Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 179. l. 7. after the words con⯑demning myſelf, inſert.

BUT leaſt of all ^(a) can I bear that you ſhould reflect upon my Mother. What, my dear, if her meekneſs ſhould not be rewarded? Is the want of reward, or the want even of a grateful acknowlege⯑ment, a reaſon for us to diſpenſe with what we think our duty? They were my Father's lively ſpirits that firſt made him an intereſt in her gentle boſom. They were the ſame ſpirits turned inward, as I have here⯑tofore obſerved ^(b), that made him ſo impatient when the cruel malady ſeized him. He always loved my Mother: And would not LOVE and PITY excuſeably, nay laudably, make a good Wife (who was an hourly [2] witneſs of his pangs, when labouring under a par⯑oxyſm, and his paroxyſms becoming more and more frequent, as well as more and mote ſevere) give up her own will, her own likings, to oblige a Huſband, thus afflicted, whoſe love for her was unqueſtion⯑able?—And if ſo, was it not too natural [Human nature is not perfect, my dear] that the Huſband thus humoured by the Wife ſhould be unable to bear con⯑troul from any-body elſe? much leſs contradiction from his children?

If then you would avoid my higheſt diſpleaſure, you muſt ſpare my Mother: And, ſurely, you will allow me, with her, to pity, as well as to love and honour my Father.

I have no friend but you to whom I can appeal, to whom I dare complain. Unhappily circumſtanced as I am, it is but too probable that I ſhall complain, becauſe it is but too probable that I ſhall have more and more cauſe given me for complaint. But be it your part, if I do, to ſooth my angry paſſions, and to ſoften my reſentments; and this the rather, as you know what an influence your advice has upon me; and as you muſt alſo know, that the fredoms you take with my friends can have no other tendency but to weaken the ſenſe of my duty to them, without an⯑ſwering any good end to myſelf.

I cannot help owning, &c.

Vol. i. Edit. i. p. 295. l. 9. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 297. l. 11. from the bottom, after pro⯑poſal in writing, dele the next paragraph, and read,

I Hope I have made ſuch propoſals to my Siſter, as will be accepted. I am ſure they will, if you pleaſe to give them your ſanction. Let me beg of you, for God's ſake, that you will. I think myſelf very unhappy in having incurred your diſpleaſure. No Siſter can love a Brother better than I love you. Pray [3] do not put the worſt, but the beſt conſtructions upon my propoſals, when you have them reported to you. Indeed I mean the beſt. I have no ſubterfuges, no arts, no intentions, but to keep to the letter of them. You ſhall yourſelf draw up every-thing into writing, as ſtrong as you can, and I will ſign it: And what the Law will not do to enforce it, my Reſolution and my Will ſhall: So that I ſhall be worth no-body's ad⯑dreſs tbat has not my Papa's conſent: Nor ſhall any perſon, nor any conſideration, induce me to revoke it. You can do more than any-body to reconcile my Parents and Uncles to me. Let me owe this deſirable favour to your brotherly interpoſition, and you will for ever oblige

And how do you think, &c.

Vol. i. Edit. i. p. 296. l. 7. from the bottom; and Edit. ii. p. 298. l. 9. from the bottom, after the world's end, inſert,

Nevertheleſs, that you may not think that I ſtand in the way of a Reconciliation on ſuch fine terms as theſe, I will be your meſſenger this once, and hear what my Papa will ſay to it; altho' before-hand I can tell you, theſe propoſals will not anſwer the prin⯑cipal end.

So down ſhe went. But, it ſeems, my Aunt Her⯑vey and my Uncle Harlowe were gone away: And as they have all engaged to act in concert, meſſengers were diſpatched to my Uncle and Aunt to deſire them to be there to breakfaſt in the morning.

Vol. i. Edit. i. p. 298. l. 7. and Edit. ii. p. 300. l. 4. after airs accordingly, inſert,

Nevertheleſs, as I ſaid above, I will hope better things from thoſe who have not the intereſt my Bro⯑ther has to keep open theſe unhappy differences.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 13. l. 20. after abſurdities call for, inſert,

You ^(a) chide me, my dear ^(b), for my freedoms with Relations ſtill nearer and dearer to you, than either Uncles or Brother or Siſter. You had better have permitted me (uncorrected) to have taken my own way. Do not thoſe freedoms naturally ariſe from the ſubject before us? And from whom ariſes that ſubject, I pray you? Can you for one quarter of an hour put yourſelf in my place, or in the place of thoſe who are ſtill more indifferent to the caſe than I can be—If you can—But altho' I have you not often at advantage, I will not puſh you.

Permit me, however, to ſubjoin, That well may your Father love your Mother, as you ſay he does. A Wife who has no Will but his! But were there not, think you, ſome ſtruggles between them at firſt, gout out of the queſtion?—Your Mother, when a maiden, had, as I have heard (and it is very likely) a good ſhare of thoſe lively ſpirits which ſhe liked in your Father. She has none of them now. How came they to be diſſipated?— Ah! my dear!—She has been too long reſident in Trophonius's Cave, I doubt ^(c).

Let me add, &c.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 21. l. 7. on the words into my Mamma's, add the following Note:

Perhaps ^(d) it will be unneceſſary to remind the Reader, that altho' Mr. Lovelace propoſes (as above) [13] to Miſs Howe, that her fair friend ſhould have re⯑courſe to the protection of Mrs. Howe, if farther driven; yet he had artfully taken care, by means of his agent in the Harlowe-family, not only to inflame the fa⯑mily againſt her, but to deprive her of Mrs. Howe's, and of every other protection, being from the firſt re⯑ſolved to reduce her to an abſolute dependence upon him⯑ſelf. See Vol. i. Letter xxxi.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 118. l. 17. and Edit. ii. p. 116. l. 2. after is my anguiſh, inſert,

O my beloved creature!—But are not your very excuſes confeſſions of excuſes inexcuſable? I know not what I write!—That ſervant in your way ^(a)! By the great God of heaven, that ſervant was not, dared not, could not be in your way!—Curſe upon the cool caution that is pleaded to deprive me of an expecta⯑tion ſo tranſporting!

And are things, &c.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 129. l. 8, 9. and Edit. ii. p. 126. l. 18, 19. after look ſorrowful, inſert the following Letters:

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 149. l. 6. on the words could be gathered, add the following Note:

It will be ſeen ^(a) in Vol. i. Letter xxxiv. that Mr. Lovelace's motive for ſparing his Roſebud was twofold. Firſt, Becauſe his Pride was gratified by the Grand-mother's deſiring him to ſpare her Grand-daughter. Many a pretty Rogue, ſays he, had I ſpared, whom I did not ſpare, had my Power been acknowleged, and my Mercy in time implored. But the Debellare Su⯑perbos ſhould be my motto, were I to have a new one.

His other motive will be explained in the following paſſage, in the ſame Letter. I never was ſo honeſt, for ſo long together, ſays he, ſince my matriculation. It behoves me ſo to be. Some way or other my receſs [at this little Inn] may be found out; and it will then be thought that my Roſebud has attracted me. A re⯑port in my favour from ſimplicities ſo amiable, may eſtabliſh me, &c.

Accordingly, as the Reader will hereafter ſee, Mr. Lovelace finds by the Effects, his expectations from the contrivance he ſet on foot by means of his agent Joſeph Leman (who plays, as above, upon Betty Barnes) fully anſwered, tho' he could not know what paſſed on the oc⯑caſion between the two Ladies.

This explanation is the more neceſſary to be given, as ſeveral of our Readers (thro' want of due attention) have attributed to Mr. Lovelace, on his behaviour to his Roſebud, a greater merit than was due to him; and moreover imagined, that it was improbable, that a man, [19] who was capable of acting ſo generouſly (as they ſup⯑poſed) in this inſtance, ſhould be guilty of any atrocious vileneſs. Not conſidering, that Love, Pride, and Re⯑venge, as he owns in Vol. i. Letter xxxi. were ingre⯑dients of equal force in his compoſition; and that Re⯑ſiſtance was a ſtimulus to him.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 40. l. 3, 4. on the words to take it, add the following Note:

Clariſſa ^(a) has been cenſured as behaving to Mr. Lovelace, in their firſt converſation at St. Albans, and afterwards, with too much reſerve, and even with haughtineſs. Surely thoſe who have thought her to blame on this account, have not paid a due attention to the Story. How early, as above, and in what immediately follows, does he remind her of the terms of diſtance which ſhe pre⯑ſcribed to him, before ſhe was in his power, in hopes to leave a door open for the reconciliation with her friends which her heart was ſet upon! And how artfully does he (unrequired) promiſe to obſerve the conditions, which ſhe in her preſent circumſtances and ſituation (in pur⯑ſuance of Miſs Howe's advice) would gladly have diſ⯑penſed with!—To ſay nothing of the reſentment which ſhe was under a neceſſity to ſhew, at the manner of his getting her away, in order to juſtify to him the ſincerity of her refuſal to go off with him. See, in her ſubſe⯑quent Letter to Miſs Howe, her own ſenſe upon this ſubject.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 63. dele l. 1, 2. and read,

Bleſs me ^(b)!—how impatient ſhe is! — How ſhe thunders at the door!—This moment, Madam!— How came I to double-lock myſelf in!—What have I done with the key?—Duce take the key!—Dear Madam! You flutter one ſo!

[20]YOU may believe, my dear, that I took care of my Papers before I opened the door. We have bad a charming dialogue.—She flung from me in a paſſion.—

So what's now to be done?—Sent for down in, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 86. l. 10. from the bottom; and Edit. ii. p. 86. l. 15. from the bottom; after my own laying, inſert,

And who knows what opportunities a man in love may give againſt himſelf? In changing a coat or waiſt⯑coat, ſomething might be forgotten. I once ſuffered that way. Then for the Sex's curioſity, it is but re⯑membring, in order to guard againſt it, that the name of their common Mother was Eve.

Another thing remember, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 87. l. 25, 26. after ſwallow praiſe, inſert,

Did I not ^(a) once, in the ſtreets of London, ſee a well-dreſſed handſome girl laugh, bridle, and viſibly enjoy the praiſes of a footy dog, a chimney-ſweeper; who, with his empty ſack croſs his ſhoulder, after giv⯑ing her the way, ſtopt, and held up his bruſh and ſhovel in admiration of her?—Egad, girl, thought I, I deſpiſe thee as Lovelace: But were I the chimney-ſweeper, and could only contrive to get into thy pre⯑ſence, my life to thy virtue, I would have thee.

So pleaſed was I, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 97. begin Mr. Lovelace's Letter thus:

WHY, Jack, thou needſt not make ſuch a wonder⯑ment, as the girls ſay, if I ſhould have taken large ſtrides already towards reformation; For doſt [21] thou not ſee, that while I have been ſo aſſiduouſly, night and day, purſuing this ſingle charmer, I have infinitely leſs to anſwer for, than otherwiſe I ſhould have had? Let me ſee, how many days and nights?— Forty, I believe, after open trenches, ſpent in the ſap only, and never a mine ſprung yet!

By a moderate computation, a dozen kites might have fallen, while I have been only trying to enſnare this ſingle lark: Nor yet do I ſee when I ſhall be able to bring her to my lure: More innocent days yet there⯑fore!—But reformation for my ſtalking-horſe, I hope, will be a ſure, tho' a ſlow method to effect all my purpoſes.

Then, Jack, thou wilt have a merit too in engaging my pen, ſince thy time would be otherwiſe worſe em⯑ployed: And, after all, who knows but by creating new habits, at the expence of the old, a real reform⯑ation may be brought about? I have promiſed it; and I believe there is a pleaſure to be found in being good, reverſing that of Nat, Lee's madmen, ‘— Which none but good men know.’

By all this, ſeeſt thou-not, how greatly preferable it is, on twenty accounts, to purſue a difficult, rather than an eaſy chace? I have a deſire to inculcate this pleaſure upon thee, and to teach thee to fly at nobler game than daws, crows, and wigeons: I have a mind to ſhew thee from time to time, in the courſe of the correſpondence thou haſt ſo earneſtly wiſhed me to begin on this illuſtrious occaſion, that theſe exalted Ladies may be abaſed, and to obviate one of the ob⯑jections that thou madeſt to me, when we were laſt together, that the pleaſure which attends theſe nobler aims, remunerates not the pains they bring with them; ſince, like a paltry fellow as thou wert, thou aſſertedſt, that all women are alike.

Thou knoweſt nothing, Jack, of the delicacies of intrigue: Nothing of the glory of outwitting the [22] Witty and the Watchful: Of the joys that fill the mind of the inventive or contriving genius, rumi⯑nating which to uſe of the different webs that offer to him for the entanglement of a haughty charmer, who in her day has given him unnumbered torments.— Thou, Jack, who, like a dog at his eaſe, contenteſt thyſelf to growl over a bone thrown out to thee, doſt not know the joys of the chace, and in purſuing a winding game: Theſe I will endeavour to rouſe thee to, and thou wilt have reaſon doubly and trebly to thank me, as well becauſe of thy preſent delight, as with regard to thy proſpects beyond the moon.

To this place I had written, purely to amuſe my⯑ſelf, before I was admitted to my charmer. But now I have to tell thee, that I was quite right in my con⯑jecture, that ſhe would ſet up for herſelf, and diſmiſs me: For ſhe has declared in ſo many words, that ſuch was her reſolution: And why? Becauſe, to be plain with me, the more ſhe ſaw of me, and of my ways, the leſs ſhe liked of either.

This cut me to the heart!—I did not cry indeed!— Had I been a woman, I ſhould tho'; and that moſt plentifully: But I pulled out a white cambrick hand⯑kerchief: That I could command, but not my tears.

She finds fault with my proteſtations; with my pro⯑feſſions; with my vows: I cannot curſe a ſervant, the only privilege a maſter is known by, but I am ſuppoſed to be a trooper ^(a)—I muſt not ſay, By my Soul; nor. As I hope to be ſaved. Why, Jack, how particular this is! Would ſhe not have me think, I have a precious ſoul, as well as ſhe?—If ſhe thinks my ſalvation hopeleſs, what a devil—(another excep⯑tionable word!) does ſhe propoſe to reform me for?— So I have not an ardent expreſſion left me.

WHAT can be done, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 97. l. 4. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 97. l. ult. after her own heart, inſert,

Well, Jack, thou ſeeſt it is high time to change my meaſures. I muſt run into the Pious a little faſter than I had deſigned.

What a ſad thing would it be, were I, after all, to loſe her perſon, as well as her opinion! The only time that further acquaintance, and no blow ſtruck, nor ſuſpicion given, ever leſſened me in a Lady's favour! A curſed mortification!—'Tis certain I can have no pretence for holding her, if ſhe will go.—No ſuch thing as force to be uſed, or ſo much as hinted at: Lord ſend us ſafe at London!—That's all I have for it now: And yet it muſt be the leaſt part of my ſpeech.

But why will, &c.

Vol iii. Edit. i. p. 100. l. 26. on the words know my exultation, add the following Note:

Mr. Lovelace ^(a) might have ſpared his caution on this occaſion, ſince many of the Sex [We mention it with regret] who on the firſt publication had read thus far, and even to the Lady's firſt eſcape, have been readier to cenſure her for over-niceneſs, as we have obſerved in a former Note, p. 19. of theſe Addenda, than him for artifices and exultations not leſs cruel and ungratefuly than ungenerous and unmanly.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 103. l. 14. on the words make me unhappy, add the following Note:

The particular attention ^(b) of ſuch of the Fair Sex as are more apt to read for the ſake of amuſement, than inſtruction, is requeſted to this Letter of Mr. Lovelace.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 141. l. 8. and Edit. ii. p. 140. l. 24. after what I did, dele the two following lines, and inſert,

Had I owned, that I was over-reached, and forced away againſt my intention, might they not, as a proof of the truth of my aſſertion, have in⯑ſiſted upon my immediate return to them? And if I did not return, would they not have reaſon to ſuppoſe, that I had now altered my mind (if ſuch were my mind) or had not the power to return?—Then were I to have gone back, muſt it not have been upon their own terms? No conditioning with a Father! is a maxim with my Father, and with my Uncles. If I would have gone, Mr. Lovelace would have op⯑poſed it. So I muſt have been under his controul, or have run away from him, as it is ſuppoſed I did to him from Harlowe-Place. In what a giddy light would this have made me appear!—Had he con⯑ſtrained me, could I have appealed to my friends for their protection, without riſquing the very conſe⯑quences, to prevent which (ſetting up myſelf pre⯑ſumptuouſly, as a middle perſon between flaming ſpirits) I have run into ſuch terrible inconveniencies?

But, after all, muſt it not give me great anguiſh of mind, to be forced to ſanctify, as I may ſay, by my ſeeming after-approbation, a meaſure I was ſo artfully tricked into, and which I was ſo much re⯑ſolved not to take?

How one evil brings on another, is ſorrowfully witneſſed to, by

Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 156, 157. after the date Sunday Morning, dele the ſeven following para⯑graphs, and read,

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 162. l. 7. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 162. l. 12, 13. after had never erred, inſert,

A fine Rakiſh notion and hope! And too much en⯑couraged, I doubt, my dear, by the generality of our Sex!

This brought on a more ſerious queſtion or two. You'll ſee by it what a creature an unmortified Li⯑bertine is.

I aſked him. If he knew what he had ſaid, alluded to a ſentence in the beſt of books, That there was more joy in heaven—

He took the words out of my mouth,

Over one ſinner that repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine juſt perſons which need no repentance ^(a), were his words.

Yes, Madam, I thought of it as ſoon as I ſaid it, but not before. I have read the ſtory of the Prodigal Son, I'll aſſure you: And one day, when I am ſet⯑tled as I hope to be, will write a dramatic piece on the ſubject. I have at times had it in my head; and you will be too ready, perhaps, to allow me to be qualified for it.

[37]You ſo lately, Sir, ſtumbled at a word, with which you muſt be better acquainted, ere you can be tho⯑roughly maſter of ſuch a ſubject, that I am amazed you ſhould know any-thing of the Scripture, and be ſo ignorant of that ^(a).

O Madam, I have read the Bible, as a fine piece of antient hiſtory—But as I hope to be ſaved, it has for ſome few years paſt made me ſo uneaſy, when I have popped upon ſome paſſages in it, that I have been forced to run to muſic or company to divert my⯑ſelf.

Poor wretch! lifting up my hands and eyes—

The denunciations come ſo ſlap-daſh upon one, ſo unceremoniouſly, as I may ſay, without even the By-your-leave of a rude London chairman, that they overturn one, horſe and man, as St. Paul was over⯑turned. There's another Scripture alluſion. Madam! The light, in ſhort, as his was, is too glaring to be borne.

O Sir, do you want to be complimented into Repent⯑ance and Salvation? But pray, Mr. Lovelace, do you mean any-thing at all, when you ſwear ſo often as you do, By your Soul, or bind an aſſeveration with the words, As you hope to be ſaved?

O my beloved creature, ſhifting his ſeat; let us call another cauſe.

Why, Sir, don't I neither uſe ceremony enough with you?

Deareſt Madam, forbear for the preſent: I am but in my Noviciate. Your foundation muſt be laid brick by brick: You'll hinder the progreſs of the good work you would promote, if you tumble in a whole waggon-load at once upon me.

Lord bleſs me, thought I, what a character is that of a Libertine!—What a creature am I, who have riſqued what I have riſqued with ſuch a one!—What a taſk before me, if my hopes continue of reforming [38] ſuch a wild Indian as this!—Nay, worſe than a wild Indian; for a man who errs with his eyes open, and againſt conviction, is a thouſand times worſe for what he knows, and much harder to be reclaimed, than if he had never known any-thing at all.

I was equally ſhocked at him, and concerned for him; and, having laid ſo few bricks (to ſpeak to his alluſion) and thoſe ſo ill-cemented, I was as willing as the gay Inconſiderate, to call another cauſe, as he termed it—Another cauſe, too, more immediately preſſing upon me, from my uncertain ſituation.

I ſaid, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 165. l. 3. on the words to receive you, add the following Note:

The Reader ^(a), perhaps, need not be reminded, that he had taken care from the firſt (See Vol, i. Edit. i. p. 198. Edit. ii. p. 200.) to deprive her of any protection from Mrs. Howe. See in his next Letter, Edit. i. p. 174, 175. Edit. ii. p. 173, 174. a repeated account of the ſame artifices, and his exultations upon his inventions to impoſe upon two ſuch watchful Ladies as Clariſſa and Miſs Howe.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 173. l. 15. and Edit. ii. p. 172. l. 21. after humour with me, inſert,

It is eaſy for me to perceive, that my Charmer is more ſullen when ſhe receives, and has peruſed, a Letter from that vixen, than at other times. But as the ſweet Maid ſhews, even then, more of paſſive grief, than of active ſpirit, I hope ſhe is rather la⯑menting than plotting. And indeed for what now ſhould ſhe plot? when I am become a reformed man, and am hourly improving in my morals?—Never⯑theleſs, I muſt contrive ſome way or other to get at their correſpondence—Only to ſee the turn of it; that's all.

[39]But no attempt of this kind muſt be made yet. A detected invaſion in an article ſo ſacred, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 174. l. 10. and Edit. ii. p. 173. l. 14. after if I would, inſert,

When he comes to that part, where the Lady ſays, in a ſarcaſtic way, waving her hand, and bowing, ‘"Excuſe me, good Mr. Lovelace, that I am willing to think the beſt of my Father ^(a)"’ he gives a deſcription of her air and manner, greatly to her advantage; and ſays,

I could hardly forbear taking her into my arms upon it, in ſpite of an expected tempeſt. So much wit, ſo much beauty, ſuch a lively manner, and ſuch exceed⯑ing quickneſs and penetration! O Belford! ſhe muſt be nobody's but mine. I can now account for, and juſtify, Herod's command to deſtroy his Mariamne, if he returned not alive from his Interview with Caeſar: For were I to know, that it were but probable, that any other man were to have this charming creature, even after my death, the very thought would be enough to provoke me to cut that man's throat, were he a Prince.

I may be deemed by this Lady a rapid, a boiſterous Lover—and ſhe may like me the leſs for it: But all the Ladies I have met with till now, loved to raiſe a tempeſt, and to enjoy it: Nor did they ever raiſe it, but I enjoyed it too!—Lord ſend as once happily to London!

Mr. Lovelace gives the following account of his rude rapture., when he ſeized her hand, and put her, by his WILD manner, as ſhe expreſſes it ^(b) , into ſo much terror.

Darkneſs and light, I ſwore, were convertible at her pleaſure: She could make any ſubject plauſible. [40] I was all error; ſhe all perfection. And I ſnatched her hand; and, more than kiſſed it, I was ready to devour it. There was, I believe, a kind of phrenſy in my manner, which threw her into a panic, like that of Semele perhaps, when the Thunderer, in all his majeſty, ſurrounded with ten thouſand celeſtial burning-glaſſes, was about to ſcorch her into a cinder.

HAD not my heart miſgiven me, and had I not, juſt in time, recollected that ſhe was not ſo much in my power, but that ſhe might abandon me at her pleaſure, having more friends in that houſe than I had, I ſhould at that moment have made offers, that would have decided all, one way or other.—But, apprehend⯑ing that I had ſhewed too much meaning in my paſ⯑ſion, I gave it another turn.—But little did the Charmer think what an eſcape either ſhe or I had (as the event might have proved) from the ſudden guſt of paſſion, which had like to have blown me into her arms. She was born, I told her, to make me happy, and to ſave a ſoul.

He gives the reſt of his vehement ſpeech pretty nearly in the ſame words as the Lady gives them. And then proceeds:

I SAW ſhe was frighted: And ſhe would have had Reaſon, had the ſcene been London; and that place in London, which I have in view to carry her to. She confirmed me in my apprehenſion, that I had alarmed her too much: She told me, that ſhe ſaw what my boaſted regard to her Injunctions was; and ſhe would take proper meaſures upon it, as I ſhould ſoon find: That ſhe was ſhocked at my violent airs; and if I hoped any favour from her, I muſt that inſtant withdraw, and leave her to her recollection.

She pronounced this in ſuch a manner, as ſhewed ſhe was ſet upon it; and, having ſtept out of the gentle, the polite part I had ſo newly engaged to act, [41] I thought a ready obedience was the beſt atonement. And indeed I was ſenſible, from her anger and re⯑pulſes, that I wanted time myſelf for recollection. And ſo I withdrew, with the ſame veneration as a pe⯑titioning ſubject would withdraw from the preſence of his Sovereign. But, Oh! Belford, had ſhe had but the leaſt patience with me—Had ſhe but made me think, that ſhe would forgive this initiatory ardor— Surely ſhe will not be always thus guarded.—

I had not been a moment by myſelf, but I was ſen⯑ſible, that I had half-forfeited my newly-aſſumed cha⯑racter. It is exceedingly difficult, thou ſeeſt, for an honeſt man to act in diſguiſes: As the Poet ſays, Thruſt Nature back with a pitchfork, it will return. I recollected, that what ſhe had inſiſted upon, was really a part of that declared will, before ſhe left her Fa⯑ther's houſe, to which in another caſe (to humble her) I had pretended to have an inviolable regard. And when I remembred her words of Taking her meaſures accordingly, I was reſolved to ſacrifice a leg or an arm to make all up again, before ſhe had time to deter⯑mine upon any new meaſures.

How ſeaſonably to this purpoſe have come in my Aunt's and Couſin's Letters!

I HAVE ſent in again and again to implore her to admit me to her preſence, But ſhe will conclude a Letter ſhe is writing to Miſs Howe, before ſhe will ſee me—I ſuppoſe to give an account of what has juſt paſſed.

CURSE upon her perverſe tyranny! How ſhe makes me wait for an humble audience, though ſhe has done writing ſome time! A Prince begging for her upon his knees ſhould not prevail upon me to ſpare her, if I can but get her to London—Oons! Jack, I believe I have bit my lip through for vex⯑ation!—But one day hers ſhall ſmart for it.

Mr. Lovelace beginning a new date, gives an ac⯑count of his admittance, and of the converſation that followed: Which differing only in ſtyle from that the Lady gives in the next Letter, is omitted.

He collects, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 176. l. 6. after have them to marry, inſert,

Nor, upon ſecond thoughts ^(a), would the preſence of her Norton, or of her Aunt, or even of her Mo⯑ther, have ſaved the dear creature, had I decreed her fall.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 180. l. 24. and Edit. ii. p. 179. l. 25. after of your alliance, inſert,

They really are (every one of them) your very great admirers. And, as for Lord M. he is ſo much pleaſed with you, and with the confidence, as he calls it, which you have repoſed in his Nephew, that he vows he will diſinherit him, if he reward it not as he ought. You muſt take care, that you loſe not both families.

I hear Mrs. Norton is enjoined, as ſhe values the favour of the other family, not to correſpond either with you, or with me,—Poor creatures!—But they are your—Yet they are not your Relations, neither, I believe. Had you had any other Nurſe, I ſhould have concluded you had been changed. I ſuffer by their low malice—Excuſe me therefore.

You really hold this man to his good behaviour with more ſpirit than I thought you miſtreſs of; eſpe⯑cially when I judged of you by that meekneſs which you always contended for, as the proper diſtinction of the female character; and by the love, which (think as you pleaſe) you certainly have for him. You may rather be proud of than angry at the imputation; ſince you are the only woman I ever knew, read, or [43] heard of, whoſe love was ſo much governed by her prudence. But once the indifference of the Huſband takes place of the ardor of the Lover, it will be your turn: And, if I am not miſtaken, this man, who is the only ſelf-admirer I ever knew, who was not a coxcomb, will rather in his day expect homage than pay it.

Your handſome Huſbands, my dear, make a Wife's heart ake very often: And tho' you are as fine a per⯑ſon of a woman, at the leaſt, as he is of a man; he will take too much delight in himſelf to think himſelf more indebted to your favour, than you are to his di⯑ſtinction and preference of you. But no man, take your finer mind with your very fine perſon, can de⯑ſerve you. So you muſt be contented, ſhould your merit be under-rated; ſince that muſt be ſo, marry whom you will. Perhaps you will think I indulge theſe ſort of reflections againſt your Narciſſus's of men, to keep my Mother's choice for me of Hick⯑man in countenance with myſelf—I don't know but there is ſomething in it; at leaſt, enough to have given birth to the reflection.

I think there can, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 182. l. 12. and Edit. ii. p. 181. l. 11. after any-thing of the matter, inſert,

We have all our Defects: We have often regreted the particular Fault, which, tho' in venerable cha⯑racters, we muſt have been blind not to ſee.

I remember what you once ſaid to me; and the caution was good. Let us, my Nancy, were your words. Let us, who have not the ſame failings as thoſe we cenſure, guard againſt other and greater in ourſelves. Nevertheleſs, I muſt needs tell you, that my Mother has vexed me a little very lately, by ſome inſtances of her jealous narrowneſs. I will mention one of them, tho' I did not intend it. She wanted to borrow Thirty Guineas of me; only while ſhe got [44] a Note changed. I ſaid, I could lend her but Eight or Ten. Eight or Ten would not do: She thought I was much richer. I could have told her, I was much cunninger than to let her know my Stock; which, on a Review, I find Ninety-five Guineas; and all of them moſt heartily at your ſervice.

