LETTER I. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

ANGRY!—What ſhould I be angry for?—I am mightily pleaſed with your freedom, as you call it. I only wonder at your patience with me; that's all. I am ſorry I gave you the trouble of ſo long a letter upon the occaſion ^(a); notwithſtanding the pleaſure I received in reading it.

I believe, you did not intend reſerves to me: For two reaſons, I believe you did not: Firſt, becauſe you ſay, you did not: Next, becauſe you have not, as yet, been able to convince yourſelf, how it is to be [2] with you; and, perſecuted as you are, how ſo to ſe⯑parate the effects that ſpring from the two cauſes (Perſecution and Love), as to give to each its particular due. But this I believe I hinted to you once before. And ſo will ſay no more upon that ſubject at preſent.

Robin ſays, you had but juſt depoſited your laſt parcel when he took it: For he was there, but half an hour before, and found nothing. He had ſeen my impatience; and loiter'd about, being willing to bring me ſomething from you, if poſſible.

My couſin Jenny Fynnett is here, and deſires to be my bedfellow to-hight. So I ſhall not have an opportunity to ſit down with that ſeriouſneſs and at⯑tention, which the ſubjects of yours require. For, ſhe is all prate, you know, and loves to ſet me a prating: Yet comes upon a very grave occaſion:—On purpoſe to procure my mamma to go with her to her grand⯑mother Larkin, who has been long bed-ridden; and, at laſt, has taken it into her head, that ſhe is mortal; and therefore will make her will; a work ſhe was, till now, extremely averſe to; but it muſt be upon condition, that my mamma, who is her diſtant re⯑lation, will go to her, and adviſe her, as to the par⯑ticulars of it: For, ſhe has a high opinion, as every one elſe has, of my mamma's judgment in all matters relating to wills, ſettlements, and ſuch-like notable affairs.

Mrs. Larkin lives about ſeventeen miles off; and as my mamma cannot abide to lie out of her own houſe, ſhe propoſes to ſet out early in the morning, in order to get back again at night. So, to-morrow I ſhall be at your devotion from day-light to day-light; nor will I be at home to any-body.

As to the impertinent man, I have put him upon eſcorting the two ladies, in order to attend my mamma home at night: Such expeditions as theſe, and to give our ſex a little air of vanity and aſſuredneſs at public places, is all that I know theſe dangling fellows are good for.

[3]I have hinted before, that I could almoſt wiſh my mamma and Mr. Hickman would make a match of it: And I here repeat my wiſhes. What ſignifies a difference of fifteen or twenty years; eſpecially when the Lady has ſpirits that will make her young a long time, and the gentleman is a mighty ſober man?—I think verily, I could like him better for a papa, than for a nearer relation: And they are ſtrange admirers of one another.

But allow me a perhaps ſtill better (and, as to years, more ſuitable and happier) diſpoſal; for the man at leaſt:—What think you, my dear, of compromizing with your friends, by rejecting both your men, and encouraging my parader?—If your liking of one of the two go no farther than conditional, I believe it will do.—A rich thought, if it obtain your appro⯑bation. In this light, I ſhould have a prodigious re⯑ſpect for Mr. Hickman; more by half than I can have in the other. The vein is open'd—Shall I let it flow?—How difficult to withſtand conſtitutional foibles!—

Hickman, is certainly a man more in your taſte, than any of thoſe who have hitherto been brought to ad⯑dreſs you. He is mighty ſober! mighty grave! and all that. Then you have told me, that he is your fa⯑vourite!—But that is, becauſe he is my mamma's, perhaps.—The man would certainly rejoice at the transfer: Or he muſt be a greater fool than I take him to be.

O but your fierce lover would knock him o' the head—I forgot that!—What makes me incapable of ſeriouſneſs when I write about this Hickman?—Yet the man ſo good a ſort of man in the main?—But who is perfect? This is one of my foibles. And ſomething for you to chide me for.

You believe me very happy in my proſpects, in relation to him: Becauſe you are ſo very unhappy in the fooliſh uſage you meet with, you are apt (as I ſu⯑ſpect) to think that tolerable which otherwiſe would [4] be far from being ſo. I dare ſay, you would not with all your grave airs, like him for yourſelf; except being addreſſed by Solmes and him, you were obliged to have one of them. I have given you a teſt; let me ſee what you'll ſay to it.

For my own part, I confeſs to you, that I have great exceptions to Hickman. He, and wedlock never yet once enter'd into my head at one time. Shall I give you my free thoughts of him?—Of his beſt and his worſt; and that as if I were writing to one, who knows him not? I think I will. Yet it is impoſſible I ſhould do it gravely. The ſubject won't bear to be ſo treated, in my opinion. We are not come ſo far as that yet, if ever we ſhall? And to do it in another ſtrain, ill becomes my preſent real concern for you.

HERE I was interrupted on the honeſt man's ac⯑count. He has been here theſe two hours—courting my mamma for her daughter, I ſuppoſe—Yet ſhe wants no courting neither: Tis well one of us does; elſe the man would have nothing but halcyon; and be remiſs, and ſaucy of courſe.

He was going. His horſes at the door.

My mamma ſent for me down, pretending to want to ſay ſomething to me.

Something ſhe ſaid when I came, that ſignify'd no⯑thing—Evidently, for no reaſon called me, but to give me an opportunity to ſee what a fine bow he could make; and that he might wiſh me a good-night. She knows I am not over-ready to oblige him with my preſence, if I happen to be otherwiſe engag'd. I could not help an air a little upon the fretful, when I found ſhe had nothing of moment to ſay to me, and when I ſaw her end.

She ſmiled off the viſible fretfulneſs, that the man might go away in good humour with himſelf.

He bow'd to the ground, and would have taken my hand, his whip in the other: I did not like to [5] be ſo companion'd: I withdrew my hand, but touched his elbow with a motion, as if from his low bow I had ſuppoſed him falling, and would have help'd him up. A ſad ſlip, it might have been, ſaid I!

A mad girl, ſmil'd it off my mamma!

He was put quite out; took his horſe-bridle, ſtump'd back, back, back, bowing, till he run againſt his ſervant: I laughed; he mounted his horſe; rid away: I mounted up ſtairs, after a little lecture.—And my head is ſo filled with him, that I muſt reſume my intention; in hopes to divert you for a few moments.

Take it then—His beſt, and his worſt, as I ſaid before.

Hickman is a ſort of fiddling, buſy, yet to borrow a word from you, un-buſy man: Has a great deal to do, and ſeems to me to diſpatch nothing. Irreſolute, and changeable in every thing, but in teazing me with his nonſenſe; which yet, it is evident, he muſt continue upon my mamma's intereſt, more than his own hopes; for none have I given him.

Then I have a quarrel againſt his face, though in his perſon, for a well-thriven man, tolerably genteel:—Not to his features ſo much neither—For what, as you have often obſerved, are features in a man?—But Hickman, with ſtrong lines, and big cheek and chin bones, has not the manlineſs in his aſpect, which Lovelace has with the moſt regular and agreeable features.

Then what a ſet and formal mortal is he in ſome things!—I have not been able yet to laugh him out of his long bib and beads: Indeed, that is, becauſe my mamma thinks it becomes him; and I would not be ſo free with him, as to own I ſhould chooſe to have him leave it off. If he did, ſo particular is the man, he would certainly, if left to himſelf, fall into a King-William-Cravat, or ſome ſuch antique chin-cuſhion, as, by the pictures of that Prince, one ſees was then the faſhion.

As to his dreſs, in general, he cannot, indeed, be [6] called a ſloven, but ſometimes he is too gaudy, at other times too plain, to be uniformly elegant. And for his manners, he makes ſuch a buſtle with them, and about them, as would induce one to ſuſpect that they are more ſtrangers to him, than familiars. You, I know, lay this to his fearfulneſs of diſobliging, or offending. Indeed your Over-does generally give the offence they endeavour to avoid.

The man, however, is honeſt: Is of family: Has a clear and good eſtate; and may one day be a Ba⯑ronet, and pleaſe you. He is humane and benevolent, tolerably generous, as people ſay; and as I might ſay too, if I would accept of his bribes; which he offers in hopes of having them all back again, and the bribed into the bargain: A method taken by all corruptors, from old Satan, to the loweſt of his ſervants.—Yet, to ſpeak in the language of a perſon I am bound to honour, he is deemed a prudent man; that is, a good manager.

Then, I cannot ſay, that now I like any-body better, whatever I did once.

He is no fox-hunter: Keeps a pack indeed, but prefers not his hounds to his fellow-creatures. No bad ſign for a wife, I own. Loves his horſe, but diſlikes racing in a gaming way, as well as all ſorts of gaming. Then he is ſober; modeſt; They ſay, vir⯑tuous; in ſhort, has qualities that mothers would be fond of in a huſband for their daughters; and for which, perhaps, their daughters would be the happier could they judge as well for themſelves, as experience, poſſibly, may teach them to judge for their future daughters.

Nevertheleſs, to own the truth, I cannot ſay I love the man; nor ever ſhall, I believe.

Strange! that theſe ſober fellows cannot have a decent ſprightlineſs, a modeſt aſſurance with them! Something debonnaire; which need not be ſeparated from that awe and reverence, when they addreſs a [7] woman, which ſhould ſhew the ardor of their paſſion, rather than the ſheepiſhneſs of their nature; for who knows not, that Love delights in taming the Lyon-hearted? That thoſe of the ſex, who are moſt con⯑ſcious of their own defect, in point of courage, na⯑turally require, and therefore as naturally prefer, the man who has moſt of it, as the moſt able to give them the requiſite protection? That the greater their own cowardice, as it would be called in a man, the greater is their delight in ſubjects of heroiſm? As may be obſerved in their reading; which turns upon difficulties encounter'd, battles fought, and enemies overcome, 4 or 500 by the proweſs of one ſingle hero, the more improbable the better: In ſhort, that their man ſhould be a hero to every one living but themſelves; and to them know no bound to his hu⯑mility. A woman has ſome glory in ſubduing a heart no man living can appall; and hence too often the bravo, aſſuming the hero, and making himſelf paſs for one, ſucceeds as only a hero ſhould.

But as for honeſt Hickman, the good man is ſo generally meek, as I imagine, that I know not whe⯑ther I have any preference paid me in his obſequi⯑ouſneſs. And then, when I rate him, he ſeems to be ſo naturally fitted for rebuke, and ſo much expects it, that I know not how to diſappoint him, whether he juſt then deſerve it, or not. I am ſure, he has puzzled me many a time when I have ſeen him look penitent for faults he has not committed, whether to pity or laugh at him.

You and I have often retroſpected the faces and minds of grown people; that is to ſay, have formed images from their preſent appearances, outſide and in, (as far as the manners of the perſons would juſtify us in the latter) what ſort of figures they made when boys and girls. And I'll tell you the lights in which Hickman, Solmes, and Lovelace, our three heroes, have appeared to me, ſuppoſing them boys at ſchool.

[8]Solmes I have imagin'd to be, a little, ſordid, pil⯑fering rogue, who would purloin from every-body, and beg every boy's bread and butter from him; while, as I have heard a reptile brag, he would in a winter-morning, ſpit upon his thumbs, and ſpread his own with it, that he might keep it all to himſelf.

Hickman, a great over-grown, lank-hair'd, chubby boy, who would be hunch'd and punch'd by every-body; and go home, with his finger in his eye, and tell his mother.

While Lovelace I have ſuppoſed a curl-pated villain, full of fire, fancy, and miſchief; an orchard-robber, a wall-climber, a horſe-rider without ſaddle or bridle, neck or nothing: A ſturdy rogue, in ſhort, who would kick and cuff, and do no right, and take no wrong of any-body; would get his head broke, then a plaiſter for it, or let it heal of itſelf; while he went on to do more miſchief, and if not to get, to deſerve, broken bones. And the ſame diſpoſitions have grown up with them, and diſtinguiſh the men, with no very material alteration.

Only, that all men are monkeys more or leſs, or elſe that you and I ſhould have ſuch baboons as theſe to chooſe out of, is a mortifying thing, my dear.

I am ſenſible, that I am not a little out of ſeaſon in treating thus ludicrouſly the ſubject I am upon, while you are ſo unhappy; and if my manner does not divert you, as my flightineſſes uſed to do, I am inexcuſable both to you, and to my own heart: Which, I do aſſure you, notwithſtanding my ſeeming levity, is, wholly in your caſe.

As this letter is intirely whimſical, I will not ſend it until I can accompany it with ſomething more ſolid and better ſuited to your unhappy circumſtances; that is to ſay, to the preſent ſubject of our correſpondence. To-morrow, as I told you, will be wholly yours, and of conſequence, your

LETTER II. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

MY mamma and couſin are already gone off in our chariot and four, attended by their doughty 'Squire on horſeback, and he by two of his own ſer⯑vants, and one of my mamma's. They both love parade, when they go abroad, at leaſt in compliment to one another; which ſhews, that each thinks the other does. Robin is your ſervant and mine, and nobody's elſe: And the day is all my own.

I muſt begin with blaming you, my dear, for your reſolution not to litigate for your right, if occaſion were to be given you. Juſtice is due to one's ſelf, as well as to every-body elſe. Still more muſt I blame you for declaring to your aunt and ſiſter that you will not: Since (as they will tell it to your father and brother) the declaration muſt needs give advan⯑tages to ſpirits who have ſo little of that generoſity for which you yourſelf are ſo much diſtinguiſhed.

There never was a ſpirit in the world that would inſult where it dared, but it would creep and cringe where it dared not. Let me remind you of a ſentence of your own, the occaſion for which I have forgotten: ‘'That little Spirits will always accommodate them⯑ſelves to the ſubject they would work upon:—Will ſawn upon a ſturdy-temper'd perſon: Will inſult the meek:'’ And another given to Miſs Biddulph, upon an occaſion you cannot forget:— ‘'If we aſſume a dignity in what we ſay and do; and take care not to diſgrace by arrogance our own aſſumption, every-body will treat us with reſpect and deference.'’

I remember that you once made an obſervation, which you ſaid, you was obliged to Mrs. Norton for, and ſhe to her father, upon an excellent preacher, [10] who was but an indifferent liver: ‘'That to excell in theory, and to excell in practice, generally required different talents; which not always met in the ſame perſon.'’ Do you, my dear (to whom theory and practice are the ſame thing, in almoſt every laudable quality) apply the obſervation to yourſelf, in this particular caſe, where Reſolution is required; and where performance of the will of the defunct is the queſtion—No more to be diſpenſed with by you, in whoſe favour it was made, than by any-body elſe, who have only Themſelves in view, by breaking thro' it.

I know how much you deſpiſe riches in the main: But yet it behoves you to remember, that in one in⯑ſtance you yourſelf have judged them valuable— ‘'In that they put it into one's power to lay obligations; while the want of them puts a perſon under a ne⯑ceſſity of receiving favours; receiving them, perhaps from grudging and narrow ſpirits, who know not how to confer them with that grace, which gives the principal merit to a beneficent action.'’ —Reflect upon this, my dear, and ſee how it agrees with the declaration you have made to your aunt and ſiſter, that you would not reſume your eſtate, were you to be turned out of doors, and reduced to indigence and want. Their very fears that you will reſume, point out to you the neceſſity of reſuming, upon the treat⯑ment you meet with.

I own, that I was much affected (at firſt reading) with your mamma's letter ſent with the patterns!—A ſtrange meaſure, however, from a mother; for ſhe did not intend to inſult you; and I cannot but la⯑ment that ſo ſenſible and ſo fine a Lady ſhould ſtoop to ſo much art, as that letter is written with: And which alſo appears in ſome of the converſations you have given me an account of. See you not in her paſſiveneſs, what boiſtrous ſpirits can obtain from gentler, merely by teazing and ill-nature?

[11]I know the pride they have always taken in calling you an Harlowe—Clariſſa Harlowe, ſo formal and ſo ſet, at every word, when they are grave, or proudly ſolemn.—Your mamma has learnt it of them—And as in marriage, ſo in will, has been taught to bury her own ſuperior name and family in theirs. I have often thought that the ſame ſpirit govern'd them, in this piece of affectation, and others of the like nature (as Harlowe-Place, and ſo-forth, tho' not the elder brother's or paternal ſeat) as govern'd the tyrant Tudor ^(a), who marrying Elizabeth, the Heireſs of the Houſe of York, made himſelf a title to a throne, which he would not otherwiſe have had (being but a baſe deſcendant of the Lancaſter Line); and proved a gloomy and vile huſband to her; for no other cauſe, than becauſe ſhe had laid him under obligations, which his pride would not permit him to own.—Nor would the unprincely wretch marry her till he was in poſ⯑ſeſſion of the crown, that he might not be ſuppoſed to owe it to her claim.

You have chidden me, and again will, I doubt not, for the liberties I take with ſome of your re⯑lations. But, my dear, need I tell you, That pride in ourſelves muſt, and for-ever will, provoke con⯑tempt, and bring down upon us abaſement from others?—Have we not, in the caſe of a celebrated Bard, obſerved, that thoſe who aim at more than their due, will be refuſed the honours that they may juſtly claim?—I am very loth to offend you; yet I cannot help ſpeaking of them, as well as of others, as I think they deſerve. Praiſe or Diſpraiſe, is the Reward or Puniſhment which the world confers or inflicts on Merit or Demerit; and, for my part, I neither can nor will confound them in the ap⯑plication. I deſpiſe them All, but your mamma: Indeed I do:—And as for her—But I will ſpare the good Lady for your ſake—And one argu⯑ment, indeed, I think may be pleaded in her favour, [12] in the preſent contention—She who has for ſo many years, and with ſuch abſolute reſignation, borne what ſhe has borne, to the ſacrifice of her own will, may think it an eaſier taſk, than another perſon can ima⯑gine it, for her daughter to give up her's.—But to think to whoſe inſtigation all this is originally owing—God forgive me; but with ſuch uſage I ſhould have been with Lovelace before now—Yet remember, my dear, that the ſtep which would not be wonder'd at from ſuch an haſty-temper'd creature as me, would be inexcuſable in ſuch a conſiderate perſon as you.

After your mamma has been thus drawn in againſt her judgment, I am the leſs ſurpriſed, that your aunt Hervey ſhould go along with her; ſince the two ſiſters never ſeparate. I have inquired into the nature of the obligation which Mr. Hervey's indifferent con⯑duct in his affairs has laid him under:—It is only, it ſeems, that your brother has paid off for him a mortgage upon one part of his eſtate, which the mortgagee was about to forecloſe; and taken it upon himſelf: A ſmall favour (as he has ample ſecurity in his hands) from kindred to kindred: But ſuch a one, it is plain, as has laid the whole family of the Herveys under obligation to the ungenerous lender; who has treated him, and his aunt too (as Miſs Dolly Hervey has privately complain'd) with the leſs ceremony ever ſince.

Muſt I, my dear, call ſuch a creature your brother?—I believe I muſt—Becauſe he is your father's ſon. There is no harm, I hope, in ſaying That.

I am concerned, that you ever wrote at all to him. It was taking too much notice of him: It was adding to his ſelf-ſignificance; and a call upon him to treat you with inſolence: A call which you might have been aſſured he would not fail to anſwer.

But ſuch a pretty maſter as this, to run riot againſt ſuch a man as Lovelace; who had taught him to put his ſword into his ſcabbard, when he had pulled it [13] out by accident!—Theſe in-door inſolents, who, turning themſelves into bugbears, frighten women, children, and ſervants, are generally cravens among men. Were he to come fairly croſs me, and ſay to my face ſome of the free things, which, I am told, he has ſaid of me behind my back, or that (as by your account) he has ſaid of our ſex, I would take upon myſelf to aſk him two or three queſtions; altho' he were to ſend me a challenge likewiſe.

I repeat, You know that I will ſpeak my mind, and write it too. He is not my brother. Can you ſay, he is yours?—So, for your life, if you are juſt, you can't be angry with me: For would you ſide with a falſe brother againſt a true friend? A brother may not be a friend: But a friend will be always a brother.—Mind That, as your uncle Tony ſays!

I cannot deſcend ſo low, as to take very particular notice of the epiſtles of thoſe poor ſouls, whom you call uncles.—Yet I love to divert myſelf with ſuch groteſque characters too.—But I know them, and love you; and ſo cannot make the jeſt of them, which their abſurdities call for.

Now I have ſaid ſo much on theſe touching topics, (as I am but too ſenſible you will think them) I muſt add one reflection more, and ſo intitle myſelf to your correction for all at once.—It is upon the conduct of thoſe women (for you and I know more than one ſuch) who can ſuffer themſelves to be out-bluſter'd and out-gloom'd, till they have no will of their own; inſtead of being prevailed upon, by acts of tenderneſs and complaiſance, to be fooled out of it.—I wiſh, that it does not demonſtrate too evidently, that, with ſome of the ſex, inſolent controul is a more efficacious ſubduer than kindneſs or conceſſion.—Upon my life, my dear, I have often thought, that many of us are mere babies in matrimony: Perverſe fools, when too much indulg'd and humour'd; creeping ſlaves, when treated harſhly. But ſhall it be ſaid, that fear [14] makes us more gentle obligers than love?—Forbid it, honour! forbid it, gratitude! forbid it, juſtice! that any woman of ſenſe ſhould give occaſion to have this ſaid of her!

Did I think you would have any manner of doubt, from the ſtyle or contents of this letter, whoſe ſaucy pen it is that has run on at this rate, I would write my name at length; ſince it comes too much from my heart to diſavow it:—But at preſent the initials ſhall ſerve; and I will go on again directly.

LETTER III. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Will poſtpone, or perhaps paſs by, ſeveral obſerva⯑tions which I had to make on other parts of your letters; to acquaint you, that Mr. Hickman, when in London, found an opportunity to inquire after Mr. Lovelace's town-life and converſation.

At the Cocoa-tree in Pall-mall he fell in with two of his intimates, the one named Belton, the other Mowbray; very free of ſpeech, and rakiſh gentlemen both: But the waiter, it ſeems, paid them great re⯑ſpect, and, on his inquiry after their characters, cal⯑led them men of fortune and honour.

They began to talk of Mr. Lovelace of their own accord; and upon ſome gentlemen in the room aſk⯑ing, when they expected him in town, anſwer'd, That very day. Mr. Hickman (as they both went on praiſing Lovelace) ſaid, He had indeed heard, that Mr. Lovelace was a very fine gentleman—and was pro⯑ceeding, when one of them, interrupting him, ſaid,—Only, Sir, the fineſt gentleman in the world; that's all.

And ſo he led them on to expatiate more particu⯑larly on his qualities; which they were very fond of [15] doing: But ſaid not one ſingle word in behalf of his morals—Mind that alſo, in your uncle's ſtyle.

Mr. Hickman ſaid, That Mr. Lovelace was very happy, as he underſtood, in the eſteem of the Ladies; and, ſmiling, to make them believe he did not think amiſs of it, that he puſh'd his good fortune as far as it would go.

Well put, Mr. Hickman! thought I; equally grave and ſage—Thou ſeemeſt not to be a ſtranger to their dialect, as I ſuppoſe this is!—But I ſaid nothing; for I have often try'd to find out this mighty ſober man of my mamma's: But hitherto have only to ſay, that he is either very moral, or very cunning.

No doubt of it, reply'd one of them; and out came an oath, with a Who would not?—That he did as every young gentleman would—

Very true! ſaid my mamma's puritan—But I hear he is in treaty with a fine lady—

So he was, Mr. Belton ſaid—The d—I fetch her! (Vile brute!) for ſhe ingroſſed all his time!—But that the Lady's family ought to be—ſomething—(Mr. Hickman deſired to be excuſed repeating what,—tho' he had repeated what was worſe)—and might dearly repent their uſage of a man of his family and merit.

Perhaps they may think him too wild a gentleman, cry'd Hickman: And theirs is, I hear, a very ſober family—

SOBER! ſaid one of them: A good honeſt word, Dick!—Where the devil has it lain all this time?—D—me if I have heard of it in this ſenſe, ever ſince I was at college! And then, ſaid he, we bandy'd it about among twenty of us, as an obſolete—

There's for you, my dear!—Theſe are Mr. Love⯑lace's companions: You'll be pleaſed to take notice of that!

Mr. Hickman ſaid, this put him out of countenance.

I ſtared at him, and with ſuch a meaning in my [16] eyes, as he knew how to take; and ſo was out of countenance again.

Don't you remember, my dear, who it was that told a young gentleman deſigned for the gown, who own'd he was apt to be too eaſily put out of countenance, when he came among free company; ‘'That it was a bad ſign; that it looked as if his morals were not proof; but that his good diſpoſition ſeemed rather the effect of accident and education, than of ſuch a choice as was founded upon principle?'’ And don't you know the leſſon the very ſame young Lady gave him, ‘'To endeavour to ſtem and diſcountenance vice, and to glory in being an advocate in all com⯑panies for virtue;'’ particularly obſerving, ‘'That it was natural for a man to ſhun, or give up, what he was aſhamed of?'’ Which ſhe ſhould be ſorry to think his caſe on this occaſion: Adding, ‘'That vice was a coward, and would hide its head, when oppoſed by ſuch a virtue as had preſence of mind, and a full perſuaſion of its own rectitude, to ſupport it.'’ The Lady, you may remember, modeſtly put her doctrine into the mouth of a worthy preacher, Dr. Lewin, as ſhe uſes to do, when ſhe has a mind not to be thought to be what ſhe is at ſo early an age; and that it may give more weight to any-thing ſhe hit upon, that might appear tolerable, was her modeſt manner of ſpeech.

Mr. Hickman, upon the whole, profeſſed to me, upon his ſecond recovery, that he had no reaſon to think well of Mr. Lovelace's morals, from what he heard of him in town: Yet his two intimates talked of his being more regular than he uſed to be: That he had made a very good reſolution; That of old Tom Wharton was the expreſſion, That he would never give a challenge, nor refuſe one; which they praiſed in him highly: That, in ſhort, he was a very brave fellow, and the charming'ſt companion in the world: [17] And would one day make a great figure in his coun⯑try; for there was nothing he was not capable of—

I am afraid that this is too true. And this, my dear, is all that Mr. Hickman could pick up about him: And is it not enough to determine ſuch a mind as yours, if not already determined?

Yet it muſt be ſaid too, that if there be a woman in the world that can reclaim him, it is you. And, by your account of his behaviour in the interview be⯑tween you, I own I have ſome hope of him. At leaſt, This I will ſay, That all his arguments with you, then, ſeem to be juſt and right: And if you are to be his—But no more of That▪ He cannot, after all, deſerve you.

LETTER IV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

AN unexpected viſitor has turned the courſe of my thoughts, and chang'd the ſubject I had intended to purſue. The only one for whom I would have diſpenſed with my reſolution not to ſee any-body all the dedicated day: A viſitor, whom, according to Mr. Hickman's report from the expectations of his libertine friends, I ſuppoſed to be in town.—Now, my dear, have I ſaved myſelf the trouble of telling you, That it was your too-agreeable Rake. Our ſex is ſaid to love to trade in ſurprizes: Yet have I, by my over-promptitude, ſurpriſed myſelf out of mine.—I had intended, you muſt know, to run twice the length, before I had ſuffer'd you ſo much as to gueſs who, and of which ſex, my viſitor was: But ſince you have the diſcovery at ſo cheap a rate, you are welcome to it.

The end of his coming was, to engage my intereſt with my charming friend; and as he was ſure, that I [18] knew all your mind, to acquaint him what he had to truſt to. He mentioned what had paſſed in the inter⯑view between you:—But could not be ſatisfy'd with the reſult of it, and with the little ſatisfaction he had obtained from you; the malice of your family to him increaſing, and their cruelty to you not abating.—His heart, he told me, was in tumults, for fear you ſhould be prevailed upon in favour of a man deſpiſed by every-body. He gave me freſh inſtances of indigni⯑ties caſt upon himſelf by your uncles and brother; and declared, that if you ſuffered yourſelf to be forced into the arms of the man for whoſe ſake he was loaded with undeſerved abuſes, you ſhould be one of the youngeſt, as you would be one of the lovelieſt, widows in Eng⯑land: And that he would moreover call your brother to account for the liberties he takes with his character to every-one he meets with.

He propoſed ſeveral ſchemes, for you to chooſe ſome one of them, in order to enable you to avoid the perſecutions you labour under: One I will men⯑tion; That you will reſume your eſtate; and if you find difficulties, that can be no otherwiſe ſurmounted, that you will, either avowedly or privately, as he had propoſed to you, accept of his aunt Lawrance's, or Lord M's, aſſiſtance to inſtate you in it. He declared, that, if you did, he would leave it abſolutely to your own pleaſure afterwards, and to the advice which your couſin Morden on his arrival ſhould give you, whe⯑ther to encourage his addreſs, or not, as you ſhall be convinced of the ſincerity of the reformation which his enemies make him ſo much want.

I had now a good opportunity to ſound him (as you wiſh'd Mr. Hickman would Lord M.), as to the con⯑tinued or diminiſhed favour of the Ladies, and of his Uncle, towards you, upon their being acquainted with the animoſity of your relations to them, as well as to their kinſman. I took the opportunity; and he ſatiſ⯑fy'd me, by reading ſome paſſages of a letter he had [19] about him, from Lord M, That an alliance with you, and that on the foot of your own ſingle merit, would be the moſt deſirable event to them, that could hap⯑pen: And ſo far to the purpoſe of your wiſhed inquiry does his Lordſhip go, in this letter, that he aſſures him, that whatever you ſuffer in fortune from the violence of your relations, on his account, he and his ſiſters will join to make it up to him. And yet the reputation of a family ſo ſplendid, would, no doubt, in a caſe of ſuch importance to the honour of both, make them prefer a general conſent.

I told him, as you yourſelf I knew had done, that you were extremely averſe to Mr. Solmes; and that, might you be left to your own choice, it would be the Single Life. As to himſelf, I plainly ſaid, That you had great and juſt objections to him, on the ſcore of his careleſs morals: That it was ſurpriſing, that young gentlemen, who gave themſelves the liberties he was ſaid to take, ſhould preſume to think, that, whenever they took it into their heads to marry, the moſt virtuous and worthy of the ſex were to fall to their lot: That as to the Reſumption, it had been very ſtrongly urged by myſelf, and would be more; tho' you had been averſe to it hitherto: That your chief reliance and hopes were upon your couſin Mor⯑den: And that to ſuſpend or gain time, till he arrived, was, as I believed, your principal aim.

