LETTER I. Miss ANNA HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I AM extremely concerned, my dearest friend, for the disturbances that have hap­pened in your family. I know how it must hurt you, to become the subject of the public talk: And yet, upon an occasion so generally known, it is impossible but that whatever relates to a young lady, whose distinguished merits have made her the public care, should engage every-body's attention. I long to have the particulars from your­self; and of the usage I am told you receive upon an accident you could not help; and in which, as far as I can learn, the sufferer was the aggressor.

[Page 2]Mr. Diggs ^*, whom I sent for at the first hearing of the rencounter, to inquire, for your sake, how your brother was, told me, That there was no danger from the wound, if there were none from the fever; which, it seems, has been increased by the perturbation of his spirits.

Mr. Wyerley drank tea with us yesterday; and tho' he is far from being partial to Mr. Lovelace, as it may be well supposed, yet both he and Mr. Symmes blame your family for the treatment they gave him, when he went in person to inquire after your bro­ther's health, and to express his concern for what had happened.

They say, That Mr. Lovelace could not avoid drawing his sword: And that either your brother's un­skilfulness or violence left him, from the very first pass, intirely in his power. This, I am told, was what Mr. Lovelace said upon it; retreating as he spoke: ‘'Have a care, Mr. Harlowe—Your violence puts you out of your defence. You give me too much ad­vantage! For your sister's sake, I will pass by every­thing;—if—'’

But this the more provoked his rashness, to lay him­self open to the advantage of his adversary—Who, af­ter a slight wound in the arm, took away his sword.

There are people who love not your brother, be­cause of his natural imperiousness, and fierce and un­controulable temper: These say, That the young gen­tleman's passion was abated, on seeing his blood gush plentifully down his arm; and that he received the generous offices of his adversary, who help'd him off with his coat and waistcoat, and bound up his arm, till the surgeon could come, with such patience, as was far from making a visit afterwards from that ad­versary to inquire after his health, appear either in­sulting, or improper.

Be this as it may, every-body pities you. So steady, [Page 3] so uniform in your conduct: So desirous, as you al­ways said, of sliding through life to the end of it un­noted; and, as I may add, not wishing to be observed even for your silent benevolence; sufficiently happy in the noble consciousness which rewards it: Rather useful, than glaring, your deserved motto; though now push'd into blaze, as we see, to your regret; and yet blamed at home for the faults of others;—How must such a virtue suffer on every hand!—Yet it must be allowed, that your present trial is but proportion'd to your prudence!—

As all your friends without doors are apprehensive, that some other unhappy event may result from so vio­lent a contention, in which, it seems, the families on both sides are now engaged, I must desire you to en­able me, on the authority of your own information, to do you occasional justice.

My mamma, and all of us, like the rest of the world, talk of nobody but you, on this occasion, and of the consequences which may follow, from the re­sentments of a man of Mr. Lovelace's spirit; who, as he gives out, has been treated with high indignity by your uncles. My mamma will have it, that you can­not now, with any decency, either see him, or corre­spond with him. She is a good deal prepossessed by your uncle Antony; who occasionally calls upon us, as you know; and, on this rencounter, has repre­sented to her the crime, which it would be in a sister, to encourage a man, who is to wade into her favour, (this was his expression) thro' the blood of her brother.

Write to me therefore, my dear, the whole of your story, from the time that Mr. Lovelace was first intro­duce [...] into your family; and particularly an account of all that passed between him and your sister; about which there are different reports; some people sup­posing that the younger sister (at least by her uncom­mon merit) has stolen a lover from the elder: And pray write in so full a manner, as may gratify those, [Page 4] who know not so much of your affairs, as I do. If any thing unhappy should fall out from the violence of such spirits as you have to deal with, your account of all things previous to it, will be your justification.

You see what you draw upon yourself, by excelling all your sex: Every individual of it, who knows you, or has heard of you, seems to think you answerable to her for your conduct in points so very delicate and concerning.

Every eye, in short, is upon you, with the expecta­tion of an example. I wish to heaven you were at liberty to pursue your own methods: All would then, I dare say, be easy, and honourably ended. But I dread your directors and directresses: for your mamma, admirably well qualified as she is to lead, must sub­mit to be led. Your sister and brother will certainly put you out of your course.

But this is a point you will not permit me to ex­patiate upon: Pardon me therefore, and I have done.—Yet, why should I say, Pardon me? When your concerns are my concerns? When your honour is my honour? When I love you, as never woman loved another? And when you have allowed of that concern and of that love; and have for years, which in persons so young, may be called many, ranked in the first class of your friends,

Will you oblige me with a copy of the preamble to the clauses in your grandfather's will in your favour; and allow me to send it to my aunt Harman?—She is very desirous to see it. Yet your character has so charm'd her, that, tho' a stranger to you personally, she assents to the pre­ference given you in it, before she knows his reasons for that preference.

LETTER II. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

HOW you oppress me, my dearest friend, with your politeness! I cannot doubt your sincerity; but you should take care, that you give me not rea­son, from your kind partiality, to call in question your judgment. You do not distinguish, that I take many admirable hints from you, and have the art to pass them upon you for my own: For in all you do, in all you say, nay, in your very looks (so animated!), you give lessons, to one who loves you and observes you, as I love and observe you, without knowing that you do:—So, pray, my dear, be more sparing of your praise for the future, lest, after this confession, we should suspect, that you secretly intend to praise your­self, while you would be thought only to commend another.

Our family has indeed been strangely discomposed.— Discomposed!—It has been in tumults, ever since the unhappy transaction; and I have borne all the blame; yet should have had too much concern, from myself, had I been more justly spared by every one else.

For, whether it be owing to a faulty impatience, having been too indulgently treated to be inured to blame, or to the regret I have to hear those censured on my account, whom it is my duty to vindicate; I have sometimes wished, that it had pleased God to have taken me in my last fever, when I had every­body's love, and good opinion; but oftener, that I had never been distinguished by my grandpapa as I was: Which has estranged from me, I doubt, my brother's and sister's affections; at least, has raised a jealousy, with regard to the apprehended favour of my two uncle, that now-and-then overshadows their love.

[Page 6]My brother being happily recover'd of his fever, and his wound in a hopeful way, altho' he has not yet ven­tured abroad, I will be as particular as you desire in the little history you demand of me. But heaven for­bid, that any thing should ever happen, which may require it to be produced for the purpose you so kindly mention!

I will begin, as you command, with Mr. Lovelace's address to my sister; and be as brief as possible. I will recite facts only; and leave you to judge of the truth of the report raised, that the younger sister has robbed the elder.

It was in pursuance of a conference between Lord M. and my uncle Antony, that Mr. Lovelace (my papa and mamma not forbidding) paid his respects to my sister Arabella. My brother was then in Scotland, busying himself in viewing the condition of the con­siderable estate which was left him there by his gene­rous godmother, together with one as considerable in Yorkshire. I was also absent at my Dairy-house, as it is called ^(a), busied in the accounts relating to the estate which my grandfather had the goodness to bequeath me; and which once a year are left to my inspection, altho' I have given the whole into my papa's power.

My sister made me a visit there the day after Mr. Lovelace had been introduced; and seemed highly pleased with the gentleman. His birth, his fortune in possession, a clear 2000 l. per annum, as Lord M. had assured my uncle; presumptive heir to that nobleman's large estate: His great expectations from Lady Sarah [Page 7] Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance; who, with his uncle, interested themselves very warmly (he being the last of his line) to see him married.

‘'So handsome a man!—O her beloved Clary!'’ (for then she was ready to love me dearly, from the overflowings of her good humour on his account!) ‘'He was but too handsome a man for her!—Were she but as amiable as somebody, there would be a proba­bility of holding his affections!—For he was wild, she heard; very wild, very gay; loved intrigue—But he was young; a man of sense: Would see his error; could she but have patience with his faults, if his faults were not cured by marriage.'’

Thus she ran on; and then wanted me ‘'to see the charming man,'’ as she called him.—Again concerned, ‘'that she was not handsome enough for him:'’ With, ‘'A sad thing, that the man should have the advantage of the woman in that particular.'’ —But then, stepping to the glass, she complimented herself, ‘'That she was very well: That there were many women deemed passable, who were inferior to herself: That she was always thought comely; and, let her tell me, that comeliness having not so much to lose as beauty had, would hold, when that would evaporate and fly off:—Nay, for that matter,'’ (and again she turn'd to the glass), ‘'her features were not irregular; her eyes not at all amiss.'’ And I remember they were more than usually brilliant at that time.— ‘'Nothing, in short, to be sound fault with, tho' nothing very engaging, she doubted—Was there, Clary?'’

Excuse me, my dear, I never was thus particular before; no, not to you. Nor would I now have writ­ten thus freely of a sister; but that she makes a merit to my brother, of disowning that she ever liked him; as I shall mention hereafter: And then you will always have me give you minute descriptions, nor suffer me to pass by the air and manner in which things are [Page 8] spoken, that are to be taken notice of; rightly observe­ing, that air and manner often express more than the accompanying words.

I congratulated her upon her prospects. She re­ceived my compliments with a great deal of self-com­placency.

She liked the gentleman still more at his next visit: And yet he made no particular address to her; altho' an opportunity was given him for it. This was won­der'd at, as my uncle had introduced him into our family, declaredly as a visitor to my sister. But as we are ever ready to make excuses, when in good humour with ourselves, for the supposed slights of those whose approbation we wish to engage; so my sister found out a reason, much to Mr. Lovelace's advantage, for his not improving the opportunity that was given him.—It was bashfulness, truly, in him. (Bashfulness in Mr. Lovelace, my dear!)—Indeed, gay and lively as he is, he has not the look of an impudent man. But, I fancy, it is many, many years ago, since he was bashful.

Thus, however, could my sister make it out— ‘'Upon her word, she believed Mr. Lovelace deserved not the bad character he had as to women. He was really, to her thinking, a modest man. He would have spoken out, she believed: But once or twice, as he seemed to intend to do so, he was under so agree-able a confusion! Such a profound respect he seemed to shew her: A perfect reverence, she thought: She lov'd dearly, that a gentleman in courtship should shew a reverence to his mistress.'’ —So indeed we all do, I believe: And with reason; since, if I may judge from what I have seen in many families, there is little enough of it shewn afterwards.—And she told my aunt Hervey, that she would be a little less upon the reserve next time he came: ‘'She was not one of those flirts, not she, who would give pain to a person that deserved to be well-treated; and the more for the greatness of his value for her.'’ —I [Page 9] wish, she had not Somebody whom I love in her eye. Yet is not her censure unjust, I believe:—Is it, my dear?—Excepting in one undue and harsh word?

In his third visit, Bella govern'd herself by this kind and considerate principle: So that, according to her own account of the matter, the man might have spoken out.—But he was still bashful: He was not able to overcome this unseasonable reverence. So this visit went off, as the former.

But now she began to be dissatisfied with him: She compared his general character, with This his par­ticular behaviour to her; and, having never been courted before, own'd herself puzzled, how to deal with so odd a lover. ‘'What did the man mean!—Had not her uncle brought him declaredly as a suiter to her?—It could not be bashfulness (now she thought of it), since he might have open'd his mind to her uncle, if he wanted courage to speak directly to her.—Not that she cared much for the man nei­ther: But it was right, surely, that a woman should be put out of doubt, early, as to a man's intentions, in such a case as This, from his own mouth.—But, truly, she had begun to think, that he was more solicitous to cultivate her mamma's good opinion, than hers!—Every-body, she own'd, admired her mamma's conversation.—But he was mistaken, if he thought that would do with her. And then, for his own sake, surely, he should put it into her power to be complaisant to him, if he gave her cause of approbation. This distant behaviour, she must take upon her to say, was the more extraordinary, as he continued his visits, and declared himself extremely desirous to cultivate a friendship with the whole family; and as he could have no doubt about her sense, if she might take upon her to join her own with the general opinion; he having taken great notice of, and admired many of her good things, as they fell from her lips.—Reserves were painful, she [Page 10] must needs say, to open and free spirits, like hers: And yet she must tell my aunt'’ (to whom all this was directed) ‘'that she should never forget what she ow'd to her sex, and to herself, were Mr. Lovelace as unexceptionable in his morals, as in his figure, and were he to urge his suit ever so warmly.'’

I was not of her council. I was still absent. And it was agreed between my aunt Hervey and her, that she was to be quite solemn and shy in his next visit, if there were not a peculiarity in his address to her.

But my sister, it seems, had not consider'd the mat­ter well. This was not the way, as it proved, to be taken with a man of Mr. Lovelace's penetration, for matters of mere omission:—Nor with any man; since if love has not taken root deep enough to cause it to shoot out into declaration, if an opportunity be fairly given for it, there is little room to expect, that the blighting winds of anger or resentment will bring it forward. Then my poor sister is not naturally good­humour'd. This is too well known a truth for me to endeavour to conceal it, especially from you. She must therefore, I doubt, have appear'd to great disad­vantage, when she aim'd to be worse-temper'd than ordinary.

How they managed it in this conversation I know not: One would be tempted to think by the issue, that Mr. Lovelace was ungenerous enough to seek the occasion given ^(a), and to improve it. Yet he thought fit to put the question too:—But, she says, it was not till by some means or other (she knew not how) he had wrought her up to such a pitch of displeasure with him, that it was impossible for her to recover herself, at the instant: Nevertheless he re-urged his question, as expecting a definitive answer, without waiting for the return of her temper, or endeavouring to mollify her: so that she was under a necessity of persisting in [Page 11] her denial: Yet gave him reason to think, that she did not dislike his address, only the manner of it; his court being rather made to her mamma than to her­self, as if he were sure of her consent at any time.

A good encouraging denial, I must own:—As was the rest of her plea; to wit, ‘'A disinclination to change her state.—Exceedingly happy as she was: She never could be happier!'’ And such-like con­senting negatives, as I may call them; and yet not intend a reflection upon my sister: For what can any young creature, in the like circumstances, say, when she is not sure, but a too ready consent may subject her to the slights of a sex, that generally values a blessing, either more or less, as it is obtained with difficulty or ease? Miss Biddulph's answer to a copy of verses from a gentleman, reproaching our sex, as act­ing in disguise, is not a bad one, altho' you perhaps may think it too acknowleging for the female character,

Here I am obliged to lay down my pen. I will soon resume it.

LETTER III. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

AND thus, as Mr. Lovelace thought fit to take it, had he his answer from my sister. It was with very great regret, as he pretended (I doubt the man is an hypocrite, my dear!), that be acquiesced in it. ‘'So much determinedness; such a noble firmness in my sister; that there was no hope of prevailing upon her [Page 12] to alter sentiments she had adopted on full considera­tion.'’ ‘'He sigh'd,’ as Bella told us, when he took his leave of her: ‘'Profoundly sigh'd: Grasp'd her hand, and kissed it with such an ardor.—Withdrew with such an air of solemn respect.—She had him then before her.—She could almost find in her heart, altho' he had vex'd her, to pity him.'’ A good inten­tional preparative, this pity; since, at the time, she lit­tle thought that he would not renew his offer.

He waited on my mamma, after he had taken leave of Bella, and reported his ill success, in so respect­ful a manner, both with regard to my sister, and to the whole family, and with so much concern that he was not accepted as a relation to it, that it left upon them all (my brother being then, as I have said, in Scotland) impressions in his favour; and a belief, that this matter would certainly be brought on again. But Mr. Lovelace going up directly to town, where he stay'd a whole fortnight; and meeting there with my uncle Antony, to whom he regretted his niece's un­happy resolution not to change her state; it was seen that there was a total end put to the affair.

My sister was not wanting to herself on this occa­sion; but made a virtue of necessity; and the man was quite another man with her. ‘'A vain creature! too well knowing his advantages: Yet those, not what she had conceived them to be!—Cool and warm by fits and starts: An ague-like lover: A steady man, a man of virtue, a man of morals, was worth a thousand of such gay flutterers. Her sister Clary might think it worth her while perhaps, to try to engage such a man: She had patience: She was mistress of persuasion; and indeed, to do the girl justice, had something of a person: But as for her, she would not have a man, of whose heart she could not be sure for one moment; no, not for the world: And most sincerely glad was she, that she had rejected him.'’

[Page 13]But when Mr. Lovelace return'd into the country, he thought fit to visit my papa and mamma; hoping, as he told them, that, however unhappy he had been in the rejection of the wish'd-for alliance; he might be allowed to keep up an acquaintance and friendship with a family which he should always respect. And then, unhappily, as I may say, was I at home, and present.

It was immediately observed, that his attention was fixed on me. My sister, as soon as he was gone, in a spirit of bravery, seem'd desirous to promote his address, should it be tendered.

My aunt Hervey was there; and was pleased to say, We should make the finest couple in England; if my sister had no objection.—No, indeed, with a haughty toss, was my sister's reply!—It would be strange if she had, after the denial she had given him upon full deli­beration.

My mamma declared, That her only dislike of his alliance with either daughter, was on account of his faulty morals.

My uncle Harlowe, That his daughter Clary, as he delighted to call me from childhood, would reform him, if any woman in the world could.

My uncle Antony gave his approbation in high terms: But referr'd, as my aunt had done, to my sister.

She repeated her contempt of him; and declar'd, that were there not another man in England, she would not have him. She was ready, on the contrary, she could assure them, to resign her pretensions under hand and seal, if Miss Clary were taken with his tinsel; and if every one else approved of his address to the girl.

My papa, indeed, after a long silence, being urged to speak his mind, by my uncle Antony, said, That he had a letter from his son James, on his hearing of Mr. Lovelace's visits to his daughter Arabella; which he had not shewn to any-body but my mamma; that [Page 14] treaty being at an end when he received it: That in this letter he expressed great dislikes to an alliance with Mr. Lovelace, on the score of his immoralities: That he knew, indeed, there was an old grudge between them: That, being desirous to prevent all occa­sions of disunion and animosity in his family, he would suspend the declaration of his own mind, till his son arrived, and till he had heard his further objections: That he was the more inclined to make his son this compliment, as Mr. Lovelace's general character gave but too much ground for his son's dislike of him; adding, That he had heard, (So, he supposed, had every-one) that he was a very extravagant man: that he had contracted debts in his travels: And, indeed, he was pleased to say, he had the air of a spendthrift.

These particulars I had partly from my aunt Her­vey, and partly from my sister; for I was called out, as soon as the subject was entered upon. And, when I returned, my uncle Antony asked me, How I should like Mr. Lovelace? Every-body saw, he was pleased to say, that I had made a conquest.

I immediately answered, Not at all: He seemed to have too good an opinion both of his person and parts, to have any great regard to his wife, let him marry whom he would.

My sister, particularly, was pleased with this answer, and confirmed it to be just; with a compliment to my judgment:—For it was hers.

But the very next day Lord M. came to Harlowe-Place: I was then absent: And, in his nephew's name, made a proposal in form; declaring, That it was the ambition of all his family to be related to ours: And he hoped his kinsman would not have such an answer on the part of the younger sister, as he had had on that of the elder.

In short, Mr. Lovelace's visits were admitted, as those of a man who had not deserved disrespect from our family; but, as to his address to me, with a [Page 15] reservation, as above, on my papa's part, that he would determine nothing without his son. My discretion, as to the rest, was confided in: For still I had the same objections as to the man: Nor would I, when we were better acquainted, hear any-thing but general talk from him; giving him no opportunity of conversing with me in private.

He bore this with a resignation little expected from his natural temper, which is generally reported to be quick and hasty; unused, it seems, from childhood, to check or controul: A case too common in considerable families, where there is an only son: And his mother never had any other child. But, as I have hereto­fore told you, I could perceive, notwithstanding this resignation, that he had so good an opinion of himself, as not to doubt, that his person and accomplishments would insensibly engage me: And could That be once done, he told my aunt Hervey, he should hope from so steady a temper, that his hold in my affections would be durable: While my sister accounted for his patience in another manner, which would perhaps have had more force, if it had come from a person less preju­diced: ‘'That the man was not fond of marrying at all: That he might perhaps have half-a-score mis­tresses; and that delay might be as convenient for his roving, as for my well-acted indifference.'’ —That was her kind expression.

Whatever were his motive for a patience so gene­rally believed to be out of his usual character, and where the object of his address was supposed to be of fortune considerable enough to engage his warmest attention, he certainly escaped many mortifications by it: For while my papa suspended his approbation till my brother's arrival, he received from every-one those civilities which were due to his birth: And altho' we heard, from time to time, reports to his disadvantage with regard to morals; yet could we not question him upon them, without giving him greater advantages, [Page 16] than the situation he was in with us would justify to prudence; since it was much more likely, that his address would not be allowed of, than that it would.

And thus was he admitted to converse with our family, almost upon his own terms; for while my friends saw nothing in his behaviour but what was ex­tremely respectful, and observed in him no violent importunity, they seemed to have taken a great liking to his conversation: While I considered him only as a a common guest, when he came; and thought myself no more concerned in his visits, nor at his entrance or departure, than any other of the family.

But this indifference of my side was the means of procuring him one very great advantage; for upon it was grounded that correspondence by letters, which succeeded;—and which, had it been to be begun, when the family-animosity broke out, would never have been entered into on my part. The occasion was this:

My uncle Hervey has a young gentleman intrusted to his care, whom he has thoughts of sending abroad, a year or two hence, to make the Grand Tour, as it is called; and, finding Mr. Lovelace could give a good account of every-thing necessary for a young traveller to observe upon such an occasion, he desired him to write down a description of the courts and countries he had visited; and what was most worthy of curiosity in them.

He consented, on condition that I would direct his subjects, as he called it: And, as every-one had heard his manner of writing commended; and thought his relations might be agreeable amusements in winter evenings; and that he could have no opportunity par­ticularly to address me in them, since they were to be read in full assembly, before they were to be given to the young gentleman; I made the less scruple to write, and to make observations, and put questions, for our further information—Still the less, perhaps, as I love writing; and those who do, are fond, you know, of [Page 17] occasions to use the pen: And then, having every one's consent, and my uncle Hervey's desire that I would, I thought, that if I had been the only scrupu­lous person, it would have shewn a particularity, that a vain man would construe to his advantage; and which my sister would not fail to animadvert upon.

You have seen some of these letters; and have been pleased with his account of persons, places, and things; and we have both agreed, that he was no common observer upon what he had seen.

My sister herself allowed, that the man had a tole­rable knack of writing and describing: And my papa, who had been abroad in his youth, said, That his remarks were curious, and shewed him to be a person of reading, judgment, and taste.

Thus was a kind of correspondence begun between him and me, with general approbation; while every­one wonder'd at, and was pleased with, his patient veneration of me; for so they called it. However, it was not doubted, that he would soon be more impor­tunate; since his visits were more frequent, and he acknowleged to my aunt Hervey a passion for me, accompany'd with an awe, that he had never known before; to which he attributed what he called his but seeming acquiescence with my papa's pleasure, and the distance I kept him at. And yet, my dear, this may be his usual manner of behaviour to our sex; for had not my sister, at first, all his reverences?

Mean time, my father, expecting this importunity, kept in readiness the reports he had heard in his dis­favour, to charge them upon him then, as so many objections to his address. And it was highly agree­able to me, that he did so: It would have been strange, if it were not; since the person who could reject Mr. Wyerley's address for the sake of his free opinions, must have been inexcusable, had she not re­jected another's for his freer practices.

But I should own, that in the letters he sent me, [Page 18] upon the general subject, he more than once inclosed a particular one, declaring his passionate regards for me, and complaining, with fervour enough, of my re­serves: But of these I took not the least notice; for as I had not written to him at all, but upon a subject so general, I thought it was but right, to let what he wrote upon one so particular, pass off as if I never had seen it; and the rather, as I was not then at li­berty, from the approbation his letters met with, to break off the correspondence, without assigning the true reason for doing so. Besides, with all his respectful assi­duities, it was easy to observe, (if it had not been his general character) that his temper is naturally haughty and violent; and I had seen enough of that untract­able spirit in my brother, to like it in one who hoped to be still nearer related to me.

I had a little specimen of this temper of his, upon the very occasion I have mentioned: For, after he had sent me a third particular letter with the general one, he asked me, the next time he came to Harlowe-Place, If I had not received such a one from him?—I told him, I should never answer one, so sent; and, that I had waited for such an occasion as he had now given me, to tell him so: I desired him therefore not to write again on the subject; assuring him, that if he did, I would return both, and never write another line to him.

You cannot imagine how saucily the man looked; as if, in short, he was disappointed, that he had not made a more sensible impression upon me: And when he recollected himself (as he did immediately), what a visible Struggle it cost him to change his haughty airs for more placid ones. But I took no no­tice of either; for I thought it best to convince him, by the coolness and indifference, with which I repulsed his forward hopes (at the same time intending to avoid the affectation of pride or vanity), that he was not considerable enough in my eyes to make me take over-ready offence at what he said, or how he looked: [Page 19] In other words, that I had not value enough for him, to treat him with peculiarity either by smiles or frowns. Indeed, he had cunning enough to give me, undesign­edly, a piece of instruction which taught me this cau­tion; for he had said in conversation once, ‘'That if a man could not make a lady in courtship own her­self pleased with him, it was as much, and oftentimes more, to his purpose, to make her angry with him.'’

I must break off here. But will continue the sub­ject the very first opportunity. Mean time, I am,

LETTER IV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

LETTER V. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

I HAVE been hinder'd from prosecuting my in­tention. Neither nights nor mornings have been my own. My mamma has been very ill; and would have no other nurse but me. I have not stirr'd from her bedside; for she kept her bed; and two nights I had the honour of sharing it with her.

Her disorder was a very violent colic. The con­tentions of these fierce, these masculine spirits, and the apprehension of mischiefs that may arise from the [Page 30] increasing animosity which all here have against Mr. Lovelace, and his too-well known resentful and intre­pid character, she cannot bear. Then the foundations laid, as she dreads, for jealousy and heart-burnings in her own family, late so happy and so united, afflict exceedingly a gentle and sensible mind, which has from the beginning, on all occasions, sacrifice its own inward satisfaction to outward peace. My bro­ther and sister, who used very often to jar, are now so much one, and are so much together ( caballing was the word that dropped from her, as if at unawares), that she is full of fears of consequences that may fol­low;—to my prejudice, perhaps, is her kind concern; since she sees that they behave to me every hour with more and more shyness and reserve: Yet, would she but exert that authority, which the superiority of her fine talents gives her, all these family-feuds might perhaps be crush'd in their but-yet beginnings; espe­cially as she may be assured, that all fitting concessions shall be made by me, not only as they are my elders, but for the sake of so excellent and so indulgent a mother.

For, if I may say to you, my dear, what I would not to any other person living, it is my opinion, that, had she been of a temper that would have borne less, she would have had ten times less to bear than she has had. No commendation, you'll say, of the gene­rosity of those spirits, which can turn to its own dis­quiet so much condescending goodness.

Upon my word, I am sometimes tempted to think, that we may make the world allow for and respect us as we please, if we can but be sturdy in our wills, and set out accordingly. It is but being the less beloved for it, that's all. And, if we have power to oblige those we have to do with, it will not appear to us, that we are. Our flatterers will tell us any thing sooner than our faults.

[Page 31]Were there not truth in this observation, is it pos­sible, that my brother and sister could make their very failings, their vehemences, of such importance to all the family? ‘'How will my son, how will my ne­phew, take this or that measure? What will he say to it? Let us consult him about it;'’ are references always previous to every resolution taken by his supe­riors, whose will ought to be his. Well may he ex­pect to be treated with this deference by every other person, when my papa himself, generally so absolute, constantly pays it to him; and the more since his god­mother's bounty has given independence to a spirit that was before under too little restraint.—But whi­ther may these reflections lead me?—I know you do not love any of us, but my mamma and me; and, being above all disguises, make me sensible that you do not, oftener than I wish you did.—Ought I then to add force to your dislikes of those whom I wish you more to like?—my father, especially; for he, poor gentleman! has some excuse for his impatience of con­tradiction. He is not naturally an ill-temper'd man; and in his person and air, and in his conversation too, when not under the torture of a gouty paroxysm, every-body distinguishes the gentleman born and edu­cated.

Our sex, perhaps, must expect to bear a little un­courtliness, shall I call it?—from the husband, whom, as the lover, they let know the preference their hearts gave him to all other men.—Say what they will of generosity being a manly virtue; but, upon my word, my dear, I have ever yet observed, that it is not to be met with in that sex one time in ten, that it is to be found in ours.—But my father was sour'd by the cruel distemper I have named; which seized him all at once in the very prime of life, in so violent a manner, as to take from the most active of minds, as his was, all power of activity, and that, in all appearance, for life;—It imprison'd, as I may say, his lively spirits in [Page 32] himself, and turned the edge of them against his own peace; his extraordinary prosperity adding but to his impatiency: For those, I believe, who want the fewest earthly blessings, most regret that they want any.

But my brother! what excuse can be made for his haughty and morose temper? He is really, my dear, I am sorry to have occasion to say it, an ill-temper'd young man; and treats my mamma sometimes—In­deed he is not dutiful.—But, possessing every-thing, he has the vice of age, mingled with the ambition of youth, and enjoys nothing—but his own haughtiness and ill-temper, I was going to say.—Yet again am I adding force to your dislikes of some of us.—Once, my dear, it was, perhaps, in your power to have moulded him as you pleased.—Could you have been my sister!—Then had I had a friend in a sister.—But no wonder that he don't love you now; who could nip in the bud, and that with a disdain, let me say, too much of kin to his haughtiness, a passion, that would not have wanted a fervor worthy of the object; and which possibly would have made him so.—

But no more of this. I will prosecute my former intention in my next; which I will sit down to as soon as breakfast is over; dispatching this by the messenger whom you have so kindly sent to inquire after us, on my silence. Mean time, I am,

LETTER VI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

I WILL now resume my narrative of proceedings here.—My brother being in a good way, altho' you may be sure, that his resentments are rather height­en'd [Page 33] than abated by the galling disgrace he has re­ceived, my friends (my papa and uncles, however, if not my brother and sister) begin to think, that I have been treated unkindly. My mamma has been so good as to tell me this, since I sent away my last.

Nevertheless, I believe they all think that I receive letters from Mr. Lovelace. But Lord M. being in­clin'd rather to support than to blame his nephew, they seem to be so much afraid of him, that they do not put it to me, whether I do, or not; conniving on the contrary, as it should seem, at the only method left to allay the vehemence of a spirit, which they have so much provoked: For he still insists upon satisfaction from my uncles; and this, possibly (for he wants not art) as the best way to be introduced again, with some advantage, into our family. And indeed my aunt Hervey has put it to my mamma, whether it were not best to prevail upon my brother to take a turn to his Yorkshire estate, which he was intending to do be­fore; and to tarry there till all is blown over.

But this is very far from being his intention: For he has already begun to hint again, that he shall ne­ver be easy or satisfy'd, till I am marry'd; and, find­ing neither Mr. Symmes nor Mr. Mullins will be ac­cepted, has proposed Mr. Wyerley once more, on the score of his great passion for me. This I have again rejected; and but yesterday he mention'd one who has apply'd to him by letter, making high offers. This is Mr. Solmes; rich Solmes, you know they call him. But this has not met with the attention of one single soul.

If none of his schemes of marrying me take effect, he has thoughts, I am told, of proposing to me to go to Scotland, in order, as the compliment is, to put his house there in such order as our own is in. But this my mamma intends to oppose for her own sake; because, having relieved her, as she is pleased to say, of the houshold cares (for which, my sister, you [Page 34] know, has no turn), they must again devolve upon her, if I go. And if she did not oppose it, I should; for, believe me, I have no mind to be his house­keeper; and, I am sure, were I to go with him, I should be treated rather as a servant than a sister:—Perhaps, not the better because I am his sister. And, if Mr. Lovelace should follow me, things might be worse than they are now.

But I have besought my mamma, who is appre­hensive of Mr. Lovelace's visits, and for fear of whom my uncles never stir out without arms and armed servants, (my brother also being near well enough to go abroad again), to procure me permission to be your guest for a fortnight, or so.—Will your mamma, think you, my dear, give me leave?

I dare not ask to go to my dairy-house, as my good grandfather would call it: For I am now afraid of being thought to have a wish to enjoy that inde­pendence to which his will has intitled me: And, as matters are situated, such a wish would be imputed to my favour to the man whom they have now so great an antipathy to. And, indeed, could I be as easy and happy here, as I used to be, I would defy that man, and all his sex; and never repent, that I have given the power of my fortune into my papa's hands.

Just now, my mamma has rejoiced me, with the news, that my requested permission is granted. Every­one thinks it best, that I should go to you, except my brother. But he was told, that he must not expect to rule in every thing. I am to be sent for into the great parlour, where are my two uncles and my aunt Hervey, and to be acquainted with this concession in form.

You know, my dear, that there is a good deal of solemnity among us. But never was there a family more united, in its different branches, than ours. [Page 35] Our uncles consider us as their own children; and declare, that it is for our sakes they live single. So that they are advised with upon every article relating to, or that may affect, us. It is therefore the less wonder, at a time when they understand, that Mr. Lovelace is determin'd to pay us an amicable visit, as he calls it (but which I am sure cannot end so) that they should both be consulted upon the permission I had desired to attend you.

I will acquaint you with what passed at the general leave given me to be your guest. And yet I know, that you will not love my brother the better for my communication. But I am angry with him myself, and cannot help it. And, besides, it is proper to let you know the terms I go upon, and their motives for permitting me to go.

Clary, said my mamma, as soon as I enter'd the great parlour, your request, to go to Miss Howe's for a few days, has been taken into consideration, and granted—

Much against my liking, I assure you, said my brother, rudely interrupting her.

Son James! said my father, and knit his brows.

He was not daunted. His arm is in a sling. He often has the mean art to look upon that, when any thing is hinted, that may be supposed to lead towards the least favour to, or reconciliation with, Mr. Love­lace.—Let the girl then (I am often the girl with him!) be prohibited seeing that vile libertine.

No-body spoke.

Do you hear, sister Clary? taking their silence for approbation of what he had dictated; you are not to receive visits from Lord M's nephew.

Every-one still remained silent.

Do you so understand the licence you have, Miss? interrogated he.

[Page 36]I would be glad, Sir, said I, to understand that you are my brother;—and that you would understand, that you are only my brother.

O the fond, fond heart! with a s [...]eer of insult, lift­ing up his hands.

Sir, said I to my papa, to your justice I appeal: If I have deserved reflection, let me not be spar'd. But if I am to be answerable for the rashness—

No more!—No more, of either side, said my papa. You are not to receive the visits of that Lovelace, tho':—Nor are you, son James, to reflect upon your sister: She is a worthy child.

Sir, I have done, reply'd he;—and yet I have her honour at heart, as much as the honour of the rest of the family.

And hence, Sir, retorted I, your unbrotherly re­flections upon me!

Well, but, you observe, Miss, said he, that it is not I, but your papa, that tells you, that you are not to receive the visits of that Lovelace.

Cousin Harlowe, said my aunt Hervey, allow me to say, That my cousin Clary's prudence may be con­fided in.

I am convinc'd it may, join'd my mamma.

But, Aunt, but, Madam (put in my sister) there is no hurt, I presume, in letting my sister know the condition she goes to Miss Howe upon; since, if he gets a knack of visiting her there—

You may be sure, interrupted my uncle Harlowe, he will endeavour to see her there.

So would such an impudent man here, said my uncle Antony: And 'tis better there than here.

Better no-where, said my papa.—I command you, turning to me, on pain of my displeasure, that you see him not at all.

I will not, Sir, in any way of encouragement, I do assure you; Nor at all, if I can decently avoid it.

[Page 37]You know with what indifference, said my mam­ma, she has hitherto seen him.—Her prudence may be trusted to, as my sister Hervey says.

With what ap- pa-rent indifference, drolled my bro­ther—

Son James! said my father, sternly—

I have done, Sir, said he.—But again, in a pro­voking manner, reminded me of the prohibition.

Thus ended this conference.

Will you engage, my dear, that the hated man shall not come near your house?—But what an incon­sistence is this, when they consent to my going, think­ing his visits here no otherwise to be avoided!—But, if he does come, I charge you, never leave us alone together.

As I have no reason to doubt a welcome from your mamma, I will put every-thing in order here, and be with you in two or three days.

Mean time, I am

LETTER VII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE. (After her return from her.)

I BEG your excuse for not writing sooner. Alas, my dear, I have sad prospects before me! My brother and sister have succeeded in all their views. They have found out another lover for me; an hi­deous one:—Yet he is encouraged by every-body.—No wonder that I was order'd home so suddenly!—At an hour's warning!—No other notice, you know, than what was brought with the chariot that was to carry me back.—It was for fear, as I have been in­form'd (an unworthy fear!), that I should have en­ter'd [Page 38] into any concert with Mr. Lovelace, had I known their motive for commanding me home; ap­prehending, 'tis evident, that I should dislike the man.

