man of wit ſeldom knows how to ſpare ſhewing, when an opportunity offers to diſplay his wit.

The pretended Miſs Montague was ſtill more reverent in her behaviour to her aunt. While the aunt kept up the dignity of the character ſhe had aſſumed, raillying both of them with the air of a perſon who depends upon the ſuperiority which years and fortune give over younger perſons; who might have a view to be obliged to her, either in her life, or at her death.

The ſeverity of her raillery, however, was turned upon Mr. Lovelace, on occaſion of the character of the [60] people who kept the lodgings, which, ſhe ſaid, I had thought my ſelf ſo well warranted to leave privately.

This ſtartled me. For having then no ſuſpicion of the vile Tomlinſon, I concluded (and your letter of the 7th ^(a) favoured my concluſions), that if the houſe were notorious, either he, or Mr. Mennell, would have given me or him ſome hints of it—Nor, altho' I liked not the people, did I obſerve any thing in them very culpable, till the Wedneſday night before, that they offered not to come to my aſſiſtance, altho' within hearing of my di⯑ſtreſs (as I am ſure they were), and having as much reaſon to be frighted as I, at the fire, had it been real.

I looked with indignation upon Mr. Lovelace, at this hint.

He ſeemed abaſhed. I have not patience, but to re⯑collect the ſpecious looks of this vile deceiver. But how was it poſſible, that even this florid countenance of his ſhould enable him to command a bluſh at his pleaſure? For bluſh he did, more than once: And the bluſh, on this occaſion, was a deep-dyed crimſon, unſtrained for, and natural, as I thought—But he is ſo much of the actor, that he ſeems able to enter into any character; and his muſcles and features appear intirely under obe⯑dience to his wicked will ^(b).

The pretended Lady went on, ſaying, She had taken upon herſelf to inquire after the people, on hearing that I had left the houſe in diſguſt; and tho' ſhe heard not any thing much amiſs, yet ſhe heard enough to make her wonder, that he would carry his ſpouſe, a perſon of ſo much delicacy, to a houſe, that, if it had not a bad fame, had not a good one.

You muſt think, my dear, that I liked the pretended Lady Betty the better for this. I ſuppoſe it was deſigned I ſhould.

[61]He was ſurpriſed, he ſaid, that her Ladyſhip ſhould hear a bad character of the people. It was what he had never before heard that they deſerved. It was eaſy, indeed, to ſee, that they had not very great delicacy, tho' they were not indelicate. The nature of their livelihood, letting lodgings, and taking people to board (and yet he had underſtood that they were nice in theſe particulars), led them to aim at being free and obliging: And it was difficult, he ſaid, for perſons of chearful diſpoſi⯑tions, ſo to behave, as to avoid cenſure: Openneſs of heart and countenance in the Sex (more was the pity!) too often ſubjected good people, whoſe fortunes did not ſet them above the world, to uncharitable cenſure.

He wiſhed, however, that her Ladyſhip would tell what ſhe had heard: Altho' now it ſignified but little, becauſe he would never aſk me to ſet foot within their doors again: And he begged ſhe would not mince the matter.

Nay, no great matter, ſhe ſaid. But ſhe had been informed, that there were more women lodgers in the houſe than men: Yet that their viſitors were more men than women. And this had been hinted to her (perhaps by ill-willers, ſhe could not anſwer for that) in ſuch a way, as if ſomewhat further were meant by it, than was ſpoken.

This, he ſaid, was the true innuendo way of characteri⯑zing, uſed by detractors. Every-body and every-thing had a black and a white ſide, as ill-willers and well-willers were pleaſed to report. He had obſerved, that the front houſe was well lett, and he believed, more to the one ſex, than to the other; for he had ſeen, occaſionally paſſing to and [...]o, ſeveral genteel modeſt-looking women; and who, it was very probable, were not ſo ill-beloved, but they might have viſitors and relations of both ſexes: But they were none of them any-thing to us, or we to them: We were not once in any of their companies: But in the genteeleſt and moſt retired houſe of the two, which we had in a manner to ourſelves, with the uſe of a parlour to the ſtreet, to ſerve us for a ſervants hall, or to receive common viſitors, or our traders only, whom we admitted not up-ſtairs.

He always loved to ſpeak as he found. No man in [62] the world had ſuffered more from calumny than he him⯑ſelf had done.

Women, he owned, ought to be more ſcrupulous than men needed to be where they lodged. Nevertheleſs, he wiſhed, that fact, rather than ſurmiſe, were to be the foundation of their judgments, eſpecially when they ſpoke of one another.

He meant no reflection upon her Ladyſhip's informants, or rather ſurmiſants (as he might call them), be they who they would: Nor did he think himſelf obliged [...] defend characters impeached, or not thought well of, by women of virtue and honour. Neither were theſe peo⯑ple of importance enough to have ſo much ſaid abou [...] them.

The pretended Lady Betty ſaid, All who knew he [...] would clear her of cenſoriouſneſs: That it gave [...] ſome opinion, ſhe muſt needs ſay, of the people, th [...] he had continued there ſo long with me; that I had r [...] ⯑ther negative than poſitive reaſons of diſlike to them and that ſo ſhrewd a man, as ſhe heard Capt. Tomli [...] ⯑ſon was, had not objected to them.

I think, niece Charlotte, proceeded ſhe, as my n [...] ⯑phew has not parted with theſe lodgings, you and I (fo [...] as my dear Miſs Harlowe diſlikes the people, I would n [...] aſk her for her company) will take a diſh of tea with m [...] nephew there, before we go out of town, and then [...] ſhall ſee what ſort of people they are. I have hear [...] that Mrs. Sinclair is a mighty forbidding creature.

With all my heart, Madam. In your Ladyſhip's com⯑pany I ſhall make no ſcruple of going any-whither.

It was Ladyſhip at every word; and as ſ [...] ſeeme proud of her title, and of her dreſs too, I might ha [...] gueſſed that ſhe was not uſed to either.

What ſay you, couſin Lovelace? Lady Sarah, tho' melancholy woman, is very inquiſitive about all yo [...] affairs. I muſt acquaint her with every particular [...] ⯑cumſtance when I go down.

With all his heart. He would attend her whene [...] ſhe pleaſed. She would ſee very handſome apartmen [...] and very civil people.

The duce is in them, ſaid The Miſs Montague, if th [...] appear other to us.

[63]They then fell into family-talk: Family-happineſs on my hope-for acceſſion into it. They mentioned Lord M.'s and Lady Sarah's great deſire to ſee me. How many friends and admirers, with up-lift hands, I ſhould have! [O my dear, what a triumph muſt theſe creatures, and he, have over the poor Devoted all the time!]—What a happy man he would be—They would not, The Lady Betty ſaid, give themſelves the mortification but to ſuppoſe, that I ſhould not be one of Them!

Preſents were hinted at. She reſolved that I ſhould go with her to Glenham-Hall. She would not be refuſed, altho' ſhe were to ſtay a week beyond her time for me.

She long'd for the expected letter from you. I muſt write to haſten it, and to let Miſs Howe know how every thing ſtood ſince I wrote laſt. That might diſpoſe me abſolutely in their favour, and in her nephew's; and then ſhe hoped there would be no occaſion for me to think of entering upon any new meaſures.

Indeed, my dear, I did at the time intend, if I heard not from you by morning, to diſpatch a man and horſe to you, with the particulars of all, that you might (if you thought proper), at leaſt, put off Mrs. Townſend's coming up to another day.—But I was miſerably pre⯑vented.

She made me promiſe, that I would write to you upon this ſubject, whether I heard from you, or not. One of her ſervants ſhould ride poſt with my letter, and wait for Miſs Howe's anſwer.

She then launched out in deſerved praiſes of you, my dear. How fond ſhould ſhe be of the honour of your acquaintance!

The pretended Miſs Montague joined in with her, as well for herſelf as for her ſiſter.

Abominably well-inſtructed were they both.

O my dear! What riſques may poor giddy girls run, when they throw themſelves out of the protection of their natural friends, and into the wide world?

They then talked again of reconciliation and intimacy with every one of my friends; with my mother particu⯑larly; and gave the dear good lady the praiſes that every one gives her, who has the happineſs to know her.

[64]Ah, my dear Miſs Howe! I had almoſt forgot my re⯑ſentments againſt the pretended nephew!—So many agreeable things ſaid, made me think, that, if you ſhould adviſe it, and if I could bring my mind to forgive the wretch for an outrage ſo premeditatedly vile, and could forbear deſpiſing him for that and his other ingrate⯑ful and wicked ways, I might not be unhappy in an al⯑liance with ſuch a family. Yet, thought I at the time, With what intermixtures does every thing come to me, that has the appearance of good!—However, as my lucid-hopes made me ſee fewer faults in the behaviour of theſe pretended Ladies, than recollection and abhorrence have helped me ſince to ſee, I began to reproach myſelf, that I had not at firſt thrown myſelf into their protection.

But amidſt all theſe delightful proſpects, I muſt not, ſaid The Lady Betty, forget that I am to go to town.

She then ordered her coach to be got to the door— We will all go to town together, ſaid ſhe, and return together. Morriſon ſhall ſtay here, and ſee every thing as I uſed to have it, in relation to my apartment, and my bed; for I am very particular in ſome reſpects. My couſin Leeſon's ſervants can do all I want to be do [...] with regard to my night-dreſſes, and the like. And i [...] will be a little airing for you, my dear, and a good op⯑portunity for Mr. Lovelace to order what you want of your apparel to be ſent from your former lodgings to Mrs. Leeſon's; and we can bring it up with us fro [...] thence.

I had no intention to comply. But as I did not ima⯑gine that ſhe would inſiſt upon my going to town wit [...] them, I made no anſwer to that part of her ſpeech.

I muſt here lay down my tired pen!

Recollection! Heart-affecting Recollection! How pains me!

LETTER XXI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

IN the midſt of theſe agreeableneſſes, the coach ca [...] to the door. The pretended Lady Betty beſough [...] me to give them my company to their couſin Leeſon [...] [65] I deſired to be excuſed: Yet ſuſpected nothing. She would not be denied. How happy would a viſit ſo con⯑deſcending make her couſin Leeſon!—Her couſin Leeſon was not unworthy of my acquaintance: And would take it for the greateſt favour in the world.

I objected my dreſs. But the objection was not admitted. She beſpoke a ſupper of Mrs Moore to be ready at nine.

Mr. Lovelace, vile hypocrite, and wicked deceiver, ſee⯑ing, as he ſaid, my diſlike to go, deſired her Ladyſhip not to inſiſt upon it.

Fondneſs for my company was pleaded. She begged me to oblige her: Made a motion to help me to my fan herſelf: And, in ſhort, was ſo very urgent, that my feet complied againſt my ſpeech, and my mind: And, being in a manner, led to the coach by her, and made to ſtep in firſt, ſhe followed me; and her pretended niece, and the wretch, followed her: And away it drove.

Nothing but the height to affectionate complaiſance paſſed all the way: Over and over, What a joy would this unexpected viſit give her couſin Leeſon! What a pleaſure muſt it be to ſuch a mind as mine, to be able to give ſo much joy to every-body I came near!

The cruel, the ſavage ſeducer (as I have ſince recol⯑lected) was in rapture all the way; but yet ſuch a ſort of rapture, as he took viſible pains to check.

Hateful villain!—How I abhor him! — What miſchief muſt be then in his plotting heart!—What a devoted victim muſt I be in all their eyes!

Though not pleaſed, I was nevertheleſs juſt then thoughtleſs of danger; they endeavouring thus to lift me up above all apprehenſion of that, and above myſelf too.

But think, my dear, what a dreadful turn all had upon me, when, through ſeveral ſtreets and ways I knew no⯑thing of, the coach, ſlackening its pace, came within ſight of the dreadful houſe of the dreadfulleſt woman in the world; as ſhe proved to me.

Lord be good unto me! cry'd the poor fool, looking out of the coach—Mr. Lovelace!—Madam! turning to the pretended aunt—Madam! turning to the niece, my eyes and hands lifted up — Lord be good unto me!

What! What! What, my dear!

[66]He pulled the ſtring—What need to have come this way? ſaid he.—But ſince we are, I will but aſk a queſtion.—My deareſt life! why this apprehenſion?

The coachman ſtopp'd: His ſervant, who, with one of her was behind, alighted—Aſk, ſaid he, if I have any letters?—Who knows, my deareſt creature, turning to me, but we may already have one from the Captain?— We will not go out of the coach! — Fear nothing—Why ſo apprehenſive? — Oh! theſe fine ſpirits! — cry'd the exe⯑crable inſulter.

Dreadfully did my heart then miſgive me: I was ready to faint.—Why this terror, my life?—You ſhall not ſtir out of the coach!—But one queſtion, now the fellow has drove us this way!

Your lady will faint! cry'd the execrable Lady Bet⯑ty, turning to him.—My deareſt niece! I will call you, taking my hand, we muſt alight, if you are ſo ill.—Let us alight—Only for a glaſs of water and harts⯑horn—Indeed we muſt alight.

No, no, no—I am well—Quite well—Won't the ma [...] drive on? — I am well—quite well—Indeed I am.— Man, drive on, putting my head out of the coach—Man, drive on! — tho' my voice was too low to be heard.

The coach ſtopp'd at the door. How I trembled!

Dorcas came to the door, on its ſtopping.

My deareſt creature! ſaid the vile man, gaſping, as i [...] were for breath, you ſhall not alight—Any letters for me, Dorcas?

There are two, Sir. And here is a gentleman, Mr. Belton, Sir, waits for your Honour; and has done ſo above an hour.

I'll juſt ſpeak to him. Open the door—You ſha'n [...]t ſtep out, my dear—A letter, perhaps from the Captain already!—You ſha'n't ſtep out, my dear.

I ſighed, as if my heart would burſt.

But we muſt ſtep out, nephew: Your lady will faint— Maid, a glaſs of hartſhorn and water!—My dear, yo [...] muſt ſtep out.—You will faint, child—We muſt cut you [...] laces.—[I believe my complexion was all manner of co⯑lours by turns]—Indeed, you muſt ſtep out, my dear.

[67]He knew, he ſaid, I ſhould be well, the moment the coach drove from the door. I ſhould not alight. By his ſoul, I ſhould not.

Lord, Lord, nephew, Lord, Lord, couſin, both wo⯑men in a breath, What ado you make about nothing!— You perſuade your lady to be afraid of alighting!—See you not, that ſhe is juſt fainting?

Indeed, Madam, ſaid the vile ſeducer, my deareſt love muſt not be moved in this point againſt her will!—I beg it may not be inſiſted upon.

Fiddle-ſaddle, fooliſh man!—What a pother is here!— I gueſs how it is: You are aſhamed to let us ſee, what ſort of people you carried your lady among!—But do you go out, and ſpeak to your friend, and take your letters.

He ſtept out; but ſhut the coach-door after him, to oblige me.

The coach may go on, Madam! ſaid I.

The coach ſhall go on, my dear life, ſaid he—But he gave not, nor intended to give, orders that it ſhould.

Let the coach go on! ſaid I—Mr. Lovelace may come after us.

Indeed, my dear, you are ill!—Indeed you muſt alight!—Alight but for one quarter of an hour!—Alight but to give order yourſelf about your things. Whom can you be afraid of, in my company, and my niece's?— Theſe people muſt have behaved ſhockingly to you!— Pleaſe the Lord, I'll inquire into it!—I'll ſee what ſort of people they are!

Immediately came the old creature to the door. A thouſand pardons, dear Madam, ſtepping to the coach⯑ſide, if we have any-way offended you!—Be pleaſed, La⯑dies (to the other two), to alight.

Well, my dear, whiſpered the Lady Betty, I now find, that an hideous deſcription of a perſon we never ſaw, is an advantage to them. I thought the woman was a mon⯑ſter! But, really, ſhe ſeems tolerable.

I was afraid I ſhould have fallen into fits: But ſtill re⯑fuſed to go out—Man!—Man!—Man! cry'd I, gaſping⯑ly, my head out of the coach and in, by turns, half a dozen times running, drive on!—Let us go!

My heart miſgave me beyond the power of my own [68] accounting for it; for ſtill I did not ſuſpect theſe wo⯑men. But the antipathy I had taken to the vile houſe, and to find myſelf ſo near it, when I expected no ſuch matter, with the ſight of the old creature, all together, made me behave like a diſtracted perſon.

The hartſhorn and water was brought. The pretended lady Betty made me drink it. Heaven knows if there were any thing elſe in it!

Beſides, ſaid ſhe, whiſperingly, I muſt ſee what ſort of creatures the nieces are. Want of delicacy cannot be hid from me. You could not ſurely, my dear, have this averſion to re-enter a houſe, for a few minutes, in our company, in which you lodged and boarded ſeveral weeks, unleſs theſe women could be ſo preſumptuouſly vile, as my nephew ought not to know.

Out ſtept the pretended lady; the ſervant, at her command, having opened the door.

Deareſt Madam, ſaid the other, let me follow you (for I was next the door.) Fear nothing: I will not ſtir from your preſence.

Come, my dear, ſaid the pretended Lady: Give me your hand; holding out hers. Oblige me this once!

I will bleſs your footſteps, ſaid the old creature, if once more you honour my houſe with your preſence.

A croud by this time was gathered about us; but I was too much affected to mind that.

Again the pretended Miſs Montague urged me (ſtand⯑ing up as ready to go out if I would give her room). Lord, my dear, ſaid ſhe, who can bear this croud?— What will people think?

The pretended Lady again preſſed me, with both her hands held out—Only, my dear, to give orders about your things.

And thus preſſed, and gazed at (for then I looked about me), the women ſo richly dreſſed, people whiſper⯑ing; in an evil moment, out ſtepp'd I, trembling, forced to lean with both my hands (frighted too much for ce⯑remony) on the pretended Lady Betty's arm—O that I had dropped down dead upon the guilty threſhold!

We ſhall ſtay but a few minutes, my dear!—but a few minutes! ſaid the ſame ſpecious jilt—out of breath with [69] her joy, as I have ſince thought, that they had thus triumphed over the unhappy victim!

Come, Mrs. Sinclair, I think your name is, ſhew us the way—following her, and leading me. I am very thirſty. You have frighted me, my dear, with your ſtrange fears. I muſt have tea made, if it can be done, in a moment. We have further to go, Mrs. Sinclair, and muſt return to Hamſtead this night.

It ſhall be ready in a moment, cry'd the wretch. We have water boiling.

Haſten, then—Come, my dear, to me, as ſhe led me through the paſſage to the fatal inner houſe—Lean upon me—How you tremble!—how you faulter in your ſteps! —Deareſt niece Lovelace (the old wretch being in hear⯑ing), why theſe hurries upon your ſpirits?—We'll begone in a minute.

And thus ſhe led the poor ſacrifice into the old wretch's too well-known parlour.

Never was any-body ſo gentle, ſo meek, ſo low-voiced, as the odious woman; drawing out, in a puling accent, all the obliging things ſhe could ſay: Awed, I then thought, by the conſcious dignity of a woman of quality; glittering with jewels.

The called for tea was ready preſently.

There was no Mr. Belton, I believe: For the wretch went not to any-body, unleſs it were while we were parlying in the coach. No ſuch perſon, however, ap⯑peared at the tea-table.

I was made to drink two diſhes, with milk, complai⯑ſantly urged by the pretended Ladies helping me each to one. I was ſtupid to their hands; and, when I took the tea, almoſt choaked with vapours; and could hardly ſwallow.

I thought, tranſiently thought, that the tea, the laſt diſh particularly, had an odd taſte. They, on my pa⯑lating it, obſerved, that the milk was London milk; far ſhort in goodneſs of what they were accuſtomed to from their own dairies.

I have no doubt, that my two diſhes, and perhaps my hartſhorn, were prepared for me; in which caſe it was more proper for their purpoſe, that they ſhould help me, [70] than that I ſhould help myſelf. Ill before, I found my⯑ſelf ſtill more and more diſordered in my head; a heavy torpid pain increaſing faſt upon me. But I imputed it to my terror.

Nevertheleſs, at the pretended Ladies motion, I went up ſtairs, attended by Dorcas; who affected to weep for joy, that once more ſhe ſaw my bleſſed face, that was the vile creature's word; and immediately I ſet about taking out ſome of my cloaths, ordering what ſhould be put up, and what ſent after me.

While I was thus employed, up came the pretended Lady Betty, in a hurrying way—My dear, you won't be long before you are ready. My nephew is very buſy in writing anſwers to his letters: So, I'll juſt whip away, and change my dreſs, and call upon you in an inſtant.

O Madam!—I am ready! I am now ready!—You muſt not leave me here: And down I ſunk, affrighted, into a chair.

This inſtant, this inſtant, I will return—Before you can be ready—Before you can have packed up your things—We would not be late—The robbers we have heard of may be out—Don't let us be late.

And away ſhe hurried before I could ſay another word▪ Her pretended niece went with her, without taking no⯑tice to me of her going.

I had no ſuſpicion yet, that theſe women were no [...] indeed the Ladies they perſonated; and I blamed myſelf for my weak fears.—It cannot be, thought I, that ſuch Ladies will abet treachery againſt a poor creature they are ſo fond of. They muſt undoubtedly be the perſons they appear to be—What folly to doubt it! The air, the dreſs, the dignity, of women of quality.—How un⯑worthy of them, and of my charity, concluded I, is this ungenerous ſhadow of ſuſpicion!

So, recovering my ſtupified ſpirits, as well as they could be recovered (for I was heavier and heavier; and wondered to Dorcas, what ailed me; rubbing my eyes, and taking ſome of her ſnuff, pinch after pinch, to very little purpoſe), I purſued my employment: But whe [...] that was over, all packed up that I deſigned to be packed up; and I had nothing to do but to think; and found [71] them tarry ſo long; I thought I ſhould have gone diſ⯑tracted. I ſhut myſelf into the chamber that had been mine; I kneeled, I prayed; yet knew not what I prayed for: Then ran out again: It was almoſt dark night, I ſaid: Where, where, was Mr. Lovelace?

He came to me, taking no notice at firſt of my con⯑ſternation and wildneſs (What they had given me made me incoherent and wild): All goes well, ſaid he, my dear!—A line from Captain Tomlinſon!

All indeed did go well for the villainous project of the moſt cruel and moſt villainous of men!

I demanded his aunt!—I demanded his couſin!—The evening, I ſaid, was cloſing!—My head was very, very bad, I remember, I ſaid.—And it grew worſe and worſe.

Terror, however, as yet kept up my ſpirits; and I inſiſted upon his going himſelf to haſten them.

He called his ſervant. He raved at the ſex for their delay: 'Twas well that buſineſs of conſequence ſeldom depended upon ſuch parading, unpunctual triflers!

His ſervant came.

He ordered him to fly to his couſin Leeſon's; and to let his aunt and couſins know how uneaſy we both were at their delay: Adding, of his own accord, Deſire them, if they don't come inſtantly, to ſend their coach, and we will go without them. Tell them I wonder they'll ſerve me ſo!

I thought this was conſiderately and fairly put. But now, indifferent as my head was, I had a little time to conſider the man, and his behaviour. He terrified me with his looks, and with his violent emotions, as he gazed upon me. Evident joy-ſuppreſſed emotions, as I have ſince recollected. His ſentences ſhort, and pro⯑nounced as if his breath were touched. Never ſaw I his abominable eyes look, as then they looked—Tri⯑umph in them!—Fierce and wild; and more diſagree⯑able than the womens at the vile houſe appeared to me, when I firſt ſaw them: And at times, ſuch a leering, miſchief-boding caſt!—I would have given the world to have been an hundred miles from him. Yet his behaviour was de⯑cent—A decency, however, that I might have ſeen to be ſtruggled for—For he ſnatched my hand two or three [72] times, with a vehemence in his graſp that hurt me; ſpeaking words of tenderneſs through his ſhut teeth, as it ſeemed; and let it go, with a beggar-voic'd humble accent, like the vile woman's juſt before; half-inward; yet his words and manner carrying the appearance of ſtrong and almoſt convulſed paſſion!—O my dear! What miſchiefs was he not then meditating!

I complained once or twice of thirſt. My mouth ſeemed parched. At the time, I ſuppoſed, that it was my terror (gaſping often as I did for breath) that parched up the roof of my mouth. I called for water: Some table-beer was brought me: Beer, I ſuppoſe, was a better ve⯑hicle (if I were not doſed enough before) for their po⯑tions. I told the maid, That ſhe knew I ſeldom taſted malt-liquor: Yet, ſuſpecting nothing of this nature, being extremely thirſty, I drank it, as what came next: And in⯑ſtantly, as it were, found myſelf much worſe than before; as if inebriated, I ſhould fancy: I know not how.

His ſervant was gone twice as long as he needed: And, juſt before his return, came one of the pretended Lady Betty's, with a letter for Mr. Lovelace.

He ſent it up to me. I read it: And then it was that I thought myſelf a loſt creature; it being to put off her going to Hamſtead that night, on account of violent fits which Miſs Montague was pretended to be ſeized with: For then immediately came into my head his vile at⯑tempt upon me in this houſe; the revenge that my flight might too probably inſpire him with on that occaſion, and becauſe of the difficulty I made to forgive him, and to be reconciled to him; his very looks wild, and dread⯑ful to me; and the women of the houſe ſuch as I had more reaſon than ever, even from the pretended Lady Betty's hints, to be afraid of: All theſe crouding together in my apprehenſive mind, I fell into a kind of phrenſy.

I have not remembrance how I was, for the time it laſted: But I know, that, in my firſt agitations, I pulled off my head-dreſs, and tore my ruffles in twenty tatters and ran to find him out.

When a little recovered, I inſiſted upon the hint he had given of their coach. But the meſſenger, he ſaid, had told him, that it was ſent to fetch a phyſician, leſt hi [...] chariot ſhould be put up, or not ready.

[73]I then inſiſted upon going directly to Lady Betty's lodgings.

Mrs. Leeſon's was now a crouded houſe, he ſaid: And as my earneſtneſs could be owing to nothing but ground⯑leſs apprehenſion [And O what vows, what proteſtations of his honour did he then make!], he hoped I would not add to their preſent concern. Charlotte, indeed, was uſed to fits, he ſaid, upon any great ſurprizes, whether of joy or grief; and they would told her for a week to⯑gether, if not got off in a few hours.

You are an obſerver of eyes, my dear, ſaid the villain; perhaps in ſecret inſult: Saw you not in Miſs Montague's now-and-then, at Hamſtead, ſomething wildiſh?—I was afraid for her then—Silence and quiet only do her good: Your concern for her, and her love for you, will but augment the poor girl's diſorder, if you ſhould go.

All impatient with grief and apprehenſion, I ſtill de⯑clared myſelf reſolved not to ſtay in that houſe till morn⯑ing. All I had in the world, my rings, my watch, my little money, for a coach! or, if one were not to be got. I would go on foot to Hamſtead that night, tho' I walked it by myſelf.

A coach was hereupon ſent for, or pretended to be ſent for. Any price, he ſaid, he would give to oblige me, late as it was; and he would attend me with all his ſoul.—Buy no coach was to be got.

Let me cut ſhort the reſt. I grew worſe and worſe in my head; now ſtupid, now raving, now ſenſeleſs. The vileſt of vile women was brought to frighten me. Never was there ſo horrible a creature as ſhe appeared to me at the time.

I remember, I pleaded for mercy—I remember that I ſaid I would be his—Indeed I would be his—to obtain his mercy—But no mercy found I!—My ſtrength, my in⯑tellects, failed me!—And then ſuch ſcenes followed—O my dear, ſuch dreadful ſcenes!—Fits upon fits (faintly indeed, and imperfectly remembered) procuring me no compaſſion—But death was with-held from me. That would have been too great a mercy!

THUS was I tricked and deluded back by blacker hearts of my own ſex, than I thought there were in the world; [74] who appeared to me to be perſons of honour: And, when in his power, thus barbarouſly was I treated by this vil⯑lainous man!

I was ſo ſenſeleſs, that I dare not averr, that the hor⯑rid creatures of the houſe were perſonally aiding and abetting: But ſome viſionary remembrances I have of fe⯑male figures, flitting, as I may ſay, before my ſight; the wretched woman's particularly. But as theſe con⯑fuſed ideas might be owing to the terror I had conceived of the worſe than maſculine violence ſhe had been per⯑mitted to aſſume to me, for expreſſing my abhorrence of her houſe; and as what I ſuffered from his barbarity wants not that aggravation; I will ſay no more on a ſub⯑ject ſo ſhocking as this muſt ever be to my remembrance.

I never ſaw the perſonating wretches afterwards. He perſiſted to the laſt (dreadfully invoking heaven as a wit⯑neſs to the truth of his aſſertion), that they were really and truly the Ladies they pretended to be; declaring, that they could not take leave of me, when they left the town, becauſe of the ſtate of ſenſeleſneſs and phrenſy I was in. For their intoxicating, or rather ſtupefying, potions, had almoſt deleterious effects upon my intel⯑lects, as I have hinted; inſomuch that, for ſeveral days together, I was under a ſtrange delirium; now moping, now dozing, now weeping, now raving, now ſcribbling, tearing what I ſcribbled, as faſt as I wrote it: Moſt mi⯑ſerable when now-and-then a ray of reaſon brought con⯑fuſedly to my remembrance what I had ſuffered.

LETTER XXII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; In Continuation.

THE Lady next gives an account,

The very hour that I found myſelf in a place of ſafety, I took pen to write to you. When I began, I deſigned only to write ſix or eight lines, to inquire after your health: For, having heard nothing from you, I feared indeed, that you had been, and ſtill were, too ill to write. But no ſooner did my pen begin to blot the paper, but my ſad heart hurried it into length. The apprehenſions I had lain under, that I ſhould not be able to get away; the fa⯑tigue I had in effecting my eſcape; the difficulty of pro⯑curing a lodging for myſelf; having diſliked the people of two houſes, and thoſe of a third diſliking me; for you muſt think I made a frighted appearance—Theſe, together with the recollection of what I had ſuffered from him, and my farther apprehenſions of my inſecurity, and my deſolate circumſtances, had ſo diſordered me, that I remember I rambled ſtrangely in that letter.

In ſhort, I thought it, on re-peruſal, a half-diſtracted one: But I then deſpaired (were I to begin again) of write⯑ing better: So I let it go: And can have no excuſe for directing it as I did, if the cauſe of the incoherence in it will not furniſh me with a very pitiable one.

The letter I received from your mother was a dread⯑ful blow to me. But nevertheleſs, it had the good effect upon me (labouring, as I was juſt then, under a violent [76] ſit of vapouriſh deſpondency, and almoſt yielding to it) which profuſe bleeding and bliſterings have in paraly⯑tical or apoplectical ſtrokes; reviving my attention, and reſtoring me to ſpirits to combat the evils I was ſurround⯑ed by—Sluicing off, and diverting into a new chanel (if I may be allowed another metaphor), the overcharging woes, which threatened once more to overwhelm my in⯑tellects.

But yet, I moſt ſincerely lamented (and ſtill lament), in your mamma's words, That I cannot be unhappy by myſelf: And was grieved, not only for the trouble I had given you before; but for the new one I had brought upon you by my inattention.

I cannot, however, ſays ſhe, forbear to wonder how the vile Tomlinſon could come at the knowlege of ſeve⯑ral of the things he told me of, and which contributed to give me confidence in him ^(a).

I doubt not, continues ſhe, that the ſtories of Mrs. Fretch⯑ville, and her houſe, would be found as vile impoſtures as any of the reſt, were I to inquire; and had I not enough, and too much, already againſt the perjured man.

How have I been led on! ſays ſhe—What will be the end of ſuch a falſe and perjured creature; Heaven not leſs profaned and defied by him, than myſelf deceived and abuſed! This, however, againſt myſelf I muſt ſay, That if what I have ſuffered is the natural conſequence of my firſt error, I never can forgive myſelf, although you are ſo partial in my favour, as to ſay, that I was not cenſurable for what paſſed before my firſt eſcape.

And now, honoured Madam, and my deareſt Miſs Howe, who are to ſit in judgment upon my caſe, permit me to lay down my pen, with one requeſt, which, with the greateſt earneſtneſs, I make to you both: And that [77] is, That you will neither of you open your lips in rela⯑tion to the potions and the violences I have hinted at.— Not that I am ſolicitous, that my diſgrace ſhould be hid⯑den from the world, or that it ſhould not be generally known, that the man has proved a villain to me: For this, it ſeems, every-body but myſelf expected from his cha⯑racter. But ſuppoſe, as his actions by me are really of a capital nature, it were inſiſted upon, that I ſhould appear to proſecute him, and his accomplices, in a Court of Ju⯑ſtice, how do you think I could bear That?

But ſince my character, before the capital enormity, was loſt in the eye of the world; and That from the very hour I left my father's houſe; and ſince all my own hopes of worldly happineſs are intirely over; Let me ſlide quietly into my grave; and let it not be remembred, ex⯑cept by one friendly tear, and no more, dropt from your gentle eye, my own dear Anna Howe, on the happy day that ſhall ſhut up all my ſorrows, that there was ſuch a creature as

LETTER XXIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

MAY heaven ſignalize its vengeance, in the face of all the world, upon the moſt abandoned and profligate of men!—And in its own time, I doubt not but it will.—And we muſt look to a WORLD BEYOND THIS, for the reward of your ſufferings!—

Another ſhocking detection, my dear!—How have you been deluded!—Very watchful I have thought you; very ſagacious:—But, alas! not watchful, not ſagacious enough, for the horrid villain you have had to deal with!—

The letter you ſent me incloſed as mine, of the 7th of June, is a villainous forgery ^(a). The hand, indeed, is aſtoniſhingly like mine; and the cover, I ſee, is actually my cover: But yet the letter is not ſo exactly imitated, but that (had you had any ſuſpicions about his vileneſs at the time) you, who ſo well know my hand, might have detected it.

[78]In ſhort, this vile forged letter, tho' a long one, con⯑tains but a few extracts from mine. Mine was a very long one. He has omitted every thing, I ſee, in it, that could have ſhewn you what a deteſtable houſe the houſe is; and given you ſuſpicions of the vile Tomlinſon.—You will ſee this, and how he has turned Miſs Lardner's informa⯑tion, and my advices to you [execrable villain!] to his own horrid ends, by the rought draught of the genuine letter, which I ſhall incloſe ^(a).

Apprehenſive for both our ſafeties, from ſuch a daring and profligate contriver, I muſt call upon you, my dear, to reſolve upon taking legal vengeance of the infernal wretch. And this not only for our own ſakes, but for the ſakes of innocents, who otherwiſe may yet be de⯑luded and outraged by him.

I am aſtoniſhed, that the vile wretch, who could know nothing of the time my meſſenger (whoſe honeſty I can vouch for) would come, could have a creature ready to perſonate you! Strange, that the man ſhould happen to arrive juſt as you were gone to church, as I find was the fact, on comparing what he ſays, with your hint that you were at church twice that day; when he might have got to Mrs. Moore's two hours before! — But had you told me, my dear, that the villain had found you out, and was about you!—You ſhould have done that—Yet I blame you upon a judgment founded on the event only!

I never had any faith in the ſtories that go current among country girls, of ſpectres, familiars, and demons; yet I ſee not any other way to account for this wretch's ſucceſsful villainy, and for his means of working-up his ſpecious deluſions, but by ſuppoſing (if he be not the devil himſelf), that he has a familiar conſtantly at his elbow. Sometimes it ſeems to me, that this familiar aſſumes the ſhape of that ſolemn villain Tomlinſon: [79] Sometimes that of the execrable Sinclair, as he calls her: Sometimes it is permitted to take that of Lady Betty Lawrence—But, when it would aſſume the angelic ſhape and mien of my beloved friend, ſee what a bloated figure it made!

'Tis my opinion, my dear, that you will be no longer ſafe where you are, than while the V. is in the country. Words are poor!—or how could I execrate him! I have hardly any doubt, that he has ſold himſelf for a time. O may the time be ſhort!—Or may his infernal prompter no more keep covenant with him, than he does with others!

I incloſe not only the rough draught of my long letter mentioned above; but the heads of that which the young fellow thought he delivered into your own hands at Ham⯑ſtead. And, when you have peruſed them, I will leave you to judge, how much reaſon I had to be ſurpriſed, that you wrote me not an anſwer to either of thoſe lettes; one of which you owned you had received (tho' it proved to be is forged one); the other delivered into your own hands, as I was aſſured; and both of them of ſo much concern to your honour; and ſtill how much more ſur⯑priſed I muſt be, when I received a letter from Mrs. Townſend, dated June 15. from Hamſtead, importing, ‘That Mr. Lovelace, who had been with you ſeveral days, had, on the Monday before, brought his aunt and couſin, richly dreſſed, and in a coach and four, to viſit you: Who, with your own conſent, had carried you to town with them—to your former lodgings; where you ſtill were: That the Hamſtead women be⯑lieved you to be married; and reflected upon me as a fomenter of differences between man and wife: That he himſelf was at Hamſtead the day before; viz. Wedn. the 14th; and boaſted of his happineſs with you; in⯑viting Mrs. Moore, Mrs. Bevis, and Miſs Rawlins, to go to town, to viſit his ſpouſe; which they promiſed to do: That he declared, that you were intirely recon⯑ciled to your former lodgings:—And that, finally, the women at Hamſtead told Mrs. Townſend, that he had very handſomely diſcharged theirs.’

I own to you, my dear, that I was ſo much ſurpriſed [80] and diſguſted at theſe appearances, againſt a conduct till then unexceptionable, that I was reſolved to make myſelf as eaſy as I could, and wait till you ſhould think fit to write to me. But I could rein-in my impatience but for a few days; and on the 20th of June I wrote a ſharp letter to you; which I find you did not receive.

What a fatality, my dear, has appeared in your caſe, from the very beginning till this hour! Had my mother permitted—

But can I blame her; when you have a father and mother living, who have ſo much to anſwer for?—So much!— as no father and mother, conſidering the child they have driven, perſecuted, expoſed, renounced—ever had to an⯑ſwer for!—

But again I muſt execrate the abandoned villain—Yet, as I ſaid before, all words are poor, and beneath the oc⯑caſion!

But ſee we not, in the horrid perjuries and treachery of this man, what rakes and libertines will do, when they get a young creature into their power? It is pro⯑bable, that he might have the intolerable preſumption to hope an eaſier conqueſt: But, when your unexampled vigilance and exalted virtue made potions, and rapes, and the utmoſt violences, neceſſary to the attainment of his deteſtable end, we ſee that he never boggled at them. I have no doubt, that the ſame or equal wickedneſs would be oftener committed by men of this villainous caſt, if the folly and credulity of the poor inconſiderates who throw themſelves into their hands, did not give them an eaſier triumph.

With what comfort muſt thoſe parents reflect upon theſe things, who have happily diſpoſed of their daugh⯑ters in marriage to a virtuous man! And how happy the young women, who find themſelves ſafe in a worthy protection!—If ſuch a perſon, as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe could not eſcape, who can be ſecure?—Since, tho' every rake is not a LOVELACE, neither is every woman a CLARISSA: And his attempts were but proportioned to your reſiſtance and vigilance.

My mother has commanded me to let you know her thoughts upon the whole of your ſad ſtory. I will do [81] it in another letter; and ſend it to you with this, by a ſpecial meſſenger.

But, for the future, if you approve of it, I will ſend my letters by the uſual hand (Collins's) to be left at the Saracen's head on Snow-hill: Whither you may ſend yours (as we both uſed to do, to Wilſon's), except ſuch as we ſhall think fit to tranſmit by the poſt: Which I am afraid, after my next, muſt be directed to Mr. Hickman, as before: Since my mother is for fixing a condition to our correſpondence, which, I doubt, you will not com⯑ply with, tho' I wiſh you would. This condition I ſhall acquaint you with by-and-by.

Mean time, begging excuſe for all the harſh things in my laſt, I beſeech you, my deareſt creature, to believe me to be,

LETTER XXIV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I NOW, my deareſt friend, reſume my pen, to obey my mother, in giving you her opinion upon your unhappy ſtory.

She ſtill harps upon the old ſtring, and will have it, that all your calamities are owing to your firſt fatal ſtep; for ſhe believes (what I cannot), that your relations had intended, after one general trial more, to comply with your averſion, if they had found it as rivetted a one, as, let me ſay, it was a folly to ſuppoſe it would not be found to be, after ſo many ridiculouſly repeated experiments.

As to your latter ſufferings from that vileſt of miſ⯑creants, ſhe is unalterably of opinion, that if all be as you have related (which ſhe doubts not), with regard to the potions, and to the violences you have ſuſtained, you ought, by all means, to ſet on foot a proſecution againſt him, and his deviliſh accomplices.

She aſks, What murderers, what raviſhers, would be [82] brought to juſtice, if modeſty were to be a general plea, and allowable, againſt appearing in a court to proſecute?

She ſays, that the good of ſociety requires, that ſuch a beaſt of prey ſhould be hunted out of it: And, if you do not proſecute him, ſhe thinks you will be anſwerable for all the miſchiefs he may do in the courſe of his future villainous life.

Will it be thought, Nancy, ſaid ſhe, that Miſs Harlowe can be in earneſt, when ſhe ſays, ſhe is not ſolicitous to have her diſgraces concealed from the world, if ſhe is afraid or aſhamed to appear in court, to do juſtice to herſelf and her ſex againſt him? Will it not be rather ſurmiſed, that ſhe may be apprehenſive, that ſome weak⯑neſs, or lurking love, will appear upon the trial of the ſtrange cauſe? If, inferred ſhe, ſuch complicated villainy as this (where perjury, potions, forgery, ſubornation, are all combined to effect the ruin of an innocent crea⯑ture, and to diſhonour a family of eminence, and where thoſe very crimes, as may be ſuppoſed, are proofs of her innocence) is to go off impunely, what caſe will deſerve to be brought into judgment; or what malefactor ought to be hanged?

Then ſhe thinks, and ſo do I, that the vile creatures, his accomplices, ought by all means to be brought to condign puniſhment, as they muſt and will be, upon bring⯑ing him to his tryal: And this may be a means to blow up and root out a whole neſt of vipers, and ſave many innocent creatures.

She added, That, if Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe could be ſo indifferent about having this public juſtice done upon ſuch a wretch, for her own ſake, ſhe ought to overcome her ſcruples out of regard to her family, her acquaintance, and her ſex, which are all highly injured and ſcandalized by his villainy to her.

For her own part, ſhe declares, That were ſhe your mother, ſhe would forgive you upon no other terms: And, upon your compliance with theſe, ſhe herſelf will undertake to reconcile all your family to you.

Theſe, my dear, are my mother's ſentiments upon your ſad ſtory.

[83]I cannot ſay, but there are reaſon and juſtice in them: And it is my opinion, that it would be very right for the Law to oblige an injured woman to proſecute, and to make ſeduction on the man's part capital, where his ſtudied baſeneſs, and no fault in her will, appeared.

To this purpoſe, the cuſtom in the Iſle of Man is a very good one—

‘If a ſingle woman there proſecutes a ſingle man for a rape, the eccleſiaſtical judges impanel a jury; and, if this jury finds him guilty, he is returned guilty to the temporal courts: Where, if he be convicted, the deemſter, or judge, delivers to the woman a Rope, a Sword, and a Ring; and ſhe has it in her choice to have him hanged, beheaded, or to marry him.’

One of the two former, I think, ſhould always be her option.

I long for the full particulars of your ſtory. You muſt have but too much time upon your hands, for a mind ſo active as yours, if tolerable health and ſpirits be afforded you

The villainy of the worſt of men, and the virtue of the moſt excellent of women, I expect will be exemplified in it, were it to be written in the ſame connected and particular manner, that you uſed to write to me in.

Try for it, my deareſt friend; and ſince you cannot give the example without the warning, give both, for the ſakes of all thoſe who ſhall hear of your unhappy fate; beginning from yours of June 5. your proſpects then not diſagreeable. I pity you for the taſk; tho' I cannot willingly exempt you from it.

The two preceding letters were ſent by a ſpecial meſſenger: In the cover were written the following lines.

I CANNOT, my deareſt friend, ſuffer the incloſed to go unaccompanied by a few lines, to ſignify to you, that they are both leſs tender in ſome places, than I would have written, had they not been to paſs my mamma's inſpection. The principal reaſon, however, of my writing thus ſeparately, is, To beg of you to permit me to ſend you money and neceſſaries; which you muſt needs want: And that you will let me know, if either I, or any-body I can influence, can be of ſervice to you. I am exceſſively apprehenſive, that you are not enough out of his reach where you are. Yet London, I am perſuaded, is the place of all others, to be private in.

I could tear my hair for vexation, that I have it not in my power to afford you perſonal protection!—I am,

LETTER XXV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I APPROVE, my deareſt friend, of the method you preſcribe for the conveyance of our letters; and have already cauſed the porter of the inn to be engaged to [85] bring to me yours, the moment that Collins arrives with them: As the ſervant of the houſe where I am, will be permitted to carry mine to Collins for you.

As you are ſo earneſt to have all the particulars of my ſad ſtory before you, I will, if life and ſpirits be lent me, give you an ample account of all that has befallen me, from the time you mention. But this, it is very probable, you will not ſee, till after the cloſe of my laſt ſcene: And as I ſhall write with a view to that, I hope no other voucher will be wanted for the veracity of the writer.

I am far from thinking myſelf out of the reach of this man's further violence. But what can I do? Whither can I fly?—Perhaps my bad ſtate of health (which muſt grow worſe, as recollection of the paſt evils, and re⯑flections upon them, grow heavier and heavier upon me) may be my protection. Once, indeed, I thought of going abroad; and had I the proſpect of many years before me, I would go.—But, my dear, the blow is given.— Nor have you reaſon, now, circumſtanced as I am, to be concerned, that it is. What a heart muſt I have, if it be not broken!—And, indeed, my dear, my beſt, I had almoſt ſaid my only friend, I do ſo earneſtly wiſh for the laſt cloſing ſcene, and with ſo much comfort find myſelf in a declining way, that I even ſometimes ingratefully regret that naturally healthy conſtitution, which uſed to double upon me all my enjoyments.

As to the earneſtly recommended proſecution, I may poſſibly touch upon it more largely hereafter, if ever I ſhall have better ſpirits; for they are at preſent extremely ſunk and low.—But, juſt now, will only ſay, that I would ſooner ſuffer every evil (the repetition of the capital one excepted), than appear publicly in a court to do myſelf juſtice ^(a). And I am heartily grieved, that your mother preſcribes ſuch a meaſure, as the condition of our future correſpondence.—For, the continuance of your friend⯑ſhip, my dear, and the deſire I had to correſpond with you to my life's end, were all my remaining hopes and [86] conſolation. Nevertheleſs, as that friendſhip is in the power of the heart, not of the hand only, I hope I ſhall not forfeit that.

O my dear! what weight has a parent's curſe—You cannot imagine—But I will not touch this ſtring to you, who never loved them!—A reconciliation with them is not be hoped for!

I have written a letter to Miſs Rawlins of Hamſtead; the anſwer to which, juſt now received, has helped me to the knowledge of the vile contrivance, by which this wicked man got your letter of June the 10th. I will give you the contents of both.

In mine to her, I briefly acquaint her ‘with what had befallen me, thro' the vileneſs of the women who had been paſſed upon me, as the aunt and couſin of the wickedeſt of men; and own, that I never was married to him. I deſire her to make particular in⯑quiry, and to let me know, who it was at Mrs. Moore's, that on Sunday afternoon, June 11. while I was at church, received a letter from Miſs Howe, pretending to be me, and lying on a couch:—Which letter, had it come to my hands, would have ſaved me from ruin. I excuſe myſelf (from the delirium, which the bar⯑barous uſage I had received, threw me into, and from a confinement as barbarous and illegal), that I had not before applied to Mrs. Moore, for an account of what I was indebted to her: Which I now deſired. And for ſear of being traced by Mr. Lovelace, I directed her to ſuperſcribe her anſwer, To Mrs. Mary Atkins▪ to be left till called for, at the Bell-Savage Inn, o [...] Ludgate-Hill.’

In her anſwer, ſhe tells me, ‘that the vile wretc [...] prevailed upon Mrs. Bevis to perſonate me. A ſudde [...] motion of his, it ſeems, on the appearance of you [...] meſſenger;—perſuaded to lie along on a couch: [...] handkerchief over her neck and face; pretending [...] be ill; drawn in, by falſe notions of your ill office to keep up a variance between a man and his wife— and ſo taking the letter from your meſſenger as me.’

‘Miſs Rawlins takes pains to excuſe Mrs. Bevis's i [...] ⯑tention. She expreſſes their aſtoniſhment and conc [...] [87] at what I communicate: But is glad, however, and ſo they are all, that they know in time the vileneſs of the baſe man; the two widows and herſelf having, at his earneſt invitation, deſigned me a viſit at Mrs. Sinclair's; ſuppoſing all to be happy between him and me; as he aſſured them was the caſe. Mr. Lovelace, ſhe informs me, had handſomely ſatisfied Mrs. Moore. And Miſs Rawlins concludes with wiſhing to be fa⯑voured with the particulars of ſo extraordinary a ſtory, as they may be of uſe, to let her ſee what wicked creatures (women as well as men) there are in the world.’

I thank you for the draughts of your two letters which were intercepted by this horrid man. I ſee the great ad⯑vantage they were of to him, in the proſecution of his villainous deſigns againſt the poor wretch, whom he has ſo long made the ſport of his abhorred inventions.

Let me repeat, that I am quite ſick of life; and of an earth, in which innocent and benevolent ſpirits are ſure to be conſidered as aliens, and to be made ſufferers, by the genuine ſons and daughters of that earth.

How unhappy, that thoſe letters only which could have acquainted me with his horrid views, and armed me againſt them, and againſt the vileneſs of the baſe women, ſhould fall into his hands!—Unhappier ſtill, in that my very eſcape to Hamſtead, gave him the opportunity of receiving them!

Nevertheleſs, I cannot but ſtill wonder, how it was poſſible for that Tomlinſon to know what paſſed between Mr. Hickman and my uncle Harlowe^(a): A circumſtance, which gave that vile impoſtor moſt of his credit with me.

How the wicked wretch himſelf could find me out at Hamſtead, muſt alſo remain wholly a myſtery to me. He may glory in his contrivances—He, who has more wick⯑edneſs than wit, may glory in his contrivances!—But, after all, I ſhall, I humbly preſume to hope, be happy, when he, poor wretch, will be—Alas!—who can ſay what!—

Adieu, my deareſt friend!—May you be happy!—And then your Clariſſa Harlowe cannot be wholly miſerable!

LETTER XXVI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I WRITE, my deareſt creature, I cannot but write, to expreſs my concern on your dejection. Let me beſeech you, my charming excellence, let me beſeech you, not to give way to it.

Comfort yourſelf, on the contrary, in the triumphs of a virtue unſullied; a will wholly faultleſs. Who could have withſtood the trials that you have ſurmounted?—Your couſin Morden will ſoon come. He will ſee juſtice done you, I make no doubt, as well with regard to what concerns your perſon as your eſtate. And many happy days may you yet ſee; and much good may you ſtill do, if you will not heighten unavoidable accidents into guilty de⯑ſpondency.

But why, my dear, this pining ſolicitude continued after a reconciliation with relations as unworthy as im⯑placable; whoſe wills are governed by an all-graſping brother, who finds his account in keeping the breach open? On this over-ſolicitude, it is now plain to me, that the vileſt of men, built all his ſchemes. He ſaw you had a thirſt after it, beyond all reaſon for hope. The view, the hope, I own, extremely deſirable, had your family been Chriſtians; or even had they been Pagans, who had bowels.

I ſhall ſend this ſhort letter (I am obliged to make it a ſhort one) by young Rogers, as we call him; the fellow I ſent to you to Hamſtead; an innocent, tho' pragma⯑tical ruſtic. Admit him, I pray you, into your preſence, that he may report to me, how you look, and how you are.

Mr. Hickman ſhould attend you; but I apprehend, that all his motions, and my own too, are watched by the execrable wretch: As indeed his are by an agent of mine; for I own, that I am ſo apprehenſive of his plots and revenge, now I know, that he has intercepted my vehement letters againſt him, that he is the ſubject of my dreams, as well as of my waking fears.

[89]MY mother, at my earneſt importunity, has juſt given me leave to write, and to receive your letters—But faſtened this condition upon the conceſſion, that yours muſt be under cover to Mr. Hickman (this with a view, I ſuppoſe, to give him conſideration with me); and upon this further condition, that ſhe is to ſee all we write.—‘When girls are ſet upon a point,’ſhe told one, who told me again, ‘it is better for a mother, if poſſible, to make herſelf of their party, rather than to oppoſe them; ſince there will be then hopes, that ſhe will ſtill hold the reins in her own hands.’

Pray let me know what the people are with whom you lodge?—Shall I ſend Mrs. Townſend to direct you to lodgings, either more ſafe, or more convenient for you?

Be pleaſed to write to me by Rogers; who will wait on you for your anſwer, at your own time.

Adieu, my deareſt creature. Comfort yourſelf, as you would, in the like unhappy circumſtances, comfort

LETTER XXVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I AM extremely concerned, my dear Miſs Howe, for being primarily the occaſion of the apprehenſions you have of this wicked man's vindictive attempts. What a wide ſpreading error is mine!—

If I find, that he ſets on foot any machination againſt you, or Mr. Hickman, I do aſſure you I will conſent to proſecute him, altho' I were ſure I ſhould not ſurvive my firſt appearance at the Bar he ſhould be arraigned at.

I own the juſtice of your mother's arguments on that ſubject; but muſt ſay, that I think there are circumſtances in my particular caſe, which will excuſe me, altho' (on a ſlighter occaſion than that above apprehended) I ſhould decline to appear againſt him. I have ſaid, that I may one day enter more particularly into this ſubject.

[90]Your meſſenger has now indeed ſeen me. I talked with him on the impoſture put upon him at Hamſtead: And am ſorry to have reaſon to ſay, that had not the poor young man been very ſimple, and very ſelf-ſufficient, he had not been ſo groſly deluded. Mrs. Bevis has the ſame plea to make for herſelf. A good-natured, thought⯑leſs woman; not uſed to converſe with ſo vile and ſo ſpecious a deceiver, as him, who made his advantage of both theſe ſhallow creatures.

I think I cannot be more private, than where I am. I hope I am ſafe. All the riſque I run, is in going out, and returning from morning prayers; which I have two or three times ventured to do; once at Lincolns-Inn chapel, at eleven; once at St. Dunſtan's Fleet-ſtreet, at ſeven in the morning, in a chair both times; and twice at ſix in the morning, at the neighbouring church in Covent-garden. The wicked wretches I have eſcaped from, will not, I hope, come to church to look for me; eſpecially at ſo early prayers; and I have fixed upon the privateſt pew in the latter church to hide myſelf in; and perhaps I may lay out a little matter in an ordinary gown, by way of diſguiſe; my face half hid by my mob.—I am very careleſs, my dear, of my appearance now. Neat and clean, takes up the whole of my at⯑tention.

The man's name, at whoſe houſe I lodge, is Smith— A glove-maker, as well as ſeller. His wife is the ſhop-keeper. A dealer alſo in ſtockens, ribbands, ſnuff, and perfumes. A matron-like woman, plain-hearted, and prudent. The huſband an honeſt, induſtrious man. And they live in good underſtanding with each other. A proof with me, that their hearts are right; for where a married couple live together upon ill terms, it is a ſign, I think, that each knows ſomething amiſs of the other, either with regard to temper or morals, which if the world knew as well as themſelves, it would as little like them, as ſuch people like each other. Happy the marriage, where neither man nor wife has any wilful or premedi⯑tated evil in their general conduct to reproach the other with!—For even perſons who have bad hearts, will have a veneration for thoſe who have good ones.

[91]Two neat rooms, with plain but clean furniture, on the firſt floor, are mine; one they call the dining-room.

There is, up another pair of ſtairs, a very worthy widow-lodger, Mrs. Lovick by name; who, altho' of low fortunes, is much reſpected, as Mrs. Smith aſſures me, by people of condition of her acquaintance for her piety, prudence, and underſtanding. With her I propoſe to be well acquainted.

I thank you, my dear, for your kind, you ſeaſonable advice and conſolation. I hope I ſhall have more grace given me, than to deſpond, in the religious ſenſe of the word: Eſpecially, as I can apply to myſelf the comfort you give me, that neither my will, nor my inconſider⯑ateneſs, has contributed to my calamity. But never⯑theleſs, the irreconcileableneſs of my relations, whom I love with an unabated reverence; my apprehenſions of freſh violences (This wicked man, I doubt, will not yet let me reſt); my deſtituteneſs of protection; my youth, my ſex, my unacquaintedneſs with the world, ſubjecting me to inſults; my reflections on the ſcandal I have given, added to the ſenſe of the indignities I have received from a man, of whom I deſerved not ill; all together will undoubtedly bring on the effect, that cannot be un⯑deſirable to me:—The ſlower, however, perhaps from my natural good ocnſtitution; and, as I preſume to ima⯑gine, from principles which I hope will, in due time, and by due reflection, ſet me above the ſenſe of all worldly diſappointments.

At preſent, my head is much diſordered. I have not indeed enjoyed it with any degree of clearneſs, ſince the violence done to that, and to my heart too, by the wicked arts of the abandoned creatures I was caſt among.

I muſt have more conflicts. At times I find my ſelf not ſubdued enough to my condition. I will welcome thoſe conflicts as they come, as probationary ones—But yet my father's malediction—Yet I hope even that may be made of ſo much uſe to me, as to cauſe me to double my attention to render it ineffectual.

All I will at preſent add, are my thanks to your mo⯑ther for her indulgence to us. Due compliments to Mr. Hickman; and my requeſt, that you will believe me to [92] be, to my laſt hour, and beyond it, if poſſible, my be⯑loved friend, and my dearer Self (for what is now my Self?)

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

I HAVE three of thy letters at once before me to anſwer; in each of which thou complaineſt of my ſilence; and in one of them telleſt me, that thou canſt not live unleſs I ſcribble to thee every day, or every other day at leaſt.

Why, then, die, Jack, if thou wilt. — What heart, thinkeſt thou, can I have to write, when I have loſt the only ſubject worth writing upon?

Help me again to my Angel, to my CLARISSA; and thou ſhalt have a letter from me, or writing at leaſt, part of a letter, every hour. All that the charmer of my heart ſhall ſay, that will I put down: Every motion, every air of her beloved perſon, every look, will I try to de⯑ſcribe; and when ſhe is ſilent, I will endeavour to tell thee her thoughts, either what they are, or what I'd have them to be—So that, having her, I ſhall never want a ſubject. Having loſt her, my whole ſoul is a blank: The whole creation round me, the elements above, beneath, and every thing I behold (for nothing can I enjoy) is a blank without her!

O Return, Return, thou dear charmer of my ſoul! Return to thy adoring Lovelace! What is the light, what the air, what the town, what the country, what's any-thing, without thee? Light, air, joy, harmony, in my notion, are but parts of thee; and could they be all ex⯑preſſed in one word, that word would be CLARISSA.

O my beloved CLARISSA, Return thou then; once more Return to bleſs thy LOVELACE, who now, by the loſs of thee, knows the value of the jewel he has ſlighted; [93] and riſes every morning but to curſe the ſun, that ſhines upon every-body but him!

WELL but, Jack, 'tis a ſurpriſing thing to me, that the dear fugitive cannot be met with; cannot be heard of. She is ſo poor a plotter (for plotting is not her talent), that I am confident, had I been at liberty, I ſhould have found her out before now; altho' the different emiſſaries I have employed about town, round the adjacent villages, and in Miſs Howe's vicinage, have hitherto failed of ſucceſs. But my Lord continues ſo weak and low-ſpirited, that there is no getting from him. I would not diſoblige a man whom I think in danger ſtill: For would his gout, now it has got him down, but give him, like a fair boxer, the riſing-blow, all would be over with him. And here (pox of his fondneſs for me! it happens at a very bad time) he makes me ſit hours together entertaining him with my rog [...]eries (a pretty amuſement for a ſick man!): And yet, whenever he has the gout, he prays night and morning with his chaplain. But what muſt his notions of religion be, who, after he has noſed and mumbled over his reſponſes, can give a ſigh or groan of ſatisfaction, as if he thought he had made up with heaven; and return with a new appetite to my ſtories?—Encouraging them, by ſhaking his ſides with laughing at them, and calling me a ſad fellow in ſuch an accent, as ſhews he takes no ſmall delight in his kinſman.

The old Peer has been a ſinner in his day, and ſuffers for it now: A ſneaking ſinner, ſliding, rather than ruſh⯑ing, into vices, for fear of his reputation: Or, rather, for fear of detection, and poſitive proof; for theſe ſort of fellows, Jack, have no real regard for reputation.— Paying for what he never had, and never daring to riſe to the joy of an enterprize at firſt hand, which could bring him within view of a tilting, or of the honour of being conſidered as the principal man in a court of juſtice.

To ſee ſuch an old Trojan as this, juſt dropping into the grave, which I hoped ere this would have been dug, and filled up with him; crying out with pain, and grunt⯑ing with weakneſs; yet in the ſame moment crack his [94] leathern face into an horrible laugh, and call a young ſinner charming varlet, encoreing him, as formerly he uſed to do the Italian eunuchs; what a prepoſterous, what an unnatural adherence to old habits!

My two couſins are generally preſent when I entertain, as the old peer calls it. Thoſe ſtories muſt drag horribly, that have not more hearers and applauders, than relaters.

Applauders!—

Ay, Belford, Applauders, repeat I; for altho' theſe girls pretend to blame me ſometimes for the facts, they praiſe my manner, my invention, my intrepidity.—Be⯑ſides, what other people call blame, that call I praiſe: I ever did; and ſo I very early diſcharged ſhame, that cold⯑water damper to an enterpriſing ſpirit.

Theſe are ſmart girls; they have life and wit; and yeſterday, upon Charlotte's raving againſt me upon a related enterprize, I told her, that I had had it in debate ſeveral times, whether ſhe were or were not too near of kin to me: And that it was once a moot point with me, whether I could not love her dearly for a month▪ or ſo: And perhaps it was well for her, that another pretty little puſs ſtarted up, and diverted me, juſt as I was entering upon the courſe.

They all three held up their hands and eyes at once. But I obſerved, that tho' the girls exclaimed againſt me, they were not ſo angry at this plain ſpeaking, as I have found my beloved upon hints ſo dark, that I have won⯑dered at her quick apprehenſion.

I told Charlotte, That, grave as ſhe pretended to be in her ſmiling reſentments on this declaration, I was ſure I ſhould not have been put to the expence of above two or three ſtratagems (for nobody admired a good inven⯑tion more than ſhe), could I but have diſentangled her conſcience from the embaraſſes of conſanguinity.

She pretended to be highly diſpleaſed: So did her ſiſter for her: I told her, that ſhe ſeemed as much in earneſt, as if ſhe had thought me ſo; and dared the trial. Plain words, I ſaid, in theſe caſes, were more ſhocking to their ſex than gradatim actions. And I bid Patty not be diſpleaſed at my diſtinguiſhing her ſiſter; ſince I had a great reſpect for her likewiſe.