I told him, That with regard to the miſchief he threatened, neither the act nor the menace could ſerve any end but theirs who perſecuted you; as it would give them a pretence for carrying into effect their compulſatory projects; and that with the appro⯑bation of all the world; ſince he muſt not think the public would give its voice in favour of a violent young man, of no extraordinary character as to morals, who ſhould ſeek to rob a family of eminence of a child ſo valuable; and who threatened, if he could not obtain her in preference to a man choſen by themſelves, that [20] he would avenge himſelf upon them All, by acts of violence.

I added, That he was very much miſtaken, if he thought to intimidate you by ſuch menaces: For that, tho' your diſpoſition was all ſweetneſs, yet I knew not a ſteadier temper in the world than yours; nor one more inflexible (as your friends had found, and would ſtill farther find, if they continued to give occaſion for its exertion), whenever you thought yourſelf in the right; and that you were dealt ungenerouſly with, in matters of too much moment to be indifferent about. Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, Mr. Lovelace, let me tell you, ſaid I, timid as her foreſight and prudence may make her in ſome caſes, where ſhe apprehends dangers to thoſe ſhe loves, is above fear, in points where her ho⯑nour, and the true dignity of her ſex, are concerned.—In ſhort, Sir, you muſt not think to frighten Miſs Cla⯑riſſa Harlowe into ſuch a mean or unworthy conduct, as only a weak or unſteady mind can be guilty of.

He was ſo very far from intending to intimidate you, he ſaid, that he beſought me not to mention one word to you, of what had paſſed between us: That what he had hinted at, that carried the air of a me⯑nace, was owing to the fervor of his ſpirits, raiſed by his apprehenſions of loſing all hope of you for ever; and on a ſuppoſition, that you were to be actually forced into the arms of a man you hated: That were this to be the caſe, he muſt own, that he ſhould pay very little regard to the world, or its cenſures: Eſpe⯑cially as the menaces of ſome of your family now, and their triumph over him afterwards, would both pro⯑voke and warrant all the vengeance he could take.

He added, that all the countries in the world were alike to him, but on your account: So that whatever he ſhould think fit to do, were you loſt to him, he ſhould have nothing to apprehend from the Laws of this.

I did not like the determined air he ſpoke this with: He is certainly, my dear, capable of great raſhneſs.—

[21]He palliated a little this fierceneſs (which by the way I warmly cenſured) by ſaying, That while you remain ſingle, he will bear all the indignities that ſhall be caſt upon him by your family. But would you throw yourſelf, if you werer ſtill farther driven, into any other protection, if not his uncle's, or that of the ladies of his family (into my mamma's, ſuppoſe); or would you go to London to private lodgings, where he would never viſit you, unleſs he had your leave; and from whence you might make your own terms with your relations; he would be intirely ſatisfy'd; and would, as he had ſaid before, wait the effect of your couſin's arrival, and your free determination, as to his own fate.—Adding, That he knew the family ſo well, and how much fixed they were upon their meaſures, as well as the abſolute dependence they made upon your temper and principles, that he could not but apprehend the worſt, while you remained in the power of their perſuaſion and menaces.

We had a great deal of other diſcourſe: But as the reciting of the reſt would be but a repetition of many of the things that paſſed between you and him, in the interview between you in the woodhouſe, I refer myſelf to your memory on that occaſion ^(a).

And now, my dear, upon the whole, I think, it behoves you to make yourſelf independent: All then will fall right. This man is a violent man. I ſhould wiſh, methinks, that you ſhould not have either him or Solmes. You will find, if you get out of your brother's and ſiſter's way, what you can or can-not do, with regard to either. If your relations perſiſt in their fooliſh ſcheme, I think I will take his hint, and, at a proper opportunity, ſound my mamma. Mean time, let me have your clear opinion of, and reaſon⯑ings upon, the Reſumption, which I join with Love⯑lace in adviſing. You can but ſee how your demand will work. To demand, is not to litigate. But be [22] your reſolution what it will, do not by any means repeat, that you will not aſſert your right. If they go on to give you provocation, you may have ſuffi⯑cient reaſon to change your mind: And let them ex⯑pect that you will change it. They have not the generoſity to treat you the better for diſclaiming the power they know you have. That, I think, need not now be told you.

I am, my deareſt friend, and will be ever,

LETTER V. Miſs CLARISSA. HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

ON my aunt's and ſiſter's report of my obſtinacy, my aſſembled relations have taken an unanimous reſolution (as Betty tells me it is) againſt me. This reſolution you will find ſignify'd to me in the in⯑cloſed letter from my brother, juſt now brought me. Be pleaſed to return it, when peruſed. I may have occaſion for it, in the altercations between my rela⯑tions and me.

So here is the maſter-ſtroke of my brother's policy! Called upon to conſent to go to my uncle Antony's, avowedly to receive Mr. Solmes's viſits!—A chapel!—A moated houſe!—Deprived of the opportunity of correſponding with you!—or of any poſſibility of eſcape, ſhould violence be uſed to compel me to be that odious man's!

Late as it was, when I received this inſolent letter, I wrote an anſwer to it directly, that it might be ready for the writer's time of riſing. I incloſe the rough draught of it. You will ſee by it how much his vile hint from the Georgic, and his rude one of my whining vocatives, have ſet me up. Beſides, as the command to get ready to go to my uncle's is in the name of my father and uncles, it is but to ſhew a piece of the art they accuſe me of, to reſent the vile hint, I have ſo much reaſon to reſent, in order to palliate the refuſal of obeying, what would otherwiſe [25] be interpreted an act of rebellion by my brother and ſiſter: For, it ſeems plain to me, that they will work but half their ends, if they do not deprive me of my father's and uncles favour, altho' I ſhould even comply with terms, which it is impoſſible I ſhould ever comply with.

When, my dear, you have read my anſwer to this letter, tell me, what you think of me?—It ſhall go!—

LETTER VI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MY letter has ſet them all in tumults: For, it ſeems, none of them went home laſt night; and they all were deſired to be preſent to give their advice, if I ſhould refuſe compliance with a command thought ſo reaſonable as, it ſeems, this was.

Betty tells me, That, at firſt, my father, in a rage, was for coming up to me himſelf, and for turning me out of his doors directly. Nor was he reſtrained, till it was hinted to him, that That was no doubt my wiſh, and would anſwer all my perverſe views. But the reſult was, That my brother (having really, as my mamma and aunt inſiſted, taken wrong meaſures with me) ſhould write again in a more moderate man⯑ner: For nobody elſe was permitted or cared to write to ſuch a ready ſcribbler. And, I having declared that I would not receive any more of his letters with⯑out command from a ſuperior authority, my mamma was to give it hers: And accordingly has done ſo in the following lines, written on the ſuperſcription of his letter to me: Which letter alſo follows: Toge⯑ther with my reply.

[31]Betty tells me, my brother has taken my letter all in pieces; and has undertaken to write ſuch an anſwer to it, as ſhall confirm the wavering—So, it is plain, that I ſhould have moved ſomebody by it, but for this hard-hearted brother; God forgive him!

LETTER VII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Send you the boaſted confutation-letter, juſt now put into my hands—My brother and ſiſter, my uncle Antony and Mr. Solmes are, I underſtand, ex⯑ulting over the copy of it below, as an unanſwerable performance.

I was ſo vexed when I came to the end of this letter (the poſtſcript to which, perhaps, might be written, after the reſt had ſeen the letter) that I took up my pen, with an intent to write to my uncle Harlowe about reſuming my own eſtate, in purſuance [35] of your advice: But my heart failed me, when I re⯑collected, that I had not one friend to ſtand by or ſupport me in my claim; and that it would but the more incenſe them, without anſwering any good end. O that my couſin were but come!

Is it not a ſad thing, beloved as I thought myſelf, ſo lately, by every one, that now I have not one perſon in the world to plead for me, to ſtand by me, or who would afford me refuge, were I to be under the neceſſity of ſeeking for it?—I, who had the vanity to think I had as many friends as I ſaw faces, and flatter'd myſelf too, that it was not altogether un⯑merited, becauſe I ſaw not my Maker's Image, ei⯑ther in man, woman, or child, high or low, rich or poor, whom, comparatively, I loved not as myſelf.—Would to heaven, my dear, that you were marry'd! Perhaps, then, you could have induc'd Mr. Hick⯑man, upon my application, to afford me protection, till theſe ſtorms were over-blown. But then this might have involv'd him in difficulties and dangers; and that I would not have had done for the world.

I don't know what to do, not I!—God forgive me, but I am very impatient!—I wiſh—but I don't know what to wiſh, without a ſin!—Yet I wiſh it would pleaſe God to take me to his mercy!—I can meet with none here!—What a world is this! What is there in it deſireable? The good we hope for, ſo ſtrangely mix'd, that one knows not what to wiſh for: And one half of mankind tormenting the other, and being tormented themſelves in tormenting!—For here in this my particular caſe, my relations cannot be happy, tho' they make me unhappy!—Except my brother and ſiſter, indeed—and they ſeem to take delight in, and enjoy, the miſchief they make!

But it is time to lay down my pen, ſince my ink runs nothing but gall.

LETTER VIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER IX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER X. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Have now a calmer moment. Envy, Ambition, high and ſelfiſh Reſentment, and all the violent Paſſions, are now, moſt probably, aſleep all around me; and ſhall not my own angry ones give way to the ſilent hour, and ſubſide likewiſe?—They have given way to it; and I have made uſe of the gentler ſpace to re-peruſe your laſt letters. I will touch up⯑on ſome paſſages in them: And that I may the leſs endanger the but juſt-recovered calm, I will begin with what you write about Mr. Hickman.

Give me leave to ſay, That I am ſorry you can⯑not yet perſuade yourſelf to think better, that is to ſay, more juſtly, of that gentleman, than your whim⯑ſical picture of him ſhews you do; or, at leaſt, than the humorouſneſs of your natural vein would make one think you do.

I do not imagine, that you yourſelf will ſay, he ſat for the picture you have drawn. And yet, upon the whole, it is not greatly to his diſadvantage. Were I at eaſe in my mind, I would venture to draw a much more amiable and juſt likeneſs.

If Mr. Hickman has not that aſſurance which ſome men have, he has that humanity and gentleneſs, which many want: And which, with the infinite value he has for you, will make him one of the propereſt huſbands in the world for a perſon of your vivacity and ſpirit.

Altho' you ſay I would not like him myſelf, I do aſſure you, if Mr. Solmes were ſuch a man as Mr. Hickman, in perſon, mind, and behaviour, my friends and I had never diſagreed about him, if they would not have permitted me to live ſingle; Mr. Lovelace [52] (having ſuch a character as he has) would have ſtood no chance with me. This I can the more boldly aver, becauſe, I plainly perceive, that of the two paſſions, Love and Fear, This man will be able to inſpire one with a much greater proportion of the latter, than I imagine is compatible with the former, to make a happy marriage.

I am glad you own, that you like no one better than Mr. Hickman. In a little while, I make no doubt, you will be able, if you challenge your heart upon it, to acknowlege, that you like not any man ſo well: Eſpecially, when you come to conſider, that the very faults you find in Mr. Hickman, admirably fit him to make you happy: That is to ſay, If it be neceſſary to your happineſs, that you ſhould have your own will in every thing.

But let me add one thing: And that is this:—You have ſuch a ſprightly turn, that, with your admirable talents, you would make any man in the world, who loved you, look like a fool, except he were ſuch a one as Lovelace.

Forgive me, my dear, for my frankneſs: And for⯑give me alſo, for ſo ſoon returning to ſubjects ſo im⯑mediately relative to myſelf, as thoſe I now muſt touch upon.

You again inſiſt, ſtrengthen'd by Mr. Lovelace's opinion, upon my aſſuming my own eſtate: And I have given you room to expect, that I will conſider this ſubject more cloſely than I had done before.—I muſt however own, that the reaſons that I had to offer againſt your advice, were ſo obvious, that I thought you would have ſeen them yourſelf, and been determin'd by them, againſt your own haſtier counſel.—But ſince this has not been ſo; and that both you and Mr. Lovelace call upon me to aſſume my own eſtate, I will enter briefly into the ſubject.

In the firſt place, let me aſk you, my dear, ſup⯑poſing I were inclined to follow your advice, Whom [53] have I to ſupport me in my demand?—My uncle Harlowe is one of my truſtees. He is againſt me. My couſin Morden is the other. He is in Italy, and may be ſet againſt me too. My brother has declar'd, that they are reſolved to carry their point before he arrives: So that, as they drive on, all will probably be decided before I could have an anſwer from him, were I to write: And, confined as I am, if the anſwer were to come in time, and they did not like it, they would keep it from me.

In the next place, parents have great advantages in every eye over the child, if ſhe diſpute their plea⯑ſure in the diſpoſing of her: And ſo they ought: Since out of twenty inſtances, perhaps two could not be produced, where they were not in the right, the child in the wrong.

You would not, I am ſure, have me accept of Mr. Lovelace's offer'd aſſiſtance in ſuch a claim. If I would embrace any other perſon's, who elſe would care to appear for a child againſt parents, ever, till of late, ſo affectionate? But were ſuch a protector to be found, what a length of time would it take up in a courſe of litigation?—The Will and the Deeds have flaws in them, they ſay: My brother ſometimes talks of going to reſide at The Grove: I ſuppoſe with a deſign to make ejectments neceſſary, were I to offer at aſſuming; or ſhould I marry Lovelace, in order to give him all the oppoſition and difficulty the Law would help him to give.

Theſe caſes I have put to myſelf, for argument-ſake: But they are all out of the queſtion, altho' any-body were to be found who would eſpouſe my cauſe: For, I do aſſure you, I would ſooner beg my bread, than litigate for my right with my papa: Since I am convinc'd, that whether or not the parent do his duty by the child, the child cannot be exempted from do⯑ing hers to him. And to go to law with my Father, what a ſound has That? You will ſee, that I have [54] mention'd my wiſh (as an alternative, and as a favour) to be permitted, if I muſt be put out of his houſe, to go thither: But not one ſtep further can I go. And you ſee how This is reſented.

Upon the whole then, what have I to hope for, but a change in my father's reſolution? And is there any probability of that; ſuch an aſcendency as my brother and ſiſter have obtained over every-body; and ſuch an intereſt to purſue the enmity they have now openly avow'd againſt me?

As to Mr. Lovelace's approbation of your aſ⯑ſumption-ſcheme, I wonder not at it. He, very probably, penetrates the difficulties I ſhould have to bring it to effect, without his aſſiſtance. Were I to find myſelf as free as I would wiſh myſelf to be, per⯑haps that man would ſtand a worſe chance with me, than his vanity may permit him to imagine; not⯑withſtanding the pleaſure you take in raillying me on his account. How know you, but all that appears to be ſpecious and reaſonable in his offers—Such as, ſtanding his chance for my favour, after I became in⯑dependent, as I may call it (by which, I mean no more, than having the liberty to refuſe a man in that Solmes, whom it hurts me but to think of as a huſband); and ſuch as his not viſiting me but by my leave; and till Mr. Morden came; and till I were ſatisfy'd of his reformation;—How know you, I ſay, that he gives not himſelf theſe airs purely to ſtand better in your graces as well as mine, by offering, of his own accord, conditions which he muſt needs think would be inſiſted on, were the caſe to happen?

Then am I utterly diſpleaſed with him. To threaten as he threatens—Yet to pretend, that it is not to in⯑timidate me; and to beg of you not to tell me, when he muſt know you would, and no doubt muſt intend that you ſhould, is ſo meanly artful!—The man muſt think he has a frighted fool to deal with.—I, to join hands with ſuch a man of violence!—My own bro⯑ther [55] the man he threatens!—And Mr. Solmes!—What has Mr. Solmes done to him?—Is he to be blamed, if he thinks a perſon would make a wife worth having, to endeavour to obtain her?—Oh! that my friends would but leave me to my own way in this one point!—For have I given the man encourage⯑ment ſufficient to ground theſe threats upon? Were Mr. Solmes a man to whom I could be but indifferent, it might be found, that to have the merit of a ſufferer given him, from ſuch a flaming ſpirit, would very little anſwer the views of that flaming ſpirit.—It is my fortune to be treated as a fool by my brother: But Mr. Lovelace ſhall find—Yet I will let him know my mind; and then it will come with a better grace to your knowlege.

Mean time, give me leave to tell you, that it goes againſt me, in my cooler moments, wicked as my brother is to me, to have you, my dear, who are myſelf, as it were, write ſuch very ſevere reflections upon him, in relation to the advantage Lovelace had over him. He is not indeed your brother: But you write to his ſiſter, remember!—Upon my word, Miſs, you dip your pen in gall, whenever you are offended: And I am almoſt ready to queſtion, when I read ſome of your expreſſions, againſt others of my relations as well as him (altho' in my favour), whether you are ſo thoroughly warranted, by your own pa⯑tience, as you think yourſelf, to call other people to account for their warmth. Should we not be par⯑ticularly careful to keep clear of the faults we cen⯑ſure?—And yet I am ſo angry at both my brother and ſiſter, that I ſhould not have taken this liberty with my dear friend, notwithſtanding I know you never loved them, had you not made ſo light of ſo ſhocking a tranſaction, where a brother's life was at ſtake: Where his credit in the eye of the miſ⯑chievous ſex, has received a ſtill deeper wound, than he perſonally ſuſtained; and when a revival of the [56] ſame wicked reſentments (which may end more fa⯑tally) is threaten'd.

His credit, I ſay, in the eye of the miſchievous Sex: Who is not warranted to call it ſo; when it is reckon'd among the men, ſuch an extraordinary piece of ſelf-conqueſt, as the two libertines his companions gloried, to reſolve never to give a challenge; and among whom duelling is ſo faſhionable a part of brutal bra⯑very, that the man of temper, who is, moſtly, I be⯑lieve, the truly brave man, is often at a great loſs how to behave in ſome caſes, to avoid incurring ei⯑ther a mortal guilt, or a general contempt.

To inlarge a little upon this ſubject, may we not infer, That thoſe who would be guilty of throwing theſe contempts upon a man of temper, for avoiding a greater evil, know not the meaſure of true mag⯑nanimity: Nor how much nobler it is to forgive, and even how much more manly to deſpiſe, than to reſent. Were I a man, methinks, I ſhould have too much ſcorn for a perſon, who could wilfully do me a mean injury, to put a value upon his life, equal to what I put upon my own. What an abſurdity, Becauſe a man had done me a ſmall injury, that I ſhould put it in his power (at leaſt, to an equal riſque) to do me, and thoſe who love me, an irreparable one?—Were it not a wilful injury, nor avow'd to be ſo, there could not be room for reſentment.

How willingly would I run away from myſelf, and what moſt concerns myſelf, if I could! This digreſ⯑ſion brings me back again to the occaſion of it.—And That to the impatience I was in, when I ended my laſt letter; for my ſituation is not alter'd. I renew therefore my former earneſtneſs, as the new day ap⯑proaches, and will bring with it perhaps new tryals, that you will (as undiveſtedly as poſſible of favour or reſentment) tell me what you would have me do:—For if I am obliged to go to my uncle Antony's, [57] All, I doubt, will be over with me. Yet how to avoid it—That's the difficulty!

I ſhall depoſite this the firſt thing: When you have it, loſe no time, I pray you, to adviſe (leſt it be too late

LETTER XI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

WHAT can I adviſe you, my noble creature? Your merit is your crime. You can no more change your nature, than your perſecutors can theirs. Your diſtreſs is owing to the vaſt diſparity between you and them. What would you have of them? Do they not act in character?—And to whom? To an Alien. You are not one of them.—They have two dependencies—Upon their own impenetrableneſs, one (I'd give it a properer name, if I dared); the other, on the regard you have always had for your character (Have they not heretofore own'd as much?) and upon your apprehenſions from that of Lovelace, which would diſcredit you, ſhould you take any ſtep by his means to extricate yourſelf. Then they know, that reſentment and unperſuadableneſs are not natural to you; and that the anger they have wrought you up to, will ſubſide, as all extraordinaries ſoon do; and that once marry'd, you'll make the beſt of it.

But ſurely your father's eldeſt ſon and eldeſt daugh⯑ter have a view to intail unhappineſs for life upon you, were you to have the man who is already more near⯑ly related to them, than ever he can be to you, ſhould the ſhocking compulſion take place; by commu⯑nicating to ſo narrow a ſoul all they know of your juſt averſion to him.

[58]As to that wretch's perſeverance, thoſe only, who know not the man, will wonder at it. He has not the leaſt delicacy. When-ever he ſhall marry, his view will not be for mind. How ſhould it? He has not a mind: And does not Like ſeek its Like?—And if it finds ſomething beyond itſelf, how ſhall that be valued, which cannot be comprehended? Were you to be his, and ſhew a viſible want of tenderneſs to him; it is my opinion, he would not be much con⯑cerned at it; ſince that would leave him the more at liberty to purſue thoſe ſordid attachments which are predominant in him. I have heard you well obſerve, from your Mrs. Norton, That a perſon who has any over-ruling paſſion, will compound by giving up twenty ſecondary or under-ſatisfactions, tho' more laud⯑able ones, in order to have that gratify'd.

I'll give you the ſubſtance of a converſation (no fear you can be made to like him worſe than you do already) that paſſed between Sir Harry Downeton and this Solmes, but three days ago, as Sir Harry told it but yeſterday to my mamma and me. It will con⯑firm to you that what your ſiſter's inſolent Betty re⯑ported he ſhould ſay, of governing by fear, was not of her own head.

Sir Harry told him, he wonder'd he ſhould hope to carry you ſo much againſt your inclination, as every-body knew it would be, if he did.

He matter'd not That, he ſaid: Coy maids made fond wives (A ſorry fellow!) It would not at all grieve him to ſee a pretty woman make wry faces, if ſhe gave him cauſe to vex her. And your eſtate, by the convenience of its ſituation, would richly pay him, for all he could bear with your ſhyneſs.

He ſhould be ſure, after a while, of your com⯑plaiſance, at leaſt, if not of your love: And in That ſhould be happier than nine parts in ten of his marry'd acquaintance.

What a wretch is this!

[59]For the reſt, your known virtue would be as great a ſecurity to him, as he could wiſh for.

She will look upon you, ſaid Sir Harry (who is a reader), if ſhe be forced to marry you, as Elizabeth of France did upon Philip II. of Spain, when he received her on his frontiers, as her huſband, who was to have been but her father-in-law: That is, with fear and terror, rather than with complaiſance and love: And you will, perhaps, be as ſurly to her, as That old Monarch was to his bride.

Terror and Fear, the wretch, the horrid wretch, ſaid, looked pretty in a bride, as well as in a wife: And, laughing (yes, my dear, the hideous fellow laughed immoderately, as Sir Harry told us, when he ſaid it), It ſhould be his care, to perpetuate the oc⯑caſion for that fear, if he could not think he had the love. And, for his part, he was of opinion, that if LOVE and FEAR muſt be ſeparated in matrimony, the man who made himſelf feared, fared beſt!

If my eyes would carry with them the execution which the eyes of the Baſiliſk are ſaid to do, I would make it my firſt buſineſs to ſee this creature.

My mamma, however, ſays, it would be a pro⯑digious merit in you, if you could get over your aver⯑ſion to him. Where, aſks ſhe, as you have been aſk'd before, is the praiſe-worthineſs of obedience, if it be only paid in inſtances where we give up no⯑thing?

What a fatality, that you have no better an op⯑tion!—Either a Scylla or a Charybdis!

Were it not YOU, I ſhould know how (barbarouſly uſed, as you are uſed) to adviſe you in a moment. But ſuch a noble character to ſuffer from a (ſuppoſed) raſhneſs and indiſcretion of ſuch a nature, would be a wound to the Sex, as I have heretofore obſerved.

While I was in hope, that the aſſerting of your own independence would have helped you, I was pleaſed, that you had one reſource, as I thought: But [60] now, that you have ſo well proved, that ſuch a ſtep would not avail you, I am intirely at a loſs what to ſay. I will lay down my pen, and think.

I HAVE conſidered, and conſidered again; but, I proteſt, I know no more what to ſay, than before. Only this: That I am young, like yourſelf; and have a much weaker judgment, and ſtronger paſſions, than you have.

I have heretofore ſaid, that you have offer'd as much as you ought to offer in living ſingle. If you Were never to marry, the eſtate they are ſo loth ſhould go out of their name, would, in time, I ſup⯑poſe, revert to your brother: And he or his would have it, perhaps, much more certainly this way, than by the precarious reverſions Solmes makes them hope for. Have you put this into their odd heads, my dear?—The tyrant word AUTHORITY, as they uſe it, can be the only objection againſt this offer.

One thing you muſt conſider, that, if you leave your parents, your duty and love to them will not ſuffer you to appeal againſt them, to juſtify yourſelf for ſo doing; and ſo you'll have the world againſt you. And ſhould Lovelace continue his wild life, and behave ungratefully to you, how will That juſtify their conduct to you (which nothing elſe can), as well as their reſentments againſt him?

May heaven direct you for the beſt! I can only ſay, that, for my own part, I would do any-thing, go any-whither, rather than be compelled to marry the man I hate; and, were he ſuch a man as Solmes, muſt always hate. Nor could I have borne, what you have borne, if from father and uncles, not from brother and ſiſter.

My mamma will have it, that after they have try'd their utmoſt efforts to bring you into their meaſures, and find them ineffectual, they will recede. But I [61] cannot ſay I am of her mind. She does not own, ſhe has any other authority for this, but her own con⯑jecture. I ſhould otherwiſe have hoped, that your uncle Antony and ſhe had been in one ſecret, and that favourable to you:—Woe be to one of them at leaſt (your uncle I mean), if they ſhould be in any other!

You muſt, if poſſible, avoid being carried to that uncle's. The man, the parſon, the chapel, your brother and ſiſter preſent!—they'll certainly there marry you to Solmes. Nor will your newly-raiſed ſpirit ſupport you in your reſiſtance on ſuch an oc⯑caſion. Your meekneſs will return; and you will have nothing for it but tears (tears deſpiſed by them all), and ineffectual appeals and lamentations:—And theſe, when the ceremony is profaned, as I may ſay, you muſt ſuddenly put a ſtop to, and dry up: And endeavour to diſpoſe yourſelf to ſuch an humble frame of mind, as may induce your new-made Lord to for⯑give all your paſt declarations of averſion.

In ſhort, my dear, you muſt then blandiſh him over with a confeſſion, that all your paſt behaviour was maidenly reſerve only: And it will be your part to convince him of the truth of his impudent ſarcaſm, That the coyeſt maids make the fondeſt wives. Thus will you begin the ſtate with a high ſenſe of obli⯑gation to his forgiving goodneſs! And if you will not be kept to it by that fear he propoſes to govern by, I am much miſtaken.

Yet, after all, I muſt leave the point undetermin'd, and only to be determin'd, as you find they recede from their avowed purpoſe, or reſolve to remove you to your uncle Antony's. But I muſt repeat my wiſhes, that ſomething may fall out, that neither of theſe men may call you his! And may you live ſingle, my deareſt friend, till ſome man ſhall offer, that may be as worthy of you, as man can be.

But yet, methinks, I would not, that you, who [62] are ſo admirably qualify'd to adorn the matrimonial ſtate, ſhould be always ſingle. You know I am in⯑capable of flattery; and that I always ſpeak and write the ſincere dictates of my heart. Nor can you, from what you muſt know of your own merit (taken in a comparative light with others), doubt my ſincerity. For why ſhould a perſon who delights to find out and admire every thing that is praiſe-worthy in an⯑other, be ſuppoſed ignorant of like perfections in her⯑ſelf, when ſhe could not ſo much admire them in another, if ſhe had them not herſelf? And why may not one give her thoſe praiſes, which ſhe would give to any other, who had but half of her own excel⯑lencies?—Eſpecially when ſhe is incapable of pride and vainglory; and neither deſpiſes others for the want of her fine qualities, nor over-values herſelf up⯑on them?—Over-values, did I ſay!—How can that be?—

Forgive me, my beloved friend. My admiration of you (increaſed, as it is, by every letter you write) will not always be held down in ſilence; altho' in order to avoid offending you, I generally endeavour to keep it from flowing to my pen, when I write to you, or to my lips, whenever I have the happineſs to be in your company.

I will add nothing, tho' I could an hundred things, on occaſion of your lateſt communications, but that I am,

I hope I have pleaſed you with my diſpatch. I wiſh I had been able to pleaſe you with my requeſted advice.

You have given new beauties to the charming Ode which you have tranſmitted to me. What pity that the wretches you have to deal with, put [63] you out of your admirable courſe; in the purſuit of which, like the ſun, you was wont to chear and illuminate all you ſhone upon.

LETTER XII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

HOW ſoothing a thing is praiſe from thoſe we love!—Whether conſcious or not, of deſerving it, it cannot but give us great delight, to ſee one's ſelf ſtand high in the opinion of thoſe whoſe favour we are ambitious to cultivate. An ingenuous mind will make this farther uſe of it, that if it be ſenſible, that it does not already deſerve the charming attributes, it will haſten, before its friend finds herſelf miſtaken, to obtain the graces it is complimented for: And this it will do, as well in honour to itſelf, as to pre⯑ſerve its friend's opinion, and juſtify her judgment!—May This be always my aim!—And then you will not only give the praiſe, but the merit; and I ſhall be more worthy of that friendſhip, which is the only pleaſure I have to boaſt of.

Moſt heartily I thank you for the kind diſpatch of your laſt favour. How much am I indebted to you! and even to your honeſt ſervant!—Under what ob⯑ligations does my unhappy ſituation lay me!

But let me anſwer the kind contents of it, as well as I may.