And well might they apprehend so:—For who do you think he is?—No other than that Solmes!—Could you have believed it?—And they are all deter­mined too; my mamma with the rest!—Dear, dear excellence! how could she be thus brought over!—when I am assured, that, on his first being proposed, she was pleased to say, That, had Mr. Solmes the In­dies in possession, and would endow me with them, she should not think him deserving of her Clarissa Harlowe.

The reception I met with at my return, so differ­ent from what I used to meet with on every little ab­sence (and now I had been from them three weeks), convinced me, that I was to suffer for the happiness I had had in your company and conversation for that most agreeable period. I will give you an account of it.

My brother met me at the door, and gave me his hand, when I stepp'd out of the chariot. He bow'd very low: Pray, Miss, favour me.—I thought it in good humour; but found it afterwards mock respect: And so he led me, in great form, I prattling all the way, inquiring of every-body's health (altho' I was so soon to see them, and there was hardly time for answers), into the great parlour; where were my fa­ther, mother, my two uncles, and my sister.

I was struck all of a heap as soon as I enter'd, to see a solemnity which I had been so little used to on the like occasions, in the countenance of every dear re­lation. They all kept their seats. I ran to my papa, and kneeled: Then to my mamma: And met from both a cold salute: From my papa, a blessing but half­pronounced: My mamma, indeed, called me, Child; but embraced me not with her usual indulgent ardor.

[Page 39]After I had paid my duty to my uncles, and my compliments to my sister, which she received with solemn and stiff form, I was bid to sit down. But my heart was full: And I said it became me to stand, if I could stand a reception so awful and unusual. I was forced to turn my face from them, and pull out my handkerchief.

My unbrotherly accuser hereupon stood forth, and charg'd me with having received no less than five or six visits at Miss Howe's from the man they had all so much reason to hate (that was the expression); notwithstanding the commands I had received to the contrary. And he bid me deny it, if I could.

I had never been used, I said, to deny the truth; nor would I now. I owned I had, in the passed three weeks, seen the person I presumed he meant oftener than five or six times (Pray hear me out, brother, said I; for he was going to flame).—But he always came and asked for Mrs. or Miss Howe.

I proceeded, That I had reason to believe, that both Mrs. Howe and Miss, as matters stood, would much rather have excused his visits; but they had more than once apologiz'd, that, having not the same reason my papa had, to forbid him their house, his rank and fortune intitled him to civility.

You see, my dear, I made not the pleas I might have made.

My brother seem'd ready to give a loose to his pas­sion: My papa put on the countenance, which always portends a gathering storm: My uncles mutteringly whisper'd: And my sister aggravatingly held up her hands. While I begg'd to be heard out;—and my mamma said, Let the child, that was her kind word, be heard.—

I hoped, I said, there was no harm done: That it became not me to prescribe to Mrs. or Miss Howe who should be their visitors: That Mrs. Howe was always diverted with the raillery that passed between [Page 40] Miss and him: That I had no reason to challenge her guest for my visitor; as I should seem to have done, had I refused to go into their company, when he was with them: That I had never seen him out of the presence of one or both of those ladies; and had signify'd to him, once, on his urging for a few moments private conversation with me, that, unless a reconciliation were effected between my family and his, he must not expect, that I would countenance his visits; much less give him an opportunity of that sort.

I told them further, That Miss Howe so well un­derstood my mind, that she never left me a moment, while he was there: That, when he came, if I was not below in the parlour, I would not suffer myself to be called to him: Altho' I thought it would be an affectation, which would give him advantage rather than the contrary, if I had left company when he came in; or refused to enter into it, when I found he would stay any time.

My brother heard me out with such a kind of im­patience, as shew'd he was resolved to be dissatisfy'd with me, say what I would, The rest, as the event has proved, behav'd as if they would have been satis­fy'd, had they not further points to carry, by intimi­dating me. All this made it evident, as I mention'd above, that they themselves expected not my volun­tary compliance; and was a tacit confession of the dis­agreeableness of the person they had to propose.

I was no sooner silent, than my brother swore, al­tho' in my papa's presence (swore, uncheck'd either by eye or countenance), That, for his part, he would never be reconciled to that libertine: And that he would renounce me for a sister, if I encouraged the addresses of a man so obnoxious to them all.

A man who had like to have been my brother's murderer, my sister said, with a face even bursting with restraint of passion.

[Page 41]The poor Bella has, you know, a plump, high-fed face, if I may be allow'd the expression.—You, I know, will forgive me for this liberty of speech, sooner than I can myself: Yet, how can one be such a reptile, as not to turn when trampled upon!—

My papa, with vehemence both of action and voice (my father has, you know, a terrible voice, when he is angry!), told me, that I had met with too much indulgence, in being allow'd to refuse this gentleman, and the other gentleman; and it was now his turn to be obey'd.

Very true, my mamma said:—And hoped his will would not now be disputed by a child so favour'd.

To shew they were all of a sentiment, my uncle Harlowe said, He hoped his beloved niece only wanted to know her papa's will, to obey it.

And my uncle Antony, in his rougher manner, That I would not give them reason to apprehend, that I thought my grandfather's favour to me had made me independent of them all.—If I did, he could tell me, the will could be set aside, and should.

I was astonish'd, you must needs think.—Whose addresses now, thought I, is this treatment prepara­tive to!—Mr. Wyerley's again!—or whose?—And then, as high comparisons, where self is concern'd, sooner than low, come into young peoples heads; be it for whom it will, this is wooing as the English did for the heiress of Scotland in the time of Edward the sixth.—But that it could be for Solmes, how should it enter into my head?

I did not know, I said, that I had given occasion for this harshness: I hoped I should always have a just sense of their favour to me, superadded to the duty I ow'd as a daughter and a niece: But that I was so much surprised at a reception so unusual and unex­pected, that I hoped my papa and mamma would give me leave to retire, in order to recollect myself.

[Page 42]No one gainsaying, I made my silent compliments, and withdrew;—leaving my brother and sister, as I thought, pleased; and as if they wanted to congratu­late each other on having occasioned so severe a begin­ning to be made with me.

I went up to my chamber, and there, with my faithful Hannah, deplor'd the determin'd face which the new proposal, it was plain they had to make me, wore.

I had not recover'd myself when I was sent for down to tea. I begg'd, by my maid, to be excus'd attending: But, on the repeated command, went down, with as much chearfulness as I could assume; and had a new fault to clear myself of: For my bro­ther, so pregnant a thing is determin'd ill-will, by intimations equally rude and intelligible, charg'd my desire of being excus'd coming down, to sullens, be­cause a certain person had been spoken against, upon whom, as he supposed, my fancy ran.

I could easily answer you, Sir, said I, as such a reflection deserves: But I forbear. If I do not find a brother in you, you shall have a sister in me.

Pretty meekness! Bella whisperingly said; looking at my brother, and lifting up her lip in contempt.

He, with an imperious air, bid me deserve his love, and I should be sure to have it.

As we sat, my mamma, in her admirable manner, expatiated upon brotherly and sisterly love; indul­gently blam'd my brother and sister upon having taken up displeasure too lightly against me; and politically, if I may so say, answer'd for my obedience to my papa's will.— Then it would be all well, my papa was pleas'd to say: Then they should dote upon me, was my brother's expression: Love me as well as ever, was my sister's: And my uncles, That I should then be the pride of their hearts.—But, alas! what a forfeiture of all these must I make!

[Page 43]This was the reception I had on my return from you!

Mr. Solmes came in before we had done tea. My uncle Antony presented him to me, as a gentleman he had a particular friendship for. My uncle Harlowe in terms equally favourable for him. My father said, Mr. Solmes is my friend, Clarissa Harlowe. My mamma look'd at him, and look'd at me, now-and- [...]hen, as he sat near me, I thought with concern.—I at her, with eyes appealing for pity.—At him, when I could glance at him, with disgust, little short of affrightment. While my brother and sister Mr. Solmes'd-him, and Sirr'd-him up, with high favour. So ca­ [...]ess'd, in short, by all;—yet such a wretch!—But I will at present only add, My humble thanks and duty to your honour'd mamma (to whom I will par­ticularly write, to express the grateful sense I have of her goodness to me); and that I am,

LETTER VIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

LETTER IX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

MY aunt, who staid here last night, made me visit this morning, as soon as it was light. She tells me, that I was left alone with my papa yesterday on purpose that he might talk with me on my expecte [...] obedience; but that he own'd he was put beside his pur­pose by reflecting on something my brother had tol [...] him in my disfavour, and by his impatience but to suppose, that such a gentle spirit as mine had hitherto seem'd to be, should presume to dispute his will, in [...]oint where the advantage of the whole family was to [...]e so greatly promoted by my compliance.

I find, by a few words which dropt from her unawares, that they have all an absolute dependence upon what they suppose to be a meekness in my temper But in this they may be mistaken; for I verily think upon a strict examination of myself, that I have al­most [Page 51] as much in me of my father's as of my mother's family.

My uncle Harlowe, it seems, is against driving me upon extremities: But his unbrotherly nephew has engaged, that the regard I have for my reputation, and my principles, will bring me round to my duty, that's the expression. Perhaps I shall have reason to wish I had not known this.

My aunt advises me to submit, for the present, to the interdicts they have laid me under; and, indeed, to encourage Mr. Solmes's address. I have absolutely refused the latter, let what will, as I have told her, be the consequence. The visiting prohibition I will conform to. But as to that of not corresponding with you, nothing but the menace, that our letters shall be intercepted, can engage my observation of it.

She believes, that this order is from my father, without consulting my mother upon it: And that purely, as she supposes, in consideration to me, left I should mortally offend him; and this from the in­citements of other people (meaning you and Miss Lloyd, I make no doubt), rather than by my own will. For still, as she tells me, he speaks kind and praiseful things of me.

Here is clemency! Here is indulgence!—And so it is, To prevent a headstrong child, as a good prince would wish to do disaffected subjects, from running into rebellion, and so forfeiting every-thing! But this is all my brother's young man's wisdom; a blotter without a head, and a brother without a heart!

How happy might I have been with any other bro­ther in the world, but Mr. James Harlowe; and with any other sister, but his sister! Wonder not, my dear! that I, who used to chide you for these sort of liberties with my relations, now am more un­dutiful than you ever were unkind. I cannot bear the thought of being deprived of the principal pleasure of [Page 52] my life; for such is your conversation by person and by letter. And who besides can bear to be made the dupe of such low cunning, operating with such high and arrogant passions?

But can you, my dear Miss Howe, condescend to carry on a private correspondence with me? If you can, there is one way I have thought of, by which it may be done.

You must remember the Green Lane, as we call it, that runs by the side of the wood-house and poultry-yard, where I keep my bantams, pheasants, and pea-hens, which generally engage my notice twice a-day; the more my favourites, because they were my grand­father's, and recommended to my care by him; and therefore brought hither from my dairy-house, since his death.

The lane is lower than the floor of the wood-house; and in the side of the wood-house the boards are rotted away down to the floor, for half an ell together, in several places. Hannah can step into the lane, and make a mark with chalk where a letter or parcel may be push'd in, under some sticks; which may be so managed, as to be an unsuspected cover for the written deposites from either.

I HAVE been just now to look at the place, and find it will answer. So your faithful Robert may, without coming near the house, and as only passing thro' the green lane, which leads to two or three farm-houses (out of livery, if you please), very easily take from thence my letters, and deposite yours.

This place is the more convenient, because it is sel­dom resorted to, but by myself or Hannah, on the above-mentioned account; for it is the general store-house for firing; the wood for constant use being nearer the house.

[Page 53]One corner of this being separated off for the roost­ing-place of my little poultry, either she or I shall never want a pretence to go thither.

Try, my dear, the success of a letter this way; and give me your opinion and advice what to do, in this disgraceful situation, as I cannot but call it; and what you think of my prospects; and what you would do in my case.

But, before-hand, I must tell you, that your ad­vice must not run in favour of this Solmes: And yet it is very likely they will endeavour to engage your mamma, in order to induce you, who have such an influence over me, to favour him.

Yet, on second thoughts, if you incline to that side of the question, I would have you write your whole mind. Determin'd, as I think I am, and can­not help it, I would at least give a patient hearing to what may be said on the other side. For my regards are not so much engag'd (upon my word, they are not; I know not myself if they be) to another per­son, as some of my friends suppose; and as you, give­ing way to your lively vein, upon his last visits, af­fected to suppose. What preserable favour I may have for him to any other person, is owing more to the usage he has received, and for my sake borne, than to any personal consideration.

I write a few lines of grateful acknowlegement to your mamma for her favours to me in the late happy period. I fear I shall never know such another!—I hope she will forgive me, that I did not write sooner.

The bearer, if suspected and examin'd, is to pro­duce that, as the only one he carries. How do need­less watchfulness and undue restraint produce artifice and contrivance! I should abhor these clandestine correspondencies, were they not forced upon me. They have so mean, so low an appearance, to myself, that I think I ought not to expect, that you should take part in them.

[Page 54]But why (as I have also expostulated with my aunt) must I be pushed into a state, which, altho' I reverence, I have no wish to enter into?—Why should not my brother, so many years older, and so earnest to see me engaged, be first engaged?—And, if not so, why not my sister be first provided for?

But here I conclude these unavailing expostulations, with the assurance, that I am, and ever will be,

LETTER X. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

WHAT odd heads some people have!—Miss Clarissa Harlowe to be sacrificed in marriage to Mr. Roger Solmes! Astonishing!

I must not, you say, give my advice in favour of this man!—You now half-convince me, my dear, that you are ally'd to the family that could think of so preposterous a match, or you could never have had the least notion of my advising in his favour.

Ask me for his picture: You know I have a good hand at drawing an ugly likeness. But I'll see a little farther first: For who knows what may happen; since matters are in such a train; and since you have not the courage to oppose so overwhelming a torrent.

You ask me to help you to a little of my spirit. Are you in earnest? But it will not now, I doubt, do you service.—It will not fit naturally upon you. You are your mamma's girl, think what you will, and have violent spirits to contend with. Alas! my dear, you should have borrowed some of mine a little sooner;—that is to say, before you had given the management of your estate into the hands of those who think they have a prior claim to it. What, tho' [Page 55] a father's?—Has not that father two elder children?—And do they not both bear his stamp and image, more than you do?—Pray, my dear, call me not to account for this free question; lest your application of my meaning prove to be as severe as that.

Now I have launch'd out a little, indulge me one word more in the same strain: I will be decent, I pro­mise you.—I think you might have known, that AVARICE and ENVY are two passions that are not to be satisfy'd, the one by giving, the other by the en­vied person's continuing to deserve and excel.—Fuel, fuel both, all the world over, to flames insatiate and devouring.

But since you ask for my opinion, you must tell me all you know or surmise of their inducements. And if you will not forbid me to make extracts from your letters, for the entertainment of my cousin in the little island, who longs to hear more of your affairs, it will be very obliging.

But you are so tender of some people, who have no tenderness for any body but themselves, that I must conjure you to speak out. Remember, that a friend­ship like ours admits of no reserves. You may trust my impartiality: It would be an affront to your own judgment, if you did not: For do you not ask my advice? And have you not taught me, that friend­ship should never give a bias against justice?—Justify them therefore, if you can. Let us see if there be any sense, whether sufficient reason or not, in their choice. At present, I cannot (and yet I know a good deal of your family) have any conception, how all of them, your mamma in particular, and your aunt Hervey, can join with the rest against judgments given. As to some of the others, I cannot wonder at any thing they do, or attempt to do, where Self is concern'd.

You ask, Why may not your brother be first en­gag'd in wedlock?—I'll tell you why: His temper and his arrogance are too well known to induce women he [Page 56] would aspire to, to receive his addresses, notwith­standing his great independent acquisitions, and still greater prospects. Let me tell you, my dear, those acquisitions have given him more pride, than reputa­tion. To me he is the most intolerable creature that I ever saw. The treatment you blame, he merited from one whom he would have addressed with the air of a person intending to confer, rather than hoping to receive a favour. I ever loved to mortify proud and insolent spirits. What, think you, makes me bear Hickman near me, but that the man is humble, and knows his distance?

As to your question, Why your elder sister may not be first provided for? I answer, Because she must have no man, but who has a great and clear estate; that's one thing. Another is, Because she has a younger sister:—Pray, my dear, be so good as to tell me, what man of a great and clear estate would think of that elder sister, while the younger were single?

You are all too rich to be happy, child. For must not each of you, by the constitutions of your family, marry to be still richer? People who know in what their main excellence consists are not to be blam'd (are they?) for cultivating and improving what they think most valuable? Is true happiness any part of your family-view?—So far from it, that none of your family, but yourself, could be happy were they not rich. So let them fret on, grumble and grudge, and accumulate; and wondering what ails them that they have not hap­piness when they have riches, think the cause is want of more; and so go on heaping up, till death, as greedy an accumulator as themselves, gathers them into his garner!

Well then once more, I say, do you, my dear, tell me what you know of their avowed and general mo­tives; and I will tell you more than you will tell me of their failings! Your aunt Hervey, you say, ^(a) has told you:—Why, as I hinted above, must I ask you to let [Page 57] me know them; when you condescend to ask my ad­vice on the occasion?

That they prohibit your corresponding with me, is a wisdom I neither wonder at, nor blame them for: Since it is an evidence to me, that they know their own folly: And if they do, is it strange that they should be afraid to trust another's judgment upon it?

I am glad you have found out a way to correspond with me. I approve it much. I shall more, if this first tryal of it proves successful. But should it not, and should it fall into their hands, it would not con­cern me, but for your sake.

We had heard before you wrote, that all was not right between your relations and you, at your coming home: That Mr. Solmes visited you, and that with a prospect of success. But I concluded, the mistake lay in the per­son; and that his address was to Miss Arabella: And in­deed had she been as good-natur'd as your plump ones generally are, I should have thought her too good for him by half:—Thought I, this must be the thing; and my beloved friend is sent for to advise and assist in her nuptial preparations. Who knows, said I to my mam­ma, but that, when the man has thrown aside his yel­low, full-buckled peruke, and his broad-brimm'd bea­ver, both of which I suppose were Sir Oliver's Best of long standing, he may cut a tolerable figure dangling to church with Miss Bell!—The woman, as she ob­serves, should excel the man in features: And where can she match so well for a foil?

I indulged this surmize against rumour, because I could not believe, that the absurdest people in Eng­land could be so very absurd, as to think of this man for you.

We heard moreover, that you received no visitors: I could assign no reason for this; except that the pre­parations for your sister were to be private, and the ceremony sudden: Miss Lloyd and Miss Biddulph were with me to inquire what I knew of this; and of [Page 58] your not being at church, either morning or afternoon, the Sunday after your return from us; to the disap­pointment of a little hundred of your admirers, to use their words. It was easy for me to guess the reason to be what you confirm:—Their apprehensions that Lovelace would be there, and attempt to wait on you home.

My mamma takes very kindly your compliments in your letter to her. Her words upon reading it were; ‘'Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an admirable young lady; Where-ever she goes, she confers a favour: Whom­ever she leaves, she fills with regret.'’ —And then a little comparative reflection; ‘'O my Nancy, that you had a little of her sweet obligingness!'’

No matter. The praise was yours. You are me; and I enjoy'd it. The more enjoy'd it, because—shall I tell you the truth?—Because I think myself as well as I am—Were it but for this reason; That had I twenty brother James's, and twenty sister Bell's, not one of them, nor all of them join'd together, would dare to treat me, as yours presume to treat you. The person who will bear much shall have much to bear, all the world [...]hro': 'Tis your own sentiment, grounded upon the strongest instance that can be given in your own family; tho' you have so little improv'd by it.

The result is this, That I am fitter for this world than you: You for the next than me;—that's the dif­ference.—But long, long, for my sake, and for hun­dreds of sakes, may it be, before you quit us for com­pany more congenial, and more worthy of you!—

I communicated to my mamma the account you give of your strange reception; also what a horrid wretch they have found out for you; and the com­pulsory treatment they give you. It only set her on magnifying her lenity to me, on my tyrannical beha­viour, as she will call it (mothers must have their way, you know), to the man she so warmly recommends, against whom, it seems, there can be no just exception; [Page 59] and expatiating upon the complaisance I owe her for her indulgence. So I believe I must communicate to her nothing farther,—especially as I know she would condemn the correspondence between us, and That between you and Lovelace, as a clandestine and undu­tiful thing: For duty implicit is her cry. And more­over she lends a pretty open ear to the preachments of that starch old bachelor your uncle Antony; and for an example to her daughter, would be more careful how she takes your part, be the cause ever so just. Yet is not this right policy neither. For people who will allow nothing, will be granted nothing: In other words, those who aim at carrying too many points will not be able to carry any.

But can you divine, my dear, what that old preach­ment-making plump-hearted soul, your uncle Antony, means, by his frequent amblings hither?—There is such smirking and smiling between my mamma and him! Such mutual praises of oeconomy; and ‘' That is my way!'’ —and ‘' This I do!'’ —and ‘'I am glad it has your approbation, Sir!'’ —and ‘' You look into every thing, Madam!'’ — ‘'Nothing would be done, if I did not!'’ —Such exclamations against servants: Such exaltings of self!—And dear-heart, and good-lack!—and ' las-a-day!—And now and then their con­versation sinking into a whispering accent, if I come cross them!—I'll tell you, my dear, I don't above half like it.

Only that these old bachelors usually take as many years to resolve upon matrimony, as they can rea­sonably expect to live; or I should be ready to fire upon his visits; and recommend Mr. Hickman, as a much properer man, to my mamma's acceptance: For what he wants in years, he makes up in gravity: And if you will not chide me, I will say, That there is a primness in both, especially when the man has presumed too much with me upon my mamma's favour for him, and is under discipline on that account, as [Page 60] makes them seem near of kin: And then in contem­plation of my sauciness, and what they both bear from it, they sigh away!—and seem so mightily to com­passionate each other, that if Pity be but one remove from Love, I am in no danger, while they both are in a great deal, and don't know it.

Now, my dear, I know you will be upon me with your grave airs: So in for the lamb, as the saying is, in for the sheep; and do you yourself look about you: For I'll have a pull with you, by way of being afore­hand. Hannibal, we read, always advised to attack the Romans upon their own territories.

You are pleased to say, and upon your word too!—That your regards (a mighty quaint word for affec­tions) are not so much engag'd, as some of your friends suppose, to another person. What need you give one to imagine, my dear, that the last month or two has been a period extremely favourable to that other per­son!—whom it has made an obliger of the niece for his patience with the uncles.

But, to p [...]ss that by,— So much engag'd!— How much, my dear? Shall I infer? Some of your friends suppose a great deal.—You seem to own a little.

Don't be angry. It is all fair: Because you have not acknowleg'd to me That little. People, I have heard you say, who affect secrets always excite cu­riosity.

But you proceed with a kind of drawback upon your averrment, as if recollection had given you a doubt.— You know not yourself, if they be [so much engag'd]. Was it necessary to say This, to me?—and to say it upon your word too?—But you know best.—Yet you don't neither, I believe. For a be­ginning Love is acted by a subtile spirit; and often­times discovers itself to a bystander, when the person possess'd (why should I not call it possess'd?) knows not it has such a demon.

But further you say, What PREFERABLE favour [Page 61] you may have for him, to any other person, is owing more to the usage he has received, and for your sake borne, than to any personal consideration.

This is generously said. It is in character.. But, O my friend, depend upon it, you are in danger. Depend upon it,. whether you know it or not, you are a little in for't. Your native generosity and great­ness of mind indanger you: All your friends, by fight­ing against him with impolitic violence, fight for him. And Lovelace, my life for yours, notwithstanding all his veneration and assiduities, has seen further than that veneration and those assiduities (so well calculated to your meridian) will let him own he has seen.—Has seen, in short, that his work is doing for him more effectually than he could do it for himself. And have you not before now said, That nothing is so pene­trating as the vanity of a lover; since it makes the person who has it frequently see in his own favour what is not; and hardly ever fail of observing what is. And who says Lovelace wants vanity?

In short, my dear, it is my opinion, and that from the easiness of his heart and behaviour, that he has seen more than I have seen; more than you think could be seen;—more than I believe you yourself know, or else you would have let me know it.

Already, in order to restrain him from resenting the indignities he has received, and which are daily offer'd him, he has prevailed upon you to correspond with him privately. I know he has nothing to boast of from what you have written. But is not his inducing you to receive his letters, and to answer them, a great point gain'd?—By your insisting, that he should keep this correspondence private, it appears, that there is one secret, that you do not wish the world should know: And he is master of that secret. He is indeed himself, as I may say, that secret!—What an inti­macy does this beget for the lover!—How is it di­stancing the parent!—

[Page 62]Yet who, as things are situated, can blame you?—Your condescension has no doubt hitherto prevente [...] great mischiefs: It must be continued, for the sam [...] reasons, while the cause remains. You are draw [...] in by a perverse fate, against inclination: But custom with such laudable purposes, will reconcile the incon­veniency, and make an inclination.—And I would advise you (as you would wish to manage, on an oc­casion so critical with that prudence which governs all your actions) not to be afraid of entering upon a close examination into the true springs and grounds of this your generosity to that happy man.

It is my humble opinion, I tell you frankly, that, on inquiry, it will come out to be LOVE.—Don't start, my dear!—Has not your man himself had na­tural philosophy enough to observe already to your aunt Hervey, that Love takes the deepest root in the steadiest minds? The duce take his sly penetration, I was going to say; for this was six or seven weeks ago.

I have been tinctured, you know. Nor, on the coolest reflection, could I account how, and when, the jaundice began: But had been over head and ears, as the saying is, but for some of that advice from you, which I now return you. Yet my man was not half so—So what, my dear?—To be sure Lovelace is a charming fellow.—And were he only—But I will not make you glow, as you read!—Upon my word, I won't.—Yet, my dear, don't you find at your heart somewhat unusual make it go throb, throb, throb, as you read just here?—If you do, don't be asham'd to own it.—It is your generosity, my love! that's all.—But, as the Roman augur said, Caesar, beware of the ides of March!

Adieu, my dearest friend, and forgive; and very speedily, by the new-found expedient, tell me, that you forgive

LETTER XI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

YOU both nettled and alarmed me, my dearest Miss Howe, by the concluding part of your last. At first reading it, I did not think it necessary, said I to myself, to guard against a critic, when I was write­ing to so dear a friend. But then recollecting myself, Is there not more in it, said I, than the result of a vein so naturally lively? Surely, I must have been guilty of an inadvertence.—Let me enter into the close examination of myself, which my beloved friend advises.

I did so; and cannot own any of the glow, any of the throbs you mention.— Upon my word, I will re­peat, I cannot. And yet the passages in my letter upon which you are so humourously severe, lay me fairly open to your agreeable rail [...]ery. I own they do. And I cannot tell what turn my mind had taken, to dictate so oddly to my pen.

But-pray-now—Is it saying so much, when one, who has no very particular regard to any man, says, There are some who are preferable to others? And is it blameable to say, Those are the preferable, who are not well used by one's relations; yet dispense with that usage out of regard to one's self, which they would otherwise resent? Mr. Lovelace, for instance, I may be allow'd to say, is a man to be preferr'd to Mr. Solmes; and that I do prefer him to that man: But, surely, this may be said, without its being a necessary consequence, that one must be in love with him.

Indeed, I would not be in love with him, as it is called, for the world: First, because I have no opi­nion of his morals; and think it a fault in which our whole family, my brother excepted, has had a share, [Page 64] that he was permitted to visit us with a hope; which, however being distant, did not, as I have observed heretofore, intitle any of us to call him to account for such of his immoralities as came to our ears. Next, because I think him to be a vain man, capable of tri­umphing, secretly at least, over a person whose heart he thinks he has engaged. And, thirdly, because the assiduities and veneration which you impute to him, seem to carry an haughtiness in them, as if his address had a merit in it, that would be an equivalent for a lady's favour. In short, he seems to me so to behave, when most unguarded, as if he thought himself above the very politeness which his birth and education (per­haps therefore more than his choice) oblige him to shew. In other words, his very politeness appears to me to be constrained; and, with the most remarkably easy and genteel person, something seems to be behind in his manner, that is too studiously kept in. Then, good-humour'd as he is thought to be in the main to other peoples servants, and this even to familiarity (altho', as you have observ'd, a familiarity that has dignity in it, not unbecoming a man of quality), he is apt sometimes to break out into passion with his own: An oath or a curse follows; and such looks from those servants as plainly shew terror; and that they should have far'd worse, had they not been in my hearing: With a con­firmation in the master's looks of a surmize too well justify'd.

Indeed, my dear, THIS man is not THE man. I have great objections to him. My heart throbs not after him: I glow not, but with indignation against myself, for having given room for such an imputation.—But you must not, my dearest friend, construe common Gratitude into Love. I cannot bear that you should. But if ever I should have the misfortune to think it Love, I promise you, upon my word, which is the same as upon my honour, that I will acquaint you with it.

[Page 65]You bid me to tell you very speedily, and by the new-found expedient, that I am not displeased with you for your agreeable raillery: I dispatch this there­fore immediately; postponing to my next the account of the inducements which my friends have to promote with so much earnestness the address of Mr. Solmes.

Be satisfy'd, my dear, mean time, that I am not displeased with you: Indeed I am not: On the con­trary, I give you my hearty thanks for your friendly premonitions. And I charge you, as I have often done, that if you observe any thing in me so very faulty, as would require, from you to others, in my behalf, the palliation of friendly and partial love, you acquaint me with it: For, methinks, I would [...]o conduct myself, as not to give reason even for an adversary to censure me: And how shall so weak and so young a creature avoid the censure of such, if my friend will not hold a looking-glass before me, to let me see my imperfections?

Judge me then, my dear, as any indifferent person knowing what you know of me) would do:—I may, [...]t first, be a little pained; may glow a little, perhaps, [...]o be found less worthy of your friendship, than I wish [...]o be; but assure yourself, that your kind correction will give me reflection, that shall amend me. If it do not, you will have a fault to accuse me of, that will be utterly in-excusable: A fault, let me add, that should you not accuse me of it, if in your opi­nion I am guilty, you will not be so much, so warmly, my friend, as I am yours; who have never spar'd you, you know, my dear, on the like occasions.

Here I break off; to begin another letter to you; with the assurance, mean time, that I am, and ever will be,

LETTER XII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

INdeed you would not be in love with him for the world!—Your servant, my dear. Nor would I have you: For I think, with all the advantages of per­son, fortune, and family, he is not by any means wor­thy of you. And this opinion I give as well from the reasons you mention, which I cannot but confirm, a [...] from what I have heard of him but a few hours ago from Mrs. Fortescue, a favourite of lady Betty Law­rance, who knows him well.—But let me congratu­late you, however, on your being the first of our se [...] that ever I heard of, who has been able to turn th [...] lion, Love, at her own pleasure, into a lap-dog.

Well but, if you have not the throbs and the glow [...] you have not: And are not in love; good reaso [...] why—because you would not be in love; and there' [...] no more to be said.—Only, my dear, I shall keep good look-out upon you; and so I hope you wi [...] upon yourself: For it is no manner of argument, th [...] because you would not be in love, you are not.—B [...] before I part intirely with this subject, a word in you [...] ear, my charming friend—'Tis only by way of caution, and in pursuance of the general observation, th [...] a stander-by is often a better judge of the game th [...] those that play.—May it not be, that you have had and have, such cross creatures, and such odd head to deal with, as have not allow'd you to attend t [...] the throbs?—Or, if you had them a little now an [...] then, whether, having had two accounts to pla [...] them to, you have not, by mistake, put them to th [...] wrong one?

But whether you have a value for this Lovelace, [...] not, I know you'll be impatient to hear what Mr [...] [Page 67] Fortescue has said of him. Nor will I keep you longer in suspense.

An hundred wild stories she tells of him, from child­hood to manhood: for, as she observes, having never been subject to contradiction, he was always as mis­chievous as a monkey. But I shall pass over these whole hundred of his puerile rogueries, altho' indica­tive ones, as I may say, to take notice as well of some things you are not quite ignorant of, as of others you know not; and to make a few observations upon him and his ways.

Mrs. Fortescue owns, what every-body knows, that he is notoriously, nay, avowedly, a man of plea­sure; yet says, that in any thing he sets his heart upon, or undertakes, he is the most industrious and perse­vering mortal under the sun. He rests, it seems, not above six hours in the twenty-four, any more than you. He delights in writing. Whether at his Uncle's, or at Lady Betty's, or Lady Sarah's, he has always, when he retires, a pen in his fingers. One of his com­panions, confirming his love of writing, has told her, that his thoughts flow rapidly to his pen: And you and I, my dear, have observed, on more occasions than one, that tho' he writes even a fine hand, he is one of the readiest and quickest of writers. He must indeed have had early a very docile genius; since a person of his pleasurable turn, and active spirit, could never have submitted to take long or great pains in [...]ttaining the qualifications he is master of; qualifi­cations so seldom attainable by youth of quality and fortune; by such especially of those of either, who, like him, have never known what it was to be con­trouled.

He had once the vanity, upon being complimented [...]n these talents (and on his surprising diligence for a man of pleasure) to compare himself to Julius Cae­ [...]ar; who perform'd great actions by day, and wrote them down at night: And valued himself, that he [Page 68] only wanted Caesar's outsetting, to make a figure among his cotemporaries.

He spoke this, indeed, she says, with an air o [...] pleasantry: For she observed, and so have we, th [...] he has the art of acknowleging his vanity, with s [...] much humour, that it sets him above the contemp [...] which is due to vanity and self-opinion; and at the same time half-persuades those who he [...]r him, that h [...] really deserves the exaltation he gives himself.

But supposing it to be true, that all his vacan [...] nightly hours are imploy'd in writing, what can be hi [...] subjects? If, like Caesar, his own actions, he must u [...] doubtedly be a very enterprising and very wicked man since no-body suspects him to have a serious turn And, decent as he is in his conversation with us, hi [...] writings are not probably such as will redound eithe [...] to his own honour, or to the benefit of others, we [...] they to be read. He must be conscious of this, fin [...] Mrs. Fortescue says, that, in the great correspondence by letters which he holds, he is as secret a [...] careful, as if it were of a treasonable nature;—y [...] troubles not his head with politics, tho' no bod [...] knows the interests of princes and courts better th [...] he.

That you and I, my dear, should love to write, no wonder. We have always, from the time eac [...] could hold a pen, delighted in epistolary correspondencies. Our employments are domestic and sede [...] tary; and we can scribble upon twenty innocent subjects, and take delight in them because they are innocent; tho' were they to be seen, they might n [...] much profit or please others. But that such a ga [...] lively young fellow as this, who rides, hunts, tr [...] vels, frequents the public entertainments, and h [...] means to pursue his pleasures, should be able to set himself down to write for hours together, as you and have heard him say he frequently does, that is [...] strange thing.

[Page 69]Mrs. Fortescue says, that he is a complete master of short-hand writing. By the way, what induce­ments could such a swift writer as he have, to learn short-hand?

She says (and we know it as well as she) that he has a surprising memory; and a very lively imagination.

Whatever his other vices are, all the world, as well as Mrs. Fortescue, say, he is a sober man. And among all his bad qualities, gaming, that great waster of time, as well as fortune, is not his vice: So that he must have his head as cool, and his reason as clear, as the prime of youth, and his natural gaiety, will permit; and, by his early morning hours, a great portion of time upon his hands, to employ in writing, or worse.

Mrs. Fortescue says, he has one gentleman, who is more his intimate and correspondent than any of the rest. You remember what his dismiss'd bailiff said of him, and of his associates. I don't find, but that man's character of him was in general pretty just. Mrs. Fortescue confirms this part of it, that all his relations are afraid of him; and that his pride sets him above owing obligations to them. She believes he is clear of the world; and that he will continue so: No doubt from the same motive that makes him avoid being oblig'd to his relations.

A person willing to think favourably of him would hope, that a brave, a learned, and a diligent man, cannot be naturally a bad man.—But if he be better than his enemies say he is (and, if worse, he is bad in­deed), he is guilty of an inexcusable fault, in being so careless as he is of his reputation. I think a man can be so but from one of these two reasons: Either that he is conscious he deserves the evil spoken of him; or, that he takes a pride in being thought worse than he is:—Both very bad and threatening indications: Since the first must shew him to be utterly abandon'd; and it is but natural to conclude from the other, that what a man is not asham'd to have imputed to him, he will [Page 70] not scruple to be guilty of, whenever he has oppor­tunity.