[95]An Italian air, in my uſual careleſs way, a half-ſtruggled for kiſs from me, and a ſhrug of the ſhoulder by way of admiration, from each pretty couſin, and Sad, ſad fellow, from the old Peer, attended with a ſide-ſhaking laugh, made us all friends.

There, Jack!—Wilt thou, or wilt thou not, take this for a letter? There's Quantity, I am ſure.—How have I fill'd a ſheet (not a ſhort-hand one indeed) without a ſub⯑ject! My fellow ſhall take this; for he is going to town. And if thou canſt think tolerably of ſuch execrable ſtuff, I will ſoon ſend thee another.

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

HAVE I nothing new, nothing diverting, in my whimſical way, thou aſkeſt, in one of thy three letters before me, to entertain thee with?—And thou telleſt me, that, when I have leaſt to narrate, to ſpeak in the Scotiſh phraſe, I am moſt diverting. A pretty compli⯑ment, either to thyſelf, or to me. To both indeed!—A ſign that thou haſt as frothy a heart as I a head. But canſt thou ſuppoſe, that this admirable woman is not All, is not Every-thing, with me? Yet I dread to think of her too; for detection of all my contrivances, I doubt, muſt come next.

The old Peer is alſo full of Miſs Harlowe; and ſo are my couſins. He hopes I will not be ſuch a dog [There's a ſpecimen of his peer-like dialect], as to think of doing diſhonourably by a woman of ſo much merit, beauty, and fortune; and, he ſays, of ſo good a family. But I tell him, that this is a ſtring he muſt not touch: That it is a very tender point: In ſhort, is my ſore place; and that I am afraid he would handle it too roughly, were I to put myſelf into the power of ſo ungentle an operator.

He ſhakes his crazy head. He thinks all is not as it ſhould be between us; longs to have me preſent her to him, as my wife; and often tells me what great things he will do, additional to his former propoſals; and what preſents he will make on the birth of the firſt child. [96] But I hope the whole will be in my hands before ſuch an event take place. No harm in hoping, Jack! My uncle ſays, Were it not for hope, the heart would break.

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

NOW, Jack, have I a ſubject with a vengeance. I am in the very height of my tryal for all my ſins to my beloved fugitive. For here, yeſterday, at about five o'clock, arrived Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty Law⯑rance, each in her chariot and ſix. Dowagers love equi⯑page; and theſe cannot travel ten miles without a ſet, and half a dozen horſemen.

My time had hung heavy upon my hands; and ſo I went to church after dinner. Why may not handſome fellows, thought I, like to be look'd at, as well as hand⯑ſome wenches?—I fell in, when Service was over, with Major Warneton; and ſo came not home till after ſix; and was ſurpriſed, at entering the court-yard here, to find it litter'd with equipages and ſervants. I was ſure the owners of them came for no good to me.

[98]Lady Sarah, I ſoon found, was raiſed to this viſit by Lady Betty; who has health enough to allow her to look out of herſelf, and out of her own affairs, for buſineſs. Yet congratulation to my uncle on his amendment (Spite⯑ful devils on both accounts!) was the avowed errand. But coming in my abſence, I was their principal ſubject: and they had opportunity to ſet each other's heart againſt me.

Simon Parſons hinted this to me, as I paſſed by the Steward's office; for it ſeems they talked loud; and he was making up ſome accounts with old Pritchard.

However, I haſten'd to pay my duty to them. Other people not performing theirs, is not excuſe for the neglect of our own, you know.

LETTER XXXI. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

THE Ladies, inſtead of taking up the ſubject where we had laid it down, muſt needs touch upon paſ⯑ſages in my fair accuſer's letter, which I was in hopes they would have let reſt, as we were in a tolerable way. But, truly, they muſt hear all they could hear, of our ſtory, and what I had to ſay to thoſe paſſages, that they might be better enabled to mediate between us, if I were really and indeed inclined to do her the hoped-for juſtice.

Theſe paſſages were, 1ſt, ‘That after I had trick'd her, againſt her will, into the act of going off with me, I carried her to one of the worſt houſes in London.’

2. "That I had made a wicked attempt upon her; in "reſentment of which, ſhe fled to Hamſtead, privately.

3dly, Came the forgery, and perſonating charge again; and we were upon the point of renewing ou [...] quarrel, before we could get to the next charge: Which was ſtill worſe.

[111]For that, 4thly, was, ‘That having trick'd her back to the vile houſe, I had firſt robbed her of her ſenſes, and then of her honour; detaining her afterwards a priſoner there.’

Were I to tell thee the gloſſes I put upon theſe heavy charges, what would it be, but to repeat many of the extenuating arguments I have uſed in my letters to thee? —Suffice it, therefore, to ſay, that I inſiſted much, by way of palliation, on the lady's extreme niceneſs: On her diffidence in my honour: On Miſs Howe's contriving ſpirit; plots on their parts, begetting plots on mine: On the high paſſions of the ſex: I aſſerted, that my whole view, in gently reſtraining her, was to oblige her to for⯑give me, and to marry me; and this, for the honour of both families. I boaſted of my own good qualities; ſome of which none that know me, deny; and which few libertines can lay claim to.

They then fell into warm admirations and praiſes of the lady; all of them preparatory, as I knew, to the grand queſtion: And thus it was introduced by Lady Sarah.

We have ſaid as much as I think we can ſay, upon theſe letters of the poor lady. To dwell upon the miſchiefs that may enſue from the abuſe of a perſon of her rank, if all the reparation be not made, that now can be made, would perhaps be to little purpoſe. But you ſeem, Sir, ſtill to have a juſt opinion of her, as well as affection for her. Her virtue is not in the leaſt queſtionable. She could not reſent as ſhe does, had ſhe any thing to reproach herſelf with. She is, by every-body's account, a fine woman; has a good eſtate in her own right; is of no contemptible family; tho' I think with regard to her, they have acted as imprudently as unworthily. For the excellency of her mind, for good oeconomy, the common ſpeech of her, as the worthy Dr. Lewin once told me, is, That her prudence would enrich a poor man, and her piety reclaim a licentious one. I, who have not been abroad twice this twelvemonth, came hither purpoſely, ſo did Lady Betty, to ſee if juſtice may not be done her; and alſo whether we, and my Lord M. (your neareſt relations, Sir) have, or have not, any influence over you. And, for my own part, as your determination ſhall be in this article, ſuch ſhall be [112] mine, with regard to the diſpoſition of all that is within my power.

And mine.

And mine, ſaid my Lord: And valiantly he ſwore to it.

Far be it from me to think ſlightly of favours you may any of you be glad I would deſerve. But as far be it from me to enter into conditions againſt my own liking, with ſordid views!—As to future miſchiefs, let them come. I have not done with the Harlowes yet. They were the aggreſſors; and I ſhould be glad they would let me hear from them, in the way they ſhould hear from me, in the like caſe. Perhaps, I ſhould not be ſorry to be found, rather than be obliged to ſeek, on this occaſion.

Spoke like a man of vio⯑lence, rather than a man of reaſon! I hope you'll allow that, couſin.

Well, but ſince what is done, is done, and cannot be undone, let us think of the next beſt. Have you any objection againſt marrying Miſs Harlowe, if ſhe will have you?

There can poſſibly be but one: That ſhe is every⯑where, no doubt, as well as to Lady Betty, purſuing that maxim, peculiar to herſelf (and let me tell you, ſo it ought to be), That what ſhe cannot conceal from herſelf, ſhe will publiſh to all the world.

The lady, to be ſure, writes this in the bitterneſs of her grief, and in deſpair.

And this from you, couſin Patty!—Sweet girl! And would you, my dear, in the like caſe (whiſpering her), have meant no more by the like exclamations?

I had a rap with her fan, and a bluſh; and from Lord M. a reflection, That I turn'd into jeſt every thing they ſaid.

I aſked, If they thought the Harlowes deſerved any conſideration from me; and whether that family would not exult over me, were I to marry their daughter, as if I dared not to do otherwiſe?

Once I was angry with that family, as w [...] all were. But now I pity them; and think, that you have but too well juſtified the worſt treatment they gave you.

Their family is of ſtanding. All gentlemen of it, and rich, and reputable. Let me tell you, that [113] many of our coronets would be glad they could derive their deſcents from no worſe a ſtem than theirs.

They are a narrow-ſoul'd and implacable family. I hate them: And tho' I revere the lady, ſcorn all rela⯑tion to them.

I wiſh no worſe could be ſaid of him, who is ſuch a ſcorner of common failings in others.

How would my ſiſter Lovelace have reproached herſelf for all her indulgent folly to this favourite boy of hers, had ſhe lived till now, and been preſent on this occaſion!

Well but, begging your Lordſhip's pardon, let us ſee if any thing can be done for this poor lady.

If Mr. Lovelace has nothing to object againſt the lady's character (and I preſume to think he is not aſham'd to do her juſtice, tho' it may make againſt him⯑ſelf), I cannot ſee, but honour, and generoſity, will com⯑pel from him all that we expect. If there be any levities, any weakneſſes, to be charg'd upon the lady, I ſhould not open my lips in her favour; tho' in private I would pity her, and deplore her hard hap. And yet, even then, there might not want arguments, from honour and grati⯑tude, in ſo particular a caſe, to engage you, Sir, to make good the vows it is plain you have broken.

My niece Charlotte has called upon you ſo juſtly, and has put the queſtion to you ſo properly, that I cannot but wiſh you would ſpeak to it directly, and without evaſion.

All in a breath then beſpoke my ſeriouſneſs, and my juſtice: And in this manner I deliver'd myſelf, aſſuming an air ſincerely ſolemn.

A devil!—A damn'd devil! I muſt anſwer. And may the curſe of God follow you in all you under⯑take, if you do not make her the beſt amends now in your power to make her!

From you, my Lord, I could expect no other: But from the Ladies I hope for leſs violence from the in⯑genuity of my confeſſion.

The Ladies, elder and younger, had their handkerchiefs to their eyes, at the juſt teſtimony which I bore to the merits of this exalted creature; and which I would make no ſcruple to bear at the Bar of a Court of Juſtice, were I to be called to it.

Well, Sir, this is a noble character. If you think as you ſpeak, ſurely you cannot refuſe to do the lady all the juſtice now in your power to do her.

They all joined in this demand.

I pleaded, that I was ſure ſhe would not have me: That, when ſhe had taken a reſolution, ſhe was not to be moved: Unperſuadableneſs was an Harlowe ſin: That, and her name, I told them, were all ſhe had of theirs.

All were of opinion, that ſhe might, in her preſent deſolate circumſtances, be brought to forgive me. Lady Sarah ſaid, that her ſiſter and ſhe would endeavour to find out the Noble Sufferer, as they juſtly called her; and would take her into their protection, and be guaranties to her of the juſtice that I would do her; as well after mar⯑riage, as before.

It was ſome pleaſure to me, to obſerve the placability of theſe ladies of my own family, had they, any or either of them, met with a LOVELACE. But 'twould be hard upon us honeſt fellows, Jack, if all women were CLARISSA'S.

Here I am obliged to break off.

LETTER XXXII. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

IT is much better, Jack, to tell your own ſtory, when it muſt be know, than to have an adverſary tell it for you. Conſcious of this, I gave them a particular ac⯑count, how urgent I had been with her to fix upon the Thurſday after I left her (it being her uncle Harlowe's anniverſary birth-day, and named to oblige her) for the private celebration; having ſome days before actually procured a Licence, which ſtill remained with her.

That, not being able to prevail upon her to promiſe any thing, while under a ſuppoſed reſtraint; I offered to leave her at full liberty, if ſhe would give me the leaſt hope for that day. But neither did this offer avail me.

That this inflexibleneſs making me deſperate, I re⯑ſolved to add to my former fault, by giving directions, that ſhe ſhould not either go, or correſpond, out of the houſe, till I returned from M. Hall; well knowing, that, if ſhe were at full liberty, I muſt for ever loſe her.

[117]That this conſtraint had ſo much incenſed her, that altho' I wrote no leſs than four different letters, I could not procure a ſingle word in anſwer; tho' I preſſed her but for four words to ſignify the day and the church.

I referred to my two couſins to vouch for me the extra⯑ordinary methods I took to ſend meſſengers to town, tho' they knew not the occaſion: Which now I told them, was this.

I acquainted them, that I even had wrote to you, Jack, and to another gentleman, of whom I thought ſhe had a good opinion, to attend her, in order to preſs for her compliance; holding myſelf in readineſs the laſt day, at Salt-hill, to meet the meſſenger they ſhould ſend, and proceed to London, if his meſſage were favourable: But that, before they could attend her, ſhe had found means to fly away once more: And is now, ſaid I, perch'd per⯑haps, ſomewhere under Lady Betty's window at Glenham Hall; and there, like the ſweet Philomela, a thorn in her breaſt, warbles forth her melancholy complaints againſt her barbarous Tereus.

Lady Betty declared, That ſhe was not with her; nor did ſhe know where ſhe was. She ſhould be, ſhe added, the moſt welcome gueſt to her, that ſhe ever received.

In truth, I had a ſuſpicion, that ſhe was already in their knowlege, and taken into their protection; for Lady Sarah I imagin'd incapable of being rouſed to this ſpirit by a letter only from Miſs Harlowe, and that not directed to herſelf; ſhe being a very indolent and melancholy wo⯑man. But her ſiſter, I find, had wrought her up to it: For Lady Betty is as officious and managing a woman as Mrs. Howe; but of a much more generous and noble diſpoſition.—She is my aunt, Jack.

I ſuppoſed, I ſaid, that her Ladyſhip might have a pri⯑vate direction where to ſend to her. I ſpoke, as I wiſh'd: I would have given the world, to have heard, that ſhe was inclined to cultivate the intereſt of any of my family.

Lady Betty anſwer'd, that ſhe had no direction but what was in the letter; which ſhe had ſcratched out, and which, it was probable, was only a temporary one, in order to avoid me: Otherwiſe ſhe would hardly have directed an anſwer to be left at an inn. And ſhe was of opinion, that [118] to apply to Miſs Howe would be the only certain way to ſucceed in any application for forgiveneſs, would I enable that young lady to intereſt herſelf in procuring it.

Permit me to make a propoſal.—Since we are all of one mind in relation to the juſtice due to Miſs Harlowe, if Mr. Lovelace will oblige himſelf to marry her, I will make Miſs Howe a viſit, little as I am acquainted with her; and endeavour to engage her intereſt to forward the deſired reconciliation. And if this can be done, I make no queſtion but all may be happily accom⯑modated; for every-body knows the love there is between Miſs Harlowe and Miſs Howe.

MARRIAGE, with theſe women, thou ſeeſt, Jack, is an atonement for all we can do to them. A true dra⯑matic recompence!

This motion was highly approved of; and I gave my honour, as deſired, in the fulleſt manner they could wiſh.

Well then, couſin Charlotte, begin your treaty with Miſs Howe, out of hand.

Pray do. And let Miſs Harlowe be told, that I am ready to receive her, as the welcomeſt of gueſts: And I will not have her out of my ſight till the knot is tied.

Tell her from me, That ſhe ſhall be my daughter!—Inſtead of my poor Betſey!—And ſhed a tear in remembrance of her loſt daughter.

What ſay you, Sir, to this?

CONTENT, my Lord. I ſpeak in the la [...] ⯑guage of your houſe.

We are not to be fooled, nephew. No quib⯑bling. We will have no ſtur put upon us.

You ſhall not. And yet, I did not intend to marry, if ſhe exceeded the appointed Thurſday. But, I think, according to her own notions, that I have injure [...] her beyond reparation, altho' I were to make her [...] beſt of huſbands; as I am reſolved to be, if ſhe [...] condeſcend, as I will call it, to have me. And be Thi [...] couſin Charlotte, my part of your commiſſion to ſay.

This pleaſed them all.

Give thy hand, Bob!—Thou talkeſt like man of honour at laſt. I hope we may depend upon w [...] thou ſayeſt?

[119]The Ladies eyes put the ſame queſtion to me.

You may, my Lord. You may, Ladies. Abſo⯑lutely you may.

Then was the perſonal character of the lady, as well as her more extraordinary talents and endowments, again expatiated upon: And Miſs Patty, who had once ſeen her, launched out more than all the reſt in her praiſe. Theſe were followed by Family-cogencies; what never are forgotten to be inquired after in marriage-treaties, the principal inducements to the Sages of a family, and the leaſt to be mentioned by the Parties themſelves, altho' even by them, perhaps, the firſt thought of: That is to ſay, inqui⯑ſition into the lady's fortune; into the particulars of the grandfather's eſtate; and what her father, and her ſingle-ſoul'd uncles, will probably do for her, if a reconciliation be effected; as, by their means, they make no doubt but it will, between both families, if it be not my fault. The two Venerables [No longer Tabbies with me now] hinted at rich preſents on their own parts; and my Lord declared, that he would make ſuch overtures in my behalf, as ſhould render my marriage with Miſs Harlowe the beſt day's work I ever made; and what, he doubted not, but would be as agreeable to that family, as to myſelf.

Thus, at preſent, by a ſingle hair, hangs over my head the matrimonial ſword. And thus ended my tryal. And thus are we all friends; and Couſin and Couſin, and Nephew and Nephew, at every word.

Did ever Comedy end more happily, than this long tryal?

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

SO, Jack, they think they have gain'd a mighty point. But, were I to change my mind, were I to repent, I fancy I am ſafe.—And yet this very moment it riſes to my mind, that 'tis hard truſting too; for ſurely there muſt be ſome embers, where there was fire ſo lately, that may be ſtirr'd up to give a blaze to combuſtibles ſtrew'd lightly upon them. Love (like ſome ſelf-propagating plants or [120] roots, which have taken ſtrong hold in the earth), when once got deep into the heart, is hardly ever totally extir⯑pated, except by Matrimony indeed, which is the Grave of Love, becauſe it allows of the End of Love. Then theſe ladies, all advocates for herſelf, with herſelf, Miſs Howe at their head, perhaps — Not in favour to me — I don't expect That from Miſs Howe. —But perhaps in favour to herſelf: For Miſs Howe has reaſon to apprehend vengeance from me, I ween. Her Hickman will be ſafe too, as ſhe may think, if I marry her beloved friend: For he has been a buſy fellow, and I have long wiſh'd to have a ſlap at him! —The lady's caſe deſperate with her friends too; and likely to be ſo, while ſingle, and her character expoſed to cenſure.

A huſband is a charming cloak; a fig-leaf'd apron for a wife: And for a lady to be protected in liberties, in di⯑verſions, which her hear [...] pants after—and all her faults, even the moſt criminal, were ſhe to be detected, to be thrown upon the huſband, and the ridicule too; a charm⯑ing eligible for a wife!

But I ſhall have one comfort, if I marry, which pleaſes me not a little. If a man's wife has a dear friend of her ſex, a hundred liberties may be taken with that friend, which could not be taken, if the ſingle lady (knowing what a title to freedoms marriage has given him with her friend) was not leſs ſcrupulous with him than ſhe ought to be, as to herſelf. Then there are broad freedoms (ſhall I call them?) that may be taken by the huſband with his wife, that may not be quite ſhocking, which if the wife bears before her friend, will ſerve for a leſſon to that friend; and if that friend bears to be preſent at them without check or baſh⯑fulneſs, will ſhew a ſagacious fellow, that ſhe can bear as much herſelf, at proper time and place. Chaſtity, Jack, like Piety, is an uniform thing. If in look, if in ſpeech, a girl gives way to undue levity, depent upon it, the de⯑vil has got one of his cloven feet in her heart already— So, Hickman, take care of thyſelf, I adviſe thee, whether I marry or not.

Thus, Jack, have I at once reconciled myſelf to all my relations—And, if the lady refuſes me, thrown the fault upon her. This, I knew, would be in my power [121] to do at any time: And I was the more arrogant to them, in order to heighten the merit of my compliance.

But after all, It would be very whimſical, would it not, if all my plots and contrivances ſhould end in wedlock? What a puniſhment would this come out to be, upon my⯑ſelf too, that all this while I have been plundering my own treaſury?

But, Jack, two things I muſt inſiſt upon with thee, if this is to be the caſe.—Having put ſecrets of ſo high a nature between me and my ſpouſe into thy power, I muſt, for my own honour and the honour of my wife and my illuſtrious progeny, firſt oblige thee to give up the letters I have ſo profuſely ſcribbled to thee; and, in the next place, do by thee, as I have heard whiſper'd in France was done by the true father of a certain monarque; that is to ſay, cut thy throat, to prevent thy telling of tales.

I have found means to heighten the kind opinion my friends here have begun to have of me, by communicating to them the contents of the four laſt letters which I wrote to preſs my elected ſpouſe to ſolemnize. My Lord has repeated one of his phraſes in my favour, that he hopes it will come out, That the devil is not quite ſo black as he is painted.

Now pr'ythee, dear Jack, ſince ſo many good conſe⯑quences are to flow from theſe our nuptials (one of which to thyſelf; ſince the ſooner thou dieſt, the leſs thou wilt have to anſwer for); and that I now-and-then am apt to believe there may be ſomething in the old fellow's notion, who once told us, that he who kills a man, has all that man's ſins to anſwer for, as well as his own, becauſe he gave him not the time to repent of them, that Heaven deſign'd to allow him (A fine thing for thee, if thou con⯑ſenteſt to be knock'd of the head; but a curſed one for the manſlayer!); and ſince there may be room to fear, that Miſs Howe will not give us her help; I pr'ythee now exert thyſelf to find out my Clariſſa Harlowe, that I may make a LOVELACE of her. Set all the city bellmen, and the country criers, for ten miles round the metropolis, at work, with their ‘O yes's! and if any man, woman or child can give tale or tidings’—Advertiſe her in all the news-papers; and let her know, ‘That if ſhe will [122] repair to Lady Betty Lawrance, or to Miſs Charlotte Montague, ſhe may hear of ſomething greatly to her advantage.’

MY two couſins Montague are actually to ſet out to-morrow, to Mrs. Howe's, to engage her vixen daughter's intereſt with her friend: To flaunt it away in a chariot and ſix, for the greater ſtate and ſignificance.

Confounded mortification to be reduced thus low! — My pride hardly knows how to brook it.

Lord M. has engaged the two venerables to ſtay here, to attend the iſſue: And I, ſtanding very high at preſent in their good graces, am to gallant them to Oxford, to Blenheim, and ſeveral other places.

LETTER XXXIV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

COllins ſets not out to-morrow. Some domeſtic occa⯑ſion hinders him. Rogers is but now return'd from you, and cannot well be ſpared. Mr. Hickman is gone upon an affair of my mother's, and has taken both his ſervants with him, to do credit to his employer: So I am forced to venture this by the poſt, directed by your aſſumed name.

I am to acquaint you, that I have been favoured with a viſit from Miſs Montague and her ſiſter, in Lord M.'s chariot and ſix. My Lord's gentleman rode here yeſter⯑day, with a requeſt that I would receive a viſit from the two young ladies, on a very particular occaſion; the greater favour, if it might be the next day.

As I had ſo little perſonal knowlege of either, I doubted not but it muſt be in relation to the intereſts of my dea [...] friend; and ſo conſulting with my mother, I ſent them an invitation to favour me (becauſe of the diſtance) wit [...] their company at dinner; which they kindly accepted.

I hope, my dear, ſince things have been ſo very bad, that their errand to me will be as agreeable to you, a [...] any thing that can now happen. They came in the name [123] of Lord M. and his two Siſters, to deſire my intereſt to engage you to put yourſelf into the protection of Lady Betty Lawrance; who will not part with you, till ſhe ſees all the juſtice done you, that now can be done.

Lady Sarah Sadleir had not ſtirr'd out for a twelve⯑month before, never ſince ſhe loſt her agreeable daughter, whom you and I ſaw at Mrs. Benſon's: But was induced to take this journey by her ſiſter, purely to procure you reparation, if poſſible. And their joint ſtrength, united with Lord M.'s, has ſo far ſucceeded, that the wretch has bound himſelf to them, and to theſe young ladies, in the ſolemneſt manner, to wed you in their preſence, if they can prevail upon you to give him your hand.

This conſolation you may take to yourſelf, that all this honourable family have a duc, that is, the higheſt ſenſe of your merit, and greatly admire you. The horrid creature has not ſpared himſelf in doing juſtice to you virtue; and the young ladies gave us ſuch an account of his confeſſions, and ſelf-condemnation, that my mother was quite charmed with you; and we all four ſhed tears of joy, that there is one of our ſex (I, that that one is my deareſt friend), who has done ſo much honour to it, as to deſerve the ſelf-convicted praiſes he gave you; tho' pity for the excellent creature mixed with the ſenſibility.

He promiſes by them to make the beſt of husbands; and my Lord, and his two ſiſters, are both to be guaran⯑tees that he will be ſo. Noble ſettlements, noble preſents, they talked of: They ſay, they left Lord M. and his two ſiſters talking of nothing elſe but of thoſe preſents and ſettlements, how moſt to do you honour, the greater in proportion for the indignities you have ſuffered; and of changing of names by act of parliament, preparative to the intereſt they will all join to make, to get the titles to go where the bulk of the eſtate muſt go, at my Lord's death, which they apprehend to be nearer than they wiſh. Nor doubt they of a thorough reformation in his morals, from your example, and influence over him.

I made a great many objections for you—All, I believe, that you could have made yourſelf, had you been preſent. But I have no doubt to adviſe you, my dear (and ſo does my mother), inſtantly to put yourſelf into Lady Betty's [124] protection, with a reſolution to take the wretch for your husband: All his future grandeur (he wants not pride) depends upon his ſincerity to you; and the young ladies vouch for the depth of his concern for the wrongs he has done you.

All his apprehenſion is, in your readineſs to communi⯑cate to every one, as he fears, the evils you have ſuffer'd; which he thinks will expoſe you both. But had you not revealed them to Lady Betty, you had not had ſo warm a friend; ſince it is owing to two letters you wrote to her, that all this good, as I hope it will prove, was brought about. But I adviſe you to be more ſparing in expoſing what is paſt, whether you have thoughts of accepting him, or not: For what, my dear, can that avail now, but to give a handle to vile wretches to triumph over your friends; ſince every one will not know how much to your honour your very ſufferings have been?

Your melancholy letter brought by Rogers ^(a) with his account of your indifferent health, confirmed to Ro⯑gers by the woman of the houſe, as well as by your looks, and by your faintneſs while you talk'd with him, would have given me inexpreſſible affliction, had I not been chear'd by this agreeable viſit from the young ladies. I hope you will be equally ſo, on my imparting the ſubject of it to you.

Indeed, my dear, you muſt not heſitate: You muſt oblige them: The alliance is ſplendid and honourable. Very few will know any thing of his brutal baſeneſs to you. All muſt end, in a little while, in a general recon⯑ciliation; and you will be able to reſume your courſe of doing the good to every deſerving object, which procured you bleſſings where-ever you ſet your foot.

I am concern'd to find, that your father's raſh wiſh af⯑fects you ſo much as it does. Upon my word, my dear, your mind is weaken'd grievouſly. You muſt not, indeed you muſt not, deſert yourſelf. The penitence you talk of— It is for them to be penitent who hurried you into evils you could not well avoid. You judge by the un⯑happy event, rather than upon the true merits of your caſe. Upon my honour, I think you faultleſs in almoſt every [125] ſtep you have taken. What has not that vilely inſolent and ambitious, yet ſtupid, brother of yours to anſwer for?—That ſpiteful thing your ſiſter too!—

But come, ſince what is paſt cannot be help'd, let us look forward. You have now happy proſpects opening to you: A family, already nobl [...], ready to receive and embrace you with open arms and joyful hearts; and who, by their love to you, will teach another family (who know not what an excellence they have confederated to perſecute) how to value you. Your prudence, your piety, will crown all: It will reclaim a wretch, that for an hundred ſakes more than for his own, one would wiſh to be reclaimed.

Like a traveller, who has been put out of his way by the overflowing of ſome rapid ſtream, you have only had the fore-right path you were in overwhelmed. A few miles about, a day or two only loſt, as I may ſay, and you are in a way to recover it; and, by quickening your ſpeed, will get up the loſt time. The hurry upon your ſpirits, mean time, will be all your inconvenience; for it was not your fault you were ſtopt in your progreſs.

Think of this, my dear; and improve upon the alle⯑gory, as you know how. If you can, without impeding your progreſs, be the means of aſſuaging the inundation; of bounding the waters within their natural channel, and thereby of recovering the overwhelmed path for the ſake of future paſſengers who travel the ſame way, what a merit will yours be!—

I ſhall impatiently expect your next letter. The young ladies propoſed, that you ſhould put yourſelf, if in town, or near it, into the Reading ſtage-coach, which inns ſomewhere in Fleet-ſtreet: And if you give notice of the day, you will be met on the road, and that pretty early in your journey, by ſome of both ſexes; one of whom you won't be ſorry to ſee.

Mr. Hickman ſhall attend you at Slough; and Lady Betty herſelf, and one of the Miſſes Montague, with proper equipages, will be at Reading to receive you; and carry you directly to the ſeat of the former: For I have ex⯑preſly ſtipulated, that the wretch himſelf ſhall not come [126] into your preſence will your nuptials are to be ſolemnized, unleſs you give leave.

Adieu, my deareſt friend: Be happy: And hundreds will then be happy of conſequence. Inexpreſſibly ſo, I am ſure, will then be

LETTER XXXV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

WHY would you permit a mind ſo much devoted to your ſervice, to labour under ſuch an impatience as you muſt know it would labour under, for want of an anſwer to a letter of ſuch conſequence to you, and there⯑fore to me?— Rogers told me laſt Thurſday, you were ſo ill: Your letter ſent by him was ſo melancholy! — Yet you muſt be ill indeed, if you could not write ſomething to ſuch a letter; were it but a line, to ſay you would write as ſoon as you could. Sure you have received it. The maſter of our neareſt poſt-office will pawn his reputation that it went ſafe: I gave him particular charge of it.

God ſend me good news of your health, of your ability to write; and then I will chide you—Indeed I will—as I never yet did chide you.

I ſuppoſe your excuſe will be, that the ſubject required conſiderat [...]on—Lord! my dear, ſo it might: But you have ſo right a mind, and the matter in queſtion is ſo obvious, that you could not want half an hour to determine— Then you intended, probably, to wait Collins's call for your letter as on to-morrow!—Suppoſe—Miſs!—(indeed I am angry with you! ſuppoſe) ſomething were to hap⯑pen, as it did on Friday, that he ſhould not be able to go to town to-morrow?—How, child, could you ſerve me ſo?—I know not how to leave off ſcolding you!

Dear, honeſt Collins, make haſte: He will: He will. He ſets out, and travels all night: For I have told him, that the deareſt friend I have in the world has it in her own choice to be happy, and to make me ſo; and that the letter he will bring from her, will aſſure it to me.

[127]I have order'd him to go directly (without ſtopping at the Saracen's-head inn) to you at your lodgings. Matters are now in ſo good a way, that he ſafely may.

Your expected letter is ready written, I hope: If it be not, he will call for it at your hour.

You can't be ſo happy as you deſerve to be: But I doubt not that you will be as happy as you can; that is, that you will chooſe to put yourſelf inſtantly into Lady Betty's protection. If you would not have him for your own ſake; have him you muſt, for mine, for your family's, for your honour's ſake! — Dear, honeſt Collins, make haſte! make haſte! and relieve the impatient heart of my Beloved's

LETTER XXXVI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CHARLOTTE MONTAGUE.

I Take the liberty to write to you, by this ſpecial meſ⯑ſenger: In the phrenſy of my ſoul I write to you, to demand of you, and of any of your family who can tell, news of my beloved friend; who, I doubt, has been ſpi⯑rited away by the baſe arts of one of the blackeſt—O help me to a name bad enough to call him by!—Her piety is proof againſt ſelf-attempts: It muſt, it muſt be Him, the only Him, who would injure ſuch an innocent; and now— who knows what he was done with her!

If I have patience, I will give you the occaſion of this diſtracted vehemence.

I wrote to her the very moment you and your ſiſter left me. But being unable to procure a ſpecial meſſenger, as I intended, was forced to ſend by the poſt. I urged her (you know, I promiſed, that I would), I urged her with earneſtneſs, to comply with the deſires of all your family. Having no anſwer, I wrote again on Sunday night; and ſent it by a particular hand, who travelled all night; chide⯑ing her for keeping a heart ſo impatient as mine in ſuch cruel ſuſpenſe, upon a matter of ſo much importance to [128] her; and therefore to me. And very angry I was with her in my mind.

But, judge my aſtoniſhment, my diſtraction, when laſt night, the meſſenger, returning poſt-haſte, brought me word, that ſhe had not been heard of ſince Friday morn⯑ing! And that a letter lay for her at her lodgings, which came by the poſt; and muſt be mine.

She went out about ſix that morning; only intending, as they believe, to go to morning prayers at Covent-gar⯑den church, juſt by her lodgings, as ſhe had done divers times before: Went on foot!—Left word ſhe ſhould be back in an hour—Very poorly in health!

Lord, have mercy upon me! What ſhall I do!—I was a diſtracted creature all laſt night!

O Madam! You know not how I love her!—She was my earthly ſaviour, as I may ſay!—My own ſoul is not dearer to me, than my Clariſſa Harlowe!—Nay, ſhe is my ſoul!—For I now have none! — Only a miſerable one, however!—For ſhe was the joy, the ſtay, the prop of my life! Never woman loved woman as we love one another! It is impoſſible to tell you half her excellencies. It was my glory and my pride, that I was capable of ſo fervent a love of ſo pure and matchleſs a creature!—But now!— Who knows, whether the dear injured has not all her woes, her undeſerved woes! completed in death; or is not reſerved for a worſe fate!—This I leave to your in⯑quiry—For—your—(ſhall I call the man—your) relation, I underſtand, is ſtill with you.

Surely, my good Ladies, you were well authorized in the propoſals you made me in preſence of my mother! Surely he dare not abuſe your confidence, and the confi⯑dence of your noble relations. I make no apology for giving you this trouble, now for deſiring you to favour with a line by this meſſenger

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

ALL undone, undone, by Jupiter!—Zounds, Jack, what ſhall I do now! A curſe upon all my plots and contrivances!—But I have it!—In the very heart and ſoul of me, I have it!

Thou toldeſt me, that my puniſhments were but begin⯑ning! —Canſt thou, O fatal prognoſticator! canſt thou tell me, where they will end?

Thy aſſiſtance I beſpeak: The moment thou receiveſt this, I beſpeak thy aſſiſtance. This meſſenger rides for life and death!—And I hope he'll find you at your town-lodgings; if he meet not with you at Edgware; where, being Sunday, he will call firſt.

This curſed, curſed woman, on Friday diſpatched man and horſe with the joyful news, as ſhe thought it would be to me, in an exulting letter from Sally Martin, that ſhe had found out my angel as on Wedneſday laſt; and on Friday morning, after ſhe had been at prayers at Covent-garden church—praying for my reformation, perhaps!— got her arreſted by two ſheriffs officers, as ſhe was return⯑ing to her lodgings, who put her into a chair they had in readineſs, and carried her to one of the curſed fellows houſes.

She has arreſted her for 150 l. pretendedly due for board and lodgings: A ſum, beſides the low villainy of the pro⯑ceeding, which the dear ſoul could not poſſibly raiſe; all her cloaths and effects, except what ſhe had on, and with her, when ſhe went away, being at the old devil's!

And here, for an aggravation, has the dear creature lain already two days; for I muſt be gallanting my two aunts and my two couſins, and giving Lord M. an airing after his lying-in: Pox upon the whole family of us!— And returned not till within this hour: And now returned to my diſtraction, on receiving the curſed tidings, and the exulting letter.

Haſten, haſten, dear Jack; for the love of God, haſten to the injured charmer! My heart bleeds for her! — She [130] deſerved not This!—I dare not ſtir!— It will be thought done by my contrivance:—And if I am abſent from this place, that will confirm the ſuſpicion.

Damnation ſeize quick this accurſed woman!—Yet ſhe thinks ſhe has made no ſmall merit with me!—Unhappy, thrice unhappy circumſtance!—At a time too, when bet⯑ter proſpects were opening for the ſweet creature!

Haſten to her!—Clear me of this curſed job. Moſt ſincerely, by all that's ſacred, I ſwear you may!—Yet have I been ſuch a villainous plotter, that the charming ſufferer will hardly believe it; altho' the proceeding be ſo dirtily low!

Set her free, the moment you ſee her: Without condi⯑tioning, free!—On your knees, for me, beg her pardon: And aſſure her, that, where-ever ſhe goes, I will not mo⯑leſt her: No, nor come near her, without her leave: And be ſure allow not any of the damned crew to go near her— Only, let her permit you to receive her commands from time to time: You have always been her friend and ad⯑vocate. What would I now give, had I permitted you to have been a ſucceſsful one!

Let her have all her cloaths and effects ſent her inſtant⯑ly, as a ſmall proof of my ſincerity. And force upon the dear creature, who muſt be moneyleſs, what ſums you can get her to take. Let me know, how ſhe has been treated: If roughly, woe be to the guilty!

Take thy watch in thy hand, after thou haſt freed her, and damn the whole brood, dragon and ſerpents, by the hour, till thou'rt tired; and tell them, I bid thee do ſo, for their curſed officiouſneſs.

They had nothing to do, when they had found her, but to wait my orders how to proceed.

The great devil fly away with them all, one by one, thro' the roof of their own curſed houſe, and daſh them to pieces againſt the tops of chimneys, as he flies; and let the leſſer devils collect their ſcattered ſcraps, and bag them up, in order to put them together again in their al⯑lotted place, in the element of fire, with cements of mol⯑ten lead.

A line! A line! A kingdom for a line! with tolerable news, the firſt moment thou canſt write!—This fellow waits to bring it!

LETTER XXXVIII. Miſs CHARLOTTE MONTAGUE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOUR letter has infinitely diſturbed us all.

This wretched man has been half diſtracted ever ſince Saturday night.

We knew not what ailed him, till your letter was brought.

Vile wretch as, he is, he is however innocent of this new evil.

Indeed he is, he muſt be; as I ſhall more at large ac⯑quaint you.

But will not now detain your meſſenger.

Only to ſatisfy your juſt impatience, by telling you, that the dear young lady is ſafe, and, we hope, well.

A horrid miſtake of his general orders has ſubjected her to the terror and diſgrace of an arreſt.

Poor dear Miſs Harlowe! her ſufferings have endeared her to us, almoſt as much as her excellencies can have done to you.

But ſhe muſt be now quite at liberty.

He has been a diſtracted man, ever ſince the news was brought him; and we knew not what ailed him.

But that I ſaid before.

My Lord M. my Lady Sarah Sadleir, and my Lady Betty Lawrance, will all write to you this very afternoon.

And ſo will the wretch himſelf.

And ſend it by a ſervant of their own, not to detain. yours.

I know not what I write.

But you ſhall have all the particulars, juſt, and true, and fair, from,

LETTER XXXIX. Miſs MONTAGUE, To Miſs HOWE.

IN purſuance of my promiſe, I will minutely inform you of every-thing we know, relating to this ſchock⯑ing tranſaction.

When we returned from you on Thurſday night, and made our report of the kind reception both we and our meſſage met with, in that you had been ſo good as to pro⯑miſe to uſe your intereſt with your dear friend; it put us all into ſuch good humour with one another, and with my couſin Lovelace, that we reſolved upon a little tour of two days, the Friday and Saturday, in order to give an airing to my Lord, and Lady S [...]rah; both having been long confined, one by illneſs, the other by melancholy. My Lord, his two ſiſters, and myſelf, were in the coach; and all our talk was of dear Miſs Harlowe, and of our future happineſs with her. Mr. Lovelace, and my ſiſter, who is his favourite, as he is hers, were in his Phaeton: And whenever we joined company, that was ſtill the ſubject.

As to him, never man praiſed a lady, as he did her: Never man gave greater hopes, and made better reſolu⯑tions. He is none of thoſe that are governed by intereſt. He is too proud for that. But moſt ſincerely delighted was he in talking of her; and of his hopes of her return⯑ing favour. He ſaid, however, more than once, that he feared ſhe would not forgive him; for, from his heart, he muſt ſay, he deſerved not her forgiveneſs: And often, and often, that there was not ſuch a woman in the world.

This I mention to ſhew you, Madam, that he could not at this very time be privy to ſuch a barbarous and diſgraceful treatment.

We returned not till Saturday night, all in as good hu⯑mour with one another, as went out. We never had ſuch pleaſure in his company before: If he would be good, and as he ought to be, no man would be better be⯑loved by relations than he. But never was there a greater alteration in man when he came home, and received a [133] letter from a meſſenger, who, it ſeems, had been flatter⯑ing himſelf in hopes of a reward, and had been waiting for his return from the night before. In ſuch a fury!— The man fared but badly. He inſtantly ſhut himſelf up to write, and ordered man and horſe to be ready to ſet out before day-light the next morning, to carry the letter to a friend in London.

He would not ſee us all that night; neither breakfaſt nor dine with us next day. He ought, he ſaid, never to ſee the light; and bid my ſiſter, whom he called an Innocent (and ſhe being very deſirous to know the occa⯑ſion of all this), ſhun him; ſaying, He was a wretch, and made ſo by his own inventions, and the conſequences of them.

None of us could get out of him what ſo diſturbed him. We ſhould too ſoon hear, he ſaid, to the utter diſſipation of all his hopes, and all ours.

We could eaſily ſuppoſe, that all was not right with regard to the worthy young lady.

He was out each day; and ſaid, he wanted to run away from himſelf.

Late on Monday night he received a letter from Mr. Belford, his moſt favoured friend, by his own meſſenger; who came back in a foam, man and horſe. Whatever were the contents, he was not eaſier, but like a madman rather: But ſtill would not let us know the occaſion. But to my ſiſter, he ſaid, Nobody, my dear Patſey, who can think but of half the plagues that purſue an intriguing ſpirit, would ever quit the right path.

He was out, when your meſſenger came: But ſoon came in; and bad enough was his reception from us all. And he ſaid, that his own torments were greater than ours, than Miſs Harlowe's, or yours, Madam, all put to⯑gether. He would ſee your letter. He always carries every-thing before him: And ſaid, when he had read it, that He thanked God, he was not ſuch a villain, as you, with too much reaſon, thought him.

Thus then he owned the matter to be:

He had left general directions to the people of the lodgings the dear lady went from, to find out where ſhe was gone to, if poſſible, that he might have an opportu⯑nity [134] to importune her to be his, before their difference was public. The wicked people, officious at leaſt, if not wicked, diſcovered where ſhe was on Wedneſday; and, for fear ſhe ſhould remove before they could have his or⯑ders, they put her under a gentle reſtraint, as they call it; and diſpatched away a meſſenger to acquaint him with it; and to take his orders.

This meſſenger arrived here on Friday afternoon; and tarried till we returned on Saturday night:—And when he read the letter he brought—I have told you, Madam, what a fury he was in.

The letter he retired to write, and which he diſpatched away ſo early on Sunday morning, was to conjure his friend Mr. Belford, on receipt of it, to fly to the lady, and ſet her free; and to order all her things to be ſent her; and to clear him of ſo black and villainous a fact, as he juſtly called it.

And by this time, he doubts not that all is happily over; and the Beloved of his ſoul (as he calls her at every word) in an eaſier and happier way than ſhe was before the horrid fact. And now he owns, that the reaſon why Mr. Belford's letter ſet him into ſtronger ravings, was, becauſe of his keeping him wilfully, and on purpoſe to torment him, in ſuſpenſe; and reflecting very heavily upon him (for Mr. Belford, he ſays, was ever the lady's friend and advocate), and only mentioning, that he had waited upon her; referring to his next for further particu⯑lars; which he could have told him at the time.

He declares, and we can vouch for him, that he ha [...] been, ever ſince laſt Saturday night, the miſerableſt of men.

He forbore going up himſelf, that it might not be ima⯑gined he was guilty of ſo black a contrivance; and went up to complete any baſe views in conſequence of it.

Believe us all, dear Miſs Howe, under the deepeſt con⯑cern at this unhappy accident; which will, we fear, ex⯑aſperate the charming ſufferer; not too much for the oc⯑caſion, but too much for our hopes.

O what wretches are theſe free-living men, who love to tread in intricate paths; and, when once they e [...] know not how far out of the way their headſtrong courſe may lead them!

[135]My ſiſter joins her thanks with mine to your good mo⯑ther and ſelf, for the favours you heaped upon us laſt Thurſday. We beſeech your continued intereſt as to the ſubject of our viſit. It ſhall be all our ſtudies to oblige, and recompenſe, the dear lady, to the utmoſt of our power, for what ſhe has ſuffered from the unhappy man.

We are, dear Madam,

WE join in the above requeſt of Miſs Charlotte and Miſs Patty Montague, for your favour and in⯑tereſt; being convinced, that the accident was an acci⯑dent; and no plot or contrivance of a wretch too full of them. We are, Madam,

AFTER what is written above, by names and cha⯑racters of ſuch unqueſtionable honour, I might have been excuſed ſigning a name almoſt as hateful to myſelf, as I KNOW it is to you. But the above will have it ſo. Since therefore I muſt write, it ſhall be the truth; which is, That, if I may be once more admitted to pay my duty to the moſt deſerving and moſt injured of her ſex, I will be content to do it with a halter about my neck; and attended by a parſon on my right-hand, and the hangman on my left, be doomed, at her will, ei⯑ther to the church or the gallows.

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

WHAT a curſed piece of work haſt thou made of it, with the moſt excellent of women! Thou [136] mayeſt be in earneſt, or in jeſt, as thou wilt; but the poor lady will not be long either thy ſport, or the ſport of fortune!

I will give thee an account of a ſcene that wants but her affecting pen to repreſent it juſtly; and it would wring all the black blood out of thy callous heart.

Thou only, who art the author of her calamities, ſhouldſt have attended her in her priſon. I am unequal to ſuch a taſk: Nor know I any other man but would.

This laſt act, however unintended by thee, yet a con⯑ſequence of thy general orders, and too likely to be thought agreeable to thee, by thoſe who know thy other villainies by her, has finiſhed thy barbarous work. And I adviſe thee to trumpet forth every-where, how much in earneſt thou art to marry her, whether thou art or not.

Thou mayeſt ſafely do it. She will not live to put thee to the trial; and it will a little palliate for thy enormous uſage of her, and be a means to make mankind, who know not what I know of the matter, herd a little longer with thee, and forbear to hunt thee to thy fellow-ſavages in the Libyan wilds and deſerts.

Your meſſenger found me at Edgware, expecting to dinner with me ſeveral friends, whom I had invited three days before. I ſent apologies to them, as in a caſe of life and death; and ſpeeded to town to the wicked wo⯑man's: For how knew I but ſhocking attempts might be made upon her by the curſed wretches; perhaps by thy contrivance, in order to mortify her into thy meaſures?

Little knows the public what villainies are committed in theſe abominable houſes, upon innocent creatures drawn into their ſnares!

Finding the lady not there, I poſted away to the offi⯑cer's, altho' Sally told me, that ſhe had been but juſt come from thence; and that ſhe had refuſed to ſee her, or, as ſhe ſent down word, any-body elſe; being reſolved to have the remainder of that Sunday to herſelf, as it might, perhaps, be the laſt ſhe ſhould ever ſee.

I had the ſame thing told me, when I got thither.

I ſent up to let her know, that I came with a commiſ⯑ſion to ſet her at liberty. I was afraid of ſending up the name of a man known to be thy friend. She abſolutely [137] refuſed to ſee any man, however, for that day, or to an⯑ſwer further to any thing ſaid from me.

Having therefore informed myſelf of all that the officer, and his wife, and ſervant, could acquaint me with, as well in relation to the horrid arreſt, as to her behaviour, and the womens to her; and her ill ſtate of health; I went back to Sinclair's, as I will ſtill call her, and heard the three womens ſtory: From all which, I am enabled to give thee the following ſhocking particulars: Which may ſerve, till I can ſee the unhappy lady herſelf to-morrow, if then I can gain admittance to her. Thou wilt find, that I have been very minute in my inquiries.

Thy villain it was, that ſet the poor lady, and had the impudence to appear, and abet the ſheriff's officers in the curſed tranſaction. He thought, no doubt, that he was doing the moſt acceptable ſervice to his bleſſed ma⯑ſter. They had got a chair; the head ready up, as ſoon as Service was over. And as ſhe came out of the church, at the door fronting Bedford-ſtreet, the officers, ſtepping to her, whiſpered, that they had an action againſt her.

She was terrified, trembled, and turned pale.

Action! ſaid ſhe. What is that?—I have committed no bad action!—Lord bleſs me! Men, what mean you?

That you are our priſoner, Madam?

Priſoner, Sirs! — What—How—Why—What have I done?

You muſt go with us. Be pleaſed, Madam, to ſtep into this chair.

With you!—With men!—Muſt go with men!—I am not uſed to go with ſtrange men!—Indeed you muſt ex⯑cuſe me!

We can't excuſe you: We are ſheriff's-officers. — We have a Writ againſt you. You muſt go with us, and you ſhall know at whoſe Suit.

Suit! ſaid the charming innocent; I don't know what you mean. Pray, men, don't lay hands upon me!—They offering to put her into the chair. I am not uſed to be thus treated!—I have done nothing to deſerve it.

She then ſpied by villain—O thou wretch, ſaid ſhe, where is thy vile maſter?—Am I again to be his priſoner? Help, good people!

[138]A croud had before begun to gather.

My maſter is in the country, Madam, many miles off: If you pleaſe to go with theſe men, they will treat you civilly.

The people were moſt of them ſtruck with compaſſion. A fine young creature! — A thouſand pities! ſome.— While ſome few threw out vile and ſhocking reflections: But a gentleman interpoſed, and demanded to ſee the fel⯑lows authority.

They ſhewed it. Is your name Clariſſa Harlowe, Ma⯑dam? ſaid he.

Yes, yes, indeed, ready to ſink, my name was Cla⯑riſſa Harlowe:—But it is now Wretchedneſs!—Lord be merciful to me! what is to come next?

You muſt go with theſe men, Madam, ſaid the gentle⯑man: They have authority for what they do. He pitied her, and retired.

Indeed you muſt, ſaid one chairman.

Indeed you muſt, ſaid the other.

Can no-body, joined in another gentleman, be applied to, who will ſee that ſo fine a creature is not ill uſed?

Thy villain anſwered, Orders were given particularly for that. She had rich relations. She need but aſk and have. She would only be carried to the officer's houſe, till matters could be made up. The people ſhe had lodged with, loved her: But ſhe had left her lodgings privately.

O! had ſhe thoſe tricks already? cried one or two.

She heard not this—But ſaid, Well, if I muſt go, I muſt!—I cannot reſiſt—But I will not be carried to the woman's!—I will rather die at your feet, than be car⯑ried to the woman's!

You won't be carried there, Madam, cried thy fellow.

Only to my houſe, Madam, ſaid one of the officers.

Where is That?

In High-Holborn, Madam.

I know not where High-Holborn is: But any-where, except to the woman's.—But am I to go with men only?

Looking about her, and ſeeing the three paſſages, to wit, that leading to Henrietta-ſtreet, that to King-ſtreet, and the fore-right one, to Bedford-ſtreet, crouded, ſhe ſtarted—Any-where—Any-where, ſaid ſhe, but to the wo⯑man's! [139] And ſtepping into the chair, threw herſelf on the ſeat, in the utmoſt diſtreſs and confuſion — Carry me, carry me out of ſight — Cover me — Cover me up —for ever! — were her words.

Thy villain drew the curtains: She had not power; and they went away with her, thro' a vaſt croud of people.

Here I muſt reſt. I can write no more at preſent. Only, Lovelace, remember, All this was to a Clariſſa!!!

THE unhappy lady fainted away when, ſhe was taken out of the chair at the officer's houſe.

Several people followed the chair to the very houſe, which is in a wretched court. Sally was there; and ſatisfied ſome of the inquirers, that the young gentlewo⯑man would be exceedingly well uſed: And they ſoon di⯑ſperſed.

Dorcas was alſo there; but came not in her ſight. Sally, as a favour, offered to carry her to her former lodgings: But ſhe declared, they ſhould carry her thither a corpſe, if they did.

Very gentle uſage the women boaſt of: So would a vultur, could it ſpeak, with the entrails of its prey upon its rapacious talons. Of this thou'lt judge, from what I have to recite.

She aſked, What was meant by this uſage of her?— People told me, ſaid ſhe, that I muſt go with the men!— That they had authority to take me: So I ſubmitted. But now, what is to be the end of this diſgraceful violence?

The end, ſaid the vile Sally Martin, is, for honeſt peo⯑ple to come at their own.

Bleſs me! Have I taken away any thing that belongs to thoſe who have obtained this power over me?—I have left very valuable things behind me; but have taken no⯑thing away, that is not my own.

And who do you think, Miſs Harlowe, for I under⯑ſtand, ſaid the curſed creature, you are not married; who do you think is to pay for your board and your lodgings; ſuch handſome lodgings! for ſo long a time as you were at Mrs. Sinclair's?

Lord have mercy upon me! Miſs Martin (I think you [140] are Miſs Martin)!—And is this the cauſe of ſuch a diſ⯑graceful inſult upon me in the open ſtreets?

And cauſe enough, Miſs Harlowe (fond of gratifying her jealous revenge, by calling her Miſs)—One hundred and fifty guineas, or pounds, is no ſmall ſum to loſe— And by a young creature, who would have bilked her lodgings!

You amaze me, Miſs Martin!—What language do you talk in?—Bilk my lodgings!—What is that?

She ſtood aſtoniſhed, and ſilent for a few moments.

But recovering herſelf, and turning from her to the window, ſhe wrung her hands [The curſed Sally ſhewed me how!]; and lifting them up—Now, Lovelace! Now indeed do I think I ought to forgive thee!—But who ſhall forgive Clariſſa Harlowe!—O my ſiſter! O my brother! Tender mercies were your cruelties to this!

After a pauſe, her handkerchief drying up her falling tears, ſhe turned to Sally! Now, have I nothing to do but acquieſce — Only let me ſay, That if this aunt of yours, This Mrs. Sinclair; or This man, This Mr. Love⯑lace; come near me; or if I am carried to the horrid houſe (for that I ſuppoſe is to be the end of this new out⯑rage); God be merciful to the poor Clariſſa Harlowe!— Look to the conſequence!—Look, I charge you, to the conſequence!

The vile wretch told her, It was not deſigned to carry her any-whither againſt her will: But, if it were, they ſhould take care not to be frighted again by a penknife.

She caſt up her eyes to heaven, and was ſilent—And went to the fartheſt corner of the room, and, ſitting down, threw her handkerchief over her face.

Sally aſked her ſeveral queſtions: But not anſwering her, ſhe told her, She would wait upon her by-and-by, when ſhe had found her ſpeech.

She ordered the people to preſs her to eat and drink. She muſt be faſting: Nothing but her prayers and tears, poor thing! were the mercileſs devil's words, as ſhe own⯑ed to me.—Doſt think I did not curſe her?

She went away; and, after her own dinner, returned.

The unhappy lady, by this devil's account of her, then ſeemed either mortified into meekneſs, or to have made a [141] reſolution not to be provoked by the inſults of this curſed creature.

Sally inquired, in her preſence, whether ſhe had eat or drank any-thing; and being told by the woman, that ſhe could not prevail upon her to taſte a morſel, or drink a drop, ſhe ſaid, This is wrong, Miſs Harlowe! Very wrong!—Your religion, I think, ſhould teach you, that ſtarving yourſelf is ſelf-murder.

She anſwered not.

The wretch owned, ſhe was reſolved to make her ſpeak.

She aſked, If Mabell ſhould attend her, till it were ſeen what her friends would do for her, in diſcharge of the debt? Mabell, ſaid ſhe, has not yet earned the cloaths you were ſo good as to give her.

Am I not worth an anſwer, Miſs Harlowe?

I would anſwer you (ſaid the ſweet ſufferer, without any emotion), if I knew how.

I have ordered pen, ink, and paper, to be brought you, Miſs Harlowe. There they are. I know you love write⯑ing. You may write to whom you pleaſe. Your friend Miſs Howe will expect to hear from you.

I have no friend, ſaid ſhe. I deſerve none.

Rowland, for that is the officer's name, told her, She had friends enow to pay the debt, if ſhe would write.

She would trouble no-body; ſhe had no friends; was all they could get from her, while Sally ſtaid: But yet ſpoken with a patience of ſpirit, as if ſhe enjoyed her griefs.

The inſolent creature went away, ordering them in her hearing to be very civil to her, and to let her want for nothing Now had ſhe, ſhe owned, the triumph of her heart over this haughty beauty, who kept them all at ſuch a diſtance in their own houſe!

What thinkeſt thou, Lovelace, of this!—This wretch's triumph was over a Clariſſa!

About ſix in the evening, Rowland's wife preſſed her to drink tea. She ſaid, She had rather have a glaſs of water; for her tongue was ready to cleave to the roof of her mouth.

The woman brought her a glaſs, and ſome bread and butter. She tried to taſte the latter; but could not ſwal⯑low [142] it: But eagerly drank the water; lifting up her eyes in thankfulneſs for that!!!

The divine Clariſſa, Lovelace — reduced to rejoice for a cup of cold water!—By whom reduced!

About nine o'clock ſhe aſked, If any-body were to be her bedfellow?

Their maid, if ſhe pleaſed; or, as ſhe was ſo weak and ill, the girl ſhould ſit up with her, if ſhe choſe ſhe ſhould.

She choſe to be alone, both night and day, ſhe ſaid. But might ſhe not be truſted with the keys of the room where ſhe was to lie down; for ſhe ſhould not put off her cloaths?

That, they told her, could not be.

She was afraid not, ſhe ſaid.—But indeed ſhe would not get away, if ſhe could.

They told me, that they had but one bed, beſides that they lay in themſelves; which they would fain have had her accept of; and beſides that their maid lay in, in a garret, which they called, a hole of a garret: And that that one bed was the priſoner's bed; which they made ſeveral apologies to me about. I ſuppoſe it is ſhocking enough.

But the lady would not lie in theirs. Was ſhe not a priſoner, ſhe ſaid?—Let her have the priſoners room.

Yet they owned that ſhe ſtarted, when ſhe was con⯑ducted thither. But recovering herſelf, Very well, ſaid ſhe—Why ſhould not all be of a piece?—Why ſhould not my wretchedneſs be complete?

She found fault, that all the faſtenings were on the out⯑ſide, and none within; and ſaid, She could not truſt her⯑ſelf in a room, where others could come in at their plea⯑ſure, and ſhe not go out. She had not been uſed to it!!!

Dear, dear ſoul!—My tears flow as I write. — Indeed, Lovelace, ſhe had not been uſed to ſuch treatment!

They aſſured her, that it was as much their duty to pro⯑tect her from other perſons inſults, as from eſcaping her⯑ſelf.

Then they were people of more honour, ſhe ſaid, than ſhe had of late been uſed to!

She aſked, If they knew Mr. Lovelace?

No, was their anſwer.

Have you heard of him?

[143]No.

Well then, you may be good ſort of folks in your way.

Pauſe here a moment, Lovelace!—and reflect—I muſt.

AGAIN they aſked her, If they ſhould ſend any word to her lodgings?

Theſe are my lodgings now, are they not?—was all her anſwer.

She ſat up in a chair all night, the back againſt the door; having, it ſeems, thruſt a broken piece of a poker thro' the ſtaples where a bolt had been on the inſide.

NEXT morning Sally and Polly both went to viſit her.

She had begged of Sally the day before, that ſhe might not ſee Mrs. Sinclair, nor Dorcas, nor the broken-toothed ſervant, called William.

Polly would have ingratiated herſelf with her; and pretended to be concerned for her misfortunes. But ſhe took no more notice of her than of the other.

They aſked, If ſhe had any commands?—If ſhe had, ſhe only need to mention what they were, and ſhe ſhould be obeyed.

None at all, ſhe ſaid.

How did ſhe like the people of the houſe? Were they civil to her?

Pretty well, conſidering ſhe had no money to give them.

Would ſhe accept of any money? They could put it to her account.

She would contract no debts.

Had ſhe any money about her?

She meekly put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out half a guinea, and a little ſilver. Yes, I have a little.— But here ſhould be fees paid, I believe. Should there not? I have heard of entrance-money to compound for not being ſtript. But theſe people are very civil people, I fancy; for they have not offered to take away my cloaths.

They have orders to be civil to you.

It is very kind.

But we two will bail you, Miſs, if you will go back with us to Mrs. Sinclair's.

Not for the world!

Hers are very handſome apartments.

[144]The fitter for thoſe who own them!

Theſe are very ſad ones.

The fitter for me!

You may be very happy yet, Miſs, if you will.

I hope I ſhall.

If you refuſe to eat or drink, we will give bail, and take you with us.

Then I will try to eat and drink. Any-thing but go with you.

Will you not ſend to your new lodgings? The people will be frighted.

So they will, if I ſend. So they will, if they know where I am.

But have you no things to ſend for from thence?

There is what will pay for their lodgings and trouble: I ſhall not leſſen their ſecurity.

But perhaps letters or meſſages may be left for you there.

I have very few friends; and to thoſe I have, I will ſpare the mortification of knowing what has befallen me.

We are ſurpriſed at your indifference, Miſs Harlowe. Will you not write to any of your friends?

No.

Why, you don't think of tarrying here always?

I ſhall not live always.

Do you think you are to ſtay here, as long as you live?

That's as it ſhall pleaſe God, and thoſe who have brought me hither.

Should you like to be at liberty?

I am miſerable!—What is liberty to the miſerable, but to be more miſerable!

How, miſerable, Miſs? — You may make yourſelf as happy as you pleaſe.

I hope you are both happy.

We are.

May you be more and more happy!

But we wiſh you to be ſo too.

I never ſhall be of your opinion, I believe, as to what happineſs is.

What do you take our opinion of happineſs to be?

To live at Mrs. Sinclair's.

Perhaps, ſaid Sally, we were once as ſqueamiſh and narrow-minded as you.

[145]How came it over with you?

Becauſe we ſaw the ridiculouſneſs of prudery.

Do you come hither to perſuade me to hate prudery, as you call it, as much as you do?

We came to offer our ſervice to you.

It is out of your power to ſerve me.

Perhaps not.

It is not in my inclination to trouble you.

You may be worſe offered.

Perhaps I may.

You are mighty ſhort, Miſs.

As I wiſh your viſit to be, ladies.

They owned to me, that they cracked their fans, and laughed.

Adieu, perverſe Beauty!

Your ſervant, Ladies.

Adieu, Haughty-airs!

You ſee me humbled—

As you deſerve, Miſs Harlowe. Pride will have a fall.

Better fall with what you call pride, than ſtand with meanneſs.

Who does?

I had once a better opinion of you, Miſs Horton!— Indeed you ſhould not inſult the miſerable.

Neither ſhould the miſerable, ſaid Sally, inſult people for their civility.

I ſhould be ſorry if I did.