I believe your Uncle Tony put her upon this wiſe project; for ſhe was out of caſh in an hour after he left her. If he did, you will judge that they intend to diſtreſs you. If it will provoke you to demand your own in a legal way, I wiſh they would; ſince their putting you upon that courſe will juſtify the ne⯑ceſſity of your leaving them. And as it is not for your credit to own, that you were tricked away con⯑trary to your intention, this would afford a reaſon for your going off, that I ſhould make very good uſe of. You'll ſee, that I approve of Lovelace's advice upon this ſubject. I am not willing to allow the weight to your anſwer to him on that head which perhaps ought to be allowed it ^(a).

You muſt be the leſs ſurpriſed at the inventions of this man, becauſe of his uncommon talents. What⯑ever he had turned his head to, he would have excelled in; or been (or done things) extraordinary. He is ſaid to be revengeful: A very bad quality! I believe indeed he is a devil in every-thing but his foot.—This therefore is my repeated advice — Provoke him not too much againſt yourſelf: But unchain him, and let him looſe upon your Siſter's vile Betty, and your Brother's Joſeph Leman. This is reſenting low: But I know to whom I write, or elſe I would go a good deal higher, I'll aſſure you.

Your next, I ſuppoſe, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 195. l. 5. after am miſtreſs of, inſert,

You are afraid ^(b), that my Mother will queſtion [45] me on this ſubject; and then you think I muſt own the truth—But little as I love equivocation, and little as you would allow of it in your Anna Howe, it is hard, if I cannot (were I to be put to it ever ſo cloſely) find ſomething to ſay, that would bring me off, and not impeach my veracity. With ſo little money, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 208. add the following Paragraph to Clariſſa's Letter:

As to the Money ^(d) you ſo generouſly and repeat⯑edly offer, don't be angry with me, if I again ſay, that I am very deſirous that you ſhould be able to averr, without the leaſt qualifying or reſerve, that nothing of that ſort has paſſed between us. I know your Mother's ſtrong way of putting the queſtion ſhe is intent upon having anſwered. But yet I promiſe that I will be obliged to nobody but you, when I have occaſion.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 230—234. for the abſtracted Let⯑ters of Joſeph Leman and Mr. Lovelace, inſert the following:

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 245. l. 20. and Edit. ii. p. 251. l. 4. after half ſo well, as now, inſert,

Has ſhe not demonſtrated, that even the higheſt provocations were not ſufficient to warp her from her duty to her parents, tho' a native, and, as I may ſay, an originally involuntary duty, becauſe native? And is not this a charming earneſt that ſhe will ſacredly obſerve a ſtill higher duty into which ſhe propoſes to enter, when ſhe does enter, by plighted vows, and entirely as a volunteer?

That ſhe loves thee, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 261. l. 19, 20. after proper to be fruſtrated, dele the reſt of that paragraph, and all the following, and read,

If you conſider ^(a) this Malediction as it ought to be conſidered, a perſon of your piety muſt and will rather pity and pray for your raſh Father, than ter⯑rify yourſelf on the occaſion. None but God can curſe. Parents, or others, whoever they be, can only pray to him to curſe: And ſuch Prayers can have no weight with a juſt and all-perfect Being, the motives to which are unreaſonable, and the end pro⯑poſed by them cruel.

Has not God commanded us to bleſs and curſe not? Pray for your Father, then, I repeat, that he incur not the Malediction he has announced on you; ſince he has broken, as you ſee, a command truly divine; while you, by obeying that other precept which en⯑joins us to pray for them that perſecute and curſe us, will turn the Curſe into a Bleſſing.

My Mother blames them, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 273. l. 12. and Edit. ii. p. 278. l. 13. dele the Paragraph beginning, I will not, repeat, and read,

You aſſume, my dear, ſays ſhe, your uſual and ever-agreeable ſtyle, in what you write of the two Gentlemen, and how unaptly you think they have choſen; Mr. Hickman in addreſſing you; Mr. Love⯑lace me. But I am inclinable to believe, that with a view to happineſs, however two mild tempers might agree, two high ones would make ſad work of it, both at one time violent and unyielding. You two might indeed have raqueted the Ball betwixt you, as you ſay: But Mr. Hickman, by his gentle manners, [58] ſeems formed for you, if you go not too far with him. If you do, it would be a tameneſs in him to bear it, which would make a man more contemptible than Mr. Hickman can ever deſerve to be made. Nor is it a diſgrace for even a brave man, who knows what a woman is to vow to him afterwards, to be very obſequious beforehand.

Do you think it is to the credit of Mr. Lovelace's character, that he can be offenſive and violent? Does he not, as all ſuch ſpirits muſt, ſubject himſelf to the neceſſity of making ſubmiſſions for his exceſſes, far more mortifying to a proud heart, than thoſe con⯑deſcenſions which the high-ſpirited are ſo apt to im⯑pute as a weakneſs of mind in ſuch a man as Mr. Hickman?

Let me tell you, my dear, that Mr. Hickman is ſuch a one, as would rather bear an affront from a Lady, than offer one to her. He had rather, I dare ſay, that ſhe ſhould have occaſion to aſk his pardon, than he hers. But, my dear, you have outlived your firſt paſſion; and had the ſecond man been an angel, he would not have been more than indifferent to you.

My motives for ſuſpending, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 273. l. 8. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 278. l. 12. from the bottom, after would repeat it, inſert,

I ſee with great regret, that your Mamma is ſtill immoveably bent againſt our correſpondence. What ſhall I do about it?—It goes againſt me to continue it, or to wiſh you to favour me with returns.—Yet I have ſo managed my matters, that I have no friend but you to adviſe with. It is enough to make one indeed wiſh to be married to this man, tho' a man of errors; as he has worthy Relations of my own Sex; and I ſhould have ſome friends, I hope:—And having ſome, I might have more—For as money is ſaid [59] to encreaſe money, ſo does the countenance of per⯑ſons of character encreaſe friends: While the deſti⯑tute muſt be deſtitute.—It goes againſt my heart to beg of you to diſcontinue correſponding with me; and yet it is againſt my conſcience to carry it on againſt pa⯑rental prohibition. But I dare not uſe all the argu⯑ments againſt it that I could uſe—And why?—For fear I ſhould convince you; and you ſhould reject me, as the reſt of my friends have done. I leave there⯑fore the determination of this point upon you—I am not, I find, to be truſted with it. But be mine all the fault, and all the puniſhment, if it be puniſhable!— And certainly it muſt, when it can be the cauſe of thoſe over-lively ſentences wherewith you conclude the Letter I have before me, and which I muſt no farther animadvert upon, becauſe you forbid me to do ſo.

To the ſecond, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 278. l. 8. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 283. l. 21. after correct thy maſter, inſert,

And another, if thou wilt—Never offer to invali⯑date the force which a virtuous education ought to have in the Sex, by endeavouring to find excuſes for their frailty from the frailty of ours. For, are we not devils to each other? They tempt us: We tempt them. Becauſe we men cannot reſiſt temptation, is that a reaſon that women ought not, when the whole of their education is caution and warning againſt our attempts? Do not their grandmothers give them one eaſy rule?—Men are to aſk—Women are to deny.

Well, but to return, &c.

Vol iii. Edit. i. p. 284. l. 12. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 289. l. 9. after attendant cannot read, inſert,

It would be a miracle, as thou ſayſt, if this Lady can ſave herſelf—And having gone ſo far, how can I [60] recede?—Then my Revenge upon the Harlowes!— To have run away with a daughter of theirs, to make her a Lovelace—To make her one of a family ſo ſu⯑perior to her own, what a Triumph, as I have here⯑tofore obſerved, to them!—But to run away with her, and to bring her to my lure in the other light, what a mortification of their pride! What a gratifica⯑tiod of my own!

Then theſe women are continually at me. Theſe women, who, before my whole ſoul and faculties were abſorbed in the Love of this ſingle charmer, uſed always to oblige me with the flower and firſt fruits of their garden! Indeed, indeed, my Goddeſs ſhould not have choſen this London Widow's—But I dare ſay, if I had, ſhe would not. People who will be dealing in contradiction, ought to pay for it. And to be pu⯑niſhed by the conſequences of our own choice, what a moral lies there!—What a deal of Good may I not be the occaſion of from a little Evil!

Dorcas is a neat creature, both, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 304. l. 2. Edit. ii. p. 308. l. 10. after of cultivating theirs, dele the reſt of the pa⯑ragraph, and read,

He urged me ſtill further on this head.

I could not ſay, I told him, that I greatly liked either of the young gentlewomen, any more than their Aunt: And that were my ſituation ever ſo happy, they had much too gay a turn for me.

He did not wonder, he ſaid, to hear me ſay ſo. He knew not any of the Sex who had been accuſtomed to ſhew themſelves at the Town Diverſions and Amuſe⯑ments, that would, appear tolerable to me. Silence and Bluſhes, Madam, are now no graces with our fine Ladies in Town. Hardened by frequent public ap⯑pearances, they would be as much aſhamed to be found guilty of theſe weakneſſes, as men.

[61]Do you defend theſe two gentlewomen, Sir, by reflections upon half the Sex? But you muſt ſecond me, Mr. Lovelace (and yet I am not fond of being, thought particular) in my deſire of breakfaſting and ſupping (when I do ſup] by myſelf.

If I would, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 305. l. 9. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 310. l. 2. after a ſavage, inſert,

But how could a creature who (treating herſelf un⯑politely) gave a man an opportunity to run away with her, expect to be treated by that man with a very high degree of politeneſs?

But why, now, when fairer proſpects ſeem to open, why theſe melancholy reflections, will my beloved friend aſk of her Clariſſa?

Why? Can you aſk why, my deareſt Miſs Howe? of a creature who, in the world's eye, has inrolled her name among the giddy and the inconſiderate; who labours under a Parent's curſe, and the cruel uncertainties which muſt ariſe from reflecting, that, equally againſt duty and principle, ſhe has thrown her⯑ſelf into the power of a man, and that man an immo⯑ral one? Muſt not the ſenſe ſhe has of her inconſi⯑deration darken her moſt hopeful proſpects? Muſt it not even riſe ſtrongeſt upon a thoughtful mind, when her hopes are the faireſt? Even her pleaſures, were the man to prove better than ſhe expects, coming to her with an abatement, like that which perſons who are in poſſeſſion of ill-gotten wealth muſt then moſt poignantly experience (if they have reflecting and un⯑feared minds) when, all their wiſhes anſwered (if the wiſhes of ſuch perſons can ever be wholly anſwered) they ſit down in hopes to enjoy what they have unjuſtly obtained, and find their own reflections their greateſt torment.

May you, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 308. l. 2. and Edit. ii. p. 312. l. 14, 15. after command of herſelf, inſert,

What doſt think?—Here this little devil Sally, not being able, as ſhe told me, to ſupport life under my diſpleaſure, was going into a fit: But when I ſaw her preparing for it, I went out of the room; and ſo ſhe thought it would not be worth her while to ſhew away.

In this manner he mentions what his meaning was in making the Lady the compliment of his abſence:

As to leaving her; If I go but for one night, I have fulfilled my promiſe: And if ſhe think not, I can mutter and grumble, and yield again, and make a merit of it; and then, unable to live out of her pre⯑ſence, ſoon return. Nor are women ever angry at bottom for being diſobey'd thro' exceſs of Love. They lik an uncontroulable paſſion. They like to have every favour raviſhed from them; and to be eaten and drank quite up by a voracious Lover. Don't I know the Sex?—Not ſo, indeed, as yet, my Clariſſa: But however, with her my frequent egreſſes will make me look new to her, and create little buſy ſcenes between us. At the leaſt I may ſurely, with⯑out exception, ſalute her at parting, and at return; and will not thoſe occaſional freedoms (which civility will warrant) by degrees familiarize my charmer to them?

But here, Jack, what ſhall I do with my Uncle and Aunts, and all my loving Couſins? For I under⯑ſtand, that they are more in haſte to have me married than I am myſelf.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 312. and Edit. ii. p. 317. dele the paragraph beginning Mr. Lovelace, &c. and read,

Mr. Lovelace in his next Letter gives an account of his quick return: Of his reaſons to the Lady for it: Of [63] her diſpleaſure upon it: And of her urging his abſence from the ſafety ſhe was in from the ſituation of the houſe, except ſhe were to be traced out by his viſits.

I was confoundedly puzzled, ſays he, on this oc⯑caſion, and on her inſiſting upon the execution of a too-ready offer which I made her to go down to Berks, to bring up my Couſin Charlotte to viſit and attend her. I made miſerable excuſes; and, fearing that they would be mortally reſented, as her paſſion began to riſe upon my ſaying Charlotte was delicate, which ſhe took ſtrangely wrong, I was obliged to ſcreen myſelf behind the moſt ſolemn and explicit declara⯑tions.

He then repeats thoſe declarations, to the ſame effect with the account ſhe gives of them.

I began, ſays he, with an intention to keep my Life of Honour in view, in the declarations I made her; but, as it has been ſaid of a certain orator in the Houſe of Commons, who more than once, in a long ſpeech, convinced himſelf as he went along, and concluded againſt the ſide he ſet out intending to favour, ſo I in earneſt preſſed without reſerve for Matrimony in the progreſs of my harangue, which ſtate I little thought of urging upon her with ſo much ſtrength and expli⯑citneſs.

He then values himſelf upon the delay that his propoſal of taking and furniſhing a houſe muſt occaſion.

He wavers in his reſolutions whether to act honourably or not, by a merit ſo exalted.

He values himſelf upon his own delicacy, in expreſſing his indignation againſt her friends, for ſuppoſing what he pretends his heart riſes againſt them for pre⯑ſuming to ſuppoſe.

But have I not reaſon, ſays he, to be angry with her, for not praiſing me for this my delicacy, when ſhe [64] is ſo ready to call me to account for the leaſt failure in punctilio? However, I believe I can excuſe her too, upon this generous conſideration [For generous I am ſure it is, becauſe it is againſt myſelf]; that her mind being the eſſence of delicacy, the leaſt want of it ſhocks her; while the meeting with what is ſo very extra⯑ordinary to me, is too familiar to her to obtain her notice, as an extraordinary.

He glories in the ſtory of the houſe, and of the young Widow poſſeſſor of it, Mrs. Fretchville he calls her; and leaves it doubtful to Mr. Belford, whether it be a real or fictitious ſtory.

He mentions his different propoſals in relation to the Ce⯑remony, which he ſo earneſtly preſſed for; and owns his artful intention in avoiding to name the day.

And now, ſays he, I hope ſoon to have an oppor⯑tunity to begin my operations; ſince all is Halcyon and Security.

It is impoſſible to deſcribe the dear Creature's ſweet and ſilent confuſion, when I touched upon the matri⯑monial topics.

She may doubt. She may fear. The wiſe in all important caſes will doubt, and will fear, till they are ſure. But her apparent willingneſs to think well of a ſpirit ſo inventive and ſo machinating, is a happy prognoſtic for me. O theſe reaſoning Ladies!— How I love theſe reaſoning Ladies!—'Tis all over with them, when once Love has crept into their hearts: For then will they employ all their reaſoning powers to excuſe, rather than to blame, the conduct of the doubted Lover, let appearances againſt him be ever ſo ſtrong.

Mowbray, Belton, and Tourville, long to ſee my angel, and will be there. She has refuſed me; but muſt be preſent notwithſtanding. So generous a ſpirit as mine is cannot enjoy its happineſs without com⯑munication. [65] If I raiſe not your envy and admiration both at once, but half-joy will be the joy of having ſuch a charming Fly entangled in my web. She there⯑fore muſt comply. And thou muſt come. And then will I ſhew thee the pride and glory of the Harlowe family, my implacable enemies; and thou ſhalt join with me in my triumph over them all.

I know not ^(a) what may ſtill be the perverſe Beau⯑ty's fate: I want thee therefore to ſee and admire her, while ſhe is ſerene, and full of hope: Before her apprehenſions are realized, if realized they are to be; and if evil apprehenſions of me ſhe really has: Before her beamy eyes have loſt their luſtre: While yet her charming face is ſurrounded with all its virgin glories; and before the plough of diſappointment has thrown up furrows of diſtreſs upon every lovely fea⯑ture.

If I can, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 313. l. 27. after of his Goddeſs, dele the following paragraphs, to p. 314. l. 11. and read,

Ye muſt be ſure ^(b) to let it ſink deep into your heavy heads, that there is no ſuch Lady in the world, as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe; and that ſhe is neither more nor leſs than Mrs. Lovelace, though at preſent, to my ſhame be it ſpoken, a Virgin.

Be mindful alſo, that your old Mother's name, af⯑ter that of her Mother when a Maid, is Sinclair: That her Huſband was a Lieutenant-colonel, and all that you, Belford, know from honeſt Doleman's Letter of her ^(c), that let your brethren know.

Mowbray and Tourville, the two greateſt blun⯑derers of the four, I allow to be acquainted with [66] the Widow and Nieces, from the knowlege they had of the Colonel. They will not forbear familiarities of ſpeech to the Mother, as of longer acquaintance than a day. So I have ſuited their parts to their capacities.

They may praiſe the Widow and the Colonel for people of great honour—But not too groſly; nor to labour the point ſo as to render themſelves ſuſpected.

The Mother will lead ye into her own and the Colonel's praiſes; and Tourville and Mowbray may be both her vouchers—I, and you, and Belton, muſt be only hearſay confirmers.

As poverty is generally ſuſpectible, the Widow muſt be got handſomely aforehand; and no doubt but ſhe is. The elegance of her houſe and furniture, and her readineſs to diſcharge all demands upon her, which ſhe does with oſtentation enough, and which makes her neighbours, I ſuppoſe, like her the better, demonſtrate this. She will propoſe to do handſome things by her two Nieces. Sally is near Marriage— with an eminent Woolen-draper in the Strand, if ye have a mind to it; for there are five or ſix of them there.

The Nieces may be enquired after, ſince they will be abſent, as perſons reſpected by Mowbray and Tourville, for their late worthy Uncle's ſake.

Watch ye diligently every turn of my counte⯑rance; every motion of my eye; for in my eye, and in my countenance, will ye find a ſovereign re⯑gulator. I need not bid ye reſpect me mightily: Your allegiance obliges ye to that: And who that ſees me, reſpects me not?

Priſcilla Partington (for her looks ſo innocent, and diſcretion ſo deep, yet ſeeming ſo ſoftly) may be greatly relied upon. She will accompany the Mother, gorgeouſly dreſſed, with all her Jew's extravagance flaming out upon her; and firſt induce, then counte⯑nance, the Lady. She has her cue, and I hope will make her acquaintance coveted by my Charmer.

[67]Miſs Partington's hiſtory is this: The Daughter of Col. Sinclair's Brother-in-law: That Brother-in-law may have been a Turky merchant, or any merchant, who died confoundedly rich: The Colonel one of her guardians [Collateral credit in that to the Old one]: Whence ſhe always calls Mrs. Sinclair Mamma; tho' not ſucceeding to the truſt.

She is juſt come to paſs a day or two, and then to return to her ſurviving guardian's at Barnet.

Miſs Partington has ſuitors a little hundred (her Grandmother, an Alderman's Dowager, having left her a great additional fortune); and is not truſted out of her guardians houſe, without an old gouver⯑nante noted for diſcretion, except to her Mamma Sinclair; with whom now-and-then ſhe is permitted to be for a week together.

Priſc. will Mamma-up Mrs. Sinclair, and will under⯑take to court her guardian to let her paſs a delightful week with her—Sir Edward Holden, he may as well be, if your ſhallow pates will not be clogged with too many circumſtantials. Lady Holden perhaps will come with her; for ſhe always delighted in her Mam⯑ma Sinclair's company; and talks of her, and her good management, twenty times a day.

Be it principally thy part, Jack, who art a parade⯑ing fellow, and aimeſt at wiſdom, to keep thy bro⯑ther-varlets from blundering; for, as thou muſt have obſerved from what I have written, we have the moſt watchful and moſt penetrating Lady in the world to deal with: A Lady worth deceiving! But whoſe eyes will pierce to the bottom of your ſhallow ſouls the moment ſhe hears you open. Do thou therefore place thyſelf between Mowbray and Tourville: Their toes to be played upon and commanded by thine, if they go wrong: Thy elbows to be the miniſters of appro⯑bation.

As to your general behaviour; No hypocriſy!— I hate it: So does my Charmer. If I had ſtudied [68] for it, I believe I could have been an hypocrite: But my general character is ſo well known, that I ſhould have been ſuſpected at once, had I aimed at making myſelf too white. But what neceſſity can there be for hypocriſy, unleſs the generality of the Sex were to refuſe us for our immoralities? The beſt of them love to have the credit of reforming us. Let the ſweet ſouls try for it: If they fail, their intent was good. That will be a conſolation to them. And as to us, our work will be the eaſier; our ſins the fewer: Since they will draw themſelves in with a very little of our help; and we ſhall ſave a parcel of curſed Falſhoods, and appear to be what we are both to Angels and Men. Mean time their very Grand⯑mothers will acquit us, and reproach them with their Self-do, Self-have; and as having erred againſt know⯑lege, and ventured againſt manifeſt appearances. What folly therefore for men of our character to be hypo⯑crites!

Be ſure to inſtruct the reſt, and do thou thyſelf remember, not to talk obſcenely. You know I ne⯑ver permitted any of you to talk obſcenely. Time enough for that, when ye grow old, and can ONLY talk. Beſides, ye muſt conſider Priſc's affected cha⯑racter, my Goddeſs's real one. Far from obſcenity therefore, do not ſo much as touch upon the double Entendre. What! as I have often ſaid, cannot you touch a Lady's heart, without wounding her ear?

It is neceſſary, that ye ſhould appear worſe men than myſelf. You cannot help appearing ſo, you'll ſay. Well then, there will be the leſs reſtraint upon you—The leſs reſtraint, the leſs affectation.—And if Belton begins his favourite ſubject in behalf of keeping, it may make me take upon myſelf to oppoſe him: But fear not; I ſhall not give the argument all my force.

She muſt have ſome curioſity, I think, to ſee what ſort of men my companions are: She will not expect any of you to be ſaints. Are ye not men born to [69] conſiderable fortunes, altho' ye are not all of ye men of parts? Who is it in this mortal life, that wealth does not miſlead? And as it gives people the power of being miſchievous, does it not require great virtue to forbear the uſe of that power? Is not the devil ſaid to be the god of this world? Are we not children of this world? Well then!—Let me tell thee my opi⯑nion—It is this: That, were it not for the poor and the middling, the world would probably, long ago, have been deſtroyed by fire from Heaven. Ungrateful wretches the reſt, thou wilt be apt to ſay, to make ſuch ſorry returns, as they generally do make, to the poor and the middling!

This dear Lady, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 314. l. 21. and Edit. ii. p. 322. l. 24. after on Monday night, inſert,

And let me add, that you muſt attend to every minute circumſtance, whether you think there be reaſon in it or not. Deep, like golden ore, fre⯑quently lies my meaning, and richly worth digging for. The hint of leaſt moment, as you may imagine it, is often pregnant with events of the greateſt. Be implicit. Am not I your General? Did I ever lead you on, that I brought ye not off with ſafety and ſucceſs, ſometimes to your own ſtupid aſtoniſhment?

And now, methinks, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 319, 320. and Edit. ii. p. 328. dele the Paragraph, I have carried, &c. to I long to have your opinions of my fair prize; and read,

I HAVE carried my third point; but ſo extremely to the diſlike of my Charmer, that I have been threatened, for ſuffering Miſs Partington to be in⯑troduced to her without her leave. Which laid her under a neceſſity to deny or comply with the urgent requeſt of ſo fine a young Lady; who had engaged to honour me at my Collation, on condition that my Beloved would be preſent at it.

[70]To be obliged to appear before my friends as what ſhe was not! She was for inſiſting, that I ſhould ac⯑quaint the women here with the truth of the matter; and not go on propagating ſtories for her to counte⯑nance; making her a ſharer in my guilt.

But what points will not perſeverance carry? eſpe⯑cially when it is covered over with the face of yield⯑ing now, and Parthian-like returning to the charge anon. Do not the Sex carry all their points with their men by the ſame methods? Have I converſed with them ſo freely as I have done, and learnt no⯑thing of them? Didſt thou ever know that a woman's denial of any favour, whether the leaſt or the greateſt, that my heart was ſet upon, ſtood her in any ſtead? The more perverſe ſhe, the more ſteady I; that is my rule.

‘"But the point thus ſo much againſt her will carried, I doubt thou wilt ſee in her more of a ſullen than of an obliging Charmer. For when Miſs Partington was withdrawn, What was Miſs Partington to her? In her ſituation ſhe wanted no new acquaintance. And what were my four friends to her in her preſent circumſtances? She would aſſure me, if ever again"’—And there ſhe ſtopt, with a twirl of her hand.

When we meet, I will, in her preſence, tipping thee a wink, ſhew thee the motion; for it was a very pretty one. Quite new. Yet have I ſeen an hundred pretty paſſionate twirls too, in my time, from other Fair-ones. How univerſally engaging it is to put a woman of ſenſe, to whom a man is not married, in a paſſion, let the reception given to every ranting ſcene in our Plays teſtify. Take care, my charmer, now thou art come to delight me with thy angry twirls, that thou tempteſt me not to provoke a varicty of them from one, whoſe every motion, whoſe every air, carries in it ſo much ſenſe and ſoul.

But, angry or pleaſed, this charming Creature muſt [71] be all lovelineſs. Her features are all harmony, and made for one another. No other feature could be ſubſtituted in the place of any one of hers, but muſt abate of her perfection: And think you that I do not long to have your opinions of my fair Prize?

If you love to ſee features that glow, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 320. and Edit. ii. p. 328. dele the Paragraph beginning with the words In the Lady's next Letter; and read,

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 349. l. 11. after than a Lady, dele the next Paragraph, and read,

To purſue the compariſon ^(a)—If the diſappoint⯑ment of the captivated Lady be very great, ſhe will threaten, indeed, as I ſaid: She will even refuſe her ſuſtenance for ſome time, eſpecially if you entreat her much, and ſhe thinks ſhe gives you concern by her refuſal. But then the Stomach of the dear ſullen one will ſoon return. 'Tis pretty to ſee how ſhe comes to by degrees: Preſſed by appetite, ſhe will firſt ſteal, perhaps, a weeping morſel by herſelf; then be brought to piddle and ſigh, and ſigh and pid⯑dle, before you; now-and-then, if her viands be un⯑ſavoury, ſwallowing with them a reliſhing tear or two: Then ſhe comes to eat and drink, to oblige you: Then reſolves to live for your ſake: Her ex⯑clamations will, in the next place, be turned into blandiſhments; her vehement upbraidings into gentle murmurings—How dare you, Traitor!—into How could you, deareſt? She will draw you to her, inſtead of puſhing you from her: No longer, with unſheathed claws, will ſhe reſiſt you; but, like a pretty, playful, wanton Kitten, with gentle paws and concealed ta⯑lons, tap your cheek, and with intermingled ſmiles, and tears, and careſſes, implore your conſideration for her, and your conſtancy: All the favour ſhe then [74] has to aſk of you!—And this is the time, were it given to man to confine himſelf to one object, to be happier every day than other.

Now, Belford, were I to go no farther than I have gone with my beloved Miſs Harlowe, how ſhall I know the difference between her and another bird? To let her fly now, what a pretty jeſt would that be! How do I know, except I try, whether ſhe may not be brought to ſing me a fine ſong, and to be as well contented as I have brought other birds to be, and very ſhy ones too?

But now let us reflect a little upon the confounded partiality of us human creatures. I can give two or three familiar, and, if they were not familiar, they would be ſhocking, inſtances of the cruelty both of men and women, with reſpect to other creatures, per⯑haps as worthy as (at leaſt more innocent than) them⯑ſelves. By my Soul, Jack, there is more of the Sa⯑vage in human nature than we are commonly aware of. Nor is it, after all, ſo much amiſs, that we ſometimes avenge the more innocent animals upon our own ſpecies.

To particulars.

How uſual a thing is it for women as well as men, without the leaſt remorſe, to enſnare, to cage, and torment, and even with burning knitting-needles to put out the eyes of the poor feather'd ſongſter [Thou ſeeſt I have not yet done with birds]; which however, in proportion to its bulk, has more life than them⯑ſelves (for a bird is all ſoul) and of conſequence has as much feeling as the human creature! When at the ſame time, if an honeſt fellow, by the gentleſt per⯑ſuaſion, and the ſofteſt arts, has the good luck to pre⯑vail upon a mew'd-up lady to countenance her own eſcape, and ſhe conſents to break cage, and be ſet a flying into the all-chearing air of liberty, Mercy on us! what an Outcry is generally raiſed againſt him!

Juſt like what you and I once ſaw raiſed in a paltry [75] village near Chelmsford, after a poor hungry fox, who, watching his opportunity, had ſeized by the neck, and ſhouldered, a ſleek-feathered gooſe: At what time we beheld the whole vicinage of boys and girls, old men, and old women, all the furrows and wrinkles of the latter filled up with malice for the time; the old men armed with prongs, pitch-forks, clubs, and catſticks; the old women with mops, brooms, fire-ſhovels, tongs, and pokers; and the younger fry with dirt, ſtones, and brickbats, gathering as they ran like a ſnowball, in purſuit of the wind-outſtripping prowler; all the mongrel curs of the cir⯑cumjacencies yelp, yelp, yelp, at their heels, com⯑pleting the horrid chorus.