Upon the whole, and upon all that I could gather from Mrs. Fortescue, Mr. Lovelace is a very faulty man: You and I have thought him too gay, too in­considerate, too rash, too little an hypocrite, to be deep. You see he never would disguise his natural temper (haughty as it certainly is), with respect to your brother's behaviour to him: Where he thinks a contempt due, he pays it to the uttermost: Nor has he complaisance enough to spare your uncles.

But were he deep, and ever so deep, you would soon penetrate him, if they would leave you to your­self. His vanity would be your clue. Never man had more: Yet, as Mrs. Fortescue observed, never did man carry it off so happily. There is a strange mixture in it of humourous vivacity:—For but one half of what he says of himself, when he is in the vein, any other man would be insufferable.

LETTER XIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

I NOW take up my pen, to lay before you the inducements and motives which my friends have to espouse so earnestly the address of this Mr. Solmes.

In order to set this matter in a clear light, it is necessary to go a little backward, and even perhaps to mention some things which you already know: And so you may look upon what I am going to relate, [Page 72] as a kind of supplement to my letters of the 15th and 20th of January last.

In those letters, of which I have kept memoran­dums, I gave you an account of my brother's and sister's implacableness to Mr. Lovelace; and the methods they took (so far as they had then come to my know­lege) to ruin him in the opinion of my other friends: And I told you, that after a very cold, yet not a di­rectly affrontive behaviour, to him, they all of a sud­den ^(a) became more violent, and proceeded to per­sonal insults; which brought on, at last, the unhappy rencounter between my brother and him.

Now you must know, that from the last con­versation which passed between my aunt and me, [...] comes out, that this sudden vehemence on my bro­ther's and sister's parts, was owing to stronger reasons than to the college-begun antipathy on his side, or t [...] slighted love on hers; to wit, to an apprehensio [...] that my uncles intended to follow my grandfather' [...] example, in my favour; at least, in a higher degree that they wish they should: An apprehension founded, i [...] seems, on a conversation between my two uncles, an [...] my brother and sister; which my aunt communicated to me in confidence, as an argument to prevail upon me to accept of Mr. Solmes's noble settlements; urging that such a seasonable compliance would frustrate my brother's and sister's views, and establish me for eve [...] in the opinion and love of my father and uncles.

I will give you the substance of this communicate [...] conversation, after I have made a brief introductory observation or two: Which, however, I hardly need to make to you, who are so well acquainted with [...] all, did not the series or thread of the story require it.

I have more than once mentioned to you the dar­ling view some of us have long had of raising a family as it is called: A reflection, as I have often thought upon our own; which is no inconsiderable or upsta [...] [Page 73] one, on either side: Of my mamma's, especially.—A view too frequently, it seems, entertained by fami­lies, which having great substance, cannot be satis­fy'd without rank and title.

My uncles had once extended this view to each of us three children; urging, that as they themselves intended not to marry, we each of us might be so portion'd, and so advantageously matched, as that our posterity, if not ourselves, might make a first figure in our country—While my brother, as the only son, thought the two girls might be very well provided for by ten or fifteen thousand pounds apiece: And that all the real estates in the family, to wit, my grandfather's, father's, and two uncles, and the remainder of their respective personal estates, together with what he had an expectancy of from his godmother, would make such a noble fortune, and give him such an interest, as might intitle him to hope for a peerage: Nothing less would satisfy his ambition.

With this view, he gave himself airs very early; ‘'That his grandfather and uncles were his stewards: That no man ever had better: That daughters were but incumbrances and drawbacks upon a family:'’ And this low and familiar expression was often in his mouth, and utter'd always with the self-complaisance which an imagin'd happy thought can be supposed to give the speaker; to wit, ‘'That a man who has sons brings up chickens for his own table;'’ (tho' once I made his comparison stagger with him, by asking him, If the sons, to make it hold, were to have their necks wrung off?); 'whereas daughters are chickens brought up for the tables of other men.' This, ac­companied with the equally polite reflection, ‘'That, to induce people to take them off their hands, the family-stock must be impaired into the bargain,'’ used to put my sister out of all patience: And altho' [...]he now seems to think a younger sister only can be an incumbrance, she was then often proposing to me [Page 74] to make a party in our own favour against my bro­ther's rapacious views, as she used to call them: While I was for considering the liberties he took of this sort, as the effect of a temporary pleasantry; which in a young man not naturally good-humour'd, I was glad to see; or as a foible, that deserv'd raillery, but no other notice.

But when my grandfather's will (of the purport of which in my particular favour, until it was open'd, I was as ignorant as they) had lopp'd off one branch of my brother's expectation, he was extremely dissatis­fy'd with me. No-body indeed was pleased: For al­tho' every-one loved me, yet being the youngest child, father, uncles, brother, sister, all thought themselves postpon'd, as to matter of right and power (Who loves not power?): And my father himself could not bear that I should be made sole, as I may call it, and inde­pendent; for such the will, as to that estate, and the powers it gave (unaccountably, as they all said), made me.

To obviate therefore every-one's jealousy, I gave up to my father's management, as you know, not only the estate, but the money bequeathed me (which was a moiety of what my grandfather had by him at his death; the other moiety being bequeathed to my sister); contenting myself to take, as from his bounty, what he was pleased to allow me, without desiring the least addition to my annual stipend. And then I hoped I had laid all envy asleep: But still my brother and sister (jealous, as now is evident, of my two uncles favour for me, and of the pleasure I had given my father and them, by this act of duty) were every-now-and-then occasionally doing me covert ill offices: Which I took the less notice of; having, as I imagin'd, re­moved the cause of their envy; and imputed every thing of that sort to the petulance they are both pretty much noted for.

[Page 75]My brother's acquisition then took place: This made us all very happy; and he went down to take possession of it: And his absence (on so good an ac­count too) made us still happier.—Then follow'd Lord M.'s proposal for my sister: And this was an additional felicity for the time. I have told you how exceedingly good-humour'd it made my sister.

You know how that went off: You know what came on in its place.

My brother then return'd; and we were all wrong again: And Bella, as I observ'd in my letters above-mention'd, had an opportunity to give herself the cre­dit of having refused Mr. Lovelace, on the score of his reputed faulty morals. This united my brother and sister in one cause. They set themselves on all occa­sions to depreciate Mr. Lovelace, and his family too, (a family which deserves nothing but respect): And this gave rise to the conversation I am leading to, be­tween my uncles and them: Of which I now come to give the particulars; after I have observed, that it hap­pen'd before the rencounter, and soon after the inquiry made into Mr. Lovelace's affairs had come out better than my brother and sister hoped or expected ^(a).

They were bitterly inveighing against him, in their usual way, strengthening their invectives with some new stories in his disfavour; when my uncle Antony, having given them a patient hearing, declar'd, ‘'That he thought the gentleman behav'd like a gentleman; his niece Clary with prudence; and that a more ho­nourable alliance for the family, as he had often told them, could not be wished for: Since Mr. Lovelace had a very good paternal estate; and that, by the evidence of an enemy, all clear: Nor did it appear, that he was so bad a man as had been represented: Wild indeed; but it was at a gay time of life: He was a man of sense: And he was sure that his niece would not have him, if she had not good reason to [Page 76] think him reform'd, or, by her own example, likely to be so.'’

He then gave one instance, my aunt told me, as a proof of a generosity in his spirit, which shew'd him, he said, to be no very bad man in nature; and of a temper, he was pleased to say, like my own: Which was, that when he, my uncle, had represented to him, that he might, if he pleased (as he had heard Lord M. say), make three or four hundred pounds a year of his paternal estate, more than he did; he answer'd, ‘'That his tenants paid their rents well: That it was a maxim with his family, from which he would by no means depart, never to rack-rent old tenants, or their descendants; and that it was a pleasure to him, to see all his tenants look fat, sleek, and contented.'’

I indeed had once occasionally heard him say some­thing like this; and thought he never looked so well as at the time;—except once; on this occasion:

An unhappy tenant came petitioning to my uncle Antony for forbearance, in Mr. Lovelace's presence. When he had fruitlesly withdrawn, Mr. Lovelace pleaded his cause so well, that the man was called in again, and had his suit granted. And Mr. Lovelace privately follow'd him out, and gave him two guineas, for present relief; the man having declared, that, at the time, he had not five shillings in the world.

On this occasion, he told my uncle of the good action I hinted at, and that without any ostentatious airs; to wit, That he had once observed an old tenant and his wife in a very mean habit at church; and questioning them about it next day, as he knew they had no hard bargain in their farm, the man said, he had done some very foolish things with a good inten­tion, which had put him behind-hand, and he could not have paid his rent, and appear better. He asked him, how long it would take him to retrieve the foolish step he had made. He said, perhaps two or three years. Well then, said he, I will abate you five pounds [Page 77] a year for seven years, provided you will lay it out upon your wife and self, that you may make a Sunday appearance like MY tenants. Mean time take This (putting his hand in his pocket, and giving him five guineas), to put yourselves in present plight; and let me see you next Sunday at church, hand in hand, like an honest and loving couple; and I bespeak you to dine with me afterwards.

Altho' this pleased me when I heard it, as giving an instance of generosity and prudence at the same time, not lessening, as my uncle took notice, the yearly value of the farm, yet, my dear, I had no throbs, no glows upon it;— upon my word, I had not. Nevertheless I own to you, that I could not help say­ing to myself on the occasion, ‘'Were it ever to be my lot to have this man, he would not hinder me from pursuing the methods I so much delight to take.'’ —With ‘'A pity, that such a man were not uniformly good!'’

Forgive me this digression.

My uncle went on, my aunt told me, ‘'That, be­sides his paternal estate, he was the immediate heir to very splendid fortunes: That, when he was in treaty for his niece Arabella, Lord M. told him, what great things he and his two half-sisters intended to do for him, in order to qualify him for the title (which would be extinct at his Lordship's death); and which they hoped to procure for him, or a still higher, that of those Ladies father, which had been for some time extinct, on failure of heirs male: That this view made his relations so earnest for his mar­rying: That as he saw not where Mr. Lovelace could better himself; so, truly, he thought there was wealth enough in their own family to build up three considerable ones: That therefore, he must needs say, he was the more desirous of this alliance, as there was a great probability, not only from Mr. Lovelace's descent, but from his fortunes, that his niece [Page 78] Clarissa might one day be a peeress of Great Britain:—And upon that prospect (here was the mortifying stroke) he should, for his own part, think it not wrong, to make such dispositions as should contri­bute to the better support of the dignity.'’

My uncle Harlowe, it seems, far from disapproving of what his brother had said, declar'd, ‘'That there was but one objection to an alliance with Mr. Love­lace; to wit, his morals: Especially as so much could be done for Miss Bella, and for my brother too, by my father; and as my brother was actually possessed of a considerable estate, by virtue of the deed of gift and will of his godmother Lovell.'’

Had I known this before, I should the less have wonder'd at many things I have been unable to account for in my brother's and sister's behaviour to me; and been more on my guard than I imagin'd there was a necessity to be.

You may easily guess how much this conversation affected my brother at the time. He could not, you know, but be very uneasy, to hear two of his stewards talk at this rate to his face.

He had from early days, by his violent temper, made himself both feared and courted by the whole family. My father himself, as I have lately men­tioned, very often (long before his acquisitions had made him still more assuming) gave way to him, as to an only son, who was to build up the name, and aug­ment the honour of it. Little inducement therefore had he to correct a temper, which gave him so much consideration with every-body.

'See, sister Bella,' said he, in an indecent passion before my uncles, on the occasion I have mention'd— ‘'See how it is!—You and I ought to look about us!—This little Syren is in a fair way to out-uncle, as well as out-grandfather us both!'’

From this time, as I now find it plain upon recol­lection, did my brother and sister behave to me, as to [Page 79] one who stood in their way (sometimes as to a creature in love with their common enemy); and to each other, as having but one interest: And were resolved therefore to bend all their force to hinder an alliance from taking effect, which they believed was likely to oblige them to contract their views.

And how was this to be done, after such a decla­ration from both my uncles?

My brother found out the way. My sister, as I have said, went hand in hand with him. Between them, the family union was broken, and every-one was made uneasy. Mr. Lovelace was received more and more coldly by all: But not being to be put out of his course by slights only, personal affronts suc­ceeded; defiances next; then the rencounter: That, as you have heard, did the business: And now, if I do not oblige them, my grandfather's estate is to be litigated with me; and I, who never designed to take advantage of the independency bequeathed me, am to be as dependent upon my papa's will, as a daughter ought to be who knows not what is good for herself. This is the language of the family now.

But if I will suffer myself to be prevailed upon, how happy, as they lay it out, shall we all be!—Such presents am I to have, such jewels, and I can­not not tell what, from every one of the family! Then Mr. Solmes's fortunes are so great, and his proposals so very advantageous (no relation whom he values), that there will be abundant room to raise mine upon them, were the high-intended favours of my own relations to be quite out of the question. More­over it is now, with this view, found out, that I have qualifications, which, of themselves, will be a full equivalent to him for the settlements he is to make me; and leave him, as well as them, under an obli­gation to me for my compliance. He himself thinks so, I am told; so very poor a creature is he, even in his own, as well as in their eyes.

[Page 80]These charming views answer'd, how rich, how splendid, shall we all three be! And I—what ob­ligations shall I lay upon them all!—And that only by doing an act of duty so suitable to my character, and manner of thinking;—if indeed I am the gene­rous, as well as dutiful creature, I have hitherto made them believe I am.

This is the bright side that is turn'd to my father and uncles, to captivate them: But I am afraid, that my brother's and sister's design is to ruin me with them at any rate. Were it otherwise, would they not, on my return from you, have rather sought to court than frighten me into measures their hearts are so much bent to carry? A method they have followed ever since.

Mean time, orders are given to all the servants to shew the highest respect to Mr. Solmes; the generous Mr. Solmes is now his character with some of our family! But are not these orders a tacit confession, that they think his own merit will not procure him respect? He is accordingly, in every visit he makes, not only highly-caressed by the principals of our fa­mily, but obsequiously attended and cring'd to by the menials.—And the noble settlements are echoed from every mouth.

Noble is the word used to inforce the offers of a man, who is mean enough avowedly to hate, and wicked enough to propose to rob of their just expec­tations, his own family (every one of which at the same time stands in too much need of his favour), in order to settle all he is worth upon me; and, if I die without children, and he has none by any other marriage, [...]pon a family which already abounds. Such are his proposals.

But were there no other motive to induce me to despise the upstart man, is not this unjust one to his family enough?—The upstart man, I repeat; for he was not born to the immense riches he is possessed of: [Page 81] Riches left by one niggard to another, in injury to the next heir, because that other is a niggard. And should I not be as culpable, do you think, in my ac­ceptance of such unjust settlements, as he in the offer of them, if I could persuade myself to be a sharer in them, or suffer a reversionary expectation of possessing them to influence my choice?

Indeed it concerns me not a little, that my friends could be brought to encourage such offers on such motives as I think a person of conscience should not presume to begin the world with.

But this, it seems, is the only method that can be taken to disappoint Mr. Lovelace; and at the same time to answer all my relations have to wish for each of us. And sure I will not stand against such an ac­cession to the family, as may happen from marrying Mr. Solmes: Since now a possibility is discover'd (which such a grasping mind as my brother's can easily turn into a probability), that my grandfather's estate will revert to it, with a much more consider­able one of the man's own. Instances of estates falling in, in cases far more unlikely than this, are insisted on; and my sister says, in the words of an old saw, It is good to be related to an estate.

While Solmes, smiling no doubt to himself at a hope so remote, by offers only, obtains all their inter­ests; and doubts not to join to his own the estate I am envied for; which, for the conveniency of its situation between two of his, will it seems be of twice the value to him that it would be of to any other person; and is therefore, I doubt not, a stronger motive with him than the wife.

These, my dear, seem to me the principal induce­ments of my relations to espouse, so vehemently as they do, this man's suit. And here, once more, must I de­plore the family-fault, which gives those inducements such a force, as it will be, difficult to resist.

[Page 82]And thus far, let matters with regard to Mr. Solmes and me come out as they will, my brother has suc­ceeded in his views: that is to say, he has, in the first place, got my FATHER to make the cause his own, and to insist upon my compliance as an act of duty.

My MAMMA has never thought fit to oppose my father's will, when once he has declar'd himself deter­min'd.

My UNCLES, stiff, unbroken, highly-prosperous bachelors, give me leave to say, tho' very worthy gentlemen in the main, have as high notions of a child's duty, as of a wife's obedience; in the last of which, my mamma's meekness has confirm'd them, and given them greater reason to expect the first.

My aunt HERVEY (not extremely happy in her own nuptials, and perhaps under some little obliga­tion) is got over, and chooses not to open her lips in my favour, against the wills of a father and uncles so determin'd.

This passiveness in her and in my mamma, in a point so contrary to their own first judgments, is too strong a proof that my papa is absolutely resolv'd.

Their tre [...]tment of my worthy Mrs. NORTON is a sad confirmation of it: A woman deserving of all con­sideration for her wisdom; and every-body thinking so; but who, not being wealthy enough to have due weight in a point against which she has given her opi­nion, and which they seem bent upon carrying, is restrain'd from visiting here, and even from corre­sponding with me, as I am this very day inform'd.

Hatred to Lovelace, family aggrandizement, and this great motive paternal authority!—What a force united!—when, singly, each consideration is suffi­cient to carry all before it!

This is the formidable appearance which the ad­dress of this disagreeable man wears at present!

My BROTHER and my SISTER triumph.— They have got me down, is their expression, as Hannah, over-hearing [Page 83] them, tells me. And so they have (yet I ne­ver knew that I was insolently up); for now my bro­ther will either lay me under an obligation to comply, to my own unhappiness, and so make me an instru­ment of his revenge upon Lovelace; or, if I refuse, throw me into disgrace with my whole family.

Who will wonder at the intrigues and plots carried on by undermining courtiers against one another, when a private family, but three of which can possibly have clashing interests, and one of them, as she pre­sumes to think, above such low motives, cannot be free from them?

What at present most concerns me, is, the peace of my mamma's mind! How can the husband of such a wife (a good man too!—But oh! this prerogative of manhood!) be so posi-tive, so unper- suade-able, to one who has brought into the family, means, which they know so well the value of, that methinks they should value her the more for their sake!

They do indeed value her: But, I am sorry to say, she has purchased that value by her compliances: Yet has merit for which she ought to be venerated; pru­dence which ought of itself to be trusted and con­formed to in every-thing.

But whither roves my pen? How dare a perverse girl take these liberties with relations so very respect­able, and whom she highly respects?—What an un­happy situation is that which obliges her, in her own defence as it were, to expose their failings?

But you, who know how much I love and reve­rence my mamma, will judge what a difficulty I am under, to be obliged to oppose a scheme which she has engaged in. Yet I must oppose it (to comply is im­possible), and must declare without delay my opposition, or my difficulties will increase; since, as I am just now inform'd, a lawyer has been this very day consulted (would you have believ'd it?) in relation to settle­ments.

[Page 84]Were ours a Roman-Catholic family, how much happier for me, that they thought a Nunnery would answer all their views!—How happy, had not a cer­tain person slighted somebody! All then would have been probably concluded on between them before my brother had arrived to thwart the match: Then had I had a sister; which now I have not; and two brothers;—both aspiring; possibly both titled: While I should only have valued that in either which is above title, that which is truly noble in both!

But what long-reaching selfishness is my brother govern'd by! By what remote, exceedingly remote views!—Views, which it is in the power of the slightest accident, of a fever, for instance (the seeds of which are always vegetating, as I may say, and ready to burst forth, in his own impetuous temper), or of the provoked weapon of an adversary, to blow up, and destroy!

I will break off here. Let me write ever so freely of my friends, I am sure of your kind construction: And I confide in your discretion, that you will avoid reading to or transcribing for others, such passages as may have the appearance of treating too freely the parental, or even the fraternal character, or induce others to censure for a supposed failure in duty to the one, or decency to the other,

LETTER XIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

ON Hannah's depositing my long letter, begun yesterday, but by reason of several interruptions, not finish'd till within this hour, she found and brought me yours of this day. I thank you, my dear, for this [Page 85] kind expedition:—These few lines will perhaps be time enough deposited, to be taken away by your ser­vant with the others: Yet they are only to thank you, and to tell you my increasing apprehensions.

I must beg or seek the occasion to apply to my mamma for her mediation;—for I am in danger of having a day fixed, and antipathy taken for bashful­ness.—Should not sisters be sisters to each other? Should they not make a common cause of it, as I may say, a cause of sex, on such occasions as the present? Yet mine, in support of my brother's selfishness, and, no doubt, in concert with him, has been urging in full assembly, as I am told, and that with an earnest­ness peculiar to herself when she sets upon any thing, that an absolute day be given me; and if I comply not, to be told, that it shall be to the forfeiture of all my fortunes, and of all their loves.

She need not be so officious: My brother's interest, without hers, is strong enough; for he has found means to confederate all the family against me. Upon some fresh provocation, or new intelligence concern­ing Mr. Lovelace (I know not what it is), they have bound themselves, or are to bind themselves, by a sign'd paper, to one another (the Lord bless me, my dear, what shall I do!), to carry this point of Mr. Solmes, in support of my father's authority, as it is called, and against Lovelace, as a libertine, and an enemy to the family: And if so, I am sure, I may say against me.—How impolitic in them all, to join two people in one interest, whom they wish for ever to keep asunder!

What the discharg'd steward reported of him was bad enough: What Mrs. Fortescue said, not only confirms that bad, but gives room to think him still worse:—And something my friends have come at, which, as Betty Barnes tells Hannah, is of so heinous a nature, that it proves him to be the worst of men.—But, hang the man, I had almost said,—what is he to me? [Page 86] What would he be—were not this Mr. Sol—O, my dear, how I hate that man in the light he is pro­posed to me!—All of them at the same time afraid of Mr. Lovelace;—yet not afraid to provoke him!—How am I intangled!—to be obliged to go on cor­responding with him for their sakes—Heaven forbid, that their persisted-in violence should so drive me, as to make it necessary for my own!—But surely they will yield—Indeed I cannot.—I believe the gentlest spirits when provoked (causlesly and cruelly pro­voked) are the most determin'd.—The reason may be, That not taking up resolutions lightly, their very deli­beration makes them the more immoveable.—And then, when a point is clear and self-evident to every­body, one cannot, without impatience, think of enter­ing into an argument or contention upon it.

An interruption obliges me to conclude myself, in some hurry, as well as fright, what I must ever be,

LETTER XV. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I HAVE both your letters at once. It is very un­happy, my dear, since your friends will have you marry, that such a merit as yours should be addressed by a succession of worthless creatures, who have no­thing but their presumption for their excuse.

That these presumers appear not in this very un­worthy light to some of your friends, is, because their defects are not so striking to them, as to others.—And why? Shall I venture to tell you?—Because they are nearer their own standard.— Modesty, after all, per­haps has a concern in it; for how should they think, [Page 87] that a niece or a sister of theirs (I will not go higher, for fear of incurring your displeasure) should be an angel?—But where indeed is the man to be found, who has the least share of due diffidence, that dares to look up to Miss Clarissa Harlowe with hope, or with any thing but wishes? Thus the bold and for­ward, not being sensible of their defects, aspire; while the modesty of the really worthy fills them with too much reverence to permit them to explain themselves. Hence your Symmes's, your Byron's, your Mullins's, your Wyerley's (the best of the herd), and your Solmes's, in turn invade you—Wretches that, look­ing upon the rest of your family, need not despair of succeeding in an alliance with it:—But, to you, what an inexcusable pr [...]sumption!

Yet I am afraid all opposition will be in vain. You must, you will, I doubt, be sacrificed to this odious man!—I know your family!—There will be no re­sisting such baits as he has thrown out.—O, my dear, my beloved friend! and are such charming qualities, is such exalted merit, to be sunk in such a marriage!—You must not, your uncle tells my mamma, dis­pute their authority. AUTHORITY! what a full word is that in the mouth of a narrow-minded person, who happen'd to be born thirty years before one!—Of your uncles I speak; for as to the parental autho­rity, That ought to be sacred.—But should not pa­rents have reason for what they do?

Wonder not, however, at your Bell's unsisterly behaviour in this affair: I have a particular to add to the inducements your insolent brother is govern'd by, which will account for all her driving. Her outward eye, as you have own'd, was from the first struck with the figure and address of the man whom she pretends to despise, and who 'tis certain thoroughly despises her: But you have not told us, that still she loves him of all men. Bell has a meanness in her very pride; and no one is so proud as Bell. She has own'd [Page 88] her love, her uneasy days, and sleepless nights, and her revenge grafted upon it, to her favourite Betty Barnes.—To lay herself in the power of a servant's tongue!—Poor creature!—But LIKE little souls will find one another out, and mingle, as well as LIKE great ones. This, however, she told the wench in strict confidence: And thus, by way of the female round-about, as Lovelace had the sauciness on such another occasion, in ridicule of our sex, to call it, Betty (pleased to be thought worthy of a secret, and to have an opportunity of inveighing against Love­lace's perfidy, as she would have it to be) told it to one of her confidants: That confidant, with like injunctions of secrecy, to Miss Lloyd's Harriot—Har­riot to Miss Lloyd—Miss Lloyd to me—I to you—with leave to make what you please of it.—And now you will not wonder to find in Miss Bell an im­placable rivaless, rather than an affectionate sister; and will be able to account for the words witchcraft, syren, and such-like, thrown out against you; and for her driving on for a fixed day for sacrificing you to Solmes: In short, for her rudeness and violence of every kind.—What a sweet revenge will she take, as well upon Lovelace, as upon you, if she can procure her rival and all-excelling sister to be married to the man that sister hates; and so prevent her having the man whom she herself loves (whether she have hope of him, or not), and whom she suspects her sister loves! Poisons and poniards have often been set to work by minds inflam'd by disappointed love and re­venge; will you wonder then, that the ties of rela­tionship in such a case have no force, and that a sister forgets to be a sister?

This her secret motive (the more resistless, because her pride is concern'd to make her disavow it), join'd with her former envy, and with the general and avowed inducements particularized by you, now it is known, fills me with apprehensions for you: Join'd [Page 89] also by a brother, who has such an ascendant over the whole family; and whose interest, slave to it as he always was, and whose revenge, his other dar­ling passion, are engaged to ruin you with every­one: Both having the ears of all your family, and continually misrepresenting all you say, all you do, to them: Their subject the rencounter, and Love­lace's want of morals, to expatiate upon.—O, my dear! how will you be able to withstand all this?—I am sure (—alas! I am too sure) that they will sub­due such a fine spirit as yours, unused to opposition; and, Tell it not in Gath, you must be Mrs. Solmes!

Mean time, it is now easy, as you will observe, to guess from what quarter the report I mention'd to you in one of my former came, That the younger sister has robb'd the elder of her lover: For Betty whisper'd it, at the time she whisper'd the rest, that neither Lovelace nor you had done honourably by her young mistress.—How cruel, my dear, in you, to [...]ob the poor Bella of the only lover she ever had!—At the instant too that she was priding herself, that [...]ow, at last, she should have it in her power not only [...]o gratify her own susceptibilities, but to give an ex­ [...]mple to the flirts of her sex (my worship's self the [...]rincipal, I suppose, with her) how to govern their man with a silken rein, and without a kerb-bridle!

Upon the whole, I have now no doubt of their [...]ersevering in favour of the despicable Solmes; and of [...]heir dependence upon the gentleness of your temper, [...]nd the regard you have for their favour, and for your [...]wn reputation. And now I am more than ever con­ [...]inced of the propriety of the advice I formerly gave [...]ou, to keep in your own hands the estate bequeathed [...]o you by your grandfather.—Had you done so, it [...]ould have procured you at least an outward respect [...]om your brother and sister; which would have made [...]em conceal the envy and ill-will that now is bursting [...]oon you from hearts so narrow.

[Page 90]I must harp a little more upon this string—Don't you observe, how much your brother's influence has over-topp'd yours, since he has got into fortunes so considerable; and since you have given some of them an appetite to continue in themselves the possession of your estate, unless you comply with their terms?

I know your dutiful, your laudable motives; and one would have thought, that you might have trusted to a father who so dearly loved you. But had you been actually in possession of that estate, and living up to it, and upon it (your youth protected from blighting tongues by the company of your prudent Norton, as you had purposed), do you think that your brother, grudging it to you at the time, as he did, and looking upon it as his right, as an only son, would have been practising about it, and aiming at it?—I told you some time ago, that I thought your trials but proportion'd to your prudence:—But you will be more than woman, if you can extricate your­self with honour, having such violent spirits and sordid minds, as in some, and such tyrannical and despot [...] wills, as in others, to deal with.—Indeed, all may be done, and the world be taught further to admire you, for your blind duty and will-less resignation, if yo [...] can persuade yourself to be Mrs. Solmes!

I am pleased with the instances you give me of Mr. Lovelace's benevolence to his own tenants, and with his little gift to your uncle's. Mrs. Fortescue allows him to be the best of landlords: I might have told yo [...] That, had I thought it necessary to put you in some little conceit of him. He has qualities, in short, that may make him a tolerable creature on the other side [...] fifty: But God help the poor woman to whose lot he shall fall till then! Women, I should say perhaps; since he may break half a dozen hearts before that time.—But to the point I was upon—Shall we not have reason to commend the tenant's grateful honesty, if we a [...] told, that with joy the poor man call'd out your uncl [...] [Page 91] and on the spot paid him in part of his debt those two [...]uineas?—But what shall we say of that landlord, who, tho' he knew the poor man to be quite destitute, [...]ould take it; and, saying nothing while Mr. Love­ [...]ce staid, as soon as he was gone, tell of it, praising [...]he poor fellow's honesty?—Were this so, and were [...]ot that landlord related to my dearest friend, how [...]ould I despise such a wretch!—But perhaps the [...]ory is aggravated. Covetous people have every­ [...]ne's ill word: And so indeed they ought; because [...]hey are only sollicitous to keep that which they pre­ [...]er to every-one's good one.—Covetous indeed would they be, who deserved neither, yet expected both!

I long for your next letter. Continue to be as par­ [...]cular as possible. I can think of no other subject but [...]hat relates to you, and to your affairs: For I am, and ever will be, most affectionately,

LETTER XVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE. (Her last, not at the time received.)

O MY dear friend, I have had a sad conflict! trial upon trial; conference upon conference!—But that law, what ceremony, can give a man a right to heart which abhors him more than it does any of God Almighty's creatures?

I hope my mamma will be able to prevail for me.— [...]ut I will recount all, tho' I sit up the whole night [...] do it; for I have a vast deal to write; and will be minute as you wish me to be.

In my last, I told you, in a fright, my apprehen­ [...]ons; which were grounded upon a conversation that [Page 92] passed between my mamma and my aunt, part [...] which Hannah overheard. I need not give you th [...] further particulars; since what I have to relate to yo [...] from different conversations that have passed between my mamma and me in the space of a very few hour [...] will include them all. I will begin then.

I went down this morning, when breakfast w [...] ready, with a very uneasy heart, from what Hanna [...] had told me yesterday afternoon; wishing for an oppor­tunity, however, to appeal to my mamma, in hopes [...] engage her interest in my behalf, and purposing [...] try to find one, when she retired to her own apartment after breakfast:—But, unluckily, there was th [...] odious Solmes sitting asquat between my mamma an [...] sister, with so much assurance in his looks!—But yo [...] k [...]ow, my dear, that those we love not, cannot [...] any-thing to please us.

Had the wretch kept his seat, it might have bee [...] well enough: But the bent and broad-shoulder'd creature must needs rise, and stalk towards a chair, whi [...] was just by that which was set for me.

I removed it at a distance, as if to make way [...] my own: And down I sat, abruptly I believe; wha [...] I had heard, all in my head.

But this was not enough to daunt him: The m [...] is a very confident, he is a very bold, staring man!—Indeed, my dear, the man is very confident.

He took the removed chair, and drew it so ne [...] mine, squatting in it with his ugly weight, that [...] press'd upon my hoop.—I was so offended (all I h [...] heard, as I said, in my head), that I removed to a [...] other chair. I own I had too little command of m [...] self: It gave my brother and sister too much adva [...] tage; I dare say they took it:—But I did it involu [...] tarily, I think: I could not help it.—I knew n [...] what I did.

I saw my papa was excessively displeased. Wh [...] angry, no man's countenance ever shew'd it so mu [...] [Page 93] [...] my papa's. Clarissa Harlowe! said he, with a big [...]oice; and there he stopp'd.—Sir! said I, and courte­ [...]'d.—I trembled; and put my chair nearer the [...]retch, and sat down; my face I could feel all in a [...]ow.

Make tea, child, said my kind mamma: Sit by [...]e, love; and make tea.

I removed with pleasure to the seat the man had [...]itted; and being thus indulgently put into employ­ [...]ent, soon recover'd myself; and in the course of [...]e breakfasting officiously asked two or three que­ [...]tions of Mr. Solmes, which I would not have done, [...]ut to make up with my papa.— Proud spirits may [...]e brought to; whisperingly spoke my sister to me, [...]ver her shoulder, with an air of triumph and scorn: [...]ut I did not mind her.

My mamma was all kindness and condescension. [...] asked her once, if she were pleased with the tea? [...]he said, softly, and again called me dear, she was [...]leased with all I did. I was very proud of this en­ [...]ouraging goodness: And all blew over, as I hoped; [...]etween my papa and me; for he also spoke kindly [...]o me two or three times.

Small incidents these, my dear, to trouble you with; only as they lead to greater; as you shall hear.

Before the usual breakfast-time was over, my papa withdrew with my mamma, telling her he wanted to [...]eak to her. My sister, and my aunt, who was with [...]s, next dropt away.

My brother gave himself some airs of insult, that [...] understood well enough; but which Mr. Solmes [...]ould make nothing of:—And at last he arose from is seat—Sister, said he, I have a curiosity to shew [...]ou: I will fetch it: And away he went; shutting [...]he door close after him.

I saw what all this was for. I arose; the man hem­ [...]ing up for a speech, rising, and beginning to set is splay-feet (indeed, my dear, the man in all his [Page 94] ways is hateful to me) in an approaching posture.—I will save my brother the trouble of bringing to me his curiosity, said I.—I courtesy'd—Your servant, Sir—The man cry'd, Madam, Madam, twice, and look'd like a fool.—But away I went—to find my brother, to save my word.—But my brother was gone, indif­ferent as the weather was, to walk in the garden with my sister. A plain case, that he had left his curiosity with me, and design'd to shew me no other.

I had but just got into my own apartment, and be­gan to think of sending Hannah to beg an audience of my mamma (the more encouraged by her conde­scending goodness at breakfast), when Shorey, her woman, brought me her commands to attend her in her closet.

My papa, Hannah told me, had just gone out of it with a positive, angry countenance. Then I as much dreaded the audience, as I had wished for it before.

I went down, however; but, apprehending the subject, approached her trembling, and my heart in visible palpitations.

She saw my concern. Holding out her kind arms, as she sat, Come kiss me, my dear, said she, with a smile like a sun-beam breaking thro' the cloud that overshadowed her naturally benign aspect. Why flut­ters my jewel so?

This preparative sweetness, with her goodness just before, confirmed my apprehensions. My mamma saw the bitter pill wanted gilding.

O my mamma! was all I could say; and I clasp'd my arms round her neck, and my face sunk into her bosom.

My child! my child! restrain, said she, your powers of moving!—I dare not else trust myself with you.—And my tears trickled down her bosom, as hers bedew'd my neck.

[Page 95]O the words of kindness, all to be express'd in vain, that flow'd from her lips!

Lift up your sweet face, my best child, my own Clarissa Harlowe!—O my daughter, best-beloved of my heart, lift up a face so ever-amiable to me!—Why these sobs?—Is an apprehended duty so affect­ing a thing, that before I can speak—But I am glad, my love, you can guess at what I have to say to you. I am spared the pains of breaking to you what was a task upon me reluctantly enough undertaken to break to you.

Then rising, she drew a chair near her own, and made me sit down by her, overwhelm'd as I was with tears of apprehension of what she had to say, and of gratitude for her truly maternal goodness to me; sobs still my only language.

And drawing her chair still nearer to mine, she put her arms round my neck, and my glowing cheek, wet with my tears, close to her own: Let me talk to you, my child; since silence is your choice, hearken to me, and be silent.