As to getting over my diſguſts to Mr. Solmes, it is impoſſible to be done; while he wants Generoſity, Frankneſs of Heart, Benevolence, Manners, and every qualification that diſtinguiſhes a worthy man. O my dear! what a degree of patience, what a great⯑neſs of ſoul, is required in the wife, not to deſpiſe a huſband who is more ignorant, more illiterate, more low-minded, than herſelf?—The wretch, veſted [64] with prerogatives, who will claim rule in virtue of them (and not to permit whoſe claim, will be as diſ⯑graceful to the preſcribing wife, as to the govern'd huſband); How ſhall ſuch a huſband as This be borne, were he, for reaſons of convenience and intereſt, even to be one's CHOICE? But, to be compelled to have ſuch a one, and that compulſion to ariſe from motives as unworthy of the preſcribers as of the preſcribed, who can think of getting over an averſion ſo juſtly founded? How much eaſier to bear the temporary perſecutions I labour under, becauſe temporary, than to reſolve to be ſuch a man's for life? Were I to comply, muſt I not leave my relations, and go to him? One month will decide the one perhaps: But what a duration of woe will the other be!—Every day, it is likely, riſing to witneſs to ſome new breach of an Altar-vow'd duty!

Then, my dear, the man ſeems already to be me⯑ditating vengeance upon me for an averſion I cannot help: For yeſterday, my ſaucy gaolereſs aſſured me, That all my oppoſitions would not ſignify that pinch of ſnuff, holding out her genteel finger and thumb: That I muſt have Mr. Solmes: That there⯑fore, I had not beſt carry my jeſt too far; for that Mr. Solmes was a man of ſpirit, and had told HER, that as I ſhould ſurely be his, I acted very unpoliticly; ſince, if he had not more mercy (that was her word; I know not if it were his) than I had, I might have cauſe to repent the uſage I gave him, to the laſt day of my life.

But enough of this man; who, by what you re⯑peat from Sir Harry Downeton, has all the inſolence of his Sex, without any one quality to make that in⯑ſolence tolerable.

I have received two letters from Mr. Lovelace, ſince his viſit to you; which made three that I had not anſwer'd. I doubted not his being very uneaſy; but in his laſt he complains in high terms of my ſilence; not in the ſtill ſmall voice, or rather ſtyle, of [65] an humble Lover, but in a ſtyle like that, which would probably be uſed by a ſlighted Protector. And his pride is again touched, that like a thief or eves⯑dropper, he is forced to dodge about in hopes of a letter, and return five miles, and then to an incon⯑venient lodging, without any.

His letters, and the copy of mine to him, ſhall ſoon attend you: Till when, I will give you the ſub⯑ſtance of what I wrote to him yeſterday.

I take him ſeverely to taſk, for his freedom in threatening me, thro' you, with a viſit to Mr. Solmes, or to my brother. I ſay, ‘'That, ſurely, I muſt be thought to be a creature fit to bear any-thing: That violence and menaces from ſome of my own family are not enough for me to bear, in order to make me avoid him; but that I muſt have them from him too, upon a ſuppoſition that I will oblige thoſe, whom it is both my inclination and duty to oblige in every-thing that is reaſonable, and in my power.’

‘'Very extraordinary, I tell him, that a violent ſpirit ſhall threaten to do a raſh and unjuſtifiable thing, which concerns me but little, and himſelf a great deal, if I do not ſomething as raſh, my character and ſex conſider'd, to divert him from it.'’

‘'I even hint, that, however it may affect me, if any miſchief ſhall be done on my account, yet there are perſons, as far as I know, who, in my caſe, would not think there would be reaſon for much regret, were ſuch a committed raſhneſs as he threat⯑ens Mr. Solmes with, to rid her of two perſons, whom had ſhe never known, ſhe had never been unhappy.'’

This is plain-dealing, my dear! And I ſuppoſe he will put it into ſtill plainer Engliſh for me.

I take his pride to taſk, on his diſdaining to watch for my letters; and for his eves-dropping language: And ſay, ‘'That, ſurely, he has the leſs reaſon to think ſo hardly of his ſituation, ſince his faulty mo⯑rals [66] are the original cauſe of all; and ſince faulty morals deſervedly level all diſtinction, and bring down rank and birth to the Canaille; and to the neceſſity, of which he complains, of appearing, if I muſt deſcend to his language, as an eves-dropper and a thief. And then I ſorbid him ever to expect another letter from me, that is to ſubject him to ſuch diſgraceful hardſhips.’

‘'That as to the ſolemn vows and proteſtations, he is ſo ready, upon all occaſions, to make, they have the leſs weight with me, as they give a kind of de⯑monſtration, that he himſelf thinks, from his own character, there is reaſon to make them. Deeds are to me the only evidences of intentions. And I am more and more convinced of the neceſſity of break⯑ing-off a correſpondence with a perſon, whoſe ad⯑dreſſes I ſee it is impoſſible either to expect my friends to encourage, or him to deſerve that they ſhould.’

‘'What therefore I repeatedly deſire is, That ſince his birth, alliances, and expectations, are ſuch, as will at any-time, if his immoral character be not an objection, procure him, at leaſt, equal advantages, in a woman whoſe taſte and inclinations, moreover, might be better adapted to his own; I inſiſt upon it, as well as adviſe it, that he give up all thoughts of me: And the rather, as he has all along, by his threatening and unpolite behaviour to my friends, and whenever he ſpeaks of them, given me reaſon to conclude, that there is more malice to them, than regard to me, in his perſeverance.'’

This is the ſubſtance of the letter I have written to him.

The man, to be ſure, muſt have the penetration to obſerve, that my correſpondence with him hitherto is owing more to the ſeverity I meet with, than to a very high value for him. And ſo I would have him think. What a worſe than Moloch-deity is That, [67] which expects an offering of reaſon, duty, and diſ⯑cretion, to be made to its ſhrine!

Your mamma is of opinion, that at laſt my friends will relent. Heaven grant that they may!—But my brother and ſiſter have ſuch an influence over every-body, and are ſo determin'd; ſo pique themſelves upon ſubduing me, and carrying their point; that I deſpair that they will:—And yet, if they do not, I frankly own, I would not ſcruple to throw myſelf upon any not diſreputable protection, by which I might avoid my preſent perſecutions, on one hand, and not give Lovelace advantage over me, on the other.—That is to ſay, were there manifeſtly no other way left me: For, if there were, I ſhould think the leaving my father's houſe, without his conſent, one of the moſt inexcuſable actions I could be guilty of, were the protection to be ever ſo unexceptionable; and This notwithſtanding the independent fortune willed me by my grandfather. And indeed I have often reflected with a degree of indignation and diſ⯑dain, upon the thought of what a low, ſelfiſh crea⯑ture that child muſt be, who is to be rein'd-in only by what a parent can or will do for her.

But notwithſtanding all this, I owe it to the ſin⯑cerity of friendſhip to confeſs, that I know not what I ſhould have done, had your advice been concluſive any way. Had you, my dear, been witneſs to my different emotions, as I read your letter, when, in one place, you adviſe me of my danger, if I am car⯑ry'd to my uncle's; in another, when you own you could not bear what I bear, and would do any thing rather than marry the man you hate: yet, in an⯑other, repreſent to me my reputation ſuffering in the world's eye; and the neceſſity I ſhould be under to juſtify my conduct, at the expence of my friends, were I to take a raſh ſtep: in another, inſinuate the diſhoneſt figure I ſhould be forced to make, in ſo com⯑pell'd a matrimony; endeavouring to cajole, fawn [68] upon, and play the hypocrite with a man I have an averſion to; who would have reaſon to believe me an hypocrite, as well from my former avowals, as from the ſenſe he muſt have (if common ſenſe he has) of his own demerits:—The neceſſity you think there would be for me, the more averſe I really was, to ſeem the fonder of him: A fondneſs, were I capable of ſo much diſſimulation, that would be imputable to the moſt diſgraceful motives; as it would be too viſi⯑ble, that love, either of perſon or mind, could be neither of them:—Then his undoubted, his even conſtitutional narrowneſs: His too probable jealouſy, and unforgivingneſs, bearing in mind my declared averſion, and the unfeigned deſpights I took all oppor⯑tunities to do him, in order to diſcourage his addreſs: A preference avow'd againſt him from the ſame mo⯑tive: with the pride he profeſſes to take in curbing, and ſinking the ſpirits of a woman he had acquired a right to tyrannize over:—Had you, I ſay, been wit⯑neſs of my different emotions as I read; now leaning This way; now That; now perplexed; now appre⯑henſive; now angry at one, then at another; now re⯑ſolving; now doubting,—you would have ſeen the power you have over me; and would have had reaſon to believe, that, had you given your advice in any de⯑termin'd or poſitive manner, I had been ready to have been concluded by it. So, my dear, you will find, from theſe acknowlegements, that you muſt juſtify me to thoſe Laws of Friendſhip, which require undiſguiſed frankneſs of heart; altho' your juſtification of me in that particular, will perhaps be at the expence of my prudence.

But, upon the whole, This I do repeat—That no⯑thing but the laſt extremity ſhall make me abandon my father's houſe, if they will permit me to ſtay; and if I can, by any means, by any honeſt pretences, but keep off my evil deſtiny in it, till my couſin Morden arrives. As one of my truſtees, his is a protection [69] that I may, without diſcredit, throw myſelf into, if my other friends ſhould remain determin'd. And This (altho' they ſeem too well aware of it) is all my hope: For, as to Lovelace, were one to be ſure of his tenderneſs to one's-ſelf, and even of his reforma⯑tion, muſt not the thoughts of embracing the offer'd protection of his family, be the ſame in the world's eye, as accepting of his own?—Could I avoid re⯑ceiving his viſits at his own relations? Muſt I not be his, whatever, on ſeeing him in a nearer light, I ſhould find him out to be. For you know, it has always been my obſervation, that both ſexes too generally cheat each other, by the more diſtant. Oh! my dear! how wiſe have I endeavour'd to be! how an⯑xious to chooſe, and to avoid every-thing, precau⯑tiouſly, as I may ſay, that might make me happy, or unhappy; yet all my wiſdom now, by a ſtrange fa⯑tality, likely to become fooliſhneſs.

Then you tell me, in your uſual, kindly-partial manner, what is expected of me, more than would be of ſome others. This ſhould be a leſſon to me. What⯑ever my motives, the world would not know them: To complain of a brother's unkindneſs, that one might do: It is too common a caſe, where intereſts claſh: But where the unkind father cannot be ſeparated from the faulty brother; who could bear to lighten herſelf, by loading a father?—Then, in this parti⯑cular caſe, muſt not the hatred Mr. Lovelace ex⯑preſſes to every-one of my family, altho' in return [...]or their hatred of him, ſhock one extremely? Muſt it not ſhew, that there is ſomething implacable, as well [...]s highly unpolite, in his temper?—And what creature [...]an think of marrying ſo as to live at continual en⯑mity with all her own relations?

But here, having tir'd myſelf, and I dare ſay you, will lay down my pen.

Mr. Solmes is almoſt continually here: So is my [70] aunt Hervey: So are my two uncles. Something is working againſt me, I doubt. What an uneaſy ſtate is ſuſpenſe!—When a naked ſword, too, ſeems hang⯑ing over one's head!

I hear nothing but what this confident creature, Betty, throws out in the wantonneſs of office. Now it is, Why, Miſs, don't you look up your things? You'll be call'd upon, depend upon it, before you are aware!—Another time ſhe intimates darkly, and in broken ſentences, as if on purpoſe to teaze me, what one ſays, what another; with their inquiries, how I diſpoſe of my time? And my brother's inſolent queſtion comes frequently in, Whether I am not writing a hiſtory of my ſufferings?

But I am now uſed to her pertneſs: And as it is only thro' that, that I can hear of any thing intended againſt me, before it is to be put in execution; and as ſhe pleads a commiſſion, when ſhe is moſt imper⯑tinent; I bear with her: Yet, now-and-then, not without a little of the heart-burn.

I will depoſite thus far. Adieu, my dear.

On coming down, I found your ſecond letter of yeſterday's date ^(a). I have read it; and am in hopes, that the within will, in a great meaſure, an⯑ſwer your mamma's expectations of me.

My moſt reſpectful acknowlegements to her for it, and for her very kind admonitions.

You'll read to her what you pleaſe of the incloſed.

LETTER XIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Follow my laſt of this date, by command. I men⯑tioned in my former, my mamma's opinion of the merit you would have, if you could oblige your friends, againſt your own inclination. Our conference upon this ſubject was introduced by the converſation we had had with Sir Harry Downeton; and my mamma thinks it of ſo much importance, that ſhe injoins me to give you the particulars of it. I the rather com⯑ply, as I was unable in my laſt to tell what to adviſe you to; and as you will in this recital have my mam⯑ma's opinion, at leaſt; and, perhaps, in hers, what the world's would be, were it to know only what ſhe knows; and not ſo much as I know.

My mamma argues upon this caſe in a moſt diſ⯑couraging manner, for all ſuch of our ſex as look for⯑ward for happineſs in marriage with the man of their choice.

Only, that I know, ſhe has a ſide-view to her daughter; who, at the ſame time that ſhe now pre⯑fers no one to another, values not the man her mam⯑ma moſt regards, of one farthing; or I ſhould lay it more to heart.

What is there in it, ſays ſhe, that all this buſtle is about? Is it ſuch a mighty matter for a young Lady to give up her own inclinations to oblige her friends?

Very well, my mamma, thought I! NOW, may you aſk this—At FORTY, you may—But what would you have ſaid at EIGHTEEN, is the queſtion!

Either, ſaid ſhe, the Lady muſt be thought to have very violent inclinations (and what nice young crea⯑ture would have That ſuppoſed?) which ſhe could not give up; or a very ſtubborn will, which ſhe [72] would not; or, thirdly, have parents ſhe was indif⯑ferent about obliging.

You know my mamma now and then argues very notably: always very warmly at leaſt. I happen of⯑ten to differ from her; and we both think ſo well of our own arguments, that we very ſeldom are ſo happy as to convince one another. A pretty com⯑mon caſe, I believe, in all vehement debatings. She ſays, I am too witty; Anglicè, too pert: I, That ſhe is too wiſe; that is to ſay, being likewiſe put into Eng⯑liſh, Not ſo young as ſhe has been: In ſhort, is grown ſo much into mother, that ſhe has forgotten ſhe ever was a daughter. So, generally, we call another cauſe by conſent—Yet fall into the old one half a dozen times over, without conſent:—Quitting and Reſume⯑ing, with half-angry faces, forced into a ſmile, that there might be ſome room to piece together again: But go to bed, if bed-time, a little ſullen, neverthe⯑leſs; or, if we ſpeak, her ſilence is broke, with an Ah! Nancy! You are ſo lively! ſo quick! I wiſh you were leſs like your papa, child!—

I pay it off with thinking, that my mamma has no reaſon to diſclaim her ſhare in her Nancy: And if the matter go off with greater ſeverity on her ſide than I wiſh for, then her favourite Hickman fares the worſe for it, next day.

I know I am a ſaucy creature: I know, if I do not ſay ſo, you will think ſo; ſo no more of This, juſt now. What I mention it for, is to tell you, that on this ſerious occaſion, I will omit, if I can, all that paſſed between us, that had an air of flippancy on my part, or quickneſs on my mamma's, to let you into the cool and the cogent, of the converſation.

‘'Look thro' the families, ſaid ſhe, which we both know, where the Gentleman and Lady have been ſaid to marry for Love; which, at the time it is ſo called, is perhaps no more than a paſſion begun in folly, or thoughtleſneſs, and carried on from a [73] ſpirit of perverſneſs and oppoſition [Here we had a parenthetical debate, which I omit;] and ſee, if they appear to be happier than thoſe whoſe principal inducement to marry, has been convenience, or to oblige their friends; or even whether they are ge⯑nerally ſo happy: For convenience and duty, where obſerved, will afford a permanent and even an in⯑creaſing ſatisfaction, as well at the time, as upon the reflection, which ſeldom fail to reward themſelves: While Love, if Love be the motive, is an idle paſ⯑ſion—[Idle in ONE SENSE my mamma cannot ſay; for Love is as buſy as a monkey, and as miſchievous as a ſchool-boy—] It is a fervor, that, like all other fer⯑vors, laſts but a little while; a bow over-ſtrained, that ſoon returns to its natural bent.’

‘'As it is founded generally upon mere national ex⯑cellencies, which were unknown to the perſons themſelves, till attributed to either by the other; one, two, or three months, uſually ſets all right on both ſides; and then with open'd eyes they think of each other—juſt as every-body elſe thought of them before.’

‘'The lovers imaginaries [Her own word! Notable enough! i'n't it?] are by that time gone off; Na⯑ture, and Old habits, painfully diſpenſed with or con⯑cealed, return: Diſguiſes thrown aſide, all the moles, freckles, and defects in the minds of each, diſcover themſelves; and 'tis well if each do not ſink in the opinion of the other, as much below the common ſtandard, as the blinded imagination of both had ſet them above it. And now, ſaid ſhe, the fond pair, who knew no felicity out of each other's company, are ſo far from finding the never-ending variety each had propoſed in an unreſtrained converſation with the other (when they ſeldom were together; and always parted with ſomething to ſay; or, on recollection, when parted, wiſhing they had ſaid); that they are continually on the wing in purſuit [74] of amuſements out of themſelves; and thoſe, con⯑cluded my ſage mamma [Did you think her wiſdom ſo very moderne?], will perhaps be the livelier to each, in which the other has no ſhare.'’

I told my mamma, that if you were to take any raſh ſtep, it would be owing to the indiſcreet violence of your friends: I was afraid, I ſaid, that theſe reflections upon the conduct of people in the married ſtate, who might ſet out with better hopes, were but too well-grounded: But that this muſt be allowed me, that if children weighed not theſe matters ſo thoroughly as they ought, neither did parents make thoſe allow⯑ances for youth, inclination, and inexperience, which were neceſſary to be made for themſelves at their childrens time of life.

I remember'd a letter, I told her hereupon, which you wrote a few months ago, perſonating an anony⯑mous elderly Lady (in Mr. Wyerley's day of plaguing you) to Miſs Drayton's mamma, who, by her se⯑verity and reſtraints, had like to have driven the young Lady into the very fault, againſt which her mother was moſt ſollicitous to guard her. And, I dared to ſay, ſhe would be pleaſed with it.

I fetched the copy of it, which you had favoured me with at the time; I would have read only that par [...] of it, which was moſt to my purpoſe: But ſhe would hear it all ^(a).

[75]My mamma was pleaſed with the whole letter; and ſaid, It deſerved to have the effect it had. But aſked me, what excuſe could be offer'd for a young Lady capable of making ſuch reflections; and who, at her time of life, could ſo well aſſume the character of one of riper years; if ſhe ſhould ruſh into any fatal miſ⯑take herſelf?

She then touched upon the moral character of Mr. Lovelace; and how reaſonable the averſion of your relations is, to a man, who gives himſelf the li⯑berties he is ſaid to take; and who, indeed, himſelf, denies not the accuſation; having been heard to de⯑clare, that he will do all the miſchief he can to the Sex, in revenge for the ill uſage and broken vows of his firſt love, at a time when he was too young (his own expreſſion, it ſeems) to be inſincere.

[76]I reply'd, That I had heard every one ſay, that that Lady really uſed him ill; that it affected him ſo much at the time, that he was forced to travel upon it; and, to drive her out of his heart, ran into courſes, which he had ingenuity enough himſelf to condemn: That, however, he had denied the menaces againſt the Sex, which were attributed to him, when charged with them by me in your preſence; and declared himſelf incapable of ſo unjuſt and ungenerous a reſent⯑ment againſt all, for the perfidy of one.

You remember this, my dear; as I do your in⯑nocent obſervation upon it, That you could believe his ſolemn aſſeveration and denial: ‘'For, ſurely, ſaid you, the man who would reſent, as the higheſt indignity, that could be offer'd to a gentleman, the imputation, of a wilful falſhood, would not be guilty of one.'’

I inſiſted upon the extraordinary circumſtances in your caſe, particularizing them: Obſerving, that Mr. Lovelace's morals were, at one time, no ob⯑jection with your relations for Miſs Arabella: That then much was built upon his family, and more upon his parts and learning, which made it out of doubt, that he might be reclaim'd by a woman of virtue and prudence: And [Pray forgive me for mentioning it] I ventured to add, that altho' your family might be good ſort of folks, as the world went, yet no-body imputed to any of them, but yourſelf, a very pun⯑ctilious concern for religion or piety—Therefore were they the leſs intitled to object to the defects of that kind in others. Then, what an odious man, ſaid I, have they picked out, to ſupplant, in a Lady's af⯑fections, one of the fineſt appearances of a man in England, and one noted for his brilliant parts, and other accompliſhments (whatever his morals might be); as if they were determined upon an act of power and authority, without rhyme or reaſon!

Still my mamma inſiſted, that there was the greater [77] merit in your obedience on that account, and urged, that there hardly ever was a very handſome and a ſprightly man who made a good huſband: For that they were generally ſuch Narciſſus's, as to imagine every woman ought to think as highly of them, as they did of themſelves.

There was no danger from that conſideration here, I ſaid, becauſe the Lady had ſtill greater advantages, both of perſon and mind, than the Man; graceful and elegant, as he muſt be allowed to be, beyond any of his ſex.

She cannot endure to hear me praiſe any man but her favourite Hickman: Upon whom, nevertheleſs, ſhe generally brings a degree of contempt, which he would eſcape, did ſhe not leſſen the little merit he has, by giving him on all occaſions, more than I think he can deſerve, and entering him into com⯑pariſons, in which it is impoſſible but he muſt be a ſufferer. And now, prepoſterous partiality! She thought, for her part, that Mr. Hickman, 'bating, that his face indeed was not ſo ſmooth, nor his com⯑plexion quite ſo good, and ſaving that he was not ſo preſuming and ſo bold (which ought to be no fault with a modeſt woman!), equalled Mr. Lovelace at any hour of the day.

To avoid entering further into ſuch an incomparable compariſon, I ſaid I did not believe, had they left you to your own way, and treated you generouſly, that you would have had the thought of encouraging any man, whom they diſliked.

Then, Nancy, catching me up, the excuſe is leſs—For, if ſo, muſt there not be more of contra⯑diction, than love, in the caſe?

Not ſo, neither, Madam: For I know Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe would prefer Mr. Lovelace to all men, if morals—

If, Nancy!—That If is every-thing!—Do you really think ſhe loves Mr. Lovelace?

[78]What would you have had me to ſay, my dear?—I won't tell you what I did ſay—But had I not ſaid what I did, who would have believed me?

Beſides, I know you love him!—Excuſe me, my dear: Yet, if you deny it, what do you but reflect upon yourſelf, as if you thought you ought not?

Indeed, ſaid I, the man is worthy of any woman's love (If, again, I could ſay)—But her parents, Madam—

Her parents, Nancy—[You know, my dear, how my mamma, who accuſes her daughter of quickneſs, is evermore interrupting!—]—

May take wrong meaſures, ſaid I—

Cannot do wrong—They have reaſon, I'll warrant, ſaid ſhe—

By which they may provoke a young Lady, ſaid I, to do raſh things, which otherwiſe ſee would not do.

But if it be a raſh thing (returned ſhe), ſhould ſhe do it! A prudent daughter will not wilfully err, be⯑cauſe her parents err, if they were to err: If ſhe do, the world, which blames the parents, will not acquit the child. All that can be ſaid, in extenuation of a daughter's error, ariſes from a kind conſideration, which Miſs's letter to Lady Drayton pleads for, to be paid to her daughter's youth and inexperience. And will ſuch an admirable young perſon as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, whoſe prudence, as we ſee, qua⯑lifies her to be an adviſer of perſons much older than herſelf, take ſhelter under ſo poor a covert?

Let her know, Nancy, out of hand, what I ſay; and I charge you to repreſent farther to her, That let her diſlike one man, and approve another, ever ſo⯑much, it will be expected of a young Lady of her unbounded generoſity, and greatneſs of mind, that ſhe ſhould deny herſelf, when ſhe can oblige all her family by ſo doing: No leſs than ten or a dozen, perhaps, the neareſt and deareſt to her of all the perſons in the [79] world, an indulgent father and mother at the head of them. It may be fancy only on her ſide; but parents look deeper: And will not Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe give up her fancy to her parents judgment?

I ſaid a great deal upon this judgment-ſubject: All that you could wiſh I ſhould ſay; and all that your extraordinary caſe allowed me to ſay. And my mamma was ſo ſenſible of the force of it, that ſhe charged me not to write to you any part of my anſwer to what ſhe ſaid; but only what ſhe herſelf had ad⯑vanced; leſt, in ſo critical a caſe, it ſhould induce you to take meaſures, that might give us both rea⯑ſon (I for giving it, you for following it) to repent it as long as we lived.

And thus, my dear, I ſet my mamma's arguments before you. And the rather, as I cannot myſelf tell what to adviſe you to do!—You know beſt your own heart; and what That will let you do!

Robin undertakes to depoſite This very early, that you may receive it by your firſt morning airing.

Heaven guide and direct you for the beſt, is the in⯑ceſſant prayer, of

LETTER XIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XV Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

[89]In about an hour after this kind letter was given me, my uncle ſent up to know, if he ſhould be a welcome viſitor, upon the terms mention'd in his letter? He bid Betty bring him down a verbal an⯑ſwer: A written one, he ſaid, would be a bad sign; and he bid her therefore not bring a letter. But I had juſt finiſh'd the incloſed tranſcription of one I had been writing. She made a difficulty to carry it; but was prevailed upon to oblige me, by a token which theſe Mrs. Betty's cannot withſtand.

LETTER XVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XX. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

AN accident has occaſioned my remiſſneſs, as, till you know it, you may juſtly think my ſilence.

My mamma was ſent for on Sunday night, with the utmoſt earneſtneſs, by her couſin Larkin, whom I mentioned in one of my former.

This poor woman was always afraid of Death, and was one of thoſe weak perſons who imagine that the [123] making of their Will muſt be an undoubted fore⯑runner of it.

She had always ſaid, when urged to the neceſſary work, That whenever ſhe made it, ſhe ſhould not live long after; and, one would think, imagined ſhe was under an obligation to prove her words: For, tho' ſhe had been long bed-rid, and was, in a man⯑ner, worn out before, yet ſhe thought herſelf better, till ſhe was perſuaded to make it: And from that moment, remembering what ſhe uſed to prognoſticate (her fears helping on what ſhe feared, as is often the caſe, particularly in the Small-Pox), grew worſe; and had it in her head once to burn her Will, in hopes to grow better upon it.

She ſent my mamma word, That the Doctors had given her over: But that ſhe could not die till ſhe ſaw her. I told my mamma, That if ſhe wiſh'd her a chance for recovery, ſhe ſhould not, for that reaſon, go. But go ſhe would; and, what was worſe, would make me go with her; and that, at an hour's warning [Had there been more time for argumenta⯑tion, to be ſure I had not gone!] for ſhe ſaid nothing of it to me, till ſhe was riſing in the morning early, reſolving to return at night. So that there was a kind of neceſſity, that my preparation to obey her, ſhould, in a manner, accompany her command.—A com⯑mand ſo much out of the way, on ſuch a ſolemn oc⯑caſion! And this I repreſented—But to no purpoſe:—There never was ſuch a contradicting girl in the world—My wiſdom always made her a fool!—But ſhe would be obliged this time, proper or improper.

I have but one way of accounting for this ſudden whim of my mamma—She had a mind to accept of Mr. Hickman's offer to eſcorte her:—And I verily believe [I wiſh I were quite ſure of it] had a mind to oblige him with my company—as far as I know, to keep me out of worſe.

For, would you believe it,?—As ſure as you are [124] alive, ſhe is afraid for her favourite Hickman, be⯑cauſe of the long viſit your Lovelace, tho' ſo much by accident, made me in her abſence, laſt time ſhe was at the ſame place. I hope, my dear, you are not jealous too. But, indeed, I now and then, when ſhe teazes me with praiſes which Hickman cannot deſerve, in return, fall to praiſing thoſe qualities and perſonalities in Lovelace, which the other never will have. Indeed I do love to teaze a little bit, that I do.—My mamma's girl!—I had like to have ſaid.

As you know ſhe is as paſſionate, as I am pert, you will not wonder to be told, that we generally fall out on theſe occaſions: She flies from me, at the long run: It would be undutiful in me to leave her firſt—And then I get an opportunity to purſue our correſpondence.

For, now I am rambling, let me tell you, that ſhe does not much favour that;—for two reaſons, I be⯑lieve: One, that I don't ſhew her all that paſſes be⯑tween us; the other, That ſhe thinks I harden your mind againſt your duty, as it is called; and with her, for a reaſon at home, as I have hinted more than once, parents cannot do wrong; children cannot op⯑poſe, and be right. This obliges me now-and-then to ſteal an hour, as I may ſay, and not let her know how I am employ'd.

You may gueſs from what I have written, how averſe I was to comply with this ſtretch of motherly authority, made ſo much againſt rhyme and reaſon.—But it came to be a teſt of duty; ſo I was obliged to yield, tho' with a full perſuaſion of being in the right.

I have always your reproofs upon theſe occaſions: In your late letters ſtronger than ever. A good rea⯑ſon why, you'll ſay, Becauſe more deſerved than ever. I thank you kindly for your correction. I hope to make cor-rection of it—But let me tell you, that [125] your ſtripe's, whether deſerved or not, have made me ſenſible deeper than the ſkin—But of this another time.

It was Monday afternoon before we reached the old gentlewoman's. That fiddling, parading fellow, you know who I mean, made us wait for him two hours (and I to go a journey I diſliked!) only for the ſake of having a little more tawdry upon his houſings; which he had hurry'd his ſaddler to put on, to make him look fine, being to eſcorte his dear Madam Howe, and her fair daughter.—I told him, that I ſuppoſed he was afraid, that the double ſolemnity in the caſe, that of the viſit to a dying woman, and that of his own countenance, would give him the appearance of an undertaker; to avoid, which, he ran into as bad an extreme, and I doubted would be taken for a mountebank.

The man was confounded. He took it as ſtrongly, as if his conſcience gave aſſent to the juſtice of the remark.—Otherwiſe, he would have borne it better: For he is uſed enough to this ſort of treatment. I thought he would have cry'd. I have heretofore ob⯑ſerved, that on this ſide of the contract, he ſeems to be a mighty meek ſort of creature.—And tho' I ſhould like it in him hereafter, perhaps, yet I can't help deſpiſing him a little in my heart for it now. I believe, my dear, we all love your bluſtering fellows beſt; could we but direct the bluſter, and bid it roar when, and at whom, we pleaſed.