Remembreſt thou not this ſcene? Surely thou muſt. My imagination, inflamed by a tender ſym⯑pathy for the danger of the adventurous marauder, repreſents it to my eye, as if it were but yeſterday. And doſt thou not recollect how generouſly glad we were, as if our own caſe, that honeſt Reynard, by the help of a lucky ſtile, over which both old and young tumbled upon one another, and a winding courſe, eſcaped their brutal fury, and flying catſticks; and how, in fancy, we followed him to his undiſco⯑vered retreat; and imagined we beheld the intrepid thief enjoying his dear-earned purchaſe with a delight proportioned to his paſt danger?

I once made a charming little ſavage ſeverely repent the delight ſhe took in ſeeing her tabby favourite make cruel ſport with a pretty ſleek bead-eyed mouſe, be⯑fore ſhe devoured it. Egad, my Love, ſaid I to my⯑ſelf, as I ſat meditating the ſcene, I am determined to lie in wait for a fit opportunity to try how thou wilt like to be toſt over my head, and be caught again: How thou wilt like to be patted from me, and pulled to me. Yet will I rather give life than take it away, as this barbarous quadrupede has at laſt done by her prey. And after all was over between my girl and [76] me, I reminded her of the incident to which my re⯑ſolution was owing.

Nor had I at another time any mercy upon the daughter of an old Epicure, who had taught the girl, without the leaſt remorſe, to roaſt Lobſters alive; to cauſe a poor Pig to be whipt to death, to ſcrape Carp the contrary way of the ſcales, making them leap in the ſtew-pan, and dreſſing them in their own blood for ſawce. And this for luxury-ſake, and to provoke an appetite; which I had without ſtimulation, in my way, and that I can tell thee a very ravenous one.

Many more inſtances of the like nature could I give, were I to leave nothing to thyſelf, to ſhew that the beſt take the ſame liberties, and perhaps worſe, with ſome ſort of creatures, that we take with others; all creatures ſtill! and creatures too, as I have obſerved above, replete with ſtrong life, and ſenſible feeling!— If therefore people pretend to mercy, let mercy go thro' all their actions. I have read ſomewhere, That a merciful man is merciful to his beaſt.

So much at preſent for thoſe parts of thy Letter in which thou urgeſt to me motives of compaſſion for the Lady.

But I gueſs at thy principal, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 351. l. 20. and Edit. ii. p. 362. l. 12. from the bottom, after minds like her own, inſert,

Were I to take thy ſtupid advice, and marry; what a figure ſhould I make in Rakiſh annals! The Lady in my power: Yet not having intended to put herſelf in my power: Declaring againſt Love, and a Rebel to it: So much open-eyed caution: No confi⯑dence in my honour: Her family expecting the worſt hath paſſed; herſelf ſeeming to expect, that the worſt will be attempted: [Priſcilla Partington for that!] What! wouldſt thou not have me act in character?

But why calleſt thou the Lady innocent? And why ſayſt thou ſhe loves me?

[77]By innocent, with regard to me, and not taken as a general character, I muſt inſiſt upon it, ſhe is not in⯑nocent. Can ſhe be innocent, who, by wiſhing to ſhackle me in the prime and glory of my youth, with ſuch a capacity as I have for noble miſchief ^(a), would make my perdition more certain, were I to break, as I doubt I ſhould, the moſt ſolemn vow I could make? I ſay, no man ought to take even a common oath, who thinks he cannot keep it. This is conſcience! This is honour!—And when I think I can keep the Marriage-vow, then will it be time to marry.

I No doubt of it, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 351. l. 8. from the bottom, after thiſtle to mumble upon, inſert,

A SHORT interruption ^(b). I now reſume.

That the morals of this Lady cannot fail, is a con⯑ſideration that will leſſen the guilt on both ſides. And if, when ſubdued, ſhe knows but how to middle the matter between Virtue, and Love, then will ſhe be a Wife for me: For already I am convinced, that there is not a woman in the world that is Love-proof and Plot-proof, if ſhe be not the perſon.

And now imagine (the Charmer overcome) thou ſeeſt me ſitting ſupinely croſs-kneed, reclining on my ſoffa, the god of Love dancing in my eyes, and re⯑joicing in every mantling feature; the ſweet rogue, late ſuch a proud rogue, wholly in my power, moving up ſlowly to me, at my beck, with heaving ſighs, half-pronounced upbraidings from murmuring lips, her finger in her eye, and quickening her pace at my Come hither, Deareſt!

One hand ſtuck in my ſide, the other extended to encourage her baſhful approach—Kiſs me, Love!— [78] Sweet, as Jack Belford ſays, are the joys that come with willingneſs.

She tenders her purple mouth [Her coral lips will be purple then, Jack!]: Sigh not ſo deeply, my Be⯑loved!—Happier hours await thy humble love, than did thy proud reſiſtance.

Once more bend to my ardent lips the ſwanny gloſſineſs of a neck late ſo ſtately.—

There's my precious!—

Again!—

Obliging Lovelineſs!—

O my ever-blooming Glory!—I have try'd thee enough.—To-morrow's Sun—

Then I riſe, and fold to my almoſt-talking heart the throbbing-boſom'd Charmer.

And now ſhall thy humbled pride confeſs its obli⯑gation to me!—

To-morrow's Sun—And then I diſengage myſelf from the baſhful Paſſive, and ſtalk about the room— To-morrow's Sun ſhall gild the Altar at which my vows ſhall be paid thee!

Then, Jack, the rapture! then the darted ſun⯑beams from her gladdened eye, drinking up at one ſip, the precious diſtillation from the pearl-dropt cheek! Then hands ardently folded, eyes ſeeming to pro⯑nounce, God bleſs my Lovelace! to ſupply the joy⯑locked tongue! Her tranſports too ſtrong, and ex⯑preſſion too weak, to give utterance to her grateful meanings!—All—All the ſtudies—All the ſtudies of her future life vowed and devoted (when ſhe can ſpeak), to acknowlege and return the perpetuated obli⯑gation!

If I could bring my Charmer to this, would it not be the Eligible of Eligibles?—Is it not worth trying for?—As I ſaid, I can marry her when I will. She can be nobody's but mine, neither for ſhame, nor by choice, nor yet by addreſs: For who, that knows my character, believes that the worſt ſhe dreads, is now to be dreaded?

[79]I have the higheſt opinion that man can have (thou knoweſt I have) of the merit and perfections of this admirable woman; of her virtue and honour too; altho' thou, in a former, art of opinion, that ſhe may be overcome. Am I not therefore obliged to go further, in order to contradict thee, and, as I have often urged, to be ſure, that ſhe is what I really think her to be; and, if I am ever to marry her, hope to find her?

Then this Lady is a miſtreſs of our paſſions: No one ever had to ſo much perfection the Art of moving. This all her family know, and have equally feared and revered her for it. This I know too; and doubt not more and more to experience. How charmingly muſt this divine creature warble forth (if a proper oc⯑caſion be given) her melodious Elegiacs!—Infinite beauties are there in a weeping eye. I firſt taught the two nymphs below to diſtinguiſh the ſeveral ac⯑cents of the Lamentable in a new ſubject, and how admirably ſome, more than others, become their di⯑ſtreſſes.

But to return to thy objections—Thou wilt per⯑haps tell me, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 355. l. 18. and Edit. ii. p. 368. l. ult. after over-run him, inſert,

Yet he pretends, that he has no pride but in ob⯑liging me: And is always talking of his reverence and humility, and ſuch ſort of ſtuff: But of this I am ſure, that he has, as I obſerved the firſt time I ſaw him, too much regard to his own perſon, greatly to value that of his Wife, marry he whom he will: And I muſt be blind, if I did not ſee, that he is ex⯑ceedingly vain of his external advantages, and of that Addreſs, which, if it has any merit in it to an out⯑ward eye, is perhaps owing more to his confidence, than to any-thing elſe.

Have you not beheld, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 9. dele the Paragraph beginning A fair contention, &c. and read,

A fair contention ^(a), thou ſeeſt: Nor plead thou in her favour her Youth, her Beauty, her Family, her Fortune. CREDULITY, ſhe has none; and with regard to her TENDER YEARS, Am I not a young fellow myſelf? As to BEAUTY; pr'ythee, Jack, do thou, to ſpare my modeſty, make a compariſon be⯑tween my Clariſſa for a Woman, and thy Lovelace for a Man. For her FAMILY; That was not known to its country a Century ago: And I hate them all but her. Have I not cauſe?—For her FORTUNE; For⯑tune, thou knoweſt, was ever a ſtimulus with me; and this for reaſons not ignoble. Do not girls of For⯑tune adorn themſelves on purpoſe to engage our at⯑tention? Seek they not to draw us into their ſnares? Depend they not, generally, on their Fortunes, in the views they have upon us, more than on their Merits? Shall we deprive them of the benefit of their principal dependence?—Can I, in particular, marry every girl who wiſhes to obtain my notice? If, therefore, in ſupport of the libertine principles for which none of the ſweet rogues hate us, a woman of fortune is brought to yield homage to her Emperor, and any conſequences attend the Subjugation, is not ſuch a one ſhielded by her fortune, as well from inſult and con⯑tempt, as from indigence?—All, then, that admits of debate between my Beloved and me, is only this— Which of the two has more Wit, more Circum⯑ſpection—And that remains to be tried.

A ſad Life however, this Life of Doubt and Suſ⯑penſe, for the poor Lady, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 10. l. penult. & ult. after our Loves will be attended with, dele the reſt of the paragraph, and read,

But perſeverance ^(a) is my glory, and patience my handmaid, when I have in view an object worthy of my attempts. What is there in an eaſy conqueſt? Hudibras queſtions well,

But I will lead to the occaſion of this preamble.

I had been out, &c.

Vol iv. Edit. i. p. 19. l. 10. and Edit. ii. p. 19. l. 12. after give me hope, dele to I do aſſure you, &c. and read,

Vol iv. Edit. i. p. 42. l. 17, 18. and Edit. ii. p. 42. l. 22. dele As witneſs your Anna Howe, and read,

And let him tell me afterwards, if he dared or would, that he humbled down to his ſhoe-buckles the perſon it would have been his glory to exalt.

Support yourſelf mean time with reflections worthy of yourſelf. Tho' tricked into this man's power, you are not meanly ſubjugated to it. All his reverence you command, or rather, as I may ſay, inſpire; ſince it was never known, that he had any reverence for aught that was good, till you was with him: And he profeſſes now-and-then to be ſo awed and charmed by your example, as that the force of it ſhall reclaim him.

I believe you will have a difficult taſk to keep him to it: But the more will be your honour, if you effect his Reformation: And it is my belief, that if [84] you can reclaim this great, this ſpecious deceiver, who has, morally ſpeaking, ſuch a number of years before him, you will ſave from ruin a multitude of innocents; for thoſe ſeem to me to have been the prey for which he has ſpread his wicked ſnares. And who knows but, for this very purpoſe principally, a perſon may have been permitted to ſwerve, whoſe heart or will never was in her error, and who has ſo much remorſe upon her for having, as ſhe thinks, erred at all? Adieu, my deareſt friend.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 63. l. 14. after Lord M. or not, inſert,

To leave it to me ^(a), to chuſe whether the ſpeedy Day he ought to have urged for with earneſtneſs, ſhould be accelerated or ſuſpended!—Miſs Howe, thought I, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 63. l. 5. from the bottom, after delay from him, dele the following paragraph, and read,

I was ſilent ^(b).

Next day, Madam, if not to-morrow?—

Had he given me time to anſwer, it could not have been in the affirmative, you muſt think—But in the ſame breath, he went on—Or the day after that?— And taking both my hands in his, he ſtared me into a half-confuſion—Would you have had patience with him, my dear?

No, no, ſaid I, as calmly as poſſible, you cannot think, that I ſhould imagine there can be reaſon, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 64. l. 6. after of ſelf-denial, inſert,

Is it not plain ^(c), my dear, that he deſigns to vex, and teaze me? Proud, yet mean, and fooliſh man, if [85] ſo!—But you ſay all Punctilio is at an End with me. Why, why, will he take pains to make a heart wrap itſelf up in Reſerve, that wiſhes only, and that for his ſake as well as my own, to obſerve due decorum?

Modeſty, I think, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 65. l. 13. from the bottom, on the words your opinion, add the following Note:

We cannot forbear ^(a) obſerving in this place, that the Lady has been particularly cenſured, even by ſome of her own Sex, as over-nice in her part of the above con⯑verſations. But ſurely this muſt be owing to want of attention to the circumſtances ſhe was in, and to her character, as well as to the character of the man ſhe had to deal with: For altho' ſhe could not be ſuppoſed to know ſo much of his deſigns as the Reader does by means of his Letters to Belford; yet ſhe was but too well convinced of his faulty morals, and of the neceſſity there was, from the whole of his behaviour to her, to keep ſuch an encroacher, as ſhe frequently calls him, at a diſtance. In Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 170. Edit. ii. p. 169, 170. the Reader will ſee, that upon ſome favour⯑able appearances ſhe blames herſelf for her readineſs to ſuſpect him. But his character, his principles, ſays ſhe, are ſo faulty; he is ſo light, ſo vain, ſo various!— Then, my dear, I have no Guardian now, no Father, no Mother! Nothing but God and my own vigilance to depend upon! In Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 73. Muſt I not with ſuch a man, ſays ſhe, be wanting to myſelf, were I not jealous and vigilant?

By this time the Reader will ſee, that ſhe had ſtill greater reaſon for her jealouſy and vigilance. And Love⯑lace will tell the Sex, as he does Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 257. Edit. ii. p. 259. That the woman who reſents not initiatory freedoms, muſt be loſt. Love is an en⯑croacher, ſays he: Love never goes backward. No⯑thing [86] but the higheſt act of Love can ſatisfy an in⯑dulged Love.

But the Reader perhaps is too apt to form a judgment of Clariſſa's conduct in critical caſes by Lovelace's com⯑plaints of her coldneſs; not conſidering his views upon her; and that ſhe is propoſed as an Example; and therefore in her trials and diſtreſſes muſt not be allowed to diſpenſe with thoſe Rules which perhaps ſome others of her Sex, in her delicate ſituation, would not have thought themſelves ſo ſtrictly bound to obſerve; altho', if ſhe had not obſerved them, a Lovelace would have car⯑ried all his points.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 66. l. 21. and Edit. ii. p. 67. l. 18, 19. after on theſe occaſions, inſert,

I'll tell thee beforehand, how it will be with my Charmer in this caſe—She will be about it, and about it, ſeveral times: But I will not underſtand her: At laſt, after half a dozen hem—ings, ſhe will be obliged to ſpeak out—I think, Mr. Lovelace—I think, Sir— I think you were ſaying ſome days ago —Still I will be all ſilence—her eyes fixed upon my ſhoe-buckles, as I ſit over-againſt her—Ladies, when put to it thus, al⯑ways admire a man's ſhoe-buckles, or perhaps ſome particular beauties in the carpet. I think you ſaid, that Mrs. Fretchville—Then a cryſtal tear trickles down each crimſon cheek, vexed to have her virgin pride ſo little aſſiſted. But, come, my meaning dear, cry I to myſelf, remember what I have ſuffered for thee, and what I have ſuffered by thee! Thy tearful pauſings ſhall not be helped out by me. Speak out, Love!—O the ſweet confuſion! Can I rob myſelf of ſo many conflicting beauties by the precipitate charmer-pitying folly, by which a politer man [Thou knoweſt, Lovely, that I am no polite man!] betrayed by his own tenderneſs, and unuſed to female tears, would have been overcome? I will feign an irreſolution of mind on the occaſion, that ſhe may not quite abhor [87] me—that her reflections on the ſcene in my abſence may bring to her remembrance ſome beauties in my part of it: An irreſolution that will be owing to awe, to reverence, to profound veneration; and that will have more eloquence in it, than words can have. Speak out then, Love, and ſpare not.

Hard-heartedneſs, as it is called, is an eſſential of the Libertine's character. Familiarized to the diſtreſſes he occaſions, he is ſeldom betrayed by tenderneſs into a complaiſant weakneſs unworthy of himſelf.

Mentioning the Settlements, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 70. l. ult. and Edit. ii. p. 71. l. 10. from the bottom, after in this life, inſert,

And what is the reſult of all I have written, but this? Either marry, my dear, or get from them all, and from him too.

You intend the latter, you'll ſay, as ſoon as you have opportunity. That, as above hinted, I hope quickly to furniſh you with: And then comes on a tryal between you and yourſelf.

Theſe are the very fellows, that we women do not naturally hate. We don't always know what is, and what is not, in our power to do. When ſome prin⯑cipal point we have had long in view becomes ſo cri⯑tical, that we muſt of neceſſity chuſe or refuſe, then perhaps we look about us; are affrighted at the wild and uncertain proſpect before us; and after a few ſtruggles and heart-achs, reject the untried New; draw in our horns, and reſolve to ſnail-on, as we did before, in a track we are acquainted with.

I ſhall be impatient, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 71. l. antepenult, & penult. and Edit. ii. p. 72. l. 24, 25. after call her his, inſert,

What apprehenſions wouldſt thou have had reaſon for, had ſhe been prevailed upon by giddy or frail [88] motives, which one man, by importunity, might pre⯑vail for, as well as another?

We all know what an inventive genius thou art maſter of: We are all ſenſible, that thou haſt a head to contrive, and a heart to execute. Have I not called thine the plotting'ſt heart in the univerſe? I called it ſo upon knowlege. What wouldſt thou more? Why ſhould it be the moſt villainous, as well as the moſt able?—Marry the Lady; and, when married, let her know what a number of contrivances thou hadſt in readineſs to play off. Beg of her not to hate thee for the communication; and aſſure her, that thou gaveſt them up from remorſe, and in juſtice to her extra⯑ordinary merit; and let her have the opportunity of congratulating herſelf for ſubduing a heart ſo capable of what thou calleſt glorious miſchief. This will give her room for triumph; and even thee no leſs: She for hers over thee; thou, for thine over thyſelf.

Reflect likewiſe, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 77. l. 10. after I am troubled with, dele the following paragraph, and read,

No man is every-thing ^(a)—You, Mr. Belford, are a learned man. I am a Peer. And do you (as you beſt know how) inculcate upon him the force of theſe wiſe ſayings which follow, as well as thoſe which went before; but yet ſo diſcreetly, as that he may not know, that you borrow your darts from my quiver. Theſe be they—Happy is the man who knows his fol⯑lies in his youth. He that lives well, lives long. Again, He that lives ill one year, will ſorrow for it ſeven. And again, as the Spaniards have it—Who lives well, ſees afar off! Far off indeed; for he ſees into Eternity, as a man may ſay. Then that other fine ſaying, He who periſhes in needleſs dangers, is the Devil's Martyr. Another Proverb I picked up at Madrid, when I accompanied Lord Lexington in his [89] Embaſſy to Spain, which might teach our Nephew more Mercy and Compaſſion than is in his Nature I doubt to ſhew; which is this, That he who pities an⯑other, remembers himſelf. And this that is going to follow, I am ſure he has proved the truth of a hun⯑dred times, That he who does what he will, ſeldom does what he ought. Nor is that unworthy of his notice, Young mens frolicks, old men feel. My deviliſh gout, God help me—But I will not ſay what I was going to ſay.

I remember, that you yourſelf, complimenting me for my taſte in pithy and wiſe ſentences, ſaid a thing that gave me a high opinion of you; and it was this. Men of talents, ſaid you, are ſooner to be convinced by ſhort ſentences than by long preachments, becauſe the ſhort ſentences drive themſelves into the heart, and ſtay there, while long diſcourſes, tho' ever ſo good, tire the attention; and one good thing drives out another, and ſo on till all is forgotten.

May your good counſels, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 84. l. 9. from the bottom, after a ſingle death, inſert,

But art thou ſure ^(a), Jack, it is a mortification?— My Uncle once gave promiſes of ſuch a root-and-branch diſtemper: But, alas! it turned to a ſmart gout-fit; and I had the mortification inſtead of him— I have heard that the Bark in proper doſes will arreſt a mortification in its progreſs, and at laſt cure it. Let thy Uncle's Surgeon know, that it is worth more than his ears, if he preſcribe one grain of the Bark.

I wiſh my Uncle, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 101. l. 4. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 103. l. 24. dele that paragraph, and read,

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 102. l. 17. and Edit. ii. p. 104. l. 7. after meet in town, dele to the end of the Let⯑ter, and read,

Even Dorcas, ſays ſhe, appears leſs exceptionable to me than before, and I cannot but pity her for her neglected education, as it is matter of ſo much regret to herſelf: Elſe, there would not be much in it; as the Low and Illiterate are the moſt uſeful people in the commonwealth (ſince ſuch conſtitute the labouring part of the public); and as a Lettered Education but too generally ſets people above thoſe ſervile offices, by which the buſineſs of the world is carried on. Nor have I any doubt, that there are, take the world thro', twenty happy people among the Unlettered, to one among thoſe who have had a School Education.

This, however, concludes not againſt Learning or [91] Letters; ſince one would wiſh to lift to ſome little diſtinction, and more genteel uſefulneſs, thoſe who have capacity, and whoſe Parentage one reſpects, or whoſe ſervices one would wiſh to reward.

Were my mind quite at eaſe, I could enlarge, per⯑haps not unuſefully, upon this ſubject; for I have conſidered it with as much attention as my years, and little experience and obſervation, will permit.

But the extreme illiterateneſs and indocility of this maid are ſurpriſing, conſidering that ſhe wants not in⯑quiſitiveneſs, appears willing to learn, and, in other reſpects, has quick parts. This confirms to me what I have heard remarked, That there is a docible Seaſon, a Learning-time, as I may ſay, for every perſon, in which the mind may be led ſtep by ſtep, from the lower to the higher (year by year) to improvement. How induſtriouſly ought theſe Seaſons, as they offer, to be taken hold of, by Tutors, Parents, and other friends, to whom the cultivation of the genius of chil⯑dren and youth is committed; ſince, once elapſed, and no foundation laid, they hardly ever return!— And yet it muſt be confeſſed, that there are ſome ge⯑nius's, which, like ſome fruits, ripen not till late. And Induſtry and Perſeverance will do prodigious things—But for a learner to have thoſe firſt rudiments to maſter, at twenty years of age ſuppoſe, which others are taught, and they themſelves might have at⯑tained, at ten, what an up-hill labour!

Theſe kind of obſervations you have always wiſhed me to interſperſe, as they ariſe to my thoughts. But it is a ſign that my proſpects are a little mended, or I ſhould not, among ſo many more intereſting ones, that my mind has been of late filled with, have had heart's-eaſe enough to make them.

Let me give you my reflections on my more hopeful proſpects.

I am now, in the firſt place, better able to account for the delays about the houſe, than I was before— [92] Poor Mrs. Fretchville!—Tho' I know her not, I pity her!—Next, it looks well, that he had appriſed the women (before this converſation with them) of his in⯑tention to ſtay in this houſe, after I was removed to the other. By the tone of his voice he ſeemed con⯑cerned for the appearance this new delay would have with me.

So handſomely did Miſs Martin expreſs herſelf of me, that I am ſorry, methinks, that I judged ſo hardly of her, when I firſt came hither—Free people may go a great way, but not all the way: And as ſuch are generally unguarded, precipitate, and thought⯑leſs, the ſame quickneſs, changeableneſs, and ſudden⯑neſs of ſpirit, as I may call it, may intervene (if the heart be not corrupted) to recover them to thought and duty.

His reaſon for declining to go in perſon to bring up the Ladies of his family, while my Brother and Sin⯑gleton continue their machinations, carries no bad face with it; and one may the rather allow for their ex⯑pectations, that ſo proud a ſpirit as his ſhould attend them for this purpoſe, as he ſpeaks of them ſometimes as perſons of punctilio.

Other reaſons I will mention for my being eaſier in my mind than I was before I overheard this conver⯑ſation.

Such as, the advice he has received in relation to Singleton's mate; which agrees but too well with what you, my dear, wrote to me in yours of May the 10th.

His not intending to acquaint me with it.

His cautions to the ſervants about the ſailor, if he ſhould come, and make enquiries about us.

His reſolution to avoid violence, were he to fall in either with my Brother, or this Singleton; and the eaſy method he has chalked out, in this caſe, to pre⯑vent miſchief; ſince I need only not to deny my being his. But yet I ſhould be exceedingly unhappy in my [93] own opinion, to be driven into ſuch a tacit acknow⯑legement to any new perſons, till I am ſo, altho' I have been led (ſo much againſt my liking) to give countenance to the belief of the perſons below that we are married.

I think myſelf obliged, from what paſſed between Mr. Lovelace and me on Wedneſday, and from what I overheard him ſay, to conſent to go with him to the Play; and the rather, as he had the diſcretion to pro⯑poſe one of the Nieces to accompany me.

I cannot but acknowlege that I am pleaſed to find, that he has actually written to Lord M.

I have promiſed to give Mr. Lovelace an anſwer to his propoſals as ſoon as I have heard from you, my dear, on the ſubject.

I hope that in my next Letter I ſhall have reaſon to confirm theſe favourable appearances. Favourable I muſt think them in the wreck I have ſuffered.

I hope, that in the trial which you hint may happen between me and myſelf (as you ^(a) expreſs it) if he ſhould ſo behave, as to oblige me to leave him, I ſhall be able to act in ſuch a manner, as to bring no diſ⯑credit upon myſelf in your eye; and that is all now that I have to wiſh for. But if I value him ſo much as you are pleaſed to ſuppoſe I do, the trial which you imagine will be ſo difficult to me, will not, I con⯑ceive, be upon getting from him, when the means to effect my eſcape are lent me; but how I ſhall behave when got from him; and if, like the Iſraelites of old, I ſhall be ſo weak as to wiſh to return to my Egyptian bondage.

I think it will not be amiſs, notwithſtanding the preſent favourable appearances, that you ſhould perfect the ſcheme (whatever it be) which you tell me you have thought of, in order to procure for me an aſylum, in caſe of neceſſity. Mr. Lovelace is certainly a deep and dangerous man; and it is therefore but prudence [94] to be watchful; and to be provided againſt the worſt. Lord bleſs me, my dear, how am I reduced!—Could I ever have thought to be in ſuch a ſituation, as to be obliged to ſtay with a man, of whoſe honour by me I could have but the ſhadow of a doubt!—But I will look forward, and hope the beſt.

I am certain, that your Letters are ſafe.—Be per⯑fectly eaſy, therefore, on that head.

Mr. Lovelace will never be out of my company by his good-will; otherwiſe I have no doubt that I am miſtreſs of my goings-out and comings-in; and did I think it needful, and were I not afraid of my Brother, and Capt, Singleton, I would oftener put it to trial.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 130. l. 3, 4. and Edit. ii. p. 132. l. 10, 11. after humbling of her, dele what fol⯑lows, and read,

In another Letter ^(a), the little Fury profeſſes, that ſhe will write, and that no man ſhall write for her, as if ſome medium of that kind had been propoſed. She approves of her fair friend's intention, to leave me, if ſhe can he received by her relations. I am a wretch, a fooliſh wretch. She hates me for my teazing ways. She has juſt made an acquaintance with one who knows a vaſt deal of my private hiſtory. A curſe upon her, and upon her hiſtoriographer!—The man is really a villain, an execrable one. Devil take her! Had I a dozen lives, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 133. l. penult. & ult. and Edit. ii. p. 136. l. 7, 8. after their purlieus, inſert,

Tho' tricked into this man's power, ſhe tells her, ſhe is not meanly ſubjugated to it. There are hopes of my Reformation, it ſeems, from my reverence for her; ſince before her, I never had any reverence for what was good! I am a great, a ſpecious deceiver. I thank her for this, however. A good moral uſe, ſhe ſays, may [95] be made of my having prevailed upon her to ſwerve. I am glad that any good may flow from my actions.

Annexed to this Letter, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 136. l. 25. and Edit. ii. p. 138. l. 33, 34. after bearing this, Belford, inſert,

But ſuch men as myſelf, are the men that women do not naturally hate.—True as the goſpel, Jack!—The truth is out at laſt. Have I not always told thee ſo? Sweet creatures and true Chriſtians theſe young girls! They love their enemies. But Rakes in their hearts all of them: Like turns to Like; that's the thing. Were I not well aſſured of the truth of this obſerva⯑tion of the vixen, I ſhould have thought it worth while, if not to be a good man, to be more of an hy⯑pocrite, than I found it needful to be.

But in the Letter, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 143. l. 34, 35. and Edit. ii. p. 146. l. 14. after upon it ſtill, dele to I was ſo diſguſted with him, &c. and read,

Do you not think, my dear, that I have reaſon to be incenſed at him, my ſituation conſidered? Am I not under a neceſſity, as it were, of quarreling with him; at leaſt every other time I ſee him? No Pru⯑dery, no Coquetry, no Tyranny in my heart, or in my behaviour to him, that I know of. No affected Pro⯑craſtination. Aiming at nothing but decorum. He as much concerned, and ſo he ought to think, as I, to have That obſerved. Too much in his power: Caſt upon him by the cruelty of my relations. No other protection to fly to but his. One plain path before us; yet ſuch embarraſſes, ſuch difficulties, ſuch ſub⯑jects for doubt, for cavil, for uneaſineſs; as faſt as one is obviated, another to be introduced, and not by my⯑ſelf—I know not how introduced—What pleaſure can I propoſe to myſelf in meeting ſuch a wretch?

Perfect for me, my deareſt Miſs Howe, perfect for me, I beſeech you, your kind ſcheme with Mrs. Townſend; and I will then leave this man.