Mrs. Sinclair ſhall attend you by-and-by, to know if you have any commands for her.

I have no wiſh for any liberty, but that of refuſing to ſee her, and one more perſon.

What we came for, was, to know if you had any pro⯑poſals to make for your inlargement?

Then, it ſeems, the officer put in. You have very good friends, Madam, I underſtand. Is it not better that you make it up? Charges will run high. A hundred and fifty guineas are eaſier paid than two hundred. Let theſe ladies bail you, and go along with them; or write to your friends to make it up.

Sally ſaid, There is a gentleman who ſaw you taken, and was ſo much moved for you, Miſs Harlowe, that he [146] would gladly advance the money for you, and leave you to pay it when you can.

See, Lovelace, what curſed devils theſe are! This is the way, we know, that many an innocent heart is thrown upon keeping, and then upon the town. But for theſe wretches thus to go to work with ſuch an angel as this!— How glad would have been the deviliſh Sally, to have had the leaſt handle to report to thee a liſtening ear, or patient ſpirit, upon this hint!

Sir, ſaid ſhe, with high indignation, to the officer, did not you ſay laſt night, that it was as much your buſineſs to protect me from the inſults of others, as from eſcaping?— Cannot I be permitted to ſee whom I pleaſe; and to refuſe admittance to thoſe I like not?

Your creditors, Madam, will expect to ſee you.

Not, if I declare I will not treat with them.

Then, Madam, you will be ſent to priſon.

Priſon, friend!—What doſt thou call thy houſe?

Not a priſon, Madam.

Why theſe iron-barred windows then? Why theſe double locks, and bolts all on the outſide, none on the In?

And down ſhe dropt into her chair, and they could not get another word from her. She threw her handkerchief over her face, as once before, which was ſoon wet with tears; and grievouſly, they own, ſhe ſobbed.

Gentle treatment, Lovelace! — Perhaps thou, as well as theſe wretches, wilt think it ſo!

Sally then ordered a dinner, and ſaid, They would ſoon be back again, and ſee that ſhe eat and drank, as a good Chriſtian ſhould, comporting herſelf to her condition, and making the beſt of it.

What has not this charming creature ſuffered; what has ſhe not gone thro' in theſe laſt three months, that I know of! — Who would think ſuch a delicately-framed perſon could have ſuſtained what ſhe has ſuſtained? We ſome⯑times talk of bravery, of courage, of fortitude!—Here they are in perfection!—Such bravoes as Thou and I ſhould never have been able to ſupport ourſelves under half the perſecutions, the diſappointments, and contume⯑lies, that ſhe has met with; but, like cowards, ſhould have ſlid out of the world, baſely, by ſome back-door; that is [147] to ſay, by a ſword, by a piſtol, by a halter, or knife!— But here is a fine-principled lady, who, by dint of this noble conſideration, as I imagine (what elſe can ſupport her?)—That ſhe has not deſerved the evils ſhe contends with; and that this world is deſigned but as a tranſitory ſtate of probation; and that ſhe is traveling to another, and better; puts up with all the hardſhips of the journey; and is not to be diverted from her courſe by the attacks of thieves and robbers, or any other terrors and difficul⯑ties; being aſſured of an ample reward at the end of it!

If thou thinkeſt this reflection uncharacteriſtic, from a companion and friend of thine, imagineſt thou, that I proſited nothing by my attendance on my uncle for ſo long a time, in his dying ſtate; and from the pious re⯑flections of the good clergyman, who, day by day, at the poor man's own requeſt, viſited and prayed by him?— And could I have another ſuch inſtance as this, to bring all theſe reflections home to me?

Then who can write of good perſons, and of good ſub⯑jects, and be capable of admiring them, and not be made ſerious for the time, if he write in character?—And hence may we gather, what a benefit to the morals of men the keeping of good company muſt be; while thoſe who keep only bad, muſt neceſſarily more and more harden, and be hardened.

'TIS twelve of the clock, Sunday night — I can think of nothing but of this excellent creature. Her diſtreſſes fill my head and my heart. I was drowſy for a quarter of an hour; but the fit is gone off. And I will continue the melancholy ſubject from the information of theſe wretches. Enough, I dare ſay, will ariſe in the viſit I ſhall make, if admitted to-morrow, to ſend by thy ſervant, as to the way I am likely to find her in.

After the women had left her, ſhe complained of her head and her heart; and ſeemed terrified witth apprehen⯑ſions of being carried once more to Sinclair's.

Refuſing any-thing for breakfaſt, Mrs. Rowland came up to her, and told her (as theſe wretches owned they had ordered her, for fear ſhe ſhould ſtarve herſelf), That ſhe muſt and ſhould have tea, and bread and butter▪ [148] And that, as ſhe had friends who could ſupport her, if ſhe wrote to them, it was a wrong thing, both for her⯑ſelf and them, to ſtarve herſelf thus.

If it be for your own ſakes, ſaid ſhe, that is another thing: Let coffee, or tea, or chocolate, or what you will, be got: And put down a chicken to my account every day, if you pleaſe, and eat it yourſelves. I will taſte it, if I can. I would do nothing to hinder you: I have friends will pay you liberally, when they know I am gone.

They wonder'd at her ſtrange compoſure, in ſuch di⯑ſtreſſes.

They were nothing, ſhe ſaid, to what ſhe had ſuffer'd already, from the vileſt of all men. The diſgrace of ſeizing her in the ſtreet; multitudes of people about her; ſhocking imputations wounding her ears; had indeed been very affecting to her. But that was over.— Every thing ſoon would! — And ſhe ſhould be ſtill more com⯑poſed, were it not for the apprehenſions of ſeeing one man, and one woman; and being tricked or forced back to the vileſt houſe in the world.

Then were it not better to give way to the two gentle⯑womens offer to bail her?—They could tell her, it was a very kind proffer; and what was not be met with every day.

She believ'd ſo.

The ladies might, poſſibly, diſpenſe with her going back to the houſe ſhe had ſuch an antipathy to. Then the compaſſionate gentleman, who was inclined to make it up with her creditors on her own bond, it was ſtrange to them ſhe hearkened not to ſo generous a propoſal.

Did the two ladies tell you who the gentleman was?— Or, Did they ſay any more on that ſubject?

Yes, they did; and hinted to me, ſaid the woman, that you had nothing to do, but to receive a viſit from the gentleman, and the money, they believed, would be laid down on your own bond or note.

She was ſtartled.

I charge you, ſaid ſhe, as you will anſwer it one day to my friends, that you bring no gentleman into my com⯑pany. I charge you don't. If you do, you know not what may be the conſequence.

[149]They apprehended no bad conſequence, they ſaid, in doing their duty: And if ſhe knew not her own good, her friends would thank them for taking any innocent ſteps to ſerve her, tho' againſt her will.

Don't puſh me upon extremities, man! — Don't make me deſperate, woman!—I have no ſmall difficulty, not⯑withſtanding the ſeeming compoſure you juſt now took notice of, to bear, as I ought to bear, the evils I ſuffer. But if you bring a man or men to me, be the pretence what it will —

She ſtopt there, and look'd ſo earneſtly, and ſo wildly, they ſaid, that they did not know but ſhe would do ſome harm to herſelf, if they diſobeyed her; and that would be a ſad thing in their houſe, and might be their ruin. So they promiſed, that no man ſhould be brought to her, but by her own conſent.

Mrs. Rowland prevailed on her to drink a diſh of tea, and taſte ſome bread and butter, about eleven on Saturday morning: Which ſhe probably did, to have an excuſe not to dine with the women, when they returned.

But ſhe would not quit her priſon-room, as ſhe called it, to go into their parlour.

‘Unbarred windows, and a lightſomer apartment, ſhe ſaid, had too chearful an appearance for her mind.’

At another time, ‘The light of the ſun was irkſome to her. The ſun ſeemed to ſhine in to mock her woes.’

And when, ſoon after, a ſhower fell, ſhe looked at it thro' the bars: ‘How kindly, ſaid ſhe, do the elements weep, to keep me company!’

‘Methought, added ſhe, the ſun darting in, a while ago, and gilding thoſe iron bars, played upon me, like the two women, who came to inſult my haggard looks, by the word Beauty; and my dejected heart, with the word Haughty-airs!’

Sally came again at dinner-time, to ſee how ſhe fared, as ſhe told her; and that ſhe did not ſtarve herſelf: And, as ſhe wanted to have ſome talk with her, if ſhe gave her leave, ſhe would dine with her.

I cannot eat.

You muſt try, Miſs Harlowe.

[150]And, dinner being ready juſt then, ſhe offered her hand, and deſired her to walk down.

No; ſhe would not ſtir out of her priſon-room.

Theſe ſullen airs won't do, Miſs Harlowe: Indeed they won't.

She was ſilent.

You will have harder uſage than any you have ever yet known, I can tell you, if you come not into ſome hu⯑mour to make matters up.

She was ſtill ſilent.

Come, Miſs, walk down to dinner. Let me intreat you, do. Miſs Horton is below: She was once your favourite.

She waited for an anſwer: But received none.

We came to make ſome propoſals to you, for your good; tho' you affronted us ſo lately. And we would not let Mrs. Sinclair come in perſon, becauſe we thought to oblige you.

That is indeed obliging.

Come, give me your hand, Miſs Harlowe: You are obliged to me, I can tell you That: And let us go down to Miſs Horton.

Excuſe me: I will not ſtir out of this room.

Would you have me and Miſs Horton dine in this filthy bed-room?

It is not a bed-room to me. I have not been in bed; nor will, while I am here.

And yet you care not, as I ſee, to leave the houſe.— And ſo you won't go down, Miſs Harlowe?

I won't, except I am forced to it.

Well, well, let it alone. I ſha'n't aſk Miſs Horton to dine in this room, I aſſure you. I will ſend up a plate.

And away the little ſaucy toad fluttered down.

And when they had dined, up they came together.

Well, Miſs, you would not eat any thing, it ſeems!— Very pretty ſullen airs theſe!—No wonder the honeſt gen⯑tleman had ſu [...]h a hand with you.

She only held up her hands and eyes; the tears trick⯑ling down her cheeks.

Inſolent devils!—How much more cruel and inſulting are bad women, even than bad men!

[151]Methinks, Miſs, ſaid Sally, you are a little ſoily, to what we have ſeen you. Pity ſuch a nice lady ſhould not have changes of apparel. Why won't you ſend to your lodgings for linen, at leaſt?

I am not nice now.

Miſs looks well and clean in any thing, ſaid Polly. But, dear Madam, why won't you ſend to your lodgings? It is but kind to the people. They muſt have a concern about you. And your Miſs Howe will wonder what's be⯑come of you; for, no doubt, you correſpond.

She turned from them, and, to herſelf, ſaid, Too much! Too much!—She toſſed her handkerchief, wet before with her tears, from her, and held her apron to her eyes.

Don't weep, Miſs! ſaid the vile Polly.

Yet do, cry'd the viler Sally, if it be a relief. Nothing, as Mr. Lovelace once told me, dries ſooner than tears. For once I too wept mightily.

I could not bear the recital of this with patience. Yet I curſed them not ſo much as I ſhould have done, had I not had a mind to get from them all the particulars of their gentle treatment; and this for two reaſons; the one, that I might ſtab thee to the heart with the repetition; the other, that I might know upon what terms I am likely to ſee the unhappy lady to-morrow.

Well, but, Miſs Harlowe, cry'd Sally, do you think theſe forlorn airs pretty? You are a good Chriſtian, child. Mrs. Rowland tells me, ſhe has got you a Bible-book— O there it lies!—I make no doubt, but you have doubled down the uſeful places, as honeſt Matt. Prior ſays.

Then riſing, and taking it up—Ay, ſo you have—The Book of Job! One opens naturally here, I ſee—My mam⯑ma made me a fine bible-ſcholar.—Eccleſiaſticus too!— That's Apocrypha, as they call it—You ſee, Miſs Hor⯑ton, I know ſomething of the book.

They propoſed once more to bail her, and to go home with them. A motion which ſhe received with the ſame indignation as before.

Sally told her, That ſhe had written in a very favour⯑able manner, in her behalf, to you; and that ſhe every hour expected an anſwer; and made no doubt, that you [152] would come up with the meſſenger, and generouſly pay the whole debt, and aſk her pardon for neglecting it.

This diſturbed her ſo much, that they feared ſhe would have fallen into fits. She could not bear your name, ſhe ſaid. She hoped, ſhe ſhould never ſee you more: And were you to intrude yourſelf, dreadful conſequences might follow.

Surely, they ſaid, ſhe would be glad to be releaſed from her confinement.

Indeed ſhe ſhould, now they had begun to alarm her with his name, who was the author of all her woes: And who, ſhe now ſaw plainly, gave way to this new outrage, in order to bring her to his own infamous terms.

Why then, they aſked, would ſhe not write to her friends, to pay Mrs. Sinclair's demand?

Becauſe ſhe hoped ſhe ſhould not long trouble any⯑body; and becauſe ſhe knew, that the payment of the money, if ſhe were able to pay it, was not what was aim⯑ed at.

Sally owned, that ſhe told her, That, truly, ſhe had thought herſelf as well deſcended and as well educated as herſelf, tho' not intitled to ſuch conſiderable fortunes. And had the impudence to inſiſt upon it to me to be truth.

She had the inſolence to add, to the lady, That ſhe had as much reaſon as ſhe, to expect Mr. Lovelace would mar⯑ry her; he having contracted to do ſo before he knew Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe: And that ſhe had it under his hand and ſeal too—or elſe he had not obtained his end: Therefore, it was not likely ſhe ſhould be ſo officious as to do his work againſt herſelf, if ſhe thought Mr. Lovelace had de⯑ſigns upon her, like what ſhe preſumed to hint at: That, for her part, her only view was, to procure liberty to a young gentlewoman, who made thoſe things grievous to her, which would not be made ſuch a rout about by any⯑body elſe — and to procure the payment of a juſt debt to her friend Mrs. Sinclair.

She beſought them to leave her. She wanted not theſe inſtances, ſhe ſaid, to convince her of the company ſhe was in: And told them, that, to get rid of ſuch viſitors, and of ſtill worſe that ſhe apprehended, ſhe would write [153] to one friend to raiſe the money for her; tho' it would be death for her to do ſo; becauſe that friend could not do it without her mother, in whoſe eye it would give a ſelfiſh appearance to a friendſhip, that was above all ſordid alloys.

They adviſed her to write out of hand.

But how much muſt I write for? What is the ſum? Should I not have had a bill delivered me?—God knows, I took not your lodgings. But he that could treat me, as he has done, could do this!

Don't ſpeak againſt Mr. Lovelace, Miſs Harlowe. He is a man I greatly eſteem [Curſed toad!]. And, 'bating that he will take his advantage, where he can, of Us ſilly credulous girls, he is a man of honour.

She lifted up her hands and eyes, inſtead of ſpeaking▪ And well ſhe might! For any words ſhe could have uſed, could not have expreſſed the anguiſh ſhe muſt feel, on be⯑ing comprehended in the US.

She muſt write for one hundred and fifty guineas, at leaſt: Two hundred, if ſhe were ſhort of money, might as well be written for.

Mrs. Sinclair, ſhe ſaid, had all her cloaths. Let them be ſold, fairly ſold, and the money go as far as it would go. She had alſo a few other valuables; but no money (none at all), but the poor half-guinea, and the little ſil⯑ver they had ſeen. She would give bond to pay all that her apparel, and the other matters ſhe had, would fall ſhort of. She had great effects belonging to her of right. Her bond would, and muſt, be paid, were it for a thou⯑ſand pounds. But her cloaths ſhe ſhould never want. She believed, if not too much undervalued, thoſe, and her few valuables, would anſwer every-thing. She wiſhed for no ſurplus, but to diſcharge the laſt expences; and forty ſhillings would do as well for thoſe, as forty pounds. Let my ruin, ſaid ſhe, lifting up her eyes, be LARGE, be COMPLETE, in this life!—For a compoſition, let it be COM⯑PLETE — And there ſhe ſtopped. No doubt alluding to her father's futurely-extended curſe!

The wretches could not help wiſhing to me for the op⯑portunity of making ſuch a purchace for their own wear. How I curſed them! and, in my heart, thee!—But too probable, thought I, that this vile Sally Martin may hope [154] [Tho' thou art incapable of it], that her Lovelace, as ſhe has the aſſurance, behind thy back, to call thee, may pre⯑ſent her with ſome of the poor lady's ſpoils!

Will not Mrs. Sinclair, proceeded ſhe, think my cloaths a ſecurity, till they can be ſold? They are very good cloaths. A ſuit or two but juſt put on, as it were; never worn. They coſt much more than is demanded of me. My father loved to ſee me fine.—All ſhall go. But let me have the particulars of her demand. I ſuppoſe I muſt pay for my deſtroyer (that was her well-adapted word!), and his ſervants, as well as for myſelf.—I am content to do ſo — Indeed I am content to do ſo — I am above wiſhing, that any-body, who could thus act, ſhould be ſo much as expoſtulated with, as to the juſtice and equity of it. If I have but enough to pay the demand, I ſhall be ſatisfied; and will leave the baſeneſs of ſuch an action as this, as an aggravation of a guilt, which I thought could not be aggravated.

I own, Lovelace, I have malice in this particularity, in order to ſting thee to the heart. And, let me aſk thee, What now thou canſt think of thy barbarity, thy unprece⯑dented barbarity, in having reduced a perſon of her rank, fortune, talents, and virtue, ſo low?

The wretched women, it muſt be owned, act but in their profeſſion; a profeſſion thou haſt been the principal means of reducing theſe two to act in. And they know what thy deſigns have been, and how far proſecuted. It is, in their opinions, uſing her gently, that they have for⯑born to bring to her the woman ſo juſtly odious to her; and that they have not threatened her with the introducing to her ſtrange men: Nor yet brought into her company their ſpirit-breakers, and humbling-drones (fellows not allowed to carry ſtings), to trace and force her back to their deteſted houſe; and, when there, into all their meaſures.

Till I came, they thought thou wouldſt not be diſ⯑pleaſed at any-thing ſhe ſuffered, that could help to mor⯑tify her into a ſtate of ſhame and diſgrace; and bring her to comply with thy views, when thou ſhouldſt come to releaſe her from theſe wretches, as from a greater evil than cohabiting with thee.

When thou conſidereſt theſe things, thou wilt make no [155] difficulty of believing, that this their own account of their behaviour to this admirable lady, has been far ſhort of their inſults: And the leſs, when I tell thee, that, all to⯑gether, their uſage had ſuch effects upon her, that they left her in violent hyſterics; ordering an apothecary to be ſent for, if ſhe ſhould continue in them, and be worſe; and particularly (as they had done from the firſt) that they kept out of her way any edged or pointed inſtrument; eſpecially a penknife; which, pretending to mend a pen, they ſaid, ſhe might aſk for.

At twelve Saturday night, Rowland ſent to tell them, that ſhe was ſo ill, that he knew not what might be the iſſue; and wiſhed her out of his houſe.

And this made them as heartily wiſh to hear from you. For their meſſenger, to their great ſurprize, was not then returned from M. Hall. And they were ſure he muſt have reached that place by Friday night.

Early on Sunday morning, both devils went to ſee how ſhe did. They had ſuch an account of her weakneſs, lowneſs, and anguiſh, that they forbore, out of compaſ⯑ſion, they ſaid, finding their viſits ſo diſagreeable to her, to ſee her. But their apprehenſion of what might be the iſſue was, no doubt, their principal conſideration: No⯑thing elſe could have ſoftened ſuch flinty boſoms.

They ſent for the apothecary Rowland had had to her, and gave him, and Roland, and his wife, and maid, paradeful injunctions for the utmoſt care to be taken of her: No doubt, with an Old-Bailey forecaſt. And they ſent up to let her know what orders they had given: But that, underſtanding ſhe had taken ſomething to compoſe herſelf, they would not diſturb her.

She had ſcrupled, it ſeems, to admit the apothecary's viſit over-night, becauſe he was a MAN:—And could not be prevailed upon, till they pleaded their own ſafety to her.

They went again, from church — Lord, Bob, theſe creatures go to church! — But ſhe ſent them down word, that ſhe muſt have all the remainder of the day to herſelf.

When I firſt came, and told them of thy execrations for what they had done, and joined my own to them, they were aſtoniſhed. The mother ſaid, ſhe had thought ſhe had known Mr. Lovelace better; and expected thanks, and not curſes.

[156]While I was with them, came back halting and curſ⯑ing, moſt horribly, their meſſenger; by reaſon of the ill-uſage he had received from you, inſtead of the reward he had been taught to expect, for the ſuppoſed good news that he carried down, of the lady's being found out, and ſecured.—A pretty fellow! art thou not, to abuſe people for the conſequences of thy own faults?

Under what ſhocking diſadvantages, and with this ad⯑dition to them, that I am thy friend and intimate, am I to make a viſit to this unhappy lady to-morrow morning: In thy name too!—Enough to be refuſed, that I am of a ſex, to which, for thy ſake, ſhe has ſo juſtifiable an aver⯑ſion: Nor, having ſuch a tyrant of a father, and ſuch an implacable brother, has ſhe reaſon to make an exception in favour of any of it on their accounts.

It is three o'clock. I will cloſe here; and take a little reſt: What I have written will be a proper preparative for what ſhall offer by-and-by.

Thy ſervant is not to return without a letter, he tells me; and that thou expecteſt him back in the morning. Thou haſt fellows enough where thou art, at thy command. If I find any difficulty in ſeeing the lady, thy meſſenger ſhall poſt away with this.—Let him look to broken bones, and other conſequences, if what he carries anſwer not thy expectation. But, if I am admitted, thou ſhalt have this and the reſult of my audience both together. In the for⯑mer caſe, thou mayeſt ſend another ſervant to wait the next advices, from

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

ABOUT ſix this morning I went to Rowland's. Mrs. Sinclair was to follow me, in order to diſmiſs the action; but not to come in ſight.

Rowland, upon inquiry, told me, that the lady was extremely ill; and that ſhe had deſired, not to let any⯑body but his wife or maid come near her.

[157]I ſaid, I muſt ſee her. I had told him my buſineſs over-night; and I muſt ſee her.

His wife went up: But returned preſently, ſaying, She could not get her to ſpeak to her; yet that her eye-lids moved; tho' ſhe either would not, or could not, open them, to look up at her.

Oons, woman, ſaid I, the lady may be in a fit: The lady may be dying.—Let me go up. Shew me the way.

A horrid hole of a houſe, in a alley they call a court; ſtairs wretchedly narrow, even to the firſt-floor rooms: And into a den they led me, with broken walls, which had been papered, as I ſaw by a multitude of tacks, and ſome torn bits held on by the ruſty heads.

The floor indeed was clean, but the ceiling was ſmoked with variety of figures, and initials of names, that had been the woful employment of wretches, who had no other way to amuſe themſelves.

A bed at one corner, with coarſe curtains tacked up at the feet to the ceiling; becauſe the curtain rings were broken off; but a coverlid upon it with a cleaniſh look, tho' plaguily in tatters, and the corners tied up in taſſels, that the rents in it might go no farther.

The windows dark and double-barred, the tops boarded up to ſave mending; and only a little four-paned eylet-hole of a caſement to let in air; more, however, coming in at broken panes, than could come in at That.

Four old turkey-worked chairs, burſten-bottomed, the ſtuffing ſtaring out.

An old, tottering, worm-eaten table, that had more nails beſtowed in mending it to make it ſtand, than the table coſt fifty years ago, when new.

On the mantle-piece was an iron ſhove-up candleſtick, with a lighted candle in it, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, four of them, I ſuppoſe, for a peny.

Near that, on the ſame ſhelf, was an old looking-glaſs, cracked thro' the middle, breaking out into a thouſand points; the crack given it, perhaps, in a rage, by ſome poor creature, to whom it gave the repreſentation of his heart's woes in his face.

The chimney had two half-tiles in it on one ſide, and one whole one on the other; which ſhewed it had been in [158] better plight; but now the very morter had followed the reſt of the tiles, in every other place, and left the bricks bare.

An old half-barred ſtove-grate was in the chimney; and in that a large ſtone-bottle without a neck, filled with baleful eugh, as an ever-green, withered ſouthern-wood, and ſweet-briar, and ſprigs of rue in flower.

To finiſh the ſhocking deſcription, in a dark nook ſtood an old, broken-bottomed cane couch, without a ſquab, or coverlid, ſunk at one corner, and unmortiſed, by the failing of one of its worm-eaten legs, which lay in two pieces under the wretched piece of furniture it could no longer ſupport.

And This, thou horrid Lovelace, was the bedchamber of the divine Clariſſa!!!

I had leiſure to caſt my eye on theſe things: For, going up ſoftly, the poor lady turned not about at our entrance; nor, till I ſpoke, moved her head.

She was kneeling in a corner of the room, near the diſmal window, againſt the table, on an old bolſter, as it ſeemed to be, of the cane couch, half-covered with her handkerchief; her back to the door; which was only ſhut to (No need of faſtenings!); her arms croſſed upon the table, the fore-finger of her right-hand in her bible. She had perhaps been reading in it, and could read no longer. Paper, pens, ink, lay by her book, on the table. Her dreſs was white damaſk, exceeding neat; but her ſtays ſeemed not tight-laced. I was told afterwards, that her laces had been cut, when ſhe fainted away at her entrance into this curſed place; and ſhe had not been ſolicitous enough about her dreſs, to ſend for others. Her head⯑dreſs was a little diſcompoſed; her charming hair, in na⯑tural ringlets, as you have heretofore deſcribed it, but a little tangled, as if not lately kembed, irregularly ſhading one ſide of the lovelieſt neck in the world; as her diſor⯑dered, rumpled handkerchief did the other. Her face [O how altered from what I had ſeen it! Yet lovely in ſpite of all her griefs and ſufferings!] was reclined, when we entered, upon her croſſed arms; but ſo, as not more than one ſide of it to be hid.

When I ſurveyed the room around, and the kneeling [159] lady, ſunk with majeſty too in her-white, flowing robes [for ſhe had not on a hoop], ſpreading the dark, tho' not dirty, floor, and illuminating that horrid corner; her linen beyond imagination white, conſidering that ſhe had not been undreſſed ever ſince ſhe had been here; I thought my concern would have choaked me. Something roſe in my throat, I know not what, which made me, for a moment, guggle, as it were, for ſpeech: Which, at laſt, forcing its way, Con—Con—Confound you both, ſaid I to the man and woman, is this an apartment for ſuch a lady? And could the curſed devils of her own ſex, who viſited this ſuffering angel, ſee her, and leave her, in ſo damned a nook?

Sir, we would have had the lady to accept of our own bedchamber; but ſhe refuſed it. We are poor people— And we expect no-body will ſtay with us longer than they can help it.

You are people choſen purpoſely, I doubt not, by the damned woman who has employed you: And if your uſage of this lady has been but half as bad as your houſe, you had better never to have ſeen the light.

Up then raiſed the charming ſufferer her lovely face; but with ſuch a ſignificance of woe overſpreading it, that I could not, for the ſoul of me, help being viſibly affected.

She waved her hand two or three times towards the door, as if commanding me to withdraw; and diſpleaſed at my intruſion; but did not [...]peak.

Permit me, Madam—I will not approach one ſtep farther without your leave — Permit me, for one moment, the favour of your ear!

No—No—Go, go; MAN, with an emphaſis—And would have ſaid more; but, as if ſtruggling in vain for words, ſhe ſeemed to give up ſpeech for loſt, and dropp'd her head down once more, with a deep ſigh, upon her left arm; her right, as if ſhe had not the uſe of it (numb⯑ed, I ſuppoſe), ſelf-moved, dropping down on her ſide.

O that thou hadſt been there! and in my place!—But by what I then felt, in myſelf, I am convinced, that a capacity of being moved by the diſtreſſes of our fellow-creatures, is far from being diſgraceful to a manly heart. With what pleaſure, at that moment, could I have given up my own life, could I but firſt have avenged this charm⯑ing [160] creature, and cut the throat of her deſtroyer, as ſhe emphatically calls thee, tho' the friend that I beſt love! And yet, at the ſame time, my heart and my eyes gave way to a ſoftneſs, of which (tho' not ſo hardened a wretch as thou) it was never before ſo ſuſceptible.

I dare not approach you, deareſt Lady, without your leave: But on my knees I beſeech you to permit me to releaſe you from this damned houſe, and out of the power of the accurſed woman, who was the occaſion of your being here!

She lifted up her ſweet face once more, and beheld me on my knees. Never knew I before what it was to pray ſo heartily.

Are you not—Are you not Mr. Belford, Sir? I think your name is Belford?

It is, Madam, and I ever was a worſhiper of your virtues, and an advocate for you; and I come to releaſe you from the hands you are in.

And in whoſe to place me? O leave me, leave me! Let me never riſe from this ſpot! Let me never, never more believe in man!

This moment, deareſt Lady, this very moment, if you pleaſe, you may depart whitherſoever you think fit. You are abſolutely free, and your own miſtreſs.

I had now as lieve die here in this place, as any-where. I will owe no obligation to any friend of him in whoſe company you have ſeen me. So, pray, Sir, withdraw.

Then turning to the officer, Mr. Rowland I think your name is? I am better reconciled to your houſe than I was at firſt. If you can but engage, that I ſhall have no-body come near me but your wife; no Man! and neither of thoſe women, who have ſported with my calamities; I will die with you, and in this very corner. And you ſhall be well ſatisfied for the trouble you have had with me.— I have value enough for that—for, ſee, I have a diamond ring; taking it out of her boſom; and I have friends will redeem it at a high price, when I am gone.

But for you, Sir, looking at me, I beg you to with⯑draw. If you mean me well, God, I hope, will reward you for your good meaning; but to the friend of my de⯑ſtroyer will I not owe an obligation.

[161]You will owe no obligation to me, nor to any-body. You have been detained for a debt you do not owe. The action is diſmiſſed; and you will only be ſo good as to give me your hand into the coach which ſtands as near to this houſe as it could draw up. And I will either leave you at the coach-door, or attend you whitherſoever you pleaſe, till I ſee you ſafe where you would wiſh to be.

Will you then, Sir, compel me to be beholden to you?

You will inexpreſſibly oblige me, Madam, to com⯑mand me to do you either ſervice or pleaſure.

Why then, Sir—looking at me—But why do you mock me in that humble poſture! Riſe, Sir! I cannot ſpeak to you elſe.

I aroſe.

Only, Sir, take this ring. I have a ſiſter, who will be glad to have it, at the price it ſhall be valued at, for the former owner's ſake!—Out of the money ſhe gives, let this man be paid; handſomely paid: And I have a few valuables more at my lodgings (Dorcas, or the MAN William, can tell where that is); let them, and my cloaths at the wicked woman's, where you have ſeen me, be ſold, for the payment of my lodging firſt, and next of your friend's debts, that I have been arreſted for; as far as they will go; only reſerving enough to put me into the ground, any-where, or any-how, no matter.— Tell your friend, I wiſh it may be enough to ſatisfy the whole demand; but if it be not, he muſt make it up himſelf; or, if he think fit to draw for it on Miſs Howe, ſhe will re⯑pay it, and with intereſt, if he inſiſt upon it.— And this, Sir, if you promiſe to perform, you will do me, as you offer, both pleaſure and ſervice: And ſay you will, and take the ring, and withdraw. If I want to ſay any-thing more to you (you ſeem to be an humane man), I will let you know:—And ſo, Sir, God bleſs you.

I approached her, and was going to ſpeak—

Don't ſpeak, Sir: Here's the ring.

I ſtood off.

And won [...]t you take it? Won't you do this laſt office for me?—I have no other perſon to aſk it of; elſe, believe me, I would not requeſt it of you. But take it or not, laying it upon the table—you muſt withdraw, Sir: I am [162] very ill. I would fain get a little reſt, if I could. I find I am going to be bad again.

And offering to riſe, ſhe ſunk down thro' exceſs of weakneſs and grief, in a fainting fit.

Why, Lovelace, waſt thou not preſent thyſelf?—Why doſt thou commit ſuch villainies, as even thou thyſelf art afraid to appear in; and yet putteſt a weaker heart and head upon encountering with?

The maid coming in juſt then, the woman and ſhe lifted her up, on the decrepit couch; and I withdrew with this Rowland; who wept like a child, and ſaid, he never in his life was ſo moved.

Yet ſo hardened a wretch art thou, that I queſtion whe⯑ther thou wilt ſhed a tear at my relation.

They recovered her by harts-horn and water: I went down mean while; for the deteſtable woman had been below ſome time. O how did I curſe her! I never before was ſo fluent in curſes.

She tried to wheedle me; but I renounced her; and, after ſhe had diſmiſſed the action, ſent her away crying, or pretending to cry, becauſe of my behaviour to her.

You will obſerve, that I did not mention one word to the lady about you. I was afraid to do it. For 'twas plain, that ſhe could not bear your name: Your friend, and the company you have ſeen me in, were the words neareſt to naming you, ſhe could ſpeak: And yet I wanted to clear your intention of this brutal, this ſordid-looking, villainy.

I ſent up again, by Rowland's wife, when I heard that the lady was recovered, beſeeching her to quit that deviliſh place; and the woman aſſured her, that ſhe was at full liberty to do ſo; for that the action was diſ⯑miſſed.

But ſhe cared not to anſwer her: And was ſo weak and low, that it was almoſt as much out of her power as incli⯑nation, the woman told me, to ſpeak.

I would have haſtened away for my friend doctor H. but the houſe is ſuch a den, and the room ſhe was in ſuch a hole, that I was aſhamed to be ſeen in it by a man of his reputation, eſpecially with a woman of ſuch an appear⯑ance, and in ſuch uncommon diſtreſs; and I found there [163] was no prevailing on her to quit it for the peoples bed⯑room, which was neat and lightſome.

The ſtrong room, ſhe was in, the wretches told me, ſhould have been in better order, but that it was but the very morning that ſhe was brought in, that an unhappy man had quitted it; for a more eligible priſon, no doubt; ſince there could hardly be a worſe.

Being told, that ſhe deſired not to be diſturbed, and ſeemed inclined to doſe, I took this opportunity to go to her lodgings in Covent-garden; to which Dorcas (who firſt diſcovered her there, as Will. was the ſetter from church) had before given me a direction.

The man's name is Smith, a dealer in gloves, ſnuff, and ſuch petty merchandize: His wife the ſhopkeeper: He a maker of the gloves they ſell. Honeſt people, it ſeems.

I thought to have got the woman with me to the lady; but ſhe was not within.

I talked with the man, and told him what had befallen the lady; owing, as I ſaid, to a miſtake of orders; and gave her the character ſhe deſerved; and deſired him to ſend his wife, the moment ſhe came in, to the lady; di⯑recting him whither; not doubting, that her attendance would be very welcome to her: Which he promiſed.

He told me, that a letter was left for her there on Sa⯑turday; and, about half an hour before I came, another, ſuperſcribed by the ſame hand; the firſt, by the poſt; the other, by a countryman; who, having been informed of her abſence, and of all the circumſtances they could tell him of it, poſted away, full of concern, ſaying, that the lady he was ſent from would be ready to break her heart at the tidings.

I thought it right to take the two letters back with me; and, diſmiſſing my coach, took a chair, as a more proper vehicle for the lady, if I (the friend of her deſtroyer) could prevail upon her to leave Rowland's.

And here being obliged to give way to an indiſpenſable avocation, I will make thee taſte a little in thy turn, of the plague of ſuſpenſe; and break off, without giving thee the leaſt hint of the iſſue of my further proceedings. I know, that thoſe leaſt bear diſappointment, who love moſt to give it. In twenty inſtances, haſt thou afforded [164] me proof of the truth of this obſervation. And I matte [...] not thy raving.

Another letter, however, ſhall be ready, ſend for it as ſoon as thou wilt. But, were it not, have I not written enough to convince thee, that I am

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

CURSE upon thy hard heart, thou vile caitiff! How haſt thou tortured me, by thy deſigned abruption! 'Tis impoſſible that Miſs Harlowe ſhould have ever ſuf⯑fered as thou haſt made me ſuffer, and as I now ſuffer!

That Sex is made to bear pain. It is a curſe, that the firſt of it intailed upon all her ſucceeding daughters, when ſhe brought the curſe upon us all. And they love thoſe beſt, whether man or child, who give them moſt—But to ſtretch upon thy damned tenter-hooks ſuch a ſpirit as mine—No rack, no torture, can equal my torture!

And muſt I ſtill wait the return of another meſſenger? Confound thee for a malicious devil! I wiſh thou wert a poſt-horſe, and I upon the back of thee! How would I whip and ſpur, and harrow up thy clumſy ſides, till I made thee a ready-roaſted, ready-flayed, meſs of dog's meat; all the hounds in the county howling after thee as I drove thee, to wait my diſmounting, in order to devour thee peace-meal; life ſtill throbbing in each churned mouthful!

Give this fellow the ſequel of thy tormenting ſcribble. Diſpatch him away with it. Thou haſt promiſed it ſhall be ready. Every cuſhion or chair I ſhall ſit upon, the bed I ſhall lie down upon (if I go to bed), till he return, will be ſtuffed with bolt-upright awls, bodkins, corking-pins, and packing-needles: Already I can fancy, that to pink my body like my mind, I need only to be put into a hogſhead ſtuck full of ſteel-pointed ſpikes, and rolled down a hill three times as high as the Monument.

[165]But I loſe time, yet know not how to employ it, till this fellow returns with the ſequel of thy ſoul-harrowing intelligence!

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

ON my return to Rowland's, I found that the apo⯑thecary was juſt gone up. Mrs. Rowland being above with him, I made the leſs ſcruple to go up too, as it was probable, that to aſk for leave would be to aſk to be denied; hoping alſo, that the letters I had with me would be a good excuſe.

She was ſitting on the ſide of the broken couch, ex⯑tremely weak and low; and, I obſerved, cared not to ſpeak to the man; and no wonder; for I never ſaw a more ſhocking fellow, of a profeſſion tolerably genteel, nor heard a more illiterate one prate—Phyſician in ordinary to this houſe, and others like it, I ſuppoſe! He put me in mind of Otway's apothecary in his Caius Marius:

As I am in black, he took me at my entrance, I believe, to be a doctor, and ſlunk behind me with his hat upon his two thumbs, and looked as if he expected the oracle to open, and give him orders.

The lady looked diſpleaſed, as well at me as at Row⯑land, who followed me, and at the apothecary. It was not, ſhe ſaid, the leaſt of her preſent misfortunes, that ſhe could not be left to her own ſex; and to her option to ſee whom ſhe pleaſed.

I beſought her excuſe; and, winking for the apothe⯑cary to withdraw (which he did), told her, that I had been at her new lodgings, to order every-thing to be got [166] ready for her reception; preſuming ſhe would chooſe to go thither: That I had a chair at the door: That Mr. Smith, and his wife [I named their names, that ſhe ſhould not have room for the leaſt fear of Sinclair's], had been full of apprehenſions for her ſafety: That I had brought two letters, which were left there for her; one by the poſt, the other that very morning.

This took her attention. She held out her charming hand for them; took them, and, preſſing them to her lips—From the only friend I have in the world! ſaid ſhe, kiſſing them again; and looking at the ſeals, as if to ſee whether they had been opened. I can't read them, ſaid ſhe, my eyes are too dim; and put them in her boſom.

I beſought her to think of quitting that wretched hole.

Where could ſhe go, ſhe aſked, to be ſafe and uninter⯑rupted for the ſhort remainder of her life; and to avoid being again viſited by the creatures who had inſulted her before?

I gave her the ſolemneſt aſſurances, that ſhe ſhould not be invaded in her new lodgings by any-body; and ſaid, that I would particularly engage my honour, that the perſon who had moſt offended her ſhould not come near her, without her own conſent.

Your honour, Sir! Are you not that man's friend?

I am not a friend, Madam, to his vile actions to the moſt excellent of women.

Do you flatter me, Sir? Then are you a MAN.—But Oh, Sir, your friend, holding her face forward with great earneſtneſs, your barbarous friend, what has he not to anſwer for!

There ſhe ſtopt: Her heart full; and putting her hand over her eyes and forehead, the tears trickled thro' her fingers: Reſenting thy barbarity, it ſeemed, as Caeſar did the ſtab from his diſtinguiſhed Brutus!

Tho' ſhe was ſo very much diſordered, I thought I would not loſe this opportunity to aſſert your innocence of this villainous arreſt.

There is no defending the unhappy man, in any of his vile actions by you, Madam; but of this laſt outrage, by all that's good and ſacred, he is innocent!

O wretches! what a Sex is yours!—Have you all one [167] dialect? Good and ſacred!—If, Sir, you can find an oath, or a vow, or an adjuration, that my ears have not been twenty times a day wounded with, then ſpeak it, and I may again believe a MAN.

I was exceſſively touched at theſe words, knowing thy baſeneſs, and the reaſon ſhe had for them.

But ſay you, Sir; for I would not, methinks, have the wretch capable of this ſordid baſeneſs!—Say you, that he is innocent of this laſt wickedneſs? Can you truly ſay that he is?

By the great God of Heaven!—

Nay, Sir, if you ſwear, I muſt doubt you!—If you yourſelf think your WORD inſufficient, what reliance can I have on your OATH!— O that this my experience had not coſt me ſo dear! But, were I to live a thouſand years, I would always ſuſpect the veracity of a ſwearer. Ex⯑cuſe me, Sir; but is it likely, that he who makes ſo free with his GOD, will ſcruple any-thing that may ſerve his turn with his fellow-creature?

This was a moſt affecting reprimand!

Madam, ſaid I, I have a regard, a regard a gentleman ought to have, to my word; and whenever I forfeit it to you—

Nay, Sir, don't be angry with me. It is grievous to me to queſtion a gentleman's veracity. But your friend calls himſelf a gentleman — You know not what I have ſuffered by a gentleman!—And then again ſhe wept.

I would give you, Madam, demonſtration, if your griefs and your weakneſs would permit it, that he has no hand in this barbarous baſeneſs: And that he reſents it as it ought to be reſented.

Well, well, Sir [with quickneſs], he will have his ac⯑count to make up ſomewhere elſe; not to me. I ſhould not be ſorry to find him able to acquit his intention on this occaſion. Let him know, Sir, only one thing, that, when you heard me, in the bitterneſs of my ſpirit, moſt vehemently exclaim againſt the undeſerved uſage I have met with from him, that even then, in that paſſionate mo⯑ment, I was able to ſay [and never did I ſee ſuch an ear⯑neſt and affecting exaltation of hands and eyes], Give him, good God! repentance and amendment; that I [168] may be the laſt poor creature, who ſhall be ruined by him!—And, in thy own good time, receive to thy mercy, the poor wretch who had none on me!

By my ſoul, I could not ſpeak. — She had not her Bible before her for nothing.

I was forced to turn my head away, and to take out my handkerchief.

What an angel is this!— Even the gaoler, and his wife and maid, wept.

Again, I wiſh thou hadſt been there, that thou mightſt have ſunk down at her feet, and begun that moment to reap the effect of her generous wiſhes for thee; unde⯑ſerving, as thou art, of any-thing but perdition!

I repreſented to her, that ſhe would be leſs free where ſhe was, from viſits ſhe liked not, than at her own lodg⯑ing. I told her, that it would probably bring her, in particular, one viſitor, who, otherwiſe, I would engage (but I durſt not ſwear again, after the ſevere reprimand ſhe had juſt given me), ſhould not come near her, with⯑out her conſent. And I expreſſed my ſurprize, that ſhe ſhould be unwilling to quit ſuch a place as this; when it was more than probable, that ſome of her friends, when it was known how bad ſhe was, would viſit her.

She ſaid, the place, when ſhe was firſt brought into it, was indeed very ſhocking to her: But that ſhe had found herſelf ſo weak and ill, and her griefs had ſo ſunk her, that ſhe did not expect to have lived till now: That there⯑fore all places had been alike to her; for to die in a pri⯑ſon, was to die; and equally eligible as to die in a pa⯑lace (palaces, ſhe ſaid, could have no attractions for a dying perſon): But that, ſince ſhe feared ſhe was not ſo ſoon to be releaſed, as ſhe had hoped; ſince ſhe was ſo little miſtreſs of herſelf here; and ſince ſhe might, by re⯑moval, be in the way of her dear friend's letters; ſhe would hope, that ſhe might depend upon the aſſurances I gave her, of being at liberty to return to her laſt lodg⯑ings (otherwiſe ſhe would provide herſelf with new ones, out of my knowlege, as well as out of yours); and that I was too much of a gentleman, to be concerned in car⯑rying her back to the houſe ſhe had ſo much reaſon to abhor; and to which ſhe had been once before moſt vilely betrayed, to her ruin.

[169]I aſſured her, in the ſtrongeſt terms (but ſwore not), that you were reſolved not to moleſt her: And, as a proof of the ſincerity of my profeſſions, beſought her to give me directions (in purſuance of my friend's expreſs deſire) about ſending all her apparel, and whatever belonged to her, to her new lodgings.

She ſeemed pleaſed; and gave me inſtantly out of her pocket her keys; aſking me, If Mrs. Smith, whom I had named, might not attend me; and ſhe would give her further directions? To which I chearfully aſſented; and then ſhe told me, that ſhe would accept of the chair I had offered her.

I withdrew; and took the opportunity to be civil to Rowland and his maid; for ſhe found no fault with their behaviour, for what they were; and the fellow ſeems to be miſerably poor. I ſent alſo for the apothecary, who is as poor as the gaoler (and ſtill poorer, I dare ſay, as to the ſkill required in his buſineſs), and ſatisfied him be⯑yond his hopes.

The lady, after I had withdrawn, attempted to read the letters I brought her. But ſhe could read but a little way in one of them, and had great emotions upon it.

She told the woman ſhe would take a ſpeedy oppor⯑tunity to acknowlege their civiliti [...]s, and to ſatisfy the apothecary; who might ſend her his bill to her lodgings.

She gave the maid ſomething; probably, the only half-guinea ſhe had: And then, with difficulty, her limbs trem⯑bling under her, and ſupported by Mrs. Rowland, got down ſtairs.

I offered my arm: She was pleaſed to lean upon it. I doubt, Sir, ſa [...]d ſhe, as ſhe moved, I have behaved rudely to you: But, if you knew all, you would forgive me.

I know enough, Madam, to convince me, that there is not ſuch purity and honour in any woman upon earth; nor any one that has been ſo barbarouſly treated.

She looked at me very earneſtly. What ſhe thought I cannot ſay; but, in general, I never ſaw ſo much ſoul in a lady's eyes, as in hers.

I ordered my ſervant (whoſe mourning made him leſs obſervable as ſuch, and who had not been in the lady's eye) to keep the chair in view; and to bring me word, [170] how ſhe did, when ſet down. The fellow had the thought to ſtep into the ſhop juſt before the chair entered it, under pretence of buying ſnuff; and ſo enabled himſelf to give me an account, that ſhe was received with great joy by the good woman of the houſe; who told her, ſhe was but juſt come in; and was preparing to attend her in High-Holborn.— O Mrs. Smith, ſaid ſhe, as ſoon at ſhe ſaw her, did you not think I was run away?—You don't know what I have ſuffered ſince I ſaw you. I have been in a pri⯑ſon!—Arreſted for debts I owe not!—But, thank God, I am here!—Will you permit your maid—I have forgot her name already—

Katharine, Madam—

Will you let Katharine aſſiſt me to bed?— I have not had my cloaths off ſince Thurſday night.

What ſhe further ſaid the fellow heard not, ſhe leaning upon the maid, and going up-ſtairs.

But doſt thou not obſerve, what a ſtrange, what an uncommon, openneſs of heart reigns in this lady: She had been in a priſon, ſhe ſaid, before a ſtranger in the ſhop, and before the maid-ſervant: And ſo, probably, ſhe would have ſaid, had there been twenty people in the ſhop.

The diſgrace ſhe cannot hide from herſelf, as ſhe ſays in her letter to Lady Betty, ſhe is not ſolicitous to con⯑ceal from the world!

But this makes it evident to me, that ſhe is reſolved to keep no terms with thee. And yet to be able to put up ſuch a prayer for thee, as ſhe did in her priſon [I will often mention the priſon-room, to teaze thee!]; Does not this ſhew, that revenge has very little ſway in her mind; tho' ſhe can retain ſo much proper reſentment?

And this is another excellence in this admirable wo⯑man's character: For whom, before her, have we met with in the whole ſex, or in ours either, that know how, in practice, to diſtinguiſh between REVENGE and RESENT⯑MENT, for baſe and ingrateful treatment?

'Tis a curſed thing, after all, that ſuch a woman as this ſhould be treated as ſhe has been treated. Hadſt thou been a king, and done as thou haſt done by ſuch a meritorious in⯑nocent, I believe in my heart, it would have been adjudged to be a national ſin, and the ſword, the peſtilence, or fa⯑mine, [171] muſt have atoned for it!—But, as thou art a private man, thou wilt certainly meet with thy puniſhment (beſides what thou mayeſt expect from the juſtice of thy country, and the vengeance of her friends), as ſhe will her reward, HEREAFTER.

It muſt be ſo, if there be really ſuch a thing as future Remuneration; as now I am more and more convinced there muſt:—Elſe, what a hard fate is hers, whoſe pu⯑niſhment, to all appearance, has ſo much exceeded her fault? And, as to thine, how can temporary burnings, wert thou by ſome accident to be conſumed in thy bed, expiate for thy abominable vileneſs to her, in breach of all obligations moral and divine?

I was reſolved to loſe no time in having every-thing which belonged to the lady, at the curſed woman's, ſent her. Accordingly, I took coach to Smith's, and procured the lady (to whom I ſent up my compliments, and inqui⯑ries how ſhe bore her removal), ill as ſhe ſent me down word ſhe was, to give proper directions to Mrs. Smith▪ Whom I took with me to Sinclair's; and who ſaw every⯑thing looked out, and put into the trunks and boxes they were firſt brought in, and carried away in two coaches.

Had I not been there, Sally and Polly would each of them have taken to herſelf ſomething of the poor lady's ſpoils. This they declared: And I had ſomething to do to get from Sally a fine Bruſſels-lace head, which ſhe had the confidence to ſay ſhe would wear for Miſs Harlowe's ſake. Nor ſhould either I or Mrs. Smith have known ſhe had got it, had ſhe not been in ſearch after the ruffles be⯑longing to it.

My reſentment on this occaſion, and the converſation which Mrs. Smith and I had (in which I not only expa⯑tiated upon the merits of the lady, but expreſſed my con⯑cern for her ſufferings; tho' I left her room to ſuppoſe her married, yet without averring it), gave me high credit with the good woman: So that we are perfectly well-acquainted already: By which means I ſhall be enabled to give you accounts, from time to time, of all that paſſes; and which I will be very induſtrious to do, provided I may depend upon the ſolemn promiſes I have given the lady, in your name, as well as my own, that ſhe ſhall be free from all perſonal moleſtation from you. And thus ſhall I have [172] it in my power to return in kind your writing favours; and preſerve my ſhort-hand beſides: Which, till this corre⯑ſpondence was opened, I had pretty much neglected.

I ordered the abandoned women to make out your ac⯑count. They anſwered, That they would do with a ven⯑geance. Indeed they breathe nothing but revenge. For now they ſay, you will aſſuredly marry; and your exam⯑ple will be followed by all your friends and companions— As the old one ſays, to the utter ruin of her poor houſe.

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

HAving ſat up late to finiſh and ſeal up in readineſs my letter to the above period, I am diſturbed before I wiſhed to have riſen, by the arrival of thy ſecond fellow; man and horſe in a foam.

While he baits, I will write a few lines, moſt heartily to congratulate thee on thy expected rage and impatience; and on thy recovery of mental feeling.

How much does the idea thou giveſt me of thy deſerved torments, by thy upright awls, bodkins, pins, and pack⯑ing-needles, by thy rolling hogſhead with iron ſpikes, and by thy macerated ſides, delight me!

I will, upon every occaſion that offers, drive more ſpikes into thy hogſhead, and roll thee down-hill, and up, as thou recovereſt to ſenſe, or rather returneſt back to ſenſeleſneſs. Thou knoweſt therefore the terms on which thou art to enjoy my correſpondence. Am not I, who have all along, and in time, proteſted againſt thy barbarous and ingrateful perfidies to a lady ſo noble, in⯑titled to drive remorſe, if poſſible, into thy hitherto-cal⯑lous heart?

Only let me reinforce one thing, which perhaps I mentioned too ſlightly before, That the lady was pre⯑vailed upon by my ſolemn aſſurances only, that ſhe might depend upon being free from your viſits, not to remove to new lodgings, where neither you nor I ſhould be able to find her.

Theſe aſſurances I thought I might give her, not only becauſe of your promiſe, but becauſe it is neceſſary for [173] you to know where ſhe is, in order to addreſs yourſelf to her by your friends.

Enable me therefore to make good to her this my ſo⯑lemn engagement; or adieu to all friendſhip, at leaſt to all correſpondence, with thee for ever.

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

I Renewed my inquiries after the lady's health, in the morning, by my ſervant: And, as ſoon as I had dined, I went myſelf.

I had but a poor account of it: Yet ſent up my com⯑pliments. She returned me thanks for all my good of⯑fices; and her excuſes, that they could not be perſonal juſt then, being very low and faint: But if I gave myſelf the trouble of coming about ſix this evening, ſhe ſhould be able, ſhe hoped, to drink a diſh of tea with me, and would then thank me herſelf.

I am very proud of this condeſcenſion; and think it looks not amiſs for you, as I am your avowed friend. Methinks I want fully to remove from her mind all doubts of you in this laſt villainous action: And who knows then, what your noble relations may be able to do for you with her, if you hold your mind? For your ſer⯑vant acquainted me with their having actually engaged Miſs Howe in their and your favour, before this curſed affair happened. And I deſire the particulars of all from yourſelf, that I may the better know how to ſerve you.

She has two handſome apartments, a bedchamber and dining-room, with light cloſets in each. She has already a nurſe (the people of the houſe having but one maid); a woman whoſe care, diligence, and honeſty, Mrs. Smith highly commends. She has likewiſe the benefit of the voluntary attendance, and love, as it ſeems, of a widow gentlewoman, Mrs. Lovick her name, who lodges over her apartment, and of whom ſhe ſeems very fond, having found ſomething in her, ſhe thinks, reſembling the qua⯑lities of her worthy Mrs. Norton.

[174]About ſeven o' clock this morning, it ſeems, the lady was ſo ill, that ſhe yielded to their deſires to have an apo⯑thecary ſent for—Not the fellow, thou mayſt believe, ſhe had had before at Rowland's; but one Mr. Goddard, a man of ſkill and eminence; and of conſcience too; de⯑monſtrated as well by general character, as by his pre⯑ſcriptions to this lady: For, pronouncing her caſe to be grief, he ordered, for the preſent, only innocent julaps, by way of cordial; and, as ſoon as her ſtomach ſhould be able to bear it, light kitchen-diet; telling Mrs. Lovick, that That, with air, moderate exerciſe, and chearful com⯑pany, would do her more good, than all the medicines in his ſhop.

This has given me, as, it ſeems, it has the lady (who alſo praiſes his modeſt behaviour, paternal looks, and genteel addreſs), a very good opinion of the man; and I deſign to make myſelf acquainted with him; and, if he adviſes to call in a doctor, to wiſh him, for the fair patient's ſake, more than the phyſician's (who wants not practice), my worthy friend Dr. H.—whoſe character is above all ex⯑ception, as his humanity, I am ſure, will diſtinguiſh him to the lady.

Mrs. Lovick gratified me with an account of a letter ſhe had written from the lady's mouth to Miſs Howe; ſhe be⯑ing unable to write herſelf with ſteadineſs. It was to this effect; in anſwer, it ſeems, to her two letters, whatever were the contents of them:

‘That ſhe had been involved in a dreadful calamity, which ſhe was ſure, when known, would exempt her from the effects of her friendly diſpleaſure, for not an⯑ſwering her firſt; having been put under an arreſt:— Could ſhe have believed it? — That ſhe was releaſed but the day before: And was now ſo weak, and ſo low, that ſhe was obliged to get a widow gentlewoman in the ſame houſe to account thus for her ſilence to her two letters of the 13th and 16th: That ſhe would, as ſoon as able, anſwer them: Begged of her, mean time, not to be uneaſy for her; ſince (only that this was a calamity which came upon her when ſhe was far from being well; a load laid upon the ſhoulders of a poor wretch, ready before to ſink under too heavy a burden) [175] it was nothing to the evil ſhe had before ſuffered: And one felicity ſeemed likely to iſſue from it; which was, that ſhe ſhould be at reſt, in an honeſt houſe, with conſiderate and kind-hearted people; having aſſurance given her, that ſhe ſhould not be moleſted by the wretch, whom it would be death for her to ſee: So that now ſhe (Miſs Howe) needed not to ſend to her by private and ex⯑penſive conveyances: Nor need Collins to take precau⯑tions for fear of being dogged to her lodgings; nor ſhe to write by a fictitious name to her, but by her own.’

You ſee I am in a way to oblige you: You ſee how much ſhe depends upon my engaging for your forbearing to intrude yourſelf into her company: Let not your flaming impatience deſtroy all; and make me look like a villain to a lady who has reaſon to ſuſpect every man ſhe ſees to be ſo. — Upon this condition, you may ex⯑pect all the ſervices that can flow from true friendſhip, and from

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

I AM juſt come from the lady. I was admitted into the dining-room, where ſhe was ſitting in an elbow-chair, in a very weak and low way. She made an effort to ſtand up, when I entered; but was forced to keep her ſeat. You'll excuſe me, Mr. Belford: I ought to riſe, to thank you for all your kindneſs to me. I was to blame to be ſo loth to leave that ſad place; for I am in Heaven here, to what I was there: And good people about me too!—I have not had good people about me for a long, long time before; ſo that (with a half-ſmile) I had begun to wonder whither they were all gone.

Her nurſe and Mrs. Smith, who were preſent, took oc⯑caſion to retire: And, when we were alone, You ſeem to be a perſon of humanity, Sir, ſaid ſhe: You hinted, as I was leaving my priſon, that you were not a ſtranger to my ſad ſtory. If you know it truly, you muſt know, that I have [176] been moſt barbarouſly treated; and have not deſerved it at the man's hands by whom I have ſuffered.

I told her, I knew enough to be convinced, that ſhe had the merit of a ſaint, and the purity of an angel: And was proceeding, when ſhe ſaid, No flighty compliments! No undue attributes, Sir! I offered to plead for my ſin⯑cerity; and mentioned the word Politeneſs, and would have diſtinguiſhed between That and Flattery. Nothing can be polite, ſaid ſhe, that is not juſt: Whatever I may have had, I have now no vanity to gratify.

I diſclaimed all intention of compliment: All I had ſaid, and what I ſhould ſay, was, and ſhould be, the effect of ſincere veneration. My unhappy friend's account of her had intitled her to That.

I then mentioned your grief, your penitence, your re⯑ſolutions of making her all the amends that were poſſible now to be made her: And, in the moſt earneſt manner, I aſſerted your innocence as to the laſt villainous outrage.

Her anſwer was to this effect: It is painful to me to think of him. The amends you talk of, cannot be made. This laſt violence you ſpeak of, is nothing to what pre⯑ceded it. That cannot be atoned for; nor palliated: This may: And I ſhall not be ſorry to be convinced, that he cannot be guilty of ſo very low a wickedneſs.—Yet, after his vile forgeries of hands—after his perſonating baſe⯑neſſes—what are the iniquities he is not capable of?

I would then have given her an account of the tryal you ſtood with your friends: Your own previous reſolu⯑tions of marriage, had ſhe honoured you with the re⯑queſted four words: All your family's earneſtneſs to have the honour of her alliance: And the application of your two couſins to Miſs Howe, by general conſent, for that young lady's intereſt with her: But, having juſt touched upon theſe topics, ſhe cut me ſhort, ſaying, That was a cauſe before another tribunal: Miſs Howe's letters to her were upon that ſubject; and ſhe ſhould write her thoughts to her, asſoon as ſhe was able.

I then attempted more particularly to clear you of having any hand in the vile Sinclair's officious arreſt; a point ſhe had the generoſity to wiſh you cleared of: And, hav⯑ing mentioned the outrageous letter you had written to [177] me on this occaſion, ſhe aſked, If I had that letter about me?

I owned I had.

She wiſhed to ſee it.

This puzzled me horribly: For you muſt needs think, that moſt of the free things, which, among us Rakes, paſs for wit and ſpirit, muſt be ſhocking ſtuff to the ears or eyes of perſons of delicacy of that ſex: And then ſuch an air of levity runs thro' thy moſt ſerious letters; ſuch a falſe bravery, endeavouring to carry off ludicrouſly the ſubjects that moſt affect thee; that thoſe letters are generally the leaſt fit to be ſeen, which ought to be moſt to thy credit.

Something like this I obſerved to her; and would fain have excuſed myſelf from ſhewing it: But ſhe was ſo ear⯑neſt, that I undertook to read ſome parts of it, reſolving to omit the moſt exceptionable.

I know thou'lt curſe me for that; but I thought it bet⯑ter to oblige her, than to be ſuſpected myſelf; and ſo not have it in my power to ſerve thee with her, when ſo good a foundation was laid for it; and when ſhe knows as bad of thee as I can tell her.

Thou remembreſt the contents, I ſuppoſe, of thy furi⯑ous letter ^(a). Her remarks upon the different parts of it which I read to her, were to the following effect:

Upon thy two firſt lines, All undone! undone, by Jupi⯑ter! — Zounds, Jack, what ſhall I do now! A curſe upon all my plots and contrivances! thus ſhe expreſſed herſelf:

‘O how light, how unaffected with the ſenſe of its own crimes, is the heart that could dictate to the pen this libertine froth!’

The paragraph, which mentions the vile arreſt, affected her a good deal.

In the next, I omitted thy curſe upon thy relations, whom thou wert gallanting: And read on the ſeven ſub⯑ſequent paragraphs, down to thy execrable wiſh; which was too ſhocking to read to her. What I read produced the following reflections from her:

‘The plots and contrivances which he curſes, and the exultings of the wicked wretches on finding me out, ſhew me, that all his guilt was premeditated: Nor doubt [178] I, that his dreadful perjuries, and inhuman arts, as he went along, were to paſs for fine ſtratagems; for witty ſport; and to demonſtrate a ſuperiority of inventive ta⯑lents!—O my cruel, cruel brother! had it not been for thee, I had not been thrown upon ſo pernicious and ſo deſpicable a plotter.!—But proceed, Sir; pray proceed.’

At that part, Canſt thou, O fatal prognoſticator! tell me where my puniſhments will end? — ſhe ſighed: And when I came to that ſentence, Praying for my reformation, perhaps—Is that there? ſaid ſhe, ſighing again.—Wretch⯑ed man!—And ſhed a tear for thee.—By my faith, Love⯑lace, I believe ſhe hates thee not! — She has at leaſt a concern, a generous concern, for thy future happineſs!— What a noble creature haſt thou injured!