The poor man looked at my mamma. She was ſo angry [My airs upon it, and my oppoſition to the journey, having all helped], that for half the way ſhe would not ſpeak to me. And when ſhe did, it was, I wiſh I had not brought you!—You know not what it is to condeſcend. It is my fault, not Mr. Hick⯑man's, that you are here, ſo much againſt your will.—Have you no eyes for this ſide of the chariot?

And then he far'd the better from her, as he always [126] does, for faring worſe from me: For there was, how do you now, Sir? And how do you now, Mr. Hick⯑man? as he ambled now on this ſide of the chariot, now on that, ſtealing a prim look at me; her head half out of the chariot, kindly ſmiling as if marry'd to the man but a fortnight herſelf: While I always ſaw ſomething to divert myſelf, on the ſide of the chariot where the honeſt man was not, were it but old Robin at a diſtance, on his Roan Keffel.

Our courtſhip-days, they ſay, are our beſt days. Favour deſtroys courtſhip. Diſtance increaſes it. Its eſſence is diſtance. And to ſee how familiar theſe men-wretches grow upon a ſmile, what an awe they are ſtruck into when one frowns! Who would not make them ſtand off? Who would not enjoy a power, that is to be ſo ſhort-lived?

Don't chide me one bit for this, my dear. It is in nature. I can't help it: Nay, for that matter, I love it, and wiſh not to help it. So ſpare your gra⯑vity, I beſeech you on this ſubject. I ſet not up for a perfect character. The man will bear it. And what need you care? My mamma over-balances all he ſuf⯑fers: And if he thinks himſelf unhappy, he ought never to be otherwiſe.

Then, did he not deſerve a fit of the ſullens, think you, to make us loſe our dinner, for his parade, ſince in ſo ſhort a journey one would not bait, and loſe the opportunity of coming back that night, had the old gentlewoman's condition permitted it? To ſay no⯑thing of being the cauſe, that my mamma was in the glout with her poor daughter all the way.

At our alighting I gave him another dab; but it was but a little one. Yet the manner, and the air, made up (as I intended they ſhould) for that defect. My mamma's hand was kindly put into his, with a ſimpering altogether bridal; and with another, How do you now, Sir?—All his plump muſcles were in motion, and a double charge of care and obſequiouſ⯑neſs [127] fidgetted up his whole form, when he offer'd to me his officious palm. My mamma, when I was a girl, always bid me hold up my head. I juſt then remember'd her commands, and was dutiful: I ne⯑ver held up my head ſo high. With an averted ſu⯑percilious eye, and a rejecting hand, half-flouriſhing—I have no need of help, Sir!—You are in my way.

He ran back, as if on wheels; with a face exceſ⯑ſively mortify'd: I had thoughts elſe to have follow'd the too gentle touch, with a declaration, that I had as many hands and feet as himſelf: But this would have been telling him a piece of news, as to the latter, that I hope, he had not the preſumption to gueſs at.

WE found the poor woman, as we thought, at the laſt gaſp. Had we come ſooner, we could not have got away, as we intended, that night. You ſee I am for excuſing the man all I can; and yet, I aſſure you, I have not ſo much as a conditional liking to him. My mamma ſat up moſt part of the night, expecting every hour would have been her poor couſin's laſt. I bore her company till two.

I never ſaw the approaches of death in a grown perſon before; and was extremely ſhock'd. Death, to one in health, is a very terrible thing. We pity the perſon for what ſhe ſuffers: And we pity our⯑ſelves for what we muſt ſome time hence, in like ſort, ſuffer; and ſo are doubly affected.

She held out till Tueſday morning, eleven; and having told my mamma, that ſhe had left her an exe⯑cutrix, and her and me rings and mourning; we were employ'd all that day, in matters of the Will; [By which my couſin Jenny Fynnett is handſomely provided for]; ſo that it was Wedneſday morning early, before we ſet out on our return.

It is true, we got home (having no houſings to ſtay for) by noon: But tho' I ſent Robin away be⯑fore [128] he alitt; and he brought me back a whole packet, down to the ſame Wedneſday noon; yet was I really ſo fatigued (and ſhock'd, as I muſt own, at the hard death of the old gentlewoman); my mamma likewiſe [who has no reaſon to diſlike this world] being in⯑diſpoſed from the ſame occaſion; that I could not ſet about writing, time enough, for Robin's return that night.

But having recruited my ſpirits, my mamma hav⯑ing alſo had a good night, I aroſe with the dawn, to write this, and get it diſpatched time enough for your breakfaſt-airing; that your ſuſpenſe may be as ſhort as poſſible.

I WILL ſoon follow This with another. I will employ a perſon directly to find out how Lovelace behaves himſelf at his inn. Such a buſy ſpirit muſt be traceable.

But, perhaps, my dear, you are indifferent now about him, or his employments; for this requeſt was made before he mortally offended you. Neverthe⯑leſs, I will have inquiry made. The reſult, it is very probable, will be of uſe to confirm you in your preſent unforgiving temper.—And yet, if the poor man [Shall I pity him for you, my dear?] ſhould be depriv'd of the greateſt bleſſing any man on earth can receive, and which he has the preſumption, with ſo little merit, to aſpire to; he will have run great riſques; caught great colds; hazarded fevers; ſuſtained the higheſt indignities; brav'd the inclemencies of ſkies, and all for—nothing!—Will not this move your ge⯑neroſity (if nothing elſe) in his favour?—Poor Mr. Lovelace!—

I would occaſion no throb; nor half-throb; no flaſh of ſenſibility, like lightning darting in, and as ſoon ſuppreſs'd, by a diſcretion that no one of the Sex ever before could give ſuch an example of—I [129] would not, I ſay; and yet, for a trial of you to your⯑ſelf, rather than as an impertinent overflow of raillery in your friend, as money-takers try a ſuſpected guinea by the ſound, let me, on ſuch a ſuppoſition, ſound you, by repeating, Poor Mr. Lovelace!—

And now, my dear, how is it with you? How do you now, as my mamma ſays to Mr. Hickman, when her pert daughter has made him look ſor⯑rowful?

LETTER XXI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Will now take ſome notice of your laſt favour. But being ſo far behind-hand with you, muſt be brief.

In the firſt place, as to your reproofs, thus ſhall I diſcharge myſelf of that part of my ſubject: Is it likely, think you, that I ſhould avoid deſerving them now-and-then, occaſionally, when I admire the man⯑ner in which you give me your rebukes, and love you the better for them? And when you are ſo well in⯑titled to give them? For what faults can you poſſibly have, unleſs your relations are ſo kind as to find you a few to keep their many in countenance?—But, They are as kind to me in This, as to you; for I may venture to affirm, That any one who ſhould read your letters, and would ſay, you were right, would not, on reading mine, condemn me for be⯑ing quite wrong.

Your reſolution, not to leave your father's houſe, is right—if you can ſtay in it, and avoid being Solmes's wife.

I think you anſwer'd Solmes's letter, as I ſhould have anſwer'd it.—Will you not compliment me and yourſelf at once; by ſaying, that That was right?

[130]You have, in your letters to your uncle, and the reſt, done all that you ought to do. You are wholly guiltleſs of the conſequence, be it what it will. To offer to give up your eſtate!—That would not I have done!—You ſee, this offer ſtagger'd them: They took time to conſider of it: They made my heart ake in the time they took: I was afraid they would have taken you at your word: And ſo, but for ſhame, and for fear of Lovelace, I dare ſay, they would.—You are too noble by half for them. This, I repeat, is an offer I would not have made. Let me beg of you, my dear, never to repeat the temptation to them.

I freely own to you, that their uſage of you upon it, and Lovelace's different behaviour in his letter received at the ſame time, would have made me his, paſt re⯑demption. The duce take the man, I was going to ſay, for not having had ſo much regard to his cha⯑racter and morals, as would have intirely juſtify'd ſuch a ſtep in a Clariſſa Harlowe, perſecuted as ſhe is!

I wonder not at your appointment with him. I may further touch upon ſome part of this ſubject by-and-by.

Pray, pray, I pray you now, my deareſt friend, contrive to ſend your Betty Barnes to me!—Does the Coventry-act extend to women, know ye?—The leaſt I would do, ſhould be, to ſend her home well ſouſed in, and dragged thro', our deepeſt horſe-pond. I'll engage, if I get her hither, that ſhe ſhall keep the anniverſary of her deliverance as long as ſhe lives.

I wonder not at Lovelace's ſaucy anſwer, ſaucy as it really is. If he loves you as he ought, he muſt be vex'd at ſo great a diſappointment. The man muſt have been a deteſtable hypocrite, I think, had he not ſhewn his vexation. Your expectations of ſuch a Chriſtian command of temper in him, in a diſap⯑pointment of this nature eſpecially, are too early, by [131] almoſt half a century, in a man of his conſtitution. But, nevertheleſs, I am very far from blaming you for your reſentment.

I ſhall be all impatience to know how this matter ends between you and him. But a few inches of brick-wall between you ſo lately; and now ſuch mountains!—And you think to hold it!—May be ſo!—

You ſee the temper he ſhew'd in his preceding letter was not natural to him, you ſay. And did you before think it was? Inſolent creepers and in⯑ſinuators! Inch-allow'd, ell-taking incroachers!—This very Hickman, I make no doubt, will be as ſaucy as your Lovelace, if ever he dare. He has not half the arrogant bravery of the other, and can better hide his horns; that's all. But whenever he has the power, depend upon it, he will butt at one as valiantly as the other.

If ever I ſhould be perſuaded to have him, I ſhall watch how the imperative Husband comes upon him; how the obſequious Lover goes off; in ſhort, how he aſcends, and how I deſcend, in the matrimonial wheel, never to take my turn again, but by fits and ſtarts, like the feeble ſtruggles of a ſinking ſtate for its dying liberty.

All good-natured men are paſſionate, ſays Mr. Love⯑lace. A pretty plea to a beloved object in the pleni⯑tude of her power! As much as to ſay, Greatly as I value you, Madam, I will not take pains to curb my paſſions to oblige you.—Methinks, I ſhould be glad to hear from Mr. Hickman ſuch a plea for good-nature as this!

Indeed, we are too apt to make allowances for ſuch tempers as early indulgence has made uncon⯑troulable; and therefore habitually evil. But if a boiſtrous temper, when under obligation, is to be thus allowed for, what, when the tables are turned, will it expect? You know a husband, who, I fancy, [132] had ſome of theſe early allowances made for him: And you ſee, that neither himſelf, nor any-body elſe, is the happier for it!

The ſuiting of the tempers of two perſons who are to come together, is a great matter: And yet there ſhould be boundaries fixed between them, by conſent, as it were, beyond which neither ſhould go: And each ſhould hold the other to it; or there would pro⯑bably be incroachments in both. If the boundaries of the Three Eſtates that conſtitute our Political Union were not known, and occaſionally aſſerted, what would become of each? The two branches of the Legiſlature would incroach upon each other; and the Executive power would ſwallow up both.

If two perſons of diſcretion, you'll ſay, come to⯑ther—

Ay, my dear, that's true: But, if none but per⯑ſons of diſcretion were to marry—And would it not ſurpriſe you if I were to advance, that the perſons of diſcretion are generally ſingle?—Such perſons are apt to conſider too much, to reſolve.—Are not you and I complimented as ſuch?—And would either of us marry, if the fellows, and our friends, would let us alone?

But to the former point;—Had Lovelace made his addreſſes to me (unleſs, indeed, I had been taken with a liking for him more than conditional), I would have forbid him, upon the firſt paſſionate inſtance of his good-nature, as he calls it, ever to ſee me more: ‘'Thou muſt bear with me, honeſt friend, might I have ſaid (had I condeſcended to ſay any thing to him), an hundred times more than This:—Begone, therefore;—I bear with no paſſions that are predo⯑minant to That thou haſt pretended for me.'’

But to one of your mild and gentle temper, it would be all one, were you marry'd, whether the man be a Lovelace or a Hickman in his ſpirit.—You are ſo obediently principled, that perhaps you would [133] have told a mild man, that he muſt not intreat, but command; and that it was beneath him not to exact from you the obedience you had ſo ſolemnly vow'd to him at the altar.—I know of old, my dear, your meek regard to that little piddling part of the mar⯑riage-vow, which ſome prerogative-monger foiſted into the office, to make That a duty, which he knew was not a right.

Our way of training-up, you ſay, makes us need the protection of the brave: Very true: And how ex⯑tremely brave and gallant is it, that this brave man will free us from all inſults, but Thoſe which will go neareſt to us; that is to ſay, His own!

How artfully has Lovelace, in the abſtract you give me of one of his letters, calculated to your me⯑ridian; Generous ſpirits hate compulſion!—He is cer⯑tainly a deeper creature by much than once we thought him. He knows, as you intimate, that his own wild pranks cannot be concealed; and ſo owns juſt enough to palliate (becauſe it teaches you not to be ſurpriſed at) any new one, that may come to your ears; and then, truly, he is (however faulty) a mighty inge⯑nuous man; and by no means an hypocrite: A cha⯑racter, when found out, the moſt odious of all others, to our ſex, in the other; were it only becauſe it teaches us to doubt the juſtice of the praiſes ſuch a man gives us, when we are willing to believe them to be our due.

By means of this ſuppoſed ingenuity, Lovelace ob⯑tains a praiſe, inſtead of a merited diſpraiſe; and, like an abſolved confeſſionaire, wipes off, as he goes along, one ſcore, to begin another: For an eye favourable to him will not magnify his faults; nor will a woman, willing to hope the beſt, forbear to impute to ill-will and prejudice all t [...]at charity can make ſo imputable. And if ſhe even give credit to ſuch of the unfavour⯑able imputations, as may be too flagrant to be doubt⯑ed; ſhe will be very apt to take in the future hope, [134] which he inculcates, and which to queſtion would be to queſtion her own power, and perhaps merit: And thus may a woman be inclined to make a ſlight, or even a fancied, virtue atone for the moſt glaring vice.

I have a reaſon, a new one, for this preachment upon a text you have given me. But, till I am better inform'd, I will not explain myſelf. If it come out, as I ſhrewdly ſuſpect it will, the man, my dear, is a devil; and you muſt rather think of—I proteſt I had like to have ſaid—Solmes, than him.

But let This be as it will, ſhall I tell you, how, after all his offences, he may creep in with you again?

I will.—Thus then: It is but to claim for him⯑ſelf the good-natur'd character: And This, granted, will blot out the fault of paſſionate inſolence: And ſo he will have nothing to do, but This hour to accu⯑ſtom you to inſult; the Next, to bring you to forgive him, upon his ſubmiſſion: The conſequence will be, that he will, by this ſee-ſaw teazing, break your re⯑ſentment all to pieces: And then, a little more of the inſult, and a little leſs of the ſubmiſſion, on his part, will go down, till nothing elſe but the firſt will be ſeen, and not a bit of the ſecond: You will then be afraid to provoke ſo offenſive a ſpirit; and at laſt will be brought ſo prettily, and ſo audibly, to pronounce the little reptile word OBEY, that it will do one's heart good to hear you. The Muſcovite wife takes place of the managed miſtreſs.—And; if you doubt the progreſſion, be pleaſed, my dear, to take your mamma's judgment upon it.

But no more of This just now. Your ſtory is be⯑come too arduous to dwell upon theſe ſort of topics. And yet this is but an affected levity with me. My heart, as I have heretofore ſaid, is a ſincere ſharer in all your diſtreſſes. My ſunſhine darts but thro' a drizly cloud. My eye, were you to ſee it, when it ſeems to you ſo gladden'd, as you mention in a for⯑mer, is more than ready to overflow, even at the [135] very paſſages, perhaps, upon which you impute to me the archneſs of exultation.

But now the unheard of cruelty and perverſeneſs of ſome of your friends[Relations, I ſhould ſay; I am always blundering thus!]; the as ſtrange determined⯑neſs of others; your preſent quarrel with Lovelace; and your approaching interview with Solmes, from which you are right to apprehend a great deal; are ſuch conſiderable circumſtances in your ſtory, that it is fit they ſhould ingroſs all my attention.

You aſk me to adviſe you how to behave upon Solmes's viſit. I cannot for my life. I know they expect a great deal from it: You had not elſe had your long day comply'd with. All I will ſay is, That if Solmes cannot be prevailed for, now, that Love⯑lace has ſo much offended you, he never will. When the interview is over, I doubt not but that I ſhall have reaſon to ſay, that All you did, that All you ſaid, was right, and could not be better: Yet, if I don't think ſo, I won't ſay ſo; that I promiſe you.

Only, let me adviſe you, to pull up a ſpirit, even to your uncle, if there be occaſion. Reſent the vile and fooliſh treatment you meet with, in which he has taken ſo large a ſhare, and make him aſham'd of it, if you can.

I know not, upon recollection, but This interview may be a good thing for you, however deſign'd. For when Solmes ſees (if that is to be ſo), that it is im⯑poſſible he ſhould ſucceed with you; and your rela⯑tions ſee it too; the one muſt, I think, recede, and the other come to terms with you; upon offers, that it is my opinion, will go hard enough with you to comply with; when the ſtill harder are diſpenſed with.

There are ſeveral paſſages in your laſt letters, as well as in your former, which authorize me to ſay This. But it would be unſeaſonable to touch this ſubject further juſt now.

[136]But, upon the whole, I have no patience to ſee you thus made the ſport of your brother's and ſiſter's cruelty: For what, after ſo much ſteadineſs on your part, in ſo many trials, can be their hope?

I approve of your intention to ſend out of their reach all the letters and papers you would not have them ſee. Methinks, I would wiſh you to depoſite likewiſe a parcel of cloaths, linen, &c. before your interview with Solmes; leſt you ſhould not have an opportunity for it afterwards. Robin ſhall fetch it away on the firſt orders, by day or by night.

I am in hopes to procure from my mamma, if things come to extremity, leave for you to be pri⯑vately with us.

I will condition to be good-humour'd, and even kind, to HER favourite, if ſhe will ſhew me an in⯑dulgence, that ſhall make me ſerviceable to MINE. It has been a good while in my head. But I cannot promiſe that I ſhall ſucceed in it.

Don't abſolutely deſpair, however, my dear. Your quarrel with Lovelace may be a help to it. And the offers you made, in your anſwer to your uncle Har⯑lowe's letter of Sunday night laſt, may be another.

I depend upon your forgiveneſs of all the, perhaps unſeaſonable, flippancies of your naturally too lively, yet moſt ſincerely ſympathizing,

LETTER XXII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

THE fruits of my inquiry after your abominable wretch's behaviour and baſeneſs, at the paltry ale-houſe, which he calls an inn; prepare to hear.

Wrens and Sparrows are not too ignoble a quarry for this villainous goſhawk!—His aſſiduities; his watchings; his nightly riſques; the inclement wea⯑ther he travels in; muſt not be all placed to your account. He has opportunities of making every thing right to him of that ſort. A ſweet pretty girl, I am told:—Innocent till he went thither—Now!—Ah! poor girl!—who knows what?

But juſt turn'd of Seventeen!—His friend and bro⯑ther Rake; a man of humour and intrigue, as I am told, to ſhare the ſocial bottle with. And ſometimes another diſguiſed Rake or two. No ſorrow comes near their hearts. Be not diſturbed, my dear, at his hearſeneſſes. His pretty Betſey, his Roſe-bud, as the vile wretch calls her, can hear all he ſays.

He is very fond of her. They ſay ſhe is innocent even yet!—Her father, her grandmother, believe her to be ſo. He is to fortune her out to a young lover!—Ah! the poor young lover!—Ah! the poor ſimple girl!

Mr. Hickman tells me, that he heard in town, that he uſed to be often at Plays, and at the Opera, with women; and every time with a different one!—Ah! my ſweet friend!—But I hope he is nothing to you, [146] if all this were truth—But this intelligence will do his buſineſs, if you had been ever ſo good friends before.

A vile wretch! Cannot ſuch purity in purſuit, in view, reſtrain him? But I leave him to you!—There can be no hope of him. More of a fool, than of ſuch a one. Yet I wiſh I may be able to ſnatch the poor young creature out of his villainous paws. I have laid a ſcheme to do ſo; if indeed ſhe is hitherto in⯑nocent and heart-free.

He appears to the people as a military man, in diſguiſe, ſecreting himſelf on account of a duel fought in town; the adverſary's life in ſuſpenſe. They be⯑lieve he is a great man. His friend paſſes for an inferior officer; upon a foot of freedom with him: He, accompany'd by a third man, who is a ſort of ſubordinate companion to the ſecond. The wretch himſelf but with one ſervant. O my dear! How pleaſantly can theſe devils, as I muſt call them, paſs their time, while our gentle boſoms heave with pity for their ſuppoſed ſufferings for us!

I AM juſt now inform'd, that, at my deſire, I ſhall ſee this girl, and her father: I will ſift them thoroughly. I ſhall ſoon find out ſuch a ſimple thing as This, if he has not corrupted her already—And if he has, I ſhall ſoon find that out too.—If more Art than Na⯑ture in either her or her father, I ſhall give them both up—But, depend upon it, the girl's undone.

He is ſaid to be fond of her.—He places her at the upper end of his table—He ſets her a-pratling.—He keeps his friend at a diſtance from her.—She prates away.—He admires for nature all ſhe ſays.—Once was heard to call her charming little crea⯑ture!—An hundred has he called ſo no doubt.—Puts her upon ſinging—Praiſes her wild note.—O my dear, the girl's undone!—muſt be undone!—The [147] man, you know, is LOVELACE-Let 'em bring Wyer⯑ley to you, if they will-have you marry'd—Any-body but Solmes and Lovelace be yours!—So adviſes

My deareſt friend, conſider this ale-houſe as his gariſon. Him as an enemy. His brother-rakes as his aſſiſtants and abetters: Would not your brother, would not your uncles, tremble, if they knew how near them, as they paſs to and fro!—I am told, he is reſolv'd you ſhall not be carry'd to your uncle Antony's,—What can you do, with, or without ſuch an enterprizing—

Fill up the blank I leave.—I cannot find a word bad enough.

LETTER XXIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOU incenſe, alarm, and terrify me, at the ſame time! Haſten, my deareſt friend, haſten to me, what further intelligence you can gather about this vileſt of men!

But never talk of innocence, of ſimplicity, and this unhappy girl together! Muſt ſhe not know, that ſuch a man as That, dignify'd in his very aſpect; and no diſguiſe able to conceal his being of condition—muſt mean too much, when he places her at the upper end of his table, and calls her by ſuch tender names?—Would a girl, modeſt as ſimple, above Seventeen, be ſet a ſinging at the pleaſure of ſuch a man as That? A ſtranger? and profeſſedly in diſguiſe!—Would her father and grandmother, if honeſt people, and careful of their ſimple girl, permit ſuch freedoms?

[148] Keep his friend at diſtance from her!—To be ſure his deſigns are villainous, if they have not been already effected.

Warn, my dear, if not too late, the unthinking father, of his child's danger.—There cannot be a father in the world, who would ſell his child's vir⯑tue.—No mother!—The poor thing!

I long to hear the reſult of your intelligence. You ſhall ſee the ſimple creature, you tell me.—Let me know what ſort of a girl it is.—A ſweet pretty girl, you ſay.—A ſweet pretty girl, my dear!—They are ſweet, pretty words from your pen. But are they yours, or his, of her?—If ſhe be ſo ſimple, if ſhe have Eaſe and Nature in her manner, in her ſpeech, and warbles prettily her wild notes [How affectingly you mention this ſimple Thing, my dear!] why, ſuch a girl as That, muſt engage ſuch a profligate wretch, as now, indeed, I doubt this man is; accuſtom'd, per⯑haps, to town-women, and their confident ways!—Muſt deeply, and for a long ſeaſon, engage him! Since, perhaps, when her innocence is departed, ſhe will endeavour by art to ſupply the natural charms that engaged him.

Fine hopes of ſuch a wretch's reformation!—I would not, my dear, for the world, have any thing to ſay—But I need not make reſolutions.—I have not open'd, nor will I open, his letter.—A ſyco⯑phant creature!—With his hoarſeneſſes—got, per⯑haps, by a midnight revel, ſinging to his wild-note ſinger.—And only increaſed in the coppice!

To be already on a foot!—In his eſteem, I mean, my dear.—For myſelf, I deſpiſe him.—I hate my⯑ſelf almoſt for writing ſo much about him, and of ſuch a ſimpleton as This ſweet pretty girl: But no⯑thing can be either ſweet or pretty, that is not modeſt, that is not virtuous.

This vile Joſeph Leman had given a hint to Betty, and ſhe to me, as if Lovelace would be found out [149] to be a very bad man, at a place where he had been lately ſeen in diſguiſe. But he would ſee further, he ſaid, before he told her more; and ſhe promiſed ſe⯑crecy, in hope to get at further intelligence. I thought it could be no harm, to get you to inform yourſelf, and me, of what could be gather'd. And now I ſee, his enemies are but too well warranted in their reports of him: And, if the ruin of this poor young creature is his aim, and if he had not known her, but for his viſits to Harlowe-place, I ſhall have reaſon to be doubly concerned for her; and doubly incenſed againſt ſo vile a man. I think I hate him worſe than I do Solmes himſelf.—But I will not add one other word about him; after I have wiſhed to know, as ſoon as poſſible, what further occurs from your inquiry;—becauſe I ſhall not open his letter till then; and becauſe then, if it come out, as I dare ſay it will, I'll directly put the letter unopen'd into the place I took it from, and never trouble myſelf more about him. Adieu, my deareſt friend.

LETTER. XXV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

JUSTICE obliges me to forward This after my laſt, on the wings of the wind, as I may ſay.—I really believe the man is innocent. Of this one accuſation, I think, he muſt be acquitted; and I am ſorry I was ſo forward in diſpatching away my intelligence by halves.

I have ſeen the girl. She is really a very pretty, a very neat, and what is ſtill a greater beauty, a very innocent young creature. He who could have ruin'd ſuch an undeſigning home-bred, muſt have been in⯑deed [150] infernally wicked. Her father is an honeſt ſim⯑ple man; intirely ſatisfy'd with his child, and with her new acquaintance.

I am almoſt afraid for your heart, when I tell you, that I find, now I have got to the bottom of this in⯑quiry, ſomething noble come out in this Lovelace's favour.

The girl is to be marry'd next week; and This promoted and brought about by him. He is reſolv'd, her father ſays, to make one couple happy, and wiſhes he could make more ſo. [There's for you, my dear!] And having taken a liking alſo to the young fellow whom ſhe profeſſes to love, he has given her an hundred pounds: The grandmother actually has it in her hands, to anſwer to the like ſum, given to the youth by one of his own relations: While Mr. Lovelace's companion, attracted by the example, has preſented twenty-five guineas to the father, who is poor, towards cloaths to equip the pretty Ruſtic.

They were deſirous, the poor man ſays, when they firſt came, of appearing beneath themſelves; but now he knows the one (but mention'd it in confidence) to be Colonel Barrow, the other Capt. Sloane. The Colonel he owns, was at firſt, very ſweet upon his girl: But upon her grandmother's begging of him to ſpare her innocence, he vow'd, that he never would offer any thing but good counſel to her; and had kept to his word: And the pretty fool acknowleged, that ſhe never could have been better inſtructed by the mi⯑niſter himſelf from the Bible-Book!—The girl, I own, pleaſed me ſo well, that I made her viſit to me worth her while.

But what, my dear, will become of us now?—Lovelace not only reform'd, but turn'd preacher!—What will become of us now?—Why, my ſweet friend, your generoſity is now engaged in his fa⯑vour!—Fie, upon this Generoſity!—I think in my heart, that it does as much miſchief to the noble-minded, [151] as Love to the ignobler.—What before was only a conditional liking, I am now afraid will turn to liking unconditional.

I could not endure to turn my invective into pa⯑negyric all at once, and ſo ſoon. We, or ſuch as I, at leaſt, love to keep ourſelves in countenance for a raſh judgment, even when we know it to be raſh. Every-body has not your generoſity in confeſſing a miſtake. It requires a greatneſs of ſoul to do it. So I made ſtill farther inquiry after his life and manners, and behaviour there, in hopes to find ſomething bad: But all uniform!

Upon the Whole, Mr. Lovelace comes out with ſo much advantage from this inquiry, that were there the leaſt room for it, I ſhould ſuſpect the whole to be a plot ſet on foot to waſh a blackmoor white. Adieu, my dear.

LETTER XXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXVII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Ought yeſterday to have acknowleged the receipt of your parcel: Robin tells me, that the Joſeph Leman whom you mention as the traitor, ſaw him. He was in the poultry-yard, and ſpoke to Robin over the bank which divides that from the Green-Lane. What brings you hither, Mr. Robert?—But I can tell. Hie away, as faſt as you can.

No doubt but their dependence upon this fellow's vigilance, and upon Betty's, leaves you more at li⯑berty in your airings, than you would otherwiſe be: But you are the only perſon I ever heard of, who, in ſuch circumſtances, had not ſome faithful ſervant, to [159] truſt little offices to. A poet, my dear, would not have gone to work for an Angelica, without giving her her Violetta, her Cleanthe, her Clelia, or ſome ſuch pretty-nam'd confidante.—An old nurſe at the least.

I read to my mamma ſeveral paſſages of your let⯑ters. But your laſt paragraph, in your yeſterday's, charm'd her quite. You have won her heart by it, ſhe told me. And while her fit of gratitude for it laſted, I was thinking to open my propoſal, and to preſs it with all the earneſtneſs I could give it, when Hickman came in, making his legs, and ſtroking his cravat and ruffles in turn.

I could moſt freely have ruffled him for it.—As it was—Sir—ſaw you not ſome one of the ſervants?—Could not one of them have come in before you?

He begg'd pardon: Looked as if he knew not whe⯑ther he had beſt keep his ground, or withdraw:—Till my mamma. Why, Nancy, we are not upon par⯑ticulars.—Pray, Mr. Hickman, ſit down.