[96]My temper, I believe, is changed. No wonder if it be. I queſtion whether ever it will be what it was. But I cannot make him half ſo uneaſy by the change, as I am myſelf. See you not how, from ſtep to ſtep, he grows upon me?—I tremble to look back upon his encroachments. And now to give me cauſe to appre⯑hend more evil from him, than indignation will permit me to expreſs!—O my dear, perfect your ſcheme, and let me fly from ſo ſtrange a wretch!

Yet, to be firſt an eloper from my friends to him, as the world ſuppoſes; and now to be ſo from him [To whom I know not!] how hard to one who ever endea⯑voured to ſhun intricate paths! But he muſt certainly have views in quarreling with me thus, which he dare not own!—Yet what can they be?—I am terrified but to think of what they may be!

Let me but get from him!—As to my reputation, if I leave him—That is already too much wounded for me, now, to be careful about any-thing, but how to act ſo, as that my own Heart ſhall not reproach me. As to the world's cenſure, I muſt be content to ſuffer that—An unhappy compoſition, however!— What a wreck have my fortunes ſuffered, to be ob⯑liged to throw overboard ſo many valuables, to pre⯑ſerve, indeed, the only valuable!—A compoſition that once it would have half-broken my heart to think there would have been the leaſt danger that I ſhould be obliged to ſubmit to.

You, my dear, could not be a ſtranger to my moſt ſecret failings, altho' you would not tell me of them. What a pride did I take in the applauſe of every one!—What a pride even in ſuppoſing I had not that pride!—Which concealed itſelf from my unexamining heart under the ſpecious veil of Humility, doubling the merit to myſelf by the ſuppoſed, and indeed imputed, gracefulneſs in the manner of conferring benefits, when I had not a ſingle merit in what I did, vaſtly overpaid by the pleaſure of doing ſome little good, [97] and impelled, as I may ſay, by talents given me— For what!—Not to be proud of.

So deſirous, in ſhort, to be conſidered as an Ex⯑ample! A vanity which my partial admirers put into my head!—And ſo ſecure in my own virtue!

I am puniſhed enough, enough mortified, for this my vanity—I hope, enough, if it ſo pleaſe the all-gracious Inflicter: Since now, I verily think, I more deſpiſe myſelf for my preſumptuous ſelf-ſecurity, as well as vanity, than ever I ſecretly vaunted myſelf on my good inclinations: Secretly, I ſay, however; for indeed I had not given myſelf leiſure to reflect, till I was thus mortified, how very imperfect I was; nor how much truth there is in what Divines tell us, That we ſin in our beſt performances.

But I was very young—But here let me watch over myſelf again: For in thoſe four words, I was very young, is there not a palliation couched, that were enough to take all efficacy from the diſcovery and confeſſion?

What ſtrange imperfect beings!—But Self here, which is at the bottom of all we do, and of all we wiſh, is the grand miſleader.

I will not apologize to you, my dear, for theſe grave reflections. Is it not enough to make the un⯑happy creature look into herſelf, and endeavour to detect herſelf, who, from ſuch an high Reputation, left to proud and preſumptuous Self, ſhould, by one thoughtleſs ſtep, be brought to the dreadful ſituation I am in?

Let me, however, look forward: To deſpond would be to add ſin to ſin. And whom have I to raiſe me up, whom to comfort me, if I deſert myſelf?— Thou, O Father! who, I hope, haſt not yet de⯑ſerted, haſt not yet curſed me!—For I am thine!—It is fit that meditation ſhould ſupply the reſt.—

I WAS ſo diſguſted with him, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 162. l. 13. and Edit. ii. p. 164. l. 13. from the bottom, after farther between us, inſert,

But I ſee, I ſee, ſhe does not hate me!—How it would mortify my vanity, if I thought there was a woman in the world, much more this, that could hate me!—'Tis evident, villain as ſhe thinks me, that I ſhould not be an odious villain, if I could but at laſt in one inſtance ceaſe to be a villain! She could not hold it, determined as ſhe had thought herſelf, I ſaw by her eyes, the moment I endeavoured to diſſipate her apprehenſions, on my too-ready knees, as ſhe calls them. The moment the rough covering that my teazing behaviour has thrown over her affections is quite removed, I doubt not to find all ſilk and ſilver at bottom, all ſoft, bright, and charming.

I was however, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 170. l. 8. and Edit. ii. p. 172. l. 19. after be always overcome, inſert,

Our Mother and her nymphs ſay, I am a perfect Craven, and no Lovelace: And ſo I think. But this is no ſimpering, ſmiling charmer, as I have found others to be, when I have touched upon affecting ſub⯑jects at a diſtance; as once or twice I have tried to her, the Mother introducing them (to make Sex pal⯑liate the freedom to Sex), when only we three toge⯑ther. She is above the affectation of not ſeeming to underſtand you. She ſhews by her diſpleaſure, and a fierceneſs not natural to her eye, that ſhe judges of an impure heart by an impure mouth, and darts dead at once even the embryo hopes of an encroaching Lover, however diſtantly inſinuated, before the mean⯑ing hint can dawn into double entendre.

By my faith, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 196. l. 28. and Edit. ii. p. 199. l. 16. dele that paragraph, and inſert the following Letter:

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 198. l. 10. and Edit. ii. p. 200. l. antepenult. after bring thee to it, inſert,

All that vexes me, in the midſt of my gloried in devices, is, that there is a ſorry fellow in the world, who has preſumed to queſtion, whether the prize, when obtained, is worthy of the pains it coſts me: Yet knows, with what patience and trouble a bird-man will ſpread an acre of ground with gins and ſnares; ſet up his ſtalking-horſe, his glaſſes; plant his decoy-birds, and invite the feathered throng by his whiſtle; and all his prize at laſt (the reward of early hours, and of a whole morning's pains) only a ſimple Linnet.

To be ſerious, Belford, I muſt acknowlege, that all our purſuits, from childhood to manhood, are only trifles of different ſorts and ſizes, proportioned to our years and views: But then is not a fine woman the nobleſt trifle, that ever was or could be obtained by man?—And to what purpoſe do we ſay obtained, if it be not in the way we wiſh for?—If a man is rather to be her prize, than ſhe his?

AND now, Belford, what doſt think, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 203. l. penult. & ult. and Edit, ii. p. 206. l. 22, 23. after are ſuperſeded, inſert,

But let me give thee a few particulars of our con⯑verſation in the circumrotation we took, while in the coach—She had received a Letter from Miſs Howe yeſterday, I preſumed?

She made no anſwer. How happy ſhould I think myſelf to be admitted into their correſpondence! I would joyfully make an exchange of communications.

So, tho' I hoped not to ſucceed by her conſent [and little did ſhe think I had ſo happily in part ſuccecded without it] I thought it not amiſs to urge for it, for ſeveral reaſons: Among others, that I might account [109] to her for my conſtant employment at my pen; in order to take off her jealouſy, that ſhe was the ſubject of thy correſpondence and mine: And that I might juſtify my ſecrecy and uncommunicativeneſs by her own.

I proceeded therefore—That I loved Familiar-let⯑ter-writing, as I had more than once told her, above all the ſpecies of writing: It was writing from the heart (without the fetters preſcribed by method or ſtudy) as the very word Cor-reſpondence implied. Not the heart only; the ſoul was in it. Nothing of body, when friend writes to friend; the mind impelling ſo⯑vereignly, the vaſſal-fingers. It was, in ſhort, friend⯑ſhip recorded; friendſhip given under hand and ſeal; demonſtrating that the parties were under no appre⯑henſion of changing from time or accident, when they ſo liberally gave teſtimonies, which would always be ready, on failure, or infidelity, to be turned againſt them.—For my own part, it was the principal diver⯑ſion I had in her abſence: But for this innocent amuſement, the diſtance ſhe ſo frequently kept me at, would have been intolerable.

Sally knew my drift; and ſaid, She had had the ho⯑nour to ſee two or three of my letters, and of Mr. Belford's; and ſhe thought them the moſt entertain⯑ing that ſhe had ever read.

My friend Belford, I ſaid, had a happy talent in the Letter-writing way; and upon all ſubjects.

I expected my Beloved would have been inquiſitive after our ſubjects: But (lying perdue, as I ſaw) not a word ſaid ſhe. So I touched upon this article myſelf.

Our topics were various and diffuſe: Sometimes upon literary articles [She was very attentive upon this]; ſometimes upon the public entertainments; ſometimes amuſing each other with the fruits of the different correſpondencies we held with perſons abroad, with whom we had contracted friendſhips; ſometimes upon the foibles and perfections of our particular friends; ſometimes upon our own preſent and future [110] hopes; ſometimes aiming at humour and raillery upon each other—It might indeed appear to ſavour of va⯑nity, to ſuppoſe my Letters would entertain a Lady of her delicacy and judgment: But yet I could not but ſay, that perhaps ſhe would be far from thinking ſo hardly of me as ſometimes ſhe had ſeemed to do, if ſhe were to ſee the Letters which generally paſſed be⯑tween Mr. Belford and me [I hope, Jack, thou haſt more manners, than to give me the lye, tho' but in thy heart].

She then ſpoke: After declining my compliment in ſuch a manner, as only a perſon could do, who de⯑ſerved it, ſhe ſaid, For her part, ſhe had always thought me a man of ſenſe [A man of ſenſe, Jack! What a niggardly praiſe!]—And ſhould therefore hope, that, when I wrote, it exceeded even my ſpeech: For that it was impoſſible, be the Letters written in as eaſy and familiar a ſtyle as they would, but that they muſt have that advantage from ſitting down to write them which prompt ſpeech could not always have. She ſhould think it very ſtrange, there⯑fore, if my Letters were barren of ſentiment; and as ſtrange, if I gave myſelf liberties upon premedi⯑tation, which could have no excuſe at all, but from a thoughtleſſneſs, which itſelf wanted excuſe.—But if Mr. Belford's Letters and mine were upon ſubjects ſo general, and ſome of them equally (ſhe preſumed) inſtructive and entertaining, ſhe could not but ſay, that ſhe ſhould be glad to ſee any of them; and par⯑ticularly thoſe which Miſs Martin had ſeen, and praiſed.

This was put cloſe.

I looked at her, to ſee if I could diſcover any tincture of jealouſy in this hint; that Miſs Martin had ſeen what I had not ſhewn to her. But ſhe did not look it: So I only ſaid, I ſhould be very proud to ſhew her not only thoſe, but all that paſſed between Mr. Belford and me; but I muſt remind her, that ſhe knew the condition.

[111]No, indeed! with a ſweet lip pouted out, as ſaucy as pretty; implying a lovely ſcorn, that yet can only be lovely in youth ſo blooming, and beauty ſo di⯑vinely diſtinguiſhed.

How I long to ſee ſuch a motion again! Her mouth only can give it.

But I am mad with Love—Yet eternal will be the diſtance, at the rate I go on: Now fire, now ice, my ſoul is continually upon the hiſs, as I may ſay. In vain, however, is the trial to quench—what, after all, is unquenchable.

Pry'thee, Belford, forgive my nonſenſe, and my Vulcan-like metaphors—Did I not tell thee, not that I am ſick of Love, but that I am mad with it? Why brought I ſuch an angel into ſuch a houſe? into ſuch company? — And why do I not ſtop my ears to the Si⯑rens, who, knowing my averſion to wedlock, are per⯑petually touching that ſtring?

I was not willing to be anſwered ſo eaſily: I was ſure, that what paſſed between two ſuch young La⯑dies (friends ſo dear) might be ſeen by every-body: I had more reaſon than any-body to wiſh to ſee the Letters that paſſed between her and Miſs Howe; be⯑cauſe I was ſure they muſt be full of admirable in⯑ſtruction, and one of the dear correſpondents had deigned to wiſh my entire reformation.

She looked at me, as if ſhe would look me thro': I thought I felt eye-beam, after eye-beam, penetrate my ſhivering reins.—But ſhe was ſilent. Nor needed her eyes the aſſiſtance of ſpeech.

Nevertheleſs, a little recovering myſelf, I hoped that nothing unhappy had befallen either Miſs Howe or her Mother. The Letter of yeſterday ſent by a particular hand; ſhe opening it with great emotion— ſeeming to have expected it ſooner—were the reaſons for my apprehenſions.

We were then at Muſwell-hill: A pretty country within the eye, to Polly, was the remark, inſtead of replying to me.

[112]But I was not ſo to be anſwered—I ſhould expect ſome charming ſubjects and characters from two ſuch pens: I hoped every-thing went on well between Mr. Hickman and Miſs Howe. Her Mother's heart, I ſaid, was ſet upon that match: Mr. Hickman was not without his merits: He was what they Ladies called a SOBER man: But I muſt needs ſay, that I thought Miſs Howe deſerved a huſband of a very dif⯑ferent caſt!

This, I ſuppoſed, would have engaged her into a ſubject from which I could have wiredrawn ſome⯑thing:—For Hickman is one of her favourites—Why, I can't divine, except for the ſake of oppoſition of character to that of thy honeſt friend.

But ſhe cut me ſhort by a look of diſapprobation, and another cool remark upon a diſtant view; and, How far off, Miſs Horton, do you think that clump of trees may be? pointing out of the coach—So I had done.

Here endeth all I have to write concerning our con⯑verſation on this our agreeable airing.

We have both been writing, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 210. l. 9. and Edit. ii. p. 212. l. 30. add the following paragraph:

'Tis true, I have owned more than once, that I could have liked Mr. Lovelace above all men. I re⯑member the debates you and I uſed to have on this ſubject, when I was your happy gueſt. You uſed to ſay, and once you wrote, that men of his caſt are the men that our Sex do not naturally diſlike: While I held, that ſuch were not (however that might be) the men we ought to like. But what with my Relations precipitating of me, on one hand, and what with his unhappy character, and embarraſſing ways, on the other, I had no more leiſure than inclination to exa⯑mine my own heart in this particular. And this re⯑minds me of a paſſage in one of your former Letters, [113] which I will tranſcribe, tho' it was written in raillery. May it not be, ſay you ^(a), that you have had ſuch perſons to deal with, as have not allowed you to attend to the throbs; or, if you had them a little now-and-then, whether, having had two accounts to place them to, you have not by miſtake put them to the wrong one? A paſſage, which, altho' it came into my mind when Mr. Lovelace was leaſt exceptionable, yet that I have denied any efficacy to, when he has teazed and vexed me, and given me cauſe of ſuſpicion. For, after all, my dear, Mr. Lovelace is not wiſe in all his ways. And ſhould we not endeavour, as much as is poſſible, (where we are not attached by natural ties) to like and diſlike as reaſon bids us, and according to the merit or demerit of the object? If Love, as it is called, is allowed to be an excuſe for our moſt unreaſonable fol⯑lies, and to lay level all the fences that a careful edu⯑cation has ſurrounded us by, what is meant by the doctrine of ſubduing our paſſions?—But, O my dear⯑eſt friend, am I not guilty of a puniſhable fault, were I to love this man of errors? And has not my own heart deceived me, when I thought I did not? And what muſt be that Love, that has not ſome degree of purity for its object? I am afraid of recollecting ſome paſſages in my Couſin Morden's Letter ^(b).—And yet why fly I from ſubjects that, duly conſidered, might tend to correct and purify my heart? I have carried, I doubt, my notions on this head too high, not for practice, but for my practice. Yet think me not guilty of Prudery neither; for had I found out as much of myſelf before, or, rather, had he given me heart's-eaſe enough before to find it out, you ſhould have had my confeſſion ſooner.

Nevertheleſs let me tell you, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 232. l. 28, 29. and Edit. ii. p. 235. l. 4, 5. after the words Miſs Howe's Smuggling ſcheme, inſert,

My conſcience, I ſhould think, ought not to re⯑proach me for a contrivance, which is juſtified by the contrivances of two ſuch girls as theſe: One of whom (the more excellent of the two) I have always, with her own approbation as I imagine, propoſed for my imitation.

But here, Jack, is the thing that concludes me, and caſes my heart with adamant: I find by Miſs Howe's Letters, that it is owing to her, that I have made no greater progreſs with my blooming Fair-one. She loves me. The Ipecacuanha contrivance con⯑vinces me, that ſhe loves me. Where there is Love, there muſt be confidence, or a deſire of having reaſon to confide. Generoſity, founded on my ſuppoſed ge⯑neroſity, has taken hold of her heart. Shall I not now ſee (ſince I muſt be for ever unhappy, if I marry her, and leave any trial uneſſayed) what I can make of her Love, and her newly-raiſed confidence?—Will it not be to my glory to ſucceed? And to hers, and to the honour of her Sex, if I cannot?— Where then will be the hurt to either, to make the trial? And cannot I, as I have often ſaid, reward her when I will by mar⯑riage?

'Tis late, or rather early, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 247. l. 17. and Edit. ii. p. 249. l. 27. after in human ſhape, dele to the end of the Letter; and read,

It cannot but yield me ſome pleaſure, hardly as I have ſometimes thought of the people of the houſe, that ſuch a good man, as Captain Tomlinſon, had ſpoken well of them, upon enquiry.

And here I ſtop a minute, my dear, to receive, in fancy, your kind congratulation.

[115]My next, I hope, will confirm my preſent, and open ſtill more agreeable proſpects. Mean time be aſſured, that there cannot poſſibly be any good fortune befal me, which I ſhall look upon with equal delight to that I have in your friendſhip.

My thankful compliments to your good Mr. Hick⯑man; to whoſe kind intervention I am ſo much ob⯑liged on this occaſion, conclude me, my deareſt Miſs Howe,

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 249. l. 23. and Edit. ii. p. 251. l. 29. after aſſented to, inſert,

Her wiſhes, from my attentive behaviour, when with her at St. Paul's, that I would often accompany her to the Divine Service, were gently intimated, and as readily engaged for. I aſſured her, that I ever had reſpected the Clergy in a body; and ſome individuals of them (her Dr. Lewen for one) highly: And that were not going to church an act of Religion, I thought it [as I told thee once] a moſt agreeable ſight to ſee Rich and Poor, all of a company, as I might ſay, aſ⯑ſembled once a week in one place, and each in his or her beſt attire, to worſhip the God that made them. Nor could it be a hardſhip upon a man liberally edu⯑cated, to make one on ſo ſolemn an occaſion, and to hear the harangue of a man of Letters (tho' far from being the principal part of the Service, as it is too ge⯑nerally looked upon to be) whoſe ſtudies having taken a different turn from his own, he muſt always have ſomething new to ſay.

She ſhook her head, and repeated the word New: But looked as if willing to be ſatisfied for the preſent with this anſwer. To be ſure, Jack, ſhe means to do great deſpight to his Satanic Majeſty in her hopes of reforming me. No wonder therefore if he exerts himſelf to prevent her, and to be revenged—But how [116] came this in?—I am ever of party againſt myſelf.— One day, I fanſy, I ſhall hate myſelf on recollecting what I am about at this inſtant. But I muſt ſtay till then. We muſt all of us do ſomething to repent of.

The Reconciliation-proſpect, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 250. l. antepenult. and Edit. ii. p. 253. l. 4, 5. after in the world, inſert,

But, indeed, I know not the ſubject on which ſhe does not talk with admirable diſtinction; inſomuch that could I but get over my prejudices againſt Ma⯑trimony, and reſolve to walk in the dull beaten path of my anceſtors, I ſhould be the happieſt of men— And if I cannot, perhaps I may be ten times more to be pitied than ſhe.

My heart, my heart, Belford, is not to be truſted— I break off, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 256. l. 4. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 259. l. 11. after to be raiſed, inſert,

But never, I believe, was there ſo true, ſo delicate a modeſty in the human mind as in that of this Lady. And this has been my ſecurity all along; and, in ſpite of Miſs Howe's advice to her, will be ſo ſtill; ſince, if her Delicacy be a fault, ſhe can no more overcome it than I can my averſion to Matrimony. Habit, ha⯑bit, Jack, ſeeſt thou not? may ſubject us both to weakneſſes. And ſhould ſhe not have charity for me, as I have for her?

Twice indeed, &c.

Vol. v. p. 175. l. 2. after how it looked, inſert,

So here am I in my Dining-room; and have nothing to do but write, till they return.

And what will be my ſubject, thinkeſt thou?— Why, the old beaten one, to be ſure; Self-debate— [117] thro' temporary remorſe: For the blow being not ſtruck, her guardian angel is redoubling his efforts to ſave her.

If it be not that [And yet what power ſhould her guardian angel have over me?] I don't know what it is, that gives a check to my revenge, whenever I me⯑ditate treaſon againſt ſo ſovereign a virtue. Con⯑ſcience is dead and gone, as I told thee; ſo it cannot be that. A young Conſcience growing up, like the phoenix, from the aſhes of the old one, it cannot be ſurely. But if it were, it would be hard, if I could not overlay a young Conſcience.

Well then, it muſt be LOVE, I fanſy. LOVE it⯑ſelf, inſpiring Love of an object ſo adorable—Some little attention poſſibly paid too to thy whining argu⯑ments in her favour.

Let LOVE then be allowed to be the moving prin⯑ciple; and the rather, as LOVE naturally makes the Lover loth to diſoblige the object of its flame; and knowing, that an offence of the meditated kind will be a mortal offence to her, cannot bear that I ſhould think of giving it.

Let LOVE and me talk together a little on this ſub⯑ject—Be it a Young Conſcience, or Love, or Thyſelf, Jack, thou ſeeſt that I am for giving every whiffler audience. But this muſt be the laſt debate on this ſubject; for is not her fate in a manner at its criſis? And muſt not my next ſtep be an irretrievable one, tend it which way it will?

AND now the debate is over.

A thouſand charming things (for LOVE is gentler than CONSCIENCE) has this little urchin ſuggeſted in her favour.

He pretended to know both our hearts: And he would have it, that tho' my Love was a prodigious ſtrong and potent Love; and tho' it has the merit of many months faithful ſervice to plead, and has had [118] infinite difficulties to ſtruggle with; yet that it is not THE RIGHT SORT OF LOVE.

Right ſort of Love!—A puppy!—But, with due regard to your deityſhip, ſaid I, what merit has ſhe with YOU, that you ſhould be of her party? Is hers, I pray you, a right ſort of Love? Is it Love at all? She don't pretend that it is. She owns not your ſove⯑reignty. What a d—l moves You, to plead thus ear⯑neſtly for a rebel, who deſpiſes your power?

And then he came with his If's and And's—And it would have been, and ſtill, as he believed, would be, Love, and a Love of the exalted kind, if I would en⯑courage it by the right ſort of Love he talked of: And, in juſtification of his opinion, pleaded her own confeſſions, as well thoſe of yeſterday, as of this morn⯑ing: And even went ſo far back as to my Ipecacuanha-illneſs.

I never talked ſo familiarly with his godſhip before: Thou mayeſt think therefore, that his dialect ſounded oddly in my ears. And then he told me, how often I had thrown cold water upon the moſt charming flame that ever warmed a Lady's boſom, while yet but young and riſing.

I required a definition of this right ſort of Love. He tried at it: But made a ſorry hand of it: Nor could I, for the ſoul of me, be convinced, that what he meant to extol, was LOVE.

Upon the whole, we had a notable controverſy upon this ſubject, in which he inſiſted upon the unprecedented merit of the Lady. Nevertheleſs I got the better of him; for he was ſtruck abſolutely dumb, when (wave⯑ing her preſent perverſeneſs, which yet was a ſufficient anſwer to all his pleas) I aſſerted, and offered to prove it, by a thouſand inſtances impromptu, that Love was not governed by merit, nor could be under the domi⯑nion of prudence, or any other reaſoning power: And that if the Lady were capable of Love, it was of ſuch a ſort of Love, as he had nothing to do with, and which never before reigned in a female heart.

[119]I aſked him, What he thought of her flight from me, at a time when I was more than half overcome by the right ſort of Love he talked of?—And then I ſhewed him the Letter ſhe wrote, and left behind her for me, with an intention, no doubt, abſolutely to break my heart, or to provoke me to hang, drown, or ſhoot myſelf; to ſay nothing of a multitude of decla⯑rations from her, defying his power, and imputing all that looked like Love in her behaviour to me, to the perſecution and rejection of her friends; which made her think of me but as a laſt reſort.

LOVE then gave her up. The Letter, he ſaid, de⯑ſerved neither pardon nor excuſe. He did not think he had been pleading for ſuch a declared rebel. And as to the reſt, he ſhould be a betrayer of the rights of his own ſovereignty, if what I had alleged were true, and he were ſtill to plead for her.

I ſwore to the truth of all. And truly I ſwore: Which perhaps I do not always do.

And now what thinkeſt thou muſt become of the Lady, whom LOVE itſelf gives up, and CONSCIENCE cannot plead for?

Vol. v. p. 200. dele paragr. penult. and read,

I ſent up the Letter to my Beloved, by Mrs. Bevis, with a repeated requeſt for admittance to her preſence upon it: But neither did this ſtand me in ſtead. I ſuppoſe ſhe thought it would be allowing of the con⯑ſequences that were naturally to be expected to follow the obtaining of this inſtrument, if ſhe had conſented to ſee me on the contents of this Letter, having re⯑fuſed me that honour before I ſent it up to her.—No ſurpriſing her!—No advantage to be taken of her in⯑attention to the niceſt circumſtances!

And now, Belford, I ſet out upon buſineſs.

Vol. v. p. 246. l. penult. after a merry evening, inſert,

Thou wilt be curious to know, what the perſons of [120] theſe women are, to whom I intend ſo much diſtin⯑ction. I think I have not heretofore mentioned any⯑thing-characteriſtic of their perſons.

Mrs. Moore is a widow of about Thirty-eight; a little mortified by misfortunes; but thoſe are often the merrieſt folks, when warmed. She has good fea⯑tures ſtill; and is what they call much of a gentle⯑woman, and very neat in her perſon and dreſs. She has given over, I believe, all thoughts of our Sex: But when the dying embers are raked up about the half-conſumed ſtump, there will be fuel enough left, I dare ſay, to blaze out, and give a comfortable warmth to a half-ſtarved by ſtander.

Mrs. Bevis is comely; that is to ſay, plump; a lover of mirth, and one whom no grief ever dwelt with, I dare ſay, for a week together; about Twenty-five years of age: Mowbray will have very little dif⯑ficulty with her, I believe; for one cannot do every⯑thing one's ſelf. And yet ſometimes women of this free caſt, when it comes to the point, anſwer not the promiſes their chearful forwardneſs gives a man who has a view upon them.

Miſs Rawlins is an agreeable young Lady enough; but not beautiful. She has ſenſe, and would be thought to know the world, as it is called; but, for her know⯑lege, is more indebted to Theory than Experience. A mere whipt-ſyllabub knowlege this, Jack, that always fails the perſon who truſts to it, when it ſhould hold to do her ſervice. For ſuch young Ladies have ſo much dependence upon their own underſtanding and warineſs, are ſo much above the cautions that the leſs opinionative may be benefited by, that their preſum⯑ption is generally their overthrow, when attempted by a man of experience, who knows how to flatter their vanity, and to magnify their wiſdom, in order to take advantage of their folly. But, for Miſs Rawlins, if I can add Experience to her Theory, what an accom⯑pliſhed perſon will ſhe be!—And how much will ſhe [121] be obliged to me; and not only ſhe, but all thoſe who may be the better for the precepts ſhe thinks herſelf already ſo well qualified to give! Dearly, Jack, do I love to engage with theſe precept-givers, and ex⯑ample-ſetters.

Now, Belford, altho' there is nothing ſtriking in any of theſe characters; yet may we, at a pinch, make a good frolicky half-day with them, if, after we have ſoftened their wax at table by encouraging viands, we can ſet our women and them into dancing: Dancing, which all women love, and all men ſhould therefore promote, for both their ſakes.

And thus, when Tourville ſings, Belton fiddles, Mowbray makes rough love, and I ſmooth; and thou, Jack, wilt be by that time well enough to join in the chorus; the devil's in't, if we don't mould them into what ſhape we pleaſe—our own women, by their laughing freedoms, encouraging them to break thro' all their cuſtomary reſerves: For Women to Women, thou knoweſt, are great darers and incen⯑tives; not one of them loving to be outdone or out-dared, when their hearts are thoroughly warmed.

I know, at firſt, the difficulty will be the accidental abſence of my dear Mrs. Lovelace, to whom princi⯑pally they will deſign their viſit: But if we can exhi⯑larate them, they won't then wiſh to ſee her; and I can form twenty accidents and excuſes, from one hour to another, for her abſence, till each ſhall have a ſubject to take up all her thoughts.

I am really ſick at heart for a frolick, &c.

Vol. v. p. 325. l. 7. after in their traces, inſert,

I AM juſt come from theſe Sorcereſſes.

I was forced to take the Mother down; for ſhe began with her Hoh, Sirs! with me; and to cate⯑chize and upbraid me, with as much inſolence as if I owed her money.

I made her fly the Pit, at laſt. Strange wiſhes [122] wiſhed we againſt each other, at her quitting it— What were they?—I'll tell thee—She wiſhed me mar⯑ried, and to be jealous of my Wife; and my Heir-Apparent the child of another man. I was even with her with a vengeance. And yet thou wilt think that could not well be.—As how?—As how, Jack!— Why I wiſhed her Conſcience come to life!—And I know by the gripes mine gives me every half-hour, that ſhe would then have a curſed time of it.