She made a very ſevere reflection upon me, on read⯑ing theſe words— On your knees, for me, beg her pardon— ‘You had all your leſſons, Sir, ſaid ſhe, when you came to redeem me — You was ſo condeſcending as to kneel: I thought it was the effect of your own humanity, and good-natured earneſtneſs to ſerve me: Excuſe me, Sir, I knew not, that it was in conſequence of a preſcribed leſſon.’

This concerned me not a little: I could not bear to be thought ſuch a wretched puppet, ſuch a Joſeph Leman, ſuch a Tomlinſon — I endeavoured therefore, with ſome warmth, to clear myſelf of this reflection; and ſhe again aſked my excuſe: ‘I was avowedly, ſhe ſaid, the friend of a man, whoſe friendſhip, ſhe had reaſon to be ſorry to ſay, was no credit to any-body.’ — And deſired me to proceed. — I did; but fared not much better after⯑wards: For,

On that paſſage, where you ſay, I had always been her friend and advocate, This was her unanſwerable remark: ‘I find, Sir, by this expreſſion, that he had always de⯑ſigns againſt me; and that you all along knew that he had: Would to Heaven, you had had the goodneſs to have contrived ſome way, that might not have endan⯑gered your own ſafety, to give me notice of his baſe⯑neſs, ſince you approved not of it! But you gentlemen, I ſuppoſe, had rather ſee an innocent fellow-creature ruined, than be thought capable of an action, which, [179] however generous, might be likely to looſen the bands of a wicked friendſhip!’

After this ſevere but juſt reflection, I would have avoided reading the following, altho' I had unawares begun the ſentence (but ſhe held me to it): What would I now give, had I permitted you to have been a ſucceſsful advocate! And this was her remark upon it—‘So, Sir, you ſee, if you had been the happy means of preventing the evils de⯑ſigned me, you would have had your friend's thanks for it, when he came to his conſideration. This ſatiſ⯑faction, I am perſuaded every-one, in the long run, will enjoy, who has the virtue to withſtand, or prevent, a wicked purpoſe. I was obliged, I ſee, to your kind wiſhes—But it was a point of honour with you to keep his ſecret; the greater honour, perhaps, the viler the ſecret. Yet permit me to wiſh, Mr. Belford, that you were ca⯑pable of reliſhing the pleaſures that ariſe to a benevolent mind from VIRTUOUS friendſhip!—None other is wor⯑thy of the ſacred name. You ſeem an humane man: I hope, for your own ſake, you will one day experience the difference: And, when you do, think of Miſs Howe and Clariſſa Harlowe (I find you know much of my ſad ſtory), who were the happieſt creatures on earth in each other's friendſhip, till this friend of yours’—And there ſhe ſtopt, and turned from me.

Where thou calleſt thyſelf A villainous plotter; ‘To take crime to himſelf, ſaid ſhe, without ſhame, O what a hardened wretch is this man!’

On that paſſage, where thou ſayeſt, Let me know how ſhe has been treated: If roughly, woe be to the guilty! this was her remark, with an air of indignation: ‘What a man is your friend, Sir!—Is ſuch a one as he to ſet him⯑ſelf up to puniſh the guilty? — All the rough uſage I could receive from them, was infinitely leſs’—And there ſhe ſtopt, a moment or two: Then proceeding—‘And who ſhall puniſh him? What an aſſuming wretch!— No-body but himſelf is intitled to injure the innocent?— He is, I ſuppoſe, on earth, to act the part, which the malignant fiend is ſuppoſed to act below: Dealing out puniſhments, at his pleaſure, to every inferior inſtru⯑ment of miſchief!’

[180]What, thought I, have I been doing! I ſhall have this ſavage fellow think I have been playing him booty, in reading part of his letter to this ſagacious lady!— Yet, if thou art angry, it can only, in reaſon, be at thyſelf; for who would think I might not communicate to her ſome of the leaſt exceptionable parts of a letter (as a proof of thy ſincerity in exculpating thyſelf from a criminal charge), which thou wroteſt to thy friend, to convince him of thy innocence? But a bad heart, and a bad cauſe, are confound⯑ing things: And ſo let us put it to its proper account.

I paſſed over thy charge to me, to curſe them by the hour; and thy names of Dragon and Serpents, tho' ſo ap⯑plicable; ſince, had I read them, thou muſt have been ſuppoſed to know from the firſt, what creatures they were; vile fellow as thou wert, for bringing ſo much purity among them! And I cloſed with thy own concluding pa⯑ragraph, A line! A line! A kingdom for a line! &c. How⯑ever telling her, ſince ſhe ſaw, that I omitted ſome ſen⯑tences, that there were further vehemences in it; but as they were better fitted to ſhew to me the ſincerity of the writer, than for ſo delicate an ear as hers to hear, I choſe to paſs them over.

You have read enough, ſaid ſhe — He is a wicked, wicked man!—I ſee he intended to have me in his power at any rate; and I have no doubt of what his purpoſes were, by what his actions have been. You know his vile Tomlinſon, I ſuppoſe—you know—But what ſigni⯑fies talking?—Never was there ſuch a premeditately falſe heart in man [Nothing can be truer, thought I!]: What has he not vowed! What has he not invented! And all for what?—Only, to ruin a poor young creature, whom he ought to have protected; and whom he had firſt de⯑prived of all other protection?

She aroſe, and turned from me, her handkerchief at her eyes: And, after a pauſe, came towards me again— ‘I hope, ſaid ſhe, I talk to a man, who has a better heart: And I thank you, Sir, for all your kind, tho' ineffectual, pleas in my favour formerly, whether the motives for them were compaſſion, or principle, or both. That they were ineffectual, might very probably be owing to your want of earneſtneſs; and that, as you [181] might think, to my want of merit. I might not, in your eye, deſerve to be ſaved!—I might appear to you a giddy creature, who had run away from her true and natural friends; and who therefore ought to take the conſequence of the lot ſhe had drawn.’

I was afraid, for thy ſake, to let her know how very earneſt I had been: But aſſured her, that I had been her zealous friend; and that my motives were founded upon a merit, that, I believed, was never equalled: That, however indefenſible Mr. Lovelace was, he had always done juſtice to her virtue: That to a full conviction of her untainted honour it was owing, that he ſo earneſtly deſired to call ſo ineſtimable a jewel his —And was pro⯑ceeding, when ſhe again cut me ſhort—

Enough, and too much, of this ſubject, Sir!—If he will never more let me behold his face, that is all I have now to aſk of him.—Indeed, indeed, claſping her hands, I never will, if I can, by any means not criminally de⯑ſperate, avoid it.

What could I ſay for thee?—There was no room, how⯑ever, at that time, to touch this ſtring again, for fear of bringing upon myſelf a prohibition, not only of the ſub⯑ject, but of ever attending her again.

I gave ſome diſtant intimations of money-matters. I ſhould have told thee, that, when I read to her that paſſ⯑age, where thou biddeſt me force what ſums upon her I can get her to take—ſhe repeated, No, no, no, no! ſeve⯑ral times with great quickneſs; and I durſt no more than juſt intimate it again—and that ſo darkly, as left her room to ſeem not to underſtand me.

Indeed I know not the perſon, man or woman, I ſhould be ſo much afraid of diſobliging, or incurring a cenſure from, as from her. She has ſo much true dignity in her manner, without pride or arrogance; which, in thoſe who have either, one is tempted to mortify; ſuch a piercing eye, yet ſoftened ſo ſweetly with rays of benignity, that ſhe commands all one's reverence.

Methinks I have a kind of holy love for this angel of a woman; and it is matter of aſtoniſhment to me, that thou couldſt converſe with her a quarter of an hour together, and hold thy deviliſh purpoſes.

[182]Guarded as ſhe was by piety, prudence, virtue, dignity, family, fortune, and a purity of heart, that never woman before her boaſted, what a true devil muſt he be (yet I doubt I ſhall make thee proud!), who could reſolve to break thro' ſo many fences!

For my own part, I am more and more ſenſible, that I ought not to have contented myſelf with repreſenting againſt, and expoſtulating with thee upon, thy baſe inten⯑tions: And indeed I had it in my head, more than once, to try to do ſomething for her. But, wretch that I was! I was with-held by notions of falſe honour, as ſhe juſtly reproached me, becauſe of thy own voluntary communi⯑cations to me of thy purpoſes: And then, as ſhe was brought into ſuch a curſed houſe, and was ſo watched by thyſelf, as well as by thy infernal agents, I thought (knowing my man!), that I ſhould only accelerate the in⯑tended miſchiefs.—Moreover, finding thee ſo much over⯑awed by her virtue, that thou hadſt not, at thy firſt carry⯑ing her thither, the courage to attempt her; and that ſhe had, more than once, without knowing thy baſe views, obliged thee to abandon them, and to reſolve to do her juſtice, and thyſelf honour; I hardly doubted, that her merit would be triumphant at laſt.

It is my opinion (if thou holdeſt thy purpoſes to marry), that thou canſt not do better, than to procure thy real aunts, and thy real couſins, to pay her a viſit, and to be thy advocates: But, if they decline perſonal viſits, letters from them, and from my Lord M. ſupported by Miſs Howe's intereſt, may, perhaps, effect ſomething in thy favour.

But theſe are only my hopes, founded on what I wiſh for thy ſake. The lady, I really think, would chooſe death rather than thee: And the two women are of opi⯑nion, tho' they know not half of what ſhe has ſuffered, that her heart is actually broken.

At taking my leave, I tendered my beſt ſervices to her, and beſought her to permit me frequently to inquire after her health.

She made me no anſwer, but by bowing her head.

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

THIS morning I took chair to Smith's; and, being told, that the lady had a very bad night, but was up, I ſent for her worthy apothecary; who, on his com⯑ing to me, approving of my propoſal of calling in Dr. H. I bid the women acquaint her with the deſigned viſit.

It ſeems, ſhe was at firſt diſpleaſed; yet withdrew her objection: But, after a pauſe, aſked them, What ſhe ſhould do? She had effects of value, ſome of which ſhe intended, as ſoon as ſhe could, to turn into money; but, till then, had not a ſingle guinea to give the Doctor for his fee.

Mrs. Lovick ſaid, ſhe had five guineas by her: They were at her ſervice.

She would accept of three, ſhe ſaid, if ſhe would take that (pulling a diamond ring from her finger), till ſhe re⯑paid her; but on no other terms.

Having been told, I was below with Mr. Goddard, ſhe deſired to ſpeak one word with me, before ſhe ſaw the Doctor.

She was ſitting in an elbow-chair, leaning her head on a pillow; Mrs. Smith and the widow on each ſide her chair; her nurſe, with a phial of hartſhorn, behind her; in her own hand, her ſalts.

Raiſing her head at my entrance, ſhe inquired, If the Doctor knew Mr. Lovelace?

I told her, No; and that I believed you never ſaw him in your life.

Was the Doctor my friend?

He was; and a very worthy and ſkilful man. I named him for his eminence in his profeſſion: And Mr. Goddard ſaid, he knew not a better phyſician.

I have but one condition to make before I ſee the gentleman; that he refuſe not his fees from me. If I am poor, Sir, I am proud. I will not be under obli⯑gation. You may believe, Sir, I will not. I ſuffer this viſit, becauſe I would not appear ingrateful to the few friends I have left, nor obſtinate to ſuch of my relations, [184] as may ſome time hence, for their private ſatisfaction, inquire after my behaviour in my ſick hours. So, Sir, you know the condition. And don't let me be vexed: I am very ill; and cannot debate the matter.

Seeing her ſo determined, I told her, If it muſt be ſo, it ſhould.

Then, Sir, the gentleman may come. But I ſhall not be able to anſwer many queſtions. Nurſe, you can tell him, at the window there, what a night I have had, and how I have been for two days paſt. And Mr. Goddard, if he be here, can let him know what I have taken. Pray let me be as little queſtioned, as poſſible.

The Doctor paid his reſpects to her, with the gentle⯑manly addreſs for which he is noted: And ſhe caſt up her ſweet eyes to him, with that benignity which accom⯑panies her every graceful look.

I would have retired; but ſhe forbid it.

He took her hand, the lily not of ſo beautiful a white; Indeed, Madam, you are very low, ſaid he: But, give me leave to ſay, That you can do more for yourſelf, than all the faculty can do for you.

He then withdrew to the window. And, after a ſhort conference with the women, he turned to me, and to Mr. Goddard, at the other window: We can do nothing here, ſpeaking low, but by cordials, and nouriſhment. What friends has the lady? She ſeems to be a perſon of condi⯑tion; and, ill as ſhe is, a very fine woman.—A ſingle lady, I preſume?

I whiſperingly told him ſhe was. That there were ex⯑traordinary circumſtances in her caſe; as I would have ap⯑priſed him, had I met with him yeſterday. That her friends were very cruel to her; but that ſhe could not hear them named, without reproaching herſelf; tho' they were much more to blame, than ſhe.

I knew I was right, ſaid the Doctor. A love-caſe, Mr. Goddard! A love-caſe, Mr. Belford! There is one per⯑ſon in the world, who can do her more ſervice, than all the faculty.

Mr. Goddard ſaid, he had apprehended her diſorder was in her mind; and had treated her accordingly: And then told the Doctor what he had done: Which he approving [185] of, again taking her charming hand, ſaid, My good young Lady, you will require very little of our aſſiſtance. You muſt, in a great meaſure, be your own doctreſs. Come, dear Madam (Forgive me the familiar tenderneſs; your aſpect commands love, as well as reverence; and a father of children, ſome of them older than yourſelf, may be excuſed for them), chear up your ſpirits. Reſolve to do all in your power to be well; and you'll ſoon grow better.

You are very kind, Sir, ſaid ſhe. I will take whatever you direct. My ſpirits have been hurried. I ſhall be better, I believe, before I am worſe. The care of my good friends here, looking at the women, ſhall not meet with an ingrateful return.

The Doctor wrote. He would fain have declined his fee. As her malady, he ſaid, was rather to be relieved by the ſoothings of a friend, than by the preſcriptions of a phyſician, he ſhould think himſelf greatly honoured to be admitted rather to adviſe her in the one character, than to preſcribe to her in the other.

She anſwered, That ſhe ſhould be always glad to ſee ſo humane a gentleman: That his viſits would keep her in charity with his ſex: But that, were ſhe to forget that he was her phyſician, ſhe might be apt to abate of the con⯑fidence in his ſkill, which might be neceſſary to effect the amendment that was the end of his viſits.

And when he urged her ſtill further, which he did in a very polite manner, and as paſſing by the door two or three times a day, ſhe ſaid, ſhe ſhould always have pleaſure in conſidering him in the kind light he offered himſelf to her: That that might be very generous in one perſon to offer, which would be as ungenerous in another to accept: That indeed ſhe was not at preſent high in circumſtance; and he ſaw by the tender (which he muſt accept of), that ſhe had greater reſpect to her own convenience, than to his merit, or than to the pleaſure ſhe ſhould take in his viſits.

We all withdrew together; and the Doctor and Mr. Goddard having a great curioſity to know ſomething more of her ſtory, at the motion of the latter we went into a neighbouring coffee-houſe, and I gave them, in confi⯑dence, a brief relation of it; making all as light for you as I could; and yet you'll ſuppoſe, that, in order to do but [186] common juſtice to the lady's character, heavy muſt be that light.

LETTER XLVIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq [In Anſwer to Letter xlvi.]

THOU mightſt well apprehend, that I ſhould think thou wert playing me booty, in communicating my letter to the lady.

Thou aſkeſt, Who would think thou mightſt not read to her the leaſt exceptionable parts of a letter written in my own defence to thee?—I'll tell thee who— The man, who, in the ſame letter that he aſks this queſtion, tells the friend whom he expoſes to her reſentment, ‘That there is ſuch an air of levity runs thro' his moſt ſerious letters, that thoſe of his are leaſt fit to be ſeen, which ought to be moſt to his credit:’ And now, what thinkeſt thou of thy ſelf-condemned folly? Be, however, I charge thee, more circumſpect for the future, that ſo this clumſy error may ſtand ſingly by itſelf.

‘It is painful to her to think of me!’ ‘Libertine froth!’ ‘So pernicious and ſo deſpicable a plotter!’ ‘A man whoſe friendſhip is no credit to any-body!’ ‘Harden'd wretch!’ ‘The devil's counterpart!’ ‘A wicked, wicked man!’ — But did ſhe, could ſhe, dared ſhe, to ſay or imply all this?—And ſay it to a man whom ſhe [188] praiſes for humanity, and prefers to myſelf for that vir⯑tue; when all the humanity he ſhews, and ſhe knows it too, is by my direction—So robs me of the credit of my own works? Admirably intitled, all this ſhews her, to thy refinement upon the words reſentment and revenge. But thou wert always aiming and blundering at ſomething thou never couldſt make out.

The praiſe thou giveſt to her ingenuouſneſs, is another of thy peculiars. I think not as thou doſt, of her tell-tale recapitulations and exclamations:—What end can they anſwer? — Only that thou haſt an holy love [The devil fetch thee for thy oddity!], or it is extremely provoking to ſuppoſe one ſees ſuch a charming creature ſtand up⯑right before a libertine, and talk of the ſin againſt her, that cannot be forgiven!—I wiſh at my heart, that theſe chaſte ladies would have a little modeſty in their anger!— It would ſound very ſtrange, if I Robert Lovelace ſhould pretend to have more true delicacy, in a point that re⯑quires the utmoſt, than Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe.

I think I will put it into the head of her Nurſe Norton, and her Miſs Howe, by ſome one of my agents, to chide the dear novice for her proclamations.

But to be ſerious; Let me tell thee, that ſevere as ſhe is, and ſaucy, in aſking ſo contemptuouſly, ‘What a man is your friend, Sir, to ſet himſelf to puniſh guilty people!’ I will never forgive the curſed woman, who could commit this laſt horrid violence on ſo excellent a creature.

The barbarous inſults of the two nymphs, in their viſits to her; the choice of the moſt execrable den that could be found out, in order, no doubt, to induce her to go back to theirs; and the ſtill more execrable attempt, to propoſe to her a man who would pay the debt; a ſnare, I make no queſtion, laid for her deſpairing and re⯑ſenting heart by that deviliſh Sally (thinking her, no doubt, a woman), in order to ruin her with me; and to provoke me, in a fury, to give her up to their remorſeleſs cruelty; are outrages, that, to expreſs myſelf in her ſtyle, I never can, never will, forgive.

But as to thy opinion, and the two womens at Smith's, that her heart is broken; that is the true womens lan⯑guage: [189] I wonder how thou cameſt into it: Thou who haſt ſeen and heard of ſo many female deaths and revivals.

I'll tell thee what makes againſt this notion of theirs.

Her time of life, and charming conſtitution: The good ſhe ever delighted to do, and fancied ſhe was born to do: And which ſhe may ſtill continue to do, to as high a degree as ever; nay, higher; ſince I am no ſordid varlet, thou knoweſt: Her religious turn; a turn that will always teach her to bear inevitable evils with patience: The contemplation upon her laſt noble triumph over me, and over the whole crew; and upon her ſucceeding eſcape from us all: Her will unviolated: And the inward pride of having not deſerved the treatment ſhe has met with.

How is it poſſible to imagine, that a woman, who has all theſe conſolatories to reflect upon, will die of a broken heart?

On the contrary, I make no doubt, but that, as ſhe recovers from the dejection into which this laſt ſcurvy villainy (which none but wretches of her own ſex could have been guilty of), has thrown her, returning Love will re-enter her time-pacified mind: Her thoughts will then turn once more on the conjugal pivot: Of courſe ſhe will have livelier notions in her head; and theſe will make her perform all her circumvolutions with eaſe and pleaſure; tho' not with ſo high a degree of either, as if the dear proud rogue could have exalted herſelf above the reſt of her ſex, as ſhe turned round.

Thou aſkeſt, on reciting the bitter invectives that the lady made againſt thy poor friend (ſtanding before her, I ſuppoſe, with thy fingers in thy mouth), What couldſt thou ſay FOR me?

Have I not, in my former letters, ſuggeſted an hun⯑dred things, which a friend, in earneſt to vindicate or ex⯑cuſe a friend, might ſay, on ſuch an occaſion?

But now to current topics, and the preſent ſtate of matters here — It is true, as my ſervant told thee, that Miſs Howe had engaged, before this curſed woman's of⯑ficiouſneſs, to uſe her intereſt with her friend in my be⯑half: And yet ſhe told my couſins, in the viſit they made her, that it was her opinion, that ſhe would never for⯑give me.

[190]I long to know what Miſs Howe wrote to her friend, in order to induce her to marry the deſpicable plotter; the man whoſe friendſhip is no credit to any-body; the wicked, wicked man. Thou hadſt the two letters in thy hand. Had they been in mine, the ſeal would have yielded to the touch of my warm finger [Perhaps without the help of the poſt-office bullet], and the folds, as other plications have done, open'd of themſelves, to oblige my curioſity. A wicked omiſſion, Jack, not to contrive to ſend them down to me, by man and horſe! It might have paſſed, that the meſſenger, who brought the ſecond letter, took them both back. I could have returned them by another, when copied, as from Miſs Howe, and no-body but my⯑ſelf and thee the wiſer.

My two aunts, finding the treaty, upon the ſucceſs of which they have ſet their fooliſh hearts, likely to run into length, are about departing to their own ſeats; having taken from me the beſt ſecurity the nature of the caſe will admit of, that is to ſay, my word, to marry the lady, if ſhe will have me.

All I have to do, in my preſent uncertainty, is, to brighten up my faculties, by filing off the ruſt they have contracted by the town ſmoke, a long impriſonment in my cloſe attendance to ſo little purpoſe on my fair per⯑verſe; and to brace up, if I can, the relaxed fibres of my mind, which have been twitch'd and convuls'd like the nerves of ſome tottering paralytic, by means of the tumults ſhe has excited in it; that ſo I may be able to preſent to her a huſband as worthy as I can be of her ac⯑ceptance; or, if ſhe reject me, be in a capacity to re⯑ſume my uſual gaiety of heart, and ſhew others of the miſleading ſex, that I am not diſcouraged by the diffi⯑culties I have met with from this ſweet individual of it, from endeavouring to make myſelf as acceptable to them as before.

In this latter caſe, one tour to France and Italy, I dare ſay, will do the buſineſs. Miſs Harlowe will by that time have forgotten all ſhe has ſuffered from the ingrate⯑ful Lovelace: Tho' it will be impoſſible that her Lovelace ſhould ever forget a woman, whoſe equal he deſpairs to meet with, were he to travel from one end of the world to the other.

[191]If thou continueſt paying off the heavy debts my long letters, for ſo many weeks together, have made thee groan under, I will endeavour to reſtrain myſelf in the deſires I have (importunate as they are) of going to town, to throw myſelf at the feet of my ſoul's beloved. Policy, and honeſty, both join to ſtrengthen the reſtraint my own promiſe and thy engagement have laid me under on this head. I would not afreſh provoke: On the contrary, would give time for her reſentments to ſubſide, that ſo all that follows may be her own act and deed.

HICKMAN [I have a mortal averſion to that fellow!] has, by a line which I have juſt now received, requeſted an interview with me on Friday at Mr. Dormer's, as at a common friend's. Does the buſineſs he wants to meet me upon, require that it ſhould be at a common friend's?— A challenge implied; i'n't it, Belford? — I ſhall not be civil to him, I doubt. He has been an intermeddler!— Then I envy him on Miſs Howe's account: For if I have a right notion of this Hickman, it is impoſſible that that virago can ever love him.

A charming encouragement for a man of intrigue, when he has reaſon to believe, that the woman he has a view upon has no love for her husband! What good prin⯑ciples muſt that wife have, who is kept in againſt tempta⯑tion by a ſenſe of her duty, and plighted faith, where affe⯑ction has no hold of her!

Pr'ythee let's know, very particularly, how it fares with poor Belton.—'Tis an honeſt fellow.—Something more than his Thomaſine ſeems to ſtick with him.

Tourville, Mowbray, and myſelf, paſs away our time as pleaſantly as poſſibly we can without thee. I wiſh we don't add to Lord M.'s gouty days by the joy we give him.

This is one advantage, as I believe I have elſewhere obſerved, that we male-delinquents in love-matters have of the other ſex:—For while they, poor things! ſit ſigh⯑ing in holes and corners, or run to woods and groves to bemoan themſelves for their baffled hopes, we can rant and roar, hunt and hawk; and, by new loves, baniſh from our hearts all remembrance of the old ones.

[192]Merrily, however, as we paſs our time, my reflections upon the injuries done to this noble creature bring a qualm upon my heart very often. But I know ſhe will permit me to make her amends, after ſhe has plagued me hearti⯑ly; and that's my conſolation.

An honeſt fellow ſtill! — Clap thy wings, and crow, Jack! —

LETTER XLIX. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

WHAT, my deareſt creature, have been your ſuffer⯑ings!—What muſt have been your anguiſh on ſo diſgraceful an inſult, committed in the open ſtreets, and in the open day!

No end, I think, of the undeſerved calamities of a dear ſoul, who has been ſo unhappily driven and betrayed into the hands of a vile libertine! — How was I ſhocked at the receiving of your letter written by another hand, and only dictated by you!—You muſt be very ill. Nor is it to be wondered at. But I hope it is rather from hurry, and ſurprize, and lowneſs, which may be over⯑come, than from a grief given way to, which may be at⯑tended with effects I cannot bear to think of.

But whatever you do, my dear, you muſt not deſpond! Indeed you muſt not deſpond! Hitherto you have been in no fault: But deſpair would be all your own; and the worſt fault you can be guilty of.

I cannot bear to look upon another hand inſtead of yours. My dear creature, ſend me a few lines, tho' ever ſo few, in your own hand, if poſſible.—For they will revive my heart; eſpecially if they can acquaint me of your amended health.

I expect your anſwer to my letter of the 13th. We all expect it with impatience.

His relations are perſons of ſo much honour—They are ſo very earneſt to rank you among them—The wretch is ſo very penitent: Every one of his family ſays he is — Your own are ſo implacable—Your laſt diſtreſs, tho' the conſe⯑quence of his former villainy, yet neither brought on by [193] his direction, nor with his knowlege; and ſo much re⯑ſented by him—That my mamma is abſolutely of opinion, that you ſhould be his—Eſpecially if, yielding to my wiſhes, as in my letter, and thoſe of all his friends, you would have complied, had it not been for this horrid arreſt.

I will incloſe the copy of the letter I wrote to Miſs Montague laſt Tueſday, on hearing that no-body knew what was become of you; and the anſwer to it, under⯑written and ſigned by Lord M. and Lady Sarah Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance, as well as by the young ladies —And alſo by the wretch himſelf.

I own, that I like not the turn of what he has written to me; and before I will further intereſt myſelf in his favour, I have determined to inform myſelf, by a friend, from his own mouth, of his ſincerity, and whether his whole inclination be in his requeſt to me, excluſive of the wiſhes of his relations. Yet my heart riſes againſt him, on the ſuppoſition that there is the ſhadow of a reaſon for ſuch a queſtion, the lady Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe. — But, I think, with my mother, that marriage is now the only means left to make your future life tolerably eaſy—happy there is no ſaying.—In the eye of the world itſelf, his diſ⯑graces, in that caſe, will be more than yours.—And to thoſe who know you, glorious will be your triumph.

I am obliged to accompany my mother ſoon to the Iſle of Wight. My aunt Harman is in a declining way, and inſiſts upon ſeeing us both; and Mr. Hickman too, I think.

His ſiſter, of whom we had heard ſo much, with her Lord, were brought t'other day to viſit us. She strangely likes me, or ſays ſhe does.

I can't ſay, but that I think ſhe anſwers the excellent character we have heard of her.

It would be death to me to ſet out for the little iſland, and not ſee you firſt: And yet my mother (fond of exert⯑ing an authority, that ſhe herſelf, by that exertion, often brings into queſtion) inſiſts, that my next viſit to you muſt be a congratulatory one, as Mrs. Lovelace.

When I know what will be the reſult of the queſtions to be put in my name to that wretch, and what is your mind on my letter of the 13th, I ſhall tell you more of mine.

[194]The bearer promiſes to make ſo much diſpatch, as to attend you this very afternoon. May he return with good tidings to

LETTER L. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOU oppreſs me, my deareſt Miſs Howe, by your flaming, yet ſteady love. I will be very brief, be⯑cauſe I am not well; yet a good deal better than I was; and becauſe I am preparing an anſwer to yours of the 13th. But, beforehand, I muſt tell you, my dear, I will not have that man — Don't be angry with me. — But in⯑deed I won't. So let him be aſked no queſtions about me, I beſeech you.

I do not deſpond, my dear. I hope I may ſay, I will not deſpond. Is not my condition greatly mended? I thank Heaven it is!

I am no priſoner now in a vile houſe. I am not now in the power of that man's devices. I am not now obliged to hide myſelf in corners for fear of him. One of his intimate companions is become my warm friend, and engages to keep him from me, and that by his own conſent. I am among honeſt people. I have all my cloaths and effects reſtored me. The wretch himſelf bears teſtimony to my honour.

Indeed I am very weak and ill▪ But I have an excel⯑lent phyſician, Dr. H. and as worthy an apothecary, Mr. Goddard.—Their treatment of me, my dear, is perfectly paternal!—My mind too, I can find, begins to ſtrengthen: And methinks, at times, I find myſelf ſuperior to my calamities.

I ſhall have ſinkings ſometimes. I muſt expect ſuch. And my father's maledict— But you will chide me for introducing that, now I am enumerating my comforts.

But I charge you, my dear, that you do not ſuffer my calamities to ſit too heavy upon your own mind: If you do, that will be to new-point ſome of thoſe arrows, that have been blunted, and loſt their ſharpneſs.

[195]If you would contribute to my happineſs, give way, my dear, to your own; and to the chearful proſpects before you!

You will think very meanly of your Clariſſa Harlowe, if you do not believe, that the greateſt pleaſure ſhe can re⯑ceive in this life, is in your proſperity and welfare. Think not of me, my only friend, but as we were in times paſt▪ And ſuppoſe me gone a great, great way off!—A long journey!—How often are the deareſt of friends, at their country's call, thus parted,—with a certainty for years— with a probability for ever!

Love me ſtill, however. But let it be with a weaning love. I am not what I was, when we were inſeparable lovers, as I may ſay.—Our views muſt now be different. —Reſolve, my dear, to make a worthy man happy, be⯑cauſe a worthy man muſt make you ſo.—And ſo, my deareſt love, for the preſent adieu!—Adieu, my deareſt love!— But I ſhall ſoon write again, I hope!

LETTER LI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq [In Anſwer to Letter xlviii.]

I Read that part of your concluſion to poor Belton▪ where you inquire after him, and mention how mer⯑rily you, and the reſt, paſs your time at M. Hall. He fetched a deep ſigh; You are all very happy! were his words: — I am ſorry they were his words; for, poor fellow, he is going very faſt. Change of air, he hopes, will mend him, joined to the chearful company I have left him in. But nothing, I dare ſay, will.

A conſuming malady, and a conſuming miſtreſs, to an indulgent keeper, are dreadful things to ſtruggle with both together: Violence muſt be uſed to get rid of the latter: and yet he has not ſpirit left him, to exert himſelf. His houſe is Thomaſine's houſe; not his. He has not been within his doors for a fortnight paſt. Vagabonding about from inn to inn; entering each for a bait only; and ſtaying two or three days without power to remove; and hardly knowing which to go to next. His malady is within him; and he cannot run away from it.

[196]Her boys (once he thought them his) are ſturdy enough to ſhoulder him in his own houſe as they paſs by him. Siding with the mother, they in a manner expel him; and, in his abſence, riot away on the remnant of his broken fortunes. As to their mother, who was once ſo tender, ſo ſubmiſſive, ſo ſtudious to oblige, that we all pronounced him happy, and his courſe of life the eligible, ſhe is now ſo termagant, ſo inſolent, that he cannot con⯑tend with her, without doing infinite prejudice to his health. A broken-ſpirited defenſive, hardly a defenſive, therefore reduced to: And this to a heart, for ſo many years waging offenſive war (nor valuing whom the oppo⯑nent), what a reduction!—Now comparing himſelf to the ſuperannuated lion in the fable, kick'd in the jaws, and laid ſprawling, by the ſpurning heel of an ignoble aſs!

I have undertaken his cauſe. He has given me leave, yet not without reluctance, to put him into poſſeſſion of his own houſe; and to place in it for him his unhappy ſiſter, whom he has hitherto ſlighted, becauſe unhappy. It is hard, he told me (and wept, poor fellow, when he ſaid it), that he cannot be permitted to die quietly in his own houſe!—The fruits of bleſſed keeping theſe! —

Tho' but lately appriſed of her infidelity, it now comes out to have been of ſo long continuance, that he has no room to believe the boys to be his: Yet how fond did he uſe to be of them!

If I have occaſion for your aſſiſtance, and that of our compeers, in reinſtating the poor fellow, I will give you notice. Mean time, I have juſt now been told, that Thomaſine declares ſhe will not ſtir: For, it ſeems, ſhe ſuſpects that meaſures will be fallen upon to make her quit. She is Mrs. Belton, ſhe ſays, and will prove her marriage.

If ſhe give herſelf theſe airs in his life-time, what would ſhe attempt to do after his death?

Her boys threaten any-body, who ſhall preſume to in⯑ſult their mother. Their father (as they call poor Belton) they ſpeak of as an unnatural one. And their probably true father is for ever there, hoſtilely there, paſſing for her couſin, as uſual: Now her protecting couſin.

Hardly ever, I dare ſay, was there a keeper, that did not make a keepereſs; who laviſh'd away on her kept-fellow, [197] what ſhe obtained from the extravagant folly of him who kept her.

I will do without you, if I can. The caſe will be only, as I conceive, like that of the antient Sarmatians, returning, after many years abſence, to their homes, their wives then in poſſeſſion of their ſlaves: So that they had to contend not only with thoſe wives, conſcious of their infidelity, and with their ſlaves, but with the children of thoſe ſlaves, grown up to manhood, reſolute to defend their mothers, and their long manumitted fathers. But the noble Sarmatians, ſcorning to attack their ſlaves with equal weapons, only provided themſelves with the ſame ſort of whips, with which they uſed formerly to chaſtiſe them. And, attacking them with them, the miſcreants fled before them.—In memory of which, to this day, the device on the coin in Novogrod in Ruſſia, a city of the antient Sarmatia, is a man on horſeback, with a whip in his hand.

The poor fellow takes it ill, that you did not preſs him more than you did, to be of your party at M. Hall. It is owing to Mowbray, he is ſure, that he had ſo very ſlight an invitation, from one whoſe invitations uſed to be ſo warm.

Mowbray's ſpeech to him, he ſays, he never will for⯑give: "Why, Tom," ſaid the brutal fellow, with a curſe, ‘thou droopeſt like a pip or roup-cloaking chicken. Thou ſhouldſt grow perter, or ſubmit to a ſolitary qua⯑rantine, if thou wouldſt not infect the whole brood.’

For my own part, only that this poor fellow is in di⯑ſtreſs, as well in his affairs, as in his mind, or I ſhould be ſick of you all. Such is the reliſh I have of the con⯑verſation, and ſuch my admiration of the deportment and ſentiments of this divine lady, that I would forego a month, even of thy company, to be admitted into hers but for one hour: And I am highly in conceit with my⯑ſelf, greatly as I uſed to value thine, for being able, ſpon⯑taneouſly, as I may ſay, to make this preference.

It is, after all, a deviliſh life we have lived. And to conſider how it all ends in a very few years: To ſee what a ſtate of ill health this poor fellow is ſo ſoon reduced to: And then to obſerve how every one of ye run away from [198] the unhappy being, as rats from a falling houſe▪ is fine comfort to help a man to look back upon companions ill-choſen, and a life miſ-ſpent!

For my own part, if I can get ſome good family to credit me with a ſiſter or a daughter, as I have now an increaſed fortune, which will enable me to propoſe handſome ſettle⯑ments, I will deſert ye all; marry, and live a life of rea⯑ſon, rather than a life of brute, for the time to come.

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

I Was forced to take back my twenty guineas. How the women managed it, I can't tell (I ſuppoſe too readily found a purchaſer for the rich ſuit); but ſhe miſ⯑truſted, that I was the advancer of the money; and would not let the cloaths go. But Mrs. Lovick has actually ſold, for fifteen guineas, ſome rich lace, worth three times the ſum: Out of which ſhe repaid her the money ſhe bor⯑rowed for fees to the doctor, in an illneſs occaſioned by the barbarity of the moſt ſavage of men. Thou kn [...]weſt his name!

The Doctor called on her in the morning, it ſeems, and had a ſhort debate with her about fees. She inſiſted, that he ſhould take one every time he came, write or not write; miſtruſting, that he only gave verbal directions to Mrs. Lovick, or the nurſe, to avoid taking any.

He ſaid, That it would have been impoſſible for him, had he not been a phyſician, to forbear inquiries after the health and welfare of ſo excellent a perſon. He had not the thought of paying her a compliment in declining the offer'd fee: But he knew her caſe could not ſo ſuddenly vary, as to demand his daily viſits. She muſt permit him, therefore, to inquire after her health of the women be⯑low; and he muſt not think of coming up, if he were to be pecuniarily rewarded for the ſatisfaction he was ſo deſirous to give himſelf.

It ended in a compromiſe for a fee each other time: Which ſhe unwillingly ſubmitted to; telling him, that tho' ſhe was at preſent deſolate and in diſgrace, yet her cir⯑cumſtances [199] were, of right, high; and no expences could riſe ſo, as to be ſcrupled, whether ſhe lived or died. But ſhe ſubmitted, ſhe added, to the compromiſe, in hopes to ſee him as often as he had opportunity; for ſhe really looked upon him, and Mr. Goddard, from their kind and tender treatment of her, with a regard next to filial.

I hope thou wilt make thyſelf acquainted with this worthy doctor, when thou comeſt to town; and give him thy thanks, for putting her into conceit with the Sex that thou haſt given her ſo much reaſon to execrate.

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

JUST returned from an interview with this Hickman: A preciſe fop of a fellow, as ſtarch'd as his ruffles.

Thou knoweſt I love him not, Jack; and whom we love not, we cannot allow a merit to; perhaps not the merit they ſhould be granted.—However, I am in earneſt when I ſay, that he ſeems to me to be ſo ſet, ſo prim, ſo affected, ſo mincing, yet ſo clouterly in his perſon, that I dare engage for thy opinion, if thou doſt juſtice to him, and to thyſelf, that thou never beheldeſt ſuch another, except in a pier-glaſs.

I'll tell thee how I play'd him off.

He came in his own chariot to Dormer's; and we took a turn in the garden, at his requeſt. He was deviliſh ce⯑remonious, and made a buſhel of apologies for the free⯑dom he was going to take; and, after half a hundred hums and haws, told me, that he came—that he came—to wait on me—at the requeſt of dear Miſs Howe, on the account —on the account—of Miſs Harlowe.

Well, Sir, ſpeak on, ſaid I: But give me leave to ſay, that if your book be as long as your preface, it will take up a week to read it.

This was pretty rough, thou'lt ſay: But there's nothing like balking theſe formaliſts at firſt. When they're put out of their road, they are filled with doubts of them⯑ſelves, and can never get into it again: So that an [200] honeſt fellow, impertinently attacked, as I was, has all the game in his own hand, quite thro' the conference.

He ſtroak'd his chin, and hardly knew what to ſay. At laſt, after parentheſis within parentheſis, apologizing for apologies, in imitation, I ſuppoſe, of Swift's Digreſ⯑ſions in Praiſe of Digreſſions,—I preſume, I preſume, Sir, you were privy to the viſit made to Miſs Howe by the young ladies your couſins, in the name of Lord M. and Lady Sarah Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance?

I was, Sir: And Miſs Howe had a letter afterwards, ſigned by his Lordſhip and thoſe Ladies, and underwrit⯑ten by myſelf. Have you ſeen it, Sir?

I can't ſay but I have. It is the principal cauſe of this viſit: For Miſs Howe thinks your part of it is written with ſuch an air of levity—Pardon me, Sir,—that ſhe knows not whether you are in earneſt, or not, in your addreſs to her for her intereſt to her friend ^(a).

Will Miſs Howe permit me to explain myſelf in perſon to her, Mr. Hickman?

O Sir, by no means: Miſs Howe, I am ſure, would not give you that trouble.

I ſhould not think it a trouble. I will moſt readily at⯑tend you, Sir, to Miſs Howe, and ſatisfy her in all her ſcruples. Come, Sir, I will wait upon you now. You have a chariot. Are alone. We can talk as we ride.

He heſitated, wriggled, winced, ſtroaked his ruffles, ſet his wig, and pulled his neckcloth, which was long enough for a bib—I am not going directly back to Miſs Howe, Sir. It will be as well, if you will be ſo good as to ſatisfy Miſs Howe by me.

What is it ſhe ſcruples, Mr. Hickman?

Why, Sir, Miſs Howe obſerves, that in your part of the letter, you ſay—But let me ſee, Sir: I have a copy of what you wrote—Pulling it out—Will you give me leave, Sir?—Thus you begin—Dear Miſs Howe —

No offence, I hope, Mr. Hickman?

None in the leaſt, Sir!—None at all, Sir!—Taking aim, as it were to read.

Do you uſe ſpectacles, Mr. Hickman?

Spectacles, Sir! His whole broad face lifted up at me: [201] Spectacles!—What makes you aſk me ſuch a queſtion? Such a young man as I uſe ſpectacles, Sir!—

They do in Spain, Mr. Hickman; young as well as old; to ſave their eyes. — Have you ever read Prior's Alma, Mr. Hickman?

I have, Sir:—Cuſtom is every-thing in nations, as well as with individuals: I know the meaning of your que⯑ſtion.—But 'tis not the Engliſh cuſtom.—

Was you ever in Spain, Mr. Hickman?

No, Sir: I have been in Holland.

In Holland, Sir!—Never in France or Italy?—I was reſolved to travel with him into the land of Puzzledom.

No, Sir, I cannot ſay I have, as yet.

That's a wonder, Sir, when on the continent!

I went on a particular affair: I was obliged to return ſoon.

Well, Sir; you was going to read—Pray be pleaſed to proceed.

Again he took aim, as if his eyes were older than the reſt of him; and read, After what is written above, and ſigned by names and characters of ſuch unqueſtionable honour—To be ſure, taking off his eye, no-body queſtions the honour of Lord M. nor that of the good ladies, who ſigned the letter.

I hope, Mr. Hickman, no-body queſtions mine neither?

If you pleaſe, Sir, I will read on:—I might have been excuſed ſigning a name, almoſt as hateful to myſelf [You are pleaſed to ſay], as I KNOW it is to YOU —

Well, Mr. Hickman, I muſt interrupt you at this place. In what I wrote to Miſs Howe, I diſtinguiſh'd the word KNOW. I had a reaſon for it. Miſs Howe has been very free with my character. I have never done her any harm. I take it very ill of her. And I hope, Sir, you come in her name to make excuſes for it.

Miſs Howe, Sir, is a very polite young lady. She is not accuſtomed to treat any gentleman's character unbe⯑comingly.

Then I have the more reaſon to take it amiſs, Mr. Hickman.

Why, Sir, you know the friendſhip —

[202]No friendſhip ſhould warrant ſuch freedoms as Miſs Howe has taken with my character.

I believe he began to wiſh he had not come near me. He ſeemed quite diſconcerted.

Have you not heard Miſs Howe treat my name with great —

Sir, I come not to offend or affront you: But you know what a love there is between Miſs Howe and Miſs Harlowe.—I doubt, Sir, you have not treated Miſs Har⯑lowe, as ſo fine a young lady deſerved to be treated: And if love for her friend has made Miſs Howe take freedoms, as you call them, a generous mind, on ſuch an occaſion, will rather be ſorry for having given the cauſe, than—

I know your conſequence, Sir!—But I'd rather have this reproof from a lady, than from a gentleman. I have a great deſire to wait upon Miſs Howe. I am perſuaded we ſhould ſoon come to a good underſtanding. Generous minds are always of kin. I know we ſhould agree in every-thing. Pray, Mr. Hickman, be ſo kind as to in⯑troduce me to Miſs Howe.

Sir—I can ſignify your deſire, if you pleaſe, to Miſs Howe.

Do ſo. Be pleaſed to read on, Mr. Hickman.

He did very formally, as if I remembered not what I had written; and when he came to the paſſage about the halter, the parſon, and the hangman, reading it, Why, Sir, ſays he, does not this look like a jeſt?—Miſs Howe thinks it does. It is not in the lady's power, you know, Sir, to doom you to the gallows.

Then, if it were, Mr. Hickman, you think ſhe would?

You ſay here to Miſs Howe, proceeded he, that Miſs Harlowe is the moſt injured of her ſex. I know from Miſs Howe▪ that ſhe highly reſents the injuries you own: In⯑ſomuch that Miſs Howe doubts that ſhe ſhall ever prevail upon her to overlook them: And as your family are all deſirous you ſhould repair her wrongs, and likewiſe deſire Miſs Howe's interpoſition with her friend; Miſs Howe fears, from this part of your letter, that you are too much in jeſt; and that your offer to do her juſtice, is rather in compliment to your friends intreaties, than proceeding from your own inclinations: And ſhe deſires to know [203] your true ſentiments on this occaſion, before ſhe interpoſes further.

Do you think, Mr. Hickman, that, if I am capable of deceiving my own relations, I have ſo much obligation to Miſs Howe, who has always treated me with great free⯑dom, as to acknowlege to her, what I don't to them?

Sir, I beg pardon: — But Miſs Howe thinks, that, as you have written to her, ſhe may aſk you, by me, for an explanation of what you have written.

You ſee, Mr. Hickman, ſomething of me. — Do you think I am in jeſt, or in earneſt?

I ſee, Sir, you are a gay gentleman, of fine ſpirits, and all That — All I beg in Miſs Howe's name, is, to know, if you really, and bona fide, join with your friends, in deſiring her to uſe her intereſt to reconcile you to Miſs Harlowe?

I ſhould be extremely glad to be reconciled to Miſs Harlowe; and ſhould owe great obligations to Miſs Howe, if ſhe could bring about ſo happy an event.

Well, Sir, and you have no objections to marriage, I preſume, as the terms of that reconciliation?

I never liked matrimony in my life. I muſt be plain with you, Mr. Hickman.

I am ſorry for it: I think it a very happy ſtate:

I hope you will find it ſo, Mr. Hickman.

I doubt not but I ſhall, Sir. And I dare ſay, ſo would you, if you were to have Miſs Harlowe.

If I could be happy in it with any-body, it would be with Miſs Harlowe.

I am ſurpriſed, Sir!—Then, after all, you don't think of marrying Miſs Harlowe!—After the hard uſage—

What hard uſage, Mr. Hickman? I don't doubt but a lady of her niceneſs has repreſented what would appear trifles to any other, in a very ſtrong light.

If what I have had hinted to me, Sir—Excuſe me— has been offered to the lady, ſhe has more than trifles to complain of.

Let me know what you have heard, Mr. Hickman? I will very truly anſwer to the accuſations.

Sir, you know beſt what you have done: You own the lady is the moſt injured, as well as the moſt deſerving, of her ſex.

[204]I do, Sir; and yet, I would be glad to know what you have heard; for on that, perhaps, depends my anſwer to the queſtions Miſs Howe puts to me by you.

Why then, Sir, ſince you aſk it, you cannot be diſ⯑pleaſed if I anſwer you:—In the firſt place, Sir, you will acknowlege, I ſuppoſe, that you promiſed Miſs Harlowe Marriage, and all That?

Well, Sir, and I ſuppoſe what you have to charge me with, is, That I was deſirous to have all That, without marriage.

Cot-ſo, Sir, I know you are deemed to be a man of wit: But may I not aſk, if theſe things ſit not too light upon you?

When a thing is done, and cannot be helped, 'tis right to make the beſt of it. I wiſh the lady would think ſo too.

I think, Sir, ladies ſhould not be deceived. I think a promiſe to a lady ſhould be as binding as to any other perſon, at the leaſt.

I believe you think ſo, Mr. Hickman: And I believe you are a very honeſt good ſort of a man.

I would always keep my word, Sir, whether to man or woman.

You ſay well. And far be it from me to perſuade you to do otherwiſe. But what have you farther heard?

Thou wilt think, Jack, I muſt be very deſirous to know in what light my elected ſpouſe had repreſented things to Miſs Howe; and how far Miſs Howe had communicated them to Mr. Hickman.

Sir, this is no part of my preſent buſineſs.

But, Mr. Hickman, 'tis part of mine. I hope you would not expect, that I ſhould anſwer your queſtions, at the ſame time that you refuſe to anſwer mine. What, pray, have you farther heard?

Why then, Sir, if I muſt ſay, I am told, that Miſs Harlowe was carried to a very bad houſe.

Why, indeed, the people did not prove ſo good as they ſhould be▪—What farther have you heard?

I have heard, Sir, that the lady had ſtrange advantages taken of her, very unfair ones; but what I cannot ſay.

And cannot you ſay? Cannot you gueſs? Then I'll tell you, Sir. Perhaps ſome liberty was taken with her, [205] when ſhe was aſleep. Do you think no lady ever was taken at ſuch an advantage?—You know, Mr. Hickman, that ladies are very ſhy of truſting themſelves with the modeſteſt of our ſex, when they are diſpoſed to ſleep; and why ſo, if they did not expect, that advantages would be taken of them at ſuch times?

But, Sir, had not the lady ſomething given her to make her ſleep?

Ay, Mr. Hickman, that's the queſtion: I want to know if the lady ſays ſhe had?

I have not ſeen all ſhe has written; but by what I have heard, it is a very black affair—Excuſe me, Sir.

I do excuſe you, Mr. Hickman: But, ſuppoſing it were ſo, do you think a lady was never impoſed upon by wine, or ſo? — Do you think the moſt cautious woman in the world might not be cheated by a ſtronger liquor, for a ſmaller, when ſhe was thirſty, after a fatigue in this very warm weather? And do you think, if ſhe was thus thrown into a profound ſleep, that ſhe is the only lady that was ever taken at ſuch advantage?

Even as you make it, Mr. Lovelace, this matter is not a light one. But I fear it is a great deal heavier than as you put it.

What reaſons have you to fear this, Sir? What has the lady ſaid? Pray, let me know. I have reaſon to be ſo earneſt.

Why, Sir, Miſs Howe herſelf knows not the whole. The lady promiſes to give her all the particulars, at a proper time, if ſhe lives; but has ſaid enough to make it out to be a very bad affair.

I am glad Miſs Harlowe has not yet given all the par⯑ticulars. And, ſince ſhe has not, you may tell Miſs Howe from me, That neither ſhe, nor any lady in the world, can be more virtuous than Miſs Harlowe is to this hour, as to her own mind. Tell her, that I hope ſhe never will know the particulars; but that ſhe has been unworthily uſed: Tell her, that tho' I know not what ſhe has ſaid, yet I have ſuch an opinion of her veracity, that I would blindly ſubſcribe to the truth of every tittle of it, tho' it make me ever ſo black. Tell her, that I have but three things to blame her for: One, That ſhe won't give me an [206] opportunity of repairing her wrongs: The Second, That ſhe is ſo ready to acquaint every-body with what ſhe has ſuffered, that it will put it out of my power to redreſs thoſe wrongs, with any tolerable reputation to either of us. Will this, Mr. Hickman, anſwer any part of the in⯑tention of this viſit?

Why, Sir, this is talking like a man of honour, I own. But you ſay there is a Third thing you blame the lady for; may I aſk what That is?

I don't know, Sir, whether I ought to tell it you, or not. Perhaps you won't believe it, if I do. But tho' the lady will tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, yet, perhaps, ſhe will not tell the whole truth.

Pray, Sir—But it mayn't be proper: — Yet you give me great curioſity: Sure there is no miſconduct in the lady. I hope there is not. I am ſure, if Miſs Howe did not believe her to be faultleſs in every particular, ſhe would not intereſt herſelf ſo much in her favour as ſhe does, dearly as ſhe loves her.

I love the lady too well, Mr. Hickman, to wiſh to leſſen her in Miſs Howe's opinion; eſpecially as ſhe is abandoned of every other friend. But, perhaps, it would hardly be credited, if I ſhould tell you.

I ſhould be very ſorry, Sir, and ſo would Miſs Howe, if this poor lady's conduct had laid her under obligation [...] to you for this reſerve. — You have ſo much the appear⯑ance of a gentleman, as well as are ſo much diſtinguiſhed in your family and fortunes, that I hope you are incapa⯑ble of loading ſuch a young lady as this, in order to lighten yourſelf.—Excuſe me, Sir.

I do, I do, Mr. Hickman. You ſay, you came not with any intention to affront me. I take freedom, and I give it.—I ſhould be very loth, I repeat, to ſay any-thing, that may weaken Miſs Harlowe in the good opinion of the only friend ſhe thinks ſhe has left.

It may not be proper, ſaid he, for me to know your third article againſt this unhappy lady: But I never heard of any body, out of her own implacable family, that had the leaſt doubt of her honour. Mrs. Howe, indeed, once ſaid, after a conference with one of her uncles, that ſhe feared all was not right of her ſide.—But elſe, I never heard—

[207]Oons, Sir, in a fierce tone, and with an erect mien, ſtopping ſhort upon him, which made him ſtart back— 'Tis next to blaſphemy to queſtion the lady's honour. She is more pure than a veſtal; for veſtals have been often warmed by their own fires. No age, from the firſt to the preſent, ever produced, nor will the future, to the end of the world, I dare averr, ever produce, a young bloom⯑ing lady, tried as ſhe has been tried, who has ſtood all tri⯑als, as ſhe has done.— Let me tell you, Sir, That you never ſaw, never knew, never heard of, ſuch another lady, as Miſs Harlowe.

Sir, Sir, I beg your pardon. Far be it from me to queſtion the lady. You have not heard me ſay a word, that could be ſo conſtrued. I have the utmoſt honour for her. Miſs Howe loves her, as ſhe loves her own ſoul; and that ſhe would not do, if ſhe were not ſure ſhe were as virtuous as herſelf.

As herſelf, Sir!—I have a high opinion of Miſs Howe, Sir—But, I dare ſay—

What, Sir, dare you ſay of Miſs Howe?—I hope, Sir, you will not preſume to ſay any-thing to the diſparage⯑ment of Miſs Howe!

Preſume, Mr. Hickman!—That is preſuming language, let me tell you, Mr. Hickman!

The occaſion for it, Mr. Lovelace, if deſigned, is pre⯑ſuming, if you pleaſe.—I am not a man ready to take of⯑fence, Sir—Eſpecially where I am employed as a medi⯑ator. But no man breathing ſhall ſay diſparaging things of Miſs Howe, in my hearing, without obſervation.

Well ſaid, Mr. Hickman. I diſlike not your ſpirit, on ſuch a ſuppoſed occaſion. But what I was going to ſay is this, That there is not, in my opinion, a woman in the world, who ought to compare herſelf with Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, till ſhe has ſtood her trials, and has behaved under them, and after them, as ſhe has done. You ſee, Sir, I ſpeak againſt myſelf. You ſee▪ I do. For, liber⯑tine as I am thought to be, I never will attempt to bring down the meaſures of right and wrong to the ſtandard of my actions.

Why, Sir, this is very right. It is very noble, I will ſay. But 'tis pity—Excuſe me, Sir—'tis pity, that the [208] man who can pronounce ſo fine a ſentence, will not ſquare his actions accordingly.

That, Mr. Hickman, is another point. We all err in ſome things. I wiſh not that Miſs Howe ſhould have Miſs Harlowe's trials: And I rejoice, that ſhe is in no danger of any ſuch from ſo good a man.

Poor Hickman!— He looked as if he knew not whe⯑ther I meant a compliment or a reflection!

But, proceeded I, ſince I find that I have excited your curioſity, that you may not go away with a doubt that may be injurious to the moſt admirable of women, I am inclined to hint to you, what I have in the third place to blame her for.

Sir, as you pleaſe—It may not be proper —

It cannot be very improper, Mr. Hickman—So let me aſk you, What would Miſs Howe think, if her friend is the more determined againſt me, becauſe ſhe thinks (in re⯑venge to me, I verily believe that!) of encouraging an⯑other lover?

How, Sir!— Sure this cannot be the caſe!— I can tell you, Sir, if Miſs Howe thought this, ſhe would not ap⯑prove of it at all: For, little as you think Miſs Howe likes you, Sir, and little as ſhe approves of your actions by her friend, I know ſhe is of opinion, that ſhe ought to have no-body living, but you: And ſhould continue ſingle all her life, if ſhe be not yours.

Revenge and obſtinacy, Mr. Hickman, will make wo⯑men, the beſt of them, do very unaccountable things.— Rather than not put out both eyes of the man they are offended with, they will give up one of their own.

I don't know what to ſay to this, Sir: But, ſure, ſhe cannot encourage any other perſon's addreſs! — So ſoon too—Why, Sir, ſhe is, as we are told, ſo ill, and ſo weak —

Not in reſentment weak, I'll aſſure you. I am well acquainted with all her movements—And I tell you, be⯑lieve it, or not, that ſhe refuſes me in view of another lover.

Can it be?

'Tis true, by my ſoul!—Has ſhe not hinted This to Miſs Howe, do you think?

No indeed, Sir. If ſhe had, I ſhould not have trou⯑bled you, at this time, from Miſs Howe.

[209]Well then, you ſee I am right: That tho' ſhe cannot be guilty of a falſhood, yet ſhe has not told her friend the whole truth.

What ſhall a man ſay to theſe things! looking moſt ſtupidly perplexed.

Say! ſay, Mr. Hickman!— Who can account for the workings and ways of a paſſionate and offended lady? Endleſs would be the hiſtories I could give you, within my own knowlege, of the dreadful effects of womens paſ⯑ſionate reſentments, and what that Sex will do; when diſ⯑appointed. But can there be a ſtronger inſtance than this, of ſuch a perſon as Miſs Harlowe, who, at this very in⯑ſtant, and ill as ſhe is, not only encourages, but, in a manner, makes court to, one of the moſt odious dogs that ever was ſeen? I think Miſs Howe ſhould not be told this. And yet ſhe ought too, in order to diſſuade her from ſuch a prepoſterous raſhneſs.

O fie! O ſtrange! Miſs Howe knows nothing of this! To be ſure ſhe won't look upon her, if this be true!

'Tis true, very true, Mr. Hickman! True as I am here to tell you ſo! — And he is an ugly fellow too; ug⯑lier to look at than me.

Than you, Sir! Why, to be ſure, you are one of the handſomeſt men in England.

Well, but the wretch ſhe ſo ſpitefully prefers to me is a miſhapen, meager varlet; more like a ſkeleton than a man! Then he dreſſes—you never ſaw a devil ſo bedi⯑zened! Hardly a coat to his back, nor a ſhoe to his foot: A bald-pated villain, yet grudges to buy a peruke to hide his baldneſs: For he is as covetous as hell, never ſatisfied, yet plaguy rich.

Why, Sir, there is ſome joke in this, ſurely. A man of common parts knows not how to take ſuch gentlemen as you. But, Sir, if there be any truth in the ſtory, what is he? Some Jew, or miſerly citizen, I ſuppoſe, that may have preſumed on the lady's diſtreſsful circumſtances; and your lively wit points him out as it pleaſes.

Why the raſcal has eſtates in every county in England, and out of England too.

Some Eaſt-India governor, I ſuppoſe, if there be any-thing in it. The lady once had thoughts of going abroad. [210] But, I fancy, all this time you are in jeſt, Sir. If not, we muſt ſurely have heard of him—

Heard of him! Ay, Sir, we have all heard of him— But none of us care to be intimate with him—except this lady—and that, as I told you, in ſpite to me—His name, in ſhort, is DEATH!—DEATH, Sir, ſtamping, and ſpeaking loud, and full in his ear; which made him jump half a yard high.

Thou never beheldeſt any man ſo diſconcerted. He looked as if the frightful ſkeleton was before him, and he had not his accounts ready. When a little recovered, he fribbled with his waiſtcoat buttons, as if he had been tell⯑ing his beads.

This, Sir, proceeded I, is her wooer!—Nay, ſhe is ſo forward a girl, that ſhe wooes him: But I hope it never will be a match.

He had before behaved, and now looked, with more ſpirit than I expected from him.

I came, Sir, ſaid he, as a mediator of differences. It behoves me to keep my temper. But, Sir, and turned ſhort upon me, as much as I love peace, and to promote it, I will not be ill-uſed.

As I had played ſo much upon him, it would have been wrong to take him at his more than half-menace: Yet, I think, I owe him a grudge, for his preſuming to addreſs Miſs Howe.

You mean no defiance, I preſume, Mr. Hickman, any more than I do offence. On that preſumption, I aſk your excuſe. But This is my way. I mean no harm. I can⯑not let ſorrow touch my heart. I cannot be grave ſix minutes together, for the blood of me. I am a deſcend⯑ent of old Chancellor More, I believe; and ſhould not forbear to cut a joke, were I upon the ſcaffold. But you may gather, from what I have ſaid, that I prefer Miſs Harlowe, and that upon the juſteſt grounds, to all the wo⯑men in the world: And I wonder, that there ſhould be any difficulty to believe, from what I have ſigned, and from what I have promiſed to my relations, and enabled them to promiſe for me, that I ſhould be glad to marry that excellent lady, upon her own terms. I acknowlege to you, Mr. Hickman, that I have baſely injured her. If [211] ſhe will honour me with her hand, I declare, that it is my intention to make her the beſt of huſbands. But, never⯑theleſs, I muſt ſay, that, if ſhe goes on appealing her caſe, and expoſing us both, as ſhe does, it is impoſſible to think the knot can be knit, with reputation to either. And al⯑tho', Mr. Hickman, I have delivered my apprehenſions under ſo ludicrous a figure, I am afraid, that ſhe will ruin her conſtitution; and, by ſeeking death when ſhe may ſhun him, will not be able to avoid him when ſhe would be glad to do ſo.

This cool and honeſt ſpeech let down his ſtiffened muſ⯑cles into complacency. He was my very obedient and faithful humble ſervant ſeveral times over, as I waited on him to his chariot: And I was his almoſt as often.

And ſo Exit Hickman.

LETTER LIV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq [In anſwer to Letters xlvii. li. lii.]

I WILL throw away a few paragraphs upon the con⯑tents of thy laſt ſhocking letters, juſt brought me; and ſend what I ſhall write by the fellow who carries mine on the interview with Hickman.

Reformation, I ſee, is coming faſt upon thee. Thy uncle's ſlow death, and thy attendance upon him, thro' every ſtage towards it, prepared thee for it. But go thou on in thy own way, as I will in mine. Happineſs conſiſts in being pleaſed with what we do: And if thou canſt find delight in being ſad, it will be as well for thee, as if thou wert merry, tho' no other perſon ſhould join to keep thee in countenance.

I am, nevertheleſs, exceedingly diſturbed at the lady's ill health. It is intirely owing to the curſed arreſt. She was abſolutely triumphant over me, and the whole crew, before. Thou believeſt me guiltleſs of That: So, I hope, does ſhe. — The reſt, as I have often ſaid, is a common caſe; only a little uncommonly circumſtanced; that's all: Why, then, all theſe ſevere things from her and thee?