By your le—ave, good madam, to me.—You know his drawl, when his muſcles give him the re⯑ſpectful heſitation—

Ay, ay, pray ſit down, honeſt man, if you are weary!—But by my mamma, if you pleaſe. I deſire my hoop may have its full circumference. All they're good for, that I know, is to clean dirty ſhoes, and to keep ill-manner'd fellows at a diſtance.

Strange girl! cry'd my mamma, diſpleaſed; but with a milder turn, Ay, ay, Mr. Hickman, ſit down by me. I have no ſuch forbidding folly in my dreſs.—I looked ſerious; and in my heart was glad this ſpeech of hers was not made to your uncle Antony.

My mamma, with the true widow's freedom, would mighty prudently have led into our ſubject, and have had him ſee, I queſtion not, that very paragraph in your letter, which is ſo much in his favour. He was highly [160] obliged to dear Miſs Harlowe, ſhe would aſſure him; that ſhe did ſay—

But I aſked him, If he had any news by his laſt letters from London: A queſtion he always under⯑ſtands to be a ſubject-changer; for otherwiſe I never put it. And ſo if he be but ſilent, I am not angry with him, that he anſwers it not.

I chooſe not to mention my propoſal before him, till I know how it will be reliſh'd by my mamma. If it be not well received, perhaps I may employ him on the occaſion. Yet I don't like to owe him an obligation, if I could help it. For men who have his views in their heads, do ſo parade it, ſo ſstrut about, if a woman condeſcend to employ them in her affairs, that one has no patience with them. But if I find not an opportunity this day, I will make one to-morrow.

I ſhall not open either of your ſealed-up parcels, but in your preſence. There is no need. Your con⯑duct is out of all queſtion with me: And by the ex⯑tracts you have given me from his letters and your own, I know all that relates to the preſent ſituation of things between you.

I was going to give you a little flippant hint or two. But ſince you wiſh to be thought ſuperior to all our ſex, in the command of yourſelf; and ſince indeed you deſerve to be ſo thought; I will ſpare you.—You are, however, at times, more than half inclin'd to ſpeak out. That you do not, is only owing to a little baſhful ſtruggle between you and yourſelf, as I may ſay. When that is quite got over, I know you will favour me undiſ⯑guiſedly with the reſult.

I cannot forgive your taking upon you (at ſo extra⯑vagant a rate too) to pay my mamma's ſervant. In⯑deed I am, and I will be, angry with you for it. A year's wages at once well nigh (only as, unknown to my mamma, I make it better for the ſervants, accord⯑ing [161] to their merits)!—How it made the man ſtare!—And it may be his ruin too, as far as I know. If he ſhould buy a ring, and marry a ſorry body in the neighbourhood with the money, one would be loth, a twelvemonth hence, that the poor old fellow ſhould think he had reaſon to wiſh the bounty never conferr'd!

I MUST give you your way in theſe things, you ſay.—And I know there is no contradicting you: For you were ever putting too great a value upon little offices done for you, and too little upon the great ones you do for others. The ſatisfaction you have in doing ſo, I grant it, repays you. But why ſhould you, by the nobleneſs of your mind, throw reproaches upon the reſt of the world?—Particularly, upon your own family, and upon ours too?

If, as I have heard you ſay, it is a good rule to give WORDS the hearing, but to form our judgments of men and things by DEEDS ONLY; what ſhall we think of one, who ſeeks to find palliatives in words, for nar⯑rowneſs of heart in the very perſons her deeds ſo ſilently, yet ſo forcibly, reflect upon? Why bluſh you not, my dear friend, to be thus ſingular?—When you meet with another perſon, whoſe mind is like your own, then diſplay your excellencies as you pleaſe: But till then, for pity's ſake, let your heart and your ſpirit ſuffer a little contraction.

I intended to write but a few lines; chiefly to let you know, your parcels are come ſafe. And accordingly I began in a large hand; and I am al⯑ready come to the end of my ſecond ſheet. But I could write a quire without heſitation, upon a ſubject ſo copious, and ſo beloved, as is your praiſe.—Not for this ſingle inſtance of your generoſity; ſince I am really angry with you for it; but for the benevo⯑lence exemplified in the whole tenor of your life and actions; of which This is but a common inſtance. God direct you, in your own arduous trials, is all [162] I have room to add; and make you as happy, as you think to be

LETTER XXVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Have many new particulars to acquaint you with, that ſhew a great change in my friends behaviour to me. I did not think we had ſo much art among us, as I find we have. I will give them to you as they offer'd.

All the family was at church in the morning. They brought good Dr. Lewin with them, in purſuance of a previous invitation. And the doctor ſent up to deſire my permiſſion to attend me in my own apartment.

You may believe it was eaſily granted.

So the doctor came up.

We had a converſation of near an hour before din⯑ner: But, to my ſurprize, he waved every thing that would have led to the ſubject I ſuppoſed he wanted to talk about. At laſt, I aſked him, If it were not thought ſtrange I ſhould be ſo long abſent from church? He made me ſome handſome compliments upon it: But ſaid, For his part, he had ever made it a rule, to avoid interfering in the private concerns of families, unleſs deſired to do ſo.

I was prodigiouſly diſappointed: But ſuppoſing that he was thought too juſt a man to be made a judge of in this cauſe; I led no more to it: Nor, when he was called to dinner, did he take the leaſt notice of leaving me behind him there.

But this was the firſt time, ſince my confinement, that I thought it a hardſhip not to dine below. And when I parted with him on the ſtairs, a tear would burſt [163] its way; and he hurried down; his own good-natured eyes gliſtening; for he ſaw it.—Nor truſted he his voice, leſt the accent, I ſuppoſe, ſhould have diſco⯑ver'd his concern; departing in ſilence; tho' with his uſual graceful obligingneſs.

I hear, that he praiſed me, and my part in the converſation we had held together.—To ſhew them, I ſuppoſe, that it was not upon the intereſting ſub⯑jects which I make no doubt he was deſired not to enter upon.

He left me ſo diſſatisfy'd, yet ſo perplexed with this new way of treatment, that I never found my⯑ſelf ſo puzzled, and ſo much out of my train.

But I was to be more ſo. This was to be a day of puzzle to me. Pregnant puzzle, if I may ſo ſay:—For there muſt great meaning lie behind it.

In the afternoon, all but my brother and ſiſter went to church with the good doctor; who left his com⯑pliments for me. I took a walk in the garden: My brother and ſiſter walked in it too, and kept me in their eye a good while, on purpoſe, as I thought, that I might ſee how gay and good-humour'd they were together. At laſt they came down the walk that I was coming up, hand-in-hand, lover-like.

Your ſervant, Miſs—Your ſervant, Sir—paſſed between my brother and me.

Is it not cold-iſh, ſiſter Clary? in a kinder voice than uſual, ſaid my ſiſter, and ſtopp'd.—I ſtopp'd, and courteſy'd low to her half-courteſy.—I think not, ſiſter, ſaid I.

She went on. I courteſy'd without return; and proceeded; turning to my poultry-yard.

By a ſhorter turn, arm-in-arm, they were there before me.

I think, Clary, ſaid my brother, you muſt preſent me with ſome of this breed, for Scotland.

If you pleaſe, brother.

I'll chooſe for you, ſaid my ſiſter.

[164]And while I fed them, they picked out half a dozen: Yet intending nothing by it, I believe, but to ſhew a deal of love and good-humour to each other, before me.

My uncles next (after church was done, to ſpeak in the common phraſe) were to do me the honour of their notice. They bid Betty tell me, they would drink tea with me in my own apartment. Now, thought I, ſhall I have the ſubject of next Tueſday in⯑forced upon me.

But they contradicted the tea-orders, and only my uncle Harlowe came up to me.

Half-diſtant, half-affectionate, was the air he put on to his daughter-niece, as he uſed to call me; and I threw myſelf at his feet, and beſought his favour.

None of theſe diſcompoſures, child! None of theſe apprehenſions! You'll now have every-body's favour! All is coming about, my dear!—I was impatient to ſee you!—I could no longer deny myſelf this ſatis⯑faction. And raiſed me, and kiſſed me, and called me, Charming creature!

But he waved entering into any intereſting ſubject. All will be well now! All will be right!—No more complainings! Every-body loves you!—I only came to make my earlieſt court to you, were his conde⯑ſcending words, and to ſit and talk of twenty and twenty fond things, as I uſed to do.—And let every paſt diſagreeable thing be forgotten; as if nothing had happen'd.

He underſtood me as beginning to hint at the diſ⯑grace of my confinement.—No diſgrace, my dear, can fall to your lot: Your reputation is too well eſta⯑bliſhed.—I long'd to ſee you, repeated he.—I have ſeen no-body half ſo amiable, ſince I ſaw you laſt.

And again he kiſſed my cheek, my glowing cheek, for I was impatient, I was vexed, to be thus, as I thought, play'd upon: And how could I be grateful for a viſit, that, it now was evident, was only a too [165] humble artifice, to draw me in againſt the next Tueſ⯑day, or to leave me inexcuſable to them all!

O my cunning brother!—This is his contrivance! And then my anger made me recollect the triumph in his and my ſiſter's loves to each other, acted before me; and the mingled indignation flaſhing from their eyes, as, arm in arm, they ſpoke to me, and the forced condeſcenſion playing upon their lips, when they called me Clary, and Siſter.

Do you think I could, with theſe reflections, look upon my uncle Harlowe's viſit as the favour he ſeem'd deſirous I ſhould think it to be?—Indeed I could not; and ſeeing him ſo ſtudiouſly avoid all recrimination, as I may call it, I gave into the affectation; and fol⯑lowed him in his talk of indifferent things:—While he ſeemed to admire This thing and That, as if he had never ſeen them before; and now and then, condeſcend⯑ingly kiſſed the hand that wrought ſome of the things he fixed his eyes upon; not ſo much to admire them, as to find ſubjects to divert what was moſt in his head, and in my own heart.

At his going away—How can I leave you here by yourſelf, my dear?—You, whoſe company uſed to enliven us all.—You are not expected down indeed! But I proteſt, I had a good mind to ſurpriſe your papa and mamma!—If I thought nothing would ariſe, that would be diſagreeable—My dear, my love! [O the dear artful gentleman! how could my uncle Harlowe ſo diſſemble?] What ſay you?—Will you give me your hand?—Will you ſee your father?—Can you ſtand his firſt diſpleaſure, on ſeeing the dear creature who has given him and all of us ſo much diſ⯑turbance?—Can you promiſe future—

He ſaw me riſing in my temper—Nay, my dear, if you cannot be all reſignation, I would not have you think of it!

My heart, ſtruggling between duty and warmth of temper, was full. You know, my dear, I never could [166] bear to be dealt meanly with!—How,—how can you, Sir!—You, my papa-uncle!—How can you, Sir!—The poor girl!—For I could not ſpeak with connexion.

Nay, my dear, if you cannot be all duty, all re⯑ſignation—better ſtay where you are.—But after the inſtance you have given—

Inſtance, I have given!—What inſtance, Sir?

Well, well, child, better ſtay where you are, if your paſt confinement hangs ſo heavy upon you—But now there will be a ſudden end to it.—Adieu, my dear!—Three words only—Let your compliance be ſincere!—And love me, as you uſed to love me—Your grandfather did not do ſo much for you, as I will do for you.

Without ſuffering me to reply, he hurry'd away, I thought, as if he had an eſcape, and was glad his part was over.

Don't you ſee, my dear, how they are all deter⯑min'd?—Have I not reaſon to dread next Tueſday?

Up preſently after came my ſiſter:—To obſerve, I ſuppoſe, the way I was in—She found me in tears.

Have you not a Thomas à Kempis, ſiſter? with a ſtiff air.

I have, Madam.

Madam! How long are we to be at this diſtance, Clary?

No longer, if you allow me to call you, ſiſter, my dear Bella! And I took her hand.

No fawning neither, girl!

I withdrew my hand as haſtily, as I ſhould do, if, reaching at a parcel from under the wood, I had been bit by a ſcorpion.

I beg pardon.—Too, too ready to make advances, I am always ſubjecting myſelf to contempts!

People who know not how to keep a middle be⯑haviour, ſaid ſhe, muſt ever-more do ſo.

[167]I will fetch you the Kempis—I did—Here it is.—You will find excellent things, Bella, in that little book.

I wiſh, retorted ſhe, you had profited by them.

I wiſh you may, ſaid I. Example from a ſiſter older than one's ſelf is a fine thing.

Older! Saucy little fool!—And away ſhe flung.

What a captious old woman will my ſiſter make, if ſhe lives to be one!—Demanding the reverence; yet not aiming at the merit; and aſham'd of the years, that only can intitle her to the reverence.

It is plain from what I have related, that they think they have got me at ſome advantage, by obtaining my conſent to this interview: But if it were not, Betty's impertinence juſt now would make it more evident. She has been complimenting me upon it; and upon the viſit of my uncle Harlowe. She ſays, the difficulty now is more than half over with me. She is ſure I would not ſee Mr. Solmes, but to have him. Now ſhall ſhe be ſoon better imploy'd than of late ſhe has been. All hands will be at work. She loves dearly to have weddings go forward!—Who knows whoſe turn will be next?

I found in the afternoon a reply to my anſwer to Mr. Lovelace's letter: It is full of promiſes, full of gratitude, of eternal gratitude, is his word, among others ſtill more hyperbolic. Yet Mr. Lovelace, the leaſt of any man whoſe letters I have ſeen, runs into thoſe elevated abſurdities. I ſhould be apt to deſpiſe him for it, if he did. Such language looks always to me, as if the flatterer thought to find a woman a fool, or hop'd to make her one.

‘'He regrets my indifference to him; which puts all the hope he has in my ſavour, upon my friends ſhocking uſage of me.’

‘'As to my charge upon him of unpoliteneſs and uncontroulableneſs—What (he aſks) can he ſay? ſince being unable abſolutely to vindicate himſelf, [168] he has too much ingenuity to attempt to do so: Yet is ſtruck dumb by my harſh conſtruction, that his acknowleging temper is owing more to his care⯑leſneſs to defend himſelf, than to his inclination to amend. He had never before met with the ob⯑jections againſt his morals which I had raiſed, juſtly raiſed. And he was reſolved to obviate them. What is it, he aſks, that he had promiſed, but re⯑formation by my example? And what occaſion for the promiſe, if he had not faults, and thoſe very great ones, to reform of? He hopes, acknowlege⯑ment of an error is no bad ſign; altho' my ſevere virtue has interpreted it into one.’

‘'He believes I may be right (ſeverely right, he calls it) in my judgment againſt making repriſals in the caſe of the intelligence he receives from my fa⯑mily: He cannot charge himſelf to be of a temper that leads him to be inquiſitive into any-body's pri⯑vate affairs; but hopes, that the circumſtances of the caſe, and the ſtrange conduct of my friends, will excuſe him; eſpecially, when ſo much depends upon his knowing the movements of a family ſo violently bent, by meaſures right or wrong, to carry their point againſt me, in malice to him. People he ſays, who act like Angels, ought to have Angels to deal with. For his part, he has not yet learn'd the difficult leſſon of returning good for evil: And ſhall think himſelf the leſs encourag'd to learn it, by the treatment I have met with, from the very ſpirits, which, were he to lay himſelf under their feet, would trample upon him, as they do upon me.’

‘'He excuſes himſelf for the liberties he owns he has heretofore taken in ridiculing the marriage-ſtate. It is a ſubject, he ſays, that he has not of late treated ſo lightly. He owns it to be ſo trite, ſo beaten, a topic with all libertines and witlings; ſo frothy, ſo empty, ſo nothing-meaning, ſo worn-out a theme, that he is heartily aſhamed of himſelf, ever to have [169] made it his. He condemns it as a ſtupid reflection upon the laws and good order of ſociety, and upon a man's own anceſtors: And in himſelf, who has ſome reaſon to value himſelf upon his deſcent and alliances, more cenſurable, than in thoſe who have not the ſame advantage to boaſt of. He promiſes to be more circumſpect than ever, both in his words and actions, that he may be more and more wor⯑thy of my approbation; and that he may give an aſſurance before-hand, that a foundation is laid in his mind, for my example to work upon, with equal reputation and effect to us both;—if he may be ſo happy as to call me his.’

‘'He gives me up, as abſolutely loſt, if I go to my uncle Antony's: The cloſe confinement; The Moated-houſe; The Chapel; the implacableneſs of my brother and ſiſter, and their power over the reſt of my family, he ſets forth in ſtrong lights, and plainly hints, that he muſt have a ſtruggle to pre⯑vent my being carry'd thither.'’

Your kind, your generous intereſting of yourſelf in your mamma's favour for me, I hope, will prevent thoſe harſher extremities which I might otherwiſe be driven to. And to you I will fly, if permitted, and keep all my promiſes, of not correſponding with any-body, not ſeeing any-body, but by your mamma's direction and yours.—I will cloſe, and depoſite at This place. It is not neceſſary to ſay, How much I am

LETTER XXIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Am glad my papers are ſafe in your hands. I will make it my endeavour to deſerve your good opi⯑nion, that I may not at once diſgrace your judgment, and my own heart.

I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace. He is extremely apprehenſive of the meeting I am to have with Mr. Solmes to-morrow. He ſays, ‘'That the airs that wretch gives himſelf on the occaſion, add to his concern; and it is with infinite difficulty that he prevails upon himſelf, not to make him a viſit, to let him know what he may expect, if compulſion be uſed towards me in his favour. He aſſures me, That Solmes has actually talked with tradeſmen of new equipages, and names the people in town, with whom he has treated: That he has even (Was there ever ſuch a horrid wretch!) allotted This and That apartment in his houſe, for a nurſery, and other offices.'’

How ſhall I bear to hear ſuch a creature talk of love to me? I ſhall be out of all patience with him!—Beſides, I thought that he did not dare to make or talk of theſe impudent preparations—So inconſiſtent as ſuch are with my brother's views—But I fly the ſhocking ſubject.

Upon this confidence of Solmes, you will leſs won⯑der at That of Lovelace, ‘'in preſſing me, in the name of all his family, to eſcape from ſo determined a violence, as is intended to be offer'd to me at my uncle's: That the forward contriver ſhould propoſe his uncle's chariot-and-ſix to be at the ſtile that leads up to the lonely coppice, adjoining to our paddock. You will ſee how audaciouſly he men⯑tions [171] ſettlements ready drawn; horſemen ready to mount; and one of his couſins Montague to be in the chariot, or at the George in the neighbouring village, waiting to accompany me to Lord M's, or to either of his aunts, or to town, as I pleaſe; and upon ſuch orders, or conditions, and under ſuch re⯑ſtrictions, as to himſelf, as I ſhall preſcribe.'’

You will ſee how he threatens ‘'To watch and way-lay them, and reſcue me, as he calls it, by an armed force of friends and ſervants, if they attempt to carry me againſt my will to my uncle's; and this, whether I give my conſent to the enterpriſe, or not:—Since he ſhall have no hopes if I am once there.'’

O my dear friend! Who can think of theſe things, and not be extremely miſerable in her apprehenſions!

This miſchievous ſex! What had I to do with any of them; or they with me!—I had deſerv'd This, were it by my own ſeeking, by my own giddineſs, that I had brought myſelf into this ſituation—I wiſh, with all my heart—But how fooliſhly we are apt to wiſh, when we find ourſelves unhappy, and know not how to help ourſelves.

On your mamma's goodneſs, however, is my re⯑liance. If I can but avoid being precipitated on ei⯑ther hand, till my couſin Morden arrives, a recon⯑ciliation muſt follow; and all will be happy!

I have depoſited a letter for Mr. Lovelace; in which ‘'I charge him to avoid any raſh ſtep, any viſit to Mr. Solmes, which may be followed by acts of violence, as he would not diſoblige me for ever.’

I re-aſſure him, ‘'That I will ſooner die than be 'that man's wife.’

‘'Whatever be my uſage, whatever the reſult of this interview, I inſiſt upon his not preſuming to offer violence to any of my friends: And expreſs myſelf highly diſpleaſed, that he ſhould preſume up⯑on ſuch an intereſt in my favour, as to think him⯑ſelf intitled to diſpute my father's authority in my [172] removal to my uncle's; altho' I tell him, that I will omit neither prayers nor contrivance, even to the making of myſelf ill, to avoid going.'’

To-morrow is Tueſday!—How ſoon comes up⯑on us the day we dread!—O that a deep ſleep of twenty-four hours would ſeize my faculties—But then the next day would be Tueſday, as to all the effects and purpoſes, for which I ſo much dread it. If this reach you before the event of this ſo much ap⯑prehended interview can be known, pray for

LETTER XXX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXXI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXXII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Muſt write as I have opportunity; making uſe of my concealed ſtores: For my pens and ink (all of each, that they could find) are taken from me; as I ſhall tell you more particularly by-and-by.

About an hour ago, I depoſited my long letter to you; as alſo, in the uſual place, a billet to Mr. Lovelace, leſt his impatience ſhould put him upon ſome raſhneſs; ſignifying, in four lines, ‘'That the interview was over; and that I hoped my ſteady re⯑fuſal of Mr. Solmes would diſcourage any further applications to me in his favour.'’

Altho' I was unable, through the fatigue I had un⯑degone, and by reaſon of ſitting up all night to write to you, (which made me lie longer than ordinary this morning) to depoſit my letter to you ſooner; yet I hope you will have it in ſuch good time, as that you will be able to ſend me an anſwer to it this night, or in the morning early; which, if ever ſo ſhort, will in⯑form me, whether I may depend upon your mamma's indulgence, or not. This it behoves me to know as ſoon as poſſible; for they are reſolved to hurry me away on Saturday next, at fartheſt; perhaps to-mor⯑row.

I will now inform you of all that happen'd previous [214] to their taking away my pen and ink, as well as of the manner in which that act of violence, as I may call it, was committed; and this as briefly as I can.

My aunt, (who with Mr. Solmes, and my two uncles) lives here, I think, came up to me, and ſaid, ſhe would fain have me hear what Mr. Solmes had to ſay of Mr. Lovelace—Only that I might be appriſed of ſome things, that would convince me what a vile man he is, and what a wretched huſband he muſt make.—I might give them what degree of credit I pleaſed; and take them with abatement for Mr. Solmes's intereſtedneſs, if I thought fit.—But it might be of uſe to me, were it but to queſtion Mr. Love⯑lace indirectly upon ſome of them, that related to myſelf.

I was indifferent, I ſaid, about what he could ſay of me, as I was ſure it could not be to my diſad⯑vantage; and as he had no reaſon to impute to me the forwardneſs which my unkind friends had ſo cauſe⯑leſly taxed me with.

She ſaid, That he gave himſelf high airs on ac⯑count of his family; and ſpoke as deſpicably of ours, as if an alliance with us were beneath him.

I reply'd, That he was a very unworthy man, if it were true, to ſpeak ſlightingly of a family, which was as good as his own, 'bating that it was not allied to the peerage: That the dignity itſelf, I thought, convey'd more ſhame than honour to deſcendents, who had not merit to adorn, as well as to be adorned by it: That my brother's abſurd pride, indeed, which made him every-where declare, he would never marry but to quality, gave a diſgraceful preference againſt ours: But that were I to be aſſured, that Mr. Love⯑lace were capable of ſo mean a pride, as to inſult us, or value himſelf, on ſuch an accidental advantage, I ſhould think as deſpicably of his ſenſe, as every-body elſe did of his morals.

She inſiſted upon it, that he had taken ſuch liber⯑ties; [215] and offer'd to give ſome inſtances, which, ſhe ſaid, would ſurpriſe me.

I anſwer'd, That were it ever ſo certain, that Mr. Lovelace had taken ſuch liberties, it would be but common juſtice, (ſo much hated as he was by all our family, and ſo much inveighed againſt in all compa⯑nies by them) to inquire into the provocation he had to ſay what was imputed to him; and whether the value ſome of my friends put upon the riches they poſſeſs, (throwing perhaps contempt upon every other advantage, and even diſcrediting their own pretenſions to family, in order to depreciate his) might not pro⯑voke him to like contempts. Upon the whole, Ma⯑dam, ſaid I, can you ſay, that the inveteracy lies not as much on our ſide, as on his? Can he ſay any-thing of us more diſreſpectful, than we ſay of him?—And as to the ſuggeſtion, ſo often repeated, that he would make a bad huſband, is it poſſible for him to uſe a wife worſe than I am uſed; particularly by my brother and ſiſter?

Ah, niece! ah, my dear! how firmly has this wicked man attached you!

Perhaps not, Madam. But really great care ſhould be taken by fathers and mothers, when they would have their daughters of their minds in theſe particu⯑lars, not to ſay things that ſhall neceſſitate the child, in honour and generoſity, to take part with the man her friends are averſe to. But, waving all this, as I have offered to renounce him for ever, I ſee not why he ſhould be mentioned to me, nor why I ſhould be wiſhed to hear any-thing about him.

Well, but ſtill, my dear, there can be no harm to let Mr. Solmes tell you what Mr. Lovelace has ſaid of you. Severely as you have treated Mr. Solmes, he is fond of attending you once more: He begs to be heard on this head.

If it be proper for me to hear it, Madam—

It is, eagerly interrupted ſhe, very proper.

[216]Has what he has ſaid of me, Madam, convinced you of Mr. Lovelace's baſeneſs?

It has, my dear: And that you ought to abhor him for it.

Then, dear Madam, be pleaſed to let me hear it from your mouth: There is no need that I ſhould ſee Mr. Solmes, when it will have double the weight from you. What, Madam, has the man dared to ſay of me?

My aunt was quite at a loſs.

At laſt, Well, ſaid ſhe, I ſee how you are attached I am ſorry for it, Miſs. For I do aſſure you, it will ſignify nothing. You muſt be Mrs. Solmes; and that in a very few days.

If conſent of heart, and aſſent of voice, be neceſ⯑ſary to a marriage, I am ſure I never can, nor ever will be married to Mr. Solmes. And what will any of my relations be anſwerable for, if they force my hand into his, and hold it there till the Service be read; I perhaps inſenſible, and in fits, all the time?

What a romantic picture of a forced marriage have you drawn, niece! Some people would ſay, you have given a fine deſcription of your own obſtinacy, child.

My brother and ſiſter would: But you, Madam diſtinguiſh, I am ſure, between obſtinacy and averſion.

Suppoſed averſion may owe its riſe to real obſtinacy my dear.

I know my own heart, Madam. I wiſh you did.

Well, but ſee Mr. Solmes, once more, niece. It wil [...] oblige, and make for you, more than you imagine.

What ſhould I ſee him for, Madam?—Is the man fond of hearing me declare my averſion to him?—Is he deſirous of having me more and more incenſe my friends againſt myſelf?—O my cunning, my ambition brother!

Ah, my dear!—with a look of pity, as if ſhe under⯑ſtood the meaning of my exclamation:—But muſ [...] That neceſſarily be the caſe?

[217]It muſt, Madam, if they will take offence at me for declaring my ſtedfaſt deteſtation of Mr. Solmes, as a huſband.

Mr. Solmes is to be pitied, ſaid ſhe. He adores you. He longs to ſee you once more. He loves you the better for your cruel uſage of him yeſterday. He is in raptures about you.

Ugly creature, thought I! He in raptures!—

What a cruel wretch muſt He be, ſaid I, who can enjoy the diſtreſs he ſo largely contributes to!—But I ſee, I ſee, Madam, that I am conſider'd as an animal to be baited, to make ſport for my brother, and ſiſter, and Mr. Solmes. They are all, all of them, wanton in their cruelty.—I, Madam, ſee the man!—the man ſo incapable of pity!—Indeed I won't ſee him, if I can help it.—Indeed I won't.

What a conſtruction does your lively wit put upon the admiration Mr. Solmes expreſſes of you!—Paſ⯑ſionate as you were yeſterday, and contemptuouſly as you treated him, he dotes upon you for the very ſe⯑verity he ſuffers by. He is not ſo ungenerous a man as you think him: Nor has he an unfeeling heart.—Let me prevail upon you, my dear (as your father and mother expect it of you), to ſee him once more, and hear what he has to ſay to you.—

How can I conſent to ſee him again, when yeſter⯑day's interview was interpreted by you, Madam, as well as by every other, as an encouragement to him? When I myſelf declared, that if I ſaw him a ſecond time by my own conſent, it might be ſo taken? And when I am determined never to encourage him?

You might ſpare your reflections upon me, Miſs. I have no thanks either from one ſide, or the other.

And away ſhe flung.

Deareſt Madam! ſaid I, following her to the door—

But ſhe would not hear me further; and her ſud⯑den breaking from me occaſioned a hurry to ſome [218] mean liſtener; as the ſlipping of a foot from the land⯑ing-place on the ſtairs diſcovered to me.

I had ſcarcely recovered myſelf from this attack, when up came Betty, with a, Miſs, your company is deſired below-ſtairs in your own parlour.

By whom, Betty?

How can I tell, Miſs?—Perhaps by your ſiſter; perhaps by your brother—I know they won't come up-ſtairs to your apartment again.

Is Mr. Solmes gone, Betty?

I believe he is, Miſs:—Would you have him ſent for back, ſaid the bold creature?

Down I went: And who ſhould I be ſent for down to, but my brother and Mr. Solmes? The lat⯑ter ſtanding ſneaking behind the door, that I ſaw him not, till I was mockingly led by the hand into the room by my brother. And then I ſtarted as if I had beheld a ghoſt.

You are to ſit down, Clary.

And what then, brother?

Why, then, you are to put off that ſcornful look, and hear what Mr. Solmes has to ſay to you.

Sent for down to be baited again, thought I!

Madam, ſaid Mr. Solmes, as if in haſte to ſpeak, leſt he ſhould not have opportunity given him; and he judged right; Mr. Lovelace is a declared marriage-hater, and has a deſign upon your honour, if ever—

Baſe accuſer! ſaid I, in a paſſion, ſnatching my hand from my brother, who was inſolently motion⯑ing to give it to Mr. Solmes; he has not!—he dares not! But you have! if endeavouring to force a free mind, is to diſhonour it!

O thou violent creature! ſaid my brother—But not gone yet—for I was ruſhing away.

What mean you, Sir (ſtruggling vehemently to get away), to detain me thus againſt my will?