Sally and Polly gave themſelves high airs too. Their firſt favours were thrown at me. Women to boaſt of thoſe favours which they were as willing to impart, firſt forms all the difficulty with them! as I to receive, how whimſical! I was upbraided with Ingratitude, Daſtardice, and all my difficulties with my angel charged upon myſelf, for want of following my blows; and for leaving the proud Lady miſtreſs of her own will, and nothing to reproach herſelf with. And all agreed, that the arts uſed againſt her on a certain occaſion, had too high an operation for them or me to judge what her will would have been in the arduous trial. And then they blamed one another; as I curſed them all.

They concluded that I ſhould certainly marry, and be a loſt man. And Sally, on this occaſion, with an affected an malicious laugh, ſnapt her fingers at me, and pointing two of each hand forkedly at me, bid me remember the lines I once ſhewed her, of my fa⯑vourite Jack Dryden, as ſhe always familiarly calls that celebrated Poet.

This infernal Implement had the confidence further to hint, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 84. l. 7. from the bottom, add the following Poſtſcript to Miſs Howe's Letter:

Once more forgive me, my deareſt creature, for my barbarous tauntings in mine of the 5th! Yet I can hardly forgive myſelf. I to be ſo cruel, yet to know you ſo well!—Whence, whence had I this vile impatiency of ſpirit!—

Vol. vi. p. 84. begin Clariſſa's Letter thus:

FORGIVE you, my dear!—Moſt cordially do I forgive you—Will yours forgive me ſome ſharp things I wrote in return to you of the 5th? You could not have loved me, as you do, nor had the concern you have always ſhewn for my Honour, if you had not been utterly diſpleaſed with me, on the appear⯑ance which my conduct wore to you when you wrote that Letter. I moſt heartily thank you, my beſt and only Love, for the opportunity you gave me of clearing it up; and for being generouſly ready to ac⯑quit of me intentional blame, the moment you hap re'd my melancholy Narrative.

I approve, my deareſt Friend, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 91. l. 6. from the bottom, after Fa⯑ther's malediction, dele the reſt of the Paragraph; and read,

The temporary part ſo ſtrangely and ſo literally completed! —I cannot, however, think, when my mind is ſtrongeſt—But what is the ſtory of Iſaac, and Jacob, and Eſau, and of Rebekah's cheating the latter of the Bleſſing deſigned for him (in favour of Jacob) given us for in the 27th Chapter of Geneſis? My Father uſed, I remember, to enforce the Doc⯑trine deducible from it, on his children, by many ar⯑guments. At leaſt therefore, He muſt believe there is great weight in the curſe he has announced: And [124] ſhall I not be ſolicitous to get it revoked, that he may not hereafter be grieved, for my ſake, that he did not revoke it?

All I will at preſent add, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 107. l. 11. from the bottom, after the prim mouths of the young Ladies, dele the reſt of the paragraph; and read,

They, perhaps, had they met with ſuch another in⯑trepid Fellow as myſelf, who had firſt gained upon their affections, would not have made ſuch a rout as my Beloved has done, about ſuch an affair as that we were aſſembled upon. Young Ladies, as I have obſerved on an hundred occaſions, fear not half ſo much for themſelves, as their Mothers do for them. But here the Girls were forced to put on grave airs, and to ſeem angry, becauſe the Antiques made the matter of ſuch high importance. Yet ſo lightly ſat anger and fellow-feeling at their hearts, that they were forced to purſe in their mouths, to ſuppreſs the ſmiles I now-and-then laid out for: While the Elders having had Roſes (that is to ſay, Daughters) of their own, and knowing how fond men are of a Trifle, would have been very loth to have had them nipt in the bud, without ſaying, By your leave, Mrs. Roſe-buſh, to the mother of it.

The next article, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 121. l. 7. after own treaſury, inſert,

And then, can there be ſo much harm done, if it can be ſo eaſily repaired by a few magical words; as I, Robert, take thee, Clariſſa; and I, Clariſſa, take thee, Robert; with the reſt of the for-better and for-worſe Legerdemain, which will hocus pocus all the wrongs, the crying wrongs, that I have done to Miſs Harlowe, into acts of kindneſs and benevolence to Mrs. Lovelace?

But, Jack, two things I muſt inſiſt upon, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 156. l. 7. after thy own faults, inſert,

Dorcas, whoſe acquaintance this fellow is, and who recommended him for the journey, had condi⯑tioned with him, it ſeems, for a ſhare in the expected bounty from you. Had ſhe been to have had her ſhare made good, I wiſh thou hadſt broken every bone in his ſkin.

Under what ſhocking diſadvantages, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 190. l. 14. after thee the wiſer, dele the following paragraph; and ready,

That's a charming girl! Her ſpirit, her delightful ſpirit!—Not to be married to it—How I wiſh to get that lively Bird into my cage! How would I make her flutter and fly about!—Till ſhe left a feather upon every wire!

Had I begun there, I am confident, as I have here⯑tofore ſaid, that I ſhould not have had half the diffi⯑culty with her, as I have had with her charming friend. For theſe paſſionate girls have high pulſes, and a cle⯑ver fellow may make what ſport he pleaſes with their unevenneſſes—Now too high, now too low, you need only to provoke and appeaſe them by turns; to bear with them, and forbear; to teaze, and aſk pardon; and ſometimes to give yourſelf the merit of a ſufferer from them; then catching them in the moment of conceſſion, conſcious of their ill uſage of you, they are all your own.

But theſe ſedate, contemplative girls, never out of temper but with reaſon; when that reaſon is given them, hardly ever pardon, or afford you another op⯑portunity to offend.

It was in part the apprehenſion that this would be ſo with my dear Miſs Harlowe, that made me carry her to a place where I believed ſhe would be unable to eſcape me, altho' I were not to ſucceed in my firſt attempts. Elſe widow Sorlings's would have been as [126] well for me, as widow Sinclair's. For early I ſaw, that there was no credulity in her to graft upon: No pretending to whine myſelf into her confidence. She was proof againſt amorous perſuaſion. She had rea⯑ſon in her Love. Her penetration and good ſenſe made her hate all compliments that had not truth and nature in them. What could I have done with her in any other place? And yet how long, even there, was I kept in awe, in ſpite of natural incitement, and unnatural inſtigations (as I now think them) by the mere force of that native dignity, and obvious purity of mind and manners, which fill every one with re⯑verence, if not with holy love, as thou calleſt it, the moment he ſees her!—Elſe, thinkeſt thou not, it was eaſy for me to be a fine gentleman, and a delicate Lover, or, at leaſt, a ſpecious and flattering one?

Lady Sarah and Lady Betty, 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.

And after all (methinks thou aſkeſt) Art thou ſtill re⯑ſolved to repair, if reparation be put into thy power?

Why, Jack, I muſt needs own, that my heart has now-and-then ſome retrograde motions, upon thinking ſeriouſly of the irrevocable ceremony. We do not eaſily give up the deſire of our hearts, and what we imagine eſſential to our happineſs, let the expecta⯑tion or hope of compaſſing it be ever ſo unreaſonable or abſurd in the opinion of others. Recurrings there will be: hankerings that will, on every but remotely-favourable incident (however before diſcouraged and beaten back by ill ſucceſs) pop up, and abate the ſa⯑tisfaction we ſhould otherwiſe take in contrariant over⯑tures.

'Tis ungentlemanly, Jack, man to man, to lye— [127] But Matrimony I do not heartily love—altho' with a CLARISSA—Yet I am in earneſt to marry her.

But I am often thinking, that if now this dear creature, ſuffering time, and my penitence, my re⯑lations prayers, and Miſs Howe's meditation, to ſof⯑ten her reſentments [Her revenge thou haſt prettily di⯑ſtinguiſhed away] and to recall repulſed inclination, ſhould conſent to meet me at the altar—How vain will ſhe then make all thy eloquent periods of exe⯑cration!—How many charming interjections of her own will ſhe ſpoil! And what a couple of old Patri⯑archs ſhall we become, going on in the mill-horſe round; getting ſons and daughters; providing Nurſes for them firſt, Governors and Governeſſes next; teaching them leſſons their Father never prac⯑tiſed, nor which their Mother, as her Parents will ſay, was much the better for! And at laſt perhaps, when life ſhall be turned into the dully-ſober Stilneſs, and I become deſirous to forget all my paſt Rogueries, what comfortable reflections will it afford, to find them all revived, with equal, or probably greater trouble and expence, in the perſons and manners of ſo many young Lovelaces of the Boys; and to have the Girls run away with varlets perhaps not half ſo ingenious as myſelf; clumſy fellows, as it might happen, who could not afford the baggages one excuſe for their weakneſs, be⯑ſides thoſe diſgraceful ones of Sex and Nature!—O Belford! who can bear to think of theſe things!— Who, at my time of life eſpecially, and with ſuch a byas for miſchief!

Of this I am abſolutely convinced, that if a man ever intends to marry, and to enjoy in peace his own reflections; and not be afraid of retribution, or of the conſequences of his own example; he ſhould ne⯑ver be a Rake.

This looks like Conſcience; don't it, Belford?

But, being in earneſt ſtill, as I have ſaid, All I have to do, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 191. l. 20. after can ever love him, dele the two following paragraphs; and read,

Every one knows, tbat the Mother (ſawcy as the Daughter ſometimes is) crams him down her throat. Her Mother is one of the moſt violent-ſpirited wo⯑men in England. Her late Huſband could not ſtand in the matrimonial contention of Who ſhould? but tipt off the perch in it, neither knowing how to yield, nor how to conquer.

A charming encouragement for a man of intrigue, whee he has reaſon to believe, that the woman he has a view upon has no Love for her Huſband! What good Principles muſt that Wife have, who is kept in againſt temptation by a ſenſe of her duty, and plighted faith, where affection 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.

Thou haſt not been preaching to him Conſcience and Reformation; haſt thou?—Thou ſhouldſt not take liberries with him of this ſort, unleſs thou thoughteſt him abſolutely irrecoverable. A man in ill health, and cropſick, cannot play with theſe ſolemn things, as thou canſt, and be neither better nor worſe for them.—Repentance, Jack, I have a notion, ſhould be ſet about while a man is in health and ſpirits. What's a man fit for [Not to begin a new work ſurely] when he is not himſelf, nor maſter of his fa⯑culties?—Hence, as I apprehend, it is that a death-bed repentance is ſuppoſed to be ſuch a precarious and ineffectual thing.

As to myſelf, I hope I have a great deal of time before me; ſince I intend one day to be a Reformed man. I have very ſerious reflections now-and-then. Yet am I half-afraid of the truth of what my Charmer once told me, that a man cannot repent when he will. — Not to hold it, I ſuppoſe ſhe meant! By fits and ſtarts I have repented a thouſand times.

[129]Caſting my eye over the two preceding paragraphs, I fanſy there is ſomething like contradiction in them. But I will not reconſider them. The ſubject is a very ſerious one. I don't, at preſent, quite underſtand it. But now for one more airy.

Tourville, Mowbray, and myſelf, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 196. l. 26. after to be of them, inſert,

To what, Lovelace, ſhall we attribute the tender⯑neſs which a reputed Father frequently ſhews to the children of another man?—What is that, I pray thee, which we call Nature, and Natural Affection? And what has man to boaſt of as to ſagacity and penetra⯑tion, when he is as eaſily brought to cover and rear, and even to love, and often to prefer, the product of another's guilt with his Wife or Miſtreſs, as a hen or a gooſe the eggs, and even young, of others of their kind?

Nay, let me aſk, If inſtinct, as it is called, in the animal creation, does not enable them to diſtinguiſh their own, much more eaſily than we, with our boaſted reaſon and ſagacity, in this nice particular, can do?

If ſome men, who have Wives but of doubtful vir⯑tue, conſidered this matter duly, I believe their inor⯑dinate ardor after gain would be a good deal cooled, when they could not be certain (tho' their Mates could) for whoſe children they were elbowing, buſtling, gripe⯑ing, and perhaps cheating, thoſe with whom they have concerns, whether friends, neighbours, or more cer⯑tain next-of-kin, by the Mother's ſide however.

But I will not puſh this notion ſo far as it might be carried; becauſe, if propagated, it might be of un⯑ſocial or unnatural conſequence; ſince women of vir⯑tue would perhaps be more liable to ſuffer by the miſ⯑truſts and caprices of bad-hearted and fooliſh-headed Huſbands, than thoſe who can ſcreen themſelves from detection by arts and hypocriſy, to which a woman of [130] virtue cannot have recourſe. And yet, were this no⯑tion duly and generally conſidered, it might be at⯑tended with no bad effects; as good education, good inclinations, and eſtabliſhed virtue, would be the prin⯑cipally ſought-after qualities, and not money, when a man (not byaſſed by mere perſonal attractions) was looking round him for a partner in his fortunes, and for a mother of his future children, which are to be the heirs of his poſſeſſions, and to enjoy the fruits of his induſtry.

But to return to poor Belton.

If I have occaſion for your aſſiſtance, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 198. l. 3. after a life miſ-ſpent, inſert,

It will be your turns by-and-by, every man of ye, if the juſtice of your country interpoſe not.

Thou art the only Rake we have herded with, if thou wilt not except myſelf, who haſt preſerved en⯑tire thy health and thy fortunes.

Mowbray indeed is indebted to a robuſt conſtitu⯑tion, that he has not yet ſuffered in his health; but his Eſtate is dwindling away year by year.

Three-fourths of Tourville's very conſiderable for⯑tunes are already diſſipated; and the remaining fourth will probably ſoon go after the other three.

Poor Belton! we ſee how it is with him!—His only felicity is, that he will hardly live to want.

Thou art too proud, and too prudent, ever to be deſtitute; and, to do thee juſtice, haſt a ſpirit to aſſiſt ſuch of thy friends as may be reduced; and wilt, if thou ſhouldſt then be living. But I think thou muſt, much ſooner than thou imagineſt, be called to thy account—knocked on the head perhaps by the friends of thoſe whom thou haſt injured; for if thou eſcapeſt this fate from the Harlowe family, thou wilt go on tempting danger and vengeance, till thou meeteſt with vengeance; and this, whether thou marrieſt, or not: For the nuptial life will not, I [131] doubt, till age join with it, cure thee of that ſpirit for intrigue, which is continually running away with thee, in ſpite of thy better ſenſe, and tranſitory reſo⯑lutions.

Well, then, I will ſuppoſe thee laid down quietly among thy worthier anceſtors.

And now let me look forward to the ends of Tour⯑ville and Mowbray [Belton will be crumbled into duſt before thee, perhaps], ſuppoſing thy early exit has ſaved them from gallows intervention.

Reduced, probably, by riotous waſte to conſe⯑quential want, behold them refuged in ſome obſcene hole or garret; obliged to the careleſs care of ſome dirty old woman, whom nothing but her poverty pre⯑vails upon to attend to perform the laſt offices for men who have made ſuch ſhocking ravage among the young ones.

Then how miſerably will they whine thro' ſqueak⯑ing organs! Their big voices turned into puling pity-begging lamentations! Their now-offenſive paws, how helpleſs then!—Their now-erect necks then denying ſupport to their aching heads; thoſe globes of miſchief dropping upon their quaking ſhoul⯑ders. Then what wry faces will they make! their hearts, and their heads, reproaching each other!— Diſtended their parched mouths!—Sunk their un⯑muſcled cheeks!—Dropt their under-jaws!—Each grunting like the ſwine he had reſembled in his life! Oh! what a vile wretch have I been!—Oh! that I had my life to come over again!—Confeſſing to the poor old woman, who cannot ſhrive them! Imagin⯑ary ghoſts of deflowered Virgins, and polluted ma⯑trons, flitting before their glaſſy eyes! And old Satan, to their apprehenſions, grinning behind a looking-glaſs held up before them, to frighten them with the horror viſible in their own countenances!

For my own part, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 209. l. 10, 11. after when diſappointed, inſert,

There was Miſs DORRINGTON [Perhaps you know her not] who ran away with her Father's groom, be⯑cauſe he would not let her have a half-pay officer, with whom (her paſſions all up) ſhe fell in love at firſt ſight, as he accidentally paſſed under her window.

There was Miſs SAVAGE; ſhe married her Mo⯑ther's coachman, becauſe her Mother refuſed her a journey to Wales, in apprehenſion, that Miſs intended to league herſelf with a remote Couſin of unequal for⯑tunes, of whom ſhe was not a little fond when he was a viſiting gueſt at their houſe for a week.

There was the young widow SANDERSON; who believing herſelf flighted by a younger Brother of a noble family (Sarah Stout like) took it into her head to drown herſelf.

Miſs SALLY ANDERSON [You have heard of her, no doubt] being checked by her Uncle for encouraging an addreſs beneath her, in ſpite, threw herſelf into the arms of an ugly dog, a ſhoemaker's Apprentice; running away with him in a pair of ſhoes he had juſt fitted to her feet, tho' ſhe never ſaw the fellow before, and hated him ever after: And at laſt took Laudanum to make her forget for ever her own folly.

But can there be a ſtronger inſtance in point, than what the unaccountable reſentments of ſuch a Lady as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe afford us? Who, at this very inſtant, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 214. l. 17. after word of command, inſert,

Mowbray and Tourville each intend to give thee a Letter; and I leave to thoſe rough varlets to handle thee as thou deſerveſt, for the ſhocking picture thou haſt drawn of their laſt ends. Thy own paſt guilt has ſtared thee full in the face, one may ſee by it; and made thee, in conſciouſneſs of thy demerits, ſketch [133] out theſe curſed out-lines. I am glad thou haſt got the old fiend to hold the glaſs before thy own face ſo ſoon. Thou muſt be in earneſt ſurely, when thou wroteſt it, and have ſevere convictions upon thee: For what a hardened varlet muſt he be, who could draw ſuch a picture as this in ſport?

As for thy reſolution of repenting, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 226. l. antepenult, after pride truly ſpiri⯑tual, inſert,

One of my Loves in Paris was a Devotée. She took great pains to convert me. I gave way to her kind endeavours for the good of my ſoul. She thought it a point gained to make me profeſs ſome Religion. The Catholic has its conveniencies. I permitted her to bring a Father to me. My Reformation went on ſwimmingly. The Father had hopes of me: He pa⯑plauded her zeal: So did I. And how doſt think it ended?—Not a girl in England, reading thus far, but would gueſs!—In a word, very happily! For ſhe not only brought me a Father, but made me one: And then, being ſatisfied with each other's converſion, we took different Routes: She, into Navarre; I, into Italy: Both well inclined to propagate the good leſ⯑ſons in which we had ſo well inſtructed each other.

But to return. One conſolation, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 291. l. ult. after againſt me to thee, inſert,

But thou ſeeſt, Jack, by her refuſal of money from Hickman, or Miſs Howe, that the dear Extra⯑vagant takes a delight in oddneſſes, chuſing to part with her cloaths, tho' for a ſong. Doſt think ſhe is not a little touched at times? I am afraid ſhe is. A little ſpice of that inſanity, I doubt, runs thro' her, that ſhe had in a ſtronger degree, in the firſt week of my operations. Her contempt of life; her procla⯑mations; her refuſal of matrimony; and now of mo⯑ney [134] from her moſt intimate friends; are ſprinklings of this kind, and no other way, I think, to be ac⯑counted for.

Her Apothecary is a good honeſt fellow. I like him much. But the ſilly dear's harping ſo continu⯑ally upon one ſtring, dying, dying, dying, is what I have no patience with. I hope all this melancholy jargon is owing entirely to the way I would have her to be in. And it being as new to her as the Bible beau⯑ties to thee, no wonder ſhe knows not what to make of herſelf; and ſo fanſies ſhe is breeding death, when the event will turn out quite the contrary.

Thou art a ſorry fellow in thy remarks on the edu⯑cation and qualification of Smarts and Beaux of the Rakiſh order; if by thy We's and Us's thou meaneſt thyſelf or me: For I pretend to ſay, that the picture has no reſemblance of Us, who have read and converſed as we have done. It may indeed, and I believe it does, reſemble the generality of the fops and coxcombs about town. But That let them look to; for, if it affects not me, to what purpoſe thy random ſhot?—If indeed thou findeſt, by the new light darted in upon thee, ſince thou haſt had the honour of converſing with this admirable creature, that the cap fits thy own head, why then, according to the Qui capit rule, e'en take and clap it on: And I will add a ſtring of Bells to it, to complete thee for the fore-horſe of the idiot team.

Altho' I juſt now ſaid a kind thing or two for this fellow Hickman; yet I can tell thee, I could (to uſe one of my noble Peer's humble phraſes) eat him up without a corn of ſalt, when I think of his impu⯑dence to ſalute my charmer twice at parting: And have ſtill leſs patience with the Lady herſelf for pre⯑ſuming to offer her cheek or lip [Thou ſayeſt not which] to him, and to preſs his clumſy fiſt between her charming hands. An honour worth a King's ranſom; and what I would give—What would I not give? to have!—And then he, in return, to preſs [135] her, as thou ſayeſt he did, to his ſtupid heart; at that time, no doubt, more ſenſible, than ever it was be⯑fore!

By thy deſcription of their parting, I ſee thou wilt be a delicate fellow in time. My Mortification in this Lady's diſpleaſure, will be thy exaltation from her converſation. I envy thee as well for thy opportuni⯑ties as for thy improvements: And ſuch an impreſſion has thy concluding paragraph made upon me, that I wiſh I do not get into a Reformation-humour as well as thou: And then what a couple of lamentable pup⯑pies ſhall we make, howling in recitative to each other's diſcordant muſic!

Let me improve upon the thought, and imagine that, turned Hermits, we have opened the two old Caves at Hornſey, or dug new ones; and in each of our cells ſet up a death's head, and an hour-glaſs, for objects of contemplation—I have ſeen ſuch a picture: But then, Jack, had not the old penitent fornicator a ſuffocating long grey beard? What figures would a couple of brocaded or laced-waiſtcoated toupets make with their ſour ſcrew'd up half-cock'd faces, and more than half-ſhut eyes, in a kneeling attitude, recapitulating their reſpective rogueries? This ſcheme, were we only to make trial of it, and return after⯑wards to our old ways, might ſerve to better purpoſe by far, than Horner's in the Country Wife, to bring the pretty wenches to us.

Let me ſee; The Author of Hudibras has ſome⯑where a deſcription that would ſuit us, when met in one of our Caves, and comparing our diſmal notes together. This is it. Suppoſe me deſcribed —

[136]I know thou wilt think me too ludicrous. I think myſelf ſo. It is truly, to be ingenuous, a forced put: For my paſſions are ſo wound up, that I am obliged either to laugh or cry. Like honeſt drunken Jack Daventry [Poor fellow!—What an unhappy end was his!]—Thou knoweſt, I uſed to obſerve, that whenever he roſe from an entertainment, which he never did ſober, it was his way, as ſoon as he got to the door, to look round him, like a carrier-pigeon juſt thrown up, in order to ſpy out his courſe; and then, taking to his heels, he would run all the way home, tho' it were a mile or two, when he could hardly ſtand, and muſt have tumbled on his noſe if he had attempted to walk moderately. This then be my ex⯑cuſe, in this my unconverted eſtate, for a concluſion ſo unworthy of the concluſion to thy third Letter.

What a length have I run!—Thou wilt own, that if I pay thee not in quality, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 383. l. 5. after with thy gooſe-quills, inſert,

Whereas, didſt thou but know thine own talents, thou art formed to give mirth by thy very appearance; and wouldſt make a better figure by half, leading up thy brother-bears at Hockley in the Hole, to the mu⯑ſic of a Scots bagpipe. Methinks I ſee thy clumſy ſides ſhaking (and ſhaking the ſides of all beholders) in theſe very attitudes; thy fat head archly beating time on thy porterly ſhoulders, right and left by turns, as I once beheld thee practiſing to the horn-pipe at Preſton. Thou remembreſt the frolick, as I have done an hundred times; for I never before ſaw thee appear ſo much in character.

But I know what I ſhall get by this—Only that no⯑table obſervation repeated, That thy outſide is the worſt of thee, and mine the beſt of me. And ſo let it be. Nothing thou writeſt of this ſort can I take amiſs.

But I ſhall call thee ſeriouſly to account, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 109. to Mr. Lovelace's Letter add the following POSTSCRIPT.

Charlotte, in a whim of delicacy, is diſpleaſed that I ſend the incloſed Letter to you—That her hand⯑writing, forſooth! ſhould go into the hands of a ſingle man!

There's encouragement for thee, Belford! This is a certain ſign that thou mayſt have her if thou wilt. And yet, till ſhe had given me this unerring demon⯑ſtration of her glancing towards thee, I could not have thought it. Indeed I have often in pleaſantry told her, that I would bring ſuch an affair to a bear. But I never intended it; becauſe ſhe really is dainty girl. And thou art ſuch a clumſy fellow in thy per⯑ſon, that I ſhould have as ſoon have wiſhed her a Rhinoceros for an huſband, as thee. But, poor little dears! they muſt ſtay till their time's come! They won't have this man, and they won't have that man, from Seventeen to Twenty-five: But then, afraid, as the ſaying is, that God has forgot them, and finding their bloom departing, they are glad of whom they can get, and verify the fable of the Parſon and the Pears.

Vol. vii. p. 113. l. 26. after with my Letter, inſert,

I think I have nothing to add, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 117. l. 11. after I left them, inſert,

As to what thou ſayeſt of thy charming Couſin, let me know, if thou haſt any meaning in it. I have not the vanity to think myſelf deſerving of ſuch a Lady as Miſs Montague: And ſhould not therefore care to expoſe myſelf to her ſcorn, and to thy deriſion. But were I aſſured I might avoid both theſe, I would ſoon acquaint thee, that I ſhould think no pains nor aſſi⯑duity too much to obtain a ſhare in the good graces of ſuch a Lady.

But I know thee too well to depend upon any-thing thou ſayeſt on this ſubject. Thou loveſt to make thy friends the object of ridicule to Ladies; and ima⯑gineſt, from the vanity (and in this reſpect, I will ſay littleneſs) of thine own heart, that thou ſhineſt the brighter for the foil.

[139]Thus didſt thou once play off the rough Mowbray with Miſs Hatton, till the poor fellow knew not how to go either backward or forward.

Vol. vii. p. 120. dele the two firſt paragraphs of Colonel Morden's Letter; and read,

I SHOULD not, my deareſt Couſin, have been a fortnight in England, without either doing my⯑ſelf the honour of waiting upon you in perſon, or of writing to you; if I had not been buſying myſelf almoſt all the time in your ſervice, in hopes of make⯑ing my Viſit or Letter ſtill more acceptable to you— acceptable as I have reaſon to preſume either will be from the unqueſtionable Love I ever bore you, and from the eſteem you always honoured me with.

Little did I think, that ſo many days would have been required to effect my well-intended purpoſe, where there uſed to be a Love ſo ardent on one ſide, and where there ſtill is, as I am thoroughly convinced, the moſt exalted Merit on the other!

I was yeſterday with Mr. Lovelace, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 189. dele the Paragraph beginning Mr. Brand's Recantation-Letters, &c. and inſert,

Vol. vii. p. 267. l. 9. from the bottom, after whoſe more tranſient? inſert,

Now, Lovelace, let me know if the word Grace can be re'd from my pen without a ſneer from thee and thy aſſociates? I own that once it ſounded oddly in my ears. But I ſhall never forget what a grave man once ſaid on this very word—That with him it was a [158] Rake's Shibboleth ^(a). He had always hopes of one who could bear the mention of it without ridiculing it; and ever gave him up for an abandoned man, who made a jeſt of it, or of him who uſed it.

Don't be diſguſted, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 344. l. 13. after thy wiſe conſideration, inſert,

Mr. Belford returns a very ſerious Anſwer to the preceding Letter; which appears not.

In it, he moſt heartily wiſhes that he had withſtood Mr. Lovelace, whatever had been the conſe⯑quence, in deſigns ſo elaborately-baſe and un⯑grateful, and ſo long and ſteadily purſued, againſt a Lady whoſe merit and innocence en⯑titled her to the protection of every man who had the leaſt pretences to the title of a Gentle⯑man; and who deſerved to be even the Public Care.

He moſt ſeverely cenſures himſelf for his falſe no⯑tions of Honour to his Friend, on this head; and recollects what the Divine Lady, as he calls her, ſaid to him on this very ſubject, as related by himſelf in his Letter to Lovelace, Vol. VI. p. 178, 179. to which Lovelace alſo (both Inſtigator and Accuſer, refers, and to his own regret and ſhame on the occaſion. He diſtinguiſhes, however, between an irreparable injury intended to a CLARISSA, and one deſigned to ſuch of the Sex, as contribute by their weakneſs and indiſcretion to their own fall, and thereby entitle themſelves to a large ſhare of the guilt which accompanies the crime.

He offers not, he ſays, to palliate or extenuate the crimes he himſelf has been guilty of: But la⯑ments, for Mr. Lovelace's own ſake, that he gives him, with ſo ludicrous and unconcerned [159] an air, ſuch ſolemn and uſeful Leſſons and Warnings. Nevertheleſs, he reſolves to make it his whole endeavour, he tells him, to render them efficacious to himſelf: And ſhould think himſelf but too happy, if he ſhall be enabled to ſet him ſuch an example, as may be a means to bring about the Reformation of a man ſo dear to him as he has always been, from the firſt of their acquaintance; and who is capable of think⯑ing ſo rightly and deeply; tho' at preſent to ſuch little purpoſe, as makes his very Knowlege add to his Condemnation.