As to ſelling her cloaths, and her laces, and ſo forth, [212] it has, I own, a ſhocking ſound with it. What an im⯑placable, as well as unjuſt, ſet of wretches are thoſe of her unkindredly kin; who have money of hers in their hands, as well as large arrears of her own eſtate; yet with⯑hold both, avowedly to diſtreſs her! But may ſhe not have money of that proud and ſaucy friend of hers, Miſs Howe, more than ſhe wants? — And ſhould I not be overjoyed, thinkſt thou, to ſerve her?—What then is there in the parting with her apparel, but female perverſeneſs?—And I am not ſure, whether I ought not to be glad, if ſhe does this out of ſpite to me.—Some diſappointed fair-ones would have hanged, ſome drowned, themſelves. My beloved only revenges herſelf upon her cloaths. Different ways of working has paſſion in different boſoms, as humour and complexion induce.—Beſides, doſt think I ſhall grudge to replace, to three times the value, what ſhe diſpoſes of? So, Jack, there is no great matter in this.

Thou ſeeſt how ſenſible ſhe is of the ſoothings of the polite Doctor: This will enable thee to judge how dread⯑fully the horrid arreſt, and her gloomy father's curſe, muſt have hurt her. I have great hope, if ſhe will but ſee me, that my behaviour, my contrition, my ſoothings, may have ſome happy effects upon her.

But thou art too ready to give me up. Let me ſeriouſly tell thee, that, all excellence as ſhe is, I think the earneſt interpoſition of my relations; the implored mediation of that little fury Miſs Howe; and the commiſſions thou act⯑eſt under from myſelf; are ſuch inſtances of condeſcen⯑ſion and high value in them, and ſuch contrition in me, that nothing farther can be done.—So here let the matter reſt for the preſent, till ſhe conſiders better of it.

But now a few words upon poor Belton's caſe. I own I was, at firſt, a little ſtartled at the infidelity of his Tho⯑maſine: Her hypocriſy to be for ſo many years undetect⯑ed!—I have very lately had ſome intimations given me of her vileneſs; and had intended to mention it to thee; when I ſaw thee. To ſay the truth, I always ſuſpected her eye: The eye, thou knoweſt, is the caſement, at which the heart generally looks out. Many a woman, who will not ſhew herſelf at the door, has tipt the ſly, the intelligible win [...] from the windows.

[213]But Tom had no management at all. A very careleſs fellow. Would never look into his own affairs. The eſtate his uncle left him was his ruin: Wife, or miſtreſs, whoever was, muſt have had his fortune to ſport with.

I have often hinted his weakneſſes of this ſort to him; and the danger he was in of becoming the property of de⯑ſigning people. But he hated to take pains. He would ever run away from his accounts; as now, poor fellow! he would be glad to do from himſelf. Had he not had a woman to fleece him, his coachman, or valet, would have been his prime miniſter, and done it as effectually.

But yet, for many years I thought ſhe was true to his bed. At leaſt, I thought the boys were his own. For tho' they are muſcular, and big-boned, yet I ſuppoſed the healthy mother might have furniſhed them with legs and ſhoulders: For ſhe is not of a delicate frame; and then Tom, ſome years ago, looked up, and ſpoke more like a man, than he has done of late; ſqueaking inwardly, poor fellow! for ſome time paſt, from contracted quail-pipes, and wheeſing from lungs half ſpit away.

He complains, thou ſayeſt, that we all run away from him. Why, after all, Belford, it is no pleaſant thing to ſee a poor fellow one loves, dying by inches, yet unable to do him good. There are friendſhips which are only bottle-deep: I ſhould be loth to have it thought, that mine for any of my vaſſals is ſuch a one. Yet, to gay hearts, which became intimate becauſe they were gay, the reaſon for their firſt intimacy ceaſing, the friendſhip will fade; that ſort of friendſhip, I mean, which may be diſtinguiſhed, more properly, by the word companionſhip.

But mine, as I ſaid, is deeper than this: I would ſtill be as ready as ever I was in my life, to the utmoſt of my power, to do him ſervice.

As one inſtance of this my readineſs to extricate him from all his difficulties as to Thomaſine, doſt thou care to propoſe to him an expedient, that is juſt come into my head?

It is this: I would engage Thomaſine, and her cubs, if Belton be convinced they are neither of them his, in a party of pleaſure: She was always complaiſant to me: It [214] ſhould be in a boat hired for the purpoſe, to ſail to Tilbury, to the iſle of Sheepy, or a pleaſuring up the Medway; and 'tis but contriving to turn the boat bottom-upward: I can ſwim like a fiſh: Another boat ſhould be ready to take up whom I ſhould direct, for fear of the worſt: And then, if Tom has a mind to be decent, one ſuit of mourning will ſerve for all three: Nay, the hoſtler-couſin may take his plunge from the ſteerage: And who knows but they may be thrown up on the beach, Thomaſine and he, hand in hand?

This, thou'lt ſay, is no common inſtance of friendſhip.

Mean time, do thou prevail upon him to come down to us: He never was more welcome in his life, than he ſhall be now: If he will not, let him find me ſome other ſervice; and I will clap a pair of wings to my ſhoulders, and he ſhall ſee me come flying in at his windows at the word of command.

As for thy reſolution of repenting and marrying; I would have thee conſider which thou wilt ſet about firſt. If thou wilt follow my advice, thou ſhalt make ſhort work of it: Let Matrimony take place of the other; for the [...] thou wilt, very poſſibly, have Repentance come tumbling in faſt upon thee, as a conſequence, and ſo have both i [...] one.

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

THIS morning I was admitted, as ſoon as I ſent up my name, into the preſence of the divine lady. Such I may call her; as what I have to relate will fully prove.

She had had a tolerable night, and was much better in ſpirits; though weak in perſon; and viſibly declining in looks.

Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith were with her; and ac⯑cuſed her, in a gentle manner, of having applied herſelf too aſſiduouſly to her pen for her ſtrength, having been up ever ſince five. She ſaid, ſhe had reſted better th [...] ſhe had done for many nights: She had found her ſpirit [215] free, and her mind tolerably eaſy: And having, as ſhe had reaſon to think, but a ſhort time, and much to do in it; ſhe muſt be a good houſewife of her hours.

She had been writing, ſhe ſaid, a letter to her ſiſter: But had not pleaſed herſelf in it; tho' ſhe had made two or three eſſays: But that the laſt muſt go.

By hints I had dropt, from time to time, ſhe had rea⯑ſon, ſhe ſaid, to think that I knew every-thing that concern⯑ed her and her family; and, if ſo, muſt be acquainted with the heavy curſe her father had laid upon her; which had been dreadfully fulfilled in one part, as to her tem⯑porary proſpects, and that in a very ſhort time; which gave her great apprehenſions for the other. She had been applying herſelf to her ſiſter, to obtain a revocation of it. I hope my father will revoke it, ſaid ſhe, or I ſhall be very miſerable.— Yet (and ſhe gaſped as ſhe ſpoke, with apprehenſion)—I am ready to tremble at what the anſwer may be; for my ſiſter is hard-hearted.

I ſaid ſomething reflecting upon her friends; as to what they would deſerve to be thought of, if the unmerited im⯑precation were not withdrawn.—Upon which ſhe took me up, and talked in ſuch a dutiful manner of her parents, as muſt doubly condemn them (if they remain implacable), for their inhuman treatment of ſuch a daughter.

She ſaid, I muſt not blame her parents: It was her dear Miſs Howe's fault. But what an enormity was there in her crime, which could ſet the beſt of parents (as they had been to her, till ſhe diſobliged them) in a bad light, for reſenting the raſhneſs of a child, from whoſe educa⯑tion they had reaſon to expect better fruits! There were ſome hard circumſtances in her caſe, it was true: But my friend could tell me, that no one body, throughout the whole fatal tranſaction, had acted out of character, but herſelf. She ſubmitted therefore to the penalty ſhe had incurred. If they had any fault, it was only, that they would not inform themſelves of ſome circumſtances, which would alleviate a little her miſdeed; and that, ſuppoſing her a guiltier creature than ſhe was, they puniſhed her without a hearing.

Lord!—I was going to curſe thee, Lovelace! How every inſtance of excellence, in this all-excelling creature, condemns [216] thee!—Thou wilt have reaſon to think thyſelf of all men moſt accurſed, if ſhe die!

I then beſought her, while ſhe was capable of ſuch glo⯑rious inſtances of generoſity and forgiveneſs, to extend her goodneſs to a man, whoſe heart bled in every vein of it, for the injuries he had done her; and who would make it the ſtudy of his whole life to repair them.

The women would have withdrawn, when the ſubject became ſo particular. But ſhe would not permit them to go. She told me, that if, after this time, I was for en⯑tering, with ſo much earneſtneſs, into a ſubject ſo very diſagreeable to her, my viſits muſt not be repeated. Nor was there occaſion, ſhe ſaid, for my friendly offices in your favour; ſince ſhe had begun to write her whole mind upon that ſubject to Miſs Howe, in anſwer to letters from her, in which Miſs Howe urged the ſame arguments, in compliment to the wiſhes of your noble and worthy relations.

Mean time, you may let him know, ſaid ſhe, That I reject him with my whole heart:—Yet that, altho' I ſay this with ſuch a determination as ſhall leave no room for doubt, however I ſay it not with paſſion. On the con⯑trary, tell him, that I am trying to bring my mind into ſuch a frame, as to be able to pity him (Poor perjured wretch! what has he not to anſwer for!); and that I ſhall not think myſelf qualified for the ſtate I am aſpiring to, if, after a few ſtruggles more, I cannot forgive him too: And I hope, claſping her hands together, uplifted, as were her eyes, my dear earthly father will ſet me the example my heavenly one has already ſet us all; and, by forgiving his fallen daughter, teach her to forgive the man, who then, I hope, will not have deſtroyed my eternal pro⯑ſpects, as he has my temporal!

Stop here, thou wretch!—But I need not bid thee—For I can go no farther!

LETTER LVI. Mr. BELFORD. In Continuation.

YOU will imagine how affecting her noble ſpeech and behaviour was to me, at the time, when the [217] bare recollection and tranſcription obliged me to drop my pen. The women had tears in their eyes. I was ſilent for a few moments.—At laſt, Matchleſs excellence! In⯑imitable goodneſs! I called her, with a voice ſo accented, that I was half-aſhamed of myſelf, as it was before the wo⯑men. — But who could ſtand ſuch ſublime generoſity of ſoul, in ſo young a creature, her lovelineſs giving grace to all ſhe ſaid?—Methinks, ſaid I (and I really, in a man⯑ner involuntarily, bent my knee), I have before me an angel indeed. I can hardly forbear proſtration, and to beg your influence to draw me after you, to the world you are aſpiring to! — Yet—But what ſhall I ſay?—Only, deareſt excellence, make me, in ſome ſmall inſtances, ſer⯑viceable to you, that I may (if I ſurvive you) have the glory to think I was able to contribute to your ſatisfaction, while among us.

Here I ſtopt. She was ſilent. I proceeded — Have you no commiſſion to employ me in; deſerted as you are by all your friends; among ſtrangers, though, I doubt not, worthy people? Cannot I be ſerviceable by meſſage, by letter-writing, by attending perſonally, with either meſſage or letter, your father, your uncles, your brother, your ſiſter, Miſs Howe, Lord M. or the ladies his ſiſters? Any office to be employed in to ſerve you, abſolutely independ⯑ent of my friend's wiſhes, or of my own wiſhes to oblige him. Think, Madam, if I cannot?

I thank you, Sir: Very heartily I thank you: But in nothing that I can at preſent think of, or at leaſt reſolve upon, can you do me ſervice. I will ſee what return the letter I have written will bring me. — Till then —

My life and my fortune, interrupted I, are devoted to your ſervice. Permit me to obſerve, that here you are, without one natural friend; and (ſo much do I know of your unhappy caſe) that you muſt be in a manner deſti⯑tute of the means to make friends—

She was going to interrupt me, with a prohibitory kind of earneſtneſs in her manner—

I beg leave to proceed, Madam: I have caſt about twenty ways how to mention this before▪ but never dared till now. Suffer me, now that I have broke the ice, to tender myſelf — as your banker only.— I know you will [218] not be obliged: You need not. You have ſufficient of your own, if it were in your hands; and from that, whe⯑ther you live or die, will I conſent to be reimburſed. I do aſſure you, that the unhappy man ſhall never know either my offer, or your acceptance — Only permit me this ſmall—

And down behind her chair I dropt a Bank note of 100 l. which I had brought with me, intending ſome how or other to leave it behind me: Nor ſhouldſt thou ever have known it, had ſhe favoured me with the acceptance of it; and ſo I told her.

You give me great pain, Mr. Belford, ſaid ſhe, by theſe inſtances of your humanity. And yet, conſidering the company I have ſeen you in, I am not ſorry to find you capable of ſuch. Methinks I am glad, for the ſake of human nature, that there could be but one ſuch man in the world, as him you and I know.— But as to your kind offer, whatever it be, if you take it not up, you will greatly diſturb me. I have no need of your kindneſs. I have effects enough, which I never can want, to ſupply my preſent occaſions; and, if needful, can have recourſe to Miſs Howe. I have promiſed that I would—So, pray, Sir, urge not upon me this favour.—Take it up yourſelf.— If you mean me peace and eaſe of mind, urge not this fa⯑vour.— And ſhe ſpoke with impatience.

I beg, Madam, but one word —

Not one, Sir, till you have taken back what you have let fall. I doubt not either the honour, or the kindneſs, of your offer; but you muſt not ſay one word more on this ſubject. I cannot bear it.

She was ſtooping, but with pain. I therefore prevented her; and beſought her to forgive me for a tender, which, I ſaw, had been more diſcompoſing to her than I had hoped (from the purity of my intentions), it would be. But I could not bear to think, that ſuch a mind as hers ſhould be diſtreſſed: Since the want of the conveniencies ſhe was uſed to abound in might affect and diſturb her in the divine courſe ſhe was in.

You are very kind to me, Sir, ſaid ſhe, and very fa⯑vourable in your opinion of me. But I hope, that I can⯑not now be eaſily put out of my preſent courſe. My de⯑clining health will more and more confirm me in it. Thoſe [219] who arreſted and con [...]ined me, no doubt, thought they had fallen upon the ready method to diſtreſs me ſo, as to bring me into all their meaſures. But I preſume to hope, that I have a mind that cannot be debaſed, in eſſential inſtances, by temporary calamities: Little do thoſe poor wretches know of the force of innate principles, forgive my own implied vanity, was her word, who imagine, that a priſon, or penury, or want, can bring a right-turned mind to be guilty of a wilful baſeneſs, in order to avoid ſuch ſhort-lived evils.

She then turned from me towards the window, with a dignity ſuitable to her words; and ſuch as ſhewed her to be more of ſoul than of body, at that inſtant.

What magnanimity! — No wonder a virtue ſo ſolidly baſed could baffle all thy arts: — And that it forced thee (in order to carry thy accurſed point) to have recourſe to thoſe un-natural ones, which robbed her of her charming ſenſes.

The women were extremely affected, Mrs. Lovick eſpe⯑cially;—who ſaid whiſperingly to Mrs. Smith; We have an angel, not a woman, with us, Mrs. Smith!

I repeated my offers to write to any of her friends; and told her, that, having taken the liberty to acquaint Dr. H. with the cruel diſpleaſure of her relations, as what I pre⯑ſumed lay neareſt her heart, he had propoſed to write him⯑ſelf, to acquaint her friends how ill ſhe was, if ſhe would not take it amiſs.

It was kind in the Doctor, ſhe ſaid: But begged, that no ſtep of that ſort might be taken without her knowlege and conſent. She would wait to ſee what effects her let⯑ter to her ſiſter would have. All ſhe had to hope for, was, that her father would revoke his malediction: For the reſt, her friends would think ſhe could not ſuffer too much; and ſhe was content to ſuffer: For, now, nothing could happen, that could make her wiſh to live.

Mrs. Smith went down; and, ſoon returning, aſked, If the lady and I would not dine with her that day: For it yes her wedding-day. She had engaged Mrs. Lovick, ſee ſaid; and ſhould have no-body elſe, if we would do her that favour.

The charming creature ſighed, and ſhook her head— [220] Wedding-day, repeated ſhe! — I wiſh you, Mrs. Smith, many happy wedding-days!—But you will excuſe me.

Mr. Smith came up with the ſame requeſt. They both applied to me.

On condition the lady would, I ſhould make no ſcruple; and would ſuſpend an engagement: Which I actually had.

She then deſired they would all ſit down. You have ſeveral times, Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith, hinted your wiſhes, that I would give you ſome little hiſtory of my⯑ſelf: Now, if you are at leiſure, that this gentleman, who, I have reaſon to believe, knows it all, is preſent, and can tell you if I give it juſtly, or not; I will oblige your curioſity.

They all eagerly, the man Smith too, ſat down; and ſhe began an account of herſelf, which I will endeavour to repeat, as nearly in her own words, as I poſſibly can: For I know you will think it of importance to be ap⯑priſed of her manner of relating your barbarity to her, as well as what her ſentiments are of it; and what room there is for the hopes your friends have in your favour, from her.

And here (half covering her ſweet face, with her hand⯑kerchief put to her tearful eyes) ſhe ſtopt.

Haſtily, as if ſhe would fly from the hateful remem⯑brance, ſhe reſumed: — ‘I made my eſcape afterwards from the abominable houſe in his abſence, and came to yours: And this gentleman has almoſt prevailed on me to think, that the ingrateful man did not connive at the vile arreſt: Which was made, no doubt, in order to get me once more to thoſe wicked lodgings: For no⯑thing do I owe them, except I were to pay them’— (She ſighed, and again wiped her charming eyes—adding in a ſofter, lower voice)—"for being ruined!"—

Indeed, Madam, ſaid I, guilty, abominably guilty, as he is in all the reſt, he is innocent of this laſt wicked outrage.

‘I ſee, continued ſhe, that I, who once was every⯑one's delight, am now the cauſe of grief to every-one— You, that are ſtrangers to me, are moved for me! 'Tis kind! — But 'tis time to ſtop. Your compaſſionate hearts, Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Lovick, are too much [224] touched (For the women ſobb'd again, and the man was alſo affected). It is barbarous in me, with my woes, thus to ſadden your wedding-day.’ Then turning to Mr. and Mrs. Smith— ‘May you ſee many happy ones, honeſt, good couple!—How agreeable is it to ſee you both join ſo kindly to celebrate it, after many years are gone over you!—I once—But no more!—All my pro⯑ſpects of felicity, as to this life, are at an end. My hopes, like opening buds or bloſſoms in an over-forward ſpring, have been nipt by a ſevere froſt!—Blighted by an eaſtern wind! — But I can but once die; and if life be ſpared me, but till I am diſcharged from a heavy malediction, which my father in his wrath laid upon me, and which is fulfilled literally in every article re⯑lating to this world, it is all I have to wiſh for; and death will be welcomer to me, than reſt to the moſt wearied traveller, that ever reached his journey's-end.’

And then ſhe ſunk her head againſt the back of her chair, and, hiding her face with her handkerchief, en⯑deavoured to conceal her tears from us.

Not a ſoul of us could ſpeak a word. Thy preſence, perhaps, thou harden'd wretch, might have made us aſhamed of a weakneſs, which, perhaps, thou wilt deride me in particular for, when thou readeſt this!—

She retired to her chamber ſoon after, and was forced, it ſeems, to lie down. We all went down together; and, for an hour and half, dwelt upon her praiſes; Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick repeatedly expreſſing their aſtoniſhment, that there could be a man in the world capable of offend⯑ing, much more of wilfully injuring, ſuch a lady; and repeating, that they had an angel in their houſe. — I thought they had; and that as aſſuredly as there was a devil under the roof of good Lord M.

I hate thee heartily! — By my faith I do! — Every hour I hate thee more than the former!—

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

WHAT doſt hate me for, Belford? — And why more and more?—Have I been guilty of any of⯑fence thou kneweſt not before? — If pathos can move ſuch a heart as thine, can it alter facts?—Did I not al⯑ways do this incomparable creature as much juſtice as thou canſt do her for the heart of thee, or as ſhe can do herſelf?—What nonſenſe then thy hatred, thy augmented hatred, when I ſtill perſiſt to marry her, purſuant to word given to thee, and to faith plighted to all my relations? But hate, if thou wilt, ſo thou doſt but write: Thou canſt not hate me ſo much as I do myſelf: And yet I know, if thou really hatedſt me, thou wouldſt not venture to tell me ſo.

Well, but after all, what need of her hiſtory to theſe women? She will certainly repent, ſome time hence, that ſhe has thus needleſly expoſed us both.

Sickneſs palls every appetite, and makes us hate what we loved: But renewed health changes the ſcene; diſ⯑poſes us to be pleaſed with ourſelves; and then we are in a way to be pleaſed with every-one elſe. Every hope, then, riſes upon us: Every hour preſents itſelf to us on dancing feet: And what Mr. Addiſon ſays of Liberty, may, with ſtill greater propriety, be ſaid of Health (For what is Liberty itſelf without Health?):

And I rejoice that ſhe is already ſo much better, as to hold, with ſtrangers, ſuch a long and intereſting con⯑verſation.

Strange, confoundedly ſtrange, and as perverſe (that is to ſay, as womanly) as ſtrange, that ſhe ſhould refuſe, and ſooner chooſe to die—[O the obſcene word! and yet how free does thy pen make with it to me!], than be mine, who offended her by acting in character, while her pa⯑rents acted ſhamefully out of theirs, and when I am now [226] willing to act out of my own to oblige her: Yet I not to be forgiven! They to be faultleſs with her!—And mar⯑riage the only medium to repair all breaches, and to ſalve her own honour!—Surely thou muſt ſee the inconſiſtence of her forgiving unforgivingneſs, as I may call it!—Yet, heavy varlet as thou art, thou wanteſt to be drawn up af⯑ter her! And what a figure doſt thou make with thy ſpeeches, ſtiff as Hickman's ruffles, with thy aſpirations and proſtrations!—Unuſed, thy weak head, to bear the ſublimities that fall, even in common converſation, from the lips of this ever-charming creature!

But the prettieſt whim of all, was to drop the bank note behind her chair, inſtead of preſenting it on thy knees to her hand! — To make ſuch a lady as this doubly ſtoop—By the acceptance, and to take it from the ground! —What an ungraceful benefit-conferrer art thou! How aukward, to take it into thy head, that the beſt way of making a preſent to a lady, was to throw the preſent be⯑hind her chair!

I am very deſirous to ſee what ſhe has written to her ſiſter; what ſhe is about to write to Miſs Howe; and what return ſhe will have from the Harlowe-Arabella. Canſt thou not form ſome ſcheme to come at the copies of theſe letters, or at the ſubſtance of them at leaſt, and of that of her other correſpondencies? Mrs. Lovick, thou ſeemeſt to ſay, is a pious woman: The lady, having gi⯑ven ſuch a particular hiſtory of herſelf, will acquaint her with every-thing. And art thou not about to reform?— Won't this conſent of minds between thee and the widow [What age is ſhe, Jack? The devil never trumpt up a friendſhip between a man and a woman, of any-thing like years, which did not end in matrimony, or the diſſipa⯑tion of both their morals! won't it] ſtrike out an inti⯑macy between ye, that may enable thee to gratify me in this particular? A proſelyte, I can tell thee, has great influence upon your good people: Such a one is a ſaint of their own creation; and they will water, and cultivate, and cheriſh him, as a plant of their own raiſing; and this from a pride truly ſpiritual!

But one conſolation ariſes to me, from the pretty re⯑grets this admirable creature ſeems to have, in indulging [227] reflections on the peoples wedding-day: —I ONCE!—thou makeſt her break off with ſaying.

She once! What? — O Belford! why didſt thou not urge her to explain what ſhe once hoped?

What once a lady hopes, in love-matters, ſhe always hopes, while there is room for hope: And are we not both ſingle? Can ſhe be any man's but mine? Will I be any woman's but hers?

I never will! I never can!—And I tell thee, that I am every day, every hour, more and more in love with her: And, at this inſtant, have a more vehement paſſion for her than ever I had in my life!—And that with views ab⯑ſolutely honourable, in her own ſenſe of the word: Nor have I varied, ſo much as in wiſh, for this week paſt; firmly fixed, and wrought into my very nature, as the life of honour, or of generous confidence in me, was, in preference to the life of doubt and diſtruſt: That muſt be a life of doubt and diſtruſt, ſurely, where the woman con⯑fides nothing, and ties up a man for his good behaviour for life, taking church and ſtate ſanctions in aid of the obligation ſhe impoſes upon him.

I ſhall go on Monday morning to a kind of Ball, to which Colonel Ambroſe has invited me. It is given on a family account. I care not on what: For all that de⯑lights me in the thing, is, that Mrs. and Miſs Howe are to be there; Hickman, of courſe; for the old lady will not ſtir abroad without him. The Colonel is in hopes, that Miſs Arabella Harlowe will be there likewiſe; for all the fellows and women of faſhion round him are in⯑vited.

I fell in by accident with the Colonel, who, I believe, hardly thought I would accept of the invitation. But he knows me not, if he thinks I am aſhamed to appear at any place, where ladies dare ſhew their faces. Yet he hinted to me, that my name was up, on Miſs Harlowe's account. But, to allude to one of my uncle's phraſes, if it be, I will not lie abed when any-thing joyous is going forward.

As I ſhall go in my Lord's chariot, I would have had one of my couſins Montague to go with me: But they both refuſed: And I ſha'n't chooſe to take either of thy [228] brethren. It would look as if I thought I wanted a body⯑guard: Beſides, one of them is too rough, the other too ſmooth, and too great a fop for ſome of the ſtaid company that will be there; and for me in particular. Men are known by their companions; and a fop (as Tourville, for example) takes great pains to hang out a ſign, by his dreſs, of what he has in his ſhop. Thou, indeed, art an exception; dreſſing like a coxcomb, yet a very clever fellow. Nevertheleſs ſo clumſy a beau, that thou ſeemeſt to me, to owe thyſelf a double ſpite, making thy un⯑gracefulneſs appear the more ungraceful, by thy remark⯑able tawdrineſs when thou art out of mourning.

I remember, when I firſt ſaw thee, my mind laboured with a ſtrong puzzle, whether I ſhould put thee down for a great fool, or a ſmatterer in wit: Something I ſaw was wrong in thee, by thy dreſs. If this fellow, thought I, delights not ſo much in ridicule, that he will not ſpare himſelf, he muſt be plaguy ſilly to take ſo much pains to make his uglineſs more conſpicuous than it would other⯑wiſe be.

Plain dreſs, for an ordinary man or woman, implies at leaſt modeſty, and always procures kind quarter from the cenſorious. Who will ridicule a perſonal imperfection in one that ſeems conſcious that it is an imperfection? Who ever ſaid, an anchoret was poor? But to ſuch as appear proud of their deformity, or beſtow tinſel upon it, in hopes to ſet it off, who would ſpare ſo very abſurd a wronghead?

But, altho' I put on theſe lively airs, I am ſick at my ſoul!—My whole heart is with my charmer! With what indifference ſhall I look upon all the aſſemblée at the Co⯑lonel's, my Beloved in my ideal eye, and engroſſing my whole heart?

LETTER LVIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs ARABELLA HARLOWE.

I Cannot help acquainting you, however it may be received, as coming from me, that your poor ſiſter is dangerouſly ill, at the houſe of one Smith, who keeps a glover's and [229] perfume-ſhop, in King-ſtreet, Covent-Garden. She knows not that I write. Some violent words, in the nature of an imprecation, from her father, afflict her greatly in her weak ſtate. I preſume not to direct to you what to do in this caſe, You are her ſiſter. I therefore could not help writing to you, not only for her ſake, but for your own.

LETTER LIX. Miſs ARABELLA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Have yours of this morning. All that has happened to the unhappy body you mention, is what we fore⯑told, and expected. Let him, for whoſe ſake ſhe aban⯑doned us, be her comfort. We are told he has remorſe, and would marry her. We don't believe it, indeed. She may be very ill. Her diſappointment may make her ſo, or ought. Yet is ſhe the only one I know, who is diſ⯑appointed.

I cannot ſay, Miſs, that the notification from you is the more welcome for the liberties you have been pleaſed to take with our whole family, for reſenting a conduct, that it is a ſhame any young lady ſhould juſtify. Excuſe this freedom, occaſioned by greater.

LETTER LX. Miſs HOWE. In Reply.

IF you had half as much ſenſe as you have ill-nature, you would (notwithſtanding the exuberance of the latter) have been able to diſtinguiſh between a kind intention to you all (that you might have the leſs to reproach yourſelves with, if a deplorable caſe ſhould happen), and an offi⯑ciouſneſs I owed you not, by reaſon of freedoms at leaſt reciprocal. I will not, for the unhappy body's ſake, as you call a ſiſter you have helped to make ſo, ſay all that [230] I could ſay. If what I fear happen, you ſhall hear (whether deſired or not) all the mind of

LETTER LXI. Miſs ARABELLA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOUR pert letter I have received. You, that ſpare no-body, I cannot expect ſhould ſpare me. You are very happy in a prudent and watchful mother—But elſe—Mine cannot be exceeded in prudence: But we had all too good an opinion of Somebody, to think watch⯑fulneſs needful. There may poſſibly be ſome reaſon why you are ſo much attached to her, in an error of this fla⯑grant nature.

I help to make a ſiſter unhappy!—It is falſe, Miſs!— It is all her own doings!—Except, indeed, what ſhe may owe to Somebody's advice—You know who can beſt an⯑ſwer for that.

Let us know your mind as ſoon as you pleaſe: As we ſhall know it to be your mind, we ſhall judge what atten⯑tion to give it. That's all, from, &c.

LETTER LXII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs ARABELLA HARLOWE.

IT may be the misfortune of ſome people to engage every-body's notice: Others may be the happier, tho' they may be the more envious, for no-body's thinking them worthy of any. But one would be glad people had the ſenſe to be thankful for that want of conſequence, which ſubjected them not to hazards they would hardly have been able to manage under.

I own to you, that had it not been for the prudent advice of that admirable Somebody (whoſe principal fault is the ſuperiority of her talents, and whoſe misfortune to be brother'd and ſiſter'd by a couple of creatures, who are not able to comprehend her excellencies), I might at one time have been plunged into difficulties. But, pert as the [231] ſuperlatively pert may think me, I thought not myſelf wiſer, becauſe I was older; nor for that poor reaſon qua⯑lified to preſcribe to, much leſs to maltreat, a genius ſo outſoaring.

I repeat it with gratitude, that the dear creature's ad⯑vice was of very great ſervice to me—And this before my mother's watchfulneſs became neceſſary. But how it would have fared with me, I cannot ſay, had I had a brother or ſiſter, who had deemed it their intereſt, as well as a gratification of their ſordid envy, to miſrepreſent me.

Your admirable ſiſter, in effect, ſaved you, Miſs, as well as me—With this difference—You, againſt your will— Me, with mine: And but for your own brother, and his own ſiſter, would not have been loſt herſelf.

Would to God both ſiſters had been obliged with their own wills!—The moſt admirable of her ſex would never then have been out of her father's houſe!—You, Miſs—I don't know what had become of you.—But, let what would have happened, you would have met with the humanity you have not ſhewn, whether you had deſerved it or not: —Nor, at worſt, loſt either a kind ſiſter, or a pitying friend, in the moſt excellent of ſiſters.

But why run I into length to ſuch a poor thing?—Why puſh I ſo weak an adverſary? whoſe firſt letter is all low malice, and whoſe next is made up of falſhood and inconſiſtence, as well as ſpite and ill-manners. Yet I was willing to give you a part of my mind:—Call for more of it; it ſhall be at your ſervice: From one, who, tho' ſhe thanks God ſhe is not your ſiſter, is not your enemy: But that ſhe is not the latter, is with-held but by two con⯑ſiderations; one, that you bear, tho' unworthily, a rela⯑tion to a ſiſter ſo excellent; the other, that you are not of conſequence enough to engage any-thing but the pity and contempt of

LETTER LXIII. Mrs. HARLOWE, To Mrs. HOWE.

I Send you incloſed copies of five letters, that have paſſed between Miſs Howe and my Arabella. You [232] are a perſon of ſo much prudence and good ſenſe, and (being a mother yourſelf) can ſo well enter into the di⯑ſtreſſes of all our family, upon the raſhneſs and ingratitude of a child we once doated upon, that, I dare ſay, you will not countenance the ſtrange freedoms your daughter has taken with us all. Theſe are not the only ones we have to complain of; but we were ſilent on the others, as they did not, as theſe have done, ſpread themſelves out upon paper. We only beg, that we may not be reflected up⯑on by a young lady, who knows not what we have ſuf⯑fered, and do ſuffer, by the raſhneſs of a naughty creature, who has brought ruin upon herſelf, and diſgrace upon a family, which ſhe has robbed of all comfort. I offer not to preſcribe to your known wiſdom in this caſe; but leave it to you to do as you think moſt proper.

LETTER LXIV. Mrs. HOWE. In Anſwer.

I Am highly offended with my daughter's letters to Miſs Harlowe. I knew nothing at all of her having taken ſuch a liberty. Theſe young creatures have ſuch romantic notions, ſome of love, ſome of friendſhip, that there is no governing them in either. Nothing but time, and dear experience, will convince them of their abſurdities in both. I have chidden Miſs Howe very ſeverely. I had before ſo juſt a notion of what your whole family's diſtreſs muſt be, that, as I told your brother, Mr. Antony Harlowe, I had often forbid her correſponding with the poor fallen angel—For ſurely never did young lady more reſemble what we imagine of angels, both in perſon and mind. But, tired out with her headſtrong ways (I am ſorry to ſay this of my own child), I was forced to give way to it again: And, indeed, ſo ſturdy was ſhe in her will, that I was afraid it would end in a fit of ſickneſs, as too often it did in fits of ſullens.

None but parents know the trouble that children give: [233] They are happieſt, I have often thought, who have none. And theſe women-grown girls, bleſs my heart! how un⯑governable!—

I believe, however, you will have no more ſuch letters from my Nancy. I have been forced to uſe compulſion with her, upon Miſs Clary's illneſs (and it ſeems ſhe is very bad); or ſhe would have run away to London, to attend upon her: And this ſhe calls doing the duty of a friend; forgetting, that ſhe ſacrifices to her romantic friendſhip her duty to a fond indulgent mother.

There are a thouſand excellencies in the poor ſufferer, notwithſtanding her fault: And, if the hints ſhe has given to my daughter be true, ſhe has been moſt grievouſly ab⯑uſed. But I think your forgiveneſs and her father's for⯑giveneſs of her ought to be all at your own choice; and no-body ſhould intermeddle in that, for the ſake of due authority in parents: And beſides, as Miſs Harlowe writes it was what every-body expected, tho' Miſs Clary would not believe it, till ſhe ſmarted for her credulity. And, for theſe reaſons, I offer not to plead any-thing in alle [...]iation of her fault, which is aggravated by her ad⯑mirable ſenſe, and a judgment above her years.

I am, Madam, with compliments to good Mr. Har⯑lowe, and all your afflicted family,

I ſhall ſet out for the Iſle of Wight in a few days, with my daughter. I will haſten our ſetting-out, on pur⯑poſe to break her mind from her friend's diſtreſſes; which afflict us as much, nearly, as Miſs Clary's raſh⯑neſs has done you.

LETTER LXV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

WE are buſy in preparing for our little journey and voyage: But I will be ill, I will be very ill, if I cannot hear you are better before I go.

Rogers greatly afflicted me, by telling me the bad way you are in. But now you have been able to hold a pen, [234] and as your ſenſe is ſtrong and clear, I hope that the amuſement you will receive from writing will make you better.

I diſpatch this by an extraordinary way, that it may reach you time enough to move you to conſider well before you abſolutely decide upon the contents of mine of the 13th, on the ſubject of the two Miſſes Montague's viſit to me; ſince, according to what you write, muſt I anſwer them.

In your laſt, you conclude very poſitively, that you will not be his. To be ſure, he rather deſerves an infa⯑mous death, than ſuch a wife. But, as I really believe him innocent of the arreſt, and as all his family are ſuch earneſt pleaders, and will be guarantees, for him, I think the compliance with their intreaties, and his own, will be now the beſt ſtep you can take; your own family remain⯑ing implacable, as I can aſſure you they do. He is a man of ſenſe; and it is not impoſſible but he may make you a good huſband, and in time may become no bad man.

My mother is intirely of my opinion: And on Friday, purſuant to a hint I gave you in my laſt, Mr. Hickma [...] had a conference with the ſtrange wretch: And tho' he liked not, by any means, his behaviour to himſelf; no [...], indeed, had reaſon to do ſo; yet he is of opinion, that he is ſincerely determined to marry you, if you will condeſcend to have him.

Perhaps Mr. Hickman may make you a private viſit before we ſet out. If I may not attend you myſelf, I ſhall not be eaſy, except he does. And he will then give you an account of the admirable character the ſurpriſing wretch gave of you, and of the juſtice he does to your virtue.

He was as acknowleging to his relations, tho' to his own condemnation, as his two couſins told me. All that he apprehends, as he ſaid to Mr. Hickman, is, that if you go on appealing your caſe, and expoſing him, wed⯑lock itſelf will not wipe off the diſhonour to both: And moreover, ‘that you would ruin your conſtitution by your immoderate ſorrow; and, by ſeeking death when you might avoid it, would not be able to eſcape it when you would wiſh to do ſo.’

[235]So, my deareſt friend, I charge you, if you can, to get over your averſion to this vile man. You may yet live to ſee many happy days, and be once more the delight of all your friends, neighbours, and acquaintance, as well as a ſtay, a comfort, and a bleſſing, to your Anna Howe.

I long to have your anſwer to mine of the 13th. Pray keep the meſſenger till it be ready. If he return on Monday night, it will be time enough for his affairs, and to find me come back from Colonel Ambroſe's; who gives a Ball on the anniverſary of Mrs. Ambroſe's birth and marriage, both in one. The gentry all round the neigh⯑bourhood are invited this time, on ſome good news they have received from Mrs. Ambroſe's brother the governor.

My mother promiſed the Colonel for me and herſelf, in my abſence. I would fain have excuſed myſelf to her; and the rather, as I had exceptions on account of the day ^(a): But ſhe is almoſt as young as her daughter; and thinking it not ſo well to go without me, ſhe told me, She could propoſe nothing that was agreeable to me. And having had a few ſparring blows with each other very lately, I think I muſt comply. For I don't love [...]angling, when I can help it; tho' I ſeldom make it my ſtudy to avoid the occaſion, when it offers of itſelf. I don't know, if either were not a little afraid of the other, whether it would be poſſible that we could live together: —I, All my father!—My mamma—What?—All my mo⯑ther—What elſe ſhould I ſay?

O my dear, how many things happen in this life to give us diſpleaſure! How few to give us joy!—I am ſure, I ſhall have none on this occaſion; ſince the true partner of my heart, the principal half of the one ſoul, that, it uſed to be ſaid, animated The pair of friends, as we were called; YOU, my dear (who uſed to irradiate every circle you ſet your foot into, and to give me real ſignificance, in a ſecond place to yourſelf), cannot be there!—One hour of your company, my ever-inſtructive friend (I thirſt for it!), how infinitely preferable to me, to all the diverſions and amuſements, with which our ſex are generally moſt de⯑lighted!—Adieu, my dear!—

LETTER LXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

WHAT pain, my deareſt friend, does your kind ſolicitude for my welfare give me! How muc [...] more binding and tender are the ties of pure friendſhip, and the union of like minds, than the ties of nature! Well might the Sweet Singer of Iſrael, when he was carry⯑ing to the utmoſt extent the praiſes of the friendſhip be⯑tween him and his beloved friend, ſay, that the love of Jonathan to him was wonderful; that it ſurpaſſed the love of women! What an exalted idea does it give of the ſoul of Jonathan, ſweetly attemper'd for this ſacred band, if we may ſuppoſe it but equal to that of my Anna Howe for her fallen Clariſſa! But, altho' I can glory in you [...] kind love for me, think, my dear, what concern [...] fill a mind, not ungenerous, when the obligation lies a [...] on one ſide: And when, at the ſame time that your Light is the brighter for my Darkneſs, I muſt give pain to a d [...] friend, to whom I delighted to give pleaſure; and, [...] the ſame time, diſcredit, for ſupporting my blighted fa [...] againſt the buſy tongues of uncharitable cenſurers!—

This it is that makes me, in the words of my admired exclaimer, very little altered, often repeat: ‘O! [...] I were as in months paſt, as in the days when God preſerved me! When his candle ſhined upon my he [...] and when by his light I walked through darkneſs! As I was in the days of my childhood—when the Almighty was yet with me; when I was in my father's h [...] When I waſhed my ſteps with butter, and the ro [...] poured me out rivers of oil!’

You ſet before me your reaſons, enforced by the opi⯑nion of your honoured mother, why I ſhould think [...] Mr. Lovelace for a huſband ^a.

And I have before me your letter of the 13th ^(b), co [...] ⯑taining the account of the viſit and propoſals, and ki [...] interpoſition, of the two Miſſes Montague, in the name [237] of the good Ladies Sarah Sadleir and Betty Lawrance, and that of Lord M.

Alſo yours of the 18th ^(a), demanding me, as I may ſay, of thoſe ladies, and of that family, when I was ſo infamouſly and cruelly arreſted, and you knew not what was become of me:

The anſwer likewiſe of thoſe ladies, ſigned in ſo full and ſo generous a manner by themſelves ^(b), and by that nobleman, and thoſe two venerable ladies; and, in his light way, by the wretch himſelf:

Theſe, my dearest Miſs Howe, and your letter of the 16th ^(c), which came when I was under arreſt, and which I received not till ſome days after:

Are all before me.

And I have as well weighed the whole matter, and your arguments in ſupport of your advice, as at preſent my head and my heart will let me weigh them.

I am, moreover, willing to believe, not only from your own opinion, but from the aſſurances of one of Mr. Lovelace's friends, Mr. Belford, a good-natured and hu⯑mane man, who ſpares not to cenſure the author of my calamities (I think, with undiſſembled and undeſigning ſin⯑cerity), that that man is innocent of the diſgraceful arreſt:

And even, if you pleaſe, in ſincere compliment to your opinion, and to that of Mr. Hickman, that (over-per⯑ſuaded by his friends, and aſhamed of his unmerited baſe⯑neſs to me) he, in earneſt, would marry me, if I would have him.

As I am of opinion, that it would have manifeſted more of revenge and deſpair, than of principle, had I committed a violence upon myſelf, when the villainy was perpetrated; ſo I ſhould think it equally criminal, were I now wilfully to neglect myſelf; were I purpoſely to run into the arms of death (as that man ſuppoſes I ſhall do) when I might avoid it.

Nor, my dear, whatever are the ſuppoſitions of ſuch a ſhort-ſighted, ſuch a low-ſouled man, muſt you im⯑pute to gloom, to melancholy, to deſpondency, nor yet to a ſpirit of faulty pride, or ſtill more faulty revenge, the reſolution I have taken never to marry this; and if not this, any man. So far from deſerving this imputation, I do aſſure you (my dear and only love) that I will do every-thing I can to prolong my life, till God, in mercy to me, ſhall be pleaſed to call for it. I have reaſon to [242] think my puniſhment is but the due conſequence of my fault, and I will not run away from it; but beg of Hea⯑ven to ſanctify it to me. When appetite ſerves, I will eat and drink what is ſufficient to ſupport nature. A very little, you know, will do for that. And whatever my phyſicians ſhall think fit to preſcribe, I will take, though ever ſo diſagreeable. In ſhort, I will do every-thing I can do, to convince all my friends, who hereafter may think it worth their while to inquire after my laſt beha⯑viour, that I poſſeſſed my ſoul with tolerable patience; and endeavoured to bear with a lot of my own drawing: For thus, in humble imitation of the ſublimeſt exemplar, I often ſay:—Lord, it is thy will; and it ſhall be mine. Thou art juſt in all thy dealings with the children of men; and I know thou wilt not afflict me beyond what I can bear: And, if I can bear it, I ought to bear it; and (thy grace aſſiſting me) I will bear it.

‘But here, my dear, is another reaſon; a reaſon that will convince you yourſelf, that I ought not to think of wedlock; but of a quite different preparation: I am perſuaded, as much as that I am now alive, that I ſhall not long live. The ſtrong ſenſe I have ever had of my fault, the loſs of my reputation, my diſappointments, the determined reſentment of my friends, aiding the barbarous uſage I have met with where I leaſt deſerved it, have ſeized upon my heart: Seized upon it, before it was ſo well fortified by religious conſiderations, as I hope it now is. Don't be concerned, my dear—But I am ſure, if I may ſay it with as little preſumption as grief, in the words of Job, That God will ſoon diſſolve my ſubſtance; and bring me to death, and to the houſe ap⯑pointed for all living.’

And now, my deareſt friend, you know all my mind. And you will be pleaſed to write to the ladies of Mr. Love⯑lace's family, That I think myſelf infinitely obliged to them, for their good opinion of me; and that it has given me greater pleaſure than I thought I had to come in this life, that, upon the little knowlege they have of me, and that not perſonal, I was thought worthy (after the ill uſage I have received) of an alliance with their honourable fa⯑mily: But that I can by no means think of their kinſman [243] for a huſband: And do you, my dear, extract from the above, ſuch reaſons as you think have any weight in them.

I would write myſelf to acknowlege their favour, had I not more employment for my head, my heart, and my fingers, than I doubt they will be able to go through.

I ſhould be glad to know when you ſet out on your journey; as alſo your little ſtages; and your time of ſtay at your aunt Harman's; that my prayers may locally at⯑tend you, whitherſoever you go, and where-ever you are.

LETTER LXVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

THE letter accompanying This, being upon a very pe⯑culiar ſubject, I would not embaraſs it, as I may ſay, with any other. And yet having ſome further matters upon my mind, which will want your excuſe for directing them to you, I hope the following lines will have that excuſe.

My good Mrs. Norton, ſo long ago as in a letter dated the 3d of this month, ^(a) hinted to me, that my relations took amiſs ſome ſevere things you was pleaſed, in love to me, to ſay of them. Mrs. Norton mentioned it with that reſpectful love which ſhe bears to my deareſt friend: But wiſhed, for my ſake, that you would rein [...]in a vivacity, which, on moſt other occaſions, ſo charmingly becomes you. This was her ſenſe. You know that I am war⯑ranted to ſpeak and write freer to my Anna Howe, than Mrs. Norton would do.

I durſt not mention it to you at that time, becauſe ap⯑pearances were ſo ſtrong againſt me, on Mr. Lovelace's getting me again into his power, (after my eſcape to Hamſtead) as made you very angry with me when you anſwered mine on my ſecond eſcape. And, ſoon after⯑wards, I was put under that barbarous arreſt; ſo that I could not well touch upon that ſubject till now.

Now, therefore, my deareſt Miſs Howe, let me repeat my earneſt requeſt (for This is not the firſt time by ſeve⯑ral that I have been obliged to chide you on this occaſion), [244] That you will ſpare my parents, and other relations, in all your converſations about me.—Indeed, I wiſh they had thought fit to take other meaſures with me: But who ſhall judge for them?—The event has juſtified them, and con⯑demned me. They expected nothing good of this vile man; he has not, therefore, deceived them: But they expected other things from me; and I have. And they have the more reaſon to be ſet againſt me, if (as my aunt Hervey wrote formerly ^(a)) they intended not to force my inclina⯑tions, in favour of Mr. Solmes; and if they believe, that my going off was the effect of choice and premeditation.

I have no deſire to be received to favour by them: For why ſhould I ſit down to wiſh for what I have no reaſon to expect? — Beſides, I could not look them in the face, if they would receive me. Indeed I could not. All I have to hope for, is, firſt, that my father will abſolve me from his heavy malediction: And next, for a laſt bleſſing. The obtaining of theſe favours are needful to my peace of mind.

I have written to my ſiſter; but have only mentioned the abſolution.

I am afraid, I ſhall receive a very harſh anſwer from her: My fault, in the eyes of my family, is of ſo enor⯑mous a nature, that my firſt application will hardly be encouraged. Then they know not (nor perhaps will believe), that I am ſo very ill as I am. So that, were I actually to die before they could have time to take the ne⯑ceſſary informations, you muſt not blame them too ſevere⯑ly. You muſt call it a Fatality. I know not what you muſt call it: For, alas! I have made them as miſerable as I am myſelf. And yet ſometimes I think, that, were they chearfully to pronounce me forgiven, I know not whe⯑ther my concern for having offended them would not be augmented: Since I imagine, that nothing can be more wounding to a ſpirit not ungenerous, than a generous for⯑giveneſs.

I hope your mamma will permit our correſpondence for one month more, altho' I do not take her advice as to having this man. Only for one month. I will not deſire it longer. When cataſtrophes are conſummating, what [245] changes (changes that make one's heart ſhudder to think of) may one ſhort month produce!—But if ſhe will not— why then, my dear, it becomes us both to acquieſce.

You can't think what my apprehenſions would have been, had I known Mr. Hickman was to have had a meet⯑ing (on ſuch a queſtioning occaſion as muſt have been his errand from you) with that haughty and uncontroulable man.

You give me hope of a viſit from him: Let him expect to ſee me greatly altered. I know he loves me: For he loves every-one whom you love. A painful interview, I doubt! But I ſhall be glad to ſee a man, whom you will one day, and an early day, I hope, make happy; and whoſe gentle manners, and unbounded love for you, will make you ſo, if it be not your own fault.

I am, my deareſt, kindeſt friend, the ſweet companion of my happy hours, the friend ever deareſt and neareſt to my fond heart,

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

EXcuſe, my deareſt young Lady, my long ſilence. I have been extremely ill. My poor boy has alſo been at death's door; and, when I hoped that he was better, he has relapſed. Alas! my dear, he is very dangerouſly ill. Let us both have your prayers!

Very angry letters have paſſed between your ſiſter and Miſs Howe. Every-one of your family is incenſed againſt that young lady. I wiſh you would remonſtrate againſt her warmth; ſince it can do no good; for they will not believe, but that her interpoſition has your con⯑nivance; nor that you are ſo ill as Miſs Howe aſſures them you are.

Before ſhe wrote, they were going to ſend up young Mr. Brand the clergyman, to make private inquiries of your health, and way of life—But now they are ſo exaſ⯑perated, that they have laid aſide their intention.

We have flying reports here, and at Harlowe-Place, of [246] ſome freſh inſults which you have undergone: And that you are about to put yourſelf into Lady Betty Lawrance's protection. I believe they would now be glad (as I ſhould be), that you would do ſo; and this, perhaps, will make them ſuſpend for the preſent any determination in your favour.

How unhappy am I, that the dangerous way my ſon is in prevents my attendance on you! Let me beg of you to write me word how you are, both as to perſon and mind. A ſervant of Sir Robert Beachcroft, who rides poſt on his maſter's buſineſs to town, will preſent you with this; and, perhaps, will bring me the favour of a few lines in return. He will be obliged to ſtay in town ſeveral hours, for an anſwer to his diſpatches.

This is the anniverſary, that uſed to give joy to as many as had the pleaſure and honour of knowing you. May the Almighty bleſs you, and grant, that it may be the only unhappy one that may be ever known by you, my deareſt young Lady; and by

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

HAD I not fallen into freſh troubles, which diſabled me for ſeveral days from holding a pen, I ſhould not have forborn inquiring after your health, and that of your ſon; for I ſhould have been but too ready to impute your own ſilence to the cauſe, to which, to my very great concern, I find it was owing. I pray to Heaven, my dear good friend, to give you comfort in the way moſt deſire⯑able to yourſelf.

I am exceedingly concerned at Miſs Howe's writing about me to my friends. I do aſſure you, that I was as ignorant of her intention ſo to do, as of the contents of her letter. Nor has ſhe yet let me know (diſcouraged, I ſuppoſe, by her ill ſucceſs), that ſhe did write. Impoſſi⯑ble to ſhare the delight which ſuch charming ſpirits give, [247] without the inconvenience that will attend their volatility. —So mixed are our beſt enjoyments!

It was but yeſterday that I wrote to chide the dear crea⯑ture for freedoms of that nature, which her unſeaſonable love for me had made her take, as you wrote me word in your former. I was afraid, that all ſuch freedoms would be attributed to me. And I am ſure, that nothing but my own application to my friends, and a full conviction of my contrition, will procure me favour. Leaſt of all can I expect, that either your mediation or hers (both of whoſe fond and partial love of me is ſo well known) will avail me.

Now, my dear Mrs. Norton, you will be ſurpriſed, perhaps, that I ſhould have returned ſuch an anſwer: But, when you have every-thing before you, you, who know me ſo well, will not think me wrong. And, beſides, I am upon a better preparation, than for an earthly huſband.

Nor let it be imagined, my dear and ever-venerable friend, that my preſent turn of mind proceeds from gloomi⯑neſs or melancholy; for altho' it was brought on by diſap⯑pointment (the world ſhewing me early, even at my firſt ruſhing into it, its true and ugly face); yet, I hope, that it has obtained a better root, and will every day more and more, by its fruits, demonſtrate to me, and to all my friends, that it has.

I have written to my ſiſter. Laſt Friday I wrote. So the dye is thrown. I hope for a gentle anſwer. But, per⯑haps, they will not vouchſafe me any. It is my firſt di⯑rect application, you know. I wiſh Miſs Howe had left me to my own workings, in this tender point.

It will be a great ſatisfaction to me, to hear of your perfect recovery; and that my foſter-brother is out of danger. But why ſaid I, out of danger?—When can this be juſtly ſaid of creatures, who hold by ſo uncertain a te⯑nure? [248] This is one of thoſe forms of common ſpeech, that proves the frailty and the preſumption of poor mortals, at the ſame time.

Don't be uneaſy you cannot anſwer your wiſhes to be with me. I am happier than I could have expected to be among mere ſtrangers. It was grievous at firſt; but uſe reconciles every-thing to us. The people of the houſe where I am, are courteous and honeſt. There is a widow who lodges in it (have I not ſaid ſo formerly?), a good woman; who is the better for having been a proficient in the ſchool of affliction.

An excellent ſchool! my dear Mrs. Norton, in which we are taught to know ourſelves, to be able to compaſ⯑onate and bear with one another, and to look up to a better hope.

I have as humane a phyſician (whoſe fees are his leaſt regard), and as worthy an apothecary, as ever patient was viſited by. My nurſe is diligent, obliging, ſilent, and ſober. So I am not unhappy without: And within— I hope, my dear Mrs. Norton, that I ſhall be every day more and more happy within.

No doubt, it would be one of the greateſt comforts I could know, to have you with me: You, who love me ſo dearly: Who have been the watchful ſuſtainer of my helpleſs infancy: You, by whoſe precepts I have been ſo much benefited!— In your dear boſom could I repoſe all my griefs: And by your piety, and experience in the ways of Heaven, ſhould I be ſtrengthened in what I am ſtill to go through.

But, as it muſt not be, I will acquieſce; and ſo, I hope, will you: For you ſee in what reſpects I am not unhappy; and in thoſe that I am, they lie not in your power to remedy.

Then, as I have told you, I have all my cloaths in my own poſſeſſion. So I am rich enough, as to this world▪ and in common conveniencies.

So you ſee, my venerable and dear friend, that I am not always turning the dark ſide of my proſpects, in order to move compaſſion; a trick imputed to me, too often, by my hard-hearted ſiſter; when, if I know my own heart, it is above all trick or artifice. Yet I hope at laſt I ſhall be ſo happy, as to receive benefit rather than reproach [249] from this talent, if it be my talent. At laſt, I ſay; for whoſe heart have I hitherto moved? — Not one, I am ſure, that was not predetermined in my favour!

As to the day—I have paſſed it, as I ought to paſs it— It has been a very heavy day to me!—More for my friends ſake, too, than for my own! — How did they uſe to paſs it! — What a Gala! — How have they now paſſed it!— To imagine it, how grievous!—Say not, that thoſe are cruel, who ſuffer ſo much for my fault; and who, for eighteen years together, rejoiced in me, and rejoiced me, by their indulgent goodneſs!—But I will think the reſt! — Adieu, my deareſt Mrs. Norton!—Adieu!

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

IF, my deareſt Siſter, I did not think the ſtate of my health very precarious, and that it was my duty to take this ſtep, I ſhould hardly have dared to approach you, altho' but with my pen, after having found your cenſures ſo dreadfully juſtified as they have been.

I have not the courage to write to my father himſelf; nor yet to my mother. And it is with trembling, that I addreſs myſelf to you, to beg of you to intercede for me, that my father will have the goodneſs to revoke that hea⯑vieſt part of the very heavy curſe he laid upon me, which relates to HEREAFTER: For, as to the HERE, I have, indeed, met with my puniſhment from the very wretch in whom I was ſuppoſed to place my confidence.

As I hope not for reſtoration to favour, I may be al⯑lowed to be very earneſt on this head: Yet will I not uſe any arguments in ſupport of my requeſt, becauſe I am ſure my father cannot wiſh to have his poor child miſerable for ever!

I have the moſt grateful ſenſe of my mother's goodneſs in ſending me up my cloaths. I would have acknowleged the favour the moment I received them, with the moſt thankful duty, but that I feared any line from me would be unacceptable.

I would not give freſh offence: So will decline all other commendations of duty and love; appealing to my heart [250] for both, where both are flaming with an ardour that no⯑thing but death can extinguiſh: Therefore only ſubſcribe myſelf, without ſo much as a name,

A letter directed for me, at Mr. Smith's, a glover, in King-ſtreet, Covent-garden, will come to hand.

LETTER LXXI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq [In anſwer to his Letters, Num. LIV.LVII.]

WHAT pains thou takeſt to perſuade thyſelf, that the lady's ill health is owing to the vile arreſt, and to her friends implacableneſs! Both, primarily (if they were), to be laid at thy door. What poor excuſes will good heads make for the evils they are put upon by bad hearts! — But 'tis no wonder, that he who can ſit down premeditatedly to do a bad action, will content himſelf with a bad excuſe: And yet, what fools muſt he ſuppoſe the reſt of the world to be, if he imagines them as eaſily to be impoſed upon, as he can impoſe upon himſelf?

In vain doſt thou impute to pride or wilfulneſs the ne⯑ceſſity to which thou haſt reduced this lady of parting with her cloaths: For can ſhe do otherwiſe, and be the noble-minded creature ſhe is?

Her implacable friends have refuſed her the current caſh ſhe left behind her; and wiſhed, as her ſiſter wrote to her, to ſee her reduced to want: Probably therefore they will not be ſorry that ſhe is reduced to ſuch ſtreights; and will take it for a juſtification from Heaven of their wicked hard-heartedneſs. Thou canſt not ſuppoſe ſhe would take ſup⯑plies from thee: To take them from me would, in her opinion, be taking them from thee. Miſs Howe's mother is an avaritious woman; and, perhaps, the daughter could do nothing of that ſort unknown to her; and, if ſhe could, is too noble a girl to deny it, if charged. And then Miſs Harlowe is firmly of opinion, that ſhe ſhall never want nor wear the things ſhe diſpoſes of.

Having heard nothing from town that obliges me to go thither, I ſhall gratify poor Belton with my company till [251] to-morrow, or perhaps till Wedneſday: For the unhappy man is more and more loth to part with me. I ſhall ſoon ſet out for Epſom, to endeavour to ſerve him there, and re⯑inſtate him in his own houſe. Poor fellow! he is moſt horribly low-ſpirited; mopes about; and nothing diverts him. I pity him at my heart; but can do him no good.— What conſolation can I give him, either from his paſt life, or from his future proſpects?

Our friendſhips and intimacies, Lovelace, are only cal⯑culated for ſtrong life and health. When ſickneſs comes, we look round us, and upon one another, like frighted birds, at the ſight of a kite ready to ſouſe upon them. Then, with all our bravery, what miſerable wretches are we!

Thou telleſt me, that thou ſeeſt reformation is coming ſwiftly upon me. I hope it is. I ſee ſo much difference in the behaviour of this admirable woman in her illneſs, and that of poor Belton in his, that it is plain to me, the ſin⯑ner is the real coward, and the ſaint the true hero; and, ſooner or later, we ſhall all find it to be ſo, if we are not cut off ſuddenly.

The lady ſhut herſelf up at ſix o'clock yeſterday after⯑noon; and intends not to ſee company till ſeven or eight this; not even her nurſe; impoſing upon herſelf a ſevere faſt. And why? It is her birth-day! — Blooming, yet declining in her bloſſom! — Every birth [...]day till this, no doubt, happy! — What muſt be her reflections! — What ought to be thine!

What ſport doſt thou make with my aſpirations, and my proſtrations, as thou calleſt them; and with my drop⯑ping of the bank note behind her chair. I had too much awe of her at the time, and too much apprehended her diſpleaſure at the offer, to make it with the grace that would better have become my intention. But the action, if aukward, was modeſt. Indeed, the fitter ſubject for ridicule with thee; who canſt no more taſte the beauty and delicacy of modeſt obligingneſs, than of modeſt love. For the ſame may be ſaid of inviolable reſpect, that the poet ſays of unfeigned affection.

[252]The like may be pleaded in behalf of that modeſt re⯑ſpect, which made the humble offerer afraid to invade the awful eye, or the revered hand; but aukwardly to drop its incenſe beſide the altar it ſhould have been laid upon. But how ſhould that ſoul, which could treat delicacy it⯑ſelf brutally, know any-thing of this?

But I am ſtill more amazed at thy courage, to think of throwing thyſelf in the way of Miſs Howe, and Miſs Ara⯑bella Harlowe! — Thou wilt not dare, ſurely, to carry this thought into execution!

As to my dreſs, and thy dreſs, I have only to ſay, That the ſum total of thy obſervation is this: That my outſide is the worſt of me; and thine the beſt of thee: And what getteſt thou by the compariſon? Do thou reform the one, and I'll try to mend the other. I challenge thee to begin.

Mrs. Lovick gave me, at my requeſt, the copy of a me⯑ditation ſhe ſhewed me, which was extracted by the lady from the Scriptures, while under arreſt at Rowland's, as appears by the date. She is not to know, that ſhe has taken ſuch a liberty.

You and I always admired the noble ſimplicity, and natural eaſe and dignity of ſtyle, which are the diſtinguiſh⯑ing characteriſtics of theſe books, whenever any paſſages from them, by way of quotation in the works of other authors, popt upon us. And once I remember you, even you, obſerved, that thoſe paſſages always appeared to you like a rich vein of golden ore, which runs thro' baſer me⯑tals; embelliſhing the work they were brought to authen⯑ticate.

Try, Lovelace, if thou canſt reliſh a divine beauty. I think it muſt ſtrike tranſient (if not permanent) remorſe into thy heart. Thou boaſteſt of thy ingenuity; let this be the teſt of it; and whether thou canſt be ſerious on a ſubject ſo deep, the occaſion of it reſulting from thyſelf.