You ſhall not go, violence, claſping his unbro⯑therly arms about me.

[219]Then let not Mr. Solmes ſtay.—Why hold you me thus? He ſhall not, for your own ſake, if I can help it, ſee how barbarouſly a brother can treat a ſiſter, who deſerves not evil treatment.

And I ſtruggled ſo vehemently to get from him, that he was forced to quit my hand; which he did with theſe words—Begone, then, Fury!—How ſtrong is will!—There is no holding her.

And up I flew to my chamber again, and locked myſelf in, trembling, and out of breath.

In leſs than a quarter of an hour, up came Betty. I let her in, upon her tapping, and aſking (half out of breath too) for admittance.

The Lord have mercy upon us! ſaid ſhe.—What a confuſion of a houſe is This!—Hurrying up and down, fanning herſelf with her handkerchief—Such angry maſters and miſtreſſes! Such an obſtinate young lady!—Such an humble lover!—Such enraged un⯑cles!—Such—O dear! dear! What a topſy-turvy houſe is This?—And all for what, trow?—Only be⯑cauſe a young Lady may be happy, and will not?—Only becauſe a young Lady will have a huſband, and will not have a huſband?—What hurly-burlies are here, where all uſed to be peace and quietneſs?

Thus ſhe ran on, talking to herſelf; while I ſat as patiently as I could (being aſſured that her errand was not deſigned to be a welcome one to me), to obſerve when her ſoliloquy would end.

At laſt, turning to me—I muſt do as I am bid: I can't help it—Don't be angry with me, Miſs. But I muſt carry down your pen and ink: And that, this moment.

By whoſe order?

By your papa's and mamma's.

How ſhall I know that?

She offered to go to my cloſet: I ſtept in before her: Touch it, if you dare.

[220]Up came my couſin Dolly—Madam!—Madam! ſaid the poor weeping good-natured creature, in broken ſentences—You muſt—indeed you muſt—deliver to Betty—or to me—your pen and ink.

Muſt I, my ſweet couſin? Then I will to you; but not to this bold body. And ſo I gave my ſtandiſh to her.

I am ſorry, very ſorry, ſaid Miſs, to be the meſ⯑ſenger: But your papa will not have you in the ſame houſe with him: He is reſolved you ſhall be carried away to-morrow, or Saturday at fartheſt. And there⯑fore your pen and ink is taken away, that you may give no-body notice of it.

And away went the dear girl very ſorrowfully, carrying down with her my ſtandiſh, and all its fur⯑niture, and a little parcel of pens beſide, which hav⯑ing been ſeen when the great ſearch was made, ſhe was bid to aſk for: As it happened, I had not di⯑miniſhed it, having half a dozen Crow-quills, which I had hid in as many different places. It was lucky; for I doubt not they had told how many were in the parcel.

Betty run on, telling me, that my mamma was now as much incenſed againſt me, as any-body—That my doom was fixed!—That my violent be⯑haviour had not left one to plead for me. That Mr. Solmes bit his lip, and mumbled, and ſeemed to have more in his head, than could come out at his mouth; that was her phraſe.

And yet ſhe alſo hinted to me, that the cruel crea⯑ture took pleaſure in ſeeing me; altho' ſo much to my diſguſt.—And ſo wanted to ſee me again. Muſt he not be a ſavage, my dear?

The wench went on—That my uncle Harlowe ſaid, That now he gave me up.—That he pitied Mr. Solmes—Yet hoped he would not think of This to my detriment hereafter: That my uncle Antony was of opinion, That I ought to ſmart for it: And, for [221] her part—And then, as one of the family, ſhe gave her opinion of the ſame ſide.

As I have no other way of hearing any thing that is ſaid, or intended, below, I bear ſometimes more patiently, than I otherwiſe ſhould do, with her im⯑pertinence. And, indeed, ſhe ſeems to be in all my brother's and ſiſter's counſels.

Miſs Hervey came up again, and demanded an half-pint ink-bottle, which they had ſeen in my cloſet.

I gave it her without heſitation.

If they have no ſuſpicion of my being able to write, they will, perhaps, let me ſtay longer than otherwiſe they would.

This, my dear, is now my ſituation.

All my dependence, all my hopes, is in your mam⯑ma's favour. But for That, I know not what I might do: For who can tell what will come next?

LETTER XXXIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXXIV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Have your three letters. Never was there a crea⯑ture more impatient on the moſt intereſting un⯑certainty than I was, to know the event of the in⯑terview between you and Solmes.

It behoves me to account to my dear friend, in her preſent unhappy ſituation, for every thing that may have the leaſt appearance of a negligence or remiſſneſs, on my part. I ſent Robin in the morning early, in hopes of a depoſite. He loiter'd about the place till near Ten, to no purpoſe; and then came away; my mamma having given him a letter to carry to Mr. Hunt's, which he was to deliver before Three, when only, in the day-time, that gentleman is at home; and to bring her back an anſwer to it. Mr. Hunt's houſe, you know, lies wide from Harlowe-Place.—Robin but juſt ſaved his time; and return'd not till it was too late to ſend him again. I could only direct him to ſet out before day, this morning; and, if he got any letter, to ride, as for his life, to bring it to me.

I lay by myſelf; A moſt uneaſy night I had, thro' impatience; and being diſcompoſed with it, lay longer than uſual. Juſt as I was riſen, in came Kitty, from [230] Robin, with your three letters. I was not a quarter dreſs'd; and only ſlipp'd on my morning ſacque; pro⯑ceeding no further till (long as they are) I had read them all thro': And yet I often ſtopp'd to rave aloud (tho' by myſelf) at the deviliſh people you have to deal with.

How my heart riſes at them all! How poorly did they deſign to trick you into an encouragement of Solmes, from the interview to which they had ex⯑torted your conſent!—I am very, very angry at your aunt Hervey! To give up her own judgment ſo tamely!—And not content with that, to become ſuch an active inſtrument in their hands.—But it is ſo like the world!—So like my mamma too!—Next to her own child, there is not any-body living ſhe values ſo much as ſhe does you:—Yet, it is—Why ſhould we embroil ourſelves, Nancy, with other peoples affairs?

Other people!—How I hate the poor words, where friendſhip is concern'd, and where the protection to be given may be of ſo much conſequence to a friend, and of ſo little detriment to one's ſelf!

I am delighted with your ſpirit, however. I ex⯑pected it not from you. Nor did They, I am ſure. Nor would you, perhaps, have exerted it, if Lovelace's intelligence of Solmes's nurſery-offices had not ſet you up. I wonder not that the wretch is ſaid to love you the better for it. What an honour to have ſuch a wife? And he can be even with you when you are ſo. He muſt indeed be a ſavage, as you ſay.—Yet is he leſs to blame for his perſeverance, than thoſe of your own family, whom moſt you reverence.

It is well, as I have often ſaid, that I have not ſuch provocations and trials; I ſhould, perhaps, long ago, have taken your couſin Dolly's advice—Yet dare I not to touch that key.—I ſhall always love the good girl, for her tenderneſs to you.

I know not what to ſay to Lovelace; nor what to think of his promiſes, nor of his propoſals to you. [231] 'Tis certain that you are highly eſteem'd by all his family. The Ladies are perſons of unblemiſhd ho⯑nour. My Lord M. is alſo, as Men and Peers go, a man of honour. I could tell what to adviſe any other perſon in the world to do but you. So much expected from you! Such a ſhining light!—Your quitting your father's houſe, and throwing yourſelf into the protection of a family, however honourable, that has a Man in it, whoſe perſon, parts, declara⯑tions, and pretenſions, will be thought to have en⯑gag'd your warmeſt eſteem!—Methinks I am rather for adviſing, that you ſhould get privately to London; and not to let either him, or any-body elſe but me, know where you are, till your couſin Morden comes.

As to going to your uncle's, that you muſt not do, if you can help it. Nor muſt you have Solmes, that's certain: Not only becauſe of his unworthineſs in every reſpect, but becauſe of the averſion you have ſo openly avow'd to him; which every-body knows and talks of; as they do of your approbation of the other. For your reputation-ſake, therefore, as well as to prevent miſchief, you muſt either live ſingle, or have Lovelace.

If you think of going to London, let me know; and I hope you will have time to allow me a farther con⯑cert, as to the manner of your getting away, and thi⯑ther, and how to procure proper lodgings for you.

To obtain this time, you muſt palliate a little, and come into ſome ſeeming compromiſe, if you can⯑not do otherwiſe. Driven as you are driven, it will be ſtrange if you are not obliged to part with a few of your admirable punctilioes.

You will obſerve from what I have written, that I have not ſucceeded with my mamma.

I am extremely mortify'd and diſappointed. We have had very ſtrong debates upon it. But, beſides the narrow argument of embroiling ourſelves with other peoples affairs, as above-mentioned, ſhe will have it, [232] that it is your duty to comply. She ſays, ſhe was al⯑ways of opinion, that daughters ſhould, and govern'd herſelf by it; for that my papa was, at firſt, more her father's choice than her own.

This is what ſhe argues in behalf of her favourite Hickman, as well as for Solmes in your caſe.

I muſt not doubt, but my mamma always govern'd herſelf by this principle, becauſe ſhe ſays ſhe did. I have likewiſe another reaſon to believe it; which you ſhall have, tho' it may not become me to give it:—That they did not live ſo very happily together, as one would hope people might, who married prefer⯑ring each other to the reſt of the world.

Somebody ſhall fare never the better for this double-meant policy of my mamma, I will aſſure him. Such a retroſpection in her arguments to him, and to his addreſs, it is but fit, that he ſhould ſuffer for my mor⯑tification in a point I had ſo much ſet my heart upon.

Think, my dear, if in any way I can ſerve you. If you allow of it, I proteſt I will go off privately with you, and we will live and die together. Think of it. Improve upon my hint, and command me.

A little interruption. What is breakfaſt to the ſubject I am upon!

LONDON, I am told, is the beſt hiding-place in the world. I have written nothing but what I will ſtand to at the word of command. Women love to engage in knight-errantry, now-and-then, as well as to encourage it in the men. But in your caſe, what I propoſe, will have nothing in it of what can be deemed that. It will enable me to perform what is no more than a duty in ſerving and comforting a dear and worthy friend, labouring under undeſerved op⯑preſſion: And you will ennoble, as I may ſay, your [233] Anna Howe, if you will allow her to be your com⯑panion in affliction.

I'll engage, my dear, we ſhall not be in town to⯑gether one month, before we ſurmount all difficulties; and This without being beholden to any men-fellows for their protection.

I muſt repeat what I have often ſaid, That the authors of your perſecutions would not have preſumed to ſet on foot their ſelfiſh ſchemes againſt you, had they not depended upon the gentleneſs of your ſpirit: Tho' now, having gone ſo far, and having engaged Old AUTHORITY in it [Chide me, if you will!] nei⯑ther he nor they know how to recede.

When they find you out of their reach, and know that I am with you, you'll ſee how they'll pull in their odious horns.

I think, however, that you ſhould have written to your couſin Morden, the moment they had begun to treat you diſgracefully.

I ſhall be impatient to hear, whether they will at⯑tempt to carry you to your uncle's. I remember, that Lord M.'s diſmiſſed bailiff reported of Lovelace, that he had ſix or ſeven companions as bad as him⯑ſelf; and that the country was always glad when they left it. He has ſuch a knot of them now, I hear, about him. And, depend upon it, he will not ſuffer them quietly to carry you to your uncle's: And whoſe muſt you be, if he ſucceeds in taking you from them?

I tremble for you, but upon ſuppoſing what may be the conſequences of a conflict upon this occaſion. To be ſure, he owes ſome of them vengeance. This gives me a double concern, that my mamma ſhould refuſe her conſent to the protection I had propoſed, and ſet my heart upon procuring, for you.

My mamma will not breakfaſt without me. A quarrel has its conveniencies ſometimes: Yet too much love, I think, is as bad as too little.

[234]WE have juſt now had another pull. Upon my word, ſhe is exceſſively—What ſhall I ſay?—unper⯑ſuadeable—I muſt let her off with that ſoft word.

What old Greek was it, that ſaid, He govern'd Athens; his wife, him; and his ſon, her?

It was not my mamma's fault [I am writing to you, you know], that ſhe did not govern my papa. But I am but a daughter!—Yet I thought I was not quite ſo powerleſs, when I was ſet upon carrying a point, as I find myſelf to be.

Adieu, my dear!—Happier times muſt come!—And that quickly too.—The ſtrings cannot long con⯑tinue thus overſtrained. They muſt break, or be relaxed. In either way, the Certainty muſt be pre⯑ferable to the Suſpenſe.

One word more.

I think in my conſcience you muſt take one of theſe two alternatives: 1. To conſent to let us go to Lon⯑don together privately: In which caſe, I will procure a vehicle, and meet you at your appointment at the ſtile Lovelace propoſes to bring his uncle's chariot to. Or, 2dly, To put yourſelf into the protection of Lord M. and the Ladies of his family.

You have another, indeed; and that is, if you are abſolutely reſolved againſt Solmes, to meet and marry Lovelace directly.

Whichſoever of theſe you make choice of, you'll have This plea, both to yourſelf, and to the world, that you are concluded by the ſame uniform prin⯑ciple that has govern'd your whole conduct, ever ſince the contention between Lovelace and your brother has been on foot: That is to ſay, that you have cho⯑ſen a leſſer evil, in hope to prevent a greater.

Adieu! and Heaven direct for the beſt my be⯑loved creature, prays

LETTER XXXV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Thank you, my deareſt friend, for the kind pains you have taken in accounting ſo affectionately for my papers not being taken away yeſterday; and for the kind protection you would have procured for me, if you could.

This kind protection was what I wiſhed for: But my wiſhes, raiſed at firſt by your love, were rather govern'd by my deſpair of other refuge (having be⯑fore caſt about, and not being able to determine, what I ought to do, and what I could do, in a ſitua⯑tion ſo unhappy) than by a reaſonable hope: For why, indeed, ſhould any-body embroil themſelves for an⯑other, when they can avoid it?

All my conſolation is, as I have frequently ſaid, that I have not, by my own inadvertence or folly, brought myſelf into this ſad ſituation. If I had, I ſhould not have dared to look up to any-body with the expectation of protection or aſſiſtance, nor to you, for excuſe of the trouble I give you. But, never⯑theleſs, we ſhould not be angry at a perſon's not do⯑ing that for ourſelves, or for our friend, which ſhe thinks ſhe ought not to do; and which ſhe has it in her option to do, or to let alone. Much leſs have you a right to be diſpleaſed with ſo prudent a mother, for not engaging herſelf ſo warmly in my favour, as you wiſh'd ſhe would. If my own aunt can give me up, and that againſt her judgment, as I may preſume to ſay; and if my father, and mother, and uncles, who once loved me ſo well, can join ſo ſtrenuouſly againſt me; can I expect, or ought you, the protection of your mamma, in oppoſition to them?

Indeed, my deareſt love [Permit me to be very ſe⯑rious], [236] I am afraid I am ſingled out, either for my own faults, or for the faults of my family, or for the faults of both, to be a very unhappy creature!—ſig⯑nally unhappy! For ſee you not how irreſiſtibly the waves of affliction come tumbling down upon me?

We have been till within theſe few weeks, every⯑one of us, too happy. No croſſes, no vexations, but what we gave ourſelves from the pamperdneſs, as I may call it, of our own wills. Surrounded by our heaps and ſtores, hoarded up as faſt as acquired, we have ſeemed to think ourſelves out of the reach of the bolts of adverſe fate. I was the pride of all my friends, proud myſelf of their pride, and glo⯑rying in my ſtanding, who knows what the juſtice of Heaven may inflict, in order to convince us, that we are not out of the reach of misfortune; and to reduce us to a better reliance, than That we have hitherto pre⯑ſumptuouſly made?

I ſhould have been very little the better for the con⯑verſation-viſits which the good Dr. Lewin uſed to ho⯑nour me with, and for the principles wrought, as I may ſay, into my earlieſt mind by my pious Mrs. Norton, founded on her reverend father's experience, as well as on her own, if I could not thus retroſpect and argue, in ſuch a ſtrange ſituation as we are in. Strange, I may well call it; for don't you ſee, my dear, that we ſeem all to be impelled, as it were, by a perverſe fate, which none of us are able to reſiſt?—And yet all ariſing (with a ſtrong appearance of ſelf-puniſhment), from ourſelves?—Do not my parents ſee the hopeful children, from whom they expected a perpetuity of worldly happineſs to their branching fa⯑mily, now grown up to anſwer the till now diſtant hope, ſetting their angry faces againſt each other, pul⯑ling up by the roots, as I may ſay, that hope, which was ready to be carried into a probable certainty?

Your partial love will be ready to acquit me of ca⯑pital and intentional faults:—But oh, my dear! my [237] calamities have humbled me enough, to make me turn my gaudy eye inward; to make me look into my⯑ſelf!—And what have I diſcover'd there?—Why, my dear friend, more ſecret pride and vanity, than I could have thought had lain in my unexamined heart.

If I am to be ſingled out to be the puniſher of myſelf, and family, who ſo lately was the pride of it, pray for me, my dear, that I may not be left wholly to myſelf; and that I may be enabled to ſupport my character, ſo as to be juſtly acquitted of wilful and premeditated faults. The will of Providence be reſigned to in the reſt: As that leads, let me pa⯑tiently, and unrepiningly, follow!—I ſhall not live al⯑ways!—May but my cloſing ſcene be happy!—

But I will not oppreſs you, my deareſt friend, with further reflections of this ſort. I will take them all into myſelf. Surely I have a mind, that has room for them. My afflictions are too ſharp to laſt long. The criſis is at hand. Happier times you bid me hope for. I will hope!

BUT yet, I cannot but be impatient at times, to find myſelf thus driven, and my character ſo depreciated and ſunk, that were all the future to be happy, I ſhould be aſham'd to ſhew my face in public, or to look up. And all by the inſtigation of a ſelfiſh bro⯑ther, and envious ſiſter!—

But let me ſtop: Let me reflect!—Are not theſe ſug⯑geſtions the ſuggeſtions of the ſecret pride I have been cenſuring? Then, already ſo impatient! But this moment ſo reſigned! ſo much better diſpoſed for reflection!—Yet 'tis hard, 'tis very hard, to ſubdue an embitter'd ſpirit!—In the inſtant of its trial too!—O my cruel brother!—But now it riſes again!—I will lay down a pen I am ſo little able to govern.—And I will try to ſubdue an impatience, which (if my afflictions are ſent me for corrective ends) may otherwiſe lead me into ſtill more puniſhable errors!—

[238]I WILL return to a ſubject, which I cannot fly from for ten minutes together—called upon eſpecially as I am, by your three alternatives ſtated in the concluſion of your laſt.

As to the firſt; to wit, Your advice for me to escape to London—Let me tell you, that that other hint or propoſal which accompanies it, perfectly frightens me—Surely, my dear [happy as you are, and in⯑dulgently treated as your mamma treats you], you cannot mean what you propoſe! What a wretch muſt I be, if I could, for one moment only, lend an ear to ſuch propoſal as This!—I, to be the occaſion of making ſuch a mother's (perhaps ſhorten'd) life un⯑happy to the laſt hour of it!—Ennoble you, my dear creature! How muſt ſuch an enterprize [the raſhneſs public, the motives, were they excuſable, private] debaſe you!—But I will not dwell upon the ſubject.—For your own ſake I will not.

As to your ſecond alternative, To put myſelf into the protection of Lord M. and of the Ladies of that family, I own to you (as I believe I have owned before), that altho' to do This would be the ſame thing in the eye of the world, as putting myſelf into Mr. Lovelace's protection, yet, I think, I would do it, rather than be Mr. Solmes's wife, if there were evidently no other way to avoid being ſo.

Mr. Lovelace, you have ſeen, propoſes to contrive a way to put me into poſſeſſion of my own houſe; and he tells me, that he will ſoon fill it with the Ladies of his family, as my viſitors;—upon my invitation, however, to them.—A very inconſiderate propoſal I think it to be, and upon which I cannot explain myſelf to him. What an exertion of independency does it chalk out for me! How, were I to attend to him (and not to the natu⯑ral conſequences which the following of his advice would lead me to) might I be drawn by gentle words, into the perpetration of the moſt violent acts!— [239] For how could I gain poſſeſſion, but either by legal litigation, which, were I inclin'd to have recourſe to it [as I never can be], muſt take up time; or by for⯑cibly turning out the perſons whom my papa has placed there, to look after the gardens, the houſe, and the furniture—perſons intirely attached to him⯑ſelf, and who, as I know, have been lately inſtructed by my brother?

Your third alternative, To meet and marry Love⯑lace directly: a man with whoſe morals I am far from being ſatisfy'd—A ſtep, that could not be taken with the leaſt hope of ever obtaining pardon from, or re⯑conciliation with, any of my friends;—and againſt which a thouſand objections riſe in my mind—That is not to be thought of.

What appears to me, upon the fulleſt deliberation, the moſt eligible, if I muſt be thus driven, is the eſcaping to London.—But I would forfeit all my hopes of happineſs in this life, rather than you ſhould go off with me, as you raſhly propoſe.—If I could get ſafely thither, and be private, methinks I might remain ab⯑ſolutely independent of Mr. Lovelace, and at liberty, either to make propoſals to my friends, or, ſhould they renounce me (and I had no other or better way) to make terms with him; ſuppoſing my couſin Morden, on his arrival, were to join with them. But they would, perhaps, then indulge me in my choice of a ſingle life, on giving him up: The renewing to them this offer, when I was at my own liberty, would at leaſt convince them, that I was in earneſt when I made it firſt: And, upon my word, I would ſtand to it, dear as you ſeem to think, when you are diſpoſed to railly me, it would coſt me, to ſtand to it.

If, my dear, you can procure a conveyance for us both, you can, perhaps, procure one for me ſingly; But can it be done without embroiling yourſelf with your mamma, or her with our family?—Be it coach, chariot, chaiſe, waggon, or horſe, I matter not, [240] provided You appear not in it. Only, in caſe it be one of the two latter, I believe I muſt deſire you to get me an ordinary gown and coat, or habit, of ſome ſervant; having no concert with any of our own: The more ordinary the better. They may be thruſt into the wood-houſe; where I can put them on; and then ſlide down from the bank, that ſeparates the wood-yard from the green lane.

But, alas! my dear, this, even this alternative, is not without difficulties, which ſeem, to a ſpirit ſo little en⯑terprizing as mine, in a manner inſuperable. Theſe are my reflections upon it:

I am afraid, in the firſt place, that I ſhall not have time for the requiſite preparations to an eſcape.

Should I be either detected in thoſe preparations, or purſued and overtaken in my flight, and ſo brought back, then would they think themſelves doubly war⯑ranted to compel me to have their Solmes: And, con⯑ſcious, perhaps, of an intended fault, I ſhould be leſs able to contend with them.

But were I even to get ſafely to London, I know no-body there, but by name; and thoſe the trades⯑men to our family; who, no doubt, would be the firſt wrote to, and engag'd, to find me out. And ſhould Mr. Lovelace diſcover where I was, and he and my brother meet, what miſchiefs might enſue between them, whether I were willing, or not, to return to Harlowe-Place?

But ſuppoſing I could remain there concealed, what might not my youth, my ſex, an unacquainted⯑neſs with the ways of that great, wicked town, expoſe me to?—I ſhould hardly dare to go to church, for fear of being diſcover'd. People would wonder how I lived. Who knows but I might paſs for a kept mi⯑ſtreſs; and that, altho' no-body came to me, yet, that every-time I went out, it might be imagined to be in purſuance of ſome aſſignation?

You, my dear, who alone would know where to [241] direct to me, would be watched in all your ſteps, and in all your meſſages; and your mamma, at preſent not highly pleaſed with our correſpondence, would then have reaſon to be more diſpleaſed; and might not differences follow between you, that would make me very unhappy, were I to know it? And this the more likely, as you take it ſo unaccountably [and give me leave to ſay, ſo ungenerouſly] into your head, to re⯑venge yourſelf upon the innocent Mr. Hickman for all the diſpleaſure your mamma gives you?

Were Lovelace to find out where I was; that would be the ſame thing, in the eye of the world, as if I had actually gone off with him: For (among ſtrangers, as I ſhould be) he would not be prevailed upon to forbear viſiting me: And his unhappy cha⯑racter [a fooliſh man!] is no credit to any young crea⯑ture, deſirous of concealment. Indeed, the world, let me eſcape whither, and to whomſoever, would conclude him to be at the bottom, and the contriver, of it.

Theſe are the difficulties which ariſe to me on re⯑volving this ſcheme; which, ſituated as I am, might appear ſurmountable to a more enterpriſing ſpirit. If you, my dear, think them ſurmountable, in any one of the caſes put [and to be ſure I can take no courſe, but what muſt have ſome difficulty in it], be pleaſed to let me know your free and full thoughts upon it.

Had you, my dear friend, been married, then ſhould I have had no doubt, but you and Mr. Hickman would have afforded an aſylum to a poor creature, more than half loſt, in her own apprehenſion, for want of one kind, protecting friend!

You ſay, I ſhould have written to my couſin Mor⯑den the moment I was treated diſgracefully. But could I have believed that my friends would not have ſoften'd by degrees, when they ſaw my antipathy to their Solmes?

I had thoughts indeed ſeveral times of writing to [242] him. But by the time an anſwer could have come, I imagined all would have been over, as if it had ne⯑ver been:—So from day to day, from week to week, I hoped on: And, after all, I might as reaſonably fear (as I have heretofore ſaid), that my couſin would be brought to ſide againſt me, as that ſome of thoſe I have named, would.

And then to appeal to a couſin [I muſt have writ⯑ten with warmth, to engage him], againſt a father; This was not a deſirable thing to ſet about! Then I had not, you know, one ſoul of my ſide; my mamma herſelf againſt me: To be ſure he would have ſuſ⯑pended his judgment till he could have arrived.—He might not have been in haſte to come, hoping the malady would cure itſelf: But had he written, his letters probably would have run in the qualifying ſtyle; to perſuade me to ſubmit, or them only to relax: Had his letters been more on my ſide than on theirs, they would not have regarded them: Nor perhaps himſelf, had he come, and been an advocate for me: For you ſee how ſtrangely determined they are; how they have over-awed, or got in, every-body; ſo that no one dare open their lips in my behalf: And you have heard, that my brother puſhes his meaſures with the more violence, that all may be over with me before my couſin's expected arrival.

But you tell me, That, in order to gain time, I muſt palliate; that I muſt ſeem to compromiſe with my friends.—But how palliate? how ſeem to com⯑promiſe?—You would not have me endeavour to make them believe, that I will conſent to what I ne⯑ver intend to conſent to!—You would not have me try to gain time, with a view to deceive!

To do evil, that good may come of it, is forbidden. And ſhall I do evil, yet know not, whether good may come of it, or not?

Forbid it, Heaven! that Clariſſa Harlowe ſhould have it in her thought to ſerve, or even to ſave, her⯑ſelf, [243] at the expence of her ſincerity, and by a ſtudied deceit!

And is there, after all, no way to eſcape one great evil, but by plunging myſelf into another?—What an ill-fated creature am I?—Pray for me, my deareſt Nancy!—My mind is at preſent ſo much diſturbed, that I hardly can for myſelf!—

LETTER XXXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

THE alarming hurry I mentioned under my date of laſt night, and Betty's ſaucy, dark hints, come out to be owing to what I gueſs'd they were; that is to ſay, to the private intimation Mr. Lovelace con⯑trived our family ſhould have of his inſolent reſo⯑lution [inſolent I muſt call it] to prevent my being carried to my uncle's.

I ſaw at the time, that it was as wrong, with reſpect to anſwering his own view, as it was inſolent: For could he think, as Betty (I ſuppoſe from her betters) juſtly obſerved, That parents would be inſulted out of their right to the diſpoſal of their own child, by a violent man, whom they hate; and who could have no pre⯑tenſion to diſpute that right with them, unleſs what he had from her, who had none over herſelf? And how muſt this inſolence of his exaſperate them againſt me, emblazon'd, as my brother is able to emblazon it?

The raſh man has indeed ſo far gained his point, as to intimidate them from attempting to carry me away: But he has put them upon a ſurer and a more deſperate meaſure: And this has put me alſo upon one as deſperate; the conſequence of which, altho' he could not foreſee it, may, perhaps, too well an⯑ſwer [244] his great end, little as he deſerves to have it anſwer'd.

In ſhort, I have done, as far as I know, the raſheſt thing that ever I did in my life!

But let me give you the motive, and then the action will follow of courſe.

About ſix o' clock this evening, my aunt [who ſtays here all night; on my account, no doubt] came up, and tapp'd at my door; for I was writing, and had lock'd myſelf in. I open'd it; and ſhe entering, thus delivered herſelf:

I come once more to viſit you, my dear; but ſorely againſt my will; becauſe it is to impart to you mat⯑ters of the utmoſt concern to You, and to the whole family.

What, Madam, is now to be done with me? ſaid I; wholly attentive.

You will not be hurried away to your uncle's, child; let that comfort you.—They ſee your averſion to go.—You will not be obliged to go to your uncle Antony's.

How you revive me, Madam! [I little thought what was to follow this ſuppoſed condeſcenſion] This is a cordial to my heart!

And then I ran over with bleſſings for this good news [and ſhe permitted me ſo to do, by her ſilence]; congratulating myſelf, that I thought my papa could not reſolve to carry things to the laſt extre⯑mity—

Hold, niece, ſaid ſhe, at laſt.—You muſt not give yourſelf too much joy upon the occaſion neither.—Don't be ſurpriſed, my dear.—Why look you upon me, child, with ſo affecting an earneſtneſs!—But you muſt be Mrs. Solmes, for all that.

I was dumb.

She then told me, that they had had undoubted in⯑formation, that a certain deſperate ruffian [I muſt excuſe her that word, ſhe ſaid] had prepared armed [245] men to way-lay my brother and uncles, and ſeize me, and carry me off.—Surely, ſhe ſaid, I was not conſent⯑ing to a violence, that might be followed by murder, on one ſide, or the other; perhaps on both.—

I was ſtill ſilent.