Vol. vii. p. 354. l. 8. after purſue his vengeance, inſert,

And the rather, as thro' an abſence of ſix years (high as juſt report, and the promiſes of her early youth from childhood, had raiſed her in his eſteem) he could not till now know one half of her excel⯑lencies—Till now! that we have loſt, for ever loſt, the admirable creature!—

But I will force myſelf from the ſubject, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 357. l. 10. from the bottom, after all the authority with her that, dele the reſt of that, and the following Paragraph; and read,

—A Mother ought to have. Miſs Howe is indeed a woman of fine ſenſe; but it requires a high degree of good underſtanding, as well as a ſweet and gentle diſpoſition of mind, and great diſcretion, in a child, when grown up, to let it be ſeen, that ſhe mingles Reverence with her Love, to a Parent, who has ta⯑lents viſibly inferior to her own.

Miſs Howe is open, generous, noble. The Mother has not any of her fine qualities. Parents, in order to preſerve their childrens veneration for them, ſhould take great care not to let them ſee any-thing in their conduct, or behaviour, or principles, which they themſelves would not approve of in others.

[160]Mr. Hickman has, however, this conſideration to comfort himſelf with; that the ſame vivacity by which he ſuffers, makes Miſs Howe's own Mother, at times, equally ſenſible. And as he ſees enough of this before-hand, he will have more reaſon to blame himſelf than the Lady, ſhould ſhe prove as lively a Wife, as ſhe was a Miſtreſs, for having continued his addreſſes, and married her, againſt ſuch threatening appearances.

There is alſo another circumſtance which good-na⯑tured men who engage with even lively women, may look forward to with pleaſure; a circumſtance which generally lowers the ſpirits of the Ladies, and dome⯑ſticates them, as I may call it: And which, as it will bring thoſe of Mr. Hickman and Miſs Howe nearer to a par, that worthy gentleman will have double reaſon, when it happens to congratulate himſelf upon it.

But, after all, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 381. l. penult, after will confirm this, dele the four following Paragraphs; and read,

In her dreſs ſhe was elegant beyond imitation; and generally led the faſhion to all the Ladies round her without ſeeming to intend it, and without being proud of doing ſo.

She was rather tall, than of a midling ſtature; and had a dignity in her aſpect and air, that beſpoke the mind that animated every feature.

This native dignity, as I may call it, induced ſome ſuperficial perſons, who knew not how to account for the reverence which involuntarily filled their hearts on her appearance, to impute pride to her. But theſe were ſuch as knew that they ſhould have been proud of any one of her perfections: Judging therefore by their own narrowneſs, they thought it impoſſible that the Lady who poſſeſſed ſo many, ſhould not think her⯑ſelf ſuperior to them all.

Indeed, I have heard her noble aſpect found fault with, as indicating pride and ſuperiority: But people [161] awed and controuled, tho' but by their own conſci⯑ouſneſs of inferiority, will find fault, right or wrong, with thoſe of whoſe rectitude of mind and manners, their own culpable hearts give them to be afraid. But, in the bad ſenſe of the word, Miſs Clariſſa Har⯑lowe knew not what pride was.

You may, if you touch upon this ſubject, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 383. l. 12. after to condemn it, inſert,

Once I remember in a large circle of Ladies, every one of which [I among the reſt] having cenſured a ge⯑nerally reported indiſcretion in a young Lady—Come, my Miſs Howe, ſaid ſhe [for we had agreed to take each other to taſk when either thought the other gave occaſion for it; and when by blaming each other, we intended a general reprehenſion, which, as ſhe uſed to ſay, it would appear arrogant or aſſuming to level more properly] let me be Miſs Fanny Darling⯑ton. Then removing out of the circle, and ſtanding up,—Here I ſtand, unworthy of a ſeat with the reſt of the company, till I have cleared my ſelf. And now, ſuppoſe me to be her, let me hear your charge, and do you hear what the poor culprit can ſay to it in her own defence. And then anſwering the conjectural and unproved circumſtances, by circumſtances as fairly to be ſuppoſed favourable, ſhe brought off triumph⯑antly the cenſured Lady; and ſo much to every one's ſatisfaction, that ſhe was led to her chair, and voted a double rank in the circle,—as the reinſtated Miſs Fanny Darlington, and as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe.

‘'Very few perſons, ſhe uſed to ſay, would be con⯑demned, or even accuſed, in the circles of Ladies, were they preſent: It is generous therefore, nay, it is but juſt, ſaid ſhe, to take the part of the abſent, if not flagrantly culpable.'’

But tho' Wiſdom was her birthright, as I may ſay, yet ſhe had not lived years enow to pretend to ſo much experience, as to exempt her from the neceſſity of [162] ſometimes altering her opinion both of perſons and things: But, when ſhe found herſelf obliged to do this, ſhe took care that the particular inſtance of miſ⯑taken worthineſs in the perſon ſhould not narrow or contract her almoſt univerſal charity into general doubt or jealouſy. An inſtance of what I mean, occurs to my memory. You muſt every-where, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 383. dele the four laſt lines; and p. 384. line 9. after caution and prudence, inſert,

Indeed, when ſhe was convinced of any error or miſ⯑take (however ſeemingly derogatory to her judgment and ſagacity) no one was ever ſo acknowleging, ſo in⯑genuous, as ſhe. ‘'It was a merit, ſhe uſed to ſay, next in degree to that of having avoided error, frankly to own an error. And that the offering at an excuſe in a blameable matter, was the undoubted mark of a diſingenuous, if not of a perverſe mind.'’

But I ought to add, on this head [of her great cha⯑rity where character was concerned, and where there was room for charity] that ſhe was always deſervedly ſevere in her reprehenſions of a wilful and ſtudied vile⯑neſs. How could ſhe then forgive the wretch by whoſe premeditated villainy ſhe was entangled?

If you mention, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 383. l. 22. after with him than before, inſert,

And yet his behaviour before her was too ſpecious, to have been very exceptionable to a woman who had a leſs ſhare of that charming delicacy, and of that penetration, which ſo much diſtinguiſhed her.

In obedience, &c.

Ibid. l. 7. from the bottom, after diſcard him for ever, inſert,

She was an admirable miſtreſs of all the graces of elocution. The hand ſhe wrote, for the neat and [163] free cut of her letters (like her mind ſolid, and above all flouriſh) for its fairneſs, evenneſs, and ſwiftneſs, diſtinguiſhed her as much as the correctneſs of her or⯑thography, and even punctuation, from the generality of her own Sex, and left her none amongſt the moſt accurate of the other, who excelled her.

Her ingenuity, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 384. l. 27. after all natural beauty, inſert,

Then, ſtiffened and ſtarched [Let me add] into dry and indelectable affectation, one ſort of theſe ſcholars aſſume a ſtyle as rough as frequently are their manners: They ſpangle over their productions with metaphors: They rumble into bombaſt: The ſublime, with them, lying in words and not in ſentiment, they fanſy them⯑ſelves moſt exalted when leaſt underſtood; and down they ſit, fully ſatisfied with their own performances, and call them MASCULINE. While a ſecond ſort, aiming at wit, that wicked miſleader, forfeit all title to judgment. And a third, ſinking into the claſſical pits, there poke and ſcramble about, never ſeeking to ſhew genius of their own; all their lives ſpent in com⯑mon-place quotation; fit only to write Notes and Com⯑ments upon other peoples Texts; all their pride, that they know thoſe beauties of two thouſand years old in another tongue, which they can only admire, but not imitate, in their own.

And theſe, truly, muſt be learned men, and deſpiſers of our inſipid Sex!

But I need not mention the exceptions which my beloved friend always made [and to which I ſubſcribe] in favour of men of ſound learning, true taſte, and ex⯑tenſive abilities: Nor, in particular, her reſpect even to reverence for gentlemen of the cloth: Which, I dare ſay, will appear in every paragraph of her Letters where-ever any of the Clergy are mentioned. Indeed the pious Dr. Lewen, the worthy Dr. Blome, the in⯑genious [164] Mr. Arnold, and Mr. Tompkins, gentlemen whom ſhe names in one article of her will, as learned Divines with whom ſhe held an early correſpondence, well deſerved her reſpect; ſince to their converſation and correſpondence ſhe owed many of her valuable acquirements.

Nor were the little ſlights ſhe would now-and-then (following, as I muſt own, my lead) put upon ſuch mere ſcholars [And her ſtupid and pedantic Brother was one of thoſe who deſerved thoſe ſlights] as deſpiſed not only our Sex, but all ſuch as had not had their oppor⯑tunities of being acquainted with the Parts of Speech [I cannot ſpeak low enough of ſuch] and with the dead Languages, owing to that contempt, which ſome affect for what they have not been able to maſter; for ſhe had an admirable facility in learning languages, and re'd with great eaſe both Italian and French. She had begun to apply herſelf to Latin; and having ſuch a critical knowlege of her own tongue, and ſuch a foun⯑dation from the two others, would ſoon have made herſelf an adept in it.

And one hint, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 385. l. 10. after what ſhe acquires, dele the two next Paragraphs; and read,

‘'All that a woman can learn, ſhe uſed to ſay [ex⯑patiating on this maxim, above the uſeful knowlege proper to her Sex, let her learn. This will ſhew that ſhe is a good houſewife of her time; and that ſhe not a narrow or confined genius. But then let her not give up for theſe, thoſe more neceſſary, and there⯑fore, not meaner, employments, which will qualify her to be a good Miſtreſs of a family, a good Wife, and a good Mother: For what can be more diſgrace⯑ful to a woman, than either, thro' negligence of dreſs, to be found to be a learned Slattern; or, thro' igno⯑rance of houſhold-management, to be known to be a ſtranger to domeſtic oeconomy?'’

[165]Then would ſhe inſtance to me two particular La⯑dies; one of which, while ſhe was fond of giving her opinion, in the company of her Huſband, and of his learned friends, upon doubtful or difficult paſſages in Virgil or Horace, knew not how to put on her cloaths with that neceſſary grace and propriety, which ſhould preſerve to her the love of her Huſband, and the reſpect of every other perſon: While the other, af⯑fecting to be thought as learned as men, could find no better way to aſſert her pretenſions, than by de⯑ſpiſing her own Sex, and by diſmiſſing that charac⯑teriſtic delicacy, the loſs of which no attainment can ſupply.

She would have it indeed, ſometimes, from the frequent ill uſe learned Women make of that reſpect⯑able acquirement, that it was no great matter whether the Sex aimed at any-thing but excelling in the know⯑lege of the beauties and graces of their mother-tongue: And once ſhe ſaid, that this was field enough for a woman; and an ampler was but endangering her fa⯑mily uſefulneſs. But I, who think our Sex inferior in nothing to the other, but in want of opportunities, of which the narrow-minded mortals induſtriouſly ſeek to deprive us, leſt we ſhould ſurpaſs them as much in what they chiefly value themſelves upon, as we do in all the graces of a fine imagination, could never agree with her in that. And yet I was entirely of her opinion, that thoſe women who were ſolicitous to obtain that knowlege or learning, which they ſup⯑poſed would add to their ſignificance in ſenſible com⯑pany, and in their attainment of it imagined them⯑ſelves above all domeſtic uſefulneſs, deſervedly in⯑curred the contempt which they hardly ever failed to meet with.

Perhaps you will not think it amiſs, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 385. l. 19. after who ſaw her in it, dele that and the following Paragraph; and read,

Her Grandfather, in honour of her dexterity, and of her ſkill in all the parts of the dairy-management, as well as of the elegance of the offices allotted for that uſe, would have his Seat, before known by the name of The Grove, to be called, The Dairy-houſe. She had an eaſy, convenient, and graceful habit made on purpoſe, which ſhe put on when ſhe employed herſelf in theſe works; and it was noted of her, that in the ſame hour that ſhe appeared to be a moſt ele⯑gant Dairy-maid, ſhe was, when called to a change of dreſs, the fineſt Lady that ever graced a circle.

Her Grandfather, Father, Mother, Uncles, Aunt, and even her Brother and Siſter, made her frequent viſits there, and were delighted with her ſilent eaſe, and unaffected behaviour in her works; for ſhe always out of modeſty choſe rather the operative than the directive part, that ſhe might not diſcourage the ſervant whoſe proper buſineſs it was.

Each was fond of taking a regale from her hands in her Dairy-houſe. Her Mother and Aunt Hervey generally admired her in ſilence, that they might not give uneaſineſs to her Siſter; a ſpiteful, perverſe, unimitating thing, who uſually looked upon her all the time with ſpeechleſs envy. Now-and-then, however, the pouting creature would ſuffer extorted and ſparing praiſe to burſt open her lips; though looking at the ſame time like Saul meditating the pointed javelin at the heart of David, the glory of his kingdom. And now, methinks, I ſee my Angel-friend (too ſuperior to take notice of her gloom) courting her acceptance of the milk-white curd from hands more pure than that.

Her ſkill and dexterity in every branch of family management, ſeem to be the only excellence of her innumerable ones, which ſhe owed to her family: Whoſe narrowneſs, immenſely rich, and immenſely [167] carking, put them upon indulging her in the turn ſhe took to this part of knowlege; while her elder Siſter affected dreſs without being graceful in it; and the Fine Lady, which ſhe could never be; and which her Siſter was without ſtudying for it, or ſeeming to know ſhe was ſo.

It was uſual with the one Siſter, when company was expected, to be half the morning dreſſing; while the other would give directions for the whole buſineſs and entertainment of the day; and then go up to her dreſſing-room, and, before ſhe could well be miſſed, [having all her things in admirable order] come down fit to receive company, and with all that graceful eaſe and tranquillity as if ſhe had had nothing elſe to think of.

Long after her [hours perhaps of previous prepa⯑ration having paſſed] down would come ruſtling and buſtling the tawdry and aukward Bella, diſordering more her native diſorderlineſs at the ſight of her ſerene Siſter, by her ſullen envy, to ſee herſelf ſo much ſurpaſſed with ſuch little pains, and in a ſixth part of the time.

Yet was this admirable creature miſtreſs of all theſe domeſtic qualifications without the leaſt intermixture of narrowneſs. She knew how to diſtinguiſh between Frugality, a neceſſary virtue, and Niggardlineſs, an odious vice: And uſed to ſay, ‘'That to define Gene⯑roſity, it muſt be called the happy medium betwixt parſimony and profuſion.'’

She was the moſt graceful Reader I ever knew. She added by her melodious voice graces to thoſe ſhe found in the parts of books ſhe re'd-out to her friends; and gave grace and ſignificance to others where they were not. She had no tone, no whine. Her accent was always admirably placed. The em⯑phaſis ſhe always forcibly laid, as the ſubject required. No buſkin-elevation, no tragedy-pomp, could miſ⯑lead her; and yet poetry was poetry indeed, when ſhe re'd it.

[168]But if her voice was melodious when ſhe re'd, it was all harmony when ſhe ſung. And the delight ſhe gave by that, and by her ſkill and great compaſs, was heightened by the eaſe and gracefulneſs of her air and manner, and by the alacrity with which ſhe obliged.

Nevertheleſs ſhe generally choſe rather to hear others ſing or play, than either to play or ſing her⯑ſelf.

She delighted to give praiſe where deſerved: Yet ſhe always beſtowed it in ſuch a manner, as gave not the leaſt ſuſpicion that ſhe laid out for a return of it to herſelf, tho' ſo univerſally allowed to be her due.

She had a talent of ſaying uncommon things in ſuch an eaſy manner, that every-body thought they could have ſaid the ſame; and which yet required both genius and obſervation to ſay them.

Even ſevere things appeared gentle, tho' they loſt not their force, from the ſweetneſs of her air and ut⯑terance, and the apparent benevolence of her pur⯑poſe.

We form the trueſt judgment of perſons, by their behaviour on the moſt familiar occaſions. I will give an inſtance or two of the correction ſhe favoured me with on ſuch a one.

When very young, I was guilty of the fault of thoſe who want to be courted to ſing. She cured me of it, at the firſt of our happy intimacy, by her own ex⯑ample; and by the following correctives, occaſi⯑onally, yet privately enforced.

‘'Well, my dear, ſhall we take you at your word? Shall we ſuppoſe, that you ſing but indifferently? Is not, however, the act of obliging (the company ſo worthy!) preferable to the talent of ſinging? And ſhall not young Ladies endeavour to make up for their defects in one part of education, by their ex⯑cellence in another?'’

Again, ‘'You muſt convince us, by attempting to ſing, that you cannot ſing; and then we will rid [169] you, not only of preſent, but of future importunity.'’ —An indulgence, however, let me add, that but tolerable ſingers do not always wiſh to meet with.

Again, ‘'I know you will favour us by-and-by; and what do you by your excuſes, but raiſe our expecta⯑tions, and enhance your own difficulties?'’

At another time, ‘'Has not this accompliſhment been a part of your education, my Nancy? How then, for your own honour, can we allow of your excuſes?'’

And I once pleading a cold, the uſual pretence of thoſe who love to be entreated— ‘'Sing, however, my dear, as well as you can. The greater the difficulty to you, the higher the compliment to the company. Do you think you are among thoſe who know not how to make allowances? You ſhould ſing, my Love, leſt there ſhould be any-body preſent who may think your excuſes owing to affectation.'’

At another time, when I had truly obſerved, that a young Lady preſent ſung better than I; and that therefore I choſe not to ſing before that Lady—'Fie!' ſaid ſhe (drawing me on one ſide) ‘'Is not this pride, my Nancy? Does it not look as if your principal motive to oblige, was to obtain applauſe? A gene⯑rous mind will not ſcruple to give advantage to a per⯑ſon of merit, tho' not always to her own advantage. And yet ſhe will have a high merit in doing that. Suppoſing this excelling perſon abſent, who, my dear, if your example ſpread, ſhall ſing after you? You know every one elſe muſt be but as a foil to you. Indeed I muſt have you as much ſuperior to other Ladies in theſe ſmaller points, as you are in greater.'’ —So ſhe was pleaſed to ſay, to ſhame me.

She was as much above Reſerve, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 385. l. 6. from the bottom, after the ſweet inſtructreſs, dele the two next Paragraphs; and read,

She had a pretty hand at drawing, which ſhe ob⯑tained [170] with a very little inſtruction. Her time was too much taken up, to allow, tho' to ſo fine an art, the attention which was neceſſary to make her greatly excel in it: And ſhe uſed to ſay, ‘'That ſhe was afraid of aiming at too many things, for fear ſhe ſhould not be tolerable at any-thing?'’

For her years, and her opportunities, ſhe was an extraordinary judge of Painting. In this, as in every⯑thing elſe, Nature was her Art, her Art was Nature. She even prettily performed in it. Her Grandfather, for this reaſon, bequeathed to her all the family pic⯑tures. Charming was her fancy: Alike ſweet and eaſy was every touch of her pencil and her pen. Yet her judgment exceeded her performance. She did not practiſe enough to excel in the executive part. She could not in every-thing excel. But, upon the whole, ſhe knew what every ſubject required, according to the nature of it: In other words, was an abſolute Miſtreſs of the ſhould-be.

To give a familiar inſtance, for the ſake of young Ladies; ſhe (untaught) obſerved when but a child, that the Sun, Moon, and Stars, never appeared at once; and were therefore never to be in one piece: That bears, tygers, lions, were not natives of an Engliſh climate, and ſhould not therefore have place in an Engliſh landſchape: That theſe ravagers of the foreſt conſorted not with lambs, kids, or fawns: Nor kites, hawks, and vulturs, with doves, partridges, and pheaſants.

And, alas! ſhe knew, before ſhe was nineteen years of age, by fatal experience ſhe knew! that all theſe beaſts and birds of prey were outdone in trea⯑cherous cruelty by MAN! Vile, barbarous, plotting, deſtructive MAN! who, infinitely leſs excuſeable than thoſe, deſtroys thro' wantonneſs and ſport, what thoſe only deſtroy thro' hunger and neceſſity!

The mere pretenders to thoſe branches of Science which ſhe aimed at acquiring, ſhe knew how to detect; [171] and all from Nature. Propriety, another word for Na⯑ture, was (as I have hinted) her Law, as it is the foundation of all true judgment. But nevertheleſs, ſhe was always uneaſy, if what ſhe ſaid expoſed thoſe pre⯑tenders to knowlege, even in their abſence, to the ridi⯑cule of lively ſpirits.

Let the modern Ladies, who have not any one of her excellent qualities; whoſe whole time, in the ſhort days they generally make, and in the inverted night and day, where they make them longer, is wholly ſpent in dreſs, viſits, cards, plays, operas, and muſical entertainments; wonder at what I have written, and ſhall further write: And let them look upon it as an incredible thing, that when, at a maturer age, they cannot boaſt one of her perfections, there ſhould have been a Lady ſo young, who had ſo many.

Theſe muſt be ſuch as know not how ſhe employ'd her time; and cannot form the leaſt idea of what may be done in thoſe hours, in which they lie enveloped with the ſhades of death, as ſhe uſed to call ſleep.

But before I come to mention the diſtribution ſhe uſually made of her time, let me ſay a few words upon another ſubject, in which ſhe excelled all the young Ladies I ever knew.

This was her ſkill in almoſt all ſorts of fine Needle-works: Of which, however, I ſhall ſay the leſs, ſince poſſibly you will find it mentioned in ſome of the Letters.

That piece which ſhe bequeaths, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 386. l. 17. after and not preſents, dele to the words againſt playing high; and read,

As to her diverſions, the accompliſhments and ac⯑quirements ſhe was miſtreſs of, will ſhew, what they muſt have been. She was far from being fond of Cards, the faſhionable foible of modern Ladies: Nor, as will be eaſily perceived from what I have ſaid, and more from what I ſhall further ſay, had ſhe much time for [172] Play. She never therefore promoted their being called for; and often inſenſibly diverted the Company from them, by ſtarting ſome entertaining ſubject, when ſhe could do it without incurring the imputation of parti⯑cularity.

Indeed very few of her intimates would propoſe Cards, if they could engage her to read, to talk, to touch the keys, or to ſing, when any new book, or new piece of muſic, came down. But when company was ſo numerous, that converſation could not take that agreeable turn which it ofteneſt does among four or five friends of like years and inclinations, and it be⯑came in a manner neceſſary to detach off ſome of it, to make the reſt better company, ſhe would not refuſe to play, if, upon caſting-in, it fell to her lot. And then ſhe ſhewed, that her diſreliſh to cards was the effect of choice only; and that ſhe was an eaſy miſtreſs of every genteel game played with them. But then ſhe always declared againſt playing high. Except for trifles, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 386. l. 9. from the bottom, after what is our neighbour's, dele the four next Paragraphs; and read,

She was exceedingly charitable; the only one of her family that knew the meaning of the word: And this with regard both to the ſouls and the bodies of thoſe who were the well-choſen objects of her benevolence. She kept a liſt of theſe, whom ſhe uſed to call her Poor, entering one upon it, as another was provided for, by death, or any other way: But always made a reſerve, nevertheleſs, for unforeſeen caſes, and for acci⯑dental diſtreſſes. And it muſt be owned, that in the prudent diſtribution of them, ſhe had neither Example nor Equal.

The Aged, the Blind, the Lame, the Widow, the Orphan, the unſucceſsful Induſtrious, were particularly the objects of it; and the contributing to the ſchooling [173] of ſome, to the putting out to trades and huſbandry the children of others of the labouring or needy poor, aod ſetting them forward at the expiration of their ſer⯑vitude, were her great delights; as was the giving good books to others, and, when ſhe had opportunity, the inſtructing the poorer ſort of her honeſt neighbours, and Father's tenants, in the uſe of them. ‘'That charity, ſhe uſed to ſay, which provides for the morals, as well as for the bodily wants of the poor, gives a double benefit to the Public, as it adds to the number of the hopeful, what it takes from that of the profligate. And can there be, in the eyes of that God, ſhe was wont to ſay, who requires nothing ſo much from us as acts of beneficence to one another, a charity more worthy?'’

Her Uncle Antony, when he came to ſettle in Eng⯑land, with his vaſt fortune obtained in the Indies, uſed to ſay, ‘'This girl by her charities will bring down a bleſſing upon us all.'’ And it muſt be owned they truſted pretty much to this preſumption.

But I need not ſay more on this head; nor perhaps was it neceſſary to ſay ſo much; ſince the charitable be⯑queſts in her Will ſufficiently ſet forth her excellence in this branch of duty.

She was extremely moderate in her diet. ‘'Quan⯑tity in food,' ſhe uſed to ſay, was more to be re⯑garded 'than quality: That a full meal was the great enemy both to ſtudy and induſtry: That a well-built houſe required but little repairs.'’

By this moderation in her diet, ſhe enjoyed, with a delicate frame of body, a fine ſtate of health; was always ſerene, lively; chearful of courſe. And I ne⯑ver knew but of one illneſs ſhe had; and that was by a violent cold caught in an open chaiſe, by a ſudden ſtorm of hail and rain, in a place where was no ſhel⯑ter; and which threw her into a fever, attended with dangerous ſymptoms, that no doubt were lightened by her temperance; but which gave her friends, [174] who then knew her value, infinite apprehenſions for her ^(a).

In all her Readings, and in her Converſations upon them, ſhe was fonder of finding beauties than blemiſhes, and choſe to applaud both Authors and Books, where ſhe could find the leaſt room for it. Yet ſhe uſed to lament, that certain writers of the firſt claſs, who were capable of exalting virtue, and of putting vice out of countenance, too generally employed themſelves in works of imagination only, upon ſubjects merely ſpecula⯑tive, diſintereſting, and unedifying; from which no uſeful moral or example could be drawn.

But ſhe was a ſevere Cenſurer of pieces of a light or indecent turn, which had a tendency to corrupt the morals of youth, to convey polluted images, or to wound religion, whether in itſelf, or thro' the ſides of its profeſſors, and this whoever were the authors, and how admirable ſoever the execution. She often pitied the celebrated Dr. Swift for ſo employing his admirable pen, that a pure eye was afraid of looking into his works, and a pure ear of hearing any-thing quoted from them. 'Such authors,' ſhe uſed to ſay, ‘'were nor honeſ [...] to their own talents, nor grateful to the God who gave them.'’ Nor would ſhe, on theſe oc⯑caſions, admit their beauties as a palliation; on the contrary, ſhe held it as an aggravation of their crime, [175] that they who were ſo capable of mending the heart, ſhould in any places ſhew a corrupt one in themſelves; which muſt weaken the influences of their good works, and pull down with one hand what they built up with the other.

All ſhe ſaid, and all ſhe did, was accompanied with a natural eaſe and dignity, which ſet her above affect⯑ation, or the ſuſpicion of it; inſomuch that that de⯑grading fault, ſo generally imputed to a learned woman, was never laid to her charge. For, with all her excel⯑lencies, ſhe was forwarder to hear than ſpeak; and hence no doubt derived no ſmall part of her improvement.

Altho' ſhe was well read in the Engliſh, French, and Italian Poets, and had read the beſt tranſlations of the Latin Claſſics; yet ſeldom did ſhe quote or repeat from them, either in her Letters or Converſation, tho' exceedingly happy in a tenacious memory; principally thro' modeſty, and to avoid the imputation of that affectation which I have juſt mentioned.

Mr. Wyerley once ſaid of her, ſhe had ſuch a fund of knowlege of her own, and made naturally ſuch fine obſervations upon perſons and things, being capable by the Egg [that was his familiar expreſſion] of judging of the BIRD, that ſhe had ſeldom either room or ne⯑ceſſity for foreign aſſiſtances.

But it was plain from her whole conduct and beha⯑viour, that ſhe had not ſo good an opinion of herſelf, however deſerved; ſince, whenever ſhe was urged to give her ſentiments on any ſubject, altho' all ſhe thought fit to ſay was clear and intelligible; yet ſhe ſeemed in haſte to have done ſpeaking. Her reaſon for it, I know, was two-fold; That ſhe might not loſe the benefit of other peoples ſentiments, by engroſſing the converſation; and leſt, as were her words, ſhe ſhould be praiſed into loquaciouſneſs, and ſo forfeit the good opinion which a perſon always maintains with her friends, who knows when ſhe has ſaid enough.— It was, finally, a rule with her, ‘'to leave her hearers [176] wiſhing her to ſay more, rather than to give them cauſe to ſhew, by their inattention, an uneaſineſs that ſhe had ſaid ſo much.—'’

You are curious to know, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 387. l. 25. after Age and Sex, inſert,

Her Sex, did I ſay? What honour to the other does this imply! When one might challenge the proudeſt Pedant of them all, to ſay he has been diſciplined into greater improvement than ſhe had made from the mere force of genius and application. But it is demonſtra⯑ble to all who know how to make obſervations on their acquaintance of both Sexes, arrogant as ſome are of their ſuperficialities, that a Lady at Eighteen, take the world thro', is more prudent and converſable than a man at Twenty-five. I can prove this by Nineteen inſtances out of Twenty in my own knowlege. Yet how do theſe poor boaſters value themſelves upon the advan⯑tages their education gives them! Who has not ſeen ſome one of them, juſt come from the Univerſity, diſ⯑dainfully ſmile at a miſtaken or ill-pronounced word from a Lady, when her ſenſe has been clear, and her ſentiments juſt; and when he could not himſelf utter a ſingle ſentence fit to be repeated, but what he borrowed from the authors he had been obliged to ſtudy, as a painful exerciſe to ſlow and creeping parts? But how I digreſs!