You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo, for the sake of peace: Your papa is a very good man, and means well; but he will not be controuled; nor yet persuaded. You have seem'd to pity me sometimes, that I am obliged to give up every point. Poor man! his reputation the less for it; mine the greater; yet would I not have this credit, if I could help it, at so dear a rate to him and to myself. You are a dutiful, a prudent, and a wise child, she was pleased to say (in hope, no doubt, to make me so): You would not add, I am sure, to my trouble: You would not wilfully break that peace which costs your mamma so much to preserve. Obe­dience is better than sacrifice. O my Clary Harlowe, rejoice my heart, by telling me I have apprehended too much!—I see your concern! I see your per­plexity! I see your conflict (loosing her arm, and [Page 96] rising, not willing I should see how much she herself was affected). I will leave you a moment.—Answer me not (for I was essaying to speak, and had, as soon as she took her dear cheek from mine, dropt down on my knees, my hands clasped and lifted up in a sup­plicating manner): I am not prepared for your irre­sistible expostulation, she was pleased to say.—I will leave you to recollection: And I charge you, on my blessing, that all this my truly maternal tenderness be not thrown away upon you.

And then she withdrew into the next apartment; wiping her eyes, as she went from me; as mine over­flow'd; my heart taking in the whole compass of her meaning.

She soon returned, having recover'd more steadi­ness.

Still on my knees, I had thrown my face cross the chair she had sat in.

Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe. No sullen­ness, I hope!

No, indeed, my ever-to be-revered mamma.—And I arose.—I bent my knee.

She raised me, No kneeling to me, but with knees of duty and compliance.—Your heart, not your knees, must bend.—It is absolutely determin'd.—Prepare yourself therefore to receive your papa, when he visits you by-and-by, as he would wish to receive you: But on this one quarter of an hour depends the peace of my future life, the satisfaction of all the family, and your own security from a man of violence: And I charge you besides, on my blessing, that you think of being Mrs. Solmes.

There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sunk; and when I recover'd, found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty holding open my reluctantly open'd palm, my laces cut, my linen scented with harts-horn; and my mamma gone.—Had I been less kindly treated, the hated name still [Page 97] forborn to be mention'd, or mention'd with a little more preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid sound with less visible emotion—But to be bid, on the blessing of a mother so dearly beloved, so truly reverenc'd, to think of being Mrs. SOLMES, what a denunciation was that!

Shorey came in with a message, deliver'd in her solemn way: Your mamma, Miss, is concern'd for your disorder: She expects you down again in an hour; and bid me say, that she then hopes every thing from your duty.

I made no reply; for what could I say? And lean­ing upon my Hannah's arm, withdrew to my own apartment. There you will guess how the greatest part of the hour was employed.

Within that time, my mamma came up to me.

I love, she was pleased to say, to come into this apartment!—No emotions, child! No flutters!—Am I not your mother!—Am I not your fond, your indulgent mother! Do not discompose me by discom­posing yourself!—Do not occasion me uneasiness, when I would give you nothing but pleasure. Come, my dear, we will go into your library!

She took my hand, led the way, and made me sit down by her: And after she had inquired how I did, she began in a strain, as if she had supposed I had made use of the intervening space, to overcome all my objections.

She was pleased to tell me, that my papa and she, in order to spare my natural modesty, had taken the whole affair upon themselves—

Hear me out, and then speak (for I was going to expostulate). You are no stranger to the end of Mr. Solmes's visits.—

O Madam—

Hear me out; and then speak. He is not indeed every thing I wish him to be: But he is a man of probity, and has no vices—

[Page 98]No vices, Madam!—

Hear me out, child—You have not behaved much amiss to him: We have seen with pleasure that you have not.—

O Madam, must I not now speak!—

I shall have done presently—A young creature of your virtuous and pious turn, she was pleased to say, cannot surely love a profligate: You love your brother too well, to wish to marry one who had like to have killed him, and who threaten'd your uncles, and defies us all. You have had your own way six or seven times: We want to secure you against a man so vile. Tell me; I have a right to know; whether you prefer this man to all others?—Yet God forbid, that I should know you do! for such a declaration would make us all miserable. Yet, tell me, are your affections engag'd to this man?

I knew what the inference would be, if I had said they were not.

You hesitate: You answer me not: You cannot answer me.— Rising—Never more will I look upon you with an eye of favour.—

O Madam, Madam! Kill me not with your dis­pleasure: I would not, I need not, hesitate one mo­ment, did I not dread the inference, if I answer you as you wish.—Yet be that inference what it will, your threatened displeasure, will make me speak. And I declare to you, that I know not my own heart, if it be not absolutely free. And pray, let me ask, my dearest mamma, in what has my conduct been faulty, that, like a giddy creature, I must be forced to marry, to save me from—From what? Let me beseech you, Madam, to be the guardian of my reputation.—Let not your Clarissa be precipitated into a state she wishes not to enter into with any man! And this upon a supposition that otherwise she shall marry herself, and disgrace her whole family.

Well then, Clary (passing over the force of my plea), if your heart be free—

[Page 99]O my beloved mamma, let the usual generosity of your dear heart operate in my favour. Urge not up­on me the inference that made me hesitate.

I won't be interrupted, Clary.—You have seen in my behaviour to you, on this occasion, a truly ma­ternal tenderness; you have observ'd that I have undertaken this task, with some reluctance, because the man is not every thing; and because I know you carry your notions of perfection in a man too high—

Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me!—Is there then any danger that I should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake you hint at?

Again interrupted!—Am I to be question'd, and argued with? You know this won't do somewhere else. You know it won't. What reason then, un­generous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because you think from my indulgence to you, you may?

What [...]an I say? What can I do? What must that cause be, that will not bear being argued upon?

Again! Clary Harlowe!—

Dearest Madam, forgive me: It was always my pride and my pleasure to obey you. But look upon that man—see but the disagreeableness of his person—

Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have in your eye!—Now is Mr. Solmes, I see, but compa­ratively disagreeable; disagreeable only as another man has a much more specious person.

But, Madam, are not his manners equally so?—Is not his person the true representative of his mind?—That other man is not, shall not, be any thing to me, release me but from this one man, whom my heart, unbidden, resists.

Condition thus with your papa. Will he bear, do you think to be thus dialogu'd with? Have I not conjur'd you, as you value my peace—What is it that I do not give up?—This very task, because I apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a [Page 100] task indeed upon me. And will you give up nothing? Have you not refused as many as have been offer'd to you? If you would not have us guess for whom, comply; for comply you must, or be look'd upon as in a state of defiance with your whole family.

And saying this, she arose, and went from me. But at the chamber-door stopt, and turn'd back; I will not say below, in what a disposition I leave you. Consider of every thing. The matter is resolv'd up­on. As you value your father's blessing and mine, and the satisfaction of all the family, resolve to com­ply. I will leave you for a few moments. I will come up to you again: See that I find you as I wish to find you; and since your heart is free, let your duty govern it.

In about half an hour, my mamma return'd: She found me in tears. She took my hand; It is my part evermore to be of the acknowleging side. I believe I have needlesly exposed myself to your opposition, by the method I have taken with you. I first began as if I expected a denial, and by my indulgence brought it upon myself.

Do not, my dearest mamma! do not, say so!

Were the occasion for this debate, proceeded she, to have risen from myself; were it in my power to dispense with your compliance; you too well know what you can do with me—

Would any-body, my dear Miss Howe, wish to marry, when one sees a necessity for such a sweet temper as my mamma's, either to be ruin'd, or de­priv'd of all power?

—When I came to you a second time, knowing that your contradiction would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: And in This I was wrong too, because a young creature, who loves to reason, and used to love to be convinc'd by reason, ought to have all her objections heard: I now, there­fore, this third time, see you; and am come resolv'd [Page 101] to hear all you have to say: And let me, my dear, by my patience engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it; because it is to You I speak, who used to have a mind wholly generous: Let me, if your heart be really free, let me see what it will induce you to do to oblige me: And so as you permit your usual discretion to govern you, I will hear all you have to say; but with this intimation, that say what you will, it will be of no avail elsewhere.

What a dreadful saying is that! But could I engage your pity, Madam, it would be somewhat.

You have as much of my pity, as of my love. But what is person, Clary, with one of your prudence, and your heart disengag'd?—

Should the eye be disgusted, when the heart is to be engag'd?—O Madam, who can think of marry­ing, when the heart must be shock'd at the first ap­pearance, and where the disgust must be confirm'd by every conversation afterwards?

This, Clary, is owing to your prepossession. Let me not have cause to regret that noble firmness of mind in so young a creature, which I thought your glory, and which was my boast in your character. In this instance it would be obstinacy, and want of duty.—Have you not made objections to several—

That was to their minds, their principles, Madam—But this man—

Is an honest man, Clary Harlowe. He has a good mind.—He is a virtuous man.

He an honest man! His a good mind, Madam! He a virtuous man!—

No-body denies him these qualities.

Can he be an honest man who offers terms that will rob all his own relations of their just expecta­tions?—Can his mind be good—

You, Clary Harlowe, for whose sake he offers so much, are the last person that should make this ob­servation.

[Page 102]Give me leave, to say, Madam, that a person pre­ferring happiness to fortune, as I do; that want not even what I have, and can give up the use of that, as an instance of duty—

No more, no more of your merits!—You know you will be a gainer by that chearful instance of your duty; not a loser. You know you have but cast your bread upon the waters—So no more of that!—For it is not understood as a merit by every-body, I assure you; tho' I think it a high one; and so did your papa and uncles at the time—

At the time, Madam!—How unworthily do my bro­ther and sister, who are afraid that the favour I was so lately in—

I hear nothing against your brother and sister—What family feuds have I in prospect, at a time when I hoped most comfort from you all!

God bless my brother and sister, in all their wor­thy views! You shall have no family feuds, if I can prevent them. You yourself, M [...]dam, shall tell me what I shall bear from them, and I will bear it: But let my actions, not their misrepresentations (as I am sure has been the case, by the disgraceful prohibitions I have met with), speak for me—

Just then, up came my Papa, with a sternness in his looks, that made me tremble!—He took two or three turns about my chamber—And then said to my mamma, who was silent as soon as she saw him—

My dear, you are long absent—Dinner is near ready. What you had to say, lay in a very little compass. Surely, you have nothing to do but to de­clare your will, and my will!—But, perhaps, you may be talking of the preparations—Let us have you soon down—Your daughter in your hand, if worthy of the name.

And down he went, casting his eye upon me with a look so stern, that I was unable to say one word to him, or even, for a few minutes, to my mamma.

[Page 103]Was not this very intimidating, my dear?

My mamma, seeing my concern, seem'd to pity me. She called me her good child, and kissed me; told me my papa should not know, that I had made such opposition. He has kindly furnish'd us with an excuse for being so long together.—Come, my dear,—Dinner will be upon table presently—Shall we go down? And took my hand.

This made me start: What, Madam, go down, to let it be supposed we were talking of prepara­tions!—O my beloved mamma, command me not down upon such a supposition.

You see, child, that to stay longer together, will be owning that you are debating about an absolute duty: And that will not be borne. Did not your papa himself, some days ago, tell you, he would be obey'd? I will a third time leave you. I must say something by way of excuse for you: And that you desire not to go down to dinner—That your modesty on the occasion—

O Madam! say not my modesty on such an oc­casion: For that will be to give hope—

And design you not to give hope?—Perverse girl!— Rising, and flinging from me, take more time for consideration!—Since it is necessary, take more time—And when I see you next, let me know what blame I have to cast upon myself, or to bear from your papa, for my indulgence to you.

She made, however, a little stop at the chamber-door; and seem'd to expect, that I would have be­sought her to make the gentlest construction for me; for hesitating, she was pleased to say, I suppose, you would not have me make a report—

O Madam, interrupted I, whose favour can I hope for, if I lose my mamma's?

To have desired a favourable report, you know, my dear, would have been qualifying upon a point that I was too much determin'd upon, to give room for [Page 104] any of my friends to think I have the least hesitation about. And so my mamma went down stairs.

I will deposite thus far; and as I know you will not think me too minute in my relation of particulars so very interesting to one you honour with your love, proceed in the same way. As matters stand, I don't care to have papers so freely written about me.

Pray let Robert call every day, if you can spare him, whether I have any thing ready or not.

I should be glad you would not send him empty-handed. What a generosity in you, to write as fre­quently from friendship, as I am forced to do from misfortune! The letters being taken away will be an assurance that you have them. As I shall write and de­posite as I have opportunity, the formality, of super and sub-scription, will be excused. For I need not say how much I am,

LETTER XVII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

MY mamma, on her return, which was as soon as she had din'd, was pleased to inform me, that she told my papa, on his questioning her about my chearful compliance (for it seems, the chearful was all that was doubted), that she was willing, on so ma­terial a point, to give a child whom she had so much reason to love (as she condescended to acknowlege were her words) liberty to say all that was in her heart to say, that her compliance might be the freer: Letting him know, that when he came up, she was attending to my pleas; for that she found I had rather not marry at all.

She told me, that to this my papa angrily said, Let her take care—Let her take care—that she give me not ground to suspect her of a preference somewhere [Page 105] else. But, if it be to ease her heart, and not to dis­pute my will, you may hear her out.

So, Clary, said my mamma, I am returned in a temper accordingly, if you do not again, by your peremptoriness, shew me, how I ought to treat you.

Indeed, Madam, you did me justice, to say, I have no inclination to marry at all. I have not, I hope, made myself so very unuseful in my papa's f [...]mily, as—

No more of your merits, Clary! You have been a good child: You have eased me of all the family cares: But do not now add more than ever you re­lieved me from. You have been richly repaid in the reputation your skill and management have given you:—But now there is soon to be a period to all those assistances from you. If you marry, there will be a natural, and, if to please us, a desirable period; because your own family will employ all your talents in that way: If you do not, there will be a period likewise, but not a natural one:—You understand me, child.

I wept.

I have made inquiry already after a housekeeper. I would have had your good Norton; but I suppose you will yourself wish to have the worthy woman with you. If you desire it, that shall be agreed upon for you.

But, why, dearest Madam, why am I, the youngest, to be precipitated into a state, that I am ver [...] far from wishing to enter into with any-body?

You are going to question me, I suppose, why your sister is not thought of for Mr. Solmes?

I hope, Madam, it will not displease you, if I were?

I might refer you for an answer to your papa.—Mr. Solmes has reasons for preferring you—

And so have I, Madam, for disliking him. And why am I—

This quickness upon me, interrupted my mamma, is not to be borne! I am gone, and your father comes, if I can do no good with you.

[Page 106]Madam, I would rather die, than—

She put her hand to my mouth.—No peremptori­ness, Clary Harlowe! Once you declare yourself in­flexible, I have done.

I wept for vexation. This is all, all, my brother's doings—His grasping views—

No reflections upon your brother: He has intirely the honour of the family at heart.

I would no more dishonour my family, Madam, than my brother would.

I believe it: But I hope you'll allow your papa, and me, and your uncles, to judge what will do it honour, what dishonour!

I then offer'd to live single; never to marry at all; or never but with their full approbation.

If I meant to shew my duty, and my obedience, I must shew it in their way; not my own.

I said, I hoped I had so behaved myself hitherto, that there was no need of such a trial of my obe­dience as this.

Yes, she was pleased to say, I had behaved ex­tremely well: But I had no trials till now: And she hoped, that now I was called to one, I should not fail in it. Parents, said she, when children are young, are pleased with every thing they do.—You have been a good child upon the whole: But we have hitherto rather comply'd with you, than you with us. Now that you are grown up to marriage­able years, is the test; especially as your grandfather has made you independent, as we may say, in pre­ference to those who had prior expectations upon that estate.—

Madam, my grandfather knew, and expresly men­tions in his will his desire, that my papa will more than make it up to my sister—I did nothing but what I thought my duty, to procure his favour. It was rather a mark of his affection, than any advan­tage to me: For, do I either seek or wish to be in­dependent? [Page 107] Were I to be queen of the universe, that, dignity should not absolve me from my duty to you and my papa. I would kneel for your blessings, were it in the presence of millions—So that—

I am loth to interrupt you, Clary; tho' you could more than once break in upon me—You are young and unbroken—But, with all this ostentation of your duty, I desire you to shew a little more deference to me when I am speaking.

I beg your pardon, dear Madam, and your patience with me on such an occasion as this.—If I did not speak with earnestness upon it, I should be supposed to have only maidenly objections against a man I never can abide.—

Clary Harlowe—

Dearest, dearest Madam, permit me to speak what I have to say, this once—It is hard, it is very hard, to be forbid to enter into the cause of all, because I must not speak disrepectfully of one who supposes me in the way of his ambition, and treats me like a slave—

Whither, whither, Clary—

My dearest mamma!—My duty will not permit me so far to suppose my father arbitrary, as to make a plea of that arbitrariness to you.—

How now, Clary!—O girl!—

Your patience, my dearest mamma:—You were pleased to say, you would hear me with patience.—PERSON, in a man is nothing, because I am supposed to be prudent: So my eye is to be disgusted, and my reason not convinced.—

Girl, girl!—

Thus are my imputed good qualities to be made my punishment; and I am to be wedded to a monster.—

(Astonishing!—Can this, Clarissa, be from you?—

The man, Madam, person and mind, is a monster in my eye.)—And that I may be induced to bear this [Page 108] treatment, I am to be complimented with being in­different to all men: Yet, at other times, and to serve other purposes, am I to be thought prepossessed in favour of a man against whose moral character lie just objections.—Confined, as if, like the giddiest of creatures, I would run away with this man, and dis­grace my whole family!—O my dearest mamma! who can be patient under such treatment?

Now, Clary, I suppose you will allow me to speak. I think I have had patience indeed with you.—Could I have thought—But I will put all upon a short issue. Your mamma, Clarissa, shall shew you an example of that patience, you so boldly claim from her, with­out having any yourself.

O my dear, how my mamma's condescension di­stressed me at the time! infinitely more distressed me, than rigour could have done. But she knew, she was to be sure aware, that she was put upon a harsh service; an unreasonable service, let me say; or she would not, she could not, have had so much pa­tience with me.

Let me tell you then, proceeded she, that all lies in a small compass, as your papa said.—You have been hitherto, as you are pretty ready to plead, a dutiful child—You have indeed had no cause to be otherwise; no child was ever more favour'd—Whe­ther you will discredit all your past actions; whe­ther, at a time and upon an occasion that the highest instance of duty is expected from you (an instance that is to crown all); and when you declare that your heart is free—you will give that instance; or whether, having a view to the independence you may claim (for so, Clary, whatever be your motive, it will be judged), and which any man you favour, can assert for you against us all; or rather for himself, in spite of us—Whether, I say, you will break with us all; and stand in defiance of a jealous papa; need­lessly jealous, I will venture to say, of the prero­gatives [Page 109] of his sex, as to me, and still ten times more jealous of the authority of a father;—This is now the point with us. You know your papa has made it a point; and did he ever give up one he thought he had a right to carry?

Too true, thought I to myself! And now my brother has engag'd my father, his fine scheme will walk alone, without needing his leading-strings; and it is become my father's will that I oppose; not my brother's grasping views.

I was silent. To say the truth, I was just then sullenly silent. My heart was too big. I thought it was hard to be thus given up by my mamma; and that she should make a will so uncontroulable as my brother's, her will.

But this silence availed me still less.—

I see, my dear, said she, that you are convinc'd. Now, my good child, now, my Clary, do I love you! It shall not be known, that you have argued with me at all: All shall be imputed to that modesty, which has ever so much distinguish'd you. You shall have the full merit of your resignation.

I wept.

She tenderly wip'd the tears from my eyes, and kiss'd my cheek—Your papa expects you down, with a chearful countenance—But I will excuse your go­ing: All your scruples, you see, have met with an indulgence truly maternal from me. I rejoice in the hope that you are convinc'd. This indeed seems to be a proof of the welcome truth you have asserted, That your heart is free.

Did not this seem to border upon cruelty, my dear, in so indulgent a mamma?—It would be wicked (would it not?) to suppose my mamma capable of art—But she is put upon it; and obliged to take methods her heart is naturally above stooping to; and all intended for my good, because she sees that no arguing will be admitted any-where else.

[Page 110]I will go down, proceeded she, and excuse your attendance at afternoon-tea, as I did to dinner: For I know you will have some little reluctances to con­quer. I will allow you those; and also some little natural shynesses—And so you shan't come down, if you choose not to come down—Only, my dear, don't disgrace my report when you come to supper. And besure behave as you used to do to your bro­ther and sister; for your behaviour to them will be one test of your chearful obedience to us. I advise as a friend, you see, rather than command as a mo­ther—So adieu, my love: And again she kissed me; and was going.

O my dear mamma, said I, forgive me!—But surely you cannot believe, I can ever think of having that man!

She was very angry, and seemed to be greatly dis­appointed. She threatened to turn me over to my papa and my uncles:—She bid me (generously bid me) consider, if I thought my brother and sister had views to serve by making my uncles dissatisfied with me, what a handle I gave them. She told me, That she had early said all that she thought could be said against the present proposal, on a supposition, that I, who had refused several others (whom she own'd to be prefer­able as to person) should not approve of it; and could she have prevailed, I had never heard of it: And if SHE could not, how could I expect it?—That it was equally my good (in order to preserve to me the share I had hitherto held in every-body's affections), and her own peace, that she wished to promote by the task she had undertaken:—That my papa would flame out, upon my refusal to comply:—That my uncles were so much convinced of the consistence of the measure with their favourite views of aggrandizing the family, that they were as much determin'd as my papa:—That my aunt Hervey and my uncle Hervey were of the same party:—That it was hard, if a [Page 111] father and mother, and uncles, and aunt, all con­join'd, could not be allowed to direct my choice:—That, surely, I was not the more averse, because the family view would be promoted by the match:—That this would be the light, she could assure me, in which my refusal would be taken by every-body:—That all the asseverations I could make of living single, while the man who was so obnoxious to every­body, remain'd unmarry'd, and while he buzz'd about me, was the word, would have no weight with any of them:—That if Mr. Lovelace were an angel, and my father made it a point that I should not have him, I must be sensible he would not have his will disputed: Especially, as it was not doubted, that I corresponded with him: To the belief of which, and that it was by Miss Howe's means, were owing the prohibition, laid upon me, so much against her liking, she was pleased to say.

I answer'd to every article she had spoken to as above, in such a manner, as I am sure would have satisfy'd her, could she have been permitted to judge for herself; and then inveighed with bitterness against the disgraceful prohibitions laid upon me.

They would serve to shew me, she was pleased to say, how much in earnest my papa was. They might be taken off, whenever I thought fit, and no harm done, nor disgrace received. But if I were to be con­tumacious, I might thank myself for all that would follow.

I sigh'd. I wept. I was silent.

Shall I, Clary, said she, tell your papa, that these prohibitions are as unnecessary, as I hoped they would be? That you know your duty, and will not offer to controvert his will?—What say you, my love?

O Madam, what can I say to questions so indul­gently put? I do indeed know my duty: No creature in the world is more willing to practise it: But, par­don me, dearest Madam, if I say, That I must bear [Page 112] these prohibitions, if I am to pay so dear to have them taken off.

Determin'd and perverse, my dear mamma called me: And after walking twice or thrice in anger about the room, she turn'd to me;—Your heart free! Clarissa! How can you tell me your heart is free? Such extraordinary antipathies to a particular person must be owing to extraordinary prepossessions in an­other's favour!—Tell me, Clary; and tell me truly—Do you not continue to correspond with Mr. Love­lace?

Dearest Madam, reply'd I, you know my motives: To prevent mischief, I answer'd his Letters. The reason for our apprehensions of this sort are not over.

I own to you, Clary, altho' now I would not have it known, that I once thought a little qualifying among such violent spirits, was not amiss. I did not know but all things would come round again by Lord M.'s and his two sisters mediation: But as they all three think proper to resent for their nephew; and as their nephew thinks fit to defy us all; and as terms are offer'd on another hand, that could not be asked, which will very probably prevent your grandfather's estate going out of the family, and may be a means to bring a still greater into it; I see not, that the continuance of your correspondence with him either can, or ought to be permitted. I therefore now for­bid it to you, as you value my favour.

Be pleased, Madam, only to advise me how to break it off with safety to my brother and uncles; and it is all I wish for. Would to heaven, the man so hated had not the pretence to make of having been too violently treated, when he meant peace and re­conciliation! It would always have been i [...] my own power to have broke with him:—His reputed im­moralities would have given me a just pretence at any time to do so—But, Madam, as my uncles and my brother will keep no measures;—as he has heard [Page 113] what the view is; and as I have reason to think, that he is only restrained by his regard for me from re­senting their violent treatment of him and his family; what can I do?—Would you have me, Madam, make him desperate?

The Law will protect us, child!—Offended magi­stracy will assert itself—

But, Madam, may not some dreadful mischief first happen?—The Law asserts not itself, till it is of­fended.

You have made offers, Clary, if you might be obliged in the point in question:—Are you really in earnest, on that condition to break off all correspond­ence with Mr. Lovelace?—Let me know this.

Indeed, I am; and I will. You, Madam, shall see every letter that has passed between us. You shall see I have given him no encouragement, independent of my duty:—And when you have seen them, you will be better able to direct me how, on that condi­tion, to break intirely with him.

I take you at your word, Clarissa: Give me his letters; and the copies of yours.

I am sure, Madam, you will keep the knowlege that I write, and what I write—

No conditions with your mamma—Surely my pru­dence may be trusted to.

I begg'd her pardon; and besought her to take the key of the private drawer in my escrutoire, where they lay, that she herself might see, that I had no reserves to my mamma.

She did; and took all his letters, and the copies of mine.— Un-condition'd with, she was pleased to say, they shall be yours again, unseen by any-body else.

I thank'd her; and she withdrew to read them; saying, she would return them, when she had.

YOU, my dear, have seen all the letters that have passed between him and me, till my last return from [Page 114] you: You have acknowleg'd, that he has nothing to boast of, from them: Three others I have received since, by the private conveyance I told you of; the last I have not yet answer'd.

In these three, as in those you have seen, after having besought my favour, and, in the most earnest manner, professed the sincerity of his passion for me; and set forth the indignities done him; the defiances my brother throws out against him in all companies; the menaces, and hostile appearance of my uncles, where-ever they go, or come; and the methods they take to defame him; he declares, ‘'That neither his own honour, nor his family's (involved as that is in the undistinguishing reflections cast upon him for an un­happy affair, which he would have shunn'd, but could not), permit him to bear these confirmed in­dignities: That as my inclinations, if not favour­able to him, cannot be, nor are, to such a man as the new-set-up Solmes, he is interested the more to resent my brother's behaviour; who to every-body avows his rancour and malice; and glories in the probability he has, thro' this Solmes's address, of mortifying me, and avenging himself on him: That it is impossible, he should not think himself con­cern'd to frustrate a measure, so directly level'd at him, had he not still a higher motive for hoping to frustrate it: That I must forgive him, if he enters into conference with Solmes upon it. He earnestly insists upon what he has so often proposed, That I will give him leave, in company with Lord M. to wait upon my uncles, and even upon my papa or mamma; promising patience, if new provocations, absolutely beneath a man to bear, are not given:'’ Which, by the way, I am far from being able to engage for.

In my answer, I absolutely declare, as I tell him I have often done, ‘'That he is to expect no favour from me, against the approbation of my friends: [Page 115] That I am sure their consents for his visiting any of them will never be obtained: That I will not be either so undutiful, or so indiscreet, as to suffer my interests to be separated from the interests of my family, for any man on earth: That I do not think myself obliged to him for the forbearance I desire one flame­ing spirit to have with others: That in this desire I require nothing of him, but what prudence, justice, and the laws of his country, oblige from him: That if he has any expectations of favour from me, on that account, he deceives himself: That I have no inclination, as I have often told him, to change my condition: That I cannot allow myself to correspond with him any longer in this clandestine manner: It is mean, low, undutiful, I tell him; and has a giddy appearance, which cannot be excused: That there­fore he is not to expect, that I will continue it.'’

To this, in his last, among other things, he replies; ‘'That if I am actually determin'd to break off all correspondence with him, he must conclude, that it is with a view to become the wife of a man, whom no woman of honour and fortune can think tolerable. And in that case, I must excuse him for saying, that he shall neither be able to bear the thoughts of losing for ever a person in whom all his present, and all his future hopes are centred; nor support himself with patience under the insolent triumphs of my brother upon it: But that he will not presume to threaten either his own life, or that of any other man. He must take his resolutions as such a dreaded event shall impell him, at the time. If he shall know that it will be with my own con­sent, he must endeavour to resign to his destiny: But if it be brought about by compulsion, he shall not be able to answer for the consequence.'’

I will send you these letters for your perusal, in a few days. I would inclose them; but that it is possible something may happen, which may make my [Page 116] mamma require to see them again.—You will see, my dear, by his, how he endeavours to hold me to this correspondence.

IN about an hour my mamma return'd. Take your letters, Clary: I have nothing to task your discretion with, as to the wording of yours to him: You have even kept up a proper dignity, as well as decorum: And you have resented, as you ought to resent, his menacing invectives. But can you think from the avowed hatred of one side, and the avowed defiance of the other, that this can be a suitable match? Can you think it becomes you to encourage an ad­dress from a man who has fought a duel with your brother, let his fortune and professions be what they will?

By no means it can, Madam; you will be pleased to observe, that I have said as much to him. But now, Madam, the whole correspondence is before you; and I beg your commands what to do in a situa­tion so very disagreeable.

One thing I will tell you, Clary Harlowe: But I charge you, as you would not have me question the generosity of your spirit, to take no advantage of it, either mentally or verbally, were the words: That I am so much pleased with the offer of your keys to me, in so chearful and unreserved a manner, and in the prudence you have shewn in your letters, that were it practicable to bring every one, or your father only, into my opinion, I should readily leave all the rest to your discretion, reserving only to myself the direction or approbation of your future letters; and to see, that you broke off the correspondence, as soon as possible. But as it is not, and as I know your papa would have no patience with you, should it be acknowleg'd that you correspond with Mr. Lovelace, or that you have corresponded with him since the time he prohibited [Page 117] you so to do; I forbid you continuing such a liberty. Yet, as the case is difficult, let me ask you, What you yourself can propose? Your heart, you say, is free. You own, that you cannot think, as matters are circum­stanced, that a match with a man so obnoxious as he now is to us all, is proper to be thought of: What do you propose to do?—What, Clary, are your own thoughts of the matter?

Without hesitation (for I saw I was upon a new trial) thus I answer'd—What I humbly propose is this:— ‘'That I will write to Mr. Lovelace (for I have not answer'd his last) that he has nothing to do between my father and me: That I neither ask his advice, nor need it: But that since he thinks he has some pretence for interfering, because of my bro­ther's avowal of the interest of Mr. Solmes in ma­lice to him, I will assure him, without giving him any reason to impute the assurance to be in the least favourable to himself, that I never will be that man's.'’ And if, proceeded I, I may be permitted to give him this assurance; and Mr. Solmes, in consequence of it, be discouraged from prosecuting his address; let Mr. Lovelace be satisfy'd or dissatisfy'd, I will go no farther; nor write another line to him; nor ever see him more, if I can avoid it: And shall have a good excuse for it, without bringing in any of my family.

Ah! my love!—But what shall we do about the terms Mr. Solmes offers? Those are the inducements with every-body: He has even given hopes to your brother that he will make exchanges of estates; or at least, that he will purchase the northern one; for, you know, it must be intirely consistent with the family views, that we increase our interest in this county. Your brother, in short, has given in a plan that captivates us all: And a family so rich in all its branches, that has it's views to honour, must be pleased to see a very great probability of being on a footing with the principal in the kingdom.

[Page 118]And for the sake of these views, for the sake of this plan of my brother's, am I, Madam, to be given in marriage to a man I never can endure!—O my dear mamma, save me, save me, if you can, from this heavy evil!—I had rather be bury'd alive, indeed I had, than have that man!

She chid me for my vehemence; but was so good as to tell me, That she would venture to talk with my uncle Harlowe, and, if he encourag'd her (or would engage to second her), with my papa; and I should hear further in the morning.

She went down to tea, and kindly undertook to excuse my attendance at supper: And I immediately had recourse to my pen, to give you these particulars.

But is it not a sad thing, I repeat, to be obliged to stand in opposition to the will of such a mamma? Why, as I often say to myself, was such a man as this Solmes fix'd upon? The only man in the world, surely, that could offer so much, and deserve so little!

Little indeed does he deserve!—Why, my dear, the man has the most indifferent of characters. Every mouth is open'd against him for his sordid ways—A foolish man, to be so base-minded!—When the dif­ference between the obtaining of a fame for generosity, and incurring the censure of being a miser, will not, prudently manag'd, cost fifty pounds a year.

What a name have you got, at a less expence? And what an opportunity had he of obtaining credit at a very small one, succeeding such a wretched crea­ture as Sir Oliver, in fortunes so vast?—Yet has he so behaved, that the common phrase is apply'd to him, That Sir Oliver will never be dead, while Mr. Solmes lives.

The world, as I have often thought, ill-natured as it is said to be, is generally more just in characters (speaking by what it feels), than is usually apprehend­ed: And those who complain most of its censorious­ness, [Page 119] perhaps should look inwardly for the occasion oftener than they do.

My heart is a little at ease, on the hopes that my mamma will be able to procure favour for me, and a deliverance from this man; and so I have leisure to moralize: But if I had not, I should not forbear to intermingle occasionally these sort of remarks, because you command me never to omit them when they oc­cur to my mind: And not to be able to make them, even in a more affecting situation, when one sits down to write, would shew one's-self more engaged to self, and one's own concerns, than attentive to the wishes of a friend. If it be said, that it is natural so to be, what makes that nature, on occasions where a friend may be obliged, or reminded of a piece of in­struction, which, writing down, one's-self may be the better for, but a fault; which it would set a person above nature to subdue?

LETTER XVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

WOULD you not have thought, that something might have been obtained in my favour, from an offer so reasonable, from an expedient so proper, as I imagine, to put a tolerable end, as from myself, to a correspondence I hardly know how, otherwise, with safety to some of my family, to get rid of!—But my brother's plan (which my mamma spoke of, and of which I have in vain endeavour'd to procure a copy, with a design of taking it to pieces, and exposing it, as I question not there is room to do), together with my papa's impatience of contradiction, is irresistible.

I have not been in bed all night; nor am I in the least drousy. Expectation, and hope, and doubt (an uneasy state!), kept me sufficiently wakeful. I stept [Page 120] down at my usual time, that it might not be known I had not been in bed; and gave directions in the fa­mily way.

About eight o' clock Shorey came to me from my mamma, with orders to attend her in her chamber.

My mamma had been weeping, I saw by her eyes: But her aspect seem'd to be less tender, and less af­fectionate, than the day before; and this struck me with an awe, as soon as I entered her presence, which gave a great damp to my spirits.

Sit down, Clary Harlowe; I shall talk to you by-and-by: And was looking into a drawer among laces and linen, in a way neither busy nor unbusy.

After some time, she ask'd me coldly, What direc­tions I had given for the day?

I gave her the bill of fare for this day, and to­morrow, if, I said, it pleased her to approve of it.

She made a small alteration in it; but with an air so cold and so solemn, as added to the emotions I en­ter'd into her presence with.

Mr. Harlowe talks of dining out to-day, I think, at my brother Antony's.—

Mr. Harlowe!—Not my papa!—Have I not then a papa!—thought I?

Sit down when I bid you.

I sat down.

You look very sullen, Clary.

I hope not, Madam.

If children would always be children—parents—And there she stopt.

She then went to her toilette, and looked in the glass, and gave half a sigh—the other half, as if she would not have sighed, could she have help'd it, she gently hem'd away.

I don't love to see the girl look so sullen.

Indeed, Madam, I am not sullen.—And I arose, and, turning from her, drew out my handkerchief, for the tears ran down my cheeks. I thought, by [Page 121] the glass before me, I saw the mother in her soften'd eye cast towards me.—But her words confirm'd not the hop'd-for tenderness.

One of the provoking'st things in the world is, to have people cry for what they can help!

I wish to heaven I could, Madam!—and I sobb'd again.

Tears of penitence and sobs of perverseness are mighty well suited!—You may go up to your chamber. I shall talk with you by-and-by.

I courtesy'd with reverence.—

Mock me not with outward gesture of respect. The heart, Clary, is what I want.

Indeed, Madam, you have it. It is not so much mine, as my mamma's!

Fine talking!—As somebody says, If words were duty, Clarissa Harlowe would be the dutifullest child breathing.

God bless that somebody!—Be it whom it will, God bless that somebody!—And I courtesy'd, and, pursuant to her last command, was going.

She seem'd struck; but was to be angry with me.

So turning from me, she spoke with quickness, Whither now, Clary Harlowe?

You commanded me, Madam, to go to my cham­ber.

I see you are very ready to go out of my presence. Is your compliance the effect of sullenness, or obe­dience?—You are very ready to leave me.