That therefore my father (ſtill more exaſperated than before) had changed his reſolution as to my go⯑ing to my uncle's; and was determined next Tueſday to ſet out thither himſelf with my mamma; and that (for it was to no purpoſe to conceal a reſolution ſo ſoon to be put in execution)—I muſt not diſpute it any longer—on Wedneſday I muſt give my hand—as they would have me.

She proceeded, That orders were already given for a licence: That the ceremony was to be performed in my own chamber, in preſence of all my friends, except of my father and mother; who would not re⯑turn, nor ſee me, till all was over, and till they had a good account of my behaviour.

The very intelligence, my dear!—the very intelli⯑gence This, which Lovelace gave me!

I was ſtill dumb—Only ſighing, as if my heart would break.

She went on comforting me, as ſhe thought. She laid before me the merit of obedience; and told me, that if it were my deſire that my Mrs. Norton ſhould be preſent at the ceremony, it would be complied with: That the pleaſure I ſhould receive from re⯑conciling all my friends to me, and in their con⯑gratulations upon it, muſt needs over-balance, with ſuch a one as me, the difference of perſons, how⯑ever preferable I might think the one man to the other: That Love was a fleeting thing, little better than a name, where morality and virtue did not di⯑ſtinguiſh the object of it: That a choice made by its dictates was ſeldom happy; at leaſt not durably ſo: Nor was it to be wonder'd at, when it naturally exalted the object above its merits, and made the lover blind to [246] faults, that were viſible to every-body elſe: So that when a nearer intimacy ſtript it of its imaginary per⯑fections, it left frequently both ſides ſurprized, that they could be thus cheated; and that then the Indif⯑ference became ſtronger than the Love ever was. That a woman gave a man great advantages, and in⯑ſpired him with great vanity, when ſhe avowed her love for him, and preference of him, and was gene⯑rally requited with inſolence and contempt: Whereas the confeſſedly-obliged man, it was probable, would be all reverence and gratitude; and I cannot tell what.

You, my dear, ſaid ſhe, believe you ſhall be un⯑happy, if you have Mr. Solmes: Your parents think the contrary; and that you will be undoubtedly ſo, were you to have Mr. Lovelace, whoſe morals are unqueſtionably bad:—Suppoſe it were your ſad lot to be unhappy with either, let me beſeech you to con⯑ſider, what great conſolation you will have on one hand, if you purſue your parents advice, that you did ſo; what mortification on the other, that, by follow⯑ing your own, you have no-body to blame but your⯑ſelf.

This, you remember, my dear, was an argument inforced upon me by Mrs. Norton.

Theſe and other obſervations which ſhe made, were worthy of my aunt Hervey's good ſenſe and experi⯑ence, and, applied to almoſt any young creature, who ſtood in oppoſition to her parents will, but one who had offered to make the ſacrifices I have offered to make, ought to have had their due weight. But al⯑tho' it was eaſy to anſwer ſome of them in my own particular caſe; yet, having over and over, to my mamma, before my confinement, and to my brother and ſiſter, and even to my aunt Hervey, ſince, ſaid what I muſt now have repeated, I was ſo much mor⯑tified and afflicted at the cruel tidings ſhe brought me, that, however attentive I was to what ſhe ſaid, I had neither power nor will to anſwer one word; and, [247] had ſhe not ſtopp'd of herſelf, ſhe might have gone on an hour longer, without interruption from me.

Obſerving this, and that I only ſat weeping, my handkerchief covering my face, and my boſom heaving ready to burſt; What! no anſwer, my dear?—Why ſo much ſilent grief? You know I always loved you. You know, that I have no intereſt in this affair. You would not permit Mr. Solmes to acquaint you with ſome things which would have ſet your heart againſt Mr. Lovelace. Shall I tell you ſome of the matters charged againſt him? Shall I, my dear?

Still I anſwered only by my tears and ſighs.

Well, child, you ſhall be told theſe things after⯑wards, when you will be in a better ſtate of mind to hear them, and to rejoice in the eſcape you will have had. It will be ſome excuſe, then, for you to plead for your behaviour to Mr. Solmes before marriage, that you could not have believed Mr. Lovelace had been ſo very vile a man.

My heart flutter'd with impatience and anger at being ſo plainly talked to as the wife of this man; but yet I then choſe to be ſilent. If I had ſpoke, it would have been with vehemence.

Strange, my dear, ſuch ſilence!—Your concern is infinitely more on this ſide the day, than it will be on the other.—But let me aſk you, and do not be diſplea⯑ſed, Will you chooſe to ſee what generous ſtipu⯑lations for you there are in the ſettlements?—You have knowlege beyond your years—Give the writings a peruſal: Do, my dear.—They are ingroſſed, and ready for ſigning, and have been for ſome time.—Ex⯑cuſe me, my love,—I mean not to diſturb you:—Your papa would oblige me to bring them up, and to leave them with you. He commands you to read them.—But to read them, niece—ſince they are ingroſſed, and were, before you made them abſolutely hopeleſs.

And then, to my great terror, out ſhe drew ſome parchments from her handkerchief, which ſhe had kept [248] (unobſerved by me) under her apron, and, riſing, put them in the oppoſite window. Had ſhe produced a ſerpent, I could not have been more frighted.

Oh! my deareſt aunt, turning away my face, and holding out my hands: Hide from my eyes thoſe horrid parchments!—Let me conjure you to tell me! By all the tenderneſs of near relation-ſhip, and upon your honour, and by your love for me, ſay, Are they abſolutely reſolved, that, come what will, I muſt be That man's?

My dear, you muſt have Mr. Solmes: Indeed you muſt.

Indeed I never will! This, as I have ſaid over and over, is not originally my father's will.—Indeed I never will!—And that is All I will ſay!

It is your father's will now, reply'd my aunt: And conſidering how all the family is threatened by Mr. Lovelace, and the reſolution he has certainly taken to force you out of their hands; I cannot but ſay they are in the right, not to be bullied out of their child.

Well, Madam, then nothing remains for me to ſay. I am made deſperate. I care not what becomes of me!

Your piety, and your prudence, my dear, and Mr. Lovelace's immoral character, together with his dare⯑ing inſults, and threatenings, which ought to incenſe you, as much as any-body, are every one's depen⯑dence. We are ſure the time will come, when you'll think very differently of the ſteps your friends take to diſappoint a man who has made himſelf ſo juſtly obnoxious to them all.

She withdrew; leaving me full of grief and indig⯑nation:—And as much out of humour with Mr. Lovelace as with any-body; who, by his conceited contrivances, has made things worſe for me than be⯑fore; depriving me of the hopes I had of gaining time to receive your advice, and private aſſiſtance to get to town; and leaving me no other choice, in all [249] appearance, than either to throw myſelf upon his fa⯑mily, or to be made miſerable for ever with Mr. Solmes. But I was ſtill reſolved to avoid both theſe evils, if poſſible.

I ſounded Betty in the firſt place (whom my aunt ſent up, not thinking it proper, as Betty told me, that I ſhould be left by myſelf, and who, I found, knew their deſigns) whether it were not probable that they would forbear, at my earneſt entreaty, to puſh mat⯑ters to the threatened extremity.

But ſhe confirmed all my aunt ſaid; rejoicing, (as ſhe ſaid they All did) that the wretch had given them ſo good a pretence to ſave me from him now, and for ever.

She run on about equipages beſpoke; talked of my brother's and ſiſter's exultations, that now the whole family would ſoon be reconciled to each other: Of the ſervants joy upon it: Of the expected licence: Of a viſit to be paid me by Dr. Lewin, or another Clergyman, whom they named not to her; which was to crown the work: And of other preparations, ſo particular, as made me dread that they deſigned to ſurprize me into a ſtill nearer day than next Wedneſday.

Theſe things made me exceſſively uneaſy. I knew not what to reſolve upon.

At one time, thought I, what have I to do, but to throw myſelf at once into the protection of Lady Betty Lawrance? But then, in reſentment of his fine contrivances, which had ſo abominably diſconcerted me, I ſoon reſolved to the contrary. And at laſt concluded to aſk the favour of another half-hour's con⯑verſation with my aunt.

I ſent Betty to her with my requeſt.

She came.

I put it to her, in the moſt earneſt manner, to tell me, whether I might not obtain the favour of a fort⯑night's reſpite?

[250]She aſſured me, It would not be granted.

Would a week? Surely a week would?

She believ'd a week might, if I would promiſe two things: The firſt, upon my honour, not to write a line out of the houſe, in that week: For it was ſtill ſuſpected, ſhe ſaid, that I found means to write to ſome-body. And, ſecondly, to marry Mr. Solmes, at the expiration of it.

Impoſſible! Impoſſible! I ſaid with paſſion.—What! might I not be obliged with one week, with⯑out ſuch a horrid condition at the laſt?

She would go down, ſhe ſaid, that ſhe might not ſeem of her own head, to put upon me what I thought a hardſhip ſo great.

She went down. And came up again.

Did I want, was the anſwer, to give the vileſt of men opportunity to put his murderous ſchemes in ex⯑ecution?—It was time for them to put an end to my obſtinacy (they were tired out with me) and to his hopes, at once. And an end ſhould be put on Tueſ⯑day or Wedneſday next, at furtheſt; unleſs I would give my honour to comply with the condition upon which my aunt had been ſo good as to allow me a longer time.

I even ſtamp'd with impatience!—I called upon her to witneſs, that I was guiltleſs of the conſequence of this compulſion; This barbarous compulſion, I called it; let that conſequence be what it would.

My aunt chid me, in an higher ſtrain than ever ſhe did before.

While I, in a half frenzy, inſiſted upon ſeeing my Papa: Such uſage, I ſaid, ſet me above fear. I would rejoice to owe my death to him, as I did my life.

She own'd, that ſhe fear'd for my head.

I did go down half way of the ſtairs, reſolved to throw myſelf at his feet, where-ever he was.—My [251] aunt was frighted.—Indeed I was quite frenzical for a few minutes.—But hearing my brother's voice, as talking to ſomebody, in my ſiſter's apartment juſt by, I ſtopped; and heard the barbarous deſigner ſay, ſpeaking to my ſiſter, This works charmingly, my dear ſiſter!

It does! It does! ſaid ſhe, in an exulting accent.

Let us keep it up, ſaid my brother.—The villain is caught in his own trap!—Now ſhe muſt be what we'd have her be.

Do You keep my father to it; I'll take care of my mamma, ſaid Bella.

Never fear, ſaid he!—And a laugh of congratu⯑lation to each other, and deriſion of me, (as I made it out) quite turned my frenzical humour into a vin⯑dictive one.

My aunt, juſt then coming down to me, and take⯑ing my hand, led me up; and try'd to ſooth me.

My raving was turned into ſullenneſs.

She preached patience and obedience to me.

I was ſilent.

At laſt ſhe deſired me to aſſure her, that I would offer no violence to myſelf.

God, I ſaid, had given me more grace I hoped, than to be guilty of ſo horrid a raſhneſs. I was His creature, and not my own.

She then took leave of me; and I inſiſted upon her taking down with her the odious parchments.

Seeing me in ſo ill an humour, and very earneſt that ſhe ſhould take them with her, ſhe did; but ſaid, That my papa ſhould not know that ſhe did: And hoped I would better conſider of the matter, and be calmer next time they were offer'd to my peruſal.

I revolved, after ſhe was gone, all that my brother and ſiſter had ſaid: I dwelt upon their triumphings over me: And found riſe in my mind a rancour, that I think I may ſay was new to me; and which I could [252] not withſtand.—And putting every thing together, dreading the near day, what could I do?—Am I, in any manner excuſable for what I did do?—If I am condemned by the world, who know not my provocations, may I be acquitted by you?—If not, I am unhappy indeed.—For This I did.

Having ſhook off Betty as ſoon as I could, I wrote to Mr. Lovelace, to let him know, ‘'That all that was threatened at my uncle Antony's, was intended to be executed here. That I had come to a reſolution to throw myſelf upon the protection of either of his two aunts, who would afford it me: In ſhort, that by endeavouring to obtain leave, on Monday, to dine in the ivy-ſummer-houſe, I would, if poſ⯑ſible, meet him without the garden-door, at two, three, four, or five o'Clock on Monday afternoon, as I ſhould be able. That in the mean time he ſhould acquaint me, whether I might hope for ei⯑ther of thoſe Ladies protection:—And if ſo, I abſo⯑lutely inſiſted, that he ſhould leave me with either, and go to London himſelf, or remain at his uncle's; nor offer to viſit me, till I were ſatisfied, that nothing could be done with my friends in an amicable way; and that I could not obtain poſſeſſion of my own eſtate, and leave to live upon it: And particularly, that he ſhould not hint marriage to me, till I con⯑ſented to hear him upon that ſubject.—I added, that if he could prevail upon one of the Miſſes Monta⯑gue to favour me with her company on the road, it would make me abundantly eaſier in an enterprize which I could not think of (altho' ſo driven) without the utmoſt concern; and which would throw ſuch a flur upon my reputation in the eye of the world, as, perhaps, I ſhould never be able to wipe off.'’

This was the purport of what I wrote; and down into the garden I ſlid with it in the dark, which at another time I ſhould not have had the courage to [253] do, and depoſited it, and came up again, unknown to any-body

My mind ſo dreadfully miſgave me when I re⯑turned, that to divert, in ſome meaſure, my in⯑creaſing uneaſineſs, I had recourſe to my private pen; and in a very ſhort time ran this length.

And now, that I am come to this part, my uneaſy reflections begin again to pour in upon me. Yet what can I do?—I believe I ſhall take it back again the firſt thing I do in the morning.—Yet what can I do?

For fear they ſhould have an earlier day in their intention, than that which will too ſoon come, I will begin to be very ill. Nor need I feign much; for indeed, I am extremely low, weak, and faint.

I hope to depoſite this early in the morning for you, as I ſhall return from reſuming my letter, if I do re⯑ſume it, as my inwardeſt mind bids me.

Altho' it is now near Two o'clock, I have a good mind to ſlide down once more, in order to take back my letter. Our doors are always locked and barred up at a eleven; but the ſeats of the leſſer hall win⯑dows being almoſt even with the ground without, and the ſhutters not difficult to open, I could eaſily get out.—

Yet why ſhould I be thus uneaſy?—Since, ſhould the letter go, I can but hear what Mr. Lovelace ſays to it. His aunts live at too great a diſtance for him to have an immediate anſwer from them; ſo I can ſcruple going off till I have invitation. I can in⯑ſiſt upon one of his couſins meeting me, as I have hinted, in the chariot; and he may not be able to obtain that favour from either of them. Twenty things may happen to afford me a ſuſpenſion, at leaſt: Why ſhould I be ſo very uneaſy?—When, too, I can reſume it early, before it is probable he will have the thought of finding it there. Yet he owns he ſpends three parts of his days, and has done for this fortnight paſt, in loitering about in one diſguiſe or other, be⯑ſides [254] the attendance given by his truſty ſervant, when he himſelf is not in waiting, as he calls it.

But theſe ſtrange fore-bodings!—Yet I can, if you adviſe, cauſe the chariot he ſhall bring with him, to carry me directly for town, whither in my London ſcheme, if you were to approve it, I had propoſed to go: And This will ſave you the trouble of procuring for me a vehicle; as well as the ſuſpicion from your mamma of contributing to my eſcape.

But, ſollicitous for your advice, and approbation too, if I can have it, I will put an end to this letter.

Adieu, my deareſt friend, adieu!

LETTER. XXXVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXXVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXXIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XL. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

BY your laſt date of Ten, in your letter of this day, you could not long have depoſited it, before Robin took it. He rode hard, and brought it to me juſt as I had riſen from table.

You may juſtly blame me for ſending my meſſen⯑ger empty-handed, your ſituation conſider'd; and yet that very ſituation [ſo critical!] is partly the rea⯑ſon for it: For indeed I knew not what to write, fit to ſend you.

I had been inquiring privately, how to procure you a conveyance from Harlowe-Place, and yet not ap⯑pear in it; knowing, that to oblige in the fact, and [275] to diſoblige in the manner, is but obliging by halves: My mamma being, moreover, very ſuſpicious, and very uneaſy; made more ſo by daily viſits from your uncle Antony, who tells her, that now every-thing is upon the point of being determined, and hopes, that her daughter will not ſo interfere, as to diſcourage your compliance with their wills. This I came at by a way that I cannot take notice of, or both ſhould hear of it, in a manner neither would like: And, without that, my mamma and I have had almoſt hourly bic⯑kerings.

I found more difficulty than I expected, as the time was confined, and ſecreſy required, in procuring you a vehicle; and as you ſo earneſtly forbid me to accompany you in your enterprize. Had you not ob⯑liged me to keep meaſures with my mamma, I could have managed it with eaſe. I could even have taken our own chariot, on one pretence or other, and put two horſes extraordinary to it, if I had thought fit; and I could have ſent it back from London, and no-body the wiſer as to the lodgings we might have taken.

I wiſh to the Lord, you had permitted This! In⯑deed I think you are two punctilious a great deal for your ſituation. Would you expect to enjoy yourſelf with your uſual placidneſs, and not be ruffled, in an hurricane which every moment threatens to blow your houſe down?

Had your diſtreſs ſprung from yourſelf, that would have been another thing. But when all the world knows where to lay the fault, this alters the caſe.

How can you ſay I am happy, when my mamma, to her power, is as much an abettor of their wicked⯑neſs to my deareſt friend, as your aunt, or any-body elſe?—And this thro' the inſtigation of that odd-headed and fooliſh uncle of yours, who [ſorry creature that he is] keeps her up to reſolutions, which are un⯑worthy of her, for an example to me, and pleaſe you. [276] Is not this cauſe enough for me to ground a reſent⯑ment upon, ſufficient to juſtify me for accompanying you; the friendſhip between us ſo well known?

Indeed, my dear, the importance of the caſe con⯑ſider'd, I muſt repeat, That you are too nice. Don't they already think, that your standing-out is owing a good deal to my advice? Have they not prohibited our correſpondence upon that very ſurmize? And have I, but on your account, reaſon to value what they think?

Beſides, what diſcredit have I to fear by ſuch a ſtep? What detriment? Would Hickman, do you believe, refuſe me upon it?—If he did, ſhould I be ſorry for that?—Who is it, that has a Soul, who would not be affected by ſuch an inſtance of female friendſhip?

But I ſhould vex and diſorder my mamma!—Well, that is ſomething! But not more than ſhe vexes and diſorders me, on her being made an implement by ſuch a ſorry creature, who ambles hither every day in ſpite to my deareſt friend.—Woe be to both, if it be for a double end!—Chide me, if you will: I don't care.

I ſay, and I inſist upon it, ſuch a ſtep would ennoble your friend: And if ſtill you will permit it, I will take the office out of Lovelace's hands; and, to-morrow evening, or on Monday, before his time of appointment takes place, will come in a chariot, or chaiſe: And then, my dear, if we get off as I wiſh, will we make terms, and what terms we pleaſe, with them All. My mamma will be glad to receive her daughter again, I warrant ye: And Hickman will cry for joy on my return; or he ſhall for ſorrow.

But you are ſo very earneſtly angry with me for propoſing ſuch a ſtep, and have always ſo much to ſay for your ſide of any queſtion, that I am afraid to urge it farther.—Only be ſo good as to encourage me to reſume it, if, upon farther conſideration, and upon [277] weighing matters well [and in this light, Whether beſt to go off with me, or with Lovelace], you can get over your punctilious regard for my reputation. A wo⯑man going off with a woman is not ſo diſcreditable a thing, ſurely! and with no view, but to avoid the fellows!—I ſay, only be ſo good as to conſider this point; and if you can get over your ſcruples, on my account, do. And ſo I will have done with this ar⯑gument for the preſent; and apply myſelf to ſome of the paſſages in yours.

A time, I hope, will come, that I ſhall be able to read your affecting narratives, without that impa⯑tience and bitterneſs, which now boils over in my heart, and would flow to my pen, were I to enter into the particulars of what you write. And, indeed, I am afraid of giving you my advice at all, or of tell⯑ing you what I ſhould do in your caſe [ſuppoſing you will ſtill refuſe my offer]; finding too, what you have been brought, or rather driven, to, without it; leſt any evil ſhould follow it: In which caſe, I ſhould ne⯑ver forgive myſelf. And this conſideration has added to my difficulties in writing to you, now you are upon ſuch a criſis, and yet refuſe the only method—But I ſaid, I would not for the preſent touch any more that ſtring. Yet, one word more, chide me, if you pleaſe: If any harm betide you, I ſhall for ever blame my mamma—Indeed I ſhall—And perhaps yourſelf, if you do not accept of my offer.

But one thing, in your preſent ſituation, and pro⯑ſpects, let me adviſe: It is this, That if you do go away with Mr. Lovelace, you take the firſt opportunity to permit the ceremony to paſs. Why ſhould you not, when every-body will know by whoſe aſſiſtance, and in whoſe company, you leave your father's houſe, go whitherſoever you will?—You may, indeed, keep him at diſtance, until ſettlements are drawn, and ſuch-like matters are adjuſted to your mind. But even Theſe are matters of leſs conſideration in your [278] particular caſe, than they would be in that of moſt others: Becauſe, be his other faults what they will, no⯑body thinks him an ungenerous man: Becauſe the poſſeſ⯑ſion of your eſtate muſt be given up to you, as ſoon as your couſin Morden comes; who, as your Truſtee, will ſee it done; and done upon proper terms: Be⯑cauſe there is no want of fortune on his ſide: Becauſe all his family value you, and are extremely deſirous that you ſhould be their relation: Becauſe he makes no ſcruple of accepting you without conditions. You ſee how he has always defy'd your relations [I, for my own part, can forgive him for that fault: Nor know I, if it be not a noble one]. And I dare ſay, he had rather call you his, without a ſhilling, than be under obligation to thoſe whom he has full as little reaſon to love, as they have to love him. You have heard, that his own relations cannot make his proud ſpirit ſubmit to owe any favour to them.

For all theſe reaſons, I think, you may the leſs ſtand upon previous ſettlements. It is therefore my abſolute opinion, that, if you do go off with him [And in that caſe you muſt let him be judge, when he can leave you with ſafety, you'll obſerve That], you ſhould not poſtpone the ceremony.

Give this matter your moſt ſerious conſideration. Punctilio is out of doors the moment you are out of your father's houſe. I know how juſtly ſevere you have been upon thoſe inexcuſable creatures, whoſe giddineſs, and even want of decency, have made them, in the ſame hour, as I may ſay, leap from a parent's window to a huſband's bed—But, conſider⯑ing Lovelace's character, I repeat my opinion, that your Reputation in the eye of the world requires, that no delay be made in this point, when once you are in his power.

I need not, I am ſure, make a ſtronger plea to you.

You ſay, in excuſe for my mamma (what my fer⯑vent [279] love for my friend very ill brooks), That we ought not to blame any-one for not doing what ſhe has an option to do, or to let alone. This, in caſes of friendſhip, would admit of very ſtrict diſcuſſion. If the thing requeſted be of greater conſequence, or even of equal, to the perſon ſought to, and it were, as the old phraſe has it, to take a thorn out of one's friend's foot, to put it into our own, ſomething might be ſaid.—Nay, it would be, I will venture to ſay, a ſelfiſh thing, in us to aſk a favour of a friend, which would ſub⯑ject That friend to the ſame or equal inconvenience, as That from which we wanted to be relieved. The requeſter would, in this caſe, teach his friend, by his own ſelfiſh example, with much better reaſon, to deny him, and deſpiſe a friendſhip ſo merely nominal. But if, by a leſs inconvenience to ourſelves, we could relieve our friend from a greater, the refuſal of ſuch a favour makes the refuſer unworthy of the name of Friend: Nor would I admit ſuch a one, not even into the outermoſt fold of my heart.

I am well aware, that this is your opinion of friend⯑ſhip, as well as mine: For I owe the diſtinction to you, upon a certain occaſion; and it ſaved me from a very great inconvenience, as you muſt needs re⯑member. But you was always for making excuſes for other people, in caſes wherein you would not have allowed of one for yourfelf.

I muſt own, that were theſe excuſes for a friend's indifference, or denial, made by any-body but you, in a caſe of ſuch vaſt importance to herſelf, and of ſo comparative a ſmall one to thoſe whoſe protection ſhe would be thought to wiſh for; I, who am for ever, as you have often remarked, endeavouring to trace effects to their cauſes, ſhould be ready to ſuſpect, that there was a latent, un-owned inclination, which ba⯑lancing, or preponderating rather, made the iſſue of the alternative ſhow ever important) ſit more lightly upon the excuſer's mind than ſhe cared to own.

[280]You will underſtand me, my dear. But if you do not, it may be as well for me; for I am afraid I ſhall have it from you, for but ſtarting ſuch a notion, or giving a hint, which, perhaps, as you did once in another caſe, you will reprimandingly call, ‘'Not being able to forego the oſtentation of ſagacity, tho' at the expence of that tenderneſs which is due to friendſhip and charity.'’

What ſignifies owning a fault, without mending it, you'll ſay?—Very true, my dear. But you know I ever was a ſaucy creature!—Ever ſtood in need of great allowances.—And I know, likewiſe, that I ever had them from my dear Clariſſa Harlowe. Nor do I doubt them now: For you know how much I love you!—If it be poſſible, more than myſelf I love you! Believe me, my dear! And, in conſequence of that belief, you will be able to judge, how much I am affected by your preſent diſtreſsful and critical ſitua⯑tion; which will not ſuffer me to paſs by, without a cenſure, even that philoſophy of temper in your own cauſe, which you have not in another's, and which all that know you, ever admired you for.

From this critical and diſtreſsful ſituation, it ſhall be my hourly prayers, that you may be delivered without blemiſh to that fair fame, which has hitherto, like your heart, been unſpotted.

With This prayer, twenty times repeated, con⯑cludes

I hurry'd myſelf in writing This; and I hurry Robin away with it, that in a Situation ſo very critical, you may have all the time poſſible to conſider what I have written, upon two points ſo very important. I will repeat them in a very few words:

‘'Whether you chooſe not rather to go off with one of your own Sex; with your ANNA HOWE— [281] than with one of the other; with Mr. LOVE⯑LACE?'’

And if not,

‘'Whether you ſhould not marry him as ſoon as poſſible?'’

LETTER XLI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE. [The preceding letter not received.]

ALready have I an ecſtatic anſwer, as I may call it, to my letter.

‘'He promiſes compliance in every article with my will: Approves of all I propoſe; particularly of the private lodging: And thinks it a happy expedient to obviate the cenſures of the buſy and the unreflect⯑ing: And yet he hopes, that the putting myſelf into the protection of either of his aunts, treated as I am treated, would be far from being looked upon by any, in a diſreputable light. But every thing I injoin, or reſolve upon, muſt, he ſays, be right, not only with reſpect to my preſent, but future, ho⯑nour; with regard to which, he hopes ſo to behave himſelf, as to be allow'd to be next to myſelf, more ſolicitous than any-body. He will only aſſure me, that his whole family are extremely deſirous to take advantage of the perſecutions I labour under, to make their court, and endear themſelves, to me; by their beſt and moſt chearful ſervices: Happy, if they can, in any meaſure, contribute to my preſent freedom, and future happineſs.’

‘'He will this afternoon, he ſays, write to his uncle, and to both his aunts, that he is now within view of being the happieſt man in the world, if it be not his own fault; ſince the only woman upon earth that can make him ſo, will be ſoon out of danger of being another man's; and cannot poſſibly preſcribe [282] any terms to him, that he ſhall not think it his duty to comply with.’

‘'He flatters himſelf now (my laſt letter confirming my reſolution), that he can be in no apprehenſion of my changing my mind, unleſs my friends change their manner of acting by me; which he is too ſure they will not. And now will all his relations, who take ſuch a kind and generous ſhare in his intereſts, glory and pride themſelves in the proſpects he has before him.’

Thus artfully does he hold me to it!—

‘'As to fortune, he begs of me not to be ſolicitous on that ſcore: That his own eſtate is ſufficient for us both; not a nominal, but a real, two thouſand pounds per annum, equivalent to ſome eſtates reputed a third more: That it never was incumbred: That he is clear of the world, both as to book and bond-debts; thanks, perhaps, to his pride, more than to his virtue. That his uncle moreover reſolves to ſettle upon him a thou⯑ſand pounds per annum on his nuptials. And this, (if he writes to his Lordſhip's honour) more from mo⯑tives of juſtice, than from thoſe of generoſity, as he ought to conſider it but as an equivalent for an eſtate which he had got poſſeſſion of, to which his [Mr. Lovelace's] mother had better pretenſions. That his Lordſhip alſo propoſed to give him up either his ſeat in Hertfordſhire, or that in Lancaſhire, at his own or at his wife's option, eſpecially if I am the perſon. All which it will be in my power to ſee done, and proper ſettlements drawn, before I enter into any farther engagements with him; if I will have it ſo.'’

He ſays, ‘'That I need not be under any ſolicitude as to apparel: All immediate occaſions of That ſort will be moſt chearfully ſupplied by his aunts, or his couſins Montague: As my others ſhall, with the greateſt pride and pleaſure (if I will allow him that honour), by himſelf.’

[283] ‘'That I ſhall govern him as I pleaſe, with regard to any-thing in his power towards effecting a recon⯑ciliation with my friends: A point he knows my heart is ſet upon.’

‘'He is afraid, that the time will hardly allow of his procuring Miſs Charlotte Montague's attendance upon me, at St. Albans, as he had propoſed ſhe ſhould; becauſe, he underſtands, ſhe keeps her cham⯑ber, with a violent cold, and ſore throat. But both ſhe and her ſiſter, the firſt moment ſhe is able to go abroad, ſhall viſit me at my private lodgings; and introduce me to their aunts, or their aunts to me, as I ſhall chooſe; and accompany me to town, if I pleaſe; and ſtay as long in it with me, as I ſhall think fit to ſtay there.’

‘'Lord M. will alſo, at my own time, and in my own manner, that is to ſay, either publicly or pri⯑vately, make me a viſit. And, for his own part, when he has ſeen me in ſafety, either in their protection, or in the privacy I prefer, he will leave me, and not attempt to viſit me, but by my own permiſſion.’