I have a little leiſure, and am in a ſcribbling vein: In⯑dulge me, Lovelace, a few reflections on theſe ſacred books.

We are taught to read the Bible, when children, and as a rudiment only; and, as far as I know, this may be the reaſon, why we think ourſelves above it, when at a ma⯑turer age. For, you know, that our parents, as well as we, wiſely rate our proficiency by the books we are advanced to, and not by our underſtanding what we have paſſed through. But, in my uncle's illneſs, I had the curio⯑ſity, in ſome of my dull hours (lighting upon one in his cloſet), to dip into it: And then I found, where ever I turned, that there were admirable things in it. I have borrowed one, on receiving from Mrs. Lovick the above meditations; for I had a mind to compare them by the book, hardly believing they could be ſo exceedingly ap⯑poſite as I find they are. And one time or other, it is very likely, that I ſhall make a reſolution to give it a thorough peruſal, by way of courſe, as I may ſay.

This, mean time, I will venture to repeat, is certain, that the ſtyle is that truly eaſy, ſimple, and natural one, which we ſhould admire in other authors exceſſively. Then all the world join in an opinion of its antiquity, and au⯑thenticity [254] too; and the learned are fond of ſtrengthening their different arguments by its ſanctions. Indeed, I was ſo much taken with it at my uncle's, that I was half aſhamed that it appeared ſo new to me. And yet, I cannot but ſay, that I have ſome of the Old Teſtament hiſtory, as it is cal⯑led, in my head: But, perhaps, am more obliged for it to Joſephus, than to the Bible itſelf.

Odd enough, with all our pride of learning, that we chooſe to derive the little we know from the under-cur⯑rents, perhaps muddy ones too, when the clear, the pel⯑lucid fountain-head is much nearer at hand, and eaſier to be come at — Slighted the more, poſſibly, for that very reaſon!

But man is a pragmatical fooliſh creature; and the more we look into him, the more we muſt deſpiſe him.—Lords of the creation!—Who can forbear indignant laughter! When we ſee not one of the individuals of that creation, except his perpetually excentric ſelf, but acts within its own natural and original appointments: And all the time, proud and vain as the conceited wretch is of fancied and ſelf-dependent excellence, he is obliged not only for the or⯑naments, but for the neceſſaries of life, (that is to ſay, for food as well as raiment) to all the other creatures; ſtrutting with their blood and ſpirits in his veins, and with their plumage on his back: For what has he of his own, but a very miſ⯑chievous, monkey-like, bad nature? Yet thinks himſelf at liberty to kick, and cuff, and elbow out every worthier creature: And when he has none of the animal creation to hunt down and abuſe, will make uſe of his power, his ſtrength, or his wealth, to oppreſs the leſs powerful and weaker of his own ſpecies!

When you and I meet next, let us enter more largely into this ſubject: And, I dare ſay, we ſhall take it by turns, in imitation of the two ſages of antiquity, to laugh and to weep at the thoughts of what miſerable, yet con⯑ceited beings men in general, but we libertines in particu⯑lar, are.

I fell upon a piece at Dorrell's this very evening, inti⯑tled, The ſacred Claſſics, written by one Blackwall.

I took it home with me; and had not read a dozen pages, when I was convinced, that I ought to be aſhamed of my⯑ſelf to think, how greatly I have admired leſs noble and [255] leſs natural beauties in pagan authors; while I have known nothing of this all-excelling collection of beauties, the Bible! By my faith, Lovelace, I ſhall for the future have a better opinion of the good ſenſe and taſte of half a ſcore parſons, whom I have fallen in with in my time, and deſpiſed for magnifying, as I thought they did, the language and the ſentiments to be found in it, in preference to all the antient poets and philoſophers. And this is now a convincing proof to me, and ſhames as much an infidel's preſumption a [...] his ignorance, that thoſe who know leaſt, are the great⯑eſt ſcoffers. A pretty pack of would-be-wits of us, who cenſure without knowlege, laugh without reaſon, and are moſt noiſy and loud againſt things we know leaſt of!

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

I Came not to town till this morning early; poor Belton clinging to me, as a man deſtitute of all other hold.

I haſtened to Smith's; and had but a very indifferent account of the lady's health. I ſent up my compliments; and ſhe deſired to ſee me in the afternoon.

Mrs. Lovick told me, that, after I went away on Satur⯑day, ſhe actually parted with one of her beſt ſuits of cloaths, to a gentlewoman who is her (Mrs. Lovick's) benefactreſs, and who bought them for a niece who is very ſpeedily to be married, and whom ſhe fits out and portions as her in⯑tended heireſs. The lady was ſo jealous that the money might come from you or me, that ſhe would ſee the pur⯑chaſer: Who owned to Mrs. Lovick, that ſhe bought them for half their worth: But yet, tho' her conſcience permit⯑ted her to take them at ſuch an under-rate, the widow ſays, her friend admired the lady, as one of the lovelieſt of her ſex: And having been let into a little of her ſtory, could not help tears at taking away her purchaſe.

She may be a good ſort of woman: Mrs. Lovick ſays, ſhe is: But SELF is an odious devil, that reconciles to ſome people the moſt cruel and diſhoneſt actions. But, nevertheleſs, it is my opinion, that thoſe who can ſuf⯑fer themſelves to take advantage of the neceſſities of their [256] fellow-creatures, in order to buy any thing at a leſs rate than would allow them the legal intereſt of their purchaſe-money (ſuppoſing they purchaſe before they want), are no better than robbers for the difference. — To plunder a wreck, and to rob at a fire, are indeed higher degrees of wickedneſs: But do not theſe as well as the others heighten the diſtreſſes of the diſtreſſed, and heap more miſery on the miſerable, whom it is the duty of every one to relieve?

About three o'clock I went again to Smith's. The lady was writing when I ſent up my name; but admitted of my viſit. I ſaw a viſible alteration in her countenance for the worſe; and Mrs. Lovick reſpectfully accuſing her of too great aſſiduity to her pen, early and late, and of her abſtinence the day before, I took notice of the alteration; and told her, that her phyſician had greater hopes of her, than ſhe had of herſelf; and I would take the liberty to ſay, that deſpair of recovery allowed not room for cure.

She ſaid, She neither deſpaired nor hoped. Then ſtep⯑ping to the glaſs; with great compoſure, My countenance, ſays ſhe, is indeed an honeſt picture of my heart. But the mind will run away with the body at any time.

Writing is all my diverſion, continued ſhe; and I have ſubjects that cannot be diſpenſed with. As to my hours, I have always been an early riſer: But now Reſt is leſs in my power than ever: Sleep has a long time ago quarrelled with me, and will not be friends, altho' I have made the firſt advances. What will be, muſt.

She then ſtept to her cloſet, and brought to me a parcel ſealed up with three ſeals: Be ſo kind, ſaid ſhe, as to give This to your friend. A very grateful preſent it ought to be to him: For, Sir, this packet contains all his letters to me. Such letters they are, as, compared with his actions, would reflect diſhonour upon all his Sex, were they to fall into other hands.

As to my letters to him, they are not many. He may either keep or deſtroy them, as he pleaſes.

I thought I ought not to forego this opportunity to plead for you: I therefore, with the packet in my hand, urged all the arguments I could think of in your favour.

She heard me out with more attention than I could have promiſed myſelf, conſidering her determin'd reſolution.

[257]I would not interrupt you, Mr. Belford, ſaid ſhe, tho' I am far from being pleaſed with the ſubject of your diſcourſe. The motives for your pleas in his favour, are generous. I love to ſee inſtances of generous friendſhip in either Sex. But I have written my full mind on this, ſubject to Miſs Howe, who will communicate it to the ladies of his fa⯑mily. No more, therefore, I pray you, upon a topic that may lead to diſagreeable recriminations.

Her apothecary came in. He adviſed her to the air, and blamed her for ſo great an application, as he was told ſhe made, to her pen; and he gave it as the Doctor's opi⯑nion, as well as his own, that ſhe would recover, if ſhe herſelf deſired to recover, and would uſe the means.

The lady may indeed write too much for her health, perhaps: But I have obſerved on ſeveral occaſions, that when the phyſical men are at a loſs what to preſcribe, they forbid their patients what they beſt like, and are moſt di⯑verted with.

But, noble-minded as they ſee this lady is, they know not half her nobleneſs of mind, nor how deeply ſhe is wounded; and depend too much upon her youth, which I doubt will not do in this caſe, and upon time, which will not alleviate the woes of ſuch a mind: For, having been bent upon doing good, and upon reclaiming a libertine whom ſhe loved, ſhe is diſappointed in all her darling views, and will never be able, I fear, to look up with ſatisfaction enough in herſelf to make life deſirable to her. For this lady had other views in living, than the common ones of eating, ſleeping, dreſſing, viſiting, and thoſe other fa⯑ſhionable amuſements, which fill up the time of moſt of her Sex, eſpecially of thoſe of it, who think themſelves fitted to ſhine in and adorn polite aſſemblies. Her grief, in ſhort, ſeems to me to be of ſuch a nature, that time, which alleviates moſt other perſons afflictions, will, as the poet ſays, give increaſe to hers.

Thou, Lovelace, mighteſt have ſeen all this ſuperior ex⯑cellence, as thou wenteſt along. In every word, in every ſentiment, in every action, is it viſible. —But thy curſed inventions and intriguing ſpirit ran away with thee. 'Tis fit that the ſubject of thy wicked boaſt, and of talents ſo egre⯑giouſly miſapplied, ſhould be thy puniſhment and thy curſe.

[258]Mr. Goddard took his leave; and I was going to do ſo too, when the maid came up, and told her, a gentleman was below, who very earneſtly inquired after her health, and deſired to ſee her: His name Hickman.

She was overjoyed; and bid the maid deſire the gentle⯑man to walk up.

I would have withdrawn; but, I ſuppoſe, ſhe thought it was likely I ſhould have met him upon the ſtairs, and ſo ſhe forbid it.

She ſhot to the ſtairs-head to receive him, and, taking his hand, aſked half a dozen queſtions (without waiting for any anſwer) in relation to Miſs Howe's health; ac⯑knowleging, in high terms, her goodneſs in ſending him to ſee her, before ſhe ſet out upon her little journey.

He gave her a letter from that young lady; which ſhe put into her boſom, ſaying, She would read it by-and-by.

He was viſibly ſhocked to ſee how ill ſhe looked.

You look at me with concern, Mr. Hickman, ſaid ſhe-Oh! Sir, times are ſtrangely alter'd with me, ſince I ſaw you laſt at my dear Miſs Howe's!—What a chearful creature was I then!—My heart at reſt! My proſpects charming! And beloved by every-body!—But I will not pain you!

Indeed, Madam, ſaid he, I am grieved for you at my ſoul.

He turned away his face with viſible grief in it.

Her own eyes gliſten'd: But ſhe turned to each of us, preſenting one to the other: Him to me, as a gentleman truly deſerving to be called ſo; Me to him, as your friend, indeed [How was I, at that inſtant, aſhamed of myſelf!]; but, nevertheleſs, as a man of humanity; deteſting my friend's baſeneſs; and deſirous of doing her all manner of good offices.

Mr. Hickman received my civilities with a coldneſs, which, however, was rather to be expected on your ac⯑count, than that it deſerved exception on mine. And the lady invited us both to breakfaſt with her in the morning; he being obliged to return next day.

I left them together, and called upon Mr. Dorrell, my attorney, to conſult him upon poor Belton's affairs; and then went home, and wrote thus far, preparative to what may occur in my breakfaſting-viſit in the morning.

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

I Went this morning, according to the lady's invitation, to breakfaſt, and found Mr. Hickman with her.

A good deal of heavineſs and concern hung upon his countenance; but he received me with more reſpect than he did yeſterday; which, I preſume, was owing to the lady's favourable character of me.

He ſpoke very little; for I ſuppoſe they had all their talk out yeſterday and before I came this morning.

By the hints that dropped, I perceived that Miſs Howe's letter gave an account of your interview with her at Col. Ambroſe's—of your profeſſions to Miſs Howe; and Miſs Howe's opinion, that marrying you was the only way now left to repair her wrongs.

Mr. Hickman, as I alſo gathered, had preſs'd her, in Miſs Howe's name, to let her find her, on her return from the Iſle of Wight, at a neighbouring farm-houſe, where neat apartments would be made ready to receive her. She aſked, How long it would be before they returned? And he told her, It was propoſed to be no more than a fort⯑night out and in. Upon which, ſhe ſaid, She ſhould then perhaps have time to conſider of that kind propoſal.

He had tender'd her money from Miſs Howe; but could not induce her to take any. No wonder I was re⯑fuſed! She only ſaid, That, if ſhe had occaſion, ſhe would be obliged to no-body but Miſs Howe.

Mr. Goddard, her apothecary, came in before break⯑faſt was over. At her deſire he ſat down with us. Mr. Hickman aſked him, If he could give him any conſolation in relation to Miſs Harlowe's recovery, to carry down to a lady, who loved her as ſhe loved her own life?

The lady, ſaid he, will do very well, if ſhe will re⯑ſolve upon it herſelf. Indeed you will, Madam. The Doctor is intirely of this opinion; and has ordered no⯑thing for you, but weak jellies, and innocent cordials, leſt you ſhould ſtarve yourſelf. And, let me tell you, Madam, that ſo much watching, ſo little nouriſhment, and ſo much [260] grief, as you ſeem to indulge, is enough to impair the moſt vigorous health, and to wear out the ſtrongeſt conſtitution.

What, Sir, ſaid ſhe, can I do? I have no appetite. Nothing you call nouriſhing will ſtay on my ſtomach. I do what I can: And have ſuch kind directors in Dr. H. and you, that I ſhould be inexcuſable if I did not.

I'll give you a regimen, Madam, replied he; which, I am ſure, the Doctor will approve of, and will make phy⯑ſic unneceſſary in your caſe. And that is, ‘Go to reſt at ten at night. Riſe not till ſeven in the morning. Let your breakfaſt be water-gruel, or milk-pottage, or weak broths: Your dinner any-thing you like, ſo you will but eat: A diſh of tea, with milk, in the afternoon; and ſagoe for your ſupper: And, my life for yours, this diet, and a month's country-air, will ſet you up.’

We were much pleaſed with the worthy gentleman's diſintereſted regimen: And ſhe ſaid, referring to her nurſe (who vouched for her), Pray, Mr. Hickman, let Miſs Howe know the good hands I am in: And as to the kind charge of the gentleman, aſſure her, that all I pro⯑miſed to her, in the longeſt of my two laſt letters, on the ſubject of my health, I do and will, to the utmoſt of my power, obſerve. I have engaged, Sir (to Mr. Goddard), I have engaged, Sir (to me), to Miſs Howe, to avoid all wilful neglects. It would be an unpardonable fault, and very ill become the character I would be glad to deſerve, or the temper of mind I wiſh my friends hereafter to think me miſtreſs of, if I did not.

Mr. Hickman and I went afterwards to a neighbour⯑ing coffee-houſe; and he gave me ſome account of your behaviour at the Ball on Monday night, and of your treatment of him in the conference he had with you be⯑fore that; which he repreſented in a more favourable light than you had done yourſelf: And yet he gave his ſentiments of you with great freedom, but with the politeneſs of a gentleman.

He told me how very determined the lady was againſt marrying you; that ſhe had, early this morning, ſet her⯑ſelf to write a letter to Miſs Howe, in anſwer to one he brought her, which he was to call for at twelve, it being [261] almoſt finiſhed before he ſaw her at breakfaſt; and that at three he propoſed to ſet out on his return.

He told me, that Miſs Howe, and her mother, and himſelf, were to begin their little journey for the Iſle of Wight on Monday next: But that he muſt make the moſt favourable repreſentation of Miſs Harlowe's bad health, or they ſhould have a very uneaſy abſence. He expreſſed the pleaſure he had in finding the lady in ſuch good hands: Propoſed to call on Dr. H. to take his opinion, whether it was likely ſhe would recover; and hoped he ſhould find it favourable.

As he was reſolved to make the beſt of the matter, and as the lady had refuſed to accept of money offered by Mr. Hickman, I ſaid nothing of her parting with her cloaths. I thought it would ſerve no other end to men⯑tion it, but to ſhock Miſs Howe: For it has ſuch a ſound with it, that a lady of her rank and fortune ſhould be ſo reduced, that I cannot myſelf think of it with patience; nor know I but one man in the world who can.

This gentleman is a little finical and formal; but I think him an agreeable ſenſible man, and not at all de⯑ſerving of the treatment, or the character, you give him.

But you are really a ſtrange mortal: Becauſe you have advantages in your perſon, in your air, and intellect, above all the men I know, and a face that would deceive the devil, you can't think any man elſe tolerable.

It is upon this modeſt principle that thou derideſt ſome of us, who, not having thy confidence in their outſide appearance, ſeek to hide their defects by the taylor's and peruke-maker's aſſiſtance [Miſtakenly enough, if it be really done ſo abſurdly as to expoſe them more]; and ſayſt, That we do but hang out a ſign, in our dreſs, of what we have in the ſhop of our minds. This, no doubt, thou thinkeſt, is ſmartly obſerved: But pr'ythee, Love⯑lace, tell me, if thou canſt, What ſort of a ſign muſt thou hang out, wert thou obliged to give us a clear idea, by it, of the furniture of thy mind?

Mr. Hickman tells me, He ſhould have been happy with Miſs Howe ſome weeks ago (for all the ſettlements have been ſome time engroſſed); but that ſhe will not marry, ſhe declares, while her dear friend is ſo unhappy.

[262]This is truly a charming inſtance of the force of female friendſhip; which you and I, and our brother rakes, have conſtantly ridiculed as a chimerical and impoſſible thing, in ladies of equal age, rank, and perfections.

But really, Lovelace, I ſee more and more, that there are not in the world, with all our conceited pride, nar⯑rower-ſoul'd wretches than we Rakes and Libertines are. And I'll tell thee how it comes about.

Our early love of roguery makes us generally run away from inſtruction; and ſo we become mere ſmatterers in the ſciences we are put to learn; and, becauſe we will know no more, think there is no more to be known.

With an infinite deal of vanity, un-reined imaginations, and no judgments at all, we next commence half-wits; and then think we have the whole field of knowlege in poſſeſſion, and deſpiſe every one who takes more pains, and is more ſerious, than ourſelves, as phlegmatic ſtupid fellows, who have no taſte for the moſt poignant pleaſures of life.

This makes us inſufferable to men of modeſty and merit, and obliges us to herd with thoſe of our own caſt; and by this means we have no opportunities of ſeeing or converſing with any-body who could or would ſhew us what we are; and ſo we conclude, that we are the clevereſt fellows in the world, and the only men of ſpirit in it; and, looking down with ſupercilious eyes on all who give not themſelves the liberties we take, imagine the world made for us, and for us only.

Thus, as to uſeful knowlege, while others go to the bottom, we only ſkim the ſurface; are deſpiſed by people of ſolid ſenſe, of true honour, and ſuperior talents; and, ſhutting our eyes, move round and round (like ſo many blind mill horſes) in one narrow circle, while we ima⯑gine we have all the world to range in.

I THREW myſelf in Mr. Hickman's way, on his return from the lady; and we took a ſmall repaſt, at the Le⯑beck's Head in Chandos-ſtreet.

He was exceſſively moved at taking leave of her; being afraid, as he ſaid to me, tho' he would not tell her ſo) that he ſhould never ſee her again. She charged him [263] to repreſent every-thing to Miſs Howe in the moſt favour⯑able light that the truth would bear.

He told me of a tender paſſage at parting; which was, that having ſaluted her at her cloſet-door, he could not help once more taking the ſame liberty, in a more fervent man⯑ner, at the ſtairs-head, whither ſhe accompanied him; and this in the thought, that it was the laſt time he ſhould ever have that honour; and offering to apologize for his free⯑dom (for he had preſs'd her to his heart with a vehemence, that he could neither account for or reſiſt)—Excuſe you, Mr. Hickman! that I will: You are my brother, and my friend: And to ſhew you, that the good man, who is to be happy with my beloved Miſs Howe, is very dear to me, you ſhall carry to her this token of my love (offering her ſweet face to his ſalute, and preſſing his hand between hers); and perhaps her love of me will make it more agreeable to her, than her punctilio would otherwiſe allow it to be: And tell her, ſaid ſhe, dropping on one knee, with claſped hands, and uplifted eyes, that in this poſture you ſee me, in the laſt moment of our parting, begging a bleſſing upon you both, and that you may be the delight and comfort of each other, for many, very many, happy years!

Tears, ſaid he, fell from my eyes: I even ſobb'd with mingled joy and ſorrow; and ſhe retreating as ſoon as I raiſed her, I went down ſtairs, highly diſſatisfied with my⯑ſelf for going; yet unable to ſtay, my eyes fixed the con⯑trary way to my feet, as long as I could behold the ſkirts of her raiment.

I went into the back-ſhop, continued the worthy man, and recommended the angelic lady to the beſt care of Mrs. Smith; and, when I was in the ſtreet, caſt my eye up at her window: There, for the laſt time, I doubt, ſaid he, that I ſhall ever behold her, I ſaw her; and ſhe waved her charming hand to me, and with ſuch a look of ſmiling goodneſs, and mingled concern, as I cannot deſcribe.

Pr'ythee tell me, thou vile Lovelace, if thou haſt not a notion, even from theſe jejune deſcriptions of mine (as I have from reflecting upon the occaſion), that there muſt be a more exalted pleaſure in intellectual friendſhip, than ever thou couldſt taſte in the groſſer fumes of ſenſſuality? And whether it may not be poſſible for thee, in time, to [264] give that preference to the infinitely preferable, which I hope, now, that I ſhall always give?

I will leave thee to make the moſt of this reflection, from

LETTER LXXIV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

YOUR two affecting letters were brought to me (as I had directed any letter from you ſhould be), to the Colonel's, about an hour before we broke up. I could not forbear dipping into them there; and ſhedding more tears over them than I will tell you of; altho' I dried my eyes, as well as I could, that the company I was obliged to return to, and my mamma, ſhould ſee as little of my concern as poſſible.

I am yet (and was then ſtill more) exceſſively flutter'd. The occaſion I will communicate to you by-and-by: For nothing but the flutters given by the ſtroke of death could divert my firſt attention from the ſad and ſolemn contents of your laſt favour. Theſe therefore I muſt begin with.

How can I bear the thoughts of loſing ſo dear a friend! I will not ſo much as ſuppoſe it. Indeed I cannot! Such a mind as yours was not veſted in humanity, to be ſnatch'd away from us ſo ſoon. There muſt be ſtill a great deal for you to do, for the good of all who have the happineſs to know you.

You enumerate, in your letter of Thurſday laſt ^(a), the particulars in which your ſituation is already mended: Let me ſee, by effects, that you are in earneſt in that enu⯑meration; and that you really have the courage to reſolve to get above the ſenſe of injuries you could not avoid; and then will I truſt to Providence, and my humble prayers, for your perfect recovery: And glad at my heart ſhall I be, on my return from the little Iſland, to find you well enough to be near us, according to the propoſal Mr. Hickman has to make you.

You chide me, in yours of Sunday, on the freedom I take with your friends ^(b).

[265]I may be warm. I know I am. — Too warm. —Yet warmth in friendſhip, ſurely, cannot be a crime; eſpeci⯑ally when our friend has great merit, labours under op⯑preſſion, and is ſtruggling with undeſerved calamity.

I have no notion of coldneſs in friendſhip, be it dignified or diſtinguiſhed by the name of prudence, or what it will.

You may excuſe your relations. It was ever your way to do ſo. But, my dear, other people muſt be allowed to judge as they pleaſe. I am not their daughter, nor the ſiſter of your brother and ſiſter—I thank Heaven, I am not.

But if you are diſpleaſed with me, for the freedoms I took ſo long ago, as you mention, I am afraid, if you knew what paſſed upon an application I made to your ſiſter, very lately, to procure you the abſolution your heart is ſo much ſet upon, that you would be ſtill more concerned. But they have been even with me But I muſt not tell you all. I hope however, that theſe unforgivers (my mother is among them) were always good, dutiful, paſſive children to their parents.

Once more, forgive me. I owned I was too warm▪ But I have no example to the contrary, but from You: And the treatment you meet with, is very little encourage⯑ment to me, to endeavour to imitate you in your dutiful meekneſs.

You leave it to me, to give a negative to the hopes of the noble family, whoſe only diſgrace is, that ſo very vile a man is ſo nearly related to them. But yet—Alas! my dear, I am ſo fearful of conſequences, (of ſelfiſhly fearful, if this negative muſt be given—I don't know what I ſhould ſay— But give me leave to ſuſpend, however, this negative, till I hear from you again.

Their earneſt courtſhip of you into their ſplendid fa⯑mily is ſo very honourable to you—They ſo juſtly admire you—You muſt have had ſuch a noble triumph over the baſe man — He is ſo much in earneſt—The world knows ſo much of the unhappy affair—You may do ſtill ſo much good—Your will is ſo inviolate — Your relations are ſo implacable—Think, my dear, and re-think.

And let me leave you to do ſo, while I give you the oc⯑caſion of the flutter I mentioned at the beginning of this letter; in the concluſion of which, you will find the ob⯑ligation [266] I have conſented to lay myſelf under, to refer this important point once more to your diſcuſſion, before I give, in your name, the negative that cannot, when given, be with honour to yourſelf repented of or recalled.

KNOW then, my dear, that I accompanied my mother to Colonel Ambroſe's, on the occaſion I mentioned to you in my former. Many ladies and gentlemen were there, whom you know; particularly Miſs Kitty D'Oily, Miſs Lloyd, Miſs Biddy D'Ollyffe, Miſs Biddulph, and their reſpective admirers, with the Colonel's two nieces, fine women both; beſides many whom you know not; for they were ſtrangers to me, but by name. A ſplendid company, and all pleaſed with one another, till Colonel Ambroſe introduced one, who, the moment he was brought into the great hall, ſet the whole aſſemblée into a kind of agitation.

It was your villain.

I thought I ſhould have ſunk, as ſoon as I ſet my eyes upon him. My mother was alſo affected; and, coming to me, Nancy, whiſper'd ſhe, can you bear the ſight of that wretch without too much emotion? — If not, with⯑draw into the next apartment.

I could not remove. Every-body's eyes were glanced from him to me. I ſat down, and fann'd myſelf, and was forced to order a glaſs of water. O that I had the eye the baſiliſk is reported to have, thought I, and that his life were within the power of it—directly would I kill him!

He entered with an air ſo hateful to me, but ſo agree⯑able to every other eye, that I could have look'd him dead for that too.

After the general ſalutations, he ſingled out Mr. Hick⯑man, and told him, He had recollected ſome parts of his behaviour to him when he ſaw him laſt, which had made him think himſelf under obligation to his patience and politeneſs.

And ſo, indeed, he was.

Miſs D'Oily, upon his complimenting her, among a knot of ladies, aſked him, in their hearing, How Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe did?

He heard, he ſaid, you were not ſo well as he wiſhed you to be, and as you deſerved to be.

[267]O Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe, what have you to anſwer for, on that young lady's account, if all be true that I have heard?

I have a great deal to anſwer for, ſaid the unbluſhing villain: But that dear lady has ſo many excellencies, and ſo much delica [...]y, that little ſins are great ones in her eye.

Little ſins! reply'd the lady: Mr. Lovelace's character is ſo well known, that no-body believes he can commit little ſins.

You are very good to me, Miſs D'Oily.

Indeed I am not.

Then I am the only perſon to whom you are not very good: And ſo I am the leſs obliged to you.

He turned, with an unconcerned air, to Miſs Playford, and made her ſome genteel compliments. I believe you know her not. She viſits his couſins Montague. Indeed, he had ſomething in his ſpecious manner to ſay to every-body: And this too ſoon quieted the diſguſt each perſon had at his entrance.

I ſtill kept my ſeat, and he either ſaw me not, or would not yet ſee me; and addreſſing himſelf to my mother, taking her unwilling hand, with an air of high aſſurance, I am glad to ſee you here, Madam: I hope Miſs Howe is well. I have reaſon to complain greatly of her: But hope to owe to her the higheſt obligations that can be laid on man.

My daughter, Sir, is accuſtomed to be too warm and too zealous in her friendſhips for either my tranquillity, or her own.

There had indeed been ſome late occaſion given for mu⯑tual diſpleaſure between my mother and me: But I think ſhe might have ſpared this to him; tho' no-body heard it, I believe, but the perſon to whom it was ſpoken and the lady who told it to me; for my mother ſpoke it low.

We are not wholly, Madam, to live for ourſelves, ſaid the vile hypocrite. It is not every-one who has a ſoul capable of friendſhip: And what a heart muſt that be, which can be inſenſible to the intereſts of a ſuffering friend?

This ſentiment from Mr. Lovelace's mouth, ſaid my mother! — Forgive me, Sir; But you can have no end, ſurely, in endeavouring to make me think as well of you, [268] as ſome innocent creatures have thought of you, to their coſt.

She would have flung from him. But, detaining her hand—Leſs ſevere, dear Madam, ſaid he, be leſs ſevere, in this place, I beſeech you. You will allow, that a very faulty perſon may ſee his errors; and when he does, and owns them, and repents, ſhould he not be treated merci⯑fully?

Your air, Sir, ſeems not to be that of a penitent. But the place may as properly excuſe this ſubject, as what you call my ſeverity.

But, deareſt Madam, permit me to ſay, that I hope for your intereſt with your charming daughter (was his ſyco⯑phant world) to have it put into my power to convince all the world, that there never was a truer penitent. And why, why this anger, dear Madam (for ſhe ſtruggled to get her hand out of his); theſe violent airs, ſo maidenly!—Im⯑pudent fellow!—May I not aſk, if Miſs Howe be here?

She would not have been here, replied my mother, had ſhe known whom ſhe had been to ſee.

And is ſhe here, then?—Thank Heaven!— He diſen⯑gaged her hand, and ſtept forward into company.

Dear Miſs Lloyd, ſaid he, with an air, (taking her hand, as he quitted my mother's) tell me, tell me, is Miſs Arabella Harlowe here? Or will ſhe be here? I was informed ſhe would: And this, and the opportunity of paying my compliments to your friend Miſs Howe, were great inducements with me to attend the Colonel.

Superlative aſſurance! Was it not, my dear?

Miſs Arabella Harlowe, excuſe me, Sir, ſaid Miſs Lloyd, would be very little inclined to meet you here, or any-where elſe.

Perhaps ſo, my dear Miſs Lloyd: But, perhaps, for that very reaſon, I am more deſirous to ſee her.

Miſs Harlowe, Sir, ſaid Miſs Biddulph, with a threat⯑ening air, will hardly be here without her brother. I ima⯑gine, if one come, both will come.

Heaven grant they both may! ſaid the wretch. No⯑thing, Miſs Biddulph, ſhall begin from me to diſturb this aſſemblée, I aſſure you, if they do. One calm half-hour's converſation with that brother and ſiſter, would be a moſt [269] fortunate opportunity to me, in preſence of the Colonel and his Lady, or whom elſe they ſhould chooſe.

Then turning round, as if deſirous to find out the one or the other, or both, he 'ſpied me, and, with a very low bow, approached me.

I was all in a flutter, you may ſuppoſe. He would have taken my hand. I refuſed it, all glowing with indigna⯑tion: Every-body's eyes upon us.

I went from him to the other end of the room, and ſat down, as I thought out of his hated ſight: But preſently I heard his odious voice, whiſpering, behind my chair (he leaning upon the back of it, with impudent unconcern) Charming Miſs Howe! looking over my ſhoulder: One requeſt—I ſtarted up from my ſeat, but could hardly ſtand neither, for very indignation—O this ſweet, but becoming, diſdain, whiſper'd on the inſufferable creature! — I am ſorry to give you all this emotion: But either here, or at your own houſe, let me intreat from you one quarter of an hour's audience. — I beſeech you, Madam, but one quarter of an hour, in any of the adjoining apartments.

Not for a kingdom, fluttering my fan. — I knew not what I did. —But I could have killed him.

We are ſo much obſerved—Elſe on my knees, my dear Miſs Howe, would I beg your intereſt with your charm⯑ing friend.

She'll have nothing to ſay to you.

I had not then your letters, my dear.

Killing words!—But indeed I have deſerved them, and a dagger in my heart beſides. —I am ſo conſcious of my demerits, that I have no hope, but in your interpoſition— Could I owe that favour to Miſs Howe's mediation, which I cannot hope for on any other account—

My mediation, vileſt of men!—My mediation!—I ab⯑hor you!—From my ſoul, I abhor you, vileſt of men! —Three or four times I repeated theſe words, ſtammering too. — I was exceſſively flutter'd.

You can call me nothing, Madam, ſo bad as I will call myſelf. —I have been, indeed, the vileſt of men. — But now I am not ſo.—Permit me (Every-body's eyes upon us) but one moment's audience— To exchange but ten words with you, deareſt Miſs Howe—in whoſe preſence [270] you pleaſe—for your dear friend's ſake—but ten words with you in the next apartment.

It is an inſult upon me, to preſume, that I would ex⯑change one with you, if I could help it!—Out of my way, and my ſight, fellow!

And away I would have flung: But he took my hand. I was exceſſively diſordered. — Every-body's eyes more and more intent upon us.

Mr. Hickman, whom my mother had drawn on one ſide, to injoin him a patience, which, perhaps, need not to have been inforced, came up juſt then, with my mother, who had him by his leading-ſtrings— By his ſleeve, I ſhould ſay.

Mr. Hickman, ſaid the bold wretch, be my advocate but for ten words in the next apartment with Miſs Howe, in your preſence, and in yours, Madam, to my mother.

Hear, Nancy, what he has to ſay to you. To get rid of him, hear his ten words.

Excuſe me, Madam. His very breath— Unhand me, Sir!

He ſigh'd, and look'd — O how the practiſed villain ſigh'd and look'd! He then let go my hand, with ſuch a reverence in his manner, as brought blame upon me from ſome, that I would not hear him. —And this incenſed me the more. O my dear, this man is a devil!—This man is indeed a devil!—So much patience, when he pleaſes! So much gentleneſs!—Yet ſo reſolute, ſo perſiſting, ſo audacious!

I was going out of the aſſemblée in great diſorder. He was at the door as ſoon as I.

How kind this is! ſaid the wretch; and, ready to follow me, open'd the door for me.

I turned back, upon this, and, not knowing what I did, ſnapp'd my fan juſt in his face, as he turned ſhort upon me; and the powder flew from his wig.

Every-body ſeemed as much pleaſed, as I was vexed.

He turned to Mr. Hickman, nettled at the powder fly⯑ing, and at the ſmiles of the company upon him; Mr. Hickman, you will be one of the happieſt men in the world, becauſe you are a good man, and will do nothing to provoke this paſſionate lady; and becauſe ſhe has too much good ſenſe to be provoked without reaſon: But elſe, the Lord have mercy upon you!

This man, this Mr. Hickman, my dear, is too meek for [271] a man. Indeed he is. —But my patient mother twits me, that her paſſionate daughter ought to like him the better for that. But meek men abroad are not always meek men at home. I have obſerved that, in more inſtances than one: And if they were, I ſhould not, I verily think, like them the better for being ſo.

He then turned to my mother, reſolved to be even with her too: Where, good Madam, could Miſs get all this ſpirit?

The company round ſmiled; for I need not tell you, that my mother's high-ſpiritedneſs is pretty well known; and ſhe, ſadly vexed, ſaid, Sir, you treat me, as you do the reſt of the world—But—

I beg pardon, Madam, interrupted he: I might have ſpared my queſtion—And inſtantly (I retiring to the other end of the hall) he turned to Miſs Playford: What would I give, Miſs, to hear you ſing that ſong you obliged us with at Lord M.'s?

He then, as if nothing had happened, fell into a con⯑verſation with her, and Miſs D'Ollyffe, upon muſic; and whiſperingly ſung to Miſs Playford, holding her two hands, with ſuch airs of genteel unconcern, that it vexed me not a little, to look round, and ſee how pleaſed half the giddy fools of our Sex were with him, notwithſtanding his no⯑torious wicked character. — To this it is, that ſuch vile fellows owe much of their vileneſs; whereas, if they found themſelves ſhunned, and deſpiſed, and treated as beaſts of prey, as they are, they would run to their caverns, there howl by themſelves; and none but ſuch as ſad accident, or unpitiable preſumption, threw in their way, would ſuffer by them.

He afterwards talked very ſeriouſly, at times, to Mr. Hickman: At times, I ſay; for it was with ſuch breaks and ſtarts of gaiety, turning to this lady, and to that, and then to Mr. Hickman again, reſuming a ſerious or a gay air at pleaſure, that he took every-body's eye, the womens eſpecially; who were full of their whiſpering admirations of him, qualified with If's, and But's, and What pity's, and ſuch ſort of ſtuff, that ſhewed, in their very diſpraiſes, too much liking.

[272]Well may our Sex be the ſport and ridicule of ſuch liber⯑tines! Unthinking eye-governed creatures!—Would not a little reflection teach us, that a man of merit muſt be a man of modeſty, becauſe a diffident one? And that ſuch a wretch as this muſt have taken his degrees in wickedneſs, and gone thro' a courſe of vileneſs, before he could arrive at this impenetrable effrontery? An effrontery which can proceed only from the light opinion he has of us and the high one of himſelf.

But our Sex are generally modeſt and baſhful themſelves, and are too apt to conſider that, which, in the main, is their principal grace, as a defect: And finely do they judge, when they think of ſupplying that defect, by chooſing a man, who cannot be aſhamed.

His diſcourſe to Mr. Hickman turned upon you, and his acknowleged injuries of you, tho' he could ſo lightly ſtart from the ſubject, and return to it.

I have no patience with ſuch a devil — Man he cannot be called. To be ſure he would behave in the ſame man⯑ner any-where, or in any preſence, even at the altar itſelf, if a lady were with him there.

It ſhall ever be a rule with me, that he who does not regard a woman with ſome degree of reverence, will look upon her, and occaſionally treat her, with contempt.

He had the confidence to offer to take me out; but I abſolutely refuſed him, and ſhunned him all I could, put⯑ting on the moſt contemptuous airs: But nothing could mortify him.

I wiſhed twenty times I had not been there.

The gentlemen were as ready as I to wiſh he had broken his neck, rather than been preſent, I believe: For nobody was regarded but him. So little of the fop, yet ſo elegant and rich in his dreſs: His perſon ſo ſpecious: His manner ſo intrepid: So much meaning and penetration in his face: So much gaiety, yet ſo little of the monkey: Tho' a tra⯑vell'd gentleman, yet no affectation; no mere toupet⯑man; but all manly; and his courage and wit, the one ſo known, the other ſo dreaded, you muſt think the petits-maîtres (of which there were four or five preſent) were moſt deplorably off in his company: And one grave gentleman obſerved to me (pleaſed to ſee me ſhun him as I did) [273] that the poet's obſervation was too true, That the genera⯑lity of ladies were Rakes in their hearts, or they could not be ſo much taken with a man who had ſo notorious a character.

I told him, The reflection both of the poet and applier was much too general, and made with more ill-nature than good manners.

When the wretch ſaw how induſtriouſly I avoided him (ſhifting from one part of the hall to another), he at laſt boldly ſtept up to me, as my mother and Mr. Hick⯑man were talking to me; and thus, before them, accoſted me:

I beg your pardon, Madam; but, by your mother's leave, I muſt have a few moments converſation with you, either here, or at your own houſe; and I beg you will give me the opportunity.

Nancy, ſaid my mother, hear what he has to ſay to you. In my preſence you may: And better in the ad⯑joining apartment, if it muſt be, than to come to you at our own houſe.

I retired to one corner of the hall, my mother following me, and he, taking Mr. Hickman under the arm, follow⯑ing her—Well, Sir, ſaid I, what have you to ſay?—Tell me here.

I have been telling Mr. Hickman, ſaid he, how much I am concerned for the injuries I have done to the moſt ex⯑cellent woman in the world: And yet, that ſhe obtained ſuch a glorious triumph over me the laſt time I had the honour to ſee her, as, with my penitence, ought to have qualified her former reſentments: But that I will, with all my ſoul, enter into any meaſures to obtain her forgiveneſs of me. My couſins Montague have told you this. Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, and my Lord M. are engaged for my honour. I know your power with the dear creature. My couſins told me, you gave them hopes you would uſe it in my behalf. My Lord M. and his two ſiſters are im⯑patiently expecting the fruits of it. You muſt have heard from her before now: I hope you have. And will you be ſo good, as to tell me, if I may have any hopes?

If I muſt ſpeak on this ſubject▪ Let me tell you, that you have broken her heart. You know not the value of [274] the lady you have injured. You deſerve her not. And ſhe deſpiſes you, as ſhe ought.

Dear Miſs Howe, mingle not paſſion with denunciations ſo ſevere. I muſt know my fate. I will go abroad once more, if I find her abſolutely irreconcileable. But I hope ſhe will give me leave to attend upon her, to know my doom from her own mouth.

It would be death immediate for her to ſee you. And what muſt You be, to be able to look her in the face?

I then reproached him (with vehemence enough, you may believe) on his baſeneſs, and the evils he had made you ſuffer: The diſtreſs he had reduced you to: All your friends made your enemies: The vile houſe he had carried you to: Hinted at his villainous arts; the dreadful arreſt: And told him of your preſent deplorable illneſs, and re⯑ſolution to die rather than have him.

He vindicated not any part of his conduct, but that of the arreſt; and ſo ſolemnly proteſted his ſorrow for his uſage of you, accuſing himſelf in the freeſt manner, and by deſerved appellations, that I promiſed to lay before you this part of our converſation. And now you have it.

My mother, as well as Mr. Hickman, believes, from what paſſed on this occaſion, that he is touched in con⯑ſcience for the wrongs he has done you: But, by his whole behaviour, I muſt own, it ſeems to me, that nothing can touch him for half an hour together. Yet I have no doubt, that he would willingly marry you; and it piques his pride, I could ſee, that he ſhould be denied: As it did mine, that ſuch a wretch had dared to think it in his power to have ſuch a woman whenever he pleaſed; and that it muſt be accounted a condeſcenſion, and matter of obliga⯑tion (by all his own family at leaſt), that he would vouch⯑ſafe to think of marriage.

Now, my dear, you have the reaſon before you, why I ſuſpend the deciſive Negative to the ladies of his family: My mother, Miſs Lloyd, and Miſs Biddulph, who were inquiſitive after the ſubject of our retired converſation, and whoſe curioſity I thought it was right, in ſome degree, to gratify (eſpecially as thoſe young ladies are of our ſelect acquaintance), are all of opinion, that you ſhould be his.

You will let Mr. Hickman know your whole mind; [275] and when he acquaints me with it, I will tell you all my own.

Mean time, may the news he will bring me of the ſtate of your health, be favourable! prays, with the utmoſt fervency,

LETTER LXXV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

AFTER I have thankfully acknowleged your favour in ſending Mr. Hickman to viſit me before you ſet out upon your intended journey, I muſt chide you (in the ſincerity of that faithful love, which could not be the love it is, if it would not admit of that cementing freedom) for ſuſpending the deciſive Negative, which, upon ſuch full deliberation, I had intreated you to give to Mr. Lovelace's relations.

I am ſorry, that I am obliged to repeat to you, my dear, who know me ſo well, that, were I ſure I ſhould live many years, I would not have Mr. Lovelace: Much leſs can I think of him, as it is probable I may not live one.

As to the world, and its cenſures, you know, my dear, that, however deſirous I always was of a fair fame, yet I never thought it right to give more than a ſecond place to the world's opinion. The challenges made to Mr. Lovelace by Miſs D'Oily, in public company, are a freſh proof, that I have loſt my reputation: And what advantage would it be to me, were it retrievable, and were I to live long, if I could not acquit myſelf to myſelf?

Having, in my former, ſaid ſo much on the freedoms you have taken with my friends, I ſhall ſay the leſs now: But your hint, that ſomething elſe has newly paſſed be⯑tween ſome of them and you, gives me great concern, and that as well for my own ſake, as for theirs; ſince it muſt neceſſarily incenſe them againſt me. I wiſh, my dear, that I had been left to my own courſe on an occaſion ſo v [...]ry intereſting to myſelf. But ſince what is done cannot be helped, I muſt abide the conſequences: Yet I dread, [276] more than before, what may be my ſiſter's anſwer, if an anſwer be at all vouchſafed.

Will you give me leave, my dear, to cloſe this ſubject with one remark?—It is this: That my beloved friend, in points where her own laudable zeal is concerned, has ever ſeemed more ready to fly from the rebuke, than the fault. If you will excuſe this freedom, I will acknowlege thus far in favour of your way of thinking, as to the con⯑duct of ſome parents in theſe nice caſes, That indiſcreet op⯑poſition does frequently as much miſchief as giddy love.

As to the invitation you are ſo kind as to give me, to remove privately into your neighbourhood, I have told Mr. Hickman, that I will conſider of it: But believe, if you will be ſo good as to excuſe me, that I ſhall not ac⯑cept of it, even ſhould I be able to remove. I will give you my reaſons for declining it; and ſo I ought, when both my love, and my gratitude, would make a viſit now-and-then, from my dear Miſs Howe, the moſt conſolatory thing in the world to me.

You muſt know then, that this great town, wicked as i [...] is, wants not opportunities of being better; having daily prayers at ſeveral churches in it; and I am deſirous, as my ſtrength will admit, to embrace thoſe opportunities. The method I have propoſed to myſelf (and was beginning to practiſe, when that cruel arreſt deprived me both of free⯑dom and ſtrength), is this: When I was diſpoſed to gentle exerciſe, I took a chair to St. Dunſtan's church in Fleet-ſtreet, where are prayers at ſeven in the morning: I pro⯑poſed, if the weather favoured, to walk (if not, to take chair) to Lincoln's-Inn chapel; where, at eleven in the morning, and at five in the afternoon, are the ſame deſirable opportunities; and at other times to go no farther that Covent-Garden church, where are early morning prayers likewiſe.

This method, purſued, I doubt not, will greatly help as it has already done, to calm my diſturbed thoughts, and to bring me to that perfect reſignation, which I aſpire af⯑ter: For I muſt own, my dear, that ſometimes ſtill my griefs, and my reflections, are too heavy for me; and a [...] the aid I can draw from religious duties is hardly ſufficien [...] to ſupport my ſtaggering reaſon. I am a very young [277] creature, you know, my dear, to be left to my own con⯑duct, in ſuch circumſtances as I am in.

Another reaſon why I chooſe not to go down into your neighbourhood, is, The diſpleaſure that might ariſe on my account between your mother and you.

If, indeed, you were actually married, and the worthy man (who would then have a title to all your regard) were earneſtly deſirous of my near neighbourhood, I know not what I might do: For altho' I might not perhaps intend to give up my other important reaſons at the time I ſhould make you a congratulatory viſit, yet I might not know how to de⯑ny myſelf the pleaſure of continuing near you, when there.

I ſend you incloſed the copy of my letter to my ſiſter. I hope it will be thought to be written with a true penitent ſpirit; for indeed it is. I deſire that you will not think I ſtoop too low in it; ſince there can be no ſuch thing as that, in a child, to parents whom ſhe has unhappily offended.

But if ſtill (perhaps more diſguſted than before at your freedom with them) they ſhould paſs it by with the con⯑tempt of ſilence (for I have not yet been favoured with an anſwer), I muſt learn to think it right in them ſo to do; eſpecially as it is my firſt direct application: For I have often cenſured the boldneſs of thoſe, who, applying for a favour, which it is in a perſon's option to grant, or to re⯑fuſe, take the liberty of being offended, if they are not gratified; as if the petitioned-to had not as good a right to reject, as the petitioner to aſk.

But if my letter ſhould be anſwered, and that in ſuch terms as will make me loth to communicate it to ſo warm a friend—you muſt not, my dear, take upon you to cen⯑ſure my relations; but allow for them, as they know not what I have ſuffered; as being filled with juſt reſentments againſt me (juſt to them, if they think them juſt); and as not being able to judge of the reality of my penitence.

And after all, what can they do for me?—They can only pity me: And what will that do, but augment their own grief; to which, at preſent, their reſentment is an allevia⯑tion? For can they, by their pity, reſtore to me my loſt re⯑putation? Can they, by it, purchaſe a ſponge, that will wipe out from the year the paſt fatal five months of my life ^(a)?

[278]Your account of the gay, unconcerned behaviour of Mr. Lovelace, at the Colonel's, does not ſurpriſe me at all, af⯑ter I am told, that he had the intrepidity to go thither, knowing who were invited and expected.—Only this, my dear, I really wonder at, that Miſs Howe could imagine, that I could have a thought of ſuch a man for a huſband.

Poor wretch! I pity him, to ſee him fluttering about; abuſing talents that were given him for excellent pur⯑poſes; taking courage for wit; and dancing, fearleſs of danger, on the edge of a precipice!

But, indeed, his threatening to ſee me, moſt ſenſibly alarms and ſhocks me. I cannot but hope, that I never, never more ſhall ſee him in this world.

Since you are ſo loth, my dear, to ſend the deſired Ne⯑gative to the ladies of his family, I will only trouble you to tranſmit the letter I ſhall incloſe for that purpoſe; di⯑rected indeed to yourſelf, becauſe it was to you that thoſe ladies applied themſelves on this occaſion; but to be ſent by you to any one of the ladies, at your own choice.

I commend myſelf, my deareſt Miſs Howe, to your prayers; and conclude with repeated thanks for ſending Mr. Hickman to me; and with wiſhes for your health and happineſs, and for the ſpeedy celebration of your nuptials,

LETTER LXXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE. [Incloſed in the preceding.]

SINCE you ſeem loth to acquieſce in my determined reſolution, ſignified to you as ſoon as I was able to hold a pen, I beg the favour of you, by this, or by any other way you think moſt proper, to acquaint the worthy Ladies who have applied to you in behalf of their rela⯑tion, that, altho' I am infinitely obliged to their generous opinion of me, yet I cannot conſent to ſanctify, as I may ſay, Mr. Lovelace's repeated breaches of all moral ſanctions, and hazard my future happineſs by an union with a man, [279] thro' whoſe premeditated injuries, in a long train of the baſeſt contrivances, I have forfeited my temporal hopes.

He himſelf, when he reflects upon his own actions, muſt ſurely bear teſtimony to the juſtice, as well as fitneſs, of my determination. The Ladies, I dare ſay, would, were they to know the whole of my unhappy ſtory.

Be pleaſed to acquaint them, that I deceive myſelf, if my reſolution on this head (however ingratefully, and even inhumanly, he has treated me) be not owing more to principle than paſſion. Nor can I give a ſtronger proof of the truth of this aſſurance, than by declaring, that I can and will forgive him, on this one eaſy condition, That he will never moleſt me more.

In whatever way you chooſe to make this declaration, be pleaſed to let my moſt reſpectful compliments to the Ladies of the noble family, and to my Lord M. accom⯑pany it. And do you, my dear, believe, that I ſhall be, to the laſt moment of my life,

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

I Have three letters of thine to take notice of ^(a): But am divided in my mind, whether to quarrel with thee, on thy unmerciful reflections; or to thank thee, for thy acceptable particularity and diligence. But ſeveral of my ſweet dears have I, indeed, in my time made to cry and laugh in a breath; nay, one ſide of their pretty faces laugh, before the cry could go off of the other: Why may I not, therefore, curſe and applaud thee in the ſame moment? [...]o take both in one: And what follows, as it ſhall riſe from my pen.

How often have I ingenuouſly confeſſed my ſins againſt [...]is excellent creature?—Yet thou never ſpareſt me, altho' [...] bad a man as myſelf. Since then, I get ſo little by my [...]feſſions, I had a good mind to try to defend myſelf; [...]nd that not only from antient and modern ſtory, but from [280] common practice; and yet avoid repeating any-thing I have ſuggeſted before in my own behalf.

I am in a humour to play the fool with my pen: Briefly then, from antient ſtory firſt:—Doſt thou not think, that I am as much intitled to forgiveneſs on Miſs Harlowe's account, as Virgil's hero was on Queen Dido's? For what an ingrateful varlet was that vagabond to the hoſpitable princeſs, who had willingly conferred upon him the laſt favour?—Stealing away (whence, I ſuppoſe, the ironical phraſe of Truſty Trojan to this day) like a thief; pretend⯑edly indeed at the command of the gods; but could that be, when the errand he went upon was to rob other princes, not only of their dominions, but of their lives?—Yet this fellow is, at every word, the pius Aeneas, with the im⯑mortal bard who celebrates him.

Should Miſs Harlowe even break her heart (which Hea⯑ven forbid!) for the uſage ſhe has received (to ſay nothing of her diſappointed pride, to which her death would be attributable, more than to reaſon) what compariſon will her fate hold to Queen Dido's? And have I half the obli⯑gation to her, that Aeneas had to the Queen of Carthage? The latter placing a confidence, the former none, in he [...] man? — Then, whom elſe have I robbed? Whom elſe have I injured? Her brother's worthleſs life I gave him, inſtead of taking any man's, as the Trojan vagabond did the lives of thouſands. Why then ſhould it not be the pius Lovelace, as well as the pius Aeneas? For, do [...] thou think, had a conflagration happened, and had it bee [...] in my power, that I would not have ſaved my old Anchi⯑ſes (as he did his from the Ilion bonfire) even at the ex⯑pence of my Creüſa, had I had a wife of that name?

But for a more modern inſtance in my favour—Have [...] uſed Miſs Harlowe, as our famous Maiden-Queen, as ſhe was called, uſed one of her own blood, a Siſter-Queen▪ who threw herſelf into her protection from her rebel-ſub⯑jects; and whom ſhe detained priſoner eighteen years, and at laſt cut off her head? Yet (credited by worſe and weake [...] reigns, a ſucceſſion four deep) do not honeſt Proteſtant [...] pronounce her pious too?—And call her particularly th [...] Queen?

As to common practice—Who, let me aſk, that has it i [...] [281] his power to gratify a predominant paſſion, be it what it will, denies himſelf the gratification?—Leaving it to cooler deliberation; and, if he be a great man, to his flatterers; to find a reaſon for it afterwards?

Then, as to the worſt part of my treatment of this lady — How many men are there, who, as well as I, have ſought, by intoxicating liquors, firſt to inebriate, then to ſubdue? What ſignifies what the potations were, when the ſame end was in view?

Let me tell thee, upon the whole, that neither the Queen of Carthage, nor the Queen of Scots, would have thought they had any reaſon to complain of cruelty, had they been uſed no worſe than I have uſed the Queen of my heart: And then do I not aſpire with my whole ſoul to repair by marriage? Would the pius Aeneas, thinkeſt thou, have done ſuch a piece of juſtice by Dido, had ſhe lived?

Come, come, Belford, let people run away with no⯑tions as they will, I am comparatively a very innocent man. And if by theſe, and other like reaſonings, I have quieted my own conſcience, a great end is anſwered. What have I to do with the world?

And now I ſit me peaceably down to conſider thy letters.

I hope thy pleas in my favour ^(a), when ſhe gave thee (ſo generouſly gave thee), for me, my letters, were urged with an honeſt energy. But I ſuſpect thee much for be⯑ing too ready to give up thy client. Then thou haſt ſuch a miſgiving aſpect; an aſpect, rather inviting rejection, than carrying perſuaſion with it; and art ſuch an heſitate⯑ing, ſuch an humming and hawing caitiff; that I ſhall at⯑tribute my failure, if I do fail, rather to the inability and ill looks of my advocate, than to my cauſe. Again, Thou art deprived of the force men of our caſt give to argu⯑ments; for ſhe won't let thee ſwear! — Art moreover a very heavy, thoughtleſs fellow; tolerable only at a ſecond rebound; a horrid dunce at the impromptu. Theſe, en⯑countering with ſuch a lady, are great diſadvantages.— And ſtill a greater is thy balancing (as thou doſt at preſent) between old Rakery and new Reformation: Since this puts thee into the ſame ſituation with her, as they told me at Leipſick Martin Luther was in, at the firſt public diſpute [282] which he held, in defence of his ſuppoſed new doctrines, with Eckius. For Martin was then but a linſey-wolſey reformer. He retained ſome dogma, which, by natural conſequence, made others that he held untenable. So that Eckius, in ſome points, had the better of him. But, from that time, he made clear work, renouncing all that ſtood in his way: And then his doctrines ran upon all fours. He was never puzzled afterwards; and could boldly declare, that he would defend them in the face of angels and men; and to his friends, who would have diſſuaded him from venturing to appear before the emperor Charles the Fifth at Spires, That, were there as many devils at Spires, as tiles upon the houſes, he would go. An anſwer that is admired by every Proteſtant Saxon to this day.

Since then thy unhappy aukwardneſs deſtroys the force of thy arguments, I think thou hadſt better (for the pre⯑ſent, however) forbear to urge her on the ſubject of ac⯑cepting the reparation I offer; leſt the continual teazing of her to forgive me ſhould but ſtrengthen her in her denials of forgiveneſs; till, for conſiſtency ſake, ſhe'll be forced to adhere to a reſolution ſo often avowed: Whereas, if left to herſelf, a little time, and better health, which will bring on better ſpirits, will give her quicker reſentments; thoſe quicker reſentments will lead her into vehemence; that vehemence will ſubſide, and turn into expoſtulation and parley: My friends will then interpoſe, and guaranty for me: And all our trouble on both ſides will be over.— Such is the natural courſe of things.

I cannot endure thee for thy hopeleſneſs in the lady's recovery ^(a); and that in contradiction to the Doctor and Apothecary.

Time, in the words of Congreve, thou ſayſt, will give increaſe to her afflictions. But why ſo? Knoweſt thou not, that thoſe words (ſo contrary to common experience) were applied to the caſe of a perſon, while paſſion was in its full vigour?—At ſuch a time, every-one in a heavy grief thinks the ſame: But as Enthuſiaſts do by Scripture, ſo doſt thou by the poets thou haſt read: Any-thing that carries the moſt diſtant alluſion from either, to the caſe in hand, is put down by both for goſpel, however incongruous to [283] the general ſcope of either, and to that caſe. So once, in a pulpit, I heard one of the former very vehemently de⯑clare himſelf to be a dead dog; when every man, woman, and child, were convinced to the contrary by his howling.

I can tell thee, that, if nothing elſe will do, I am deter⯑mined, in ſpite of thy buſkin-airs, and of thy engagements for me to the contrary, to ſee her myſelf.

Face to face have I known many a quarrel made up, which diſtance would have kept alive, and widened. Thou wilt be a madder Jack than him in the Tale of a Tub, if thou giveſt an active oppoſition to this interview.

In ſhort, I cannot bear the thought, that a lady, whom once I had bound to me in the ſilken cords of love, ſhould ſlip through my fingers, and be able, while my heart flames out with a violent paſſion for her, to deſpiſe me, and to ſet both love and me at defiance. Thou canſt not imagine how much I envy thee, and her Doctor, and her Apothe⯑cary, and every-one whom I hear of being admitted to her preſence and converſation; and wiſh to be the one or the other in turn.

Wherefore, if nothing elſe will do, I will ſee her. I'll tell thee of an admirable expedient, juſt come croſs me, to ſave thy promiſe, and my own.

Mrs. Lovick, you ſay, is a good woman: If the lady be worſe, ſhe ſhall adviſe her to ſend for a parſon to pray by her: Unknown to her, unknown to the lady, unknown to thee (for ſo it may paſs), I will contrive to be the man, petticoated out, and veſted in a gown and caſſock. I once, for a certain purpoſe, did aſſume the canonicals; and I was thought to make a fine ſleek appearance, my broad roſe-bound beaver became me mightily, and I was much admired upon the whole, by all who ſaw me.

Methinks it muſt be charmingly apropos to ſee me kneel⯑ing down by her bed-ſide (I am ſure I ſhall pray heartily), beginning out of the Common-prayer book the Sick Office for the reſtoration of the languiſhing lady, and concluding with an exhortation to charity and forgiveneſs for myſelf.

I will conſider of this matter. But, in whatever ſhape I ſhall chooſe to appear, of this thou mayſt aſſure thy⯑ſelf, I will appriſe thee before-hand of my determined-upon viſit, that thou mayeſt contrive to be out of the way, [284] and to know nothing of the matter. This will ſave thy word; and, as to mine, can ſhe think worſe of me than ſhe does at preſent?

An indiſpenſable of true love and profound reſpect, in thy wiſe opinion ^(a), is abſurdity or aukwardneſs, —'Tis ſurpriſing, that thou ſhouldſt be one of thoſe partial mor⯑tals, who take their meaſures of right and wrong from what they find themſelves to be, and cannot help being!— So aukwardneſs is a perfection in the aukward!—At this rate, no man ever can be in the wrong. But I inſiſt upon it, that an aukward fellow will do every-thing aukwardly: And if he be like thee, will rack his unmeaning brain for excuſes as aukward as his firſt fault. Reſpectful Love is an inſpirer of actions worthy of itſelf; and he who can⯑not ſhew it, where he moſt means it, manifeſts, that he is an unpolite rough creature, a perfect Belford, and has it not in him.

But here thou'lt throw out that notable witticiſm, that my outſide is the beſt of me, thine the worſt of thee; and that, if I ſet about mending my mind, thou wilt mend thy appearance.

But, pr'ythee, Jack, don't ſtay for that; but ſet about thy amendment in dreſs, when thou leaveſt off thy mourn⯑ing; for why ſhouldſt thou prepoſſeſs in thy disfavour all thoſe who never ſaw thee before? — It is hard to remove early-taken prejudices, whether of liking or diſtaſte: Peo⯑ple will hunt, as I may ſay, for reaſons to confirm firſt im⯑preſſions, in compliment to their own ſagacity: Nor is it every mind that has the ingenuity to confeſs itſelf miſ⯑taken, when it finds itſelf to be wrong. Thou thyſelf art an adept in the pretended ſcience of reading of men; and, whenever thou art out, wilt ſtudy to find ſome reaſons why it was more probable that thou ſhouldſt have been right; and wilt watch every motion and action, and every word and ſentiment, in the perſon thou haſt once cenſured, for proofs, in order to help thee to revive and maintain thy firſt opinion. And, indeed, as thou ſeldom erreſt on the favourable ſide, human nature is ſo vile a thing, that thou art likely to be right five times in ſix, on the other: And perhaps it is but gueſſing of others, by what thou [285] findeſt in thy own heart, to have reaſon to compliment thyſelf on thy penetration.

Here is preachment for thy preachment: And, I hope, if thou likeſt thy own, thou wilt thank me for mine; the rather, as thou may'ſt be the better for it, if thou wilt: Since it is calculated for thy own meridian.

Well, but the lady refers my deſtiny to the letter ſhe has written, actually written, to Miſs Howe; to whom, it ſeems, ſhe has given her reaſons, why ſhe will not have me. I long to know the contents of this letter: But am in great hopes, that ſhe has ſo expreſſed her denials, as ſhall give room to think, ſhe only wants to be perſuaded to the con⯑trary, in order to reconcile herſelf to herſelf.