I could hold no longer; but threw myself at her feet: O my dearest mamma! Let me know all I am to suffer: Let me know what I am to be! I will bear it, if I can bear it: But your displeasure I can­not bear!

Leave me, leave me, Clary Harlowe!—No kneel­ing!—Limbs so supple; Will so stubborn!—Rise, I tell you.

I cannot rise! I will disobey my mamma, when [Page 122] she bids me leave her, without her being reconciled to me! No sullens, my mamma: No perverseness: But, worse than either, This is direct disobedience!—Yet tear not yourself from me! (wrapping my arms about her as I kneeled; she struggling to get from me; my face lifted up to hers, with eyes running over, that spoke not my heart if they were not all humility and reverence.) You must not, must not, tear yourself from me! (for still the dear lady strug­gled, and looked this way and that, in a sweet disor­der, as if she knew not what to do.)—I will neither rise, nor leave you, nor let you go, till you say you are not angry with me.

O thou ever-moving child of my heart! (folding her dear arms about my neck, as mine embraced her knees.) Why was this task!—But leave me!—You have discomposed me beyond expression!—Leave me, my dear!—I won't be angry with you—if I can help it—if you'll be good.

I arose trembling, and, hardly knowing what I did, or how I stood or walk'd, withdrew to my chamber. My Hannah followed me, as soon as she heard me quit my mamma's presence, and with salts and spring-water just kept me from fainting; and that was as much as she could do. It was near two hours before I could so far recover myself as to take up my pen, to write to you how unhappily my hopes have ended.

My mamma went down to breakfast. I was not fit to appear: But if I had been better, I suppose I should not have been sent for; my papa's hint, when in my chamber, being, To bring me down, if worthy of the name of daughter. That, I doubt, I never shall be in his opinion, if he be not brought to change his mind as to this Mr. Solmes.

LETTER XIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE. [In answer to Letter XV.]

HANNAH has just now brought me from the usual place your favour of yesterday. The con­tents of it have made me very thoughtful; and you will have an answer in my gravest style.— I to have that Mr. Solmes!—No indeed!—I will sooner—But I will write first to other parts of your letter that are less concerning, that I may touch upon this part with more patience.

As to what you mention of my sister's value for Mr. Lovelace, I am not very much surprised at it. She takes such officious pains, and it is so much her sub­ject, to have it thought that she never did, and never could like him, that she gives but too much room to suspect her. Then she never tells the story of their parting, and of her refusal of him, but her colour rises, she looks with disdain upon me, and mingles anger with the airs she gives herself:—Both anger and airs, at least, demonstrating, that she refused a man whom she thought worth accepting: Where else is the reason either for anger or boast?—Poor Bella! She is to be pity'd!—She cannot either like or dislike with temper!—Would to heaven she had been mistress of all her wishes!—Would to heaven she had!—

As to the article of giving up to my papa's controul the estate bequeathed me, my motives at the time, as you acknowlege, were not blameable. Your advice to me on the subject was grounded, as I remember, on your good opinion of me; believing that I should not make a bad use of the power willed me: Neither you nor I, my dear, altho' you now assume the air of a diviner (pardon me), could have believed That would have happen'd which has happen'd, as to my father's [Page 124] part particularly. You were indeed jealous of my bro­ther's views against me; or rather of his predominant love of Self; but I did not think so hardly of my bro­ther and sister, as you always did. You never loved them; and ill-will has eyes always open to the faulty side; as good-will or love is blind even to real imper­fections. I will briefly recollect my motives.

I found jealousies and uneasiness rising in every breast, where all before was unity and love: The ho­noured testator was reflected upon: A second child­hood was attributed to him; and I was censured, as having taken advantage of it. All young creatures, thought I, more or less, covet independency; but those who wish most for it, are seldom the fittest to be trusted either with the government of themselves, or with power over others. This is certainly a very high and unusual bequest to so young a creature. We should not aim at all we have power to do. To take all that good-nature, or indulgence, or good opinion con­fers, shews a want of moderation, and a graspingness that is unworthy of that indulgence; and are bad indi­cations of the use that may be made of the power be­queathed. It is true, thought I, that I have formed agreeable schemes of making others as happy as my­self, by the proper discharge of the stewardship intrusted to me (Are not all estates stewardships, my dear?): But let me examine myself: Is not vanity, or secret love of praise, a principal motive with me at the bot­tom?—Ought I not to suspect my own heart? If I set up for myself, puffed up with every one's good opinion, may I not be left to myself?—Every one's eyes are upon the conduct, upon the visits, upon the visit- ors of a young creature of our sex, made inde­pendent: And are not such, moreover, the subjects of the attempts of the worst of the other?—And then, left to myself, should I take a wrong step, tho' with ever so good an intention, how many should I have to triumph over me, how few to pity?—The more [Page 125] of the one, and the fewer of the other, for having aimed at excelling.

These were some of my reflections at the time: And I have no doubt, but that in the same situation I should do the very same thing; and that upon the ma­turest deliberation. Who can command or foresee events? To act up to our best judgments at the time, is all we can do. If I have err'd, 'tis to worldly wis­dom only that I have err'd. If we suffer by an act of duty, or even by an act of generosity, is it not plea­surable on reflection, that the fault is in others, rather than in ourselves?—I had rather, a vast deal, have rea­son to think others unkind, than that they should have any to think me undutiful. And so, my dear, I am sure had you.

And now for the most concerning part of your letter.

You think I must of necessity be Mr. Solmes's wife, as matters are circumstanced. I will not be very rash, my dear, in protesting to the contrary: But I think it never, never can, nor ought to be!—My temper, I know, is depended upon: But I have heretofore said, that I have something in me of my father's family, as well as of my mother's ^(a). And have I any encou­ragement to follow too implicitly the example which my mamma sets of meekness, and resignedness to the wills of others?—Is she not for ever obliged to be, as she was pleased to hint to me, of the forbearing side? In my mamma's case, your observation is verify'd, that those who will bear much, shall have much to bear:—What is it, as she says, that she has not sacrificed to peace?—Yet, has she by her sacrifices always found the peace she has deserved to find? Indeed No!—I am afraid the very contrary. And often and often have I had reason, on her account, to reflect, that we poor mortals, by our over-sollicitude to preserve undisturbed the qualities we are constitutionally fond of, frequently lose the benefits we propose to ourselves from them: [Page 126] Since the designing and incroaching, finding out what we most fear to forfeit, direct their batteries against these our weaker places, and, making an artillery, if I may so phrase it, of our hopes and fears, play it upon us at their pleasure.

Steadiness of mind (a quality which the ill-bred and censorious deny to any of our sex), when one is con­vinced of being in the right (otherwise it is not steadi­ness, but obstinacy), and in material cases, is a qua­lity, my good Dr. Lewin was wont to say, that brings great credit to the possessor of it; at the same time that it usually, when try'd and known, raises such above the attempts of the meanly machinating. He used therefore to inculcate upon me this steadiness, upon laudable convictions. And why may I not think that I am now put upon an exercise of it?—I have said, that I never can be, that I never ought to be, Mrs. Solmes.—I repeat, that I ought not: For surely, my dear, I should not give up to my brother's am­bition the happiness of my future life.—Surely I ought not to be the instrument to deprive Mr. Solmes's re­lations of their natural rights and reversionary pro­spects, for the sake of further aggrandizing a family (altho' that I am of) which already lives in great af­fluence and splendor; and who might be as justly dis­satisfy'd, were what some some of them aim at to be obtained, that they were not princes, as now they are, that they are not peers (for when ever was an am­bitious mind, as you observe in the case of avarice ^(a), satisfy'd by acquisition?). The less, surely, ought I to give into these grasping views of my brother, as I myself heartily despise the end aimed at; as I wish not either to change my state, or better my fortunes; and as I am fully persuaded, that happiness and riches are two things, and very seldom meet together.

Yet I dread, I exceedingly dread, the conflicts I know I must encounter with. It is possible, that I [Page 127] may be more unhappy from the due observation of the good doctor's general precept, than were I to yield the point; since what I call steadiness is attri­buted to stubbornness, to obstinacy, to prepossession, by those who have a right to put what interpretation they please upon my conduct.

So, my dear, were we perfect, which no one can be, we could not be happy in this life, unless those with whom we have to deal (those, more especially, who have any controul upon us), were govern'd by the same principles. What have we then to do, but as I have hinted above, to choose right, and pursue it steadily, and leave the issue to Providence?

This, if you approve of my motives (and if you don't, pray inform me), must be my aim in the pre­sent case.

But what then can I plead for a palliation to myself of my mamma's sufferings on my account? Perhaps This consideration will carry some force with it;—That her difficulties cannot last long; only till this great struggle shall be one way or other determin'd.—Whereas my unhappiness, if I comply, will (from an aversion not to be overcome) be for life. To which let me add, That, as I have reason to think that the present measures are not enter'd upon with her own natural liking, she will have the less pain, should they want the success which I think in my heart they ought to want.

I have run a great length in a very little time. The subject touch'd me to the quick. My reflections upon it will give you reason to expect from me a perhaps too steady behaviour in a new conference, which, I find, I must have with my mamma. My father and brother, as she was pleased to tell me, dine at my uncle An­tony's, on purpose, as I have reason to believe, to give an opportunity for it.

Hannah informs me, that she heard my papa high and angry with my mamma, at taking leave of [Page 128] her: I suppose for being too favourable to me; for Hannah heard her say, as in tears, ‘'Indeed, Mr. Harlowe, you greatly distress me!—The poor girl does not deserve—'’ Hannah heard no more, but that he said, he would break somebody's heart—Mine, I suppose.—Not my mother's, I hope.

As only my sister dines with my mamma, I thought I should have been commanded down: But she sent me up a plate from her table. I wrote on. I could not touch a morsel: I order'd Hannah however, to eat of it, that I might not be thought sullen.

I will see, before I conclude this, whether any thing offers from either of my private correspondencies, that will make it proper to add to it; and will take a turn in the wood-yard and garden for that purpose.

I am stopp'd. Hannah shall deposite this. She was order'd by my mamma, who ask'd where I was, to tell me, that she would come up and talk with me in my own closet.—She is coming! Adieu, my dear.

LETTER XX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

THE expected conference is over: But my diffi­culties are increased. This, as my mamma was pleased to tell me, being the last persuasory effort that will be attempted, I will be as particular in the account of it as my head and my heart will allow me to be.

I have made, said she, as she enter'd my room, a short as well as early dinner, on purpose to confer with you: And I do assure you, that it will be the last con­ference I shall either be permitted or inclined to hold with you on the subject, if you should prove as refractory as some, whom I hope you'll disappoint, imagine you [Page 129] will; and thereby demonstrate, that I have not the weight with you that my indulgence to you deserves.

Your papa both dines and sups at your uncle's, on purpose to give us this opportunity; and as I shall make my report (which I have promised to do very faithfully) on his return, he will take his measures with you.

I was offering to speak—Hear, Clarissa, what I have to tell you, said she, before you speak, unless what you have to say will signify to me your com­pliance—Say— will it?—If it will, you may speak.

I was silent.

She looked with concern and anger upon me—No compliance, I find!—Such a dutiful young creature hitherto!—Will you not, can you not, speak as I would have you speak?—Then, rejecting me, as it were, with her hand, then, continue silent.— I, no more than your father, will bear your avowed contra­diction!—

She paused, with a look of expectation, as if she waited for my consenting answer.

I was still silent; looking down; the tears in my eyes.

O thou determin'd girl!—But say; speak out; are you resolved to stand in opposition to us all, in a point our hearts are set upon?

May I, Madam, be permitted to expostulate?

To what purpose expostulate with me, Clarissa? Your father is determin'd. Have I not told you, that there is no receding; that the honour, as well as the benefit, of the family is concerned? Be ingenuous: You used to be so, even against yourself—Who at the long run must submit— all of us to you; or you to all of us?—If you intend to yield at last if you find you cannot conquer, yield now, and with a grace—for yield you must, or be none of our child.

I wept. I knew not what to say; or rather how to express what I had to say.

[Page 130]Take notice, that there are flaws in your grand­father's will: Not a shilling of that estate will be yours, if you do not yield. Your grandfather left it to you, as a reward of your duty to him and to us.—You will justly forfeit it, if—

Permit me, good Madam, to say, that, if it were unjustly bequeathed me, I ought not to wish to have it. But I hope Mr. Solmes will be apprized of these flaws.

This was very pertly said, she was pleased to tell me: But bid me reflect, that the forfeiture of that estate, thro' my opposition, would be attended with the total loss of my papa's favour; and then how desti­tute I must be; how unable to support myself; and how many benevolent designs and good actions must I give up!

I must accommodate myself, I said, in the latter case, to my circumstances: Much only was required where much was given. It became me to be thankful for what I had had: And I had reason to bless her and my good Mrs. Norton, for bringing me up to be sa­tisfied with little—with much less, I would venture to say, than my papa's indulgence annually conferr'd upon me.—And then I thought of the old Roman and his lentiles.

What perverseness! said my mamma.—But if you depend upon the favour of either or both your uncles, vain will be that dependence. They will give you up, I do assure you, if your papa does, and absolutely renounce you.

I told her, I was sorry that I had had so little merit, as to have made no deeper impressions of favour for me in their hearts: But that I would love and honour them as long as I lived.

All this, she was pleased to say, made my prepos­session in a certain man's favour the more evident. Indeed my brother and sister could not go any-whither, but they heard of these prepossessions.

[Page 131]It was a great grief to me, I said, to be made the subject of the public talk: But I hop'd she would have the goodness to excuse me for observing, that the authors of my disgrace within-doors, the talkers of my prepossession without, and the reporters of it from abroad, were originally the same persons.

She severely chid me for this.

I received her rebukes in silence.

You are sullen, Clarissa! I see you are sullen!—And she walked about the room in anger. Then turning to me—You can bear the imputation, I see!—You have no concern to clear yourself of it. I was afraid of telling you all I was injoined to tell you, in case you were to be unpersuadeable:—But I find that I had a greater opinion of your delicacy and gentleness than I needed to have.—It cannot discompose so steady, so inflexible, a young creature, to be told, that the set­tlements are actually drawn; and that you will be called down, in a very few days, to hear them read, and to sign them: for it is impossible, if your heart be free, that you can make the least objection to them; except that they are so much in your favour, and in all our favour, be one.

I was speechless, absolutely speechless: Altho' my heart was ready to burst, yet could I neither weep nor speak.

She was sorry, she said, for my averseness to this match (match she was pleased to call it!): But there was no help. The honour and interest of the family, as my aunt had told me, and as she had told me, were concern'd; and I must comply.

I was still speechless.

She folded the warm statue, as she was pleased to call me, in her arms; and intreated me, for God's sake, and for her sake, to comply.

Speech and tears were lent me at the same time.—You have given me life, Madam, said I, clasping my uplifted hands together, and falling on one knee; a [Page 132] happy one, till now, has your goodness, and my papa's, made it! O do not, do not, make all the re­mainder of it miserable!

Your papa, reply'd she, is resolv'd he will not see you till he sees you as obedient a child as you used to be. You have never been put to a test till now, that deserv'd to be called a test. This is, This must be, my last effort with you. Give me hope, my dear child: My peace is concerned: I will compound with you but for hope; and yet your father will not be sa­tisfy'd without an implicit, and even a chearful obe­dience:—Give me but hope, my child!

To give you hope, my dearest, my most indulgent mamma, is to give you every thing. Can I be honest, if I give a hope that I cannot confirm?

She was very angry. She again called me perverse: She upbraided me with regarding only my own in­clinations, and respecting not either her peace of mind, or my own duty:— ‘'It was a grating thing, she said, for the parents of a child, who delighted in her in all the time of her helpless infancy, and throughout every stage of her childhood, and in every part of her education to womanhood, because of the promises she gave of proving the most grate­ful and dutiful of children; to find, that just when the time arrived which should crown all their wishes, she should stand in the way of her own happiness, and her parents comfort, and, refusing an excellent offer, and noble settlements, give suspicions to her anxious friends, that she would become the property of a vile rake and libertine, who (be the occasion what it would) defy'd her family, and had actually embrued his hands in her brother's blood.'’

She added, ‘'That she had a very hard time of it between my father and me; That seeing my dislike, she had more than once pleaded for me; but all to no purpose. She was only treated as a too fond mother, who, from motives of a blameable indul­gence; [Page 133] would encourage a child to stand in oppo­sition to a father's will: She was charged, she said, with dividing the family into two parts; she and her youngest daughter standing against her husband, his two brothers, her son, her eldest daughter, and her sister Hervey. She had been told, that she must be convinced of the fitness as well as advantage to the whole (my brother and Mr. Lovelace out of the question) of carrying the contract with Mr. Solmes, on which so many contracts depended, into execution.'’

She repeated, ‘'That my father's heart was in it: That he had declared, he had rather have no daugh­ter in me, than one he could not dispose of for her own good: Especially as I had owned, that my heart was free; and as the general good of his whole family was to be promoted by my obedience: That he had pleaded, that his frequent gouty paroxysms (every Fit more threatening than the former) gave him no extraordinary prospects either of worldly happiness, or of long days: That he hoped, that I, who had been supposed to have contributed to the lengthening of his father's life, would not, by my disobedience, shorten his.'’

This was a most affecting plea, my dear; I wept in silence upon it; I could not speak to it: And my mamma proceeded: ‘'What therefore could be his motives, she asked, in the earnest desire he had to see this treaty perfected, but the welfare and aggrandizement of his family; which already hav­ing fortunes to become the highest condition, could not but aspire to greater distinctions: That, how­ever slight such views as these might appear to me, I knew, that they were not slight ones to any other of the family: And my papa would be his own judge of what was, and what was not, likely to pro­mote the good of his children: That my abstract­edness (affectation of abstractedness some called it) [Page 134] savour'd of greater particularity, than what they aim'd to carry: That modesty and humility would therefore oblige me rather to mistrust myself of pe­culiarity, than censure views, which all the world pursued, as opportunity offer'd.'’

I was still silent; and she proceeded— ‘'That it was owing to the good opinion which my papa had of me, and of my prudence, duty, and gratitude, that he had engaged for my compliance, in my ab­sence (before I return'd from Miss Howe); and had built and finished contracts upon it, that could not be made void, or cancelled.'’

But why then, thought I, did they receive me, on my return from Miss Howe, with so much intimi­dating solemnity?—To be sure, this argument, as well as the rest, was obtruded upon my mamma.

She went on, ‘'That my papa had declar'd, that my unexpected opposition ( unexpected, she was pleased to call it), and Mr. Lovelace's continued menaces and insults, more and more convinc'd him, that a short day was necessary, in order to put an end to all that man's hopes, and to his own apprehensions resulting from the disobedience of a child so favour'd: That he had therefore actually order'd patterns of the richest silks to be sent for from London—’

I started!—I was out of breath—I gasped, at this frightful precipitance: I was going to open with warmth against it. I knew whose the happy expe­dient must be: Female minds, I once heard my bro­ther say, that could but be brought to balance on the change of their state, might easily be determined by the glare and splendor of the nuptial preparations, and the pride of becoming the mistress of a family.—But she was pleased to hurry on, that I might not have time to express my disgusts at such a communication—to this effect:

‘'That neither for my sake, nor his own, could my father labour under a suspense so affecting to [Page 135] his repose: That he had even thought fit to ac­quaint her, on her pleading for me, that it became her, as she valued her own peace (How harsh to such a wife!), and as she wished, that he should not suspect that she secretly favoured the address of a vile rake (a character which all the sex, he was pleased to say, virtuous and vicious, were but too fond of!), to exert her authority over me: And that This she might the less scrupulously do, as I had own'd (the old string!) that my heart was free.'’

Unworthy reflection This of our sex's valuing a li­bertine, in my mamma's case, surely! who made choice of my papa in preference to several suitors of equal for­tune, because they were of inferior reputation for morals!

She added, ‘'That my papa had left her at going out, with this command, That if she found that she had not the proper influence over me, she should directly separate herself from me; and leave me, singly, to take the consequence of my double dis­obedience.'’

She therefore intreated me in the most earnest and condescending manner, ‘'To signify to my papa, on his return, my ready obedience: And this, she was pleased to say, as well for her sake, as mine.'’

Affected by my mamma's goodness to me, and by that part of her argument which related to her own peace, and to the suspicions they had of her secretly inclining to prefer the man so hated by them, to the man so much my aversion, I could not but wish it were possible for me to obey. I therefore paused, hesitated, consider'd, and was silent for a consider­able space. I could see, that my mamma hoped that the result of this hesitation would be favour­able to her arguments. But then, recollecting, that all was owing to the instigations of a brother and sister, wholly actuated by selfish and envious views: That I had not deserved the treatment I had of late met with: That my disgrace was already become the [Page 136] public talk: That my aversion to their man was too generally known, to make my compliance either cre­ditable to myself or to them; as it would demon­strate less of duty than of a slavish, and even of a sor­did mind, seeking to preserve its worldly fortunes; by the sacrifice of its future happiness; That it would give my brother and sister a triumph over me, and over Mr. Lovelace, which they would not fail to glory in; and which, altho' it concern'd me but little to matter on his account, yet might be at­tended with fatal mischiefs—And then Mr. Solmes's disagreeable person, his still more disagreeable man­ners; his low understanding—Understanding! the glory of a man! so little to be dispensed with in the head and director of a family, in order to preserve to him that respect which a good wife (and that for the justification of her own choice) should pay him herself, and wish every-body to pay him—And as Mr. Solmes's inferiority in this respectable faculty of the human mind (I must be allowed to say this to you, and no great self-assumption neither) would proclaim to all future, as well as present observers, what must have been my mean inducement—All these reflections, which are ever present with me, crouding upon my remembrance; I would, Madam, said I, folding my hands, with an earnestness that my whole heart was ingaged in, bear the cruellest tortures, bear loss of limb, and even of life, to give you peace. But this man, every moment I would, at your command, think of him with favour, is the more my aversion. You cannot, indeed you cannot, think, how my whole soul resists him!—And to talk of contracts, concluded upon; of patterns; of a short day!—save me, save me, O my dearest mamma, save your child, from this heavy, from this insupportable evil!—

Never was there a countenance that express'd so significantly, as my mamma's, an anguish, which she struggled to hide, under an anger she was compelled [Page 137] to assume.—Till the latter overcoming the former, she turned from me with an uplifted eye, and stamp­ing— Strange perverseness! were the only words I heard of a sentence that she angrily pronounced; and was going. I then, half franticly I believe, laid hold of her gown—Have patience with me, dearest Madam! said I—Do not you renounce me totally!—If you must separate yourself from your child, let it not be with absolute reprobation on your own part!—My uncles may be hard-hearted—My papa may be immoveable—I may suffer from my brother's ambi­tion, and from my sister's envy!—But let me not lose my mamma's love; at least, her pity.

She turned to me with benigner rays—You have my love! You have my pity! But, O my dearest girl—I have not yours.

Indeed, indeed, Madam, you have: And all my reverence, all my gratitude, you have!—But in this one point—Cannot I be this once obliged?—Will no expedient be accepted? Have I not made a very fair proposal as to the man so hated?

I wish, for both our sakes, my dear unpersuadable girl, that the decision of this point lay with me. But why, when you know it don't, should you thus per­plex and urge me?—To renounce Mr. Lovelace is now but half what is aimed at. Nor will any-body else believe you in earnest in the offer, if I would. While you remain single, Mr. Lovelace will have hopes—and you, in the opinion of others, in­clinations.

Permit me, dearest Madam, to say, That your goodness to me, your patience, your peace, weigh more with me, than all the rest put together: For altho' I am to be treated by my brother, and, thro' his instigations, by my papa, as a slave in this point, and not as a daughter, yet my mind is not that of a slave. You have not brought me up to be mean.

So, Clary, you are already at defiance with your [Page 138] papa! I have had too much cause before to apprehend as much—What will this come to?— I, and then my dear mamma sigh'd— I, am forced to put up with many humours—

That you are, my ever-honour'd mamma, is my grief. And can it be thought that this very consi­deration, and the apprehension of what may result from a much worse-temper'd man (a man, who has not half the sense of my papa), has not made an im­pression upon me, to the disadvantage of the marry'd life? Yet 'tis something of an alleviation, if one must bear undue controul, to bear it from a man of sense. My papa, I have heard you say, Madam, was for years a very good-humour'd gentleman—Unobjecti­ble in person and manners.—But the man proposed to me—

Forbear reflecting upon your papa (Did I, my dear, in what I have repeated, and I think they are the very words; reflect upon my papa?): It is not possible, I must say again, and again, were all men equally indif­ferent to you, that you should be thus sturdy in your will.—I am tired out with your obstinacy—The most unper- suade-able girl!—You forget, that I must separate myself from you, if you will not comply: You do not remember that your papa will take you up, where I leave you.—Once more, however, I will put it to you,—Are you determin'd to brave your papa's displeasure?—Are you determin'd to defy your uncles?—Will you choose to break with us all, rather than encourage Mr. Solmes?—Rather than give me hope?

Cruel alternative!—But is not my sincerity, is not the integrity of my heart, concerned in my answer? May not my everlasting happiness be the sacrifice? Will not the least shadow of the hope you just now demanded from me, be driven into absolute and sudden certainty? Is it not sought to insnare, to intangle me in my own desire of obeying, if I could [Page 139] give answers that might be construed into hope?—Forgive me, Madam: Bear with your child's bold­ness in such a cause as This!—Settlements drawn!—Patterns sent for!—An early day!—Dear, dear Madam, how can I give hope, and not intend to be this man's?

Ah, girl, never say your heart is free! You deceive yourself if you think it is.

Thus to be driven (and I wrung my hands thro' impatience) by the instigations of a designing, an am­bitious brother, and by a sister, that—

How often, Clary, must I forbid your unsisterly reflections?—Does not your father, do not your un­cles, does not every-body, patronize Mr. Solmes?—And let me tell you, ungrateful girl, and unmoveable as ungrateful, let me repeatedly tell you, that it is evi­dent to me, that nothing but a love unworthy of your prudence can make a creature late so dutiful, so sturdy. You may guess what your father's first question on his return will be. He must know, that I can do nothing with you. I have done my part. Seek me, if your mind change before he comes back: You have yet a little more time, as he stays supper: I will no more seek you, nor to you.—And away she flung.

What could I do but weep?

I am extremely affected on my mamma's account—more, I must needs say, than on my own.—And in­deed, all things consider'd, and especially, that the measure she is engaged in, is (as I dare say it is) against her own judgment, she deserves more compassion than myself.—Excellent woman! What pity, that meekness and condescension should not be attended with the due rewards of those charming graces!—Yet had she not let violent spirits, as I have elsewhere observed with no small regret, have found their power over hers, it could not have been thus.

But here, run away with by my pen, I suffer my dear mamma to be angry with me on her own account. She hinted to me, indeed, that I must seek her, if my [Page 140] mind changed; which is a condition that amounts to a prohibition:—But, as she left me in displeasure, will it not have a very obstinate appearance, and look like a a kind of renunciation of her mediation in my favour, if I go not down to supplicate her pity, and her kind report, before my papa comes back?—

I will attend her. I had rather all the world should be angry with me, than my mamma!

Mean time, to clear my hands from papers of such a nature, Hannah shall deposite this. If two or three letters reach you together, they will but express, from one period to another, the anxieties and difficulties which the mind of your unhappy, but ever affection­ate, friend labours under.

LETTER XXI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

LETTER XXII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

LETTER XXIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

THEY are resolv'd to break my heart. My poor Hannah is discharged—disgracefully discharged!—Thus it was.

Half an hour after I had sent the poor girl down for my breakfast, that bold creature Betty Barnes, my sister's confident and servant (if a favourite maid and confident can be deemed a servant), came up.

What, Miss, will you please to have for breakfast?

I was surpris'd. What will I have for breakfast, Betty!—How!—What!—How comes it!—Then I named Hannah!—I could not tell what to say.

Don't be surpris'd, Miss:—But you'll see Hannah no more in this house!—

God forbid!—Is any harm come to Hannah!—What! What is the matter with Hannah?—

Why, Miss, the short and the long is this: Your papa and mamma think Hannah has staid long enough in the house to do mischief; and so she is order'd to troop (that was the confident creature's word); and I am directed to wait upon you.

I burst into tears:—I have no service for you, Betty Barnes, none at all.—But where is Hannah?—Cannot I speak with the poor girl. I owe her half a year's wages. May I not see the honest creature, and pay her her wages?—I may never see her again per­haps, for they are resolv'd to break my heart.

[Page 152]And they think, you are resolv'd to break theirs: So tit for tat, Miss.

Impertinent I call'd her; and ask'd her, if it were upon such confident terms that her service was to commence.

I was so very earnest to see the poor maid, that, to oblige me, as she said, she went down with my request.

The worthy creature was as earnest to see me; and the favour was granted in presence of Shorey and Betty.

I thank'd her, when she came up, for her past service to me.

Her heart was ready to break. And she fell a vin­dicating her fidelity and love; and disclaiming any mischief she had ever made.

I told her, that those, who occasion'd her being turn'd out of my service, made no question of her in­tegrity: That it was an indignity level'd at me: That I was very sorry for it, and hoped she would meet with as good a service.

Never, never, wringing her hands, a mistress she loved so well. And the poor creature ran on in my praises, and in professions of love to me.

We are all apt, you know, my dear, to praise our benefactors, because they are our benefactors; as if every-body did right or wrong as they obliged or dis­obliged us. But this good creature deserved to be kindly treated; so I could have no merit in favouring one, whom it would have been ingrateful not to distinguish.

I gave her a little linen, some laces, and other odd things; and, instead of four pounds which were due to her, ten guineas: And said, If ever I were again allow'd to be my own mistress, I would think of her in the first place.

Betty enviously whisper'd Shorey upon it.

Hannah told me, before their faces, having no other [Page 153] opportunity, that she had been examin'd about letters to me, and from me: And that she had given her pockets to Miss Harlowe, who look'd into them, and put her fingers in her stays; to satisfy herself that she had not any.

She gave me an account of the number of my pheasants and bantams; and I said, they should be my own care twice or thrice a day.

We wept over each other at parting. The girl pray'd for all the family.

To have so good a servant so disgracefully dis­missed, is a cutting thing: And I could not help saying, That these methods might break my heart, but not any other way answer the end of the authors of my disgraces.

Betty, with a very saucy fleer, said to Shorey, There would be a trial of skill about that, she fancy'd. But I took no notice of it. If this wench thinks I have robbed her young mistress of a lover, as you say she has given out, she may think it a merit in herself to be impertinent to me.

Thus have I been forced to part with my faithful Hannah. If you can commend the good creature to a place worthy of her, pray do, for my sake.

LETTER XXIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

THE inclosed Letter is just now delivered to me. My brother has now carried all his points.

I send you also the copy of my answer. No more at this time can I write.

LETTER XXV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

This is the cruel answer, sent without super­scription, and unsealed, altho' by Betty Barnes, who delivered it with an air, as if she knew the contents.

This angry letter was accompany'd with one from my mamma, unsealed, and unsuperscribed also. Those who take so much pains to confederate every one against me, I make no doubt, obliged her to bear her testimony against the poor girl.

This letter being a repetition of some of the severe things that passed between my mamma and me, of which I have given you an account, I shall not need to give you the contents—Only thus far, that she also praises my brother, and blames me for my freedoms with him.

LETTER XXVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

I Have another letter from Mr. Lovelace, altho' I had not answer'd his former.

This man, some how or other, knows every thing that passes in our family: My confinement; Hannah's dismission; and more of the resentments and reso­lutions of my father, uncles, and brother, than I can possibly know, and almost as soon as things happen. He cannot come at these intelligences fairly.

He is excessively uneasy upon what he hears; and his expressions both of love to me, and resentment to them, are very fervent. He sollicits me much ‘'To engage my honour to him, Never to have Mr. [Page 164] Solmes.'’ I think I may fairly promise him that I will not.

He begs, ‘'That I will not think he is endeavour­ing to make to himself a merit at any man's ex­pence, since he hopes to obtain my favour on the foot of his own; nor that he seeks to intimidate me into a consideration for him. But declares, that the treatment he meets with from my family is so in­tolerable, that he is perpetually reproached for not resenting it; and that as well by Lord M. and his two aunts, as by all his other friends: And if he must have no hope from me, he cannot answer for what his despair will make him do.'’

Indeed, he says, his relations, the Ladies particu­larly, advise him to have recourse to a legal remedy: ‘'But how, he asks, can a man of honour go to law for verbal abuses, given by people intitled to wear swords?'’

You see, my dear, that my mamma seems as ap­prehensive of mischief as I, and has indirectly of­fer'd to let Shorey carry my answer to the letter he sent me before.

He is full of the favour of the Ladies of his family to me: To whom, nevertheless, I am personally a stranger; except, that once I saw Miss Patty Mon­tague at Mrs. Knollys's.

It is natural, I believe, for a person to be the more desirous of making new friends, in proportion as she loses the favour of old ones: Yet, had I rather appear amiable in the eyes of my own relations, and in your eyes, than in those of all the world besides:—But these four Ladies of his family have such excellent cha­racters, that one cannot but wish to be thought well of by them. Cannot there be a way to find out by Mrs. Fortescue's means, or by Mr. Hickman, who has some knowlege of Lord M. (covertly, however), what their opinions are of the present situation of things in our family; and of the little likelihood there [Page 165] is, that ever the alliance once approved of by them, can take effect?—I cannot, for my own part, think so well of myself, as to imagine, that they can wish him to persevere in his views with regard to me, through such contempts and discouragements—Not that it would concern me, should they advise him to the contrary.—By my Lord's signing Mr. Lovelace's former letter; by Mr. Lovelace's as­surances of the continued favour of all his relations; and by the report of others; I seem to stand still high in their favour: But, methinks, I would be glad to have this confirmed to me, as from themselves, by the lips of an indifferent person; and the rather, as they are known to put a value upon their alliance, fortunes, and family; and take it amiss, as they have reason, to be included by ours in the contempt thrown upon their kinsman.

Curiosity at present is all my motive: Nor will there ever, I hope, be a stronger, notwithstanding your questionable throbs: Even were Mr. Lovelace to be less exceptionable than he is.

I have answer'd his letters. If he take me at my word, I shall need to be the less sollicitous for his relations opinions in my favour: And yet one would be glad to be well thought of by the worthy. This is the substance of my letter:

‘'I express my surprize at his knowing (and so early) all that passes here. I assure him, That were there not such a man in the world, as himself, I would not have Mr. Solmes.'’

I tell him, ‘'That to return, as I understand he does, defiances for defiances, to my relations, is far from being a proof with me, either of his politeness, or of the consideration he pretends to have for me.’

‘'That the moment I hear he visits any of my friends without their consent, I will make a reso­lution, never to see him more, if I can help it.'’

I apprise him, ‘'That I am conniv'd at in sending [Page 164] [...] [Page 165] [...] [Page 166] this letter (altho' no one has seen the contents), provided it shall be the last I will ever write to him: That I had more than once told him, that the Single Life was my choice: And this, before Mr. Solmes was introduced as a visitor in our family: That Mr. Wyerley, and other gentlemen, knew it well to be my choice, before he was acquainted with any of us: That I had never been induced to receive a line from him on the subject, but that I thought he had not acted ungenerously by my brother; and yet had not been so handsomely treated by my friends, as he might have expected: That had he even my friends of his side, I should have very great objections to him, were I to get over my choice of a Single Life, so really preferable to me as it is; and that I should have declared as much to him, had I reg [...]rded him as more than a common visitor. On all these accounts, I desire, that the one more letter which I will allow him to deposite in the usual place, may be the very last; and That only, to acquaint me with his acquiescence, that it shall be so; at least till hap­pier times!'’

This last I put in, that he may not he quite despe­rate. But if he take me at my word, I shall be rid of one of my tormentors.

I have promised to lay before you all his letters, and my answers: I repeat that promise: And am the less sollicitous for that reason, to amplify upon the contents of either. But I cannot too often ex­press my vexation, to be driven to such streights and difficulties, here at home, as oblige me to answer letters (from a man I had not absolutely intended to encourage, and had really great objections to) filled as his are with such warm protestations, and written to me with a spirit of expectation.

For, my dear, you never knew so bold a supposer. As commentators find beauties in an author, which the author perhaps was a stranger to; so he some­times compliments me in high strains of gratitude, for [Page 167] favours, and for a consideration, which I never de­signed him; insomuch that I am frequently under a necessity of explaining away the attributed goodness, which if I shew'd him, I should have the less opinion of myself.