‘'He had thoughts once, he ſays, on hearing of his couſin Charlotte's indiſpoſition, to have engaged his couſin Patty's attendance upon me, either at or about the neighbouring village, or at St. Albans: But, he ſays, ſhe is a low-ſpirited, timorous girl, who would but the more perplex us.'’

So, my dear, the enterprize requires courage and high ſpirits, you ſee!—And indeed it does!—What am I about to do!—

He himſelf, it is plain, thinks it neceſſary, that I ſhould be accompanied with one of my own Sex!—He might, at leaſt, have propoſed the woman of one of the Ladies of his family.—Lord bleſs me!—What am I about to do!—

AFTER all, far as I have gone, I know not but I may ſtill recede: And if I do, a mortal quarrel, I [284] ſuppoſe, will enſue.—And what if it does?—Could there be any way to eſcape this Solmes, a breach with Lovelace might make way for the Single Life [ſo much, my preferable wiſh!] to take place: And then I would defy the Sex. For I ſee nothing but trouble and vexation that they bring upon ours: And when once enter'd, one is obliged to go on with them, treading, with tender feet, upon thorns, and ſharper thorns, to the end of a painful journey.

What to do, I know not. The more I think, the more I am embarraſs'd!—And the ſtronger will be my doubts, as the appointed time draws nearer.

But I will go down, and take a little turn in the garden; and depoſite This, and his letters, all but the two laſt; which I will incloſe in my next, if I have opportunity to write another.

Mean time, my dear friend—But what can I deſire you to pray for?—Adieu then!—Let me only ſay,—Adieu!—

LETTER XLII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE. [In anſwer to Letter XL.]

DO not think, my beloved friend, altho' you have given me, in yours of yeſterday, a ſeverer inſtance of what, nevertheleſs, I muſt call your im⯑partial Love, than ever yet I received from you, that I will be diſpleaſed with you for it. That would be to put myſelf into the inconvenient ſituation of Royalty: That is to ſay, Out of the way of ever be⯑ing told of my faults; of ever mending them; and In the way of making the ſincereſt and warmeſt friend⯑ſhip uſeleſs to me.

And then how brightly, how nobly, burns this ſacred flame in your boſom! that you are ready to [285] impute to the unhappy ſufferer a leſs degree of warmth in her own cauſe, than you have for her, becauſe ſhe endeavours to diveſt herſelf of Self, ſo far as to leave others to the option which they have a right to make? Ought I, my dear, to blame, ought I not rather to admire, you for this ardor?

But, nevertheleſs, leſt you ſhould think, that there is any foundation for a ſurmize, which, altho' it owe its riſe to your friendſhip, would, if there were, leave me utterly inexcuſable; I muſt, injuſtice to myſelf, declare, That I know not my own heart, if I have any of that latent or un-owned inclination, which you would impute to any other but me. Nor does the im⯑portant alternative ſit lightly on my mind. And yet I muſt excuſe your mamma, were it but on this ſingle conſideration, That I could not preſume to reckon upon her favour, as I could upon her daughter's, ſo as to make the claim of friendſhip upon her, to whom, as the mother of my deareſt friend, a veneration is owing, which can hardly be compatible with that ſweet fami⯑liarity, which is one of the indiſpenſibles of the ſacred tie by which your heart and mine are bound in one.

What therefore I might expect from my Anna Howe, I ought not from her mamma; for would it not be very ſtrange, that a perſon of her experience ſhould be reflected upon, becauſe ſhe gave not up her own judgment, where the conſequence of her doing ſo would be, to embroil herſelf, as ſhe apprehends, with a family ſhe has lived well with, and in behalf of a child againſt her parents?—As ſhe has, moreover, a daughter of her own:—A daughter too, give me leave to ſay, of whoſe vivacity and charming ſpirits ſhe is more apprehenſive than ſhe need to be; becauſe her truly maternal cares make her fear more from her youth, than ſhe hopes from her prudence; which ne⯑vertheleſs ſhe, and all the world, know to be beyond her years.

And here let me add, That whatever you may [286] generouſly, and as the reſult of an ardent affection for your unhappy friend, urge on this head, in my behalf, or harſhly againſt any one who may refuſe me protection in ſuch extraordinary circumſtances as I find myſelf in; I have ſome pleaſure, in being able to curb undue expectations upon my indulgent friends, whatever were to befal myſelf from thoſe circum⯑ſtances; for I ſhould be extremely mortified, were I, by my ſelfiſh forwardneſs, to give occaſion for ſuch a check, as to be told, that I had encouraged an un⯑reaſonable hope; or, according to the phraſe you men⯑tion, wiſhed to take a Thorn out of my own foot, and to put it into that of my friend. Nor ſhould I be better pleaſed with myſelf, if, having been taught by my good Mrs. Norton, that the beſt of ſchools, is That of affliction, I ſhould rather learn impatience than the contrary, by the leſſons I am obliged to get by heart in it; and if I ſhould judge of the merits of others, as they were kind to me; and that at the expence of their own convenience or peace of mind. For is not This to ſuppoſe myſelf ever in the right; and all who do not act as I would have them act, perpetually in the wrong? In ſhort, to make my ſake, God's ſake, in the ſenſe of Mr. Solmes's pitiful plea to me.

How often, my dear, have You and I endeavour'd to detect and cenſure this partial ſpirit in others?

But I know, you do not always content yourſelf with ſaying what you think may juſtly be ſaid: But, in order to ſhew the extent of a penetration, which can go to the bottom of any ſubject, delight to ſay, or to write, all that can be ſaid, or written, or even thought, on the particular occaſion; and this partly, perhaps, from being deſirous (pardon me, my dear!) to be thought miſtreſs of a ſagacity that is aforehand with events. But who would wiſh to drain off, or dry up, a refreſhing current, becauſe it now and then puts us to ſome little inconvenience by its over-flow⯑ings? In other words, who would not allow, for the [287] livelineſs of a ſpirit, which, for one painful ſenſibility, gives an hundred pleaſurable ones: And the one in conſequence of the other?

But now I come to the two points in your letter, that moſt ſenſibly concern me: Thus you put them:

You know, my dear, my reaſons for rejecting your propoſal, and even for being earneſt that you ſhould not be known to be aſſiſting to me in an enterprize, which a cruel neceſſity induced me to think of engaging in; and which you have not the ſame plea for. At this rate, well might your mamma be uneaſy at our cor⯑reſpondence, not knowing to what inconveniencies it might ſubject her and you!—If I am hardly ex⯑cuſable to think of flying from my unkind friends, what could you have to ſay for yourſelf, were you to abandon a mother ſo indulgent? Does ſhe ſuſpect, that your fervent friendſhip may lead you to a ſmall indiſcretion? and does this ſuſpicion offend you? And would you, in revenge, ſhew her and the world, that you can voluntarily ruſh into the higheſt error, that any of our ſex can be guilty of?

And is it worthy of your generoſity [I aſk you, my dear, is it?] to think of taking ſo undutiful a ſtep, becauſe you believe your mamma would be glad to receive you again?

I do aſſure you, that were I to take this ſtep my⯑ſelf, I would run all riſques rather than you ſhould accompany me in it. Have I, do you think, a deſire to double and treble my own fault, in the eye of the world? In the eye of that world, which, cruelly as I am uſed (not knowing all), would not acquit me?

[288]But, my deareſt, kindeſt friend, let me tell you, That we will neither of us take ſuch a ſtep. The manner of putting your queſtions, abundantly con⯑vinces me, that I ought not, in your opinion, to at⯑tempt it. You, no doubt, intend, that I ſhall ſo take it; and I thank you for the equally polite and forcible conviction.

It is ſome ſatisfaction to me, taking the matter in this light, that I had begun to waver before I received your laſt. And now I tell you, that it has abſolutely determin'd me not to go away; at leaſt, not to-morrow.

If You, my dear, think the iſſue of the alternative, to uſe your own words, ſits ſo lightly upon my mind ▪ in ſhort, that my inclination is faulty; the world would treat me much leſs ſcrupulouſly. When, therefore, you repreſent, that all punctilio muſt be at an end the moment I am out of my father's houſe; and hint, that I muſt ſubmit it to Lovelace to judge when he can leave me with ſafety; that is to ſay, give him the option whether he will leave me, or not; Who can bear theſe reflections, and reſolve to incur theſe in⯑conveniences, that has the queſtion ſtill in her own power to decide upon?

While I thought only of an eſcape from This houſe, as an eſcape from Mr. Solmes; that already my reputa⯑tion ſuffer'd by my confinement; and that it would be ſtill in my own option, either to marry Mr. Lovelace, or wholly to renounce him; Bold as the ſtep was, I thought, treated as I am treated, ſomething was to be ſaid in excuſe of it—If not to the world, to my⯑self: And to be ſelf-acquitted, is a bleſſing to be pre⯑ferred to the opinion of all the world. But, after I have cenſured that indiſcreet forwardneſs in ſome, who (flying from their chamber to the altar) have, with⯑out the leaſt ceremony, ruſh'd upon the greateſt: After I have ſtipulated with him for time, and for an ulti⯑mate option, whether to accept or refuſe him; and for his leaving me, as ſoon as I am in a place of ſafety [289] (which, as you obſerve, he muſt be the judge of): And after he has comply'd with theſe terms; ſo that I cannot, if I would, recall them, and ſuddenly marry;—You ſee, my dear, that I have nothing left me, but to reſolve, not to go away with him.

But, how, on this revocation, ſhall I be able to pacify him?

How!—Why aſſert the privilege of my Sex!—Surely, on This ſide of the ſolemnity he has no right to be diſpleaſed. Beſides, did I not reſerve a power of receding, if I ſaw fit? To what purpoſe, as I aſked in the caſe between your mamma and you, has any-body an option, if the making uſe of it, ſhall give the refuſed a right to be diſguſted?

Far, very far, would Thoſe be, who, according to the Old Law, have a right of abſolving or confirming a child's promiſe, from ratifying mine, had it been ever ſo ſolemn a one ^(a). But This was rather an ap⯑pointment than a promiſe: And ſuppoſe it had been [290] the latter; and that I had not reſerv'd to myſelf a liberty of revoking it, was it to preclude better or maturer conſideration?—If ſo, how unfit to be given!—How ungenerous to be inſiſted upon!—And how unfitter ſtill, to be kept!—Is there a man living, who ought to be angry, that a woman, whom he hopes one day to call his, ſhall refuſe to keep a raſh promiſe, when, on the matureſt deliberation, ſhe is convinc'd, that it was a raſh one?

I reſolve then, upon the whole, to ſtand This one trial of Wedneſday next.—Or, perhaps, I ſhould ra⯑ther ſay, of Tueſday evening; if my father hold his purpoſe of endeavouring, in perſon, to make me read, or hear read, and then ſign, the ſettlements.—That, that muſt be the greateſt trial of all.

If I am compelled to ſign them over-night!—Then [the Lord bleſs me!] muſt All I dread, follow, as of courſe, on Wedneſday.—If I can prevail upon them, by my prayers—Perhaps, by fits, and delirium, (for the very firſt appearance of my father, after hav⯑ing been ſo long baniſh'd his preſence, will greatly af⯑fect me) to lay aſide their views; or to ſuſpend, if but for one week; if not, but for two or three days; ſtill Wedneſday will be a lighter day of trial.—They will ſurely give me time to conſider; to argue with myſelf—This will not be promiſing—As I have made no effort to get away, they have no reaſon to ſuſpect me; ſo I may have an opportunity, in the laſt reſort, to eſcape. Mrs. Norton is to be with me: She, altho' ſhe ſhould be check'd for it, will, in my extremity, plead for me. My aunt Hervey may, on ſuch ex⯑tremity, join her. Perhaps, my mamma may be brought over. I will kneel to each, one by one, to make a friend. They have been afraid, ſome of them, to ſee me, leſt they ſhould be moved in my favour: Does not This give me a reaſonable hope, that I may move them?—My brother's counſel, heretofore given, to turn me out of doors to my evil deſtiny, may again [291] be repeated, and may prevail: Then ſhall I be in no worſe caſe than now, as to the diſpleaſure of my friends; and thus far better, that it will not be my fault that I leave them, and ſeek another protection: Which even then, ought to be my couſin Morden's, rather than Mr. Lovelace's, or any other perſon's.

My heart, in ſhort, miſgives me leſs, when I re⯑ſolve This way, than when I think of the other: And in ſo ſtrong and involuntary a byaſs, the heart is, as I may ſay, Conſcience. And well cautions the wiſe man: ‘'Let the counſel of thine own heart ſtand; for there is no man more faithful to thee, than It: For a man's mind is ſometimes wont to tell him more than ſeven watchmen, that fit above in a high tower.'’ ^(a)

Forgive theſe indigeſted ſelf-reaſonings. I will cloſe here: And inſtantly ſet about a letter of revocation to Mr. Lovelace; take it as he will. It will only be an⯑other trial of temper to him. To me of infinite im⯑portance. And has he not promiſed temper and ac⯑quieſcence, on the ſuppoſition of a change in my mind?

LETTER XLIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XLIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

HE has not yet got my letter: And while I was contriving here, how to ſend my officious gaol⯑ereſs from me, that I might have time for the intended [299] interview, and had hit upon an expedient, which I believe would have done, came my aunt, and fur⯑niſh'd me with a much better. She ſaw my little table covered, preparative to my ſolitary dinner; and hoped, ſhe told me, that this would be the laſt day, that my friends would be deprived of my company at table.

You may believe, my dear, that the thoughts of meeting Mr. Lovelace, the fear of being diſcover'd, together with the contents of my couſin Dolly's letter, gave me great and viſible emotions. She took notice of them:—Why theſe ſighs, why theſe heavings here, ſaid ſhe, patting my neck?—O my dear niece, who would have thought ſo much natural ſweetneſs could be ſo very unperſuadable?

I could not anſwer her, and ſhe proceeded.—I am come, I doubt, upon a very unwelcome errand. Some things that have been told us yeſterday, which came from the mouth of one of the moſt deſperate and inſo⯑lent men in the world, convince your father, and all of us, that you ſtill find means to write out of the houſe. Mr. Lovelace knows every-thing that is done here; and that as ſoon as done; and great miſchief is appre⯑hended from him, which you are as much concerned as any-body, to prevent. Your mamma has alſo ſome apprehenſions concerning yourſelf, which yet ſhe hopes are groundleſs; but, however, cannot be eaſy, nor will be permitted to be eaſy, if ſhe would, un⯑leſs (while you remain here in the garden, or in this ſummer-houſe) you give her the opportunity once more of looking into your cloſet, your cabinet, and drawers. It will be the better taken, if you give me chearfully your keys. I hope, my dear, you won't diſpute it. Your deſire of dining in this place was the more readily comply'd with, for the ſake of ſuch an opportunity.

I thought myſelf very lucky, to be ſo well pre⯑pared, by my couſin Dolly's means, for this ſearch: [300] But yet I artfully made ſome ſcruples, and not a few complaints of this treatment: After which, I not only gave her the keys of all; but even officiouſly empty'd my pockets before her, and invited her to put her fingers in my ſtays, that ſhe might be ſure that I had no papers there.

This highly obliged her; and ſhe ſaid, She would repreſent my chearful compliance as it deſerved, let my brother and ſiſter ſay what they would. My mam⯑ma, in particular, ſhe was ſure, would rejoice at the opportunity given her to obviate, as ſhe doubted not would be the caſe, ſome ſuſpicions that were raiſed againſt me.

She then hinted, That there were methods taken to come at all Mr. Lovelace's ſecrets, and even, from his careleſs communicativeneſs, at ſome of mine; it being, ſhe ſaid, his cuſtom, boaſtingly to prate to his very ſervants of his intentions, in particular caſes. She added, that, deep as he was thought to be, my brother was as deep as he; and fairly too hard for him at his own weapons;—as one day it would be found.

I knew not, I ſaid, the meaning of theſe dark hints. I thought the cunning ſhe hinted at, on both ſides, called rather for contempt than applauſe. I myſelf might have been put upon artifices which my heart diſdained to practiſe, had I given way to the reſent⯑ment, which, I was bold to ſay, was much more juſti⯑fiable than the actions that occaſion'd it: That it was evident to me, from what ſhe had ſaid, that their pre⯑ſent ſuſpicions of me were partly owing to this ſup⯑poſed ſuperior cunning of my brother; and partly to the conſciouſneſs, that the uſage I met with might naturally produce a reaſon for ſuch ſuſpicions: That it was very unhappy for me, to be made the butt of my brother's wit: That it would have been more to his praiſe, to have aimed at ſhewing a kind heart, than a cunning head: That, nevertheleſs, I wiſhed, [301] he knew himſelf as well as I imagin'd I knew him; and he would then have leſs conceit of his abi⯑lities: Which abilities would, in my opinion, be leſs thought of, if his power to do ill offices were not much greater than them.

I was vex'd. I could not help making this re⯑flection. The dupe the other, too probably, makes of him, thro' his own ſpy, deſerv'd it. But I ſo little approve of this low art in either, that were I but tole⯑rably uſed, the vileneſs of that man, that Joſeph Le⯑man, ſhould be inquired into.

She was ſorry, ſhe ſaid, to find, that I thought ſo diſparagingly of my brother. He was a young gen⯑tleman both of learning and parts.

Learning enough, I ſaid, to make him vain of it among us women: But not of parts ſufficient to make his learning valuable either to himſelf, or to any-body elſe.—

She wiſhed, indeed, that he had more good-nature: But ſhe feared, that I had too great an opinion of ſomebody elſe, to think ſo well of my brother, as a ſiſter ought: Since, between the two, there was a ſort of rivalry as to abilities, that made them hate one another.

Rivalry, Madam, ſaid I!—If that be the caſe, or whether it be or not, I wiſh they both underſtood better than either of them ſeems to do, what it becomes gentlemen, and men of liberal education, to be, and to do.—Neither of them, then, would glory in what they ought to be aſhamed of.

But waving this ſubject, it was not impoſſible, I ſaid, that they might find a little of my writing, and a pen or two, and a little ink [Hated art!—or rather, hateful the neceſſity for it!], as I was not permitted to go up to put them out of the way: But, if they did, I muſt be contented. And I aſſured her, that, t [...]ke what time they pleaſed, I would not go in to diſturb them, but would be either in or near the garden, [302] in this ſummer-houſe, or in the cedar one, about my poultry-yard, or near the great caſcade, till I was or⯑der'd to return to my priſon. With like cunning I ſaid, that I ſuppoſed the unkind ſearch would not be made, till the ſervants had dined; becauſe I doubted not, that the pert Betty Barnes, who knew all the corners of my apartment and cloſet, would be im⯑ploy'd in it.

She hoped, ſhe ſaid, that nothing could be found that would give a handle againſt me: For, ſhe would aſſure me, the motives to the ſearch, on my mamma's part eſpecially, were, that ſhe hoped to find reaſon rather to acquit than to blame me; and that my papa might be induced to ſee me to-morrow night, or Wedneſday morning, with temper: With tenderneſs, I ſhould rather ſay, ſaid ſhe; for he is reſolved ſo to do, if no new offence be given.

Ah! Madam, ſaid I!—

Why that Ah, Madam, and ſhaking your head ſo ſignificantly?

I wiſh, Madam, that I may not have more reaſon to dread my papa's continued diſpleaſure, than to hope for his returning tenderneſs.

You don't know, my dear!—Things may take a turn—Things may not be ſo bad as you fear—

Deareſt Madam, have you any conſolation to give me?—

Why, my dear, it is poſſible, that you may be more compliable than you have been.

Why raiſed you my hopes, Madam!—Don't let me think my dear aunt Hervey cruel to a niece who truly honours her.

I may tell you more perhaps, ſaid ſhe, (but in con⯑fidence, in abſolute confidence) if the inquiry within come out in your favour. Do you know of any-thing above, that can be found to your diſadvantage?

Some papers they will find, I doubt: But I muſt take conſequences. My brother and ſiſter will be at [303] hand with their good-natured conſtructions. I am made deſperate, and care not what is found.

She hoped, ſhe earneſtly hoped, ſhe ſaid, that nothing could be found, that would impeach my diſcretion; and then—But ſhe might ſay too much—

And away ſhe went, having added to my perplexity.

But I now can think of nothing but this man!—This interview!—Would to Heaven it were over!—To meet to quarrel—But I will not ſtay a moment with him, let him take what meaſures he will upon it, if he be not quite calm and reſigned.

Don't you ſee how crooked ſome of my lines are? Don't you ſee how ſome of the letters ſtagger, more than others!—That is when this interview is more in my head, than my ſubject.

But, after all, ſhould I, ought I, to meet him? How I have taken it for granted, that I ſhould!—I wiſh there were time to take your advice. Yet you are ſo loth to ſpeak quite out!—But that I owe, as you own, to the difficulty of my ſituation.

I ſhould have mentioned, that in the courſe of this converſation I beſought my aunt to ſtand my friend, and to put in a word for me, on my approaching trial; and to endeavour to procure me time for conſidera⯑tion, if I could obtain nothing elſe.

She told me, that, after the ceremony was per⯑form'd [odious confirmation of a hint in my couſin Dolly's letter!] I ſhould have what time I pleaſed to reconcile myſelf to my lot, before cohabitation.

This put me out of all patience.

She requeſted of me in her turn, ſhe ſaid, that I would reſolve to meet them all with chearful duty, and with a ſpirit of abſolute acquieſcence. It was in my power to make them all happy. And how affect⯑ingly joyful would it be to her, ſhe ſaid, to ſee my father, my mother, my uncles, my brother, my ſiſter, all embracing me with raptures, and folding me by turns to their fond hearts, and congratulating each [304] other on their reſtored happineſs. Her own joy, ſhe ſaid, would probably make her motionleſs and ſpeech⯑leſs, for a time: And for her Dolly—the poor girl, who had ſuffer'd in the eſteem of ſome, for her grate⯑ful attachment to me, would have every-body love her again.

Will you doubt, my dear, that my next trial will be the moſt affecting that I have yet had?

My aunt ſet forth all this in ſo ſtrong a light, and I was ſo particularly touched on my couſin Dol⯑ly's account, that, impatient as I was juſt before, I was greatly moved: Yet could only ſhew by my ſighs and my tears, how deſirable ſuch an event would be to me, could it be brought about upon conditions with which it was poſſible for me to comply.

Here comes Betty Barnes with my dinner—

The wench is gone. The time of meeting is at hand. O that he may not come!—But ſhould I, or ſhould I not, meet him?—How I queſtion, without poſſibility of a timely anſwer!

Betty, according to my leading hint to my aunt, boaſted to me, that ſhe was to be imploy'd, as ſhe called it, after ſhe had eat her own dinner.

She ſhould be ſorry, ſhe told me, to have me found out. Yet 'twould be all for my good: I ſhould have it in my power to be forgiven for all at once, before Wedneſday night. The Confidence then, to ſtifle a laugh, put a corner of her apron in her mouth, and went to the door: And on her return, to take away, as I angrily bid her, ſhe begg'd my excuſe.—But—But—and then the ſaucy creature laugh'd again, ſhe could not help it; to think how I had drawn myſelf in by my ſummer-houſe dinnering; ſince it had given ſo fine an opportunity, by way of ſurprize, to look into all my private hoards. She thought ſomething was in the wind, when my brother came into my dining here ſo readily. Her young maſter was too [305] hard for every-body. 'Squire Lovelace himſelf was nothing at all at a quick thought, to her young maſter.

My aunt mention'd Mr. Lovelace's boaſting beha⯑viour to his ſervants: Perhaps he may be ſo mean. But as to my brother, he always took a pride in making himſelf appear to be a man of parts and learn⯑ing to our ſervants. Pride and Meanneſs, I have often thought, are as nearly ally'd, and as cloſe borderers upon each other, as the poet tells us Wit and Mad⯑neſs are.

But why do I trouble you (and myſelf, at ſuch a cri⯑ſis) with theſe impertinencies?—Yet I would forget, if I could, the neareſt evil, the interview; becauſe, my apprehenſions increaſing, as the hour is at hand, I ſhould, were my attention to be ingroſſed by them, be unfit to ſee him, if he does come: And then he will have too much advantage over me, as he will have ſeeming reaſon to reproach me with change of reſolution.

The upbraider, you know, my dear, is in ſome ſenſe a ſuperior; while the upbraided, if with reaſon upbraided, muſt make a figure as ſpiritleſs as con⯑ſcious.

I know that this wretch will, if he can, be his own judge, and mine too. But the latter he ſhall not be.

I dare ſay, we ſhall be all to pieces. But I don't care for that. It would be hard, if I, who have held it out ſo ſturdily to my father and uncles, ſhould not—But he is at the garden-door—

I was miſtaken!—How may noiſes un-like, be made like what one fears!—Why flutters the fool ſo!—

I will haſten to depoſite this. Then I will, for the laſt time, go to the uſual place, in hopes to find, that he has got my letter. If he has, I will not meet him. If he has not, I will take it back, and ſhew him what [306] I have written. That will break the ice, as I may ſay, and ſave me much circumlocution and reaſon⯑ing: And a ſtedfaſt adherence to that my written mind is all that will be neceſſary.—The interview muſt be as ſhort as poſſible; for ſhould it be diſco⯑ver'd, it would furniſh a new and ſtrong pretence for the intended evil of Wedneſday next.

Perhaps I ſhall not be able to write again one while. Perhaps not, till I am the miſerable property of that Solmes!—But that ſhall never, never be, while I have my ſenſes.

If your ſervant find nothing from me by Wed⯑neſday morning, you may conclude, that I can then neither write to you, nor receive your favours.—

In that caſe, pity and pray for me, my beloved friend, and continue to me that place in your affe⯑ction, which is the pride of my life, and the only comfort left to

LETTER XLV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

AFTER what I had reſolved upon, as by my former, what ſhall I write? What can I? With what conſciouſneſs, even by Letter, do I approach you!—You will ſoon hear (if already you have not heard from the mouth of common fame), that your Clariſſa Harlowe is gone off with a man!—

I am buſying myſelf to give you the particulars at large. The whole twenty-four hours of each day (to begin the moment I can fix) ſhall be imployed in it till it is finiſhed: Every-one of the hours, I mean, that will be ſpared me, by this interrupting man, to [307] whom I have made myſelf ſo fooliſhly accountable for too many of them. Reſt is departed from me. I have no call for That: And That has no balm for the wounds of my mind. So you'll have all thoſe hours, without interruption, till the account is ended.

But will you receive, ſhall you be permitted to re⯑ceive, my letters, after what I have done?

O, my deareſt friend!—But I muſt make the beſt of it. I hope that will not be very bad! Yet am I convinced, that I did a raſh, an inexcuſable thing, in meeting him; and all his tenderneſs, all his vows, cannot pacify my inward reproaches on that account.

The bearer comes to you, my dear, for the little parcel of linen, which I ſent you with far better and more agreeeble hopes.

Send not my letters. Send the linen only: Ex⯑cept you will favour me with one line, to tell me, you will love me ſtill; and that you will ſuſpend your cenſures, till you have the whole before you. I am the readier to ſend thus early, becauſe if you have de⯑poſited any-thing for me, you may cauſe it to be taken back, or withhold any-thing you had but intended to ſend.

Adieu, my deareſt friend!—I beſeech you to love me ſtill!—But, alas! what will your mamma ſay?—What will mine!—What my other relations?—and what my dear Mrs. Norton? And how will my bro⯑ther and ſiſter triumph?—

I cannot at preſent tell you how, or where, you can direct to me. For very early ſhall I leave this place; harraſſed and fatigued to death! But, when I can do nothing elſe, conſtant uſe has made me able to write. Long, very long, has that been all my amuſement and pleaſure: Yet could not that have been ſuch to me, had I not had you, my beſt-beloved friend, to write to. Once more adieu. Pity, and pray for,

LETTER XLVI. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Write, becauſe you enjoin me to do ſo.—Love you ſtill!—How can I help it, if I would?—You may believe how I ſtand aghaſt, your letter commu⯑nicating the firſt news—Good God of heaven and earth!—But what ſhall I ſay?—I ſhall be all impa⯑tience for particulars.

Lord have mercy upon me!—But can it be?

My mamma will, indeed, be aſtoniſhed!—How can I tell it to her?—It was but laſt night that I aſ⯑ſured her (upon ſome jealouſies put into her head by your fooliſh uncle), and this upon the ſtrength of your own aſſurances, that neither man nor devil would be able to induce you to take a ſtep, that was in the leaſt derogatory to the moſt punctilious ho⯑nour.

But, once more, Can it be? What woman, at this rate!—But, God preſerve you!

Let nothing eſcape you in your letters. Direct them for me, however, to Mrs. Knollys's, till fur⯑ther notice.

OBSERVE, my dear, that I don't blame you by all this—Your relations only are in fault!—Yet how you came to change your mind, is the ſurpriſing thing!—

How to break it to my mamma, I know not. Yet, if ſhe hear it firſt from any other, and find I knew it before, ſhe will believe it is by my connivance!—Yet, as I hope to live, I know not how to break it to her!

But this is teazing you!—I am ſure, without inten⯑tion.

[309]Let me now repeat my former advice—If you are not married by this time, be ſure delay not the cere⯑mony.—Since things are as they are, I wiſh it were thought, that you were privately married before you went away. If theſe men plead AUTHORITY to our pain, when we are theirs—why ſhould we not, in ſuch a caſe as this, make ſome good out of the hated word, for our reputation, when we are induced to violate a more natural one?

Your brother and ſiſter [that vexes me almoſt as much as any thing!] have now their ends. Now, I ſuppoſe, will go forward alterations of wills, and ſuch-like ſpiteful doings.

Miſs Lloyd and Miſs Biddulph this moment ſend up their names.—They are out of breath, Kitty ſays, to ſpeak to me.—Eaſy to gueſs their errand!—I muſt ſee my mamma, before I ſee them. I have no way but to ſhew her your letter, to clear myſelf. I ſhall not be able to ſay a word, till ſhe has run herſelf out of her firſt breath.—Forgive me, my dear!—Surprize makes me write thus. If your meſſenger did not wait, and were not thoſe young Ladies below, I would write it over again, for fear of afflicting you.

I ſend what you write for. If there be any-thing elſe you want, that is in my power, command, with⯑out reſerve,