I could make ſome pretty obſervations upon one or two places of the lady's meditation: But, wicked as I am thought to be, I never was ſo abandoned, as to turn into ridicule, or even to treat with levity, things ſacred. I think it the higheſt degree of ill manners, to jeſt upon thoſe ſubjects, which the world in general look upon with veneration, and call divine. I would not even treat the mythology of the Heathen, to a Heathen, with the ridicule that perhaps would fairly lie from ſome of the abſurdities that ſtrike every common obſerver. Nor, when at Rome, and in other popiſh countries, did I ever behave ſhockingly at thoſe ceremonies which I thought very extraordinary: For I ſaw ſome people affected, and ſeemingly edified, by them; and I contented myſelf to think, tho' they were be⯑yond my comprehenſion, that, if they anſwered any good end to the many, there was religion enough in them, or civil policy at leaſt, to exempt them from the ridicule of even a bad man, who had common ſenſe, and good manners.

For the like reaſon, I have never given noiſy or tumul⯑tuous inſtances of diſlike to a new Play, if I thought it ever ſo indifferent: For, I concluded firſt, that every one was intitled to ſee quietly what he paid for: And, next, as the Theatre (the epitome of the world) conſiſted of Pit, Boxes, and Gallery, it was hard, I thought, if there could be ſuch a performance exhibited, as would not pleaſe ſome⯑body in that mixed multitude: And, if it did, thoſe ſome⯑bodies [286] had as much right to enjoy their own judgments un⯑diſturbedly, as I had to enjoy mine.

This was my way of ſhewing my diſapprobation; I ne⯑ver went again. And as a man is at his option, whether he will go to a Play, or not, he has not the ſame excuſe for expreſſing his diſlike clamorouſly, as if he were compelled to ſee it.

I have ever, thou knoweſt, declared againſt thoſe ſhal⯑low libertines, who could not make out their pretenſions to wit, but on two ſubjects, to which every man of tr [...] wit will ſcorn to be beholden: PROFANENESS and OBSCE⯑NITY, I mean; which muſt ſhock the ears of every man or woman of ſenſe, without anſwering any end, but of ſhewing a very low and abandoned nature. And, till I came acquainted with the brutal Mowbray (no great praiſe to myſelf from ſuch a tutor), I was far from making ſo free, as I now do, with oaths and curſes; for then I was forced to outſwear him ſometimes, to keep him in his al⯑legiance to me his general: Nay, I often check myſelf to myſelf, for this empty, unprofitable liberty of ſpeech; in which we are outdone by the ſons of the common ſewer▪

All my vice is women, and the love of plots and in⯑trigues; and I cannot but wonder, how I fell into thoſe ſhocking freedoms of ſpeech; ſince, generally-ſpeaking, they are far from helping forward my main end: Only, now-and-then, indeed, a little novice riſes to one's notice, who ſeems to think dreſs, and oaths, and curſes, the diagno⯑ſtics of the rakiſh ſpirit ſhe is inclined to favour: And, in⯑deed, they are the only qualifications, that ſome, who are called Rakes, and Pretty fellows, have to boaſt of. But what muſt the women be, who can be attracted by ſuch empty-ſoul'd profligates? — Since wickedneſs with wit is hardly excuſable; but, without it, is equally ſhocking and contemptible.

There again is preachment for thy preachment; and thou wilt be apt to think, that I am reforming too: But no ſuch matter. If this were new light darting in upon me, as thy morality ſeems to be to thee, ſomething of this kind might be apprehended: But this was always my way of thinking; and I defy thee, or any of thy brethren, to name a time, when I have either ridiculed Religion, or [287] talked obſcenely. On the contrary, thou knoweſt how often I have checked that Bear in love-matters, Mowbray, and the finical Tourville, and thyſelf too, for what ye have called the double-entendre. In love, as in points that required a manly reſentment, it has always been my maxim, to act, rather than talk; and I do aſſure thee, as to the firſt, the ladies themſelves will excuſe the one ſooner than the other.

As to the admiration thou expreſſeſt for the books of Scripture, thou art certainly right in it. But 'tis ſtrange to me, that thou wert ignorant of their beauty, and noble ſimplicity, till now. Their antiquity always made me reverence them: And how was it poſſible that thou couldſt not, for that reaſon, if for no other, give them a peruſal?

I'll tell thee a ſhort ſtory, which I had from my tutor, admoniſhing me againſt expoſing myſelf by ignorant won⯑der, when I ſhould quit college, go to town, or travel.

This ſtory had ſuch an effect upon me, who had ever a [288] proud heart, and wanted to be thought a clever fellow, that, in order to avoid the like diſgrace, I laid down two rules to myſelf. The firſt, whenever I went into company where there were ſtrangers, to hear every-one of them ſpeak, before I gave myſelf liberty to prate: The other, if I found any of them above my match, to give up all title to new diſcoveries, contenting myſelf to praiſe what they praiſed, as beauties familiar to me, tho' I had never heard of them before. And ſo, by degrees, I got the reputa⯑tion of a wit myſelf: And when I threw off all reſtraint, and books, and learned converſation, and fell in with ſome of our brethren who are now wandering in Erebus, and with ſuch others as Belton, Mowbray, Tourville, and thy⯑ſelf, I ſet up on my own ſtock; and, like what we have been told of Sir Richard, in his latter days, valued myſelf on being the emperor of the company; for, having fa⯑thomed the depth of them all, and afraid of no rival but thee, whom alſo I had got a little under (by my gaiety and promptitude at leaſt), I proudly, like Addiſon's Cato, delighted to give laws to my little ſenate.

Proceed with thee by-and-by.

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

BUT now I have cleared myſelf of any intentional le⯑vity on occaſion of my beloved's meditation; which, as thou obſerveſt, is finely ſuited to her caſe (that is to ſay, as ſhe and you have drawn her caſe); I cannot, help ex⯑preſſing my pleaſure, that by one or two verſes of it (the arrow, Jack, and what ſhe feared being come upon her!) I am encouraged to hope, what it will be very ſurpriſing to me if it do not happen: That is, in plain Engliſh, that the dear creature is in the way to be a mamma.

This curſed arreſt, becauſe of the ill effects the terror might have had upon her, in that hoped-for circumſtance, has concerned me more than on any other account. It would be the pride of my life to prove, in this charming froſt-piece, the triumph of nature over principle, and to have a young Love [...]ace by ſuch an angel: And then, for its ſake, I am confident ſhe will live, and will legitimate it. And what [289] a meritorious little cherub would it be, that ſhould lay an obligation upon both parents before it was born, which nei⯑ther of them would be able to repay!—Could I be ſure it is ſo, I ſhould be out of all pain for her recovery: Pain, I ſay; ſince, were ſhe to die—(Die! abominable word! how I hate it!) I verily think I ſhould be the moſt miſer⯑able man in the world.

As for the earneſtneſs ſhe expreſſes for death, ſhe has found the words ready to her hand in honeſt Job; elſe ſhe would not have delivered herſelf with ſuch ſtrength and vehemence.

Her innate piety (as I have more than once obſerved) will not permit her to ſhorten her own life, either by violence or neglect. She has a mind too noble for that; and would have done it before now, had ſhe deſigned any ſuch thing: For, to do it, like the Roman matron, when the miſchief is over, and it can ſerve no end; and when the man, how⯑ever a Tarquin, as ſome may think him, in this action, is not a Tarquin in power, ſo that no national point can be made of it; is what ſhe has too much good ſenſe to think of.

Then, as I obſerved in a like caſe, a little while ago, the diſtreſs, when this was written, was ſtrong upon her; and ſhe ſaw no end of it: But all was darkneſs and apprehenſion before her. Moreover, has ſhe it not in her power to diſappoint, as much as ſhe has been diſap⯑pointed? Revenge, Jack, has induced many a woman to cheriſh a life, which grief and deſpair would otherwiſe have put an end to.

And, after all, death is no ſuch eligible thing, as Job in his calamities, makes it. And a death deſired merely from worldly diſappointment ſhews not a right mind, let me tell this lady, whatever ſhe may think of it ^(a). You [290] and I, Jack, altho' not afraid in the height of paſſion or reſentment to ruſh into thoſe dangers which might be followed by a ſudden and violent death, whenever a point of honour calls upon us, would ſhudder at his cool and deliberate approach in a lingering ſickneſs, which had de⯑bilitated the ſpirits.

So we read of a French general, in the reign of Harry the IVth (I forget his name, if it were not Mareſchal Bi⯑ron) who, having faced with intrepidity the ghaſtly varlet on an hundred occaſions in the field, was the moſt dejected of wretches, when, having forfeited his life for treaſon, he was led with all the cruel parade of preparation, and ſurrounding guards, to the ſcaffold.

The poet ſays well:

Very true: For then it is the old man in the fable, with his bundle of ſticks.

The lady is well read in Shakeſpeare, our Engliſh pride and glory; and muſt ſometimes reaſon with herſelf in his words, ſo greatly expreſſed, that the ſubject, affecting as it is, cannot produce any thing more ſo.

[291]I find, by one of thy three letters, that my beloved had ſome account from Hickman of my interview with Miſs Howe, at Col. Ambroſe's. I had a very agreeable time of it there; altho' ſeverely raillied by ſeveral of the aſſem⯑blée. It concerns me, however, not a little, to find our affair ſo generally known among the Flippanti of both ſexes. It is all her own fault. There never, ſurely, was ſuch an odd little ſoul as this.— Not to keep her own ſecret, when the revealing of it could anſwer no poſſible good end; and when ſhe wants not (one would think) to raiſe to herſelf either pity or friends, or to me enemies, by the procla⯑mation! — Why, Jack, muſt not all her own ſex laugh in their ſleeves at her weakneſs! What would become of the peace of the world, if all women ſhould take it into their heads to follow her example? What a fine time of it would the heads of families have? Their wives always filling their ears with their confeſſions; their daughters with theirs: Siſters would be every day ſetting their bro⯑thers about cutting of throats, if they had at heart the ho⯑nour of their families, as it is called; and the whole world would either be a ſcene of confuſion, or cuckoldom muſt be as much the faſhion as it is in Lithuania ^(a).

I am glad, however, that Miſs Howe, as much as ſhe hates me, kept her word with my couſins on their viſit to her, and with me at the Colonel's, to endeavour to per⯑ſuade her friend to make up all matters by matrimony; which, no doubt, is the beſt, nay, the only method ſhe can take, for her own honour, and that of her family.

I had once thoughts of revenging myſelf on that little vixen, and, particularly, as thou mayſt ^(b) remember, had planned ſomething to this purpoſe on the journey ſhe is going to take, which had been talked of ſome time. But, I think—Let me ſee—Yes, I think, I will let this Hick⯑man have her ſafe and intire, as thou believeſt the fellow to be a tolerable ſort of a mortal, and that I had made the worſt of him: And I am glad, for his own ſake, he has not launched out too virulently againſt me to thee.

[292]And thus, if I pay thee not in quality, I do in quan⯑tity (and yet leave a multitude of things unobſerved upon): For I begin not to know what to do with myſelf here— Tired with Lord M. who, in his recovery, has play'd upon me the fable of the nurſe, the crying child, and the wolf— Tired with my couſins Montague, tho' charming girls, were they not ſo near of kin—Tired with Mowbray and Tourville, and their everlaſting identity—Tired with the country—Tired of myſelf: Longing for what I have not; I muſt go to town; and there have an interview with the charmer of my ſoul: For deſperate diſeaſes muſt have de⯑ſperate remedies; and I only wait to know my doom from Miſs Howe; and then, if it be rejection, I will try my fate, and receive my ſentence at her feet. — But I will appriſe thee of it before-hand, as I told thee, that thou mayſt keep thy parole with the lady, in the beſt manner thou canſt.

LETTER LXXIX. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. [In anſwer to hers of July 27. p. 275.]

I Will now, my deareſt friend, write to you all my mind, without reſerve, on your reſolution not to have this vileſt of men. You gave me, in yours of Sunday the 23d, reaſons ſo worthy of the pure mind of my Clariſſa Harlowe, in ſupport of this your reſolution, that nothing but ſelf-love, leſt I ſhould loſe my ever-amiable friend, could have prevailed upon me to wiſh you to alter it.

Indeed, I thought it was impoſſible there could be (how⯑ever deſirable) ſo noble an inſtance given by any of our Sex, of a paſſion conquered, when there were ſo many in⯑ducements to give way to it. And, therefore, I was will⯑ing to urge you once more to overcome your juſt indigna⯑tion, and to be prevailed upon by the ſolicitations of his friends, before you carried your reſentments to ſo great a height, that it would be more difficult for you, and leſs to your honour, to comply, than if you had complied at firſt.

But now, my dear, that I ſee you fixed in your noble reſolution; and that it is impoſſible for your pure mind to [293] join itſelf with that of ſo perjured a miſcreant; I congra⯑tulate you moſt heartily upon it; and beg your pardon for but ſeeming to doubt, that Theory and Practice were not the ſame thing with my beloved Clariſſa Harlowe.

I have only one thing that ſaddens my heart on this oc⯑caſion; and that is, the bad ſtate of health Mr. Hickman (unwillingly) owns you are in: For, altho' you ſo well ob⯑ſerve the doctrine you always laid down to me, That a cenſured perſon ſhould firſt ſeek to be juſtified to herſelf, and give but a ſecond place to the world's opinion of her; and, in all caſes where the two could not be reconciled, to prefer the firſt to the laſt; and tho' you are ſo well juſtified to your Anna Howe, and to your own heart; yet, my dear, let me beſeech you to endeavour to recover your health and ſpirits, by all poſſible means: And this, as what, if it can be effected, will crown the work, and ſhew the world, that you were indeed got above the baſe wretch; and, tho' put out of your courſe for a little while, could reſume it again, and go on bleſſing all within your know⯑lege, as well by your example, as by your precepts.

For Heaven's ſake, then, for the world's ſake, for the honour of our ſex, and for my ſake, once more I beſeech you, try to overcome this ſhock: And, if you can over⯑come it, I ſhall then be as happy as I wiſh to be; for I cannot, indeed I cannot, think of parting with you, for many, many years to come.

The reaſons you give for diſcouraging my wiſhes to have you near us, are ſo convincing, that I ought at pre⯑ſent to acquieſce in them: But, my dear, when your mind is fully ſettled, as (now you are ſo abſolutely determined in it, with regard to this wretch) I hope it will ſoon be, I ſhall expect you with us, or near us: And then you ſhall chalk out every path that I will ſet my foot in; nor will I turn aſide either to the right hand or to the left.

You wiſh I had not mediated for you to your friends. I wiſh ſo too; becauſe it was ineffectual; becauſe it may give new ground for the malice of ſome of them to work upon; and becauſe you are angry with me for doing ſo. But how, as I ſaid in my former, could I ſit down quietly, knowing how uneaſy their implacableneſs muſt make you? But I will tear myſelf from the ſubject—for I ſee I ſhall [294] be warm again—and diſpleaſe you—And there is not one thing in the world, that I would do, however agreeable to myſelf, if I thought it would diſoblige you; nor any one that I would omit to do, if I knew it would give you pleaſure. And, indeed, my dear, half-ſevere friend, I will try, if I cannot avoid the fault, as willingly as I would the rebuke.

For this reaſon, I forbear ſaying any-thing on ſo nice a ſubject as your letter to your ſiſter. It muſt be right, be⯑cauſe you think it ſo—and, if it be taken as it ought, that will ſhew you, that it is. But if it beget inſults and re⯑vilings, as it is but too likely— I find you don't intend to let me know it.

You were always ſo ready to accuſe yourſelf for other peoples faults, and to ſuſpect your own conduct, rather than the judgment of your relations, that I have often told you, I cannot imitate you in this. It is not a neceſſary point of belief with me, that all people in years are there⯑fore wiſe; or that all young people are therefore raſh and headſtrong: It may be generally the caſe, as far as I know: And poſſibly it may be ſo in the caſe of my mother and her girl: But I will venture to ſay, that it has not yet ap⯑peared to be ſo between the principals of Harlowe-Place, and their ſecond daughter.

You are for excuſing them before-hand for their expect⯑ed cruelty, as not knowing what you have ſuffered, nor how ill you are: They have heard of the former, and are not ſorry for it: Of the latter, they have been told, and I have moſt reaſon to know how they have taken it—But I ſhall be far from avoiding the fault, and as ſurely ſhall incur the rebuke, if I ſay any more upon this ſubject. I will therefore only add at preſent, That your reaſonings in their behalf ſhew you to be all excellence; their returns to you, that they are all—Do, my dear, let me end with a little bit of ſpiteful juſtice—But you won't, I know—So I have done, quite done, however reluctantly: Yet, if you think of the word I would have ſaid, don't doubt the juſtice of it, and fill up the blank with it.

You put me in hope, that, were I actually married, and Mr. Hickman to deſire it, you would think of obliging me with a viſit on the occaſion; and that, perhaps, when [295] with me, it would be difficult for you to remove far from me.

Lord, my dear, what a ſtreſs do you ſeem to lay upon Mr. Hickman's deſiring it! To be ſure he does, and would, of all things, deſire to have you near us, and with us, if we might be ſo favoured. Policy, as well as veneration for you, would undoubtedly make the man, if not a fool, deſire this. But let me tell you, that if Mr. Hickman, after marriage, ſhould pretend to diſpute with me my friendſhips, as I hope I am not quite a fool, I ſhould let him know how far his own quiet was concerned in ſuch an impertinence; eſpecially if they were ſuch friendſhips as were contracted before I knew him.

I know I always differed from you on this ſubject; for you think more highly of a huſband's prerogative, than moſt people do of the royal one.—Theſe notions, my dear, from a perſon of your ſenſe and judgment, are no-way advantageous to us; inaſmuch as they juſtify that inſolent Sex in their aſſumptions; when hardly one out of ten of them, their opportunities conſidered, deſerve any prero⯑gative at all. Look thro' all the families we know; and we ſhall not find one-third of them have half the ſenſe of their wives.— And yet theſe are to be veſted with prero⯑gatives!—And a woman of twice their ſenſe has nothing to do but hear, tremble, and obey—And for conſcience-ſake too, I warrant!

But Mr. Hickman and I may perhaps have a little diſ⯑courſe upon theſe ſort of ſubjects, before I ſuffer him to talk of the day: And then I ſhall let him know what he has to truſt to; as he will me, if he be a ſincere man, what he pretends to expect from me. But let me tell you, my dear, that it is more in your power, than perhaps you think it, to haſten the day ſo much preſſed-for by my mother, as well as wiſh'd-for by you—For the very day that you can aſſure me, that you are in a tolerable ſtate of health, and have diſcharged your Doctor and Apothecary, at their own motions, on that account—Some day in a month from that deſirable news, ſhall be it—So, my dear, make haſte and be well; and then this matter will be brought to ef⯑fect in a manner more agreeable to your Anne Howe, than it otherwiſe ever can.

[296]I ſend this day, by a particular hand, to the Miſſes Montague, your letter of juſt reprobation of the greateſt profligate in the kingdom; and hope I ſhall not have done amiſs, that I tranſcribe ſome of the paragraphs of your letter of the 23d, and ſend them with it, as you at firſt intended ſhould be done.

You are, it ſeems (and that too much for your health), employed in writing. I hope it is in penning down the particulars of your tragical ſtory. And my mother has put me in mind to preſs you to it, with a view, that one day, if it might be publiſhed under feigned names, it would be of as much uſe as honour to the Sex. My mo⯑ther ſays, ſhe cannot help admiring you for the propriety of your reſentment in your refuſal of the wretch; and ſhe would be extremely glad to have her advice of pen⯑ning your ſad ſtory complied with. And then, ſhe ſays, your noble conduct throughout your trials and calamities will afford not only a ſhining Example to your Sex; but, at the ſame time (thoſe calamities befalling SUCH a perſon) a fearful Warning to the inconſiderate young creatures of it.

On Monday we ſhall ſet out on our journey; and I hope to be back in a fortnight, and on my return will have one pull more with my mother for a London journey: And, if the pretence muſt be the buying of cloaths, the principal motive will be that of ſeeing once more my dear friend, while I can ſay, I have not finally given conſent to the change of a viſitor into a relation; and ſo can call myſelf MY OWN, as well as

LETTER LXXX. Miſs HOWE, To the two Miſſes MONTAGUE.

I Have not been wanting to uſe all my intereſt with my beloved friend, to induce her to forgive and be recon⯑ciled to your kinſman (tho' he has ſo ill deſerved it); and have even repeated my earneſt advice to her on this head. This repetition, and the waiting for her anſwer, having taken up time, have been the cauſe, that I could [297] not ſooner do myſelf the honour of writing to you on this ſubject.

You will ſee, by the incloſed, her immoveable reſolu⯑tion, grounded on noble and high-ſoul'd motives, which I cannot but regret and applaud at the ſame time: Applaud, for the juſtice of her determination, which will confirm all your worthy houſe in the opinion you had conceived of her unequalled merit; and regret, becauſe I have but too much reaſon to apprehend, as well by that, as by the report of a gentleman juſt come from her, that ſhe is in ſuch a declining way, as to her health, that her thoughts are very differently employed than on a continuance here.

The incloſed letter ſhe thought fit to ſend to me unſealed, that, after I had peruſed it, I might forward it to you: And this is the reaſon it is ſuperſcribed by myſelf, and ſealed with my ſeal. It is very full and peremptory; but as ſhe had been pleaſed, in a letter to me, dated the 23d inſtant (as ſoon as ſhe could hold a pen), to give me ampler reaſons, why ſhe could not comply with your preſſing re⯑queſts, as well as mine, I will tranſcribe ſome of the paſ⯑ſages in that letter, which will give one of the wickedeſt men in the world (if he ſees them) reaſon to think himſelf one of the unhappieſt, in the loſs of ſo incomparable a wife, as he might have gloried in, had he not been ſo ſuperlatively wicked. Theſe are the paſſages: ‘[Sec, for theſe paſſages, Miſs Harlowe's letter, N^o. lxvi. dated July 23. marked with turn'd comma's, thus"]’

And now, ladies, you have before you my beloved friend's reaſons for her refuſal of a man unworthy of the relation he bears to ſo many excellent perſons: And I will add (for I cannot help it), that, the merit and rank of the perſon conſidered, and the vile manner of his proceedings, there never was a greater villainy committed: And ſince ſhe thinks her firſt and only fault cannot be expiated but by death, I pray to God daily, and will hourly from the moment I ſhall hear of that ſad cataſtrophe, that He will be pleaſed to make him the ſubject of his vengeance, in ſome ſuch way, as that all who know of his perfidious crime, may ſee the hand of Heaven in the puniſhment of it.

You will forgive me, ladies; I love not my own ſoul [298] better than I do Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe: And the diſtreſſes ſhe has gone thro'; and the perſecutions ſhe ſuffers from all her friends; the curſe ſhe lies under, for his ſake, from her implacable father; her reduced health and circum⯑ſtances, from high health and affluence; and that execrable arreſt and confinement, which have deepened all her other calamities (and which muſt be laid at his door, as the action of his vile agents, that, whether from his immediate orders or not, naturally flowed from his preceding baſe⯑neſs); the Sex diſhonoured in the eye of the world, in the perſon of one of the greateſt ornaments of it; his unmanly methods, whatever they were for I know not all as yet), of compaſſing her ruin; all join to juſtify my warmth, and my execrations, againſt a man, whom I think ex⯑cluded by his crimes from the benefit even of chriſtian forgiveneſs—And were you to ſee all ſhe writes, and the admirable talents ſhe is miſtreſs of, you yourſelves would join to admire her, and execrate him, as I do.

Believe me to be, with a high ſenſe of your merits,

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

I Have the conſolation to tell you, that my ſon is once again in an hopeful way, as to his health. He deſires his duty to you. He is very low and weak. And ſo am I. But this is the firſt time that I have been able, for ſe⯑veral days paſt, to ſit up to write, or I would not have been ſo long ſilent.

Your letter to your ſiſter is received and anſwered. You have the anſwer by this time, I ſuppoſe. I wiſh it may be to your ſatisfaction: But am afraid it will not: For, by Betty Barnes, I find they were in a great ferment on receiving yours, and much divided whether it ſhould be anſwered or not. They will not yet believe that you are ſo ill, as, to my infinite concern, I find you are. What paſſed be⯑tween [299] Miſs Harlowe and Miſs Howe, as I feared, has been an aggravation.

I ſhewed Betty two or three paſſages in your letter to me; and ſhe ſeemed moved, and ſaid, She would report them favourably, and would procure me a viſit from Miſs Harlowe, if I would promiſe to ſhew the ſame to her. But I have heard no more of that.

Methinks, I am ſorry you refuſe the wicked man: But doubt not, nevertheleſs, that your motives for doing ſo, are righter, than my wiſhes that you would not. But as you would be reſolved, as I may ſay, on life, if you gave way to ſuch a thought; and as I have ſo much intereſt in it; I cannot forbear ſhewing this regard to myſelf, as to aſk you, Cannot you, my dear young lady, get over your juſt reſentments? — But I dare ſay no more on this ſubject.

What a dreadful thing indeed was it for my deareſt tender young lady to be arreſted in the ſtreets of London! —How does my heart go over again for you, what yours muſt have ſuffered at that time!—Yet this, to ſuch a mind as yours, muſt be light, compared to what you had ſuf⯑fered before.

O my deareſt Miſs Clary, how ſhall we know what to pray for, when we pray for any thing, but that God's wil [...] may be done, and that we may be reſigned to it! — When at nine years old, and afterwards at eleven, you had a dan⯑gerous fever, how inceſſantly did we all grieve, and pray, and put up our vows to the throne of grace, for your re⯑covery! For all our lives were bound up in your life— Yet now, my dear, as it has proved (eſpecially if we are ſoon to loſe you) what a much more deſirable event, both for you, and for us, had we then loſt you!

A ſad thing to ſay! But as it is in pure love to you that I ſay it, and in full conviction, that we are not always fit to be our own chooſers, I hope it may be excuſeable; and the rather, as the ſame reflection will naturally lead both you and me to acquieſce under the preſent diſpenſation; ſince we are aſſured, that nothing happens by chance; and that the greateſt good may, for aught we know, be produced from the heavieſt evils.

I am glad you are with ſuch honeſt people; and that [300] you have all your effects reſtored—How dreadfully have you been uſed, that one ſhould be glad of ſuch a poor piece of juſtice as that?

Your talent at moving the paſſions is always hinted at; and this Betty of your ſiſter's never comes near me, that ſhe is not full of it. But, as you ſay, whom has it moved, that you wiſhed to move? Yet, were it not for this un⯑happy notion, I am ſure your mamma would relent. For⯑give me, my dear Miſs Clary; for I muſt try one way to be convinced if my opinion be not juſt. But I will not tell you what that is, unleſs it ſucceeds. I will try, in pure duty and love to them, as well as to you.

May Heaven be your ſupport, in all your trials, is the conſtant prayer, my deareſt young lady, of

LETTER LXXXII. Mrs. NORTON, To Mrs. HARLOWE.

BEING forbidden, without leave, to ſend you any-thing I might happen to receive from my beloved Miſs Clary, and ſo ill, that I cannot attend to ask your leave, I give you this trouble, to let you know, that I have received a letter from her; which, I think, I ſhould hereafter be held inexcuſeable, as things may happen, if I did not deſire permiſſion to communicate it to you, and that as ſoon as poſſible.

Applications have been made to the dear young lady from Lord M. from the two ladi [...] his ſiſters, and from both his nieces, and from the wicked man himſelf, to for⯑give and marry him. This, in noble indignation for the uſage ſhe has received from him, ſhe has abſolutely refuſed. And perhaps, Madam, if you and the honoured family ſhould be of opinion, that to comply with their wiſhes is now the propereſt meaſure that can be taken, the circum⯑ſtances of things may require your authority or advice, either to induce her to change her mind, or to confirm her in it.

I have reaſon to believe, that one motive for her refuſal, is her full conviction, that ſhe ſhall not long be a trouble to [301] any-body; and ſo ſhe would not give a huſband a right to interfere with her family, in relation to the eſtate her grand⯑father bequeathed to her. But of this, however, I have not the leaſt intimation from her. Nor would ſhe, I dare ſay, mention it, as a reaſon, having ſtill ſtronger to refuſe him, from his vile treatment of her.

The letter I have received will ſhew how truly penitent the dear creature is; and if I have your permiſſion, I will ſend it ſealed up, with a copy of mine, to which it is an anſwer. But as I reſolve upon this ſtep without her know⯑lege (and indeed I do), I will not acquaint her with it, unleſs it be attended with deſirable effects: Becauſe, other⯑wiſe, beſides making me incur her diſpleaſure, it might quite break her already half-broken heart.

I am, honoured Madam,

LETTER LXXXIII. Mrs. HARLOWE, To Mrs. JUDITH NORTON.

WE all know your virtuous prudence, worthy woman; we all do. But your partiality to this your raſh favourite is likewiſe known. And we are no leſs ac⯑quainted with the unhappy body's power of painting her diſtreſſes ſo as to pierce a ſtone.

Every-one is of opinion, that the dear naughty crea⯑ture is working about to be forgiven and received; and for this reaſon it is, that Betty has been forbidden (Not by me, you may be ſure!) to mention any more of her letters; for ſhe did ſpeak to my Bella of ſome moving paſſages you read to her.

This will convince you, that nothing will be heard in her favour: To what purpoſe then, ſhould I mention any thing about her?—But you may be ſure that I will, if I can have but one ſecond. However, that is not at all likely, until we ſee what the conſ [...]quences of her crime will be: And who can tell that?—She may—How can I ſpeak it, and my once darling daughter unmarried!—She may be with child!—This would perpetuate her ſtain. Her bro⯑ther [302] may come to ſome harm; which God forbid!—One child's ruin, I hope, will not be followed by another's murder!

As to her grief, and her preſent miſery, whatever it be, ſhe muſt bear with it; and it muſt be ſhort of what I hourly bear for her! Indeed I am afraid nothing but her being at the laſt extremity of all will make her father, and her uncles, and her other friends, forgive her.

The eaſy pardon perverſe children meet with, when they have done the raſheſt and moſt rebellious thing they can do, is the reaſon (as is pleaded to us every day), that ſo many follow their example. They depend upon the in⯑dulgent weakneſs of their parents tempers, and, in that dependence, harden their own hearts: And a little humi⯑liation, when they have brought themſelves into the fore⯑told miſery, is to be a ſufficient atonement for the greateſt perverſeneſs.

But for ſuch a child as this (I mention what others hourly ſay, but what I muſt ſorrowfully ſubſcribe to) to lay plots and ſtratagems to deceive her parents, as well as herſelf; and to run away with a libertine; Can there be any atone⯑ment for her crime? And is ſhe not anſwerable to God, to us, to you, and to all the world who knew her, for the abuſe of ſuch talents as ſhe has abuſed?

You ſay her heart is half-broken: Is it to be wondered at? Was not her ſin committed equally againſt warning, and the light of her own knowlege?

That he would now marry her, or that ſhe would refuſe him, if ſhe believed him in earneſt, as ſhe has circumſtanced herſelf, is not at all probable; and were I inclined to be⯑lieve it, no-body elſe here would. He values not his rela⯑tions; and would deceive them as ſoon as any others: His averſion to marriage he has always openly declared; and ſtill occaſionally declares it. But if he be now in earneſt, which every one who knows him muſt doubt; Which do you think (hating us too, as he profeſſes to hate and deſpiſe us all) would be ſooneſt to be choſen here, To hear of her death, or of her marriage with ſuch a vile man?

To all of us, yet, I cannot ſay! For Oh! my good Mrs. Norton, you know what a mother's tenderneſs for the [303] child of her heart would make her chooſe, notwithſtand⯑ing all that child's faults, rather than loſe her for ever!

But I muſt ſail with the tide; my own judgment alſo joining with it, or I ſhould make the unhappineſs of the more worthy ſtill greater (my dear Mr. Harlowe's parti⯑cularly); which is already more than enough to make them unhappy for the remainder of their days. This I know; If I were to oppoſe the reſt, our ſon would fly out to find this libertine; and who could tell what would be the iſſue of that, with ſuch a man of violence and blood, as that Lovelace is known to be?

All I can expect to prevail for her, is, that in a week, or ſo, Mr. Brand may be ſent up to inquire privately about her preſent ſtate, and way of life, and to ſee ſhe is not altogether deſtitute: For nothing ſhe writes herſelf will be regarded.

Her father indeed has, at her earneſt requeſt, withdrawn the curſe, which, in a paſſion, he laid upon her, at her firſt wicked flight from us. But Miſs Howe [It is a ſad thing, Mrs. Norton, to ſuffer ſo many ways at once!] had made matters ſo difficult by her undue liberties with us all, as well by ſpeech in all companies, as by letters written to my Bella, that we could hardly prevail upon him to hear her letter read.

Theſe liberties of Miſs Howe with us; the general cry againſt us abroad, where-ever we are ſpoken of; and the viſible and not ſeldom, audible diſreſpectfulneſs, which high and low treat us with to our faces, as we go to and from church, and even at church (for no-where elſe have we the heart to go), as if none of us had been regarded but upon her account; and as if ſhe were innocent, we all in fault; are conſtant aggravations, you muſt needs think, to the whole family.

She has made my lot heavy, I am ſure, that was far from being light before!—I am injoined (to tell you truth) not to receive any thing of hers, from any hand, without leave. Should I therefore gratify my yearnings after her, ſo far as to receive privately the letter you mention, what would the caſe be, but to torment myſelf, without being able to do her good?—And were it to be known—Mr. Harlowe is ſo paſſionate—And ſhould it throw his gout [304] into his ſtomach, as her raſh flight did—Indeed, indeed, I am very unhappy!—For Oh, my good woman, ſhe is my child still!—But unleſs it were more in my power— Yet do I long to ſee the letter—You ſay it tells of her pre⯑ſent way and circumſtances.—The poor child, who ought to be in poſſeſſion of thouſands!—And will!—For her father will be a faithful ſteward for her.—But it muſt be in his own way, and at his own time.

And is ſhe really ill?—ſo very ill? — But ſhe ought to ſorrow.—She has given a double meaſure of it.

But does ſhe really believe ſhe ſhall not long trouble us? —But Oh, my Norton!—She muſt, ſhe will long trouble us—For can ſhe think her death, if we ſhould be deprived of her, will put an end to our afflictions? — Can it be thought, that the fall of ſuch a child will not be regretted by us to the laſt hour of our lives?

But, in the letter you have, does ſhe, without reſerve, expreſs her contrition? Has ſhe in it no reflecting hints? Does ſhe not aim at extenuations?—If I were to ſee it, will it not ſhock me ſo much, that my apparent grief may expoſe me to harſhneſſes?—Can it be contrived—

But to what purpoſe?—Don't ſend it—I charge you don't—I dare not ſee it —

Yet—

But, alas!—

O forgive the diſtracted-thoughted mother! You can. —You know how to allow for all this. — So I will let it go.—I will not write over again this part of my letter.

But I chooſe not to know more of her, than is commu⯑nicated to us all—No more than I dare own I have ſeen— And what ſome of them may rather communicate to me, than receive from me: And this for the ſake of my out⯑ward quiet: Altho' my inward peace ſuffers more and more by the compelled reſerve.

I was forced to break off. But I will now try to con⯑clude my long letter.

I am ſorry you are ill. But if you were well, I could not, for your own ſake, wiſh you to go up, as Betty tells us you long to do. If you went, nothing would be minded that came from you. As they already think you too par⯑tial [305] in her favour, your going up would confirm it, and do yourſelf prejudice, and her no good. And as every-body values you here, I adviſe you not to intereſt yourſelf too warmly in her favour, eſpecially before my Bella's Betty, till I can let you know a proper time. Yet to forbid you to love the dear naughty creature, who can? O my Norton! you muſt love her!—And ſo muſt I!

I ſend you five guineas, to help you in your preſent ill⯑neſs, and your ſon's; for it muſt have lain heavy upon you. What a ſad, ſad thing, my dear good woman, that all your pains, and all my pains, for eighteen or nineteen years together, have, in ſo few months, been rendered thus deplorably vain! Yet I muſt be always your friend, and pity you, for the very reaſon that I myſelf deſerve every one's pity.

Perhaps I may find an opportunity to pay you a viſit, as in your illneſs, and then may weep over the letter you mention, with you. But, for the future, write nothing to me about the poor girl, that you think may not be com⯑municated to us all.

And I charge you, as you value my friendſhip, as you wiſh my peace, not to ſay any-thing of a letter you have from me, either to the naughty-one, or to any-body elſe. I was ſome little relief (the occaſion given) to write to you, who muſt, in ſo particular a manner, ſhare my af⯑fliction. A mother, Mrs. Norton, cannot forget her child, tho' that child could abandon her mother; and, in ſo doing, run away with all her mother's comforts!—As I can truly ſay, is the caſe of

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

I Congratulate you, my dear Mrs. Norton, with all my heart, on your ſon's recovery; which I pray to God, with your own health, to perfect.

I write in ſome hurry, being apprehenſive of the con⯑ſequence of the hints you give of ſome method you pro⯑poſe [306] to try in my favour (With my relations, I preſume you mean): But you will not tell me what, you ſay, if it prove unſucceſsful.

Now I muſt beg of you, that you will not take any ſtep in my favour, with which you do not firſt acquaint me.

I have but one requeſt to make to them, beſides what is contained in my letter to my ſiſter; and I would not, me⯑thinks, for their own future peace of mind's ſake, that they ſhould be teazed ſo, by your well-meant kindneſs, and Miſs Howe's, as to be put upon denying me that. And why ſhould more be aſked for me than I can partake of? More than is abſolutely neceſſary for my own peace?

You ſuppoſe I ſhould have my ſiſter's anſwer to my letter, by the time yours reached my hand. I have it; and a ſevere one, a very ſevere one, it is. Yet, conſidering my fault in their eyes, and the provocations I am to ſuppoſe they ſo newly had from my dear Miſs Howe, I am to look upon it as a favour, that it was anſwered at all. I will ſend you a copy of it ſoon; as alſo of mine, to which it is an anſwer.

I have reaſon to be very thankful, that my father has withdrawn that heavy malediction, which affected me ſo much—A parent's curſe, my dear Mrs. Norton, what child could die in peace under a parent's curſe; ſo literally fulfilled too, as this has been, in what relates to this life!

My heart is too full to touch upon the particulars of my ſiſter's letter. — I can make but one atonement for my fault. May that be accepted! And may it ſoon be for⯑gotten, by every dear relation, that there was ſuch an un⯑happy daughter, ſiſter, or niece, as Clariſſa Harlowe!

My couſin Morden was one of thoſe, who was ſo earned in prayers for my recovery, at nine and eleven years of age, as you mention. My ſiſter thinks he will be one of thoſe, who will wiſh I never had a being. But pray, when he does come, let me hear of it with the firſt.

You think, that were it not for that unhappy notion of my moving talent, my mamma would relent. What would I give to ſee her once more, and, altho' unknown to her, to kiſs but the hem of her garment!

Could I have thought, that the laſt time I ſaw her would have been the laſt, with what difficulty ſhould I have been [307] torn from her embraced feet! — And when, ſkreen'd be⯑hind the yew-hedge on the 5th of April laſt ^(a), I ſaw my father, and my uncle Antony, and my brother and ſiſter, how little did I think, that That would be the laſt time I ſhould ever ſee them; and, in ſo ſhort a ſpace, that ſo many dreadful evils would befal me!

But I can write nothing, but what muſt give you trouble. I will therefore, after repeating my deſire, that you will not intercede for me, but with my previous conſent, con⯑clude with the aſſurance, that I am, and ever will be,

LETTER LXXXV. Miſs AR. HARLOWE. To Miſs CL. HARLOWE. [In anſwer to hers of Friday, July 21. p. 249.]

WHAT a miſerable hand have you made of your romantic and giddy expedition! I pity you at my heart!

You may well grieve and repent!—Lovelace has left you!—In what way or circumſtances, you know beſt.

I wiſh your conduct had made your caſe more pitiable. But 'tis your own ſeeking!

God help you! — For you have not a friend will look upon you!—Poor, wicked, undone creature!—Fallen, as you are, againſt warning, againſt expoſtulation, againſt duty!

But it ſignifies nothing to reproach you. I weep over you!

My poor mamma!—Your raſhneſs and folly have made her more miſerable than you can be! Yet ſhe has beſought my papa to grant your requeſt.

My uncles joined with her; for they thought there was a little more modeſty in your letter, than in thoſe of your pert advocate: And he is pleaſed to give me leave to write; but only theſe words for him, and no more: ‘That he withdraws the curſe he laid upon you, at the firſt hearing of your wicked flight, ſo far as it is in his [308] power to do it; and hopes that your preſent puniſhment may be all you will meet with. For the reſt, He will never own you, nor forgive you; and grieves he has ſuch a daughter in the world.’

All this, and more, you have deſerved from him, and from all of Us: But what have you done to this aban⯑doned libertine, to deſerve what you have met with at his hands?—I fear, I fear, ſiſter!—But no more!—A bleſſed four months work have you made of it!

My brother is now at Edinburgh, ſent thither by my father (tho' he knows not this to be the motive), that he may not meet this triumphant deluder.

We are told he would be glad to marry you: But why, then, did he abandon you? He had kept you, till he was tired of you, no queſtion; and it is not likely he would wiſh to have you, but upon the terms you have already without all doubt been his.

You ought to adviſe your friend Miſs Howe to concern herſelf leſs in your matters, than ſhe does, except ſhe could do it with more decency. She has written three letters to me: Very inſolent ones. Your favourer, poor Mrs. Nor⯑ton, thinks you know nothing of the pert creature's write⯑ing. I hope you don't. But then the more impertinent the writer. But, believing the fond woman, I ſat down the more readily to anſwer your letter, and write with leſs ſeverity, than otherwiſe I ſhould have done, if I had an⯑ſwered it at all.

Monday laſt was your Birth-day. Think, poor ingrate⯑ful wretch, as you are! how we all uſed to keep it; and you will not wonder to be told, that we ran away from one another that day. But God give you true penitence, if you have it not already! And it will be true, if it be equal to the ſhame, and the ſorrow, you have given us all.

Your couſin Morden is every day expected in England. He, as well as others of the family, when he comes to hear what a bleſſed piece of work you have made of it, will wiſh you never had a being.

LETTER LXXXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOU have given me great pleaſure, my deareſt friend, by your approbation of my reaſonings, and of my reſolution founded upon them, never to have Mr. Love⯑lace. This approbation is ſo right a thing, give me leave to ſay, from the nature of the caſe, and from the ſtrict honour and true dignity of mind, which I always admired in my Anna Howe, that I could hardly tell to what, but to my evil deſtiny, that of late would not let me pleaſe any⯑body, to attribute the advice you gave me to the contrary.

But let not the ill ſtate of my health, and what that may naturally tend to, ſadden you. I have told you, that I will not run away from life, nor avoid the means that may con⯑tinue it, if God ſee fit: And if he do not, who ſhall repine at his will?

If it ſhall be found, that I have not acted unworthy of your love, and of my own character, in my greater trials, that will be a happineſs to both on reflection.

The ſhock which you ſo earneſtly adviſe me to try to get over, was a ſhock, the greateſt that I could receive. But, my dear, as it was not incurred by my fault, I hope I am already got above it. I hope I am!

I am more grieved (at times however) for others, than for myſelf. And ſo I ought. For as to myſelf, I cannot but reflect, that I have had an eſcape, rather than a loſs, in miſſing Mr. Lovelace for a huſband: Even had he not committed the vileſt of all outrages.

Let any one, who knows my ſtory, collect his character from his behaviour to me, before that outrage; and then judge, whether it was in the leaſt probable for ſuch a man to make me happy. But to collect his character from his principles, with regard to the Sex in general, and from his enterprizes upon many of them, and to conſider the cru⯑elty of his nature, and the ſportiveneſs of his invention, together with the high opinion he has of himſelf, it will not be doubted, that a wife of his muſt have been miſera⯑ble; and more miſerable if ſhe loved him, than if ſhe could have been indifferent to him.

[310]A twelvemonth might, very probably, have put a pe⯑riod to my life; ſituated as I was with my friends; perſe⯑cuted and haraſſed as I had been by my brother and ſiſter; and my very heart torn in pieces by the wilful, and, as it is now apparent, premeditated ſuſpenſes of the man, whoſe gratitude I wiſhed to engage, and whoſe protection I was the more intitled to expect, as he had robbed me of every other, and, hating my own family, had reduced me to an abſolute dependence upon himſelf. This once, as I thought, all his view; and uncomfortable enough for me, if it had been all.

Can it be thought, my dear, that my heart was not af⯑fected, happy as I was before I knew Mr. Lovelace, by ſuch an unhappy change in my circumſtances?—Nor, perhaps, was the wicked violence wanting to have cut ſhort, tho' not ſo very ſhort perhaps, a life that he has ſported with.

Had I been his but a month, he muſt have poſſeſſed the eſtate on which my relations had ſet their hearts; the more to their regret, as they hated him, as much as he hated them.

Have I not reaſon, theſe things conſidered, to think myſelf happier without Mr. Lovelace, than with him?— My will too unviolated; and very little, nay, not any-thing, as to him, to reproach myſelf with?

But with my relations it is otherwiſe. They indeed de⯑ſerve to be pitied. They are, and no doubt will long be, unhappy.

To judge of their reſentments, and of their conduct, we muſt put ourſelves in their ſituation:—And while they think me more in fault than themſelves (whether my favourers are of their opinion, or not) and have a right to judge for themſelves, they ought to have great allowances made for them; my parents eſpecially. They ſtand at leaſt ſelf-acquitted (that cannot I); and the rather, as they can re⯑collect, to their pain, their paſt indulgencies to me, and their unqueſtionable love.

Your partiality for the friend you ſo much value, will not eaſily let you come into this way of thinking. But only, my dear, be pleaſed to conſider the matter in the following light.

Here was my MOTHER, one of the moſt prudent per⯑ſons [311] of her Sex, married into a family, not perhaps ſo happily tempered as herſelf; but every one of which ſhe had the addreſs, for a great while, abſolutely to govern as ſhe pleaſed by her directing wiſdom, at the ſame time that they knew not but her preſcriptions were the dictates of their own hearts; ſuch a ſweet art had ſhe of conquering by ſeeming to yield. Think, my dear, what muſt be the pride and the pleaſure of ſuch a mother, that in my bro⯑ther ſhe could give a ſon to the family ſhe diſtinguiſhed with her preferable love, not unworthy of their wiſhes; a daughter, in my ſiſter, of whom ſhe had no reaſon to be aſhamed; and in me, a ſecond daughter, whom every-body complimented (ſuch was their partial favour to me) as being the ſtill more immediate likeneſs of herſelf? How, ſelf-pleaſed, could ſhe ſmile round upon a family ſhe had ſo bleſſed! What compliments were paid her upon the example ſhe had given us, which were followed with ſuch hopeful effects! With what a noble confidence could ſhe look upon her dear Mr. Harlowe, as a perſon made happy by her; and be delighted to think, that nothing but purity ſtreamed from a fountain ſo pure!

Now, my dear, reverſe, as I daily do, this charming proſpect. See my dear mamma, ſorrowing in her cloſet; endeavouring to ſuppreſs her ſorrow at her table, and in thoſe retirements where ſorrow was before a ſtranger: Hanging down her penſive head: Smiles no more beaming over her benign aſpect: Her virtue made to ſuffer for faults ſhe could not be guilty of: Her patience continually tried (becauſe ſhe has more of it than any other) with repeti⯑tions of faults ſhe is as much wounded by, as thoſe can be from whom ſhe ſo often hears of them: Taking to herſelf, as the fountain-head, a taint which only had in⯑fected one of the under-currents: Afraid to open her lips (were ſhe willing) in my favour, leſt it ſhould be thought ſhe has any byas in her own mind to failings that never otherwiſe could have been ſuſpected in her: Robbed of that conſcious merit, which the mother of hopeful chil⯑dren may glory in: Every one who viſits her, or is viſited by her, by dumb ſhew, and looks that mean more than words can expreſs, condoling where they uſed to con⯑gratulate: The affected ſilence wounding: The com⯑paſſionating [312] look reminding: The half-ſuppreſſed ſigh in them, calling up deeper ſighs from her; and their averted eyes, endeavouring to reſtrain the riſing tear, provoking tears from her, that will not be reſtrained.

When I conſider theſe things, and, added to theſe, the pangs that tear in pieces my FATHER's ſtronger heart, be⯑cauſe it cannot relieve itſelf by thoſe tears which carry the torturing grief to the eyes of ſofter ſpirits: The overboil⯑ing tumults of my impatient and uncontroulable BROTHER, piqued to the heart of his honour, in the fall of a ſiſter, in whom he once gloried: The pride of an ELDER SISTER, who had given unwilling way to the honours paid over her head to one born after her: And, laſtly, the diſhonour I have brought upon TWO UNCLES, who each contended which ſhould moſt favour their then happy niece: When, I ſay, I reflect upon my fault in theſe ſtrong, yet juſt lights, what room can there be to cenſure any-body but my unhappy ſelf? And how much reaſon have I to ſay, If I juſtify myſelf, mine own heart ſhall condemn me: If I ſay, I am per⯑fect, it ſhall alſo prove me perverſe?

Here permit me to lay down my pen for a few moments.

You are very obliging to me, intentionally, I know, when you tell me, It is in my power to haſten the day of Mr. Hickman's happineſs. But yet, give me leave to ſay, that I admire this kind aſſurance leſs than any other para⯑graph of your letter.

In the firſt place, you know it is not in my power to ſay when I can diſmiſs my phyſician; and you ſhould not put the celebration of a marriage intended by yourſelf, and ſo deſirable to your mother, upon ſo precarious an iſſue. Nor will I accept of a compliment, which muſt mean a ſlight to her.

If any-thing could give me a reliſh for life, after what I have ſuffered, it would be the hopes of the continuance of the more than ſiſterly love, which has, for years, unin⯑terruptedly bound us together as one mind.—And why, my dear, ſhould you defer giving (by a tie ſtill ſtronger) a [...]o [...]her friend to one, who has ſo few?

I am glad you have ſent my letter to Miſs Montague. I hope I ſhall hear no more of this unhappy man.

[313]I had begun the particulars of my tragical ſtory: But it is ſo painful a taſk, and I have ſo many more important things to do, and, as I apprehend, ſo little time to do them in, that, could I avoid it, I would go no farther in it.

Then, to this hour, I know not by what means ſeveral of his machinations to ruin me were brought about; ſo that ſome material parts of my ſad ſtory muſt be defective, if I were to ſit down to write it. But I have been think⯑ing of a way that will anſwer the end wiſhed for by your mother and you full as well; perhaps better.

Mr. Lovelace, it ſeems, has communicated to his friend Mr. Belford all that has paſſed between himſelf and me, as he went on. Mr. Belford has not been able to deny it. So that (as we may obſerve by the way) a poor young creature, whoſe indiſcretion has given a libertine power over her, has a reaſon, ſhe little thinks of, to regret her folly; ſince theſe wretches, who have no more honour in one point than in another, ſcruple not to make her weak⯑neſs a part of their triumph to their brother libertines.

I have nothing to apprehend of this ſort, if I have the juſtice done me in his letters, which Mr. Belford aſſures me that I have: And therefore the particulars of my ſtory, and the baſe arts of this vile man, will, I think, be beſt collected from thoſe very letters of his (if Mr. Belford can be prevailed upon to communicate them); to which I dare appeal with the ſame truth and fervor as he did, who ſays, —O that one would hear me! and that mine adverſary had written a book!—Surely, I would take it upon my ſhoulders, and bind it to me as a crown! For I covered not my tranſ⯑greſſions as Adam, by hiding mine iniquity in my boſom.

There is one way, which may be fallen upon to induce Mr. Belford to communicate theſe letters; ſince he ſeems to have (and declares he always had) a ſincere abhorrence of his friend's baſeneſs to me: But that, you'll ſay, when you hear it, is a ſtrange one. Nevertheleſs, I am very earneſt upon it, at preſent.

It is no other than this:

I think to make Mr. Belford the Executor of my laſt will (Don't be ſurpriſed!): And with this view I permit his viſits with the leſs ſcruple: And every time I ſee him, from his concern for me, am more and more inclined to [314] do ſo. If I hold in the ſame mind, and if he accept the truſt, and will communicate the materials in his power, thoſe, joined with what you can furniſh, will anſwer the whole end.

I know you will ſtart at my notion of ſuch an Executor: But pray, my dear, conſider, in my preſent circumſtances, what I can do better, as I am impowered to make a will, and have conſiderable matters in my own diſpoſal.

Your mother, I am ſure, would not conſent that you ſhould take this office upon you. It might ſubject Mr. Hickman to the inſults of that violent man. Mrs. Norton cannot, for ſeveral reaſons reſpecting herſelf. My Brother looks upon what I ought to have, as his right: My uncle Harlowe is already my truſtee, with my couſin Morden, for the eſtate my grandfather left me: But you ſee I could not get from my own family the few pieces I left behind me at Harlowe-Place; and my uncle Antony once threat⯑ened to have my grandfather's will controverted. My Father!—To be ſure, my dear, I could not expect that my Father would do all I wiſh ſhould be done: And a will to be executed by a father for a daughter (parts of it, perhaps, abſolutely againſt his own judgment) carries ſomewhat daring and preſcriptive in the very word.

If, indeed, my couſin Morden were to come in time, and would undertake this truſt—But even him it might ſubject to hazards; and the more, as he is a man of great ſpirit; and as the other man (of as great) looks upon me (unpro⯑tected as I have long been) as his property.

Now Mr. Belford knows, as I have already mentioned, every-thing that has paſſed. He is a man of ſpirit, and, it ſeems, as fearleſs as the other, with more humane qualities. You don't know, my dear, what inſtances of ſincere hu⯑manity this Mr. Belford has ſhewn, not only on occaſion of the cruel arreſt, but on ſeveral occaſions ſince. And Mrs. Lovick has taken pains to inquire after his general character; and hears a very good one of him, for juſtice and generoſity in all his concerns of Meum and Tuum, as they are called: He has a knowlege of law-matters; and has two executorſhips upon him at this time, in the diſ⯑charge of which his honour is unqueſtioned.

All theſe reaſons have already in a manner determined [315] me to aſk this favour of him; altho' it will have an odd ſound with it, to make an intimate friend of Mr. Love⯑lace my Executor.

This is certain: My brother will be more acquieſcent a great deal in ſuch a caſe with the articles of my will, as he will ſee that it will be to no purpoſe to controvert ſome of them, which elſe, I dare ſay, he would contro⯑vert, or perſuade my other friends to do ſo. And who would involve an Executor in a Law-ſuit, if they could help it? Which would be the caſe, if any-body were left, whom my brother could hope to awe or controul; ſince my father (who is governed by him) has poſſeſſion of all: Nor would I wiſh, you may believe, to have effects torn out of my father's hands: While Mr. Belford, who is a man of fortune (and a good oeconomiſt in his own affairs), would have no intereſt but to do juſtice.

Then he exceedingly preſſes for ſome occaſion to ſhew his readineſs to ſerve me: And he would be able to manage his violent friend, over whom he has more influence than any other perſon.

But, after all, I know not, if it were not more eligible by far, that my ſtory ſhould be forgotten as ſoon as poſſible; and myſelf too. And of this I ſhall have the leſs doubt, if the character of my parents cannot be guarded (You will forgive me, my dear) from the unqualified bitterneſs, which, from your affectionate zeal for me, has ſometimes mingled with your ink. A point that ought, and (I inſiſt upon it) muſt be well conſidered of, if any-thing be done which your mother and you are deſirous ſhould be done.

My father has been ſo good as to take off from me the heavy malediction he laid me under. I muſt be now ſoli⯑citous for a laſt bleſſing; and that is all I ſhall preſume to aſk. My ſiſter's letter, communicating this grace, is a ſe⯑vere one. But as ſhe writes to me as from every-body, how could I expect it to be otherwiſe?

If you ſet out to-morrow, this letter cannot reach you till you get to your aunt Harman's. I ſhall therefore di⯑rect it thither, as Mr. Hickman inſtructed me.

I hope you will have met with no inconveniencies in your little journey and voyage; and that you will have found in good health all whom you wiſh to ſee well.

[316]Let me recommend to you, my dear, that, if your friends and relations in the little Iſland join their ſolicitations with your mother's commands, to have your nuptials celebrated before you leave them, you do not refuſe to oblige them. How grateful will the notification that you have done ſo, be to

LETTER LXXXVII. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To Miſs HARLOWE.

I Repine not, my dear ſiſter, at the ſeverity you have been pleaſed to expreſs in the letter you favoured me with; becauſe that ſeverity was accompanied with the grace I had petitioned for: And becauſe the reproaches of my own heart are ſtronger than any other perſon's re⯑proaches can be; altho' I am not half ſo culpable as I am imagined to be; as would be allowed, if all the circum⯑ſtances of my unhappy ſtory were known; and which I ſhall be ready to communicate to Mrs. Norton, if ſhe be commiſſioned to inquire into them; or to you, my ſiſter, if you can have patience to hear them.

I remembred with a bleeding heart what day the 24th of July was. I began with the eve of it; and I paſſed the day itſelf—as it was fit I ſhould paſs it. Nor have I any comfort to give to my dear and ever-honoured father and mother, and to you, my Bella, but This—That, as it was the firſt unhappy anniverſary of my birth, in all pro⯑bability, it will be the laſt.

Believe me, my dear ſiſter, I ſay not this, merely to move compaſſion; but from the beſt grounds: And as I think it of the higheſt importance to my peace of mind, to obtain one further favour, I would chooſe to owe to your interceſſion, as my ſiſter, the leave I beg, to addreſs half a dozen lines, with the hope of having them anſwered as I wiſh, to either or to both my honoured parents, to beg their laſt bleſſing.

This bleſſing is all the favour I have now to aſk: It is all I dare to aſk: Yet am afraid to ruſh at once, tho' by letter, [317] into the preſence of either. And if I did not aſk it, it might ſeem to be owing to ſtubbornneſs and want of duty, when my heart is all humility and penitence. Only, be ſo good as to embolden me to attempt this taſk: Write but this one line, ‘Clary Harlowe, you are at liberty to write as you deſire.’ This will be enough — And ſhall, to my laſt hour be acknowleged as the greateſt favour, by

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

I Muſt indeed own, that I took the liberty to write to your mamma, offering to incloſe to her, if ſhe gave me leave, yours of the 24th: By which I thought ſhe would ſee what was the ſtate of your mind; what the na⯑ture of your laſt troubles was, from the wicked arreſt [...] what the people are where you lodge; what propoſals were made you from Lord M.'s family; alſo your ſincere peni⯑tence; and how much Miſs Howe's writing to them, in the terms ſhe wrote in, diſturbed you— But, as you have taken the matter into your own hands, and forbid me, in your laſt, to act in this nice affair unknown to you, I am glad the letter was not required of me: And indeed it may be better that the matter lie wholly between you and them; ſince my affection for you is thought to proceed from par⯑tiality.

They would chooſe, no doubt, that you ſhould owe to themſelves, and not to my humble mediation, the favour you ſo earneſtly ſue for, and which I would not have you deſpair of: For I will venture to aſſure you, that your mother is ready to take the firſt opportunity to ſhew her maternal tenderneſs for you: And this I gather from ſeve⯑ral hints I am not at liberty to explain myſelf upon.

I long to be with you, now I am better, and now my ſon is in a fine way of recovery. But is it not hard, to have it ſignified to me, that at preſent it will not be taken well, if I go?—I ſuppoſe, while the reconciliation, which I hope will take place, is negotiating by means of the cor⯑reſpondence [318] ſo newly opened between you and your ſiſter. But if you would have me come, I will rely on my good intentions, and riſque every-one's diſpleaſure.

Mr. Brand has buſineſs in town, to ſolicit for a bene⯑fice which it is expected the incumbent will be obliged to quit for a better preferment: And when there, he is to inquire privately after your way of life, and of your health.

He is a very officious young man; and, but that your uncle Harlowe (who has choſen him for this errand) re⯑gards him as an oracle, your mother had rather any-body elſe had been ſent.

He is one of thoſe puzzling, over-doing gentlemen, who think they ſee farther into matters than any-body elſe, and are fond of diſco [...]ering myſteries where there are none, in order to be thought a ſhrewd man.

I can't ſay I like him, either in the pulpit, or out of it: I who had a father one of the ſoundeſt divines, and fineſt ſcholars, in the kingdom; who never made an oſtentation of what he knew; but loved and venerated the goſpel he taught, preferring it to all other learning; to be obliged to hear a young man depart from his text as ſoon as he has named it (ſo contrary, too, to the example ſet him by his learned and worthy principal ^(a), when his health permits him to preach), and throwing about, to a Chriſtian and Country audience, ſcraps of Latin and Greek from the pa⯑gan claſſics; and not always brought in with great pro⯑priety neither (if I am to judge, by the only way given me to judge of them, by the Engliſh he puts them into); is an indication of ſomething wrong, either in his head, or his heart, or both; for, otherwiſe, his education at the Univerſity muſt have taught him better. You know, my dear Miſs Clary, the honour I have for the Cloth: It is owing to that, that I ſay what I do.

I know not the day he is to ſet out; and as his inqui⯑ries are to be private, be pleaſed to take no notice of this intelligence. I have no doubt, that your life and conver⯑ſation are ſuch, as may defy the ſcrutinies of the moſt offi⯑cious inquirer.

I am juſt now told, that you have written a ſecond let⯑ter [319] to your ſiſter: But am afraid they will wait for Mr. Brand's report, before further favour will be obtained from them; for they will not yet believe you are ſo ill, as I fear you are.

But you would ſoon find, that you have an indulgent mother, were ſhe at liberty to act according to her own inclination. And this gives me great hopes, that all will end well at laſt: For I verily think you are in the right way to a reconciliation: God give a bleſſing to it, and re⯑ſtore your health, and you to all your friends, prays

Your good mamma has privately ſent me five guineas: She is pleaſed to ſay, to help us in the illneſs we have been afflicted with; but, more likely, that I might ſend them to you, as from myſelf. I hope, therefore, I may ſend them up, with ten more I have ſtill left.

I will ſend you word of Mr. Morden's arrival, the mo⯑ment I know it.

If agreeable, I ſhould be glad to know all that paſſes between your relations and you.

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

YOU give me, my dear Mrs. Norton, great pleaſure in hearing of yours and your ſon's recovery. May you continue, for many, many years, a bleſſing to each other!

You tell me, that you did actually write to my mamma, offering to incloſe mine of the 24th paſt: And you ſay, It was not required of you. That is to ſay, altho' you cover it over as gently as you could, that your offer was reject⯑ed; which makes it evident, that no plea will be heard for me. Yet, you bid me hope, that the grace I ſued for would, in time, be granted.

The grace I then ſued for was indeed granted: But you are afraid, you ſay, that they will wait for Mr. Brand's report, before favour will be obtained in return to the ſe⯑cond letter, which I wrote to my ſiſter: And you add, [320] That I have an indulgent mamma, were ſhe at liberty to act according to her own inclination; and that all will end well at laſt.