In short, my dear, like a restiff horse, he pains one's hands, and half disjoints one's arms, to rein him in. And, when you see his letters, you must form no judgment upon them, till you have read my answers: If you do, you will indeed think you have cause to attribute self-deceit, and throbs, and glows to your friend:—And yet, at other times, the contradictory creature complains, that I shew him as little favour, and my friends as much inveteracy, as if in the ren­counter betwixt my brother and him, he had been the aggressor; and as if the catastrophe had been as fatal, as it might have been.

If he has a design by this conduct (sometimes com­plaining of my shyness, at others exulting in my ima­ginary favours) to induce me at one time to acquiesce with his compliments, at another to be more com­plaisant for his complaints; and if the contradiction be not the effect of his inattention and giddiness; I shall think him as deep and as artful (too probably, as practised) a creature, as ever lived; and were I to be sure of it, should hate him, if possible, worse than I do Solmes.

But enough for the present of a creature so very various!—

LETTER XXVII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Have no patience with any of the people you are with. I know not what to advise you to do. How do you know, that you are not punishable for [Page 168] being the cause, tho' to your own loss, that the will of your grandfather is not comply'd with?—Wills are sacred things, child. You see, that they, even they, think so, who imagine they suffer by a will, thro' the distinction paid you in it.

I allow of all your noble reasonings for what you did at the time: But since such a charming, such a generous instance of filial duty, is to go thus unre­warded; Why should you not resume?

Your grandfather knew the family-failing: He knew what a noble spirit you had to do good.—He himself, perhaps (excuse me, my dear), had done too little in his life-time; and therefore he put it in your power to make up for the defects of the whole fa­mily. Were it to me, I would resume it. Indeed I would.

You will say, you cannot do it, while you are with them. I don't know that. Do you think they can use you worse than they do?—And is it not your right? And do they not make use of your own generosity to oppress you? Your uncle Harlowe is one trustee, your cousin Morden is the other: Insist upon your right to your uncle; and write to your cousin Morden about it. This, I dare say, will make them alter their behaviour to you.

Your insolent brother, what has he to do to con­troul you?—Were it me (I wish it were for one month, and no more), I'd shew him the difference. I'd be in my own mansion, pursuing my charming schemes, and making all around me happy. I'd set up my own chariot. I'd visit them when they de­serv'd it. But when my brother and sister gave themselves airs, I'd let them know, that I was their sister, and not their servant: And, if that did not do, I would shut my gates against them; and bid them be company for each other.—

It must be confess'd, however, that this brother and sister of yours, judging as such narrow spirits will [Page 169] ever judge, have some reason for treating you as they do. It must have long been a mortifying consideration to them (set disappointed love on her side, and avarice on his, out of the question) to be so much eclipsed by a younger sister.—Such a sun in a family, where there are none but faint twinklers, How could they bear it!—Why, my dear, they must look upon you as a prodigy among them: And prodigies, you know, tho' they obtain our admiration, never attract our love. The distance between you and them is immense. Their eyes ake to look up at you. What shades does your full day of merit cast upon them!—Can you wonder then, that they should embrace the first opportunity that offer'd, to endeavour to bring you down to their level?

Depend upon it, my dear, you will have more of it, and more still, as you bear it.

As to this odious Solmes, I wonder not at your aversion to him. It is needless to say any thing to you, who have so sincere an antipathy to him, to strengthen your dislike: Yet, who can resist her own talents? One of mine, as I have heretofore said, is to give an ugly likeness. Shall I indulge it?—I will. And the rather, as, in doing so, you will have my opinion in justification of your aversion to him, and in approbation of a steadiness, that I ever admired, and must for ever approve in your temper.

I was twice in this wretch's company. At one of the times your Lovelace was there. I need not mention to you, who have such a pretty curiosity, tho' at present, only a curiosity, you know! the un­speakable difference!—

Lovelace entertain'd the company in his lively gay way, and made every-body laugh at one of his stories. It was before this creature was thought of for you. Solmes laugh'd too. It was, however, his laugh: For his first three years, at least, I imagine, must have been one continual fit of crying; and his muscles have [Page 170] never yet been able to recover a risible tone. His very smile (you never saw him smile I believe; never at least gave him cause to smile) is so little natural to his features, that it appears in him, as hideous as the grin of a man in malice.

I took great notice of him, as I do of all the noble Lords of the creation, in their peculiarities; and was disgusted, nay, shock'd at him even then. I was glad I remember, on that particular occasion, to see his strange features recovering their natural gloomi­ness; tho' they did this but slowly, as if the muscles which contributed to his distortions, had turn'd up­on rusty springs.

What a dreadful thing must even the Love of such a husband be! For my part, were I his wife! (—But what have I done to myself, to make but such a sup­position?) I should never have comfort but in his ab­sence, or when I was quarreling with him. A sple­netic Lady, who must have somebody to find fault with, might indeed be brought to endure such a wretch: The sight of him would always furnish out the occasion, and all her servants, for That reason, and for That only, would have cause to bless their master. But how grievous, and apprehensive a thing must it be for his wife, had she the least degree of delicacy, to catch herself in having done something to oblige him?

So much for his person: As to the other half of him, he is said to be an insinuating, creeping mortal to any-body he hopes to be a gainer by: An insolent, over-bearing one, where he has no such views: And is not this the genuine spirit of meanness?—He is reported to be spiteful and malicious, even to the whole family of any single person, who has once dis­obliged him; and to his own relations most of all. I am told, that they are none of them such wretches as himself. This may be one reason, why he is for disinheriting them.

[Page 171]My Kitty, from one of his domestics, tells me, that his tenants hate him: And that he never had a servant who spoke well of him. Vilely suspicious of their wronging him, probably from the badness of his own heart, he is always changing.

His pockets, they say, are continually cramm'd with keys: So that when he would treat a guest (a friend he has not out of your family), he is half as long puzzling which is which, as his niggardly treat might be concluded in.—And if it be wine, he always fetches it himself: Nor has he much trouble in doing so; for he has very few visitors—only those, whom business or necessity brings: For a gentleman who can help it, would rather be benighted, than put up at his house.

Yet this is the man they have found out, for the sake of considerations as sordid as those he is govern'd by, for a husband (that is to say, for a Lord and Master) for Miss Clarissa Harlowe!

But perhaps, he may not be quite so miserable as he is represented. Characters extremely good, or ex­tremely bad, are seldom justly given. Favour for a person will exalt the one, as disfavour will sink the other. But your uncle Antony has told my mamma, who objected to his covetousness, that it was intended to tie him up, as he called it, to your own terms; which would be with a hempen, rather than a ma­trimonial cord, I dare say! But, is not this a plain indication, that even his own recommenders think him a mean creature; and that he must be articled with—perhaps for necessaries? But enough, and too much, of such a mortal as this!—You must not have him, my dear—That I am clear in—tho' not so clear, how you will be able to avoid it, except you assert the independence which your estate gives you.

HERE my mamma broke in upon me. She [Page 172] wanted to see what I had written. I was silly enough to read Solmes's character to her.

She own'd, that the man was not the most de­sirable of men; had not the happiest appearance: But what was person in a man? And I was chidden for setting you against complying with your father's will. Then follow'd a lecture upon the preference to be given in favour of a man who took care to dis­charge all his obligations to the world, and to keep all together, in opposition to a spendthrift or profligate: A fruitful subject, you know, whether any particular person be meant by it, or not: Why will these wise parents, by saying too much against the persons they dislike, put one upon defending them? Lovelace is not a spendthrift; owes not obligations to the world; tho', I doubt not, profligate enough. Then, putting one upon doing such but common justice, we must needs be prepossessed, truly!—And so we are put, per­haps, upon curiosities first, how such a one or his friends may think of one;—And then, but too pro­bably, a distinguishing preference, or something that looks like it, comes in.

My mamma charg'd me, at last, to write that side over again.—But excuse me, my good mamma! I would not have the character lost upon any consider­ation; since my vein ran freely into it: And I never wrote to please myself, but I pleased you. A very good reason why:—We have but one mind between us—Only, that sometimes you are a little too grave, methinks; I, no doubt, a little too flippant in your opinion.

This difference in our tempers, however, is pro­bably the reason that we love one another so well, that, in the words of Norris, no third love can come in between: Since each, in the other's eye, having something amiss, and each loving the other well enough to bear being told of it; and the rather, per­haps, as neither wishes to mend it; This takes off a [Page 173] good deal from that rivalry which might encourage a little, if not a great deal, of that latent spleen, which in time might rise into envy, and That into ill-will. So, my dear, if This be the case, let each keep her fault, and much good may do her with it, say I: For there is constitution in both to plead for it: And what an hero or heroine must he or she be, who can conquer a constitutional fault? Let it be avarice, as in some I dare not name: Let it be gravity, as in my best friend: Or let it be flippancy, as in—I need not say whom.

It is proper to acquaint you, that I was obliged to comply with my mamma's curiosity.—My mamma has her share, her full share, of curiosity, my dear—and to let her see here and there, some passages of your letters.—

I am broke in upon—But I will tell you by-and-by, what passed between my mamma and me, on this occasion—And the rather, as she had her GIRL, her favourite HICKMAN, and your LOVELACE, all at once in her eye.—

LETTER XXVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

YOU will permit me, my dear, to touch upon a few passages in your last favour, that affect me sensibly.

In the first place, you must allow me to say, low as I am in spirits, that I am very angry with you for your reflections on my relations, particularly on my father, and on the memory of my grandfather. Nor, my dear, does your own mamma always escape the keen edge of your vivacity. One cannot one's self forbear to write or speak freely of those we love and [Page 179] honour; that is to say, when grief wrings the heart: But it goes against one to hear any body else take the same liberties. Then you have so very strong a man­ner of expression, where you take a distaste, that when passion has subsided, and I come by reflection to see by your severity what I have given occasion for, I cannot help condemning myself. Let me then, as matters arise, make my complaints to you; but be it your part to soothe and soften my angry passions, by such advice as nobody better knows how to give: And this the rather, as you know what an influence your advice has upon me.

I cannot help owning, that I am pleased to have you join with me in opinion of the contempt which Mr. Solmes deserves from me. But yet, permit me to say, that he is not quite so horrible a creature as you make him: As to his person, I mean; for with regard to his mind, by all I have heard, you have done him but justice: But you have such a talent at an ugly likeness, and such a vivacity, that they some­times carry you out of verisimilitude. In short, my dear, I have known you, in more instances than one, sit down resolved to write all that wit, rather than strict justice, could suggest upon the given occasion. Perhaps it may be thought, that I should say the less on this particular subject, because your dislike to him arises from love to me: But should it not be our aim to judge of ourselves, and of every thing that affects us, as we may reasonably imagine other people would judge of us, and of our actions?

As to the advice you give, to resume my estate, I am determin'd not to litigate with my papa, let what will be the consequence to myself. I may give you, at another time, a more particular answer to your reasonings on this subject: But, at present, will only observe, that it is my opinion, that Lovelace himself would hardly think me worth addressing, were he to know this to be my resolution. These men, [Page 180] my dear, with all their flatteries, look forward to the PERMANENT. Indeed, it is fit they should. For Love must be a very foolish thing to look back upon, when it has brought persons born to affluence into indigence; and laid a generous mind under the hard necessity of obligation and dependence.

You very ingeniously account for the love we bear to one another, from the difference in our tempers. I own, I should not have thought of That. There may possibly be something in it: But whether there be, or not, whenever I am cool, and give myself time to reflect, I will love you the better for the cor­rection you give me, be as severe as you will upon me. Spare me not therefore, my dear friend, when­ever you think me in the least faulty. I love your agreeable raillery: You know I always did: Nor, however over-serious you think me, did I ever think you flippant, as you harshly call it. One of the first conditions of our mutual friendship was, that each should say or write to the other whatever was upon her mind, without any offence to be taken: A con­dition, that is indeed an indispensable in all friendship.

I knew your mamma would be for implicit obe­dience in a child. I am sorry my case is so circum­stanced, that I cannot comply: As my Mrs. Norton says, it would be my duty to do so, if I could. You are indeed very happy, that you have nothing but your own agreeable, yet whimsical, humours to con­tend with, in the choice she invites you to make of Mr. Hickman!—How happy should I be, to be treated with so much lenity! I should blush to have my mamma say, that she begg'd and pray'd me, and all in vain, to encourage a man so unexceptionable as Mr. Hickman.

Indeed, my beloved Miss Howe, I am asham'd to have your mamma say, with ME in her view, ‘'What strange effects have Prepossession and Love upon young creatures of our sex!'’ This touches me the [Page 181] more sensibly, because you yourself, my dear, are so ready to persuade me into it. I should be very blame­able to endeavour to hide any the least byas upon my mind, from you: And I cannot but say,—that this man—this Lovelace—is a person that might be liked well enough, if he bore such a character as Mr. Hick­man bears; and even if there were hopes of reclaiming him: But LOVE, methinks, as short a word as it is, has a broad sound with it. Yet do I find, that one may be driven, by violent measures, step by step, as it were, into something that may be called—I don't know what to call it—A conditional kind of liking, or so:—But as to the word LOVE—justifiable and charm­ing as it is in some cases (that is to say, in all the rela­tive, in all the social, and, what is still beyond both, in all our superior duties, in which it may be properly called divine); it has, methinks, in this narrow, cir­cumscribed, selfish, peculiar sense, no very pretty sound with it: Treat me as freely as you will in all other re­spects, I will love you, as I have said, the better for your friendly freedom: But, methinks, I could be glad, for SEX-sake, that you would not let this im­putation pass so glibly from your pen, or your lips, as attributable to one of your own sex, whether I be the person or not: Since the other must have a double triumph, when a person of your delicacy (arm'd with such contempts of them all, as you would have one think) can give up a friend, with an exultation over her weakness, as a silly, love-sick creature!

I could make some other observations upon the con­tents of your last two letters; but my mind is not free enough at present. The occasions for the above stuck with me; and I could not help taking the earliest no­tice of them.

I will now acquaint you with all proceedings here: But these shall be the subject of another Letter.

LETTER XXIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

I Have had such taunting messages, and such re­peated avowals of ill-offices, brought me from my brother and sister, if I do not comply with their wills (delivered, too, with provoking sauciness by Betty Barnes), that I have thought it proper, before I enter'd upon my intended address to my uncles, in pursuance of the hint given me in my mamma's letter, to ex­postulate a little with them. But, I have done it in such a manner, as will give you (if you please to take it as you have done some parts of my former letters) great advantage over me. In short, you will have more cause than ever, to declare me far gone in Love, if my reasons for the change of my style, in these letters, with regard to Mr. Lovelace, do not engage your more favourable opinion.—For I have thought proper to give them their own way; and, since they will have it, that I have a preferable regard for Mr. Lovelace, I give them cause rather to confirm their opinion than doubt it.

These are my reasons in brief, for the alteration of my style.

In the first place, they have grounded their prin­cipal argument for my compliance with their will, upon my acknowlegements that my heart is free; and so supposing I give up no preferable person, my opposition has the look of downright obstinacy in their eyes; and they argue, that, at worst, my aver­sion to Solmes, is an aversion that may be easily sur­mounted, and ought to be surmounted in duty to my father, and for the promotion of family views.

Next, altho' they build upon this argument in or­der to silence me, they seem not to believe me, but [Page 183] treat me as violently, and as disgracefully, as if I were in love with one of my father's footmen:—So that my conditional willingness to give up Lovelace, has procur'd me no favour.

In the next place, I cannot but think, that my brother's antipathy to him is far from being well-grounded: His inordinate passion for the sex is his crime, that is always rung in my ears; and a very great one it is: But, does my brother recriminate upon him thus, in love to me?—No—His whole behaviour shews me, that That is not his motive, and that he thinks me rather in his way, than otherwise.

It is then the call of justice, as I may say, to speak up a little for a man, who, altho' provok'd by my brother, did not do him all the mischief he could have done him, and which my brother had endeavour'd to do him. It might not be amiss therefore, I thought, to alarm them a little with an apprehension, that the methods they are taking with me, are the very re­verse of those they should take to answer the end they design by them: And after all, what is the com­pliment I make Mr. Lovelace, if I allow it to be thought, that I do really prefer him to such a man, as him they terrify me with? Then, my Miss Howe (concluded I) accuses me of a tameness, which sub­jects me to insults from my brother: I will keep that dear friend in my eye; and for all these considerations, try what a little of her spirit will do—sit it ever so aukwardly upon me.

In this way of thinking, I wrote to my brother and sister. This is my Letter to him.

This is my brother's answer.

[Page 187]I will now give you a copy of my letter to my sister; with her unsisterly answer.

I had in readiness a letter for each of my uncles; and meeting in the garden a servant of my uncle Har­lowe, I gave them to him to deliver according to their respective directions. If I am to form a judgment by the answers I have received from my brother and sister, as above, I must not, I doubt, expect any good from them. But when I have try'd every expe­dient, I shall have the less to blame myself for, if any thing unhappy should fall out. I will send you co­pies of both, when I shall see what notice they will be thought worthy of, if of any.

LETTER XXX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

THIS man, this Lovelace, gives me great uneasi­ness. He is extremely bold and rash. He was this afternoon at our church: In hopes to see me, I suppose: And yet, if he had such hopes, his usual intelligence must have failed him.

Shorey was at church; and a principal part of her observation was upon his haughty and proud behaviour, when he turn'd round in the pew where he sat, to our family-pew.—My papa and both my uncles were there; so were my mamma and sister. My brother happily was not!—They all came home in disorder. Nor did the congregation mind any-body but him; it being his first appearance there, since the unhappy rencounter.

What did the man come for, if he intended to look challenge and defiance, as Shorey says he did, and as others observed it seems as well as she? Did he come for my sake; and, by behaving in such a man­ner [Page 191] to those present of my family, imagine he was do­ing me either service o [...] pleasure?—He knows how they hate him: Nor will he take pains, would pains do, to obviate their hatred.

You and I, my dear, have often taken notice of his pride; and you have rallied him upon it; and in­stead of exculpating himself, he has own'd it; and, by owning it, has thought he has done enough.

For my own part, I thought pride, in his case, an improper subject for raillery.—People of birth and fortune to be proud, is so needless, so mean a vice!—If they deserve respect, they will have it, without re­quiring it. In other words, for persons to endeavour to gain respect by a haughty behaviour, is to give a proof that they mistrust their own merit: To make confession that they know that their actions will not attract it.—Distinction or Quality may be prided in by those to whom distinction or quality is a new thing. And then the reflection and contempt which such bring upon themselves, by it, is a counter-balance.

Such added advantages too, as this man has in his person and mien; learned also, as they say he is;— Such a man to be haughty, to be imperious!—The lines of his own face at the same time condemning him—How wholly inexcusable!—Proud of what? Not of doing well: The only justifiable pride.—Proud of exterior advantages!—Must not one be led by such a stop-short pride, as one may call it, in him or her who has it, to mistrust the interior. Some people may indeed be afraid, that if they did not as­sume, they would be trampled upon. A very narrow fear, however, since they trample upon themselves who can fear this. But this man must be secure, that humility would be an ornament to him.

He has talents, indeed: But those talents, and his personal advantages, have been snares to him. It is plain they have. And this shews, that, weigh'd in an equal balance, he would be found greatly wanting.

[Page 192]Had my friends confided, as they did at first, in that discretion which they do not accuse me of being defective in, I dare say I should have found him out: And then should have been as resolute to dismiss him, as I was to dismiss others, and as I am never to have Mr. Solmes. O that they did but know my heart!—It shall sooner burst, than voluntarily, uncompelled, undriven, dictate a measure that shall cast a slur either upon them, my sex, or myself.

Excuse me, my dear friend, for these grave solilo­quies, as I may call them. How have I run from reflection to reflection! But the occasion is recent!—They are all in commotion below upon it!

Shorey says, that he watched my mamma's eye, and bowed to her: And she return'd the compliment. He always admir'd my mamma. She would not, I be­lieve, have hated him, had she not been bid to hate him; and had it not been for the rencounter between him and her only son.

Dr. Lewin was at church; and observing, as every­one else did, the disorder into which Mr. Lovelace's appearance had put all our family, was so good as to engage him in conversation, when the service was over, till they were all gone to their coaches.

My father it seems is more and more incensed against me. And so are my uncles: They had my letters in the morning. Their answers, if they vouch­safe to answer me, will demonstrate, I doubt not, the unseasonableness of this rash man's presence at our church.

They are angry, it seems, at my mamma, for re­turning his compliment. What an enemy is hatred, even to the common forms of civility! which, how­ever, more distinguish the payer of a compliment, than the receiver. But they all see, they say, that there is but one way to put an end to his insults. So I shall suffer: And in what will the rash man have benefited himself, or mended his prospects?

[Page 193]I am extremely apprehensive, that this worse than ghost-like appearance of his, bodes some still bolder step. If he come hither (and very desirous he is of my leave to come), I am afraid there will be murder. To avoid That, if there were no other way, I would most willingly be bury'd alive.

They are all in consultation: Upon my letters, I suppose: So they were in the morning, which occa­sion'd my uncles to be at our church. I will send you the copies of those letters, as I promised in my last, when I see whether I can give you their answers with them. This letter is all—I-cannot-tell-what—the effect of apprehension and displeasure at the man who has occasioned these apprehensions: Six lines would have contained all that is in it to the purpose of my story.

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

IN vain dost ^(a) thou and thy compeers press me to go to town, while I am in such an uncertainty as I am at present with this proud Beauty. All the ground I have hitherto gained with her, is intirely owing to her concern for the safety of people whom I have reason to hate.

Write then, thou biddest me, if I will not come. That, indeed, I can do; and as well without a sub­ject, [Page 194] as with one. And what follows shall be a proof of it.

The Lady's malevolent brother has now, as I told thee at M. Hall, introduced another man; the most unpromising in his person and qualities, the most for­midable in his offers, that has yet appeared.

This man has, by his proposals, captivated every soul of the Harlowe's— Soul! did I say?—There is not a soul among them but my charmer's: And she, withstanding them All, is actually confin'd, and otherwise maltreated, by a Father the most gloomy and positive; at the instigation of a Brother the most arro­gant and selfish—But thou knowest their characters; and I will not therefore sully my paper with them.

But is it not a confounded thing to be in love with one, who is the daughter, the sister, the niece, of a family I must eternally despise? And the devil of it, That Love increasing, with her—What shall I call it?—'Tis not scorn:—'Tis not pride:—'Tis not the insolence of an adored beauty:—But 'tis to virtue, it seems, that my difficulties are owing: And I pay for not being a sly sinner, an hypocrite: for being re­gardless of my reputation; for permitting slander to open its mouth against me. But is it necessary for such a one as I, who have been used to carry all before me, upon my own terms—I, who never inspir'd a Fear, that had not a discernibly-predominant mixture of Love in it; to be an hypocrite?—Well says the poet:

Well, but, it seems, I must practise for This art, if I would succeed with this truly admirable creature! But why practise for it?—Cannot I indeed reform?—I have but one vice;—Have I, Jack?—Thou knowest my heart, if any man living does. As far as I know it myself, thou knowest it.—But 'tis a cursed de­ceiver—For it has many and many a time imposed [Page 195] upon its master— Master, did I say? That am I not now: Nor have I been, from the moment I beheld this angel of a woman: Prepared indeed as I was by her character, before I saw her: For what a mind must that be, which, tho' not virtuous itself, admires not virtue in another?—My visit to Arabella, owing to a mistake of the sisters, into which, as thou hast heard me say, I was led by the blundering uncle; who was to introduce me (but lately come from abroad) to the divinity, as I thought; but, instead of her, carry'd me to a mere mortal. And much diffi­culty had I, so fond and so forward my Lady, to get off, without forfeiting All with a family that I intended should give me a goddess.

I have boasted, that I was once in love before:—And indeed I thought I was. It was in my early man­hood—with that Quality-jilt, whose infidelity I have vow'd to revenge upon as many of the sex as shall come into my power. I believe, in different climes, I have already sacrificed an hecatomb to my Nemesis, in pursuance of this vow. But upon recollecting what I was then, and comparing it with what I find in myself now, I cannot say, that I was ever in love before.

What was it then, dost thou ask me, since the dis­appointment had such effects upon me, when I found myself jilted, that I was hardly kept in my senses?—Why I'll tell thee what, as near as I can remember; for it was a great while ago:—It was—egad, Jack, I can hardly tell what it was—But a vehement aspi­ration after a novelty, I think—Those confounded Poets, with their celestially-terrene descriptions, did as much with me as the Lady: They fired my imagina­tion, and set me upon a desire to become a goddess-maker. I must needs try my new-fledg'd pinions, in sonnet, elogy, and madrigal. I must have a Cynthia, a Stella, a Sacharissa, as well as the best of them: Darts, and flames, and the devil knows what, must I [Page 196] give to my Cupid. I must create beauty, and place it where nobody else could find it: And many a time have I been at a loss for a subject, when my new-created goddess has been kinder than it was proper for my plaintive sonnet she should be.

Then I had a vanity of another sort in my passion: I found myself well-received among the women in ge­neral; and I thought it a pretty lady-like tyranny (I was very young then, and very vain) to single out some one of the sex, to make half a score jealous. And I can tell thee, it had its effect: For many an eye have I made to sparkle with rival indignation: Many a cheek glow; and even many a fan have I caused to be snapped at a sister-beauty; accompany'd with a reflection, perhaps, at being seen alone with a wild young fellow, who could not be in private with both at once.

In short, Jack, it was more Pride than Love, as I now find it, that put me upon making such a con­founded rout about losing this noble var [...]etess. I thought she loved me at least as well as I believed I loved her: Nay, I had the vanity to suppose she could not help it. My friends were pleased with my choice. They wanted me to be shackled. For early did they doubt my morals, as to the sex. They saw, that the dancing, the singing, the musical Ladies were all fond of my company: For who (I am in a humour to be vain, I think!—for who) danc'd, who sung, who touch'd the string, whatever the instrument, with a better grace than thy friend?

I have no notion of playing the hypocrite so egre­giously, as to pretend to be blind to qualifications which every-one sees and acknowleges. Such praise-begging hypocrisy! Such affectedly-disclaim'd attri­butes! Such contemptible [...]raise-traps!—But yet, shall my vanity extend only to personals, such as the gracefulness of dress, my debonnaire, and my assure­ance?—Self-taught, self-acquired, these!—For my [Page 197] PARTS, I value not myself upon them. Thou wilt say, I have no cause.—Perhaps not: But if I had any thing valuable as to intellectuals, those are not my own: And to be proud of what a man is answerable for the abuse of, and has no merit in the right use of, is to strut, like the jay, in a borrowed plumage.

But to return to my fair jilt—I could not bear, that a woman, who was the first that had bound me in silken fetters (they were not iron ones, like those I now wear) should prefer a'coronet to me: And when the bird was flown, I set more value upon it, than when I had it safe in my cage, and could visit it when I would.

But now am I in- deed in love. I can think of no­thing, of no-body else, but the divine Clarissa Har­lowe.— Harlowe!—How that hated word sticks in my throat—But I shall give her for it, the name of Love ^(a).

But could'st thou have thought that I, who think it possible for me to favour as much as I can be favoured; that I, who for this charming creature think of fore­going the life of honour for the life of shackles; could adopt those over-tender lines of Otway?

I check myself, and l [...]aving the three first lines of the following of Dryden's to the family of the whiners, find the workings of the passion in my stormy soul better expressed by the three last:

[Page 198]And with REVENGE it shall glow!—For, dost thou think, that if it were not from the hope, That this stupid family are all combin'd to do my work for me, I would bear their insults?—Is it possible to imagine, that I would be brav'd as I am brav'd, threaten'd as I am threaten'd, by those who are afraid to see me; and by this brutal brother too, to whom I gave a life (A life, indeed, not worth my taking!); had I not a greater pride in knowing, that by means of his very Spy upon me, I am playing him off as I please; cooling, or inflaming, his violent passions, as may best suit my purposes; permitting so much to be reveal'd of my life and actions, and intentions, as may give him such a confidence in his double-fac'd agent, as shall enable me to dance his employer upon my own wires?

This it is, that makes my pride mount above my resentment. By this engine, whose springs I am con­tinually oiling, I play them all off. The busy old tarpaulin uncle I make but my embassador to Queen Annabella Howe, to engage her (for example sake to her Princessly daughter) to join in their cause, and to assert an authority they are resolv'd, right or wrong (or I could do nothing), to maintain.

And what my motive, dost thou ask? No less than this, That my beloved shall find no protection out of my family; for, if I know hers, fly she must, or have the man she hates. This, therefore, if I take my measures right, and my Familiar fail me not, will se­cure her mine, in spight of them all; in spight of her own inflexible heart: Mine, without condition; without reformation-promises; without the necessity of a siege of years, perhaps; and to be even then, after wearing the guise of a merit-doubting hypocrisy, at an uncertainty, upon a probation unapproved of—Then shall I have all the rascals, and rascalesses of the family come creeping to me: I prescribing to [Page 199] them; and bringing that sordidly-imperious brother to kneel at the foot-stool of my throne.

All my fear arises from the little hold I have in the heart of this charming frost-piece: Such a constant glow upon her lovely features: Eyes so sparkling: Limbs so divinely turn'd: Health so florid: Youth so blooming: Air so animated: To have an heart so im­penetrable—And I, the hitherto successful Lovelace, the addressor—How can it be?—Yet there are people, and I have talk'd with some of them, who remember, that she was born:—Her nurse Norton boasts of her maternal offices in her earliest infancy; and in her education gradatim.—So that there is full proof, that she came not from above, all at once an angel! How then can she be so impenetrable?

But here's her mistake; nor will she be cured of it—She takes the man she calls her father (her mo­ther had been faultless, had she not been her father's wife); she takes the men she calls her uncles; the fellow she calls her brother; and the poor con­temptible she calls her sister; to be her father, to be her uncles, her brother, her sister; and that, as such, she owes to some of them reverence, to others re­spect, let them treat her ever so cruelly!—Sordid ties! Mere cradle-prejudices!—For had they not been imposed upon her by Nature, when she was in a perverse humour, or could she have chosen her re­lations, Would any of these have been among them?

How my heart rises at her preference of them to me, when she is convinc'd of their injustice to me! Convinc'd that the alliance would do honour to them all—herself excepted; to whom every-one owes ho­nour; and from whom the most princely family might receive it. But how much more will my heart rise with indignation against her, if I find she hesitates but one moment (however persecuted) about pre­ferring me to the man she avowedly hates! But she cannot surely be so mean, as to purchase her peace [Page 200] with them at so dear a rate. She cannot give a sanction to projects form'd in malice, and founded in a selfishness (and that at her own expence) which she has spirit enough to despise in others; and ought to disavow, that we may not think her a Harlowe.

By this incoherent ramble thou wilt gather, that I am not likely to come up in haste; since I must en­deavour first to obtain some assurance from the be­loved of my soul, that I shall not be sacrific'd to such a wretch as Solmes! Woe be to the fair-one, if ever she be driven into my power (for I despair of a vo­luntary impulse in my favour), and I find a difficulty in obtaining this security!

That her indifference to me is not owing to the superior liking she has for any other man, is what rivets my chains: But take care, fair-one; take care, O thou most exalted of female minds, and loveliest of persons, how thou debasest thyself, by encourage­ing such a competition as thy sordid relations have set on foot in mere malice to me!—Thou wilt say I rave. And so I do!

Else, could I bear the perpetual revilings of her implacable family?— Else, could I basely creep about—not her proud father's house—but his paddock—and garden-walls?—Yet (a quarter of a mile's distance between us) not hoping to behold the least glimpse of her shadow?— Else, should I think myself repaid, amply repaid, if the fourth, fifth, or sixth midnight stroll, thro' unfrequented paths, and over briery in­closures, afford me a few cold lines; the even ex­pected purport only to let me know, that she values the most worthless person of her very worthless family, more than she values me; and that she would not write at all, but to induce me to bear insults, which un- man me to bear!—My lodging in the interme­diate way, at a wretched alehouse; disguised like an inmate of it: Accommodations equally vile, as those [Page 201] I met with in my Westphalian journey. 'Tis well, that the necessity for all This arises not from scorn and tyranny; but is first imposed upon herself!

But was ever hero in romance (opposing giants and dragons excepted) called upon to harder trials?—Fortune and family, and reversionary grandeur, on my side! Such a wretched fellow my competitor!—Must I not be deplorably in love, that can go thro' these difficulties, encounter these contempts? By my soul, I am half-asham'd of myself: I, who am per­jur'd too, by priority of obligation, if I am faithful to any woman in the world!

And yet, why say I, I am half asham'd?—Is it not a glory to love her whom every-one who sees her, either loves, or reveres, or both? Dryden says,

And Cowley thus addresses Beauty as a mere ima­ginary:

But both these, had they been her cotemporaries, and known her, would have confess'd themselves mistaken: And, taking together person, mind, and behaviour, would have acknowleg'd the justice of the universal voice in her favour.

Thou art curious to know, If I have not started a new game?—If it be possible for so universal a lover to be confined so long to one object? Thou knowest nothing of this charming creature, that thou canst put such questions to me; or thinkest thou know'st me better than thou dost. All that's excellent in her sex is this Lady!—Until by matrimonial, or equal in­timacies, I have found her less than angel, it is im­possible to think of any other. Then there are so many stimulatives to such a spirit as mine in this af­fair, besides Love: Such a field for stratagem and con­trivance, which thou knowest to be the delight of my heart: Then the rewarding end of all;—To carry off such a girl as This, in spight of all her watchful and implacable friends; and in spight of a prudence and reserve, that I never met with in any of the sex:—What a triumph!—What a triumph over the whole sex! And then such a Revenge to gratify; which is only at present politically rein'd-in, eventually to break forth with the greater fury:—Is it possible, think'st thou, that there can be room for a thought that is not of her, and devoted to her?

BY the advices I have this moment received, I have reason to think, that I shall have occasion for thee here. Hold thyself in readiness to come down upon the first summons.

Let Belton, and Mowbray, and Tourville, like­wise prepare themselves. I have a great mind to contrive a method to send James Harlowe to travel for improvement. Never was there Booby-'Squire that more wanted it. Contrive it, did I say? I have already contriv'd it; could I but put it in execution without being suspected to have a hand in it. This I am resolved upon; If I have not his sister, I will have him.

[Page 203]But be This as it may, there is a present likeli­hood of room for glorious mischief. A confederacy had been for some time form'd against me; but the uncles and the nephew are now to be double-servanted ( single-servanted they were before), and those ser­vants are to be double-arm'd when they attend their masters abroad. This indicates their resolute enmity to me, and as resolute favour to Solmes.

The reinforced orders for this hostile apparatus are owing, it seems, to a visit I made yesterday to their church; a good place to begin a reconciliation in, were the heads of the family christians, and did they mean any thing by their prayers. My hopes were to have an invitation (or, at least, to gain a pretence) to accompany home the gloomy sire; and so get an opportunity to see my goddess: For, I believed they durst not but be civil to me, at least. But they were filled with terror, it seems, at my entrance; a terror they could not get over. I saw it indeed in their countenances; and that they all expected something extraordinary to follow.—And so it should have done, had I been more sure than I am of their daughter's favour. Yet not a hair of any of their stupid heads do I intend to hurt.

You shall all have your directions in writing, if there be occasion. But, after all, I dare say there will be no need but to shew your faces in my company.

Such faces never could four men shew—Mow­bray's so fierce and so fighting: Belton's so pert and so pimply: Tourville's so fair and so foppish: Thine so rough and so resolute: And I your leader!—What hearts, altho' meditating hostility, must those be which we shall not appall?—Each man occa­sionally attended by a servant or two, long ago chosen for qualities resembling his master's.

Thus, Jack, as thou desirest, have I written: Written upon Something; upon Nothing; upon Re­venge, which I love; upon Love, which I hate, [Page 204] heartily hate, because 'tis my master: And upon the devil knows what besides:—For, looking back, I'm amaz'd at the length of it. Thou may'st read it: I would not for a King's ransom—But so as I do but write, thou say'st thou wilt be pleased.

Be pleased then. I command thee to be pleased: If not for the writer's, or written's sake, for thy word's sake. And so in the royal style (for am I not likely to be thy King and thy Emperor, in the great affair before us?) I bid Thee very heartily

LETTER XXXII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

I Now send you copies of my letters to my uncles: With their answers. Be pleased to return the latter, by the first deposite. I leave them for you, to make remarks upon. I shall make none.