This excellent young Lady uſed to ſay, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 390. l. 12. after diſpenſed with her rules, inſert,

—in mere indulgence to my foibles, and idler habits; for I alſo (tho' I had the benefit of an example I ſo much admired) am too much of a Modern. Yet, as to morn⯑ing Riſings, I had corrected myſelf by ſuch a prece⯑dent in the ſummer-time; and can witneſs to the be⯑nefit I found by it in my health; as alſo to the many uſe⯑ful things I was enabled by that means with eaſe and pleaſure to perform. And in her Account-Book, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 390. l. 6. from the bottom, after for my re⯑ward, dele the next Paragraph; and read,

I had indeed too much impatience in my temper, to obſerve ſuch a regularity in accounting between me and myſelf. I ſatisfied myſelf in a Lump Account, as I may call it, if I had nothing greatly wrong to reproach myſelf with, when I looked back on a paſt week, as ſhe had taught me to do.

For ſhe uſed indulgently to ſay, ‘'I do not think ALL I do neceſſary for another to do: Nor even for myſelf: But when it is more pleaſant to me to keep ſuch an account, than to let it alone; why may I not proceed in my ſupererogatories?—There can be no harm in it. It keeps up my attention to accounts; which one day may be of uſe to me in more material inſtances. Thoſe who will not keep a ſtrict account, ſeldom long keep any. I neglect not more uſeful em⯑ployments for it. And it teaches me to be covetous of Time; the only thing of which we can be allow⯑ably covetous; ſince we live but once in this world; and when gone, are gone from it for ever.'’

She always reconciled the neceſſity under which theſe interventions, as ſhe called them, laid her, of now-and-then breaking into ſome of her appropriations; ſaying, ‘'There was good ſenſe, and good manners too, in the common leſſon, When at Rome, do as they do at Rome: And that to be eaſy of perſuaſion, in matters where one could oblige without endangering virtue, or worthy habits, was an Apoſtolical excellency; ſince, if a perſon conformed with a view of making herſelf an intereſt in her friend's affecti [...]ns, in order to be heeded in greater points, it was imitating his example, who became all things to all men, that he might gain ſome.'’ Nor is it to be doubted, had life been ſpared her, that the ſweetneſs of her temper, and her chearful piety, would have made Virtue and Re⯑ligion appear ſo lovely, that her example would have [178] had no ſmall influence upon the minds and manners of thoſe who would have had the honour of converſings with her.

O Mr. Belford! &c.

Vol. vii. p. 416. dele the two laſt paragraphs; and read,

And ſtill the leſs, as the inconſolable Mother reſted not, till ſhe had procured, by means of Colonel Mor⯑den, large extracts from ſome of the Letters that com⯑poſe this Hiſtory, which convinced them all, that the very correſpondence which Clariſſa, while with them, renewed with Mr. Lovelace, was renewed for their ſakes, more than for her own: That ſhe had given him no encouragement contrary to her duty, and to that prudence for which ſhe was ſo early noted: That had they truſted to a diſcretion which they owned ſhe had never brought into queſtion, ſhe would have extricated them and herſelf (as ſhe once propoſed ^(a) to her Mo⯑ther) from all difficulties as to Lovelace: That ſhe, if any woman ever could, would have given a glorious inſtance of a paſſion conquered, or at leaſt kept under, by Reaſon, and by Piety, the man being too immoral to be implicitly beloved.

The unhappy Parents and Uncles, from the peruſal of theſe Extracts, too evidently for their peace, ſaw, That it was entirely owing to the avarice, the ambi⯑tion, the envy of her implacable Brother and Siſter, and to the ſenſeleſs confederacy entered into by the whole family, to compel her to give her hand to a man ſhe muſt deſpiſe, or ſhe had not been a CLARISSA, and to their conſequent perſecutions of her, that ſhe ever thought of quitting her Father's houſe: And that even when ſhe firſt entertained ſuch a thought, it was with intent, if poſſible, to procure for herſelf a private aſylum with Mrs. Howe, or at ſome other place of ſafety (but not with Mr. Lovelace, nor with any of the [179] Ladies of his family, tho' invited by the latter) from whence ſhe might propoſe terms which ought to have been complied with, and which were entirely conſiſtent with her duty—That tho' ſhe found herſelf diſappointed of the hoped-for refuge and protection, ſhe intended not by meeting Mr. Lovelace, to put herſelf into his power; all that ſhe aimed at by taking that ſtep, being to endeavour to pacify ſo fierce a ſpirit, leſt he ſhould (as he indeed was determined to do) pay a viſit to her friends which might have been attended with fatal con⯑ſequences; but was ſpirited away by him in ſuch a manner, as made her an object of pity, rather than of blame.

Theſe Extracts further convinced them all, that it was to her unaffected regret, that ſhe found, that Mar⯑riage was not in her power afterwards for a long time; and at laſt, but on one occaſion, when their unnatural cruelty to her (on a new application ſhe had made to her Aunt Hervey, to procure mercy and pardon) ren⯑dered her incapable of receiving his proffer'd hand; and ſo obliged her to ſuſpend the day; intending only to ſuſpend it, till recovered.

They ſaw, with equal abhorrence of Lovelace, and of their own cruelty, and with the higheſt admiration of her, That the majeſty of her virtue had awed the moſt daring ſpirit in the world, ſo that he durſt not attempt to carry his baſe deſigns into execution, till, by wicked potions, he had made her ſenſes the previous ſacrifice.

But how did they in a manner adore her memory! How did they recriminate upon each other! when they found, that ſhe had not only preſerved herſelf from repeated outrage, by the moſt glorious and in⯑trepid behaviour, in defiance, and to the utter confu⯑ſion, of all his Libertine notions; but had the forti⯑tude, conſtantly, and with a noble diſdain, to reject Him.—Whom?—Why, the Man ſhe once could have loved, kneeling for pardon, and begging to be per⯑mitted [180] to make her the beſt reparation then in his power to make her; that is to ſay, by Marriage. His fortunes high and unbroken. She his priſoner at the time in a vile houſe: Rejected by all her friends; upon repeated application to them, for mercy and for⯑giveneſs, rejected—Mercy and forgiveneſs, and a laſt bleſſing, afterwards imploring; and that as much to lighten their future remorſes, as for the comfort of her own pious heart—Yet, tho' ſavagely refuſed, on a ſuppoſition that ſhe was not ſo near her End, as was repreſented, departed, forgiving and bleſſing them all.

Then they recollected, that her poſthumous Let⯑ters, inſtead of reproaches, were filled with comfort⯑ings: That ſhe had in her Laſt Will, in their own way, laid obligations upon them all; obligations which they neither deſerved nor expected; as if ſhe thought to repair the injuſtice which ſelf-partiality made ſome of them conclude done to them by her Grandfather in his Will.

Theſe intelligences and recollections were perpetual ſubjects of recrimination to them: Heightened their anguiſh for the loſs of a child who was the glory of their family; and not ſeldom made them ſhun each other (at the times they were accuſtomed to meet to⯑gether) that they might avoid the mutual reproaches of Eyes that ſpoke, when Tongues were ſilent— Their ſtings alſo ſharpened by time; what an un⯑happy family was This! Well might Colonel Mor⯑den, in the words of Juvenal, challenge all other miſerable families to produce ſuch a growing diſtreſs as that of the Harlowes (a few months before ſo happy!) were able to produce.

[181]Mrs. HARLOWE lived about two years and an half, after the lamented death of her CLARISSA.

Mr. HARLOWE had the additional affliction to ſurvive his Lady about half a year; her death, by new-pointing his former anguiſh and remorſe, haſten⯑ing his own.

Both, in their laſt hours, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 419. l. 5. after names and families, dele the following Paragraph; and read,

As thoſe Siſters in iniquity, SALLY MARTIN and POLLY HORTON, had abilities and education ſuperior to what creatures of their caſt generally can boaſt of; and as their Hiſtories are no-where given in the pre⯑ceding Papers, in which they are frequently mentioned; it cannot fail of gratifying the reader's curioſity, as well as anſwering the good ends deſigned by the publica⯑tion of this Work, to give a brief account of their Parentage, and manner of Training-up, preparative to the vile courſes they fell into, and of what became of them, after the dreadful exit of the infamous Sinclair.

SALLY MARTIN was the Daughter of a ſubſtantial Mercer at the Court end of the town; to whom her Mother, a Grocer's Daughter in the city, brought a handſome fortune; and both having a gay turn, and being fond of the faſhions which it was their buſineſs to promote; and which the wives and daughters of the uppermoſt tradeſmen (eſpecially in that quarter of the town) generally affect to follow; it was no wonder that they brought up their Daughter accordingly: Nor that ſhe, who was a very ſprightly and ready-witted girl, and reckoned very pretty and very genteel, ſhould every year improve upon ſuch examples.

She early found herſelf miſtreſs of herſelf. All ſhe did was right: All ſhe ſaid was admired. Early, very early, did ſhe diſmiſs bluſhes from her cheek. She could not bluſh, becauſe ſhe could not doubt: And ſilence, whatever were the ſubject, was as much a ſtranger to her, as diffidence.

[182]She never was left out of any party of pleaſure, after ſhe had paſſed her Ninth year; and, in honour of her prattling vein, was conſidered as a principal perſon in the frequent Treats and Entertainments which her parents, fond of luxurious living, gave with a view to encreaſe their acquaintance for the ſake of their buſineſe. Not duly reflecting, that the part they ſuffered her to take in what made for their intereſt, would probably be a means to quicken the appetites and ruin the morals of that Daughter, for whoſe ſake, as an only child, they were ſolicitous to obtain wealth.

The CHILD ſo much a Woman, what muſt the WOMAN be?

At Fifteen or Sixteen, ſhe affected, both in dreſs and manners, to ape ſuch of the quality, as were moſt Apiſh. The richeſt ſilks in her Father's ſhop were not too rich for her. At all public diverſions, ſhe was the leader, inſtead of the led, of all her fe⯑male kindred and acquaintance; tho' they were a third older than herſelf. She would buſtle herſelf into a place, and make room for her more baſhful companions, through the frowns of the firſt poſſeſſors, at a crouded theatre; leaving every one near her amazed at her ſelf-conſequence, wondering ſhe had no ſervant to keep place for her; whiſperingly en⯑quiring who ſhe was; and then ſitting down ad⯑miring her fortitude.

She officiouſly made herſelf of conſequence to the moſt noted Players; who, as one of their patroneſſes, applied to her for her intereſt, on their Benefit-nights. She knew the Chriſtian, as well as Sur-Name of every pretty fellow who frequented public places; and affected to ſpeak of them by their former.

Thoſe who had not obeyed the call her eyes al⯑ways made upon all of them for notice at her en⯑trance, or before ſhe took her ſeat, were ſpoken of with haughtineſs, as, Jack's, or Tom's; while her [183] favourites, with an affectedly-endearing familiarity, and a prettineſs of accent, were Jackeys and Tom⯑mys; and if they ſtood very high in her graces, Dear Devils, and Agreeable Toads.

She ſat in judgment, and an inexorable judge ſhe was, upon the actions and conduct of every man and woman of quality and faſhion, as they became the ſubjects of converſation. She was deeply learned in the ſcandalous Chronicle: She made every character, every praiſe, and every cenſure, ſerve to exalt herſelf. She ſhould ſcorn to do ſo or ſo!—Or, That was ever her way; and juſt what ſhe did, or liked to do; and judging herſelf by the vileneſs of the moſt vile of her Sex, ſhe wiped her mouth, and ſat down ſatisfied witli her own virtue.

She had her Chair to attend her where-ever ſhe went, and found people among her Betters, as her pride ſtooped to call ſome of the moſt inſignificant people in the world, to encourage her viſits.

She was practiſed in all the arts of the Card-table: A true Spartan girl; and had even courage, occaſion⯑ally, to wrangle off a detection. Late hours (turn⯑ing night into day, and day into night) were the al⯑moſt unavoidable conſequence of her frequent play. Her parents pleaſed themſelves that their Sally had a charming conſtitution: And as long as ſhe ſuffered not in her health, they were regardleſs of her morals.

The Needle ſhe hated: And made the conſtant ſubjects of her ridicule the fine works that uſed to employ, and to keep out of idleneſs, luxury, and ex⯑travagance, and at home (were they to have been of no other ſervice) the women of the laſt age, when there were no Vaux-halls, Ranelaghs, Marybones, and ſuch-like places of diverſion, to dreſs out for, and gad after.

And as to Family-management, her parents had not required any knowlege of that ſort from her; and ſhe conſidered it as a qualification only neceſſary [184] for hirelings, and the low-born, and as utterly un⯑worthy of the attention of a modern fine Lady.

Altho' her Father had great buſineſs, yet, living in ſo high and expenſive a way, he pretended not to give her a fortune anſwerable to it. Neither he nor his Wife, having ſet out with any notion of frugality, could think of retrenching. Nor did their Daughter deſire that they ſhould retrench. They thought glare or oſtentation reputable. They called it living gen⯑teelly. And as they lifted their heads above their neighbours, they ſuppoſed their credit concerned to go forward rather than backward in outward appearances. They flattered themſelves, and they flattered their girl, and ſhe was entirely of their opinion, that ſhe had charms and wit enough to attract ſome man of rank; of Fortune at leaſt: And yet this Daughter of a Mercer-Father and Grocer-Mother could not bear the thoughts of a creeping Cit; encouraging herſelf with the few inſtances (comparatively few) which ſhe had always in her head as common ones, of girls much inferior to her⯑ſelf in ſtation, talents, education, and even fortune, who had ſucceeded—as ſhe doubted not to ſucceed. Handſome Settlements, and a Chariot, that tempting gewgaw to the vanity of the middling claſs of females, were the leaſt that ſhe propoſed to herſelf. But all this while, neither her parents nor herſelf conſidered, that ſhe had appetites indulged to ſtruggle with, and a turn of education given her, as well as a warm conſtitution, unguarded by ſound principles, and unbenefited by example, which made her much better qualified for a Miſtreſs than a Wife.

Her Twentieth year, to her own equal wonder and regret, paſſed over her head, and ſhe had not had one offer that her pride would permit her to accept of. A girl from Fifteen to Eighteen, her beauty then begin⯑ning to bloſſom, will, as a new thing, attract the eyes of men: But if ſhe make her face cheap at public places, ſhe will find, that new faces will draw more at⯑tention [185] than fine faces conſtantly ſeen. Policy there⯑fore, if nothing elſe were conſidered, would induce a young Beauty, if ſhe could tame her vanity, juſt to ſhew herſelf, and to be talked of, and then withdraw⯑ing, as if from diſcretion (and diſcreet it will be to do ſo) expect to be ſought after, rather than to be thought to ſeek for; only reviving now-and-then the memory of herſelf, at the public places in turn, if ſhe find her⯑ſelf likely to be forgotten; and then ſhe will be new again. But this obſervation ought young Ladies al⯑ways to have in their heads, that they can hardly ever expect to gratify their vanity, and at the ſame time gain the admiration of men worthy of making partners for life. They may, in ſhort, have many admirers at public places, but not one Lover.

Sally Martin knew nothing of this doctrine. Her beauty was in its bloom, and yet ſhe found her⯑ſelf neglected. ‘'Sally Martin, the Mercer's Daughter: ſhe never fails being here;'’ was the anſwer, and the accompanying obſervation, made to every Queſtioner, Who is that Lady?

At laſt, her deſtiny approached. It was at a Maſ⯑querade, that ſhe firſt ſaw the gay, the handſome Love⯑lace, who was juſt returned from his travels. She was immediately ſtruck with his figure, and with the bril⯑liant things that ſhe heard fall from his lips as he hap⯑pened to ſit near her. He, who was not then looking out for a Wife, was taken with Sally's ſmartneſs, and with an air that at the ſame time ſhewed her to be equally genteel and ſelf-ſignificant; and ſigns of ap⯑probation mutually paſſing, he found no difficulty in acquainting himſelf where to viſit her next day. And yet it was ſome mortification to a perſon of her ſelf-conſequence, and gay appearance, to ſubmit to be known by ſo fine a young gentleman as no more than a Mercer's daughter. So natural is it for a girl brought up as Sally was, to be occaſionally aſhamed of thoſe whoſe folly had ſet her above herſelf.

[186]But whatever it might be to Sally, it was no diſap⯑pointment to Mr. Lovelace, to find his Miſtreſs of no higher degree; becauſe he hoped to reduce her ſoon to the loweſt condition that an unhappy woman can fall into.

But when Miſs Martin had informed herſelf, that her Lover was the Nephew and preſumptive Heir of Lord M. ſhe thought him the very man for whom ſhe had been ſo long and ſo impatiently looking out; and for whom it was worth her while to ſpread her toils. And here it may not be amiſs to obſerve, that it is very probable, that Mr. Lovelace had Sally Martin in his thoughts, and perhaps two or three more whoſe hopes of marriage from him had led them to their ruin, when he drew the following whimſical picture, in a Letter to his friend Belford, not inſerted in the preceding Collection.

‘'Methinks, ſays he, I ſee a young couple in court⯑ſhip, having each a deſign upon the other: The girl plays off: She is very happy as ſhe is: She cannot be happier: She will not change her ſingle ſtate: The man, I will ſuppoſe, is one who does not confeſs, that he deſires not that ſhe ſhould: She holds ready a net under her apron; he another under his coat; each intending to throw it over the other's neck; ſhe over his, when her pride is gratified, and ſhe thinks ſhe can be ſure of him; he over hers, when the watched-for yielding moment has carried conſent too far—And ſuppoſe he happens to be the more dextrous of the two, and whips his net over her, before ſhe can caſt hers over him; how, I would fain know, can ſhe be juſtly entitled to cry out upon cruelty, barbarity, deception, ſacrifices, and all the reſt of the exclama⯑tory nonſenſe with which the pretty fools, in ſuch a caſe, are wont to din the ears of their conquerors? Is it not juſt, thinkeſt thou, when ſhe makes her ap⯑peals to gods and men, that both gods and men ſhould laugh at her, and hitting her in the teeth with her [187] own felonious intentions, bid her ſit down patiently under her deſerved diſappointment?'’

In ſhort, Sally's parents, as well as herſelf, encou⯑raged Mr. Lovelace's viſits. They thought they might truſt to a diſcretion in her which ſhe herſelf was too wiſe to doubt. Pride they knew ſhe had. And that, in theſe caſes, is often called diſcretion —Lord help the Sex, ſays Lovelace, if they had not Pride!—Nor did they ſuſpect danger from that ſpecious air of ſin⯑cerity, and gentleneſs of manners, which he could aſ⯑ſume or lay aſide whenever he pleaſed.

The ſecond Maſquerade, which was no more than their third meeting abroad, completed her ruin, from ſo practiſed, tho' ſo young a deceiver; and that before ſhe well knew ſhe was in danger: For, having pre⯑vailed on her to go off with him about Twelve o'clock to his Aunt Forbes's, a Lady of honour and fortune, to whom he had given reaſon to expect her future Niece [the only hint of Marriage he ever gave her], he carried her to the houſe of the wicked woman, who bears the name of Sinclair in theſe Papers: And there, by promiſes which ſhe underſtood in the favourable ſenſe (for where a woman loves, ſhe ſeldom doubts enough for her own ſafety) obtained an eaſy conqueſt over a virtue that was little more than nominal.

He found it not difficult to induce her to proceed in the guilty commerce, till the effects of it became too apparent to be hid. Her Parents then (in the firſt fury of their diſappointment, and vexation for being deprived of all hopes of ſuch a Son-in-law) turned her out of doors.

Her diſgrace thus publiſhed, ſhe became hardened; and, protected by her ſeducer, whoſe favourite Miſtreſs ſhe then was, ſhe was ſo incenſed againſt her Parents, for an indignity ſo little ſuiting with her pride, and the head they had always given her, that ſhe refuſed to re⯑turn to them, when, repenting of their paſſonate treat⯑ment of her, they would have been reconciled to her: [188] And, becoming the favourite Daughter of her Mother Sinclair, at the perſuaſions of that abandoned woman, ſhe practiſed to bring on an abortion, which ſhe ef⯑fected, tho' ſhe was ſo far gone, that it had like to have coſt her her life.

Thus, unchaſtity her firſt crime, murder her next, her conſcience became ſeared; and, young as ſhe was, and fond of her deceiver, ſoon grew indelicate enough, having ſo thorough-paced a School-miſtreſs, to do all ſhe could to promote the pleaſures of the man who had ruined her; ſcrupling not, with a ſpirit truly diabo⯑lical, to endeavour to draw in others to follow her example. And it is hardly to be believed what miſ⯑chiefs of this ſort ſhe was the means of effecting; woman confiding in, and daring woman; and ſhe a creature of ſpecious appearance, and great art.

A ſtill viler wickedneſs, if poſſible, remains to be ſaid of Sally Martin.

Her Father dying, her Mother, in hopes to reclaim her, as ſhe called it, propoſed to her to quit the houſe of the infamous Sinclair, and to retire with her into the country, where her diſgrace, and her then wicked way of live, would not be known; and there ſo to life, as to ſave appearances; the only virtue ſhe had ever taught her; beſides that of endeavouring rather to delude than to be deluded.

To this Sally conſented; but with no other in⯑tention, as ſhe often owned (and gloried in it) than to cheat her Mother of the greateſt part of her ſub⯑ſtance, in revenge for conſenting to her being turned out of doors long before, and by way of repriſal for having perſuaded her Father, as ſhe would have it, to cut her off, in his laſt Will, from any ſhare in his fortune.

This unnatural wickedneſs, in half a year's time, ſhe brought about; and then the Serpent retired to her obſcene den with her ſpoils, laughing at what ſhe had done; even after it had broken her Mother's [189] heart, as it did in a few months time: A ſevere, but juſt puniſhment for the unprincipled education ſhe had given her.

It ought to be added, that this was an iniquity, of which neither Mr. Lovelace, nor any of his friends, could bear to hear her boaſt; and always check'd her for it whenever ſhe did; condemning it with one voice: And it is certain, that this and other inſtances of her complicated wickedneſs, turned early Love⯑lace's heart againſt her; and, had ſhe not been ſub⯑ſervient to him in his other purſuits, he would not have endured her: For, ſpeaking of her, he would ſay, Let not any one reproach us, Jack: There is no wickedneſs like the wickedneſs of a woman ^(a).

A bad education was the preparative, it muſt be confeſſed: And for this Sally Martin had reaſon to thank her Parents: As they had reaſon to thank themſelves, for what followed: But, had ſhe not met with a Lovelace, ſhe had avoided a Sinclair; and might have gone on at the common rate of wives ſo educated; and been the Mother of children turned out to take their chance in the world, as ſhe was; ſo many lumps of ſoft was, fit to take any impreſſion that the firſt accident gave them; neither happy, nor making happy; every-thing but uſeful; and well off, if not extremely miſerable.

POLLY HORTON was the Daughter of a gentle⯑woman well deſcended; whoſe Huſband, a man of family, and of honour, was a Captain in the Guards.

He died when Polly was about Nine years of age, leaving her to the care of her Mother, a lively young Lady of about Twenty-ſix; with a genteel proviſion for both.

Her Mother was extremely fond of her Polly; but had it not in herſelf to manifeſt the true, the genuine fondneſs of a Parent, by a ſtrict and guarded educa⯑tion; dreſſing out, and viſiting, and being viſited by [190] the gay of her own Sex, and caſting out her eye abroad, as one very ready to try her fortune again in the married ſtate.

This induced thoſe airs, and a love to thoſe diver⯑ſions, which make a young widow, of ſo lively a turn, the unfitteſt Tutreſs in the world, even to her own Daughter.

Mrs. Horton herſelf having had an early turn to Muſic, and that ſort of Reading, which is but an earlier debauchery for young minds, preparative to the groſſer at riper years, to wit, Romances and No⯑vels, Songs and Plays, and thoſe without diſtinction, moral or immoral, ſhe indulged her Daughter in the ſame taſte; and at thoſe hours, when they could not take part in the more active and lively amuſements and Kill-times, as ſome call them, uſed to employ Miſs to read to her; happy enough in her own ima⯑gination, that, while ſhe was diverting her own ears, and ſometimes, as the piece was, corrupting her own heart, and her childs too, ſhe was teaching Miſs to read, and improve her mind; for it was the boaſt of every tea-table half-hour, That Miſs Horton, in pro⯑priety, accent, and emphaſis, ſurpaſſed all the young Ladies of her age: And, at other times, compliment⯑ing the pleaſed Mother—Bleſs me, Madam, with what a ſurpriſing grace Miſs Horton reads!—She enters into the very ſpirit of her ſubject—This ſhe could have from nobody but you! An intended praiſe; but, as the ſubjects were, would have been a ſevere ſatire in the mouth of an enemy! —While the fond, the inconſiderate Mother, with a delighted air, would cry, Why, I cannot but ſay, Miſs Horton does credit to her Tutreſs! And then a Come-hither, my beſt Love! And, with a kiſs of approbation, What a pleaſure to your dear Papa, had he lived to ſee your improvements, my Charmer!—Concluding with a ſigh of ſatisfaction; her eyes turning round upon the circle, to take in all the ſilent applauſes of theirs! [191] But little thought the fond, the fooliſh Mother, what the plant would be, which was ſpringing up from theſe ſeeds! Little imagined ſhe, that her own ruin, as well as her child's, was to be the conſequence of this fine education; and that, in the ſame ill-fated hour, the honour both of Mother and Daughter was to become a ſacrifice to the intriguing Invader.

This the laughing girl, when abandoned to her evil deſtiny, and in company with her Siſter Sally, and others, each recounting their ſettings-out, their progreſs, and their fall, frequently related to be her education and manner of training-up.

This, and to ſee a ſucceſſion of Humble Servants buzzing about a Mother, who took too much pride in addreſſes of that kind, what a beginning, what an example, to a conſtitution of tinder, ſo prepared to receive the ſpark ſtruck from the ſteely forehead, and flinty heart, of ſuch a Libertine, as at laſt it was their fortune to be encountered by!

In ſhort, as Miſs grew up under the influ⯑ences of ſuch a Directreſs, and of books ſo light and frothy, with the inflaming additions of Mu⯑ſic, Concerts, Opera's, Plays, Aſſemblies, Balls, and the reſt of the rabble of amuſements of the mo⯑dern life, it is no wonder, that, like early fruit, ſhe was ſoon ripened to the hand of the inſidious gatherer.

At Fifteen, ſhe own'd, ſhe was ready to fanſy herſelf the Heroine of every Novel, and of every Comedy ſhe read, ſo well did ſhe enter into the ſpirit of her ſubject: She glowed to become the object of ſome Hero's flame; and perfectly longed to begin an intrigue, and even to be run away with by ſome en⯑terpriſing Lover: Yet had neither Confinement nor Check to apprehend from her indiſcreet Mother: Which ſhe thought abſolutely neceſſary to conſtitute a Partheniſſa!

Nevertheleſs, with all theſe fine modern qualities, did ſhe complete her Nineteenth year, before ſhe met [192] with any addreſs of conſequence: One half of her ad⯑mirers being afraid, becauſe of her gay turn, and but middling fortune, to make ſerious applications for her favour; while others were kept at diſtance, by the ſuperior airs ſhe aſſumed; and a third ſort, not ſufficiently penetrating the foibles either of Mother or Daughter, were kept off by the ſuppoſed watchful care of the former.

But when the man of intrepidity and intrigue was found, never was Heroine ſo ſoon ſubdued, never Goddeſs ſo early ſtript of her celeſtials! For, at the Opera, a diverſion at which neither ſhe nor her Mo⯑ther ever miſſed to be preſent, ſhe beheld the ſpecious Lovelace; beheld him inveſted with all the airs of heroic inſult, reſenting a ſlight affront offered to his Sally Martin, by Two gentlemen who had known her in her more hopeful ſtate, one of whom Mr. Lovelace obliged to ſneak away with a broken head, given with the pommel of his ſword, the other with a bloody noſe; neither of them well ſupporting that readineſs of offence, which, it ſeems, was a part of their known characters to be guilty of.

The gallantry of this action drawing every by⯑ſtander on the ſide of the Hero, O the brave man! cried Polly Horton aloud, to her Mother, in a kind of rapture, How needful the protection of the Brave to the Fair! with a ſoftneſs in her voice, which ſhe had taught herſelf, to ſuit her fanſied high condition of life.

A ſpeech ſo much in his favour, could not but take the notice of a man who was but too ſenſible of the advantages which his fine perſon, and noble air, gave him over the gentler hearts, who was always watching every female eye, and who had his ear con⯑tinually turned to every affected voice; for that was one of his indications of a proper ſubject to be at⯑tempted —Affectation of every ſort, he uſed to ſay, is a certain ſign of a wrong-turned head; of a faulty judgment: And upon ſuch a baſis I ſeldom build in vain.

[193]He inſtantly reſolved to be acquainted with a young creature, who ſeemed ſo ſtrongly prejudiced in his favour. Never man had a readier invention for all ſorts of miſchief. He gave his Sally her Cue. He called her Siſter in their hearing. And Sally whiſperingly gave the young Lady, and her Mother, in her own way, the particulars of the affront ſhe had received; making herſelf an Angel of Light, to caſt the brighter ray upon the character of her heroic Brother. She particularly praiſed his known and approved courage; and mingled with her praiſes of him, ſuch circumſtances relating to his birth, his fortune and endowments, as left him nothing to do but to fall in love with the enamoured Polly.

Mr. Lovelace preſently ſaw what turn to give to his profeſſions: So brave a man! yet of manners ſo gentle! hit the young Lady's taſte: Nor could ſhe ſuſpect the heart, that ſuch an aſpect cover'd. This was the man! the very man! ſhe whiſpered to her Mother: And, when the Opera was over, his ſer⯑vant procuring a coach, he undertook, with his ſpe⯑cious Siſter, to ſet them down at their own lodgings, tho' ſituated a quite different way from his: And there were they prevailed upon to alight, and partake of a ſlight repaſt.