But what, my dear Mrs. Norton, what is the grace I ſue for in my ſecond letter? — It is not that they will re⯑ceive me into favour— If they think it is, they are miſtaken. I do not, I cannot expect that: Nor, as I have often ſaid, ſhould I, if they would receive me, bear to live in the eye of thoſe dear friends whom I have ſo grievouſly of⯑fended. 'Tis only, ſimply, a bleſſing I aſk: A bleſſing to die with; not to live with.—Do they know that? And do they know, that their unkindneſs will perhaps ſhorten my date? So that their favour, if ever they intend to grant it, may come too late?

Once more, I deſire you not to think of coming to me. I have no uneaſineſs now, but what proceeds from the apprehenſion of ſeeing a man I would not ſee for the world, if I could help it; and from the ſeverity of my neareſt and deareſt relations: A ſeverity intirely their own, I doubt; for you tell me, that my brother is at Edinburgh! You would therefore heighten their ſeverity, and make yourſelf enemies beſides, if you were to come to me— Don't you ſee that you would?

Mr. Brand may come, if he will. He is a Clergyman, and muſt mean well; or I muſt think ſo, let him ſay of me what he will. All my fear is, that, as he knows I am in diſgrace with a family whoſe eſteem he is deſirous to cultivate; and as he has obligations to my uncle Harlowe, and to my father; he will be but a languid acquitter. Not that I am afraid of what he, or any-body in the world, can hear as to my conduct. You may, my beloved and dear friend, indeed you may, reſt ſatisfied, that That is ſuch as may warrant me to challenge the inquiries of the moſt officious.

I will ſend you copies of what paſſes, as you deſire, when I have an anſwer to my ſecond letter. I now begin to wiſh, that I had taken the heart to write to my father himſelf; or to my mother, at leaſt; inſtead of to my ſiſter; and yet I doubt my poor mother can do nothing for me of herself. A ſtrong confederacy, my dear Mrs. Norton, (a ſtrong confederacy indeed!) againſt a poor girl, their daugh⯑ter, [321] ſiſter, niece! — My brother, perhaps, got it renewed, before he left them. He needed not—His work is done; and more than done.

Don't afflict yourſelf about money-matters on my ac⯑count. I have no occaſion for money. I am glad my mother was ſo conſiderate to you. I was in pain for you, on the ſame ſubject. But Heaven will not permit ſo good a wo⯑man to want the humble bleſſings ſhe was always ſatisfied with. I wiſh every individual of our family were but as rich as you!—O my mamma Norton, you are rich; You are rich indeed!—The true riches are ſuch content as you are bleſſed with. — And I hope in God, that I am in the way to be rich too.

Adieu, my ever-indulgent friend. You ſay, all will be at laſt happy — And I know it will — I confide that it will, with as much ſecurity, as you may, that I will be to my laſt hour,

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

I AM moſt confoundedly chagrined and diſappointed: For here, on Saturday, arrived a meſſenger from Miſs Howe, with a letter to my couſins ^(a); which I knew nothing of till yeſterday; when my two aunts were pro⯑cured to be here, to ſit in judgment upon it with the old Peer, and my two kinſwomen. And never was Bear ſo miſerably baited as thy poor friend!—And for what?— Why, for the cruelty of Miſs Harlowe: For have I com⯑mitted any new offence? And would I not have ſucceeded in her favour, upon her own terms, if I could? And is it fair to puniſh me for what is my misfortune, and not my fault? Such event-judging fools as I have for my relations! I am aſhamed of them all.

In that of Miſs Howe was incloſed one to her from Miſs Harlowe ^(b), to be ſent to my couſins, containing a final rejec⯑tion of me; and that in very vehement and poſitive terms; [322] yet pretends, that in this rejection ſhe is governed more by principle than paſſion—(Damn'd lye, as ever was told!) And, as a proof that ſhe is, ſays, that ſhe can forgive me, and does, on this one condition, That I will never moleſt her more: The whole letter ſo written, as to make herſelf more admired, me more deteſted.

What we have been told of the agitations and work⯑ings, and ſighings and ſobbings, of the French prophets among us formerly, were nothing at all to the ſcene ex⯑hibited by theſe maudlin ſouls, at the reading of theſe let⯑ters; and of ſome affecting paſſages extracted from an⯑other of my fair Implacable's to Miſs Howe—Such lamenta⯑tions for the loſs of ſo charming a relation! Such applaud⯑ings of her virtue, of her exaltedneſs of ſoul and ſentiment! Such menaces of diſinheriſons! I, not needing their re⯑proaches to be ſtung to the heart with my own reflec⯑tions, and with the rage of diſappointment; and as ſin⯑cerely as any of them admiring her— What the devil, cried I▪ is all this for? — Is it not enough to be deſpiſed and rejected? Can I help her implacable ſpirit?—Would I not repair the evils I have made her ſuffer?—Then was I ready to curſe them all, herſelf and Miſs Howe, for com⯑pany—And heartily I ſwore, that ſhe ſhould yet be mine.

I now ſwear it over-again to thee—Were her death to follow in a week after the knot is ty'd, by the Lord of Heaven, it ſhall be ty'd, and ſhe ſhall die a Lovelace.— Tell her ſo, if thou wilt: But, at the ſame time, tell her, that I have no view to her fortune; and that I will ſolemnly reſign that, and all pretenſions to it, in whoſe favour ſhe pleaſes, if ſhe reſign life iſſueleſs.— I am not ſo low-minded a wretch, as to be guilty of any ſordid views to her fortune: Let her judge for herſelf then, whether it be not for her honour rather to leave this world a Lovelace than a Harlowe.

But do not think I will intirely reſt a cauſe ſo near my heart, upon an advocate, who ſo much more admires his client's adverſary, than his client. I will go to town in a few days, in order to throw myſelf at her feet: Bringing with me, or having at hand, a reſolute, well-prepared par⯑ſon; and the ceremony ſhall be performed, let what will be the conſequence.

[323]But if ſhe will permit me to attend her for this purpoſe, at either of the churches mentioned in the licence (which ſhe has by her, and, thank Heaven! has not returned me with my letters); then will I not diſturb her; but meet her at the altar in either church, and will engage to bring my two couſins to attend her, and even Lady Sarah and Lady Betty, and my Lord M. in perſon, to give her to me.

Or, if it will be ſtill more agreeable to her; I will un⯑dertake, that either or both my aunts ſhall go to town, and attend her down; and the marriage ſhall be celebrated in theirs and Lord M.'s preſence, here, or elſewhere, at her own choice.

Do not play me booty, Belford; but ſincerely and warmly uſe all the eloquence thou art maſter of, to pre⯑vail upon her to chooſe one of theſe three methods. One of them ſhe muſt chooſe — By my ſoul, ſhe muſt.

Here is Charlotte tapping at my cloſet-door for admit⯑tance. What a devil wants Charlotte?— I will bear no more reproaches!—Come in, girl!

MY couſin Charlotte, finding me writing on with too much earneſtneſs to have any regard for politeneſs to her, and gueſſing at my ſubject, beſought me to let her ſee what I had written.

I obliged her. And ſhe was ſo highly pleaſed on ſeeing me ſo much in earneſt, that ſhe offered, and I accepted her offer, to write herſelf to Miſs Harlowe; with permiſ⯑ſion to treat me in it as ſhe thought fit.

I ſhall incloſe a copy of her letter.

When ſhe had written it, ſhe brought it to me, with apologies for the freedom taken with me in it: But I ex⯑cuſed it; and ſhe was ready to give me a kiſs for joy of my approbation: And I gave her two for writing it; tell⯑ing her, I had hopes of ſucceſs from it; and that I thought ſhe had luckily hit it off.

Every-one approves of it, as well as I, and is pleaſed with me, for ſo patiently ſubmitting to be abuſed, and undertaken for.— If it do not ſucceed, all the blame will be thrown upon the dear creature's perverſeneſs: Her cha⯑ritable or forgiving diſpoſition, about which ſhe makes ſuch a parade, will be juſtly queſtioned; and the pity of [324] which ſhe is now in full poſſeſſion, will be transferred to me.

Putting therefore my whole confidence in this letter, I poſtpone all my other alternatives, as alſo my going to town, till my empreſs ſend an anſwer to my couſin Mon⯑tague.

But if ſhe perſiſt, and will not promiſe to take time to conſider of the matter, thou mayeſt communicate to her what I had written, as above, before my couſin entered; and, if ſhe be ſtill perverſe, aſſure her, that I muſt and will ſee her— But this with all honour, all humility: And, if I cannot move her in my favour, I will then go abroad, and perhaps never more return to England.

I am ſorry thou art, at this critical time, ſo buſily employed, as thou informeſt me thou art, in thy Watford affairs, and in preparing to do Belton juſtice. If thou wanteſt my aſſiſtance in the latter, command me. Tho' ingroſſed and plagued as I am, with this perverſe beauty, I will obey thy firſt ſummons.

I have great dependence upon thy zeal and thy friend⯑ſhip: Haſten back to her, therefore, and reſume a taſk ſo intereſting to me, that it is equally the ſubject of my dreams, as of my waking hours.

LETTER XCI. Miſs MONTAGUE, To Miſs CLAR. HARLOWE.

ALL our family is deeply ſenſible of the injuries you have received at the hands of one of it, whom You only can render in any manner worthy of the relation he ſtands in to us all: And if, as an act of mercy and charity, the greateſt your pious heart can ſhew, you will be pleaſed to look over his paſt wickedneſs and ingratitude, and ſuffer yourſelf to be our kinſwoman, you will make us the hap⯑pieſt family in the world: And I can engage, that Lord M. and Lady Sarah Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance, and my Siſter, who are all admirers of your virtues, and of your nobleneſs of mind, will for ever love and reve⯑rence you, and do every-thing in all our powers to make you amends for what you have ſuffered from Mr. Love⯑lace. [325] This, Madam, we ſhould not, however, dare to petition for, were we not aſſured, that he is moſt ſincerely ſorry for his paſt vileneſs to you; and that he will, on his knees, beg your pardon, and vow eternal love and honour to you.

Wherefore, my deareſt couſin (How you will charm us all, if this agreeable ſtyle may be permitted!) for all our ſakes, for his ſoul's ſake (You muſt, I am ſure, be ſo good a lady, as to wiſh to ſave a ſoul!), and allow me to ſay, for your own fame's ſake, condeſcend to our joint requeſts: And if, by way of encouragement, you will but ſay, you will be glad to ſee, and to be as much known perſonally, as you are by fame, to Charlotte Montague, I will, in two days time from the receipt of your permiſſion, wait upon you, with or without my ſiſter, and receive your further commands.

Let me, our deareſt couſin (we cannot deny ourſelves the pleaſure of calling you ſo), let me intreat you to give me your permiſſion for my journey to London; and put it in the power of Lord M. and of the Ladies of the family, to make you what reparation they can make you, for the injuries which a perſon of the greateſt merit in the world has received from one of the moſt audacious men in it; and you will infinitely oblige us all; and particularly her, who repeatedly preſumes to ſtyle herſelf,

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

I Have been ſo much employed in my own and Belton's affairs, that I could not come to town till laſt night; having contented myſelf with ſending to Mrs. Lovick, to know, from time to time, the ſtate of the lady's health; of which I received but very indifferent accounts, owing, in a great meaſure, to letters or advices brought her from her implacable family.

I have now completed my own affairs; and, next week, ſhall go to Epſom, to endeavour to put Belton's ſiſter into [326] poſſeſſion of his own houſe, for him: After which, I ſhall devote myſelf wholly to your ſervice, and to that of the lady.

I was admitted to her preſence laſt night; and found her viſibly altered for the worſe. When I went home, I had your letter of Tueſday laſt put into my hands. Let me tell thee, Lovelace, that I inſiſt upon the performance of thy engagement to me that thou wilt not perſonally moleſt her.

LETTER XCIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs MONTAGUE.

I AM infinitely obliged to you for your kind and con⯑deſcending letter. A letter, however, which height⯑ens my regrets, as it gives me a new inſtance of what a happy creature I might have been in an alliance ſo much approved of by ſuch worthy Ladies; and which, on their accounts, and on that of Lord M. would have been ſo re⯑putable to myſelf, and once ſo deſirable.

But indeed, indeed, Madam, my heart ſincerely re⯑pulſes the man, who, deſcended from ſuch a family, could be guilty, firſt, of ſuch premeditated violence as he has been guilty of; and, as he knows, further intended me, on the night previous to the day he ſet out for Berkſhire; and, next, pretending to ſpirit, be ſo mean, as to wiſh to lift into that family a perſon he was capable of abaſing into a companionſhip with the moſt abandoned of her Sex.

Allow me then, dear Madam, to declare with fervour, that I think I never could deſerve to be ranked with the [327] Ladies of a family ſo ſplendid and ſo noble, if, by vowing love and honour at the altar to ſuch a violator, I could ſanctify, as I may ſay, his unprecedented and elaborate wickedneſs.

Permit me, however, to make one requeſt to my good Lord M. and to the two Ladies his Lordſhip's ſiſters, and to your kind ſelf, and your ſiſter— It is, That you will all be pleaſed to join your authority and intereſts to prevail upon Mr. Lovelace not to moleſt me further.

Be pleaſed to tell him, That, if I am deſigned for life, it will be very cruel in him to attempt to hunt me out of it; for I am determined never to ſee him more, if I can help it. The more cruel, becauſe he knows, that I have nobody to protect me from him: Nor do I wiſh to engage any-body to his hurt, or to their own.

If I am, on the other hand, deſtined for death, it will be no leſs cruel, if he will not permit me to die in peace— Since a peaceable and happy end I wiſh him. Indeed I do.

Every worldly good attend you, dear Madam, and every branch of the honourable family, is the wiſh of one, whoſe misfortune it is, that ſhe is obliged to diſclaim any other title, than That of,

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

I AM juſt now agreeably ſurpriſed by the following let⯑ter, delivered into my hands by a meſſenger from the lady. The letter ſhe mentions, as incloſed ^(a), I have returned, without taking a copy of it. The contents of it will ſoon be communicated to you, I preſume, by another way. They contain an abſolute rejection of thee—Poor Lovelace:—

Now, Lovelace, ſince there are no hopes for thee of her returning favour; Since ſome praiſe may lie for thy in⯑genuity, having never offered (as more diminutive-minded libertines would have done) to palliate thy crimes, by aſperſing the lady, or her ſex; Since ſhe may be made eaſier by it; Since thou muſt fare better from thy own pen, than from hers; and, finally, Since thy actions have mani⯑feſted, that thy letters are not the moſt guilty part of what ſhe knows of thee; I ſee not why I may not oblige her, upon her honour, and under the reſtrictions, and for the reaſons ſhe has given; and this without breach of the confidence due to friendly communications; eſpecially, as I might have added, Since thou glorieſt in thy pen, and in thy wicked⯑neſs, and canſt not be aſhamed.

But, be this as it may, ſhe will be obliged before thy remonſtrances or clamours againſt it can come; ſo, pr'ythee now, make the beſt of it, and rave not; except for the ſake of a pretence againſt me, and to exerciſe thy talent of execration!—And, if thou likeſt to do ſo for theſe rea⯑ſons, rave and welcome.

I long to know what the ſecond requeſt is: But this I know, that if it be any-thing leſs than cutting thy throat, or endangering my own neck, I will certainly comply; and be proud of having it in my power to oblige her.

And now I am actually going to be buſy in the Ex⯑tracts.

LETTER XCV. Mr. BELFORD, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

YOU have engaged me to communicate to you, upon honour (making neither better nor worſe of the matter), what Mr. Lovelace has written to me, in relation to yourſelf, in the period preceding your going to Ham⯑ſtead, and in that between the 11th and 19th of June: And you aſſure me, you have no view in this requeſt, but to ſee if it be neceſſary for you, from the account he gives, to touch the painful ſubjects yourſelf, for the ſake of your own character.

Your commands, Madam, are of a very delicate na⯑ture, as they may ſeem to affect the ſecrets of private friend⯑ſhip: But as I know you are not capable of a view, the motives to which you will not own; and as I think the communication may do ſome credit to my unhappy friend's character, as an ingenuous man; tho' his actions by the moſt excellent woman in the world have loſt him all title to that of an honourable one; I obey you with the greater chearfulneſs.

‘And now, Madam, I have fulfilled your commands; and, I hope, not diſ-ſerved my friend with you; ſince you will hereby ſee the juſtice he does to your virtue in every line he writes. He does the ſame in all his letters, tho' to his own condemnation: And give me leave to add, that if this ever-amiable ſufferer could but think it in any manner conſiſtent with her honour to receive his vows at the altar, on his truly penitent turn of mind, I have not the leaſt doubt, but that he would make her the beſt and tendereſt of huſbands. What obligation would not the admirable lady hereby lay upon all his noble fa⯑mily, who ſo greatly admire her! and, I will preſume to ſay, upon her own, when the unhappy family aver⯑ſion (which certainly has been carried to an unreaſonable [331] height againſt him) is got over, and a general reconci⯑liation take place! For who is it, that would not give theſe two admirable perſons to each other, were not his morals an objection?’

However this be, I would humbly refer to you, Ma⯑dam, whether, as you will be miſtreſs of very delicate par⯑ticulars from me his friend, you ſhould not in honour think yourſelf concerned to paſs them by, as if you had never ſeen them; and not to take any advantage of the commu⯑nication, not even in argument, as ſome perhaps might lie, with reſpect to the premeditated deſign he ſeems to have had, not againſt you, as you; but as againſt the Sex; over whom (I am ſorry I can bear witneſs myſelf) it is the vil⯑lainous aim of all libertines to triumph: And I would not, if any miſunderſtanding ſhould ariſe between him and me, give him room to reproach me, that his loſing of you, or (thro' his uſage of you [...] his loſing of his own friends, were owing to what perhaps he would call breach of truſt, were he to judge rather by the events, if ſuch ſhould hap⯑pen, than by my intention.

I am, Madam, with the moſt profound veneration,

LETTER XCVI. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

I Hold myſelf extremely obliged to you for your com⯑munications. I will make no uſe of them, that you ſhall have reaſon to reproach either yourſelf or me with. I wanted no new lights to make the unhappy man's pre⯑meditated baſeneſs to me unqueſtionable, as my anſwer to Miſs Montague's letter might convince you ^(a).

I muſt own in his favour, that he has obſerved ſome decency in his accounts to you of the moſt indecent and ſhocking actions. And if all his ſtrangely-communicative narrations are equally decent, nothing will be rendered criminally odious by them, but the vile heart that could meditate ſuch contrivances as were much ſtronger evidences of his inhumanity, than of his wit: Since men of very [332] contemptible parts and underſtanding may ſucceed in the vileſt attempts, if they can get above regarding the moral ſanctions which bind man to man; and ſooner upon an innocent heart, than upon any other; becauſe, knowing its own integrity, it is the leſs apt to ſuſpect that of others.

I find I have had great reaſon to think myſelf obliged to your intention in the whole progreſs of my ſufferings. It is, however, impoſſible, Sir, to miſs the natural infer⯑ence on this occaſion, that lies againſt his predetermined baſeneſs. But I ſay the leſs, becauſe you ſhall not think I borrow from your communications aggravations that are not needed.

And now, Sir, that I may ſpare you the trouble of offer⯑ing any future arguments in his favour, let me tell you, that I have weighed every-thing thoroughly: All that hu⯑man vanity could ſuggeſt; All that a deſirable reconcilia⯑tion with my friends, and the kind reſpects of his own, could bid me hope for: The enjoyment of Miſs Howe's friendſhip, the deareſt conſideration to me now, of all worldly ones: All theſe I have weighed: And the reſult is, and was before you favoured me with theſe communi⯑cations, that I have more ſatisfaction in the hope, that, in one month, there will be an end of All with me, than in the moſt agreeable things that could happen from an alli⯑ance with Mr. Lovelace, altho' I were to be aſſured he would make the beſt and tendereſt of huſbands. But as to the reſt; If, ſatisfied with the evils he has brought up⯑on me, he will forbear all further perſecutions of me, I will, to my laſt hour, wiſh him good: Altho' he hath over⯑whelmed the fatherleſs, and digged a pit for his friend: Fa⯑therleſs may ſhe well be called, and motherleſs too, who has been denied all paternal protection, and motherly for⯑giveneſs.

AND now, Sir, acknowleging gratefully your favour in the Extracts, I come to the ſecond part of my requeſt: Which requires a great deal of courage to mention to you: And which courage nothing but a great deal of diſtreſs, and a very deſtitute condition, can give. But, if impro⯑per, I can but be denied; and dare to ſay, I ſhall be at leaſt excuſed. Thus, then, I preface it:

[333]You ſee, Sir, that I am thrown abſolutely into the hands of ſtrangers, who, altho' as kind and compaſſionate as ſtrangers can be wiſhed to be, are nevertheleſs perſons from whom I cannot expect any-thing more than pity and good wiſhes; nor can my memory receive from them any more protection than my perſon, if either ſhould need it.

If then I requeſt it, of the only gentleman poſſeſſed of materials that will enable him, to do my character juſtice;

And who has courage, independence, and ability to ob⯑lige me;

To be the protector of my memory, as I may ſay;

And to be my Executor; and to ſee ſome of my dying requeſts performed;

(And if I leave it to him to do the whole in his own way, manner, and time; conſulting, however, in requi⯑ſite caſes, my dear Miſs Howe);

I preſume to hope, that this part of my requeſt may be granted.

And if it may, Theſe ſatisfactions will accrue to me from the favour done me, and the office undertaken:

It will be an honour to my memory, with all thoſe who ſhall know, that I was ſo well ſatisfied of my innocence, that, having not time to write my own ſtory, I could in⯑truſt it to the relation which the deſtroyer of my fame and fortunes has given of it.

I ſhall not be apprehenſive of involving any one in trou⯑bles or hazards by this taſk, either with my own relations, or with your friend; having diſpoſitions to make, which perhaps my own friends will not be ſo well pleaſed with as it were to be wiſhed they would be; for I intend not unreaſonable ones: But you know, Sir, where Self is judge, matters, even with good people, will not always be rightly judged of.

I ſhall alſo be freed from the pain of recollecting things, that my ſoul is vexed at; and this at a time when its tu⯑mults ſhould be allay'd, in order to make way for the moſt important preparation.

And who knows, but that the man, who already, from a principle of humanity, is touched at my misfortunes, when he comes to revolve the whole ſtory, placed before [334] him in one ſtrong light, and when he ſhall have the cata⯑ſtrophe likewiſe before him; and ſhall become in a man⯑ner, intereſted in it: Who knows, but that, from a ſtill higher principle, he may ſo regulate his future actions, as to find his own reward, in the everlaſting welfare which is wiſhed him by his

LETTER XCVII. Mr. BELFORD, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I AM ſo ſenſible of the honour done me in yours of this day, that I would not delay for one moment the an⯑ſwering of it. I hope you will live to ſee many happy years; and to be your own Executrix in thoſe points which your heart is moſt ſet upon. But, in caſe of ſurvivorſhip, I moſt chearfully accept of the ſacred office you are pleaſed to offer me; and you may abſolutely rely upon my fide⯑lity, and, if poſſible, upon the literal performance of every article you ſhall injoin me.

The effect of the kind wiſh you conclude with has been my concern ever ſince I have been admitted to the ho⯑nour of your converſation. It ſhall be my whole endea⯑vour that it be not vain. The happineſs of approaching you, which this truſt, as I preſume, will give me frequent opportunities of doing, muſt neceſſarily promote the de⯑ſirable end; ſince it will be impoſſible to be a witneſs of your piety, equanimity, and other virtues, and not aſpire to emulate you. All I beg is, That you will not ſuffer any future candidate, or event, to diſplace me; unleſs ſome new inſtances of unworthineſs appear, either in the morals or behaviour of,

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

I Have actually delivered to the lady the extracts ſhe re⯑queſted me to give her from thy letters. I do aſſure thee, that I have made the very beſt of the matter for thee, not that conſcience, but that friendſhip, could oblige me to make. I have changed or omitted ſome free words. The warm deſcription of her perſon in the fire-ſcene, as I may call it, I have omitted. I have told her, that I have done juſtice to you, in the juſtice you have done to her unexampled virtue. But take the very words which I wrote to her immediately following the extracts:

'And now, Madam,'—See the paragraph marked with inverted commas ['thus] p. 330.

The lady is extremely uneaſy at the thoughts of your attempting to viſit her. For Heaven's ſake (your word being given), and for Pity's ſake (for ſhe is really in a very weak and languiſhing way), let me beg of you not to think of it.

Yeſterday afternoon ſhe received a cruel letter, as Mrs. Lovick ſuppoſes it to be, by the effect it had upon her, from her ſiſter, in anſwer to one written laſt Saturday, intreating a bleſſing and forgiveneſs from her parents.

She acknowleges, that, if all thy letters are written with equal decency and juſtice, as I have aſſured her they are, ſhe ſhall think herſelf freed from the neceſſity of write⯑ing her own ſtory: And this is an advantage to the [...] ac⯑cruing from the extracts I have obliged her with; tho' thou, perhaps, wilt not thank me for ſo doing.

But what thinkeſt thou is the ſecond requeſt ſhe had to make to me? No other than that I would be her Execu⯑tor! — Her motives will appear before thee in proper time; and then, I dare anſwer for them, will be ſatisfac⯑tory.

You cannot imagine how proud I am of this truſt. I am afraid I ſhall too ſoon come into the execution of it. As ſhe is always writing, what a melancholy pleaſure [336] will the peruſal and diſpoſition of her papers afford me! Such a ſweetneſs of temper, ſo much patience and reſigna⯑tion, as ſhe ſeems to be miſtreſs of; yet writing of and in the midſt of preſent diſtreſſes! How much more lively and affecting, for that reaſon, muſt her ſtile be, than all that can be read in the dry, narrative, unanimated ſtile of perſons relating difficulties and dangers ſurmounted! The minds of ſuch not labouring in ſuſpenſe, not tortured by the pangs of uncertainty, about events ſtill hidden in the womb of fate; but, on the contrary, perfectly at eaſe; the relater unmoved by his own ſtory, how then able to move the hearer or reader?

Adieu!

LETTER XCIX. Miſs AR. HARLOWE, To Miſs CR. HARLOWE. [In Anſwer to hers of Saturday, July 29. p. 316.]

I Wiſh you would not trouble me with any more of your letters. You had always a knack at writing; and de⯑pended upon making every one do what you would, when you wrote. But your wit and your folly have undone you. And now, as all naughty creatures do, when they can't help themſelves, you come begging and praying, and make others as uneaſy as yourſelf.

When I wrote laſt to you, I expected that I ſhould not be at reſt.

And ſo you'd creep on, by little and little, till you'll want to be received again.

But you only hope for forgiveneſs, and a bleſſing, you [338] ſay. A bleſſing for what, ſiſter Clary? Think for what? —However, I read your letter to my father and mother.

I won't tell you what my papa ſaid—One who has the true ſenſe you boaſt to have of your miſdeeds, may gueſs, without my telling you, what a juſtly incenſed father would ſay on ſuch an occaſion.

My poor mamma—O wretch! What has not your in⯑grateful folly coſt my poor mamma!—Had you been leſs a darling, you would not, perhaps, have been ſo graceleſs: But I never in my life ſaw a cocker'd favourite come to good.

My heart is full, and I can't help writing my mind; for your crimes have diſgraced us all; and I am afraid, and aſhamed, to go to any public or private aſſemblée or diverſion: And why? — I need not ſay why, when your actions are the ſubjects, either of the open talk, or of the affronting whiſpers, of both ſexes, at all ſuch places.

Upon the whole, I am ſorry I have no more comfort to ſend you: But I find no-body willing to forgive you. I don't know what time may do for you; and when it is ſeen, that your penitence is not owing more to diſappoint⯑ment than true conviction: For it is too probable, Miſs Clary, that, had you gone on as ſwimmingly as you ex⯑pected, and had not your feather-headed villain abandoned you, we ſhould have heard nothing of theſe moving ſup⯑plications: Nor of any-thing, but defiances from him, and a guilt gloried in from you. And this is every-one's opi⯑nion, as well as that of

I ſend this by a particular hand, who undertakes to give it you, or leave it for you, by to-morrow night.

LETTER C. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To her Mother.

NO ſelf-convicted criminal ever approached her angry and juſt judge with greater awe, nor with a truer contrition, than I do you by theſe lines.

Indeed I muſt ſay, that if the matter of my humble [339] prayer had not reſpected my future welfare, I had not dared to take this liberty. But my heart is ſet upon it, as upon a thing next to God Almighty's forgiveneſs ne⯑ceſſary for me.

Had my happy ſiſter known my diſtreſſes, ſhe would not have wrung my heart, as ſhe has done, by a ſeverity, which I muſt needs think unkind and unſiſterly.

But complaint of any unkindneſs from her belongs not to me: Yet, as ſhe is pleaſed to write, that it muſt be ſeen that my penitence is leſs owing to diſappointment, than to true conviction, permit me, Madam, to inſiſt upon it, that I am actually intitled to the bleſſing I ſue for; ſince my humble prayer is founded upon a true and unfeigned repentance: And this you will the readier believe, if the creature, who never, to the beſt of her remembrance, told her mamma a wilful falſhood, may be credited, when ſhe declares, as ſhe does, in the moſt ſolemn manner, that ſhe met the ſeducer, with a determination not to go off with him: That the raſh ſtep was owing more to com⯑pulſion than infatuation: And that her heart was ſo little in it, that ſhe repented and grieved from the moment ſhe found herſelf in his power; and for every moment after, for ſeveral weeks before ſhe had any cauſe from him to ap⯑prehend the uſage ſhe met with.

Wherefore, on my knees, my ever-honoured mamma, (for on my knees I write this letter) I do moſt humbly beg your Bleſſing: Say but, in ſo many words (I aſk you not to call me your daughter) — Loſt, unhappy wretch, I forgive you! and may God bleſs you!—This is all! Let me, on a bleſſed ſcrap of paper, but ſee one ſentence to this effect, under your dear hand, that I may hold it to my heart in my moſt trying ſtruggles, and I ſhall think it a paſſport to Heaven. And, if I do not too much pre⯑ſume, and it were WE inſtead of I, and both your honour⯑ed names ſubjoined to it, I ſhould then have nothing more to wiſh. Then would I ſay, ‘Great and merciful God! thou ſeeſt here in this paper thy poor unworthy creature abſolved by her juſtly-offended parents: O join, for my Redeemer's ſake, thy all-gracious Fiat, and receive a repentant ſinner to the arms of thy mercy!’

I can conjure you, Madam, by no ſubject of motherly [340] tenderneſs, that will not, in the opinion of my ſevere cen⯑ſurers, before whom this humble addreſs muſt appear, add to my reproach; Let me therefore, for God's ſake, pre⯑vail upon you to pronounce me bleſt and forgiven, ſince you will thereby ſprinkle comfort thro' the laſt hours of

LETTER CI. Miſs MONTAGUE, To Miſs CL. HARLOWE. [In Anſwer to hers of Thurſday, Aug. 3. See p. 326.]

WE were all of opinion, before your letter came, that Mr. Lovelace was utterly unworthy of you, and deſerved condign puniſhment rather than the bleſſing of ſuch a wife: And hoped far more from your kind con⯑ſideration for us, than any we ſuppoſed you could have for ſo baſe an injurer. For we were all determined to love you, and admire you, let his behaviour to you be what it would.

But, after your letter, what can be ſaid?

I am, however, commanded to write in all the ſub⯑ſcribing names, to let you know, how greatly your ſuf⯑ferings have affected us: To tell you, that my Lord M. has forbid him ever more to darken the doors of the apart⯑ments where he ſhall be: And as you labour under the unhappy effects of your friends diſpleaſure, which may ſubject you to inconveniencies, his Lordſhip, and Lady Sarah, and Lady Betty, beg of you to accept, for your life, or, at leaſt, till you are admitted to enjoy your own eſtate, of one hundred guineas per quarter, which will be regu⯑larly brought you by an eſpecial hand, and of the incloſed Bank bill for a beginning. And do not, deareſt Madam, we all beſeech you, do not think you are beholden for this token of Lord M.'s and Lady Sarah's and Lady Betty's love to you, to the friends of this vile man; for he has not one friend left among us.

We each of us deſire to be favoured with a place in your eſteem; and to be conſidered upon the ſame foot of relationſhip, as if what once was ſo much our pleaſure to [341] hope would be, had been. And it ſhall be our united prayer, that you may recover health and ſpirits, and live to ſee many happy years: And, ſince this wretch can no more be pleaded for, that, when he is gone abroad, as he now is preparing to do, we may be permitted the honour of a perſonal acquaintance with a lady who has no equal. Theſe are the earneſt requeſts, deareſt young Lady, of

You will break the hearts of the three firſt-named more particularly, if you refuſe them your acceptance. Deareſt Miſs Harlowe, puniſh not them for his crimes. We ſend by a particular hand, which will bring us, we hope, your accepting favour.

Mr. Lovelace writes by the ſame hand; but he knows nothing of ours, nor we of his: For we ſhun each other; and one part of the houſe holds us, another him, the remoteſt from each other.

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

I Am ſo exceſſively diſturbed at the contents of Miſs Harlowe's anſwer to my couſin Charlotte's letter of Tueſday laſt (which was given her by the ſame fellow that gave me yours), that I have hardly patience or conſidera⯑tion enough to weigh what you write.

She had need, indeed, to cry out for mercy herſelf from her friends, who knows not how to ſhew any! She is a true daughter of the Harlowes—By my ſoul, Jack, ſhe is a true daughter of the Harlowes! Yet has ſhe ſo many excellencies, that I muſt love her; and, fool that I am, love her the more for her deſpiſing me.

Thou runneſt on with thy curſed nonſenſical reformado-rote, [342] of dying, dying, dying! and, having once got the word by the end, canſt not help foiſting it in at every pe⯑riod! The devil take me, if I don't think thou wouldſt give her poiſon with thy own hands, rather than ſhe ſhould re⯑cover, and rob thee of the merit of being a conjurer!

But no more of thy curſed knell; thy changes upon death's candleſtick turned bottom-upwards: She'll live to bury me; I ſee that: For, by my ſoul, I can neither eat, drink, nor ſleep; nor, what's ſtill worſe, love any woman in the world but her. Nor care I to look upon a woman now; on the contrary, I turn my head from every one I meet; except by chance an eye, an air, a feature, ſtrikes me reſembling hers in ſome glancing-by face; and then I cannot forbear looking again; tho' the ſecond look recovers me; for there can be no-body like her.

But ſurely, Belford, the devil's in this lady! The more I think of her nonſenſe and obſtinacy, the leſs patience I have with her. Is it poſſible ſhe can do herſelf, her fa⯑mily, her friends, ſo much juſtice any other way, as by marrying me? Were ſhe ſure ſhe ſhould live but a day, ſhe ought to die a wife. If her Chriſtian revenge will not let her wiſh to do ſo for her own ſake, ought ſhe not for the ſake of her family, and of her Sex, which ſhe pretends ſometimes to have ſo much concern for? And if no ſake is dear enough to move her Harlowe-ſpirit in my favour, has ſhe any title to the pity thou ſo pitifully art always be⯑ſpeaking for her?

As to the difference which her letter has made between me and the ſtupid family here (and I muſt tell thee we are all broke in pieces) I value not that of a button. They are fools to anathematize and curſe me, who can give them ten curſes for one, were they to hold it for a day together.

I have one half of the houſe to myſelf; and that the beſt; for the Great enjoy that leaſt, which coſts them moſt: Grandeur and Uſe are two things: The common part is theirs; the ſtate part is mine: And here I lord it, and will lord it, as long as I pleaſe; while the two purſy ſiſters, the old gouty brother, and the two muſty nieces, are ſtived up in the other half, and dare not ſtir for fear of meeting me: Whom (that's the jeſt of it) they have forbidden coming into their apartments, as I have them into mine. And ſo [343] I have them all priſoners, while I range about as I pleaſe. Pretty dogs and doggeſſes, to quarrel and bark at me, and yet, whenever I appear, afraid to pop out of their kennels; or if out before they ſee me, at the ſight of me run growling in again, with their flapt ears, their ſweeping dewlaps, and their quivering tails curling inwards.

And here, while I am thus worthily waging war with beetles, drones, waſps, and hornets, and am all on fire with the rage of ſlighted love, thou art regaling thyſelf with phlegm and rock-water, and art going on with thy re⯑formation-ſcheme, and thy exultations in my misfortunes!

The devil take thee for an inſenſible dough-bak'd varlet: I have no more patience with thee, than with the lady; for thou knoweſt nothing either of love or friendſhip, but art as incapable of the one, as unworthy of the other; elſe wouldſt thou not rejoice, as thou doſt under the grimace of pity, in my diſappointments.

And thou art a pretty fellow, art thou not? to engage to tranſcribe for her ſome parts of my letters written to thee in confidence? Letters that thou ſhouldeſt ſooner have parted with thy curſed tongue, than have owned thou ever hadſt received ſuch: Yet theſe are now to be communi⯑cated to her! But I charge thee, and woe be to thee if it be too late! that thou do not oblige her with a line of mine.

If thou haſt done it, the leaſt vengeance I will take, is to break thro' my honour given to thee not to viſit her, as thou wilt have broken thro' thine to me, in communicating letters written under the ſeal of friendſhip.

I am now convinced, too ſadly for my hopes, by her letter to my couſin Charlotte, that ſhe is determined never to have me.

Unprecedented wickedneſs, ſhe calls mine to her. But how does ſhe know what the ardor of flaming love will ſtimu⯑late? How does ſhe know the requiſite diſtinctions of the words ſhe uſes in this caſe?—To think the worſt, and to be able to make compariſons in theſe very delicate ſituations, muſt ſhe not be leſs delicate than I had imagined her to be? —But ſhe has heard, that the devil is black; and having a mind to make one of me, brays together, in the mortar of her wild fancy, twenty chimney-ſweepers, in order to make one ſootier than ordinary riſe out of the dirty maſs.

[344]But what a whirlwind does ſhe raiſe in my ſoul, by her proud contempts of me! Never, never, was mortal man's pride ſo mortified. How does ſhe ſink me, even in my own eyes! — Her heart ſincerely repulſes me, ſhe ſays, for my MEANNESS—Yet ſhe intends to reap the benefit of what ſhe calls ſo! — Curſe upon her haughtineſs, and her meanneſs, at the ſame time!—Her haughtineſs to me, and her meanneſs to her own relations; more unworthy of kindred with her, than I can be, or I am mean indeed.

Yet who but muſt admire, who but muſt adore her?— O that curſed, curſed houſe! But for the women of that! —Then their damn'd potions! But for thoſe, had her un⯑impaired intellects, and the majeſty of her virtue, ſaved her, as once it did by her humble eloquence ^(a), another time by her terrifying menaces againſt her own life ^(b).

Yet in both theſe to find her power over me, and my love for her, and to hate, to deſpiſe, and to refuſe me!—She might have done this with ſome ſhew of juſtice, had the laſt-intended violation been perpetrated:—But to go away conquereſs and triumphant in every light!—Well may ſhe deſpiſe me for ſuffering her to do ſo.

She left me low and mean indeed!—And the impreſſion holds with her.— I could tear my fleſh, that I gave her not cauſe—that I humbled her not indeed—or that I ſtaid not in town till I could have exalted myſelf, by giving myſelf a wife ſuperior to all trial, to all temptation.

I will venture one more letter to her, however; and if that don't do, or procure me an anſwer, then will I en⯑deavour to ſee her, let what will be the conſequence. If ſhe get out of my way, I will do ſome noble miſchief to the vixen girl whom ſhe moſt loves, and then quit the kingdom for ever.

And now, Jack, ſince thy hand is in at communicating the contents of private letters, tell her this, if thou wilt. And add to it, That if SHE abandon me, GOD will; and it is no matter then what becomes of

LETTER CIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq [In Anſwer to his of Friday night, Aug. 4. p. 335.]

AND ſo you have actually delivered to the fair Implacable extracts of letters written in the confidence of friend⯑ſhip! Take care—Take care, Belford—I do indeed love you better than I love any man in the world: But this is a very delicate point. The matter is grown very ſerious to me. My heart is bent upon having her. And have her I will, tho' I marry her in the agonies of death.

She is very earneſt, you ſay, that I will not offer to mo⯑leſt her. That, let me tell her, will abſolutely depend upon herſelf, and the anſwer ſhe returns, whether by pen and ink, or the contemptuous one of ſilence, which ſhe be⯑ſtowed upon my laſt four to her: And I will write it in ſuch humble, and in ſuch reaſonable terms, that, if ſhe is not a true Harlowe, ſhe ſhall forgive me. But as to the executorſhip ſhe is for conferring upon thee—Thou ſhalt not be her executor: Let me periſh if thou ſhalt.— Nor ſhall ſhe die. No-body ſhall be any-thing, no-body ſhall dare to be any-thing, to her, but me —Thy happineſs is already too great, to be admitted daily to her preſence; to look upon her, to talk to her, to hear her talk, while I am forbid to come within view of her window.—What a reprobation is this, of the man who was once more dear to her than all the men in the world! — And now to be able to look down upon me, while her exalted head is hid from me among the ſtars, ſometimes with low ſcorn, at other times with abject pity, I cannot bear it.

This I tell thee, that if I have not ſucceſs in my effort by letter, I will overcome the creeping folly that has found its way to my heart, or I will tear it out in her preſence, and throw it at hers, that ſhe may ſee how much more tender than her own that organ is, which ſhe, and you, and every-one elſe, have taken the liberty to call callous.

Give notice to the people who live back and edge, and on either hand, of the curſed mother, to remove their beſt effects, if I am rejected: For the firſt vengeance I [346] ſhall take, will be to ſet fire to that den of ſerpents. Nor will there be any fear of taking them when they are in any act that has the reliſh of ſalvation in it, as Shakeſpeare ſays.— So that my revenge, if they periſh in the flames I ſhall light up, will be complete, as to them.

LETTER CIV. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LIttle as I have reaſon to expect either your patient ear, or forgiving heart, yet cannot I forbear to write to you once more (as a more pardonable intruſion, per⯑haps, than a viſit would be), to beg of you to put it in my power to atone, as far as it is poſſible to atone, for the injuries I have done you.

Your angelic purity, and my awaken'd conſcience, are ſtanding records of your exalted merit, and of my deteſt⯑able baſeneſs: But your forgiveneſs will lay me under an eternal obligation to you—Forgive me then, my deareſt life, my earthly good, the viſible anchor of my future hope! As you (who believe you have ſomething to be for⯑given for) hope for pardon yourſelf, forgive me, and con⯑ſent to meet me, upon your own conditions, and in whoſe company you pleaſe, at the holy altar, and to give your⯑ſelf a title to the moſt repentant and affectionate heart, that ever beat in a human boſom.

But, perhaps, a time of probation may be required. It may be impoſſible for you, as well from indiſpoſition as doubt, ſo ſoon to receive me to abſolute favour as my heart wiſhes to be received. In this caſe, I will ſubmit to your pleaſure; and there ſhall be no penance which you can impoſe, that I will not chearfully undergo, if you will be pleaſed to give me hope, that, after an expiation, ſup⯑poſe of months, wherein the regularity of my future life and actions ſhall convince you of my reformation, you will at laſt be mine.

Let me beg the favour then of a few lines, encouraging me in this conditional hope, if it muſt not be a ſtill nearer hope, and a more generous encouragement.

If you refuſe me This, you will make me deſperate. [347] But even then I muſt, at all events, throw myſelf at your feet, that I may not charge myſelf with the omiſſion of any earneſt, any humble effort, to move you in my favour: For in YOU, Madam, in YOUR forgiveneſs, are centred my hopes as to both worlds: Since to be reprobated finally by You, will leave me without expectation of mercy from Above!—For I am now awaken'd enough to think, that to be forgiven by injured innocents is neceſſary to the Di⯑vine pardon; the Almighty putting into the power of ſuch, (as is reaſonable to believe) the wretch who cauſeleſly and capitally offends them. And who can be intitled to this power, if YOU are not?

Your cauſe, Madam, in a word, I look upon to be the cauſe of virtue, and, as ſuch, the cauſe of God. And may I not expect, that He will aſſert it in the perdition of a man, who has acted by a perſon of the moſt ſpotleſs purity, as I have done, if you, by rejecting me, ſhew that I have offended beyond the poſſibility of forgiveneſs?

I do moſt ſolemnly aſſure you, that no temporal or worldly views induce me to this earneſt addreſs. I deſerve not forgiveneſs from you. Nor do my Lord M. and his ſiſters from me. I deſpiſe them from my heart, for pre⯑ſuming to imagine, that I will be controuled by the pro⯑ſpect of any benefits in their power to confer. There is not a perſon breathing, but yourſelf, who ſhall preſcribe to me. Your whole conduct, Madam, has been ſo nobly principled, and your reſentments are ſo admirably juſt, that you appear to me even in a divine light; and in an infinitely more amiable one at the ſame time, than you could have appeared in, had you not ſuffered the barbarous wrongs, that now fill my mind with anguiſh and horror at my own recollected villainy to the moſt excellent of women.

I repeat, that all I beg for the preſent, is a few lines, to guide my doubtful ſteps; and (if poſſible for you ſo far to condeſcend) to encourage me to hope, that, if I can juſtify my preſent vows by my future conduct, I may be per⯑mitted the honour to ſtyle myſelf

LETTER CV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Lord M. and to the Ladies of his Houſe. [In Reply to Miſs Montague's of Monday, Aug. 7. p. 340.]

EXcuſe me, my good Lord, and my ever-honoured La⯑dies, from accepting of your noble quarterly bounty; and allow me to return, with all grateful acknowlegement, and true humility, the incloſed earneſt of your goodneſs to me. Indeed I have no need of the one, and cannot poſ⯑ſibly want the other: But, nevertheleſs, have ſuch a ſenſe of your generous favour, that, to my laſt hour, I ſhall have pleaſure in contemplating upon it, and be proud of the place I hold in the eſteem of ſuch venerable perſonages, to whom I once had the ambition to hope to be related.

But give me leave to expreſs my concern, that you have baniſhed your kinſman from your preſence and favour: Since now, perhaps, he will be under leſs reſtraint than ever; and ſince I in particular, who had hoped by your influences to remain unmoleſted for the remainder of my days, may be again ſubjected to his perſecutions.

He has not, my good Lord, and my dear Ladies, offend⯑ed againſt you, as he has againſt me; and yet you could all very generouſly intercede for him with me: And ſhall I be very improper, if I deſire, for my own peace-ſake; for the ſake of other poor creatures, who may be ſtill injured by him, if he be made quite deſperate; and for the ſake of all your worthy family; that you will extend to him that forgiveneſs which you hoped for from me? and this the rather, as I preſume to think, that his daring and impetuous ſpirit will not be ſubdued by violent methods; ſince I have no doubt, that the gratifying of a preſent paſſion will be always more prevalent with him, than any future proſpects, however unwarrantable the one, or be⯑neficial the other.

Your reſentments on my account are extremely gene⯑rous, as your goodneſs to me is truly noble: But I am not without hope, that he will be properly affected by the evils he has made me ſuffer; and that, when I am laid low and forgotten, your whole honourable family will be enabled [349] to rejoice in his reformation; and ſee many of thoſe happy years together, which, my good Lord, and my dear Ladies, you ſo kindly wiſh to

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

YOU have been informed by Tourville, how much Belton's illneſs and affairs have engaged me, as well as Mowbray and him, ſince my former. I called at Smith's on Monday, in my way to Epſom.

The lady was gone to chapel: But I had the ſatisfaction to hear ſhe was not worſe; and left my compliments, and an intimation that I ſhould be out of town for three or four days.

I refer myſelf to Tourville, who will let you know the difficulty we had to drive out this meek miſtreſs, and frugal manager, with her cubs, and to give the poor fellow's ſiſter poſſeſſion for him of his own houſe; he ſkulking mean while at an inn at Croydon, too diſpirited to appear in his own cauſe.

But I muſt obſerve, that we were probably but juſt in time to ſave the ſhatter'd remains of his fortune from this rapacious woman, and her accomplices: For, as he cannot live long, and ſhe thinks ſo, we found ſhe had certainly taken meaſures to ſet up a marriage, and keep poſſeſſion of all for herſelf and her ſons.

Tourville will tell you how I was forced to chaſtiſe the quondam hoſtler in her ſight, before I could drive him out of the houſe. He had the inſolence to lay hands on me: And I made him take but one ſtep from the top to the bottom of a pair of ſtairs. I thought his neck and all his bones had been broken. And then, he being carried out neck-and-heels, Thomaſine thought fit to walk out after him.

Charming conſequences of keeping; the ſtate we have been ſo fond of extolling!—Whatever it may be in ſtrong health, ſickneſs and declining ſpirits in the keeper, will let him ſee the difference.

[350]She ſhould ſoon have him, ſhe told a confident, in the ſpace of ſix foot by five; meaning his bed: And then ſhe would let no-body come near him but whom ſhe pleaſed. The hoſtler-fellow, I ſuppoſe, would then have been his phyſician; his will ready made for him; — and widows-weeds, probably, ready provided; who knows, but to ap⯑pear in them in his own-ſight; as once I knew an inſtance in a wicked wife, inſulting a huſband ſhe hated, when ſhe thought him paſt recovery: Tho' it gave the man ſuch ſpirits, and ſuch a turn, that he got over it, and lived to ſee her in her coffin, dreſs'd out in the very weeds ſhe had inſulted him in.

So much, for the preſent, for Belton, and his Thomaſine.

I BEGIN to pity thee heartily, now I ſee thee in earneſt, in the fruitleſs love thou expreſſeſt to this angel of a lady; and the rather, as, ſay what thou wilt, it is impoſſible ſhe ſhould get over her illneſs, and her friends implacableneſs, of which ſhe has had freſh inſtances.

I hope thou art not indeed diſpleaſed with the extracts I have made from thy letters for her. The letting her know the juſtice thou haſt done to her virtue in them, is ſo much in favour of thy ingenuity, that I think in my heart I was right; tho' to any other woman, and to one who had not known the worſt of thee that ſhe could know, it might have been wrong.

If the end will juſtify the means, it is plain, that I have done well with regard to you both; ſince I have made her eaſier, and you appear in a better light to her, than other⯑wiſe you would have done.

But if, nevertheleſs, you are diſſatisfied with my having obliged her in a point, which I acknowlege to be delicate, let us canvas this matter at our firſt meeting: And then I will ſhew you what the extracts were, and what connexions I gave them in your favour.

But ſurely thou doſt not pretend to ſay what I ſhall, or ſhall not do, as to the executorſhip.

I am my own man, I hope. I think thou ſhouldſt be glad to have the juſtification of her memory left to one, who, at the ſame time, thou mayſt be aſſured, will treat thee, and thy actions, with all the lenity the caſe will admit.

[351]I cannot help expreſſing my ſurprize at one inſtance of thy ſelf-partiality; and that is, where thou ſayſt, She had need, indeed, to cry out for mercy herſelf from her friends, who knows not how to ſhew any!

Surely thou canſt not think the caſes alike!—For ſhe, as I underſtand, deſires but a laſt bleſſing, and a laſt for⯑giveneſs, for a fault in a manner involuntary, if a fault at all; and hopes not to be received: Thou, to be forgiven premeditated wrongs (which, nevertheleſs, ſhe forgives, on condition to be no more moleſted by thee); and hopeſt to be received into favour, and to make the fineſt jewel in the world thy abſolute property, in conſequence of that for⯑giveneſs.

I will now briefly proceed to relate what has paſſed ſince my laſt, as to the poor lady; by which thou wilt ſee, ſhe has troubles enough upon her, all ſpringing originally from thee, without thy needing to add more to them by new vexations. And as long as thou canſt exert thyſelf ſo very cavalierly at M. Hall, where every-one is thy pri⯑ſoner, I ſee not but the bravery of thy ſpirit may be as well gratified in domineering there over half a dozen per⯑ſons of rank and diſtinction, as it could be over a helpleſs orphan, as I may call this lady, ſince ſhe has not a ſingle friend to ſtand by her, if I do not; and who will think herſelf happy, if ſhe can refuge herſelf from thee, and from all the world, in the arms of death.

My laſt was dated on Saturday.

On Sunday, in compliance with her doctor's advice, ſhe took a little airing. Mrs. Lovick, and Mr. Smith and his wife, were with her. After being at Highgate chapel at divine ſervice, ſhe treated them with a little repaſt; and in the afternoon was at Iſlington church, in her way home; returning tolerably chearful.

She had received ſeveral letters in my abſence, as Mrs. Lovick acquainted me, beſides yours. Yours, it ſeems, much diſtreſſed her; but ſhe ordered the meſſenger, who preſſed for an anſwer, to be told, that it did not require an immediate one.

On Wedneſday ſhe received a letter from her uncle Harlowe ^(a), in anſwer to one ſhe had written to her [352] mother on Saturday on her knees. It muſt be a very cruel one, Mrs. Lovick ſays, by the effects it had upon her: For, when ſhe received it, ſhe was intending to take an afternoon airing in a coach; but was thrown into ſo vio⯑lent a fit of hyſterics upon it, that ſhe was forced to lie down; and (being not recovered thereby) to go to bed about eight o'clock.

On Thurſday morning ſhe was up very early; and had recourſe to the Scriptures to calm her mind, as ſhe told Mrs. Lovick: And, weak as ſhe was, would go in a chair to Lincoln's-inn chapel, about eleven. She was brought home a little better; and then ſat down to write to her uncle. But was obliged to leave off ſeveral times—To ſtruggle, as ſhe told Mrs. Lovick, for an humble temper. ‘My heart, ſaid ſhe to the good woman, is a proud heart, and not yet, I find, enough mortified to my condition; but, do what I can, will be for preſcribing reſenting things to my pen.’

I arrived in town from Belton's this Thurſday evening; and went directly to Smith's. She was too ill to receive my viſit. But on ſending up my compliments, ſhe ſent me down word, that ſhe ſhould be glad to ſee me in the morning.

Mrs. Lovick obliged me with the copy of a meditation collected by the lady from the Scriptures. She has intitled it, Poor mortals the cauſe of their own miſery; ſo intitled, I preſume, with intention to take off the edge of her repine⯑ings at hardſhips ſo diſproportioned to her fault, were her fault even as great as ſhe is inclined to think it. We may ſee by this, the method ſhe takes to fortify her mind, and to which ſhe owes, in a great meaſure, the magnanimity with which ſhe bears her undeſerved perſecutions.

MRS. Smith gave me the following particulars of a converſation that paſſed between herſelf and a young clergyman, on Tueſday afternoon, who, as it appears, was employed to make inquiries about the lady by her friends.

He came into the ſhop in a riding-habit, and aſked for ſome Spaniſh ſnuff; and finding only herſelf there, he de⯑ſired to have a little talk with her in the back-ſhop.

He beat about the buſh in ſeveral diſtant queſtions, and at laſt began to talk more directly about Miſs Harlowe.

He ſaid, He knew her before her fall (That was his im⯑pudent word); and gave the ſubſtance of the following account of her, as I collected it from Mrs. Smith.

‘She was then, he ſaid, the admiration and delight of every-body: He lamented, with great ſolemnity, her backſliding; another of his phraſes. Mrs. Smith ſaid, He was a fine ſcholar; for he ſpoke ſeveral things ſhe underſtood not; and either in Latin or Greek, ſhe could not tell which; but was ſo good as to give her the Eng⯑liſh of them without aſking. A fine thing, ſhe ſaid, for a ſcholar to be ſo condeſcending!’

He ſaid, ‘Her going off with ſo vile a rake had given great ſcandal and offence to all the neighbouring ladies, as well as to her friends.’

[354]He told Mrs. Smith ‘how much ſhe uſed to be followed by every-one's eye, whenever ſhe went abroad, or to church, and praiſed and bleſſed by every tongue, as ſhe paſſed; eſpecially by the poor: That ſhe gave the faſhion to the faſhionable, without ſeeming herſelf to intend it, or to know ſhe did: That, however, it was pleaſant to ſee ladies imitate her in dreſs and behaviour, who, being un⯑able to come up to her in grace and eaſe, expoſed but their own affectation and aukwardneſs, at the time that they thought themſelves ſecure of a general approbation, be⯑cauſe they wore the ſame things, and put them on in the ſame manner, that ſhe did, who had every-body's ad⯑miration; little conſidering, that were her perſon like theirs, or if ſhe had had their defects, ſhe would have brought up a very different faſhion; for that nature was her guide in every-thing, and eaſe her ſtudy; which, joined with a mingled dignity and condeſcenſion in her air and manner, whether ſhe received or paid a compli⯑ment, diſtinguiſhed her above all her Sex.’

‘He ſpoke not, he ſaid, his own ſentiments only on this occaſion, but thoſe of every-body: For that the praiſes of Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe were ſuch a favourite topic, that a perſon who could not ſpeak well upon any other ſubject, was ſure to ſpeak well upon That; be⯑cauſe he could ſay nothing but what he had heard re⯑peated and applauded twenty times over.’

Hence it was, perhaps, that this gentleman accounted for the beſt things that he ſaid himſelf; tho' I muſt own that the perſonal knowlege of the lady which I am favoured with, made it eaſy to me to lick into ſhape what the good woman reported to me, as the character given her by the young Levite: For who, even now, in her decline of health, ſees not that all theſe attributes belong to her?

I ſuppoſe he has not been long come from college, and now thinks he has nothing to do, but to blaze away for a ſcholar among the ignorant; as ſuch young fellows are apt to think thoſe who cannot cap verſes with them, and tell us how an antient author expreſſed himſelf in Latin on a point which, however, they may know how, as well as that author, to expreſs in Engliſh.

Mrs. Smith was ſo taken with him, that ſhe would fain [355] have introduced him to the lady, not queſtioning but it would be very acceptable to her, to ſee one who knew her and her friends ſo well. But this he declined for ſeveral reaſons, which he gave. One was, that perſons of his cloth ſhould be very cautious of the company they were in, eſpecially where Sex was concerned, and where a lady had ſlurred her reputation—[I wiſh I had been there, when he gave himſelf theſe airs] Another, that he was deſired to inform himſelf of her preſent way of life, and who her viſiters were; for, as to the praiſes Mrs. Smith gave the lady, he hinted, that ſhe ſeemed to be a good-natured wo⯑man, and might (tho' for the lady's ſake he hoped not) be too partial and ſhort-ſighted to be truſted to, abſolutely, in a concern of ſo high a nature as he intimated the taſk was which he had undertaken; nodding out words of doubtful import, and aſſuming airs of great ſignificance, (as I could gather) throughout the whole converſation. And when Mrs. Smith told him, that the lady was in a very bad ſtate of health, he gave a careleſs ſhrug—She may be very ill, ſays he: Her diſappointments muſt have touch'd her to the quick: But ſhe is not bad enough, I dare ſay, yet, to atone for her very great lapſe, and to expect to be for⯑given by thoſe whom ſhe has ſo much diſgraced.

A ſtarch'd conceited novice! What would I give he had fallen in my way?

He went away highly ſatisfied with himſelf, no doubt, and aſſured of Mrs. Smith's great opinion of his ſagacity and learning: But bid her not ſay any-thing to the lady about him, or his inquiries. And I, for very different reaſons, injoined the ſame thing.

I am glad, however, for her peace of mind's ſake, that they begin to think it behoves them to inquire about her.

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

MR. Belford acquaints his friend with the generoſity of Lord M. and the Ladies of his family; and with the lady's grateful ſentiments' upon the occaſion.

He ſays, that in hopes to avoid the pain of ſeeing him, ſhe in⯑tends to anſwer his letter of the 7th, tho' much againſt her inclination, ‘She took great notice, ſays Mr. Belford, of [356] that paſſage in yours, which makes neceſſary to the Divine pardon, the forgiveneſs of a perſon cauſeleſly injured.’

‘Her grandfather, I find, has enabled her at eighteen years of age to make her will, and to deviſe great part of his eſtate to whom ſhe pleaſes of the family, and the reſt out of it (if ſhe die ſingle), at her own diſcretion; and this to create reſpect to her; as he ap⯑prehended that ſhe would be envied: And ſhe now reſolves to ſet about making her will out of hand.’

Mr. Belford inſiſts upon the promiſe he had made him, not to moleſt the lady: And gives him the contents of her anſwer to Lord M. and the Ladies, declining their generous offers, See Letter CV. p. 348.

LETTER CVIII. Miſs CL. HARLOWE, To ROB. LOVELACE, Eſq

'TIS a cruel alternative to be either forced to ſee you, or to write to you. But a will of my own has been long denied me; and to avoid a greater evil, nay, now I may ſay, the greateſt, I write.

Were I capable of diſguiſing or concealing my real ſen⯑timents, I might ſafely, I dare ſay, give you the remote hope you requeſt, and yet keep all my reſolutions. But I muſt tell you, Sir; it becomes my character to tell you; that, were I to live more years than perhaps I may weeks, and there were not another man in the world, I could not, I would not, be yours.

There is no merit in performing a duty;

Religion injoins me, not only to forgive injuries, but to return good for evil. It is all my conſolation, and I bleſs God for giving me That, that I am now in ſuch a ſtate of mind, with regard to you, that I can chearfully obey its dictates. And accordingly I tell you, that, where⯑ever you go, I wiſh you happy. And in This I mean to include every good wiſh.

And now having, with great reluctance, I own, com⯑plied with one of your compulſatory alternatives, I expect the fruits of it.

LETTER CIX. Mr. JOHN HARLOWE, To Miſs CL. HARLOWE. [In anſwer to hers to her Mother. See p. 338.]

YOUR mother neither caring, nor being permitted, to write, I am deſired to ſet pen to paper, tho' I had reſolved againſt it.

And ſo I am to tell you, that your letters, joined to the occaſion of them, almoſt break the hearts of us all.

Were we ſure you had ſeen your folly, and were truly penitent, and, at the ſame time, that you were ſo very ill as you intimate, I know not what might be done for you. But we are all acquainted with your moving ways when you want to carry a point.

Unhappy girl! how miſerable have you made us all! We, who uſed to viſit with ſo much pleaſure, now cannot endure to look upon one another.

If you had not known, upon an hundred occaſions, how dear you once was to us, you might judge of it, now, were you to know how much your folly has unhing'd us all.

Naughty, naughty girl! You ſee the fruits of prefer⯑ring a rake and libertine to a man of ſobriety and morals. Againſt full warning, againſt better knowlege. And ſuch a modeſt creature too, as you was! How could you think of ſuch an unworthy preference?

Your mother can't aſk, and your ſiſter knows not in modeſty how to aſk; and ſo I aſk you, If you have any reaſon to think yourſelf with child by this villain?—You muſt anſwer this, and anſwer it truly, before any thing can be reſolved upon about you.

You may well be touched with a deep remorſe for your miſdeeds. Could I ever have thought that my doating-piece, as every-one called you, would have done thus? To be ſure I loved you too well. But that is over now. Yet, tho' I will not pretend to anſwer for any-body but myſelf, for my own part, I ſay, God forgive you! And this is all from