LETTER XXXIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

HAVING met with such bad success in my ap­plication to those of my own family, I have taken a step that will surprise you. It is no other than writing a letter to Mr. Solmes himself. I sent it; and have his answer. He had certainly help in it. [Page 224] For I have seen a letter of his; as indifferently worded, as poorly spelt. Yet the superscription is of his dictating, I dare say; for he is a formal wretch. With these, I shall inclose one from my brother to me, on occasion of mine to Mr. Solmes. I did think that it was possible to discourage this man from proceeding; and that would have answer'd all my wishes. It was worth the trial. But you'll see nothing will do. My brother has taken his measures too securely.

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

I Receive, with great pleasure, the early and chear­ful assurances of your loyalty and love. And let our principal and most trusty friends named in my last know that I do.

[Page 229]I would have thee, Jack, come down, as soon as thou canst. I believe I shall not want the others so soon. Yet they may come down to Lord M's. I will be there, if not to receive them, to satisfy my Lord, that there is no new mischief in hand, which will require his second intervention.

For thyself, thou must be constantly with me: Not for my security: The family dare do nothing but bully: They bark only at distance: But for my en­tertainment: That thou mayst, from the Latin and the English Classics, keep my love-sick soul from drooping.

Thou hadst best come to me here, in thy old cor­poral's coat; thy servant out of livery; and to be up­on a familiar foot with thee, as a distant relation, to be provided for by thy interest above; I mean not in heaven, thou mayst be sure. Thou wilt find me at a little alehouse; they call it an inn; The White-Hart; most terribly wounded (but by the weather only) the sign:—In a sorry village; within five miles from Harlowe-Place. Every-body knows Harlowe-Place—For, like Versailles, it is sprung up from a dunghil, within every elderly person's remembrance: Every poor body, particularly, knows it: But that only for a few years past, since a certain angel has appeared there among the sons and daughters of men.

The people here, at the Hart, are poor, but honest; and have gotten it into their heads, that I am a man of quality in disguise; and there is no reining-in their officious respect. There is a pretty little smirking daughter; seventeen six days ago: I call her my Rose-bud: Her grandmother (for there is no mother), a good neat old woman, as ever filled a wicker-chair in a chimney-corner, has besought me to be merci­ful to her.

This is the right way with me. Many and many a pretty rogue had I spared, whom I did not spare, had my power been acknowleged, and my mercy [Page 230] been in time implored. But th [...] Debellare superbos should be my motto, were I to have a new one.

This simple chit, (for there is a simplicity in her thou wilt be highly pleased with: All humble; all officious; all innocent—I love her for her humility, her officiousness, and even for her innocence) will be pretty amusement to thee; while I combat with the weather, and dodge and creep about the walls and purlieus of Harlowe-Place. Thou wilt see in her mind, all that her superiors have been taught to con­ceal, in order to render themselves less natural, and more undelightful.

But I charge thee, that thou do not (what I would not permit myself to do, for the world—I charge thee, that thou do not) crop my Rose-bud. She is the only flower of fragrance, that has blown in this vicinage for ten years past; or will for ten years to come: For I have look'd backward to the have-been's, and forward to the will-be's; having but too much leisure upon my hands in my present waiting.

I never was so honest for so long together since my matriculation. It behoves me so to be—Some way or other, my recess may be found out; and it will then be thought that my Rose-bud has attracted me. A report in my favour, from simplicities so amiable, may establish me; for the grandmother's relation to my Rose-bud may be sworn to: And the father is an honest poor man: Has no joy, but in his Rose-bud.—O Jack! spare thou therefore (for I shall leave thee often alone; spare thou) my Rose-bud!—Let the rule I never de­parted from, but it cost me a long regret, be observed to my Rose-bud! Never to ruin a poor girl, whose simplicity and innocence was all she had to trust to; and whose fortunes were too low to save her from the rude contempts of worse minds than her own, and from an indigence extreme: Such an one will only pine in secret; and at last, perhaps, in order to re­fuge herself from slanderous tongues and virulence, be [Page 231] induced to tempt some guilty stream, or seek an end in the knee-incircling garter, that, peradventure, was the first attempt of abandoned Love.—No defiances will my Rose-bud breathe; no self-dependent, thee-doubting watchfulness (indirectly challenging thy in­ventive machinations to do their worst), will she as­sume. Unsuspicious of her danger, the lamb's throat will hardly shun thy knife!—O be not thou the butcher of my lambkin!

The less be thou so, for the reason I am going to give thee—The gentle heart is touched by Love! Her soft bosom heaves with a passion she has not yet found a name for. I once caught her eye following a young carpenter, a widow neighbour's son, living (to speak in her dialect) at the little white-house over the way: A gentle youth he also seems to be, about three years older than herself: Play-mates from in­fancy, till his eighteenth and her fifteenth year, furnished a reason for a greater distance in shew, while their hearts gave a better for their being nearer than ever: For I soon perceived the Love reciprocal: A scrape and a bow at first seeing his pretty mistress; turning often to salute her following eye; and, when a winding lane was to deprive him of her sight, his whole body turned round, his hat more reverently d'off'd, than before. This answered (for, unseen, I was behind her) by a low courtesy, and a sigh, that Johnny was too far off to hear!—Happy Whelp! said I to myself!—I withdrew; and in tript my Rose-bud, as if satisfied with the dumb shew, and wishing nothing beyond it.

I have examined the little heart: She has made me her confident: She owns, she could love Johnny Barton very well: And Johnny Barton has told her, He could love her better than any maiden he ever saw—But, alas! it must not be thought of. Why not be thought of?—She don't know!—And then she sighed: But Johnny has an aunt, who will give [Page 232] him an hundred pounds, when his time is out; and her father cannot give her but a few things, or so, to set her out with: And tho' Johnny's mother says, she knows not where Johnny would have a prettier, or notabler wife, yet—And then she sighed again—What signifies talking?—I would not have Johnny be unhappy, and poor for me!—For what good would that do me, you know, Sir!

What would I give (—By my soul, my angel will indeed reform me, if her friends implacable folly ruin us not both!—What would I give) to have so innocent, and so good a heart, as either my Rose-bud's, or Johnny's!

I have a confounded mischievous one—by nature too, I think!—A good motion now-and-then rises from it: But it dies away presently—A love of in­trigue!—An invention for mischief!—A triumph in subduing!—Fortune encouraging and supporting!—And a constitution—What signifies palliating? But I believe I had been a rogue, had I been a plough-boy.

But the devil's in this sex! Eternal misguiders! Who, that has once trespassed, ever recovered his integrity? And yet where there is not virtue, which nevertheless we free-livers are continually plotting to destroy, what is there even in the ultimate of our wishes with them?— Preparation and Expectation are, in a manner, every-thing: Reflection, indeed, may be something, if the mind be hardened above feeling the guilt of a past trespass: But the Fruition, what is there in that? And yet, That being the end, nature will not be satisfied without it.

See what grave reflections an innocent subject will produce! It gives me some pleasure to think, that it is not out of my power to reform: But then, Jack, I am afraid I must keep better company, than I do at present—For we certainly harden one another. But be not cast down, my boy; there will be time enough [Page 233] to give thee, and all thy brethren, warning to choose another leader: And I fansy thou wilt be the man.

Mean time, as I make it my rule, whenever I have committed a very capital enormity, to do some good, by way of atonement; and as I believe I am a pretty deal indebted on that score, I intend, before I leave these parts (successfully shall I leave them, I hope, or I shall be tempted to do double the mischief by way of revenge, tho' not to my Rose-bud any), to join an hundred pounds to Johnny's aunt's hundred pounds, to make one innocent couple happy.—I repeat, there­fore, and for half-a-dozen more therefores, spare thou my Rose-bud.

An interruption:—Another letter anon; and both shall go together.

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

I HAVE found out by my watchful Spy almost as many of my charmer's motions, as those of the rest of her relations. It delights me to think how the rascal is caressed by the uncles and nephew; and let into their secrets; yet proceeds all the time by my line of direction. I have charged him, however, on forfeiture of his present weekly stipend, and my future favour, to take care, that neither my beloved, or any of the family, suspect him: I have told him, that he may indeed watch her egresses and regresses; but that only to keep off other servants from her paths; yet not to be seen by her himself.

The dear creature has tempted him, he told them, with a bribe (which she never offered), to convey a letter (which she never wrote) to Miss Howe; he be­lieves, with one inclosed (perhaps to me): But he de­clined it: And he begged they would take no notice of it to her. This brought him a stingy shilling; great [Page 234] applause; and an injunction followed it to all the ser­vants, for the strictest look-out, lest she should con­trive some way to send it—And, about an hour after, an order was given him to throw himself in her way; and (expressing his concern for denying her request) to tender his service to her, and to bring them her letter: Which it will be proper for him to report, that she has refused to give him.

Now seest thou not, how many good ends this contrivance answers?

In the first place, The Lady is secured by it, against her own knowlege, in the liberty allowed her of take­ing her private walks in the garden: For this attempt has confirmed them in their belief, that now they have turned off her maid, she has no way to send a letter out of the house: If she had, she would not have run the risque of tempting a fellow who had not been in her secret: So that she can prosecute, unsuspectedly, her correspondence with me, and Miss Howe.

In the next place, It will afford me an opportunity, perhaps, of a private interview with her, which I am meditating, let her take it as she will; having found out by my Spy (who can keep off every-body else), that she goes every morning and evening to a wood-house remote from the dwelling-house, under pre­tence of visiting and feeding a set of Bantam-poultry, which were produced from a breed that was her grandfather's, and which for that reason she is very fond of; as also of some other curious fowls brought from the same place. I have an account of all her motions here.—And as she has owned to me in one of her letters that she corresponds privately with Miss Howe, I presume it is by this way.

The interview I am meditating, will produce her consent, I hope, to other favours of the like kind: For, should she not choose the place I am expecting to see her in, I can attend her any-where in the ram­bling, Dutch-taste garden, whenever she will permit [Page 235] me that honour: For my implement, hight Joseph Leman, has given me the opportunity of procuring two keys (one of which I have given him, for reasons good) to the garden-door, which opens to the haunted coppice, as tradition has made the servants think it; a man having been found hanging in it about twenty years ago: And Joseph, upon the least notice, will leave it unbolted.

But I was obliged to give him, previously, my ho­nour, that no mischief shall happen to any of my ad­versaries, from this liberty: For the fellow tells me, that he loves all his masters; and, only that he knows I am a man of honour; and that my alliance will do credit to the family; and, after prejudices are over­come, every body will think so; or he would not for the world act the part he does.

There never was a rogue, who had not a salvo to himself for being so.—What a praise to honesty, that every man pretends to it, even at the instant that he knows he is pursuing the methods that will perhaps prove him a knave to the whole world, as well as to his own conscience!

But what this stupid family can mean, to make all this necessary, I cannot imagine. My REVENGE and my LOVE are uppermost by turns. If the latter succeed not, the gratifying of the former will be my only consolation: And, by All that's good, they shall feel it; altho', for it, I become an exile from my na­tive country for ever.

I will throw myself into my charmer's presence: I have twice already attempted it in vain. I shall then see what I may depend upon from her favour. If I thought I had no prospect of that, I should be tempted to carry her off.—That would be a rape worthy of a Jupiter!

But all gentle shall be my movements: All respect­ful, even to reverence, my address to her!—Her hand shall be the only witness to the pressure of my [Page 236] lip—my trembling lip: I know it will tremble, if I do not bid it tremble. As soft my sighs, as the sighs of my gentle Rose-bud. By my humility will I invite her confidence: The loneliness of the place shall give me no advantage: To dissipate her fears, and engage her rellance upon my honour for the future, shall be my whole endeavour: But little will I complain of, not at all will I threaten, those who are continually threatening me: But yet with a view to act the part of Dryden's lion; To secure my Love, or to let loose my vengeance upon my hunters.

LETTER XXXVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

I HAVE been frighted out of my wits—Still am in a manner out of breath.—Thus occasion'd—I went down, under the usual pretence, in hopes to find something from you. Concern'd at my disap­pointment, I was returning from the woodhouse, when I heard a rustling, as of somebody behind a stack of wood. I was extremely surpris'd: But still more, to behold a man coming from behind the fur­thermost stack. O thought I, at that moment, the sin of a prohibited correspondence!

In the same point of time that I saw him, he be­sought [Page 237] me, not to be frighted: And, still nearer ap­proaching me, threw open a horseman's coat: And who should it be but Mr. Lovelace! I could not scream out (yet attempted to scream, the moment I saw a man; and again, when I saw who it was) For I had no voice: And had I not caught hold of a prop, which supported the old roof, I should have sunk.

I had hitherto, as you know, kept him at di­stance: And now, as I recover'd myself, judge of my first emotions, when I recollected his character from every mouth of my family; his enterprising tem­per; and found myself alone with him, in a place so near a bye-lane, and so remote from the house.

But his respectful behaviour soon dissipated these fears, and gave me others, lest we should be seen to­gether, and information of it given to my brother: The consequences of which, I could readily think, would be, if not further mischief, an imputed assignation, a stricter confinement, a forfeited correspondence with you, my beloved friend, and a pretence for the most violent compulsion: And neither the one set of re­flections, nor the other, acquitted him to me for his bold intrusion.

As soon therefore as I could speak, I express'd with the greatest warmth my displeasure; and told him, that he cared not how much he exposed me to the resentments of all my friends, provided he could gra­tify his own impetuous humour; and I commanded him to leave the place that moment: And was hurry­ing from him; when he threw himself in the way at my feet, beseeching my stay for one moment; de­claring, that he suffer'd himself to be guilty of this rashness, as I thought it, to avoid one much greater:—For, in short, he could not bear the hourly insults he received from my family, with the thoughts of having so little interest in my favour, that he could not promise himself, that his patience and forbear­ance [Page 238] would be attended with any other issue, than to lose me for ever, and be triumphed over and insulted upon it.

This man, you know, has very ready knees. You have said, that he ought, in small points, frequently to offend, on purpose to shew what an address he is master of.

He run on, expressing his apprehensions, that a temper so gentle and obliging, as he said mine was, to every-body but him (and a dutifulness so exemplary inclining me to do my part to others, whether they did theirs or not by me), would be wrought upon in fa­vour of a man set up in part to be reveng'd upon my­self, for my grandfather's envied distinction of me; and in part to be reveng'd upon him, for having given life to one, who would have taken his; and now sought to deprive him of hopes dearer to him than life.

I told him, he might be assur'd, that the severity and ill-usage I met with would be far from effecting the intended end: That altho' I could, with great sin­cerity, declare for a Single Life, which had always been my choice; and particularly, that if ever I mar­ry'd, if they would not insist upon the man I had an aversion to, it should not be with the man they dis­liked—

He interrupted me here: He hoped, I would for­give him for it; but he could not help expressing his great concern, that, after so many instances of his passionate and obsequious devotion—

And pray Sir, said I, let me interrupt you in my turn:—Why don't you assert, in still plainer words, the obligation you have laid me under by this your boasted devotion? Why don't you let me know, in terms as high as your implication, that a perseverance I have not wish'd for, which has set all my relations at variance with me, is a merit, that throws upon me the guilt of ingratitude, for not answering it as you seem to expect?

[Page 239]I must forgive him, he said, if he, who pretended only to a comparative merit (and otherwise thought no man living could deserve me), had presumed to hope for a greater share in my favour, than he had hitherto met with, when such men as Mr. Symmes, Mr. Wyerley, and now, lastly, so vile a reptile as this Solmes, however discouraged by myself, were made his competitors. As to the perseverance I mentioned, it was impossible for him not to persevere: But I must needs know, that were he not in being, the terms Solmes had proposed were such, as would have in­volved me in the same difficulties with my relations that I now laboured under. He therefore took the liberty to say, that my favour to him, far from in­creasing those difficulties, would be the readiest way to extricate me from them. They had made it im­possible (he told me, with too much truth) to oblige them any way, but by sacrificing myself to Solmes. They were well apprised besides of the difference be­tween the two; one, whom they hoped to manage as they pleased; the other, who could and would pro­tect me from every insult; and who had natural pro­spects much superior to my brother's foolish views, of a title.

How comes this man to know so well all our foi­bles? But I more wonder, how he came to have a notion of meeting me in this place!

I was very uneasy to be gone; and the more as the night came on apace. But there was no getting from him, till I had heard a great deal more of what he had to say.

As he hoped, that I would one day make him the happiest man in the world, he assured me, that he had so much regard for my fame, that he would be as far from advising any step that were likely to cast a shade upon my reputation, (altho' That step were to be ever so much in his own favour) as I would be to follow such advice. But since I was not to be per­mitted [Page 240] to live single, he would submit it to my con­sideration, whether I had any way but one to avoid the intended violence to my inclinations: My father so jealous of his authority: Both my uncles in my father's way of thinking: My cousin Morden at a distance: My uncle and aunt Hervey aw'd into insig­nificance, was his word: My brother and sister in­flaming every one; Solmes's offers captivating: Miss Howe's mother rather of party with them, for mo­tives respecting example to her own daughter.

And then he ask'd me, if I would receive a letter from his aunt Lawrance, on this occasion: For his aunt Sadleir, he said, having lately lost her only child, hardly looked into the world, or thought of it farther, than to wish him marry'd, and, preferably to all the women in the world, with me.

To be sure, my dear, there is a great deal in what the man said:—I may be allow'd to say This, with­out an imputed glow or throb.—But I told him, nevertheless, that altho' I had great honour for the Ladies he was related to (for his two aunts in parti­cular), yet I should not choose to receive a letter on a subject, that had a tendency to promote an end I was far from intending to promote: That it became me, ill as I was treated at present, to hope every­thing, to bear every-thing, and to try every-thing: When my father saw my steadfastness, and that I would die rather than have Mr. Solmes, he would perhaps recede.—

Interrupting me, he represented the unlikelihood there was of that, from the courses they had enter'd upon; which he thus enumerated:—Their engaging Mrs. Howe against me, in the first place, as a person I might have thought to fly to, if push'd to desperation:—My brother continually buzzing in my father's ears, that my cousin Morden would soon arrive, and then would insist upon giving me possession of my grandfather's estate, in pursuance of the will; which would render [Page 241] me independent of my father:—Their disgraceful confinement of me:—Their dismissing so suddenly my servant, and setting my sister's over me:—Their engaging my mamma, contrary to her own judgment, against me: These, he said, were all so many flagrant proofs, that they would stick at nothing to carry their point; and were what made him inexpressibly uneasy.

He appealed to me, whether ever I knew my papa recede from any resolution he had once fix'd; espe­cially, if he thought either his prerogative, or his au­thority, concern'd in the question. His acquaintance with our family, he said, enabled him to give several instances (but they would be too grating to me) of an arbitrariness that had few examples even in the fa­milies of princes: An arbitrariness, which the most excellent of women, my mamma, too severely ex­perienced.

He was proceeding, as I thought, with reflections of this sort; and I angrily told him, I would not per­mit my father to be reflected upon; adding, That his severity to me, however unmerited, was not a warrant for me to dispense with my duty to him.

He had no pleasure, he said, in urging any thing that could be so construed; for, however well warranted he was to make such reflections, from the provoca­tions they were continually giving him, he knew how offensive to me any liberties of this sort would be.—And yet he must own, that it was painful to him, who had youth and passions to be allow'd for, as well as others; and who had always valued himself upon speaking his mind; to curb himself, under such treat­ment. Nevertheless, his consideration for me would make him confine himself in his observations, to facts, that were too flagrant, and too openly avowed, to be disputed. It could not therefore justly displease, he would venture to say, if he made this natural infer­ence from the premises, That if such were my father's behaviour to a wife, who disputed not the imaginary [Page 242] prerogative he was so unprecedently fond of asserting, what room had a daughter to hope, he would depart from an authority he was so earnest, and so much more concern'd, to maintain? family-interests at the same time engaging; an aversion, however cause­lessly conceived, stimulating; my brother's and sister's resentments and selfish views co-operating; and my banishment from their presence depriving me of all personal plea or intreaty in my own favour.

How unhappy, my dear, that there is but too much reason for these observations, and for this infer­ence; made, likewise, with more coolness and re­spect to my family than one would have apprehended from a man so much provok'd, and of passions so high, and generally thought uncontroulable!—

Will you not question me about throbs and glows, if, from such instances of a command over his fiery temper, for my sake, I am ready to infer, that were my friends capable of a reconciliation with him, he might be affected by arguments apparently calculated for his present and future good?

He represented to me, that my present disgraceful confinement was known to all the world: That nei­ther my sister nor brother scrupled to represent me as an obliged and favoured child, in a state of actual rebellion:—That, nevertheless, every-body who knew me was ready to justify me for an aversion to a man, whom every-body thought utterly unworthy of me, and more fit for my sister: That unhappy as he was, in not having been able to make any greater impression upon me in his favour, all the world gave me to him:—Nor was there but one objection made to him, by his very enemies (his birth, his fortunes, his prospects all unexceptionable, and the latter splendid); and that, he thank'd God, and my example, was in a fair way of being removed for ever: Since he had seen his error, and was heartily sick of the courses he had fol­low'd; which, however, were far less enormous than [Page 243] malice and envy had represented them to be. But of This he should say the less, as it were much better to justify himself by his actions, than by the most so­lemn asseverations, and promises: And then compli­menting my person, he assured me (for that he always loved virtue, altho' he had not follow'd its rules, as he ought), that he was still more captivated with the graces of my mind: And would frankly own, that till he had the honour to know me, he had never met with an inducement sufficient to enable him to over­come an unhappy kind of prejudice to matrimony; which had made him before impenetrable to the wishes and recommendations of all his relations.

You see, my dear, he scruples not to speak of him­self, as his enemies speak of him. I can't say, but his openness in these particulars gives a credit to his other professions. I should easily, I think, detect an hypocrite: And this man particularly, who is said to have allowed himself in great liberties, were he to pretend to instantaneous lights and convictions—at his time of life too: Habits, I am sensible, are not so easily changed. You have always join'd with me in remarking, that he will speak his mind with free­dom, even to a degree of unpoliteness sometimes; and that his very treatment of my family is a proof that he cannot make a mean court to any body for in­terest sake.—What pity, where there are such lauda­ble traces, that they should have been so mired, and choaked up, as I may say!—We have heard, that the man's head is better than his heart: But do you really think Mr. Lovelace can have a very bad heart? Why should not there be something in blood in the human creature, as well as in the ignobler animals? None of his family are exceptionable—but himself, indeed. The Ladies characters are admirable. But I shall incur the imputation I wish to avoid. Yet what a look of censoriousness does it carry, to take one to task for doing that justice, and making those cha­ritable [Page 244] inferences in favour of one particular person, which one ought without scruple to do, and to make, in the behalf of any other man living?

He then again press'd, that I would receive a let­ter from his aunt Lawrance of offer'd protection. He said, that people of birth stood a little too much upon punctilio; as people of virtue also did: (—But indeed Birth, worthily liv'd up to, was Virtue; Virtue, Birth; the inducements to a decent punctilio the same; the origin of both, one [How came this notion from him!])—: Else, his aunt would write to me: But she would be willing to be first appris'd, that her offer would be well receiv'd—as it would have the appear­ance of being made against the liking of one part of my family; and which nothing would induce her to make, but the degree of unworthy persecution which I actually labour'd under, and had further reason to apprehend.

I told him, that, however greatly I thought my­self obliged to Lady Betty Lawrance, if This offer came from herself; yet it was easy to see to what it led. It might look like vanity in me, perhaps, to say, That this urgency in him, on this occasion, wore the face of art, in order to engage me into measures I might not easily extricate myself from. I said, that I should not be affected by the splendor of even a Royal title. Goodness, I thought, was Greatness: That the excellent characters of the Ladies of his family weigh'd more with me, than the consideration that they were half-sisters to Lord M. and daughters of an Earl: That he would not have found encou­ragement from me, had my friends been consenting to his address, if he had only a mere relative merit to those Ladies: Since, in that case, the very reasons that made me admire them, would have been so many objections to their kinsman.

I then assur'd him, that it was with infinite con­cern, that I had found myself drawn into an epistolary [Page 245] correspondence with him; especially since that corre­spondence had been prohibited:—And the only agree­able use I could think of making of this unexpected and undesired interview, was, to let him know, that I should from henceforth think myself obliged to discontinue it. And I hoped, that he would not have the thought of engaging me to carry it on, by menacing my relations.

There was light enough to distinguish, that he looked very grave upon this. He so much valued my free choice, he said, and my unbias'd favour (scorning to set himself upon a foot with Solmes, in the compulsory methods used in that man's behalf), that he should hate himself, were he capable of a view of intimidating me by so very poor a method. But, nevertheless, there were two things to be consider'd: First, That the continual outrages he was treated with; the spies set over him, one of which he had detected; the indignities all his family were likewise treated with; as also, myself, avowedly in malice to him, or he should not presume to take upon himself to resent for me, without my leave [The artful wretch saw he would have lain open here, had he not thus guarded]: All these considerations called upon him to shew a proper resentment: And he would leave it to me to judge, whether it would be reasonable for him, as a man of spirit, to bear such insults, if it were not for my sake. I would be pleased to consider, in the next place, whether the situation I was in (a prisoner in my father's house, and my whole family deter­mined to compel me to marry a man unworthy of me; and that speedily, and whether I consented or not) admitted of delay in the preventive measures he was desirous to put me upon, in the last resort only. Nor was there a necessity, he said, if I were actually in Lady Betty's protection, that I should be his, if I should see any thing objectible in his conduct, after­wards.

[Page 246]But what would the world conclude would be the end, I asked him, were I to throw myself into the protection of his friends, but that it was with such a view?

And what less did the world think now, he asked, than that I was confined that I might not? You are to consider, Madam, you have not now an option; and to whom it is owing that you have not; and that you are in the power of those (Parents why should I call them?) who are determin'd, that you shall not have an option. All I propose is, that you will embrace such a protection;—but not till you have try'd every way, to avoid the necessity for it.

And give me leave to say, that if a correspondence, on which I have founded all my hopes, is, at this critical conjuncture, to be broken off; and if you are resolved not to be provided against the worst; it must be plain to me, that you will at last yield to That worst—Worst to me only—It cannot be to you—And then! (and he put his hand clenched to his forehead) how shall I bear the supposition?— Then will you be That Solmes's!—But, by all that's Sa­cred, neither he, nor your brother, nor your uncles, shall enjoy their triumph:—Perdition seize my soul, if they shall!

The man's vehemence frighten'd me: Yet, in re­sentment, I would have left him; but, throwing himself at my feet again, Leave me not thus, I be­seech you, dearest Madam, leave me not thus, in despair. I kneel not, repenting of what I have vow'd in such a case as That I have supposed. I re-vow it, at your feet!—And so he did. But think not it is by way of menace, or to intimidate you to favour me. If your heart inclines you [and then he arose] to obey your father (your brother, rather), and to have Solmes, altho' I shall avenge myself on those who have insulted me, for their insults to myself and family; yet will I tear out my heart from This bosom (if possible, with [Page 247] my own hands), were it to scruple to give up its ar­dors to a woman capable of such a preference.

I told him, that he talked to me in very high lan­guage; but he might assure himself, that I never would have Mr. Solmes (Yet that this I said not in favour to him): And I had declared as much to my relations, were there not such a man as himself in the world.

Would I declare, that I would still honour him with my correspondence?—He could not bear, that, hoping to obtain greater instances of my favour, he should forfeit the only one he had to boast of.

I bid him forbear rashness or resentment to any of my family, and I would, for some time at least, till I saw what issue my present trials were likely to have, proceed with a correspondence, which, never­theless, my heart condemned.—

And his spirit him, the impatient creature said, in­terrupting me, for bearing what he did; when he considered, that the necessity of it was imposed upon him; not by my will; for then he would bear it chear­fully, and a thousand times more; but by creatures—And there he stopp'd.

I told him plainly, that he might thank himself (whose indifferent character, as to morals, had given such a handle against him) for all. It was but just, that a man should be spoken evil of, who set no value upon his own reputation.

He offer'd to vindicate himself: But I told him, I would judge him by his own rule—by his actions, not by his professions.

Were not his enemies, he said, so powerful, and so determined; and had they not already shewn their intentions in such high acts of even cruel compulsion; but would leave me to my choice, or to my desire of living single; he would have been content to undergo a twelvemonth's probation, or more: But he was confident, that one month would either complete all their purposes, or render them abortive: And I best [Page 248] knew what hopes I had of my father's receding: He did not know him, if I had any.

I said, I would try every method, that either my duty or my influence upon any of them should suggest, before I would put myself into any other protection. And, if nothing else would do, would resign the envied estate; and that I dared to say would.

He was contented, he said, to abide that issue. He should be far from wishing me to embrace any other protection, but, as he had frequently said, in the last necessity. But, dearest creature, said he, catching my hand with ardor, and pressing it to his lips, if the yielding up that estate will do—Resign it;—and be mine—And I will corroborate, with all my soul, your resignation!—This was not ungenerously said, my dear! But what will not these men say to obtain belief, and a power over one?

I made many efforts to go; and now it was so dark, that I began to have great apprehensions—I cannot say from his behaviour: Indeed, he has a good deal raised himself in my opinion, by the personal re­spect, even to reverence, which he paid me during the whole conference: For altho' he flam'd out once, upon a supposition that Solmes might succeed, it was upon a supposition that would excuse passion, if any thing could, you know, in a man pretending to love with fervor; altho' it was so levell'd, that I could not avoid resenting it.

He recommended himself to my favour at parting, with great earnestness, yet with as great submission; not offering to condition any thing with me; altho' he hinted his wishes for another meeting: Which I forbid him ever attempting again in the same place.—And I'll own to you, from whom I should be really blameable to conceal any thing, that his arguments (drawn from the disgraceful treatment I meet with) of what I am to expect, make me begin to apprehend, that I shall be under an obligation to be either the one [Page 249] man's or the other's—And if so, I fancy I shall not incur your blame, were I to say, which of the two it must be. You have said, which it must not be. But, O my dear, the Single Life is by far the most eligible to me: Indeed it is. And I yet hope to ob­tain the blessing of making that option.

I got back without observation: But the appre­hension that I should not, gave me great uneasiness; and made me begin my letter in a greater flutter than he gave me cause to be in, except at the first seeing him; for then, indeed, my spirits failed me; and it was a particular felicity, that, in such a place, in such a fright, and alone with him, I fainted not away.

I should add, That having reproached him with his behaviour the last Sunday at church, he solemnly assured me, That it was not what had been repre­sented to me: That he did not expect to see me there: But hoped to have an opportunity to address himself to my father, and to be permitted to attend him home. But that the good Dr. Lewin had persuaded him not to attempt speaking to any of the family, at that time; observing to him the emotions his presence had put every-body in. He intended no pride, or haughtiness of behaviour, he assured me; and that the attributing such to him was the effect of that ill-will which he had the mortification to find insuperable: Adding, That when he bowed to my mamma, it was a com­pliment he intended generally to every one in the pew, as well as to her, whom he sincerely venerated.

If he may be believed (and I should think he would not have come purposely to defy my family, yet ex­pect favour from me), one may see, my dear, the force of hatred, which misrepresents all things:—Yet why should Shorey (except officiously to please her prin­cipals) make a report in his disfavour? He told me, That he would appeal to Dr. Lewin for his justification on this head; adding, that the whole conversation be­tween them turned upon his desire to attempt to re­concile [Page 250] himself to us all, in the face of the Church; and, upon the Doctor's endeavouring to dissuade him from making such a public overture, till he knew how it would be accepted. But, alas! I am de­barred from seeing that good man, or any one who would advise me what to do in my present difficult situation!—

I fancy, my dear, however, that there would hardly be a guilty person in the world, were each suspected or accused person to tell his or her own story, and be allowed any degree of credit.

I have written a very long letter. To be so par­ticular as you require, in subjects of conversation, it is impossible to be short. I will add to it only the assurance, That I am, and ever will be,

You'll be so good, my dear, as to remember, that the date of your last letter to me, was the 9th of this instant March.

LETTER XXXVII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Beg your pardon, my dearest friend, for having given you occasion to remind me of the date of my last. I was willing to have before me as much of the workings of your wise relations as possible; being verily persuaded, that one side or the other would have yielded by this time: And then, I should have had some degree of certainty to found my observations upon. And indeed, what can I write, that I have not already written?—You know, that I can do nothing but rave at your stupid persecutors: [Page 251] And That you don't like. I have advised you to re­sume your own estate: That you won't do. You cannot bear the thoughts of having their Solmes: And Lovelace is resolved you shall be his, let who will say to the contrary. I think you must be either the one man's or the other's. Let us see what their next step will be. As to Lovelace, while he tells his own story; having behaved so handsomely on his intrusion in the woodhouse; and intended so well at Church; who can say, That the man is in the least blameworthy?— Wicked people! to combine against so innocent a man!—But, as I said, Let us see what their next step will be, and what course you will take upon it; and then we may be more inlighten'd.

As to your change of style to your uncles, and bro­ther, and sister, since they were so fond of attri­buting to you a regard for Lovelace, and would not be persuaded to the contrary; and since you only strengthened their arguments against yourself by deny­ing it; you did but just as I would have done, in giving way to their suspicions; and trying what That would do—But if—But if—Pray, my dear, in­dulge me a little—You yourself think it was ne­cessary to apologize to me for that change of st [...]le to them—And till you will speak out like a friend to her un- question-able friend, I must teaze you a little—Let it run, therefore; for it will run—

If, then, there be not a reason for this change of style, which you have not thought fit to give me, be so good as to watch, as I once before advised you, how the cause for it will come on: Why shoul [...] it be permitted to steal upon you, and you know nothing of the matter?

When a person gets a great cold, he or she puzzles, and studies, how it began; how he—she got it: And when that is accounted for, down he—she sits con­tented, and lets it have its course, or takes a sweat, or the like, to get rid of it, if it be very trouble­some. [Page 252] —So, my dear, before the malady you wot of, yet wot not of, grows so importunate, as that you must be obliged to sweat it out, let me advise you to mind how it comes on. For I am persuaded, as surely as that I am now writing to you, that their indiscreet violence on one hand, and his insinuating address on the other, if the man be not a greater fool than any body thinks him, will effectually bring it to This, and do all his work for him.

But let it—If it must be Lovelace or Solmes, the choice cannot admit of debate.—Yet, if all be true that is reported, I should prefer almost any of your other lovers to either; unworthy as they also are. But who, indeed, can be worthy of Miss Clarissa Harlowe?

I wish you don't tax me of harping too much upon one string. I should, indeed, think myself inex­cusable so to do (the rather, as I am so bold, as to imagine it is a point out of all doubt, from fifty places in your letters, were I to labour the proof), if you would ingenuously own—

Own what? you'll say. Why, my Anna Howe, I hope, you don't think, that I am already in love!—

No, to be sure! How can your Anna Howe have such a thought?—Love, tho' so short a word, has a broad sound with it. What then shall we call it? You have help'd me to a phrase that has a narrower sound with it; but a pretty broad meaning, never­theless: A conditional kind of liking!—that's it.—O my friend! Did I not know how much you despise Prudery; and that you are too young, and too lovely to be a Prude—

But, avoiding such hard names, let me tell you one thing, my dear (which nevertheless I have told you before); and that is This, That I shall think I have reason to be highly displeased with you, if, when you write to me, you endeavour to keep from me any Secret of your heart.

Let me add, That if you would clearly and ex­plicitly [Page 253] tell me, how far Lovelace has, or has not, a hold in your affections, I could better advise you what to do, than at present I can. You, who are so famed for prescience, as I may call it, and than whom no young Lady ever had stronger pretensions to a share of it; have had, no doubt, reasonings in your heart about him, supposing you were to be one day his (No doubt but you have had the same in Solmes's case:—Whence the ground for the hatred of the one; and of the conditional liking of the other): Will you tell me, my dear, what you have thought of his best and of his worst?—How far eligible for the first; how far rejectible for the last?—Then weighing both parts in opposite scales, we shall see which is likely to pre­ponderate; or rather which does preponderate. No­thing less than the knowlege of the inmost recesses of your heart, can satisfy my love and my friendship. Surely, you are not afraid to trust yourself with a secret of this nature: If you are, then you may the more allowably doubt me. But I dare say, you will not own either: Nor is there, I hope, cause for either.

Be pleased to observe one thing, my dear, that whenever I have given myself any of those airs of raillery, which have seem'd to make you look about you (when, likewise, your case may call for a more serious turn from a sympathizing friend), it has not been upon those passages which are written, tho' perhaps not intended, with such explicitness (don't be alarm'd, my dear!) as leaves one little cause of doubt: But only when you affect reserve; when you give new words for common things; when you come with your curiosities, with your conditional likings, and with your PRUDE-encies (mind how I spell the word) in a case, that with every other person defies all pru­dence—Overt-acts of treason, all these against the sovereign friendship we have vowed to each other!—

Remember, that you found me out in a moment. [Page 254] You challeng'd me. I owned directly, that there was only my pride between the man and me; for I could not endure, I told you, to think it in the power of any fellow living to give me a moment's uneasiness. And then my man, as I have elsewhere said, was not such a one as yours: So I had reason to impute full as much to my own inconsideration, as to his power over me: Nay, more. But still more to yours. For you reason'd me out of the curiosity first; and when the liking was brought to be conditional—Why then, you know, I throbb'd no more about him.