Sally preſſed them to return the favour to her at her Aunt Forbes's, and hoped it would be before her Bro⯑ther went to his own ſeat.

They promiſed her, and named their evening.

A ſplendid entertainment was provided. The gueſts came, having in the interim found all that was ſaid of his name, and family, and fortune, to be true. Per⯑ſons of ſo little ſtrictneſs in their own morals, took it not into their heads to be very inquiſitive after his.

Muſic and dancing had their ſhare in the entertain⯑ment: Theſe opened their hearts, already half-opened by Love: The Aunt Forbes, and the Lover's Siſter, kept them open by their own example: The Hero [194] ſung, vowed, promiſed: Their gratitude was moved, their delights were augmented, their hopes increaſed; their confidence was engaged; all their appetites up in arms; the rich wines co-operating; beat quite off their guard, and not Thought enough remaining ſo much as for ſuſpicion; Miſs, detach'd from her Mo⯑ther by Sally, ſoon fell a ſacrifice to the ſucceſsful In⯑triguer.

The widow herſelf, half intoxicated, and raiſed as ſhe was with artful mixtures, and inflamed by Love unexpectedly tendered by one of the libertines his con⯑ſtant companions (to whom an Opportunity was con⯑trived to be given to be alone with her, and that cloſely followed by Importunity) fell into her Daughter's error. The conſequences of which, in length of time, becoming apparent, grief, ſhame, remorſe, ſeized her heart (her own indiſcretion not allowing her to arraign her Daughter's); and ſhe ſurvived not her de⯑livery; leaving Polly with child likewiſe: Who, when delivered, being too fond of the gay Deluder to re⯑nounce his company, even when ſhe found herſelf de⯑luded, fell into a courſe of extravagance and diſſolute⯑neſs; ran through her fortune in a very little time; and, as an high preferment, at laſt, with Sally, was admitted a quarter-partner with the deteſtable Sin⯑clair.

All that is neceſſary to add to the Hiſtory of theſe unhappy women, will be compriſed in a very little compaſs.

After the death, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 424. l. 5. from the bottom, on the words deny it him, add the following Note:

Several worthy perſons have wiſhed, that the heinous practice of Duelling had been more forcibly diſcouraged, by way of Note, at the Concluſion of a work deſigned to recommend the higheſt and moſt important Doctrines of Chriſtianity. It is humbly preſumed, that thoſe perſons [195] have not ſufficiently attended to what is already done on that ſubject in Vol. ii. Letter x. and in Vol. vii. Letters lxix.xciii.xciv.xcv.

Vol. vii. p. 425. add the following POSTSCRIPT; in which ſeveral Objections that have been made, as well to the Cataſtrophe as to different Parts of the preceding Hiſtory, are briefly conſidered.

The foregoing Work having been publiſhed at three different periods of time, the Author, in the courſe of its publication, was favoured with many anonymous Letters, in which the Writers differently expreſſed their wiſhes with regard to the apprehended cataſtrophe.

Moſt of thoſe directed to him by the gentler Sex, turned in favour of what they called a Fortunate End⯑ing. Some of the fair writers, enamoured, as they de⯑clared, with the character of the Heroine, were warmly ſolicitous to have her made happy: And others, like⯑wiſe of their mind, inſiſted that Poetical Juſtice re⯑quired that it ſhould be ſo. And when, ſays one in⯑genious Lady, whoſe undoubted motive was good-nature and humanity, it muſt be concluded, that it is in an author's power to make his piece end as he pleaſes, why ſhould he not give pleaſure rather than pain to the Reader whom he has intereſted in favour of his principal characters?

Others, and ſome Gentlemen, declared againſt Tragedies in general, and in favour of Comedies, al⯑moſt in the words of Lovelace, who was ſupported in his taſte by all the women at Mrs. Sinclair's, and by Sinclair herſelf. ‘'I have too much Feeling, ſaid he ^(a). There is enough in the world to make our hearts ſad, without carrying grief into our diverſions, and making the diſtreſſes of others our own.'’

And how was this happy ending to be brought about? Why, by this very eaſy and trite expedient; [196] to wit, by reforming Lovelace, and marrying him to Clariſſa—Not, however, abating her one of her tri⯑als, nor any of her ſufferings [for the ſake of the ſport her diſtreſſes would give to the tender-hearted reader as ſhe went along] the laſt outrage excepted: That indeed, partly in compliment to Lovelace himſelf, and partly for delicacy-ſake, they were willing to ſpare her.

But whatever were the fate of his work, the Au⯑thor was reſolved to take a different method. He al⯑ways thought, that ſudden Converſions, ſuch eſpecially, as were left to the candour of the Reader to ſuppoſe and make out, had neither Art, nor Nature, nor even Probability, in them; and that they were moreover of very bad example. To have a Lovelace for a ſe⯑ries of years glory in his wickedneſs, and think that he had nothing to do, but as an act of grace and favour to hold out his hand to receive that of the beſt of wo⯑men, whenever he pleaſed, and to have it thought, that Marriage would be a ſufficient amends for all his enormities to others, as well as to her; he could not bear that. Nor is Reformation, as he has ſhewn in another piece, to be ſecured by a fine face; by a paſſion that has ſenſe for its object; nor by the goodneſs of a Wife's heart, or even example, if the heart of the Huſband be not graciouſly touched by the Divine Finger.

It will be ſeen by this time, that the Author had a great end in view. He has lived to ſee Scepticiſm and Infidelity openly avowed, and even endeavoured to be propagated from the Preſs: The great doctrines of the Goſpel brought into queſtion: Thoſe of ſelf-de⯑nial and mortification blotted out of the catalogue of chriſtian virtues: And a taſte even to wantonneſs for out-door pleaſure and luxury, to the general excluſion of domeſtic as well as public virtue, induſtriouſly pro⯑moted among all ranks and degrees of people.

In this general depravity, when even the Pulpit has [197] loſt great part of its weight, and the Clergy are con⯑ſidered as a body of intereſted men, the Author thought, he ſhould be able to anſwer it to his own heart, be the ſucceſs what it would, if he threw in his mite towards introducing a Reformation ſo much wanted: And he imagined, that if in an age given up to diverſion and entertainment, he could ſteal in, as may be ſaid, and inveſtigate the great doctrines of Chriſtianity under the faſhionable guiſe of an amuſement; he ſhould be moſt likely to ſerve his purpoſe; remembring that of the Poet:

He was reſolved therefore to attempt ſomething that never yet had been done. He conſidered, that the Tragic poets have as ſeldom made their heroes true ob⯑jects of pity, as the Comic theirs laudable ones of imi⯑tation: And ſtill more rarely have made them in their deaths look forward to a future Hope. And thus, when they die, they ſeem totally to periſh. Death, in ſuch inſtances, muſt appear terrible. It muſt be conſidered as the greateſt evil. But why is Death ſet in ſhocking lights, when it is the univerſal lot?

He has indeed thought fit to paint the death of the wicked as terrible as he could paint it. But he has en⯑deavoured to draw that of the good in ſuch an amiable manner, that the very Balaams of the world ſhould not forbear to wiſh that their latter end might be like that of the Heroine.

And after all, what is the Poetical Juſtice ſo much contended for by ſome, as the generality of writers have managed it, but another ſort of diſpenſation than that with which God, by Revelation, teaches us, He has thought fit to exerciſe mankind; whom placing here only in a ſtate of probation, he hath ſo intermingled good and evil, as to neceſſitate us to look forward for a more equal diſpenſation of both?

[198]The Author of the Hiſtory (or rather Dramatic Nar⯑rative) of Clariſſa is therefore well juſtified by the Chriſtian Syſtem, in deferring to extricate ſuffering Vir⯑tue to the time in which it will meet with the Comple⯑tion of its Reward.

But we have no need, &c.

Vol. 7. p. 429. l. 11. dele Thus far Mr. Addiſon, and read,

This ſubject is further conſidered in a Letter to the Spectator ^(a).

‘'I find your opinion, ſays the author of it, con⯑cerning the late-invented term called Poetical Juſtice, is controverted by ſome eminent critics. I have drawn up ſome additional arguments to ſtrengthen the opinion which you have there delivered; having endeavoured to go to the bottom of that matter....’

‘'The moſt perfect man has vices enough to draw down puniſhments upon his head, and to juſtify Pro⯑vidence in regard to any miſeries that may befal him. For this reaſon I cannot think but that the inſtruction and moral are much finer, where a man who is vir⯑tuous in the main of his character falls into diſtreſs, and ſinks under the blows of fortune, at the end of a Tragedy, than when he is repreſented as happy and triumphant. Such an example corrects the inſolence of human nature, ſoftens the mind of the beholder with ſentiments of pity and compaſſion, comforts him under his own private affliction, and teaches him not to judge of mens virtues by their ſucceſſes ^(b). I can⯑not think of one real hero in all antiquity ſo far raiſed above human infirmities, that he might not be very naturally repreſented in a Tragedy as plunged in miſ⯑fortunes and calamities. The Poet may ſtill find out ſome prevailing paſſion or indiſcretion in his cha⯑racter, [199] and ſhew it in ſuch a manner as will ſufficiently acquit Providence of any injuſtice in his ſufferings: For, as Horace obſerves, the beſt man is faulty, tho' not in ſo great a degree as thoſe whom we generally call vicious men ^(a).’

‘'If ſuch a ſtrict Poetical Juſtice (proceeds the Letter-writer) as ſome gentlemen inſiſt upon, were to be obſerved in this art, there is no manner of reaſon why it ſhould not extend to heroic Poetry, as well as Tra⯑gedy. But we find it ſo little obſerved in Homer, that his Achilles is placed in the greateſt point of glory and ſucceſs, tho' his Character is morally vicious, and only poetically good, if I may uſe the phraſe of our modern Critics. The Aeneid is filled with innocent unhappy perſons. Niſus and Euryalus, Lauſus and Pallas, come all to unfortunate ends. The Poet takes notice in particular, that, in the ſacking of Troy, Ripheus fell, who was the moſt juſt man among the Trojans: '—Cadit & Ripheus, juſtiſſimus unus'Qui fuit in Teucris, & ſervantiſſimus aequi.'Diis aliter viſum eſt— 'The gods thought fit.—So blameleſs Ripheus fell,'Who lov'd fair Juſtice, and obſerv'd it well.'’

‘'And that Pantheus could neither be preſerved by his tranſcendent piety, nor by the holy fillets of Apollo, whoſe prieſt he was: '—Nec te tua plurima, Pantheu,'Labentem pietas, nec Apollinis infula texit. Aen. II. 'Nor could thy piety thee, Pantheus, ſave,'Nor ev'n thy prieſthood, from an early grave.’

‘'I might here mention the practice of antient Tra⯑gic Poets, both Greek and Latin; but as this parti⯑cular [200] is touched upon in the paper above-mentioned, I ſhall paſs it over in ſilence. I could produce paſſages out of Ariſtotle in favour of my opinion: And if in one place he ſays, that an abſolutely virtuous man ſhould not be repreſented as unhappy, this does not juſtify any one who ſhould think fit to bring in an abſolutely virtuous man upon the ſtage. Thoſe who are acquainted with that author's way of writing, know very well, that to take the whole extent of his ſubject into his diviſions of it, he often makes uſe of ſuch caſes as are imaginary, and not reducible to practice....’

‘'I ſhall conclude, ſays this gentleman, with obſerv⯑ing, that tho' the Spectator above-mentioned is ſo far againſt the rule of Poetical Juſtice, as to affirm, that good men may meet with an unhappy Cataſtrophe in Tragedy, it does not ſay, that ill men may go off unpuniſhed. The reaſon for this diſtinction is very plain; namely, becauſe the beſt of men [as is ſaid above] have faults enough to juſtify Providence for any misfortunes and afflictions which may befal them; but there are many men ſo criminal, that they can have no claim or pretence to happineſs. The beſt of men may deſerve puniſhment; but the worſt of men cannot deſerve happineſs.'’

Mr. Addiſon, as we have ſeen above, tells us, that Ariſtotle, in conſidering the Tragedies that were written in either of the kinds, obſerves, that thoſe which ended unhappily had always pleaſed the people, and carried away the prize, in the public diſputes of the Stage, from thoſe that ended happily.

Our fair Readers, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 430. l. 7. after chaſle and virtuous, inſert,

Theſe are the great authorities ſo favourable to the ſtories that end unhappily. And we beg leave to re⯑inforce this inference from them, That if the tempo⯑rary ſufferings of the Virtuous and the Good can be [201] accounted for and juſtified on Pagan principles, many more and infinitely ſtronger reaſons will occur to a Chriſtian Reader in behalf of what are called unhappy Cataſtrophes from the conſideration of the doctrine of future rewards; which is every-where ſtrongly enforced in the Hiſtory of Clariſſa.

Of this (to give but one inſtance) an ingenious Modern, diſtinguiſhed by his rank, but much more by his excellent defence of ſome of the moſt important doctrines of Chriſtianity, appears convinced in the concluſion of a pathetic Monody, not long ago publiſhed; in which, after he had deplored, as a man without hope (expreſſing ourſelves in the Scripture phraſe) the loſs of an excellent Wife; he thus conſoles himſelf:

But of infinitely greater weight than all that has been above produced on this ſubject, are the words of the Pſalmiſt.

‘'As for me, ſays he ^(a), my feet were almoſt gone, my ſteps had well-nigh ſlipt: For I was envious at [202] the fooliſh, when I ſaw the proſperity of the wicked. For their ſtrength is firm: They are not in trouble as other men; neither are they plagued like other men—Their eyes ſtand out with fatneſs: They have more than their heart could wiſh—Verily I have cleanſed mine heart in vain, and waſhed my hands in innocence; for all the day long have I been plagued, and chaſtened every morning. When I thought to know this, it was too painful for me. Until I went into the ſanctuary of God; then underſtood I their end—Thou ſhalt guide me with thy counſel, and af⯑terward receive me to glory.'’

This is the Pſalmiſt's comfort and dependence. And ſhall man, preſuming to alter the common courſe of nature, and, ſo far as he is able, to elude the tenure by which frail mortality indiſpenſably holds, imagine, that he can make a better diſpenſation; and by call⯑ing it Poetical Juſtice, indirectly reflect on the Di⯑vine?

The more pains have been taken to obviate the ob⯑jections ariſing from the notion of Poetical Juſtice, as the doctrine built upon it had obtained general credit among us; and as it muſt be confeſſed to have the ap⯑pearance of humanity and good-nature for its ſupports. And yet the writer of the Hiſtory of Clariſſa, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 431. l. 9. after Heaven only could reward, inſert,

We ſhall now, according to expectation given in the Preface to this Edition, proceed to take brief no⯑tice of ſuch other objections as have come to our know⯑lege: For, as is there ſaid, ‘'This work being ad⯑dreſſed to the Public as an Hiſtory of Life and Man⯑ners, thoſe parts of it which are propoſed to carry with them the force of Example, ought to be as un⯑objectible as is conſiſtent with the deſign of the whole, and with human Nature.'’

Several perſons have cenſured the Heroine as too [203] cold in her love, too haughty, and even ſometimes provoking. But we may preſume to ſay, that this objection has ariſen from want of attention to the Story, to the Character of Clariſſa, and to her parti⯑cular Situation.

It was not intended that ſhe ſhould be in Love, but in Liking only, if that expreſſion may be admitted. It is meant to be every-where inculcated in the Story, for Example-ſake, that ſhe never would have married Mr. Lovelace, becauſe of his immoralities, had ſhe been left to herſelf; and that her ruin was principally owing to the perſecutions of her friends.

What is too generally called Love, ought (perhaps as generally) to be called by another name. Cupidity, or a Paphian Stimulus, as ſome women, even of con⯑dition, have acted, are not words too harſh to be ſubſtituted on the occaſion, however grating they may be to delicate ears. But take the word Love in the gentleſt and moſt honourable ſenſe, it would have been thought by ſome highly improbable, that Clariſſa ſhould have been able to ſhew ſuch a command of her paſſions, as makes ſo diſtinguiſhing a part of her Cha⯑racter, had ſhe been as violently in Love, as certain warm and fierce ſpirits would have had her to be. A few Obſervations are thrown in by way of Note in the preſent Edition, at proper places, to obviate this Objection, or rather to beſpeak the Attention of haſty Readers to what lies obviouſly before them. For thus the Heroine anticipates this very Objection, expoſtu⯑lating with Miſs Howe on her contemptuous treat⯑ment of Mr. Hickman; which [far from being guilty of the ſame fault herſelf] ſhe did on all occaſions, and declares ſhe would do, whenever Miſs Howe forgot herſelf, altho' ſhe had not a day to live:

‘'O my dear, ſays ſhe, that it had been my Lot (as I was not permitted to live ſingle) to have met with a man, by whom I could have acted generouſly and unreſervedly!’

[204] ‘'Mr. Lovelace, it is now plain, in order to have a pretence againſt me, taxed my behaviour to him with ſtiffneſs and diſtance. You, at one time, thought me guilty of ſome degree of Prudery. Difficult ſituations ſhould be allowed for; which often make ſeeming occaſions for cenſure unavoidable. I deſerved not blame from him, who made mine difficult. And if I had had any other man to deal with than Mr. Love⯑lace, or had he had but half the merit which Mr. Hickman has, you, my dear, ſhould have found, that my Doctrine, on this ſubject, ſhould have go⯑verned my Practice.'’ See this whole Letter ^(a); ſee alſo Mr. Lovelace's Letter N^o cxi. Vol. VII. p. 403, & ſeq. where, juſt before his Death, he entirely acquits her conduct on this head.

It has been thought by ſome worthy and ingenious perſons, that if Lovelace had been drawn an Infidel or Scoffer, his Character, according to the Taſte of the preſent worſe than Sceptical Age, would have been more natural. It is, however, too well known, that there are very many perſons, of his Caſt, whoſe ac⯑tions diſcredit their belief. And are not the very De⯑vils, in Scripture, ſaid to believe and tremble?

But the Reader muſt have obſerved, that great, and, it is hoped, good Uſe, has been made throughout the Work, by drawing Lovelace an Infidel only in Pra⯑ctice; and this as well in the arguments of his friend Belford, as in his own frequent Remorſes, when touched with temporary Compunction, and in his laſt Scenes; which could not have been made, had either of them been painted as ſentimental Unbelievers. Not to ſay, that Clariſſa, whoſe great Objection to Mr. Wyerley was, that he was a Scoffer, muſt have been inexcuſeable had ſhe known Lovelace to be ſo, and had given the leaſt attention to his Addreſſes. On the con⯑trary, thus ſhe comforts herſelf, when ſhe thinks ſhe [205] muſt be his— ‘'This one conſolation, however, re⯑mains: He is not an Infidel, an Unbeliever. Had he been an Infidel, there would have been no room at all for hope of him; but (priding himſelf as he does in his fertile invention) he would have been utterly abandoned, irreclaimable, and a Savage ^(a).'’ And it muſt be obſerved, that Scoffers are too witty in their own opinion; in other words, value themſelves too much upon their profligacy, to aim at concealing it.

Beſides, had Lovelace added ribbald jeſts upon Re⯑ligion, to his other liberties, the freedoms which would then have paſſed between him and his friend, muſt have been of a nature truly infernal. And this far⯑ther hint was meant to be given, by way of inference, that the man who allowed himſelf in thoſe liberties either of ſpeech or action, which Lovelace thought ſhameful, was ſo far a worſe man than Lovelace. For this reaſon is he every-where made to treat jeſts on ſacred things and ſubjects, even down to the My⯑thology of the Pagans, among Pagans, as undoubted marks of the ill-breeding of the jeſters; obſcene images and talk, as liberties too ſhameful for even Rakes to allow themſelves in; and injuſtice to creditors, and in matters of Meum and Tuum, as what it was beneath him to be guilty of.

Some have objected to the meekneſs, to the tame⯑neſs, as they will have it to be, of the character of Mr. Hickman. And yet Lovelace owns, that he roſe upon him with great ſpirit in the interview between them; once, when he thought a reflection was but implied on Miſs Howe ^(b); and another time, when he imagined himſelf treated contemptuouſly ^(c). Miſs Howe, it muſt be owned (tho' not to the credit of her own character) treats him ludicrouſly on ſeveral occaſions. But ſo ſhe does her Mother. And per⯑haps a Lady of her lively turn would have treated as [206] whimſically any man but a Lovelace. Mr. Belford ſpeaks of him with honour and reſpect ^(a). So does Colonel Morden ^(b). And ſo does Clariſſa on every occaſion. And all that Miſs Howe herſelf ſays of him, tends more to his reputation than diſcredit ^(c), as Clariſſa indeed tells her ^(d).

And as to Lovelace's treatment of him, the Reader muſt have obſerved, that it was his way to treat every man with contempt, partly by way of ſelf-exaltation, and partly to gratify the natural gaiety of his diſpoſi⯑tion. He ſays himſelf to Belford ^(e), ‘'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.'’ 'Modeſt and diffident men,' writes Belford, to Lovelace, in praiſe of Mr. Hick⯑man, ‘'wear not ſoon off thoſe little preciſeneſſes, which the confident, if ever they had them, preſently get over.'’

But, as Miſs Howe treats her Mother as freely as ſhe does her Lover; ſo does Mr. Lovelace take ſtill greater liberties with Mr. Belford, than he does with Mr. Hickman, with reſpect to his perſon, air, and addreſs, as Mr. Belford himſelf hints to Mr. Hick⯑man ^(f). And yet he is not ſo readily believed to the diſcredit of Mr. Belford, by the Ladies in general, as he is when he diſparages Mr. Hickman. Whence can this partiality ariſe?—

Mr. Belford had been a Rake: But was in a way of reformation.

Mr. Hickman had always been a good man.

And Lovelace confidently ſays, That the women love a man whoſe regard for them is founded in the knowlege of them ^(g).

[207]Nevertheleſs, it muſt be owned, that it was not pro⯑poſed to draw Mr. Hickman, as the man of whom the Ladies in general were likely to be very fond. Had it been ſo, Goodneſs of heart, and Gentleneſs of manners, great Aſſiduity, and inviolable and modeſt Love, would not of themſelves have been ſuppoſed ſufficient recom⯑mendations. He would not have been allowed the leaſt ſhare of preciſeneſs or formality, altho' thoſe de⯑fects might have been imputed to his reverence for the object of his paſſion: But in his character it was deſigned to ſhew, that the ſame man could not be every-thing; and to intimate to Ladies, that in chuſing companions for life, they ſhould rather prefer the ho⯑neſt heart of a Hickman, which would be all their own, than to riſque the chance of ſharing, perhaps with ſcores, (and ſome of thoſe probably the moſt profligate of the Sex) the volatile miſchievous one of a Love⯑lace: In ſhort, that they ſhould chuſe, if they wiſhed for durable happineſs, for rectitude of mind, and not for ſpeciouſneſs of perſon or addreſs: Nor make a jeſt of a good man in favour of a bad one, who would make a jeſt of them and of their whole Sex.

Two Letters, however, by way of accommodation, are inſerted in this edition, which perhaps will give Mr. Hickman's character ſome heightening with ſuch Ladies, as love ſpirit in a man; and had rather ſuffer by it, than not meet with it.—

Says Waller—And Lovelace too!

Some have wiſhed that the Story had been told in the uſual narrative way of telling Stories deſigned to amuſe and divert, and not in Letters written by the reſpective perſons whoſe hiſtory is given in them. The Author thinks he ought not to preſcribe to the taſte of others; but imagined himſelf at liberty to follow his own. He perhaps miſtruſted his talents for the nar⯑rative [208] kind of writing. He had the good fortune to ſucceed in the Epiſtolary way once before. A Story in which ſo many perſons were concerned either prin⯑cipally or collaterally, and of characters and diſpoſitions ſo various, carried on with tolerable connexion and perſpicuity, in a ſeries of Letters from different per⯑ſons, without the aid of digreſſions and epiſodes foreign to the principal end and deſign, he thought had no⯑velty to be pleaded for it: And that, in the preſent age, he ſuppoſed would not be a ſlight recommenda⯑tion.

But beſides what has been ſaid above, and in the Preface, on this head, the following opinion of an in⯑genious and candid Foreigner, on this manner of writing, may not be improperly inſerted here.

‘'The method which the Author has purſued in the Hiſtory of Clariſſa, is the ſame as in the Life of Pamela: Both are related in familiar Letters by the parties themſelves, at the very time in which the events happened: And this method has given the au⯑thor great advantages, which he could not have drawn from any other ſpecies of narration. The minute par⯑ticulars of events, the ſentiments and converſation of the parties, are, upon this plan, exhibited with all the warmth and ſpirit, that the paſſion ſuppoſed to be pre⯑dominant at the very time, could produce, and with all the diſtinguiſhing characteriſtics which memory can ſupply in a Hiſtory of recent tranſactions.’

‘'Romances in general, and Marivaux's amongſt others, are wholly improbable; becauſe they ſuppoſe the Hiſtory to be written after the ſeries of events is cloſed by the cataſtrophe: A circumſtance which im⯑plies a ſtrength of memory beyond all example and probability in the perſons concerned, enabling them, at the diſtance of ſeveral years, to relate all the parti⯑culars of a tranſient converſation: Or rather, it im⯑plies a yet more improbable confidence and famili⯑arity between all theſe perſons and the author.’

[209] ‘'There is, however, one difficulty attending the Epiſtolary method; for it is neceſſary, that all the characters ſhould have an uncommon taſte for this kind of converſation, and that they ſhould ſuffer no event, nor even a remarkable converſation, to paſs, without immediately committing it to writing. But for the preſervation of the Letters once written, the author has provided with great judgment, ſo as to render this circumſtance highly probable ^(a).'’

It is preſumed that what this gentleman ſays of the difficulties attending a Story thus given in the Epiſto⯑lary manner of writing, will not be found to reach the Hiſtory before us. It is very well accounted for in it, how the two principal Female characters come to take ſo great a delight in writing. Their ſubjects are not merely ſubjects of amuſement; but greatly intereſting to both: Yet many Ladies there are who now lauda⯑bly correſpond, when at diſtance from each other, on occaſions that far leſs affect their mutual welfare and friendſhips, than thoſe treated of by theſe Ladies. The two principal gentlemen had motives of gaiety and vain-glory for their inducements. It will generally be found, that perſons who have talents for familiar write⯑ing, as theſe correſpondents are preſumed to have, will not forbear amuſing themſelves with their pens, on leſs arduous occaſions than what offer to theſe. Theſe FOUR (whoſe Stories have a connexion with each other) out of a great number of characters which are introduced in this Hiſtory, are only eminent in the Epiſtolary way: The reſt appear but as occaſional writers, and as drawn in rather by neceſſity than [210] choice, from the different relations in which they ſtand with the four principal perſons.

Vol. vii. p. 432. l. 2. after the principal characters, inſert,

Some there are, and Ladies too! who have ſuppoſed that the excellencies of the Heroine are carried to an improbable, and even to an impracticable height, in this Hiſtory. But the education of Clariſſa from early childhood ought to be conſidered, as one of her very great advantages; as, indeed, the foundation of all her excellencies: And it is hoped, for the ſake of the doctrine deſigned to be inculcated by it, that it will.

She had a pious, a well-re'd, a not meanly-de⯑ſcended woman for her Nurſe, who with her milk, as Mrs. Harlowe ſays ^(a), gave her that nurture which no other Nurſe could give her. She was very early happy in the converſation-viſits of her learned and worthy Dr. Lewen, and in her correſpondencies, not with him only, but with other Divines mentioned in her laſt Will. Her Mother was, upon the whole, a good woman, who did credit to her birth and her fortune; and both delighted in her for thoſe improve⯑ments and attainments, which gave her, and them in her, a diſtinction that cauſed it to be ſaid, that when ſhe was out of the family, it was conſidered but as a common family ^(b). She was moreover a Country Lady; and, as we have ſeen in Miſs Howe's charac⯑ter of her ^(c), took great delight in rural and houſ⯑hold employments; tho' qualified to adorn the brighteſt circle.

It muſt be confeſſed, that we are not to look for Clariſſa's among the conſtant frequenters of Ranelagh and Vaux-hall, nor among thoſe who may be called Daughters of the Card-table. If we do, the character [211] of our Heroine may then indeed be juſtly thought not only improbable, but unattainable. But we have nei⯑ther room in this place, nor inclination, to purſue a ſubject ſo invidious. We quit it therefore, after we have repeated, that we know there are ſome, and we hope there are many, in the Britiſh dominions [or they are hardly any-where in the European world] who, as far as occaſion has called upon them to exert the like humble and modeſt, yet ſteady and uſeful, virtues, have reached the perfections of a Clariſſa.

Having thus briefly taken notice of the moſt mate⯑rial objections that have been made to different parts of this Hiſtory, it is hoped we may be allowed to add, That had we thought ourſelves at liberty to give copies of ſome of the many Letters that have been written on the other ſide of the queſtion, that is to ſay, in appro⯑bation of the Cataſtrophe, and of the general Conduct and Execution of the work, by ſome of the moſt emi⯑nent judges of compoſition in every branch of Litera⯑ture; moſt of what has been written in this Poſtſcript might have been ſpared.

But as the principal objection with many has lain againſt the length of the piece, we ſhall add to what we have ſaid above on that ſubject, in the words of one of thoſe eminent writers: ‘'That, If, in the Hi⯑ſtory before us, &c.'’