O! pray now, as you say, now I have mentioned that my fellow was not such a charming fellow as yours, let Miss Biddulph, Miss Lloyd, Miss Campion, and me, have your opinion, how far Figure ought to engage us: With a view to your own case, how­ever— Mind that—as Mr. T' Antony says—And whether at all, if the man be vain of it; since, as you observe in a former, that vanity is a stop-short pride in such a one, that would make one justly doubt the worthiness of his interior. You, our pattern, so lovely in feature, so graceful in person, have none of it; and have therefore with the best grace always held, that it is not excusable even in a woman.

You must know, that this subject was warmly de­bated among us in our last conversation, and Miss Lloyd wished me to write to you upon it for your opinion; to which, in every debated case, we always defered. I hope you will not be so much ingross'd by your more weighty cares, as not to have freedom of spirits enough to enter upon the task.—You know how much we all admire your opinion on such topics; which ever produces something new and instructive, as you handle the subjects. And pray tell us, to what you think it owing, that your man seems so careful to adorn that self-adorned person of his; yet so manages, that one cannot for one's heart think him a coxcomb?—Let this question, and the above tasks, [Page 255] divert, and not displease you, my dear.—One subject, tho' ever so important, could never yet ingross your capacious mind. If they should displease you, you must recollect the many instances of my impertinence, which you have forgiven, and then say, This is a mad girl:—But yet I love her!—And she is my own

LETTER XXXVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

YOUR last so sensibly affects me, that I must post­pone every other consideration, however weighty, to reply to it: And this I will do very distinctly, and with all the openness of heart, which our mutual friendship demands.

But let me observe, in the first place, gratefully observe, That if I have in fifty passages of my letters given you such undoubted proofs of my value for Mr. Lovelace, that you have spared me for the sake of my explicitness, it is acting by me with a generosity wor­thy of yourself.

But lives the man, think you, who is so very bad, that he does not give even a doubting mind reason at one time to be better pleased with him, than at an­other? And when that reason offers, is it not just to express one's self accordingly? I would do the man who addresses me as much justice, as if he did not address me: It has such a look of tyranny, it appears so ungenerous, methinks, to use a man worse for his respect to one (no other cause for disrespect oc­curring), that I would not by any means be that per­son who should do so.

But, altho' I may intend no more than justice, it will, perhaps, be difficult to hinder those who know the man's views, from construing it as a partial [Page 256] favour: And especially if the eager-ey'd observer has been formerly touch'd herself, and would triumph that her friend had been no more able to escape than she!—Noble minds, emulative of perfection (and yet the passion, properly directed, I do not take to be an im-perfection neither), may be allow'd a little ge­nerous envy, I think!

If I meant by this a reflection, by way of revenge, it is but a revenge, my dear, in the soft sense of the word!—I love, as I have told you, your pleasantry—Altho' at the time, it may pain one a little; yet on recollection, when one feels in the reproof more of the cautioning friend, than of the satirizing observer, an ingenuous mind will be all gratitude upon it. All the business will be This, I shall be sensible of the pain in the present letter perhaps; but I shall thank you in the next, and ever after.

In this way, I hope, my dear, you will account for a little of that sensibility which you will find above, and perhaps still more, as I proceed.—You frequently remind me, by the best example, that I must not spare you!

I am not conscious, that I have written any thing of this man, that has not been more in his dispraise than in his favour. Such is the man, that I think I must have been faulty, and ought to take myself to account, if I had not: But if you think otherwise, I will not put you upon labouring the proof, as you call it! My conduct must then have a faulty ap­pearance at least, and I will endeavour to rectify it. But of this I assure you, That whatever interpretation my words were capable of, I intended not any reserve to you. I wrote my heart, at the time:—If I had had thoughts of disguising it, or been conscious, that there was reason for doing so; perhaps I had not given you the opportunity of remarking upon my curiosity after his relations esteem for me; nor upon my con­ditional liking, and such-like. All I intended by the [Page 257] first, I believe I honestly told you at the time: To that letter I therefore refer, whether it make for me, or against me: And by the other, that I might bear in mind, what it became a person of my sex and cha­racter to be and to do, in such an unhappy situation, where the imputed love is thought an undutiful, and therefore a criminal, passion; and where the sup­posed object of it is a man of faulty morals too. And I am sure you will excuse my desire of appearing at those times the person I ought to be; had I no other view in it, but to merit the continuance of your good opinion.

But that I may acquit myself of having reserves—O, my dear, I must here break off!—

LETTER XXXIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

THIS letter will account to you, my dear, for my abrupt breaking off in the answer I was writing to yours of yesterday; and which, possibly, I shall not be able to finish, and send you, till to-morrow or next day; having a great deal to say to the subjects you put to me in it. What I am now to give you are the particulars of another effort made by my friends, thro' the good Mrs. Norton.

It seems they had sent to her yesterday, to be here this day, to take their instructions, and to try what she could do with me. It would, at least, I suppose they thought, have this effect; To render me inex­cusable with her; or to let her see, that there was no room for the expostulations she had often wanted to make in my favour to my mamma.

The declaration, that my heart was free, afforded them an argument to prove obstinacy and perverse­ness upon me; since it could be nothing else that go­vern'd [Page 258] me in my opposition to their wills, if I had no particular esteem for another man: And now, that I have given them reason (in order to obviate this argu­ment) to suppose that I have a preference to another, they are resolved to carry their schemes into execution as soon as possible. And in order to this, they sent for This good woman, for whom they know I have even a filial regard.

She found assembled my papa and mamma, my brother and sister, my two uncles, and my aunt Hervey.

My brother acquainted her with all that had passed since she was last permitted to see me; with my let­ters avowing my regard to Mr. Lovelace, as they all interpreted them; with the substance of their answers to them; and with their resolutions.

My mamma spoke next; and delivered herself to this effect, as the good woman told me afterwards:

After reciting how many times I had been indulged in my refusals of different gentlemen; and the pains she had taken with me, to induce me to oblige my whole family, in one instance out of five or six; and my obstinacy upon it; O my good Mrs. Norton, said the dear Lady, could you have thought, that my Clarissa and your Clarissa was capable of so determin'd an opposition to the will of parents so indulgent to her? But see what you can do with her. The mat­ter is gone too far to be receded from, on our parts. Her papa had concluded every thing with Mr. Solmes, not doubting her compliance. Such noble settlements, Mrs. Norton, and such advantages to the whole family!—In short, she has it in her power to lay an obligation upon us all. Mr. Solmes, knowing she has good principles, and hoping, by his patience now, and good treatment hereafter, to engage her gratitude, and by degrees her love, is willing to over­look All!—

[Page 259][ Overlook all, my dear! Mr. Solmes to overlook all! There's a word!]

So, Mrs. Norton, if you are convinc'd, that it is a child's duty to submit to her parents authority, in the most important point as well as in the least, I beg you'll try your influence over her: I have none. Her papa has none: Her uncles neither. Altho' it is her apparent interest to oblige us All; for, on that con­dition, her grandfather's estate is not half of what, living and dying, is purpos'd to be done for her. If any body can prevail with her, it is you; and I hope you will heartily enter upon this task with her.

She ask'd, Whether she was permitted to expostu­late with them upon the occasion, before she came up to me?

My arrogant brother told her, she was sent for to expostulate with his sister, and not with them. And This, Goody Norton [She is always Goody with him!], you may tell her, that matters are gone so far with Mr. Solmes, that there is no going back!—Of con­sequence, no room for your expostulation, or hers either.

Be assured of This, Mrs. Norton, said my papa, in an angry tone, that we will not be baffled by her. We will not appear like fools in This matter, and as if we had no authority over our own daughter. We will not, in short, be bully'd out of our child by a cursed rake, who had like to have killed our only son!—And so she had better make a merit of her obe­dience: For comply she shall, if I live; independent as she thinks my father's indiscreet bounty hath made her of me, her father. Indeed since That, she has ne­ver been what she was before. An unjust bequest!—And it is likely to prosper accordingly!—But if she marry that vile Lovelace, I will litigate every shilling with her: Tell her so; and that the Will may be set aside, and shall.

My uncles join'd, with equal heat.

[Page 260]My brother was violent in his declarations.

My sister put in with vehemence, on the same side.

My aunt Hervey was pleased to say, There was no article so proper for parents to govern in, as This of marriage: And it was very fit, mine should be ob­liged.

Thus instructed, the good woman came up to me. She told me all that had passed; and was very earnest with me to comply; and so much justice did she to the task imposed upon her, that I more than once thought, that her own opinion went with theirs. But when she saw what an immoveable aversion I had to the man, she lamented with me their determin'd re­solution: And then examin'd into the sincerity of my profession, that I would gladly compound with them by living single: Of this being satisfy'd, she was so convinc'd, that this offer (which would exclude Love­lace effectually) ought to be accepted, that she would go down, altho' I told her, it was what I had tender'd over-and-over to no purpose, and undertake to be guaranty for me on that score.

She went accordingly; but soon return'd in tears; being used harshly for urging this alternative:—They had a right to my obedience upon their own terms, they said: My proposal was an artifice, only to gain time: Nothing but marrying Mr. Solmes should do: They had told me so before: They should not be at rest till it was done; for they knew what an interest Lovelace had in my heart: I had as good as own'd it in my letters to my uncles, and brother, and sister, altho' I had most disingenuously declared otherwise to my mamma. I depended, they said, upon their in­dulgence, and my own power over them: They had not banish'd me their presence, if they did not know that their consideration for me was greater than mine for them. And they would be obey'd, or I never should be restor'd to their favour, let the consequence be what it would.

[Page 261]My brother thought fit to tell the good woman, that her whining nonsense did but harden me. There was a perverseness, he said, in female minds, a Tra­gedy-pride, that would make a romantic young crea­ture, such a one as me, risque any thing to obtain pity. I was of an age, and a turn (the insolent said), to be fond of a lover-like distress: And my grief (which she pleaded) would never break my heart; it would sooner break That of the best and most indulgent of mothers. He added, That she might once more go up to me: But that, if she prevailed not, he should suspect, that the man they all hated had found a way to attach her to his interest.

Every-body blam'd him for this unworthy reflec­tion; which greatly affected the good woman. But nevertheless he said, and no-body contradicted him, that if she could not prevail upon her sweet child (as it seems she had fondly called me), she had best withdraw to her own home, and there tarry till she was sent for; and so leave her sweet child to her father's ma­nagement.

Sure no-body ever had so insolent, so hard-hearted a brother, as I have! So much resignation to be ex­pected from me! So much arrogance, and to so good a woman, and of so fine an understanding, to be al­lowed in him!

She nevertheless told him, that however she might be ridiculed for speaking of the sweetness of my dispo­sition, she must take upon her to say, that there never was a sweeter in the sex: And that she had ever found, that by mild methods, and gentleness, I might at any time be prevailed upon, even in points against my own judgment and opinion.

My aunt Hervey hereupon said, it was worth while to reflect upon what Mrs. Norton said: And that she had sometimes allowed herself to doubt, whether I had been begun with by such methods as generous tempers are only to be influenced by, in cases where [Page 262] their hearts are supposed to be opposite to the will of their friends.

She had both my brother and sister upon her for This: Who referr'd to my mamma, whether she had not treated me with an indulgence that had hardly any example?

My mamma said, She must own, that no indul­gence had been wanting from her: But she must needs say, and had often said it, that the reception I met with on my return from Miss Howe, and the manner in which the proposal of Mr. Solmes was made to me (which was such as left nothing to my choice), and before I had had an opportunity to con­verse with him, were not what she had by any means approved of.

She was silenc'd, you will guess by whom,—with, My dear! my dear!—You have ever something to say, something to palliate, for this rebel of a girl!—Re­member her treatment of you, of me!—Remember, that the wretch, whom we so justly hate, would not dare to persist in his purposes, but for her encourage­ment of him, and obstinacy to us.—Mrs. Norton (angrily to her), go up to her once more—and if you think gentleness will do—you have a commission to be gentle.—If it won't, never make use of that plea again.

Ay, my good woman, said my mamma, try your force with her. My sister Hervey and I will go up to her, and bring her down in our hands, to receive her father's blessing, and assurances of every-body's love, if she will be prevailed upon: And, in that case, we will all love you the better for your good offices.

She came up to me, and repeated all these passages with tears:—But, after what had passed between us, I told her, that she could not hope to prevail upon me to comply with measures so wholly my brother's; and so much to my aversion.—And then folding me to her maternal bosom, I leave you, my dearest Miss, said [Page 263] she!—I leave you, because I must!—But let me be­seech you to do nothing rashly; nothing unbecoming your character. If all be true that is said, Mr. Love­lace cannot deserve you. If you can comply, re­member it is your duty to comply. They take not, I own, the right method with so generous a spirit. But remember, that there would not be any merit in your compliance, if it were not to be against your own will. Remember also, what is expected from a character so extraordinary as yours: Remember, it is in your power to unite or disunite your whole fa­mily for ever. Altho' it should at present be disagree­able to you to be thus compelled, your prudence, I dare say, when you consider the matter seriously, will enable you to get over all prejudices against the one, and all prepossessions in favour of the other: And then the obligation you will lay all your family un­der, will be not only meritorious in you, with regard to them, but in a few months, very probably, highly satisfactory, as well as reputable, to yourself.

Consider, my dear mamma Norton, said I, only consider, that it is not a small thing that is insisted upon; nor for a short duration: It is for my Life.—Consider too, that all This is owing to an overbear­ing brother, who governs every-body. Consider how desirous I am to oblige them, if a single [...]ife, and breaking all correspondence with the man they hate because my brother hates him, would do it.

I consider every-thing, my dearest Miss: And, add­ed to what I have said, do you only consider, that if, by pursuing your own will, and rejecting theirs, you should be unhappy, you will be deprived of all that consolation which those have, who have been directed by their parents, altho' the event prove not answer­able to their wishes.

I must go, repeated she;—your brother will say (and she wept), that I harden you by my whining non­sense. 'Tis indeed hard, that so much regard should [Page 264] be paid to the humours of one child; and so little to the inclination of another. But let me repeat, that it is your duty to acquiesce, if you can acquiesce: Your father has given your brother's schemes his sanction; and they are now his. Mr. Lovelace, I doubt, is not a man that will justify your choice, so much as he will their dislike. It is too easy to see that your brother has a view in discrediting you with all your friends, with your uncles in particular: But for that very reason, you should comply, if possible, in order to disconcert his ungenerous measures. I will pray for you; and that is all I can do for you. I must now go down, and make a report, that you are re­solved never to have Mr. Solmes:—Must I?—Con­sider, Miss,— Must I?

Indeed you must!—But of This I do assure you, that I will do nothing to disgrace the part you have had in my education. I will bear every-thing, that shall be short of forcing my hand into his, who never can have any share in my heart. I will try, by pa­tient duty, by humility, to overcome them. But death will I choose, in any shape, rather than That man.

I dread to go down, said she, with so determin'd an answer: They will have no patience with me.—But let me leave you with one observation, which I beg of you always to bear in mind:—

‘'That persons of prudence, and distinguished ta­lents, like yours, seem to be sprinkled thro' the world, to give credit, by their example, to Religion and Virtue. When such persons wilfully err, how great must be the fault! How ungrateful to that God, who blessed them with such talents! What a loss likewise to the world! What a wound to Virtue! But this, I hope, will never be to be said of Miss Clarissa Harlowe!'’

I could give her no answer, but by my tears. And I thought, when she went away, the better half of my heart went with her.

[Page 265]I listened to hear what reception she would meet with below; and found it was just such a one as she apprehended.

Will she, or will she not, be Mrs. Solmes? None of your whining circumlocutions, Mrs. Norton!—(You may guess who said this.)— Will she, or will she not, comply with her parents will?

This cut short all she was going to say.

If I must speak so briefly, Miss will sooner die, than have—

Any-body but Lovelace! interrupted my brother—This, Madam, This, Sir, is your meek daughter! This is Mrs. Norton's sweet child!—Well, Goody, you may return to your own habitation. I am im­powered to forbid you to have any correspondence with this perverse girl, for a month to come, as you value the favour of our whole family, or of any indi­vidual of it.

And saying this, uncontradicted by any-body, he him­self shewed her to the door—No doubt, with all that air of cruel insult, which the haughty Rich can put on to the unhappy Low, who have not pleased them.

So here, Miss, am I deprived of the advice of one of the most prudent and conscientious women in the world, were I to have ever so much occasion for it.

I might, indeed, write, as I presume, under your cover, and receive her answers to what I should write. But should such a correspondence be charged upon her, I know she would not be guilty of a falshood for the world; nor even of an equivocation: And should she own it, after this prohibition, she would forfeit my mamma's favour for ever. And in my dangerous fever, some time ago, I engaged my mamma to pro­mise me, that, if I died before I could do any-thing for the good woman, she would set her above want for the rest of her life, should her eyes fail her, or sickness befal her, and she could not provide for herself, as she now so prettily does by her fine needleworks, &c.

[Page 266]What measures will they fall upon next?—Will they not recede, when they find, that it must be a rooted antipathy, and nothing else, that could make a temper, not naturally inflexible, so sturdy?

Adieu, my dear. Be you happy!—To know that it is in your power to be so, is all that seems wanting to make you so.

LETTER XL. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE. [In continuation of the subject in Letter XXXVIII.]

I WILL now, tho' midnight (for I have no sleep in my eyes), resume the subject I was forced so abruptly to quit; and will obey yours, Miss Lloyd's, Miss Campion's, and Miss Biddulph's call, with as much temper as my divided thoughts will admit. The dead stillness of this solemn hour will, I hope, contribute to calm my disturbed mind.

In order to acquit myself of so heavy a charge as that of having reserves to so dear a friend, I will ac­knowlege (and I thought I had over and over), that it is owing to my particular situation, if Mr. Love­lace appears to me in a tolerable light: And I take upon me to say, that had they opposed to him a man of sense, of virtue, of generosity; one who enjoy'd his fortune with credit; who had a tenderness in his na­ture for the calamities of others, which would have given a moral assurance, that he would have been still less wanting in grateful returns to an obliging spirit:—Had they opposed such a man as this to Mr. Lovelace, and been as earnest to have me marry'd, as now they are, I do not know myself, if they would have had rea­son to tax me with that invincible obstinacy which they lay to my charge: And this, whatever had been the Figure of the man: Since the Heart is what we women should judge by in the choice we make, as the best [Page 267] security for the party's good behaviour in every relation of life.

But, situated as I am, thus persecuted, and driven; I own to you, that I have now and then had a little more difficulty than I wish'd for, in passing by Mr. Lovelace's tolerable qualities, to keep up my dislike to him for his others.

You say, I must have argued with myself in his favour, and in his disfavour, on a supposition, that I might possibly be one day his. I own, that I have: And thus called upon by my dearest friend, I will set before you both parts of the argument.

And first, what occurred to me in his favour.

At his introduction into our family, his negative virtues were insisted upon:—He was no gamester; no horse-racer; no fox-hunter; no drinker: My poor aunt Hervey had, in confidence, given us to apprehend much disagreeable evil, especially to a wife of the least delicacy, from a wine-lover: And com­mon sense instructed us, that Sobriety in a man, is no small point to be secured, when so many mischiefs happen daily from excess. I remember, that my sister made the most of this favourable circumstance in his character, while she had any hopes of him.

He was never thought to be a niggard: Not even ungenerous: Nor, when his conduct came to be in­quired into, an extravagant, or squanderer: His pride (so far was it a laudable pride) secured him from that. Then he was ever ready to own his errors: He was no jester upon sacred things: Poor Mr. Wyerley's fault; who seemed to think, that there was wit in saying bold things, which would shock a serious mind. His con­versation with us was always unexceptionable; even chastly so; which, be his actions what they would, shew'd him capable of being influenc'd by decent com­pany; and that he might probably therefore be a led man, rather than a leader, in other. And one late instance, so late as last Saturday evening, has raised [Page 268] him not a little in my opinion, with regard to this point of good (and, at the same time, of manly) be­haviour.

As to the advantage of birth, that is of his side, above any man who has been found out for me: If we may judge by that expression of his, which you was pleased with at the time; ‘'That upon true qua­lity, and hereditary distinction, if good sense were not wanting, honour sat as easy as his glove:'’ That, with as familiar an air, was his familiar expression; ‘'while none but the prosperous upstart, MUSHROOM'D into rank (another of his peculiars) was arrogantly proud of it.'’ If, I say, we may judge of him by this, we shall conclude in his favour, that he knows what sort of behaviour is to be expected from persons of Birth, whether he act up to it or not. Conviction is half way to amendment.

His fortunes in possession are handsome; in expecta­tion, splendid: So nothing need be said on that subject.

But it is impossible, say some, that he should make a tender or kind husband. Those who are for im­posing upon me such a man as Mr. Solmes, and by methods so violent, are not intitled to make this ob­jection: But now, on this subject, let me tell you how I have argued with myself—For still you must remember, that I am upon the extenuating part of his character.

A great deal of the treatment a wife may expect from him, will, possibly, depend upon herself. Per­haps she must practise, as well as promise, obedience to a man so little used to controul; and must be care­ful to oblige. And what husband expects not this?—The more, perhaps, if he has not reason to assure himself of the preferable love of his wife, before she became such. And how much easier and pleasanter to obey the man of her choice, if he should be even unreasonable sometimes, than one she would not have had, could she have avoided it? Then, I think, as [Page 269] the men were the framers of the matrimonial office, and made obedience a part of the woman's vow, she ought not, even in policy, to shew him, that she can break thro' her part of the contract, however lightly she may think of the instance; lest he should take it into his head (himself is judge) to think as lightly of other points, which she may hold more important. But indeed no point, so solemnly vow'd, can be slight.

Thus principled, and acting accordingly, what a wretch must that husband be, who could treat such a wife brutally!—Will Lovelace's wife be the only person, to whom he will not pay the grateful debt of civility and good-manners? He is allow'd to be brave: Who ever knew a brave man, if a man of sense, an universally base man? And how much the gentle­ness of sex, and the manner of our training-up and education, make us need the protection of the brave, and the countenance of the generous, let the general approbation which we are all so naturally inclin'd to give to men of that character, testify.

At worst, will he confine me prisoner to my cham­ber? Will he deny me the visits of my dearest friend, and forbid me to correspond with her? Will he take from me the Mistresly management, which I had not faultily discharged? Will he set a servant over me, with licence to insult me? Will he, as he has not a sister, permit his cousins Montague, or would either of those Ladies accept of a permission, to insult and tyrannize over me?—It cannot be.—Why then, think I often, do you tempt me, O my cruel friends, to try the difference?

And then has the secret pleasure intruded itself, to be able to reclaim such a man to the paths of virtue and honour: To be a secondary means, if I were to be his, of saving him, and preventing the mischiefs so enterprising a creature might otherwise be guilty of, if he be such a one.

In these lights when I have thought of him (and that as a man of sense he will sooner see his errors, than an­other), [Page 270] I own to you, that I have had some difficulty to avoid taking the path they so violently endeavour to make me shun: And all that command of my passions, which has been attributed to me, as my greatest praise, and, in so young a creature, as my distinction, has hardly been sufficient for me.

And let me add, that the favour of his relations (all but himself unexceptionable) has made a good deal of additional weight, thrown into the same scale.

But now, in his disfavour. When I have reflected upon the prohibition of my parents: The giddy ap­pearance, disgraceful to sex, that such a preference would have: That there is no manner of likelihood, inflam'd by the rencounter, and upheld by art and ambition on my brother's side, that ever the animosity will be got over: That I must therefore be at per­petual variance with all my own family: Must go to him, and to his, as an obliged, and half-fortun'd person: That his aversion to them all, is as strong, as theirs to him; That his whole family are hated for his sake; they hating ours in return: That he has a very im­moral character as to our sex: That knowing this, it is a high degree of impurity, to think of joining in wedlock with such a man: That he is young, un­broken, his passions unsubdued: That he is violent in his temper; yet artful: I am afraid vindictive too: That such an husband might unsettle me in all my own principles, and hazard my future hopes: That his own relations, two excellent aunts, and an uncle, from whom he has such large expectations, have no influence upon him: That what tolerable qualities he has, are sounded more in pride than in virtue: That allowing, as he does, the excellency of Moral Precepts, and believing the doctrine of future Rewards and Punishments, he can live as if he despis'd the one, and defy'd the other: The probability that the taint arising from such free principles, may go down into the manners of po­sterity: [Page 271] That I knowing these things, and the im­portance of them, should be more inexcusable than one who knows them not; since an error against judgment, is worse, infinitely worse, than an error in judgment:—Reflecting upon these things, I cannot help conjuring you, my dear, to pray with me, and to pray for me, that I may not be push'd upon such indiscreet measures, as will render me inexcusable to myself: For that is the test, after all; the world's opi­nion ought to be but a secondary consideration.

I have said, in his praise, that he is extremely ready to own his errors: But I have sometimes made a great drawback upon this article, in his disfavour; having been ready to apprehend, that this ingenuity may pos­sibly be attributable to two causes, neither of them, by any means, creditable to him. The one, that his vices are so much his masters, that he attempts not to con­quer them; the other, that he may think it policy, to give up one half of his character, to save the other, when the whole may be blameable: By this means, silencing by acknowlegement the objections he can­not answer; which may give him the praise of in­genuousness, when he can obtain no other; and when the challeng'd proof might bring out, upon dis­cussion, other evils. These, you'll allow, are severe constructions; but every-thing his enemies say of him cannot be false.

I will proceed by and by.

SOMETIMES we have both thought him one of the most undesigning merely witty men we ever knew; at other times one of the deepest creatures we ever convers'd with. So that, when in one visit, we have imagin'd we fathom'd him, in the next, he has made us ready to give him up as impenetrable. This, my dear, is to be put among the shades in his character.—Yet, upon the whole, you have been so far of his [Page 272] party, that you have contested, that his principal fault is over-frankness, and too much regardlesness of ap­pearances, and that he is too giddy to be very artful: You would have it, that at the time he says any thing good, he means what he speaks; That his variableness and levity are constitutional, owing to sound health, and to a soul and body, that was your observation, fitted for, and pleased with, each other. And hence you concluded, that could this consentaneousness, as you call'd it, of corporal and animal faculties, be pointed by discretion; that is to say, could his vivacity be confined within the pale of but moral obligations; he would be far from being rejectible as a companion for life.

But I used then to say, and I still am of opinion, that he wants a heart: And if he does, he wants every-thing. A wrong head may be convinc'd, may have a right turn given it: But who is able to give a heart, if a heart be wanting? Divine Grace, work­ing a miracle, or next to a miracle, can only change a bad heart. Should not one fly the man who is but suspected of such a one?—What, O what, do parents do, when they precipitate a child, and make her think better than she would otherwise think of a man of an indifferent character, in order to avoid another that is odious to her!

I have said, that I think him vindictive: Upon my word, I have sometimes doubted, whether his per­severance in his addresses to me, has not been the more obstinate, since he has found himself so dis­agreeable to my friends. From that time, I verily think he has been more fervent in them; yet courts them not; but sets them at defiance. For this, in­deed, he pleads disinterestedness (I am sure he cannot politeness) and the more plausibly, as he is apprized of the ability they have to make it worth his while to court them. 'Tis true, he has declared, and with too much reason, or there would be no enduring [Page 273] him, that the lowest submissions on his part, would not be accepted; and to oblige me, has offered to seek a reconciliation with them, if I would give him hope of success. As to his behaviour at church, the Sunday before last, I lay no stress upon that, because I doubt there was too much outward pride in his in­tentional humility, or Shorey, who is not his enemy, could not have mistaken it.

I do not think him so deeply learn'd in human Na­ture, or in Ethics, as some have thought him. Don't you remember how he stared, at the following trite observations, which every moralist could have furnish'd him with? Complaining, as he did, in a half-menacing strain, of the obloquies raised against him— ‘'That if he were innocent, he should despise the obloquy: If not, revenge would not wipe off his guilt.'’ ‘'That nobody ever thought of turning a sword into a sponge!'’ ‘'That it was in his own power, by reformation of an error laid to his charge by an enemy, to make that enemy one of his best friends; and (which was the noblest revenge in the world) against his will; since an enemy would not wish him to be without the faults he taxed him with.'’

But the intention, he said, was the wound.

How so, I ask'd him, when That cannot wound without the application? ‘'That the adversary only held the sword: He himself pointed it to his breast?—And why should he resent mortally that malice, which he might be the better for, as long as he lived?'’ —What could be the reading he has been said to be master of, to wonder, as he did, at these observations?

But, indeed, he must take pleasure in revenge; and yet holds others to be inexcusable for the same fault.—He is not, however, the only one who can see how truly blameable those errors are in another, which they hardly think such in themselves.

From these considerations; From these over-ba­lances; [Page 274] it was, that I said, in a former, that I would not be in Love with this man for the world: And it was going further than prudence would warrant, when I was for compounding with you, by the words conditional liking; which you so humorously railly.

Well but, methinks you say, what is all this to the purpose? This is still but reasoning: But, if you are in Love, you are: And Love, like the vapours, is the deeper rooted for having no sufficient cause assign­able for its hold. And so you call upon me again, to have no reserves, and so-forth.

Why then, my dear, if you will have it, I think, that, with all his preponderating faults, I like him bet­ter than I ever thought I should like him; and, those faults consider'd, better perhaps than I ought to like him. And, I believe, it is possible for the persecution I labour under, to induce me to like him still more:—Especially while I can recollect to his advantage our last interview, and as every day produces stronger in­stances of tyranny, I will call it, on the other side.—In a word, I will frankly own (since you cannot think any thing I say too explicite), that were he now but a moral man, I would prefer him to all the men I ever saw.

So that This is but conditional liking still, you'll say.—Nor, I hope, is it more. I never was in Love; and whether This be it, or not, I must submit to you:—But will venture to think it, if it be, no such mighty monarch, no such unconquerable power, as I have heard it represented; and it must have met with greater encouragements than I think I have given it, to be so irresistible.—Since I am persuaded, that I could yet, without a throb, most willingly give up the one man to get rid of the other.

But now to be a little more serious with you: If, my dear, my particularly unhappy situation had driven (or led me, if you please,) into a liking of the man; and if that liking had, in your opinion, inclined me [Page 275] to the other L, should you, whose mind is susceptible of the most friendly impressions; who have such high notions of the delicacy of sex; and who actually do en­ter so deeply into the distresses of one you love; should you have pushed so far that unhappy friend on so very nice a subject?—Especially, when I aimed not (as you could prove by fifty instances, it seems), to guard against being found out. Had you raillied me by word of mouth in the manner you do, it might have been more in character; especially, if your friend's distresses had been surmounted; and if she had af­fected Prudish airs in revolving the subject: But to sit down to write it, as methinks I see you, with a gladden'd eye, and with all the archness of exultation—Indeed my dear (and I take notice of it, rather for the sake of your own generosity, than for my sake; for, as I have said, I love your raillery) it is not so very pretty; the delicacy of the subject, and the delicacy of your own mind, consider'd.

I lay down my pen, here, that you may consider of it a little, if you please.

LETTER XLI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

HOW willingly would my dear mamma shew kindness to me, were she permitted! None of this persecution should I labour under, I am sure, if that regard were paid to her prudence and fine under­standing, which they so well deserve. Whether owe­ing to her, or to my aunt, or to both, that a new trial was to be made upon me, I cannot tell; but this morning her Shorey deliver'd into my hand the fol­lowing condescending letter.

Think for me, my dearest friend, how I must be affected by this letter; the contents of it so surpri­singly terrifying, yet so sweetly urged!—O why, cry'd I to myself, am I obliged to undergo this severe conflict between a command that I cannot obey, and language so condescendingly moving!—Could I have been sure of being struck dead at the altar before the ceremony had given the man I hate a title to my vows, I think I could have submitted to have been led to it. But to think of living with, and living for, a man one cannot abide, what a sad thing is that!—

And then, how could the glare of habit and orna­ment be supposed any inducement to one, who has always held, that the principal view of a good wife in the adorning of her person, ought to be, to preserve the affection of her husband, and to do credit to his choice; and that she should be even fearful of attract­ing the eyes of others?—In this view, must not the very richness of the patterns add to my disgusts?—Great encouragement indeed, to think of adorning one's-self to be the wife of Mr. Solmes!—

Upon the whole, it was not possible for me to go down upon the prescrib'd condition. Do you think it was?—And to write, if my letter would have been read, what could I write that would be admitted, and after what I had written and said to so little effect? I walked backward and forward: I threw down with disdain the patterns: Now to my closet retir'd I; then, quitting it, now threw I myself upon the Settee; now [Page 283] upon this chair; now upon that; and then into one window, then into another—I knew not what to do!—And while I was in this suspense, having again taken up the letter to re-peruse it, Betty came in, reminding me, by order, That my papa and mamma waited for me in my papa's study.

Tell my mamma, said I, that I beg the favour of seeing her here for one moment; or to permit me to attend her any where by herself.

I listen'd at the stair's-head—You see, my dear, how it is, cry'd my father, very angrily: All your condescension (as your indulgence heretofore) is thrown away. You blame your son's violence, as you call it, [I had some pleasure in hearing this] but nothing else will do with her. You shall not see her alone. Is my presence an exception to the bold creature?

Tell her, said my mamma to Betty, she knows up­on what terms she may come down to us. Nor will I see her upon any other.

The maid brought me this answer. I had recourse to my pen and ink; but I trembled so, that I could not write, nor knew I what to say had I had steadier fingers. At last Betty brought me these lines from my papa.

If this resolution be adhered to, then will my papa never see me more!—For I will never be That Solmes's wife—I will die first!—

LETTER XLII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

AN angry dialogue, a scolding-bout rather, has passed between my sister and me. Did you think I could scold, my dear?

She was sent up to me, upon my refusal to see Mr. Solmes—Let loose upon me, I think!—No intention, on their parts, to conciliate! I am to be given up to my brother and her I suppose, by general consent.

Every thing she said against me, which carried force with it, I will do justice to. As I ask for your approbation or disapprobation of my conduct, upon the facts I lay before you, I should think it the sign of a very bad cause, if I endeavoured to mislead my judge.

She began with representing to me the danger I had been in, had my father come up, as he would have done, had he not been hindered, by Mr. Solmes, among the rest. She reflected upon my good Mrs. Norton, as if she encouraged me in my perverseness. She ridiculed me for my supposed esteem for Love­lace. Was surprised that the witty, the prudent, nay, the dutiful and pi-ous (so she sneeringly pronounced the word) Clarissa Harlowe, should be so strangely fond of a profligate man, that her parents were forced to lock her up, to keep her from running into his arms. Let me ask you, my dear, said she, how you now keep your account of the disposition of your time? How many hours in the twenty-four do you devote to your Needle? How many to your Prayers? How many to Letter-writing? And how many to Love?—I doubt, I doubt, my little dear, was her arch expression, The latter article is like Aaron's rod, and swallows up all the rest!—Tell me; is it not so?

To these I answered, That it was a double mor­tification to me to owe my safety from my papa's in­dignation [Page 287] to a man I could never thank for any thing.—I vindicated the good Mrs. Norton with a warmth that her merit required from me.—With equal warmth I resented her unsisterly reflections upon me on Mr. Lovelace's account. As to the disposition of my time, in the twenty-four hours, I told her it would better have become her to pity a sister in di­stress, than to exult over her—Especially, when I could too justly attribute to the disposition of some of her wakeful hours no small part of that distress.

She raved extremely at this last hint: But reminded me of the gentle treatment of all my friends, my mamma's particularly, before it came to This: She said, that I had discovered a spirit they never had ex­pected: That, if they had thought me such a cham­pioness, they would hardly have ventured to engage with me: But that now, the short and the long was, that the matter had gone too far to be given up: That now it was a contention between duty and wil­fulness; Whether a parent's authority was to yield to a daughter's obstinacy, or the contrary: That I must therefore bend or break, that was all, child.

I told her, that I wished the subject were of such a nature, that I could return her pleasantry with equal lightness of heart: But that, if Mr. Solmes had such merit in every-body's eye, in hers particularly, why might he not be a brother to me, rather than a husband?

O child, she thought I was as pleasant to the full as she was: She began to have some hopes of me now. But did I think she would rob her sister of her humble servant? Had he first addressed himself to me, said she, something might have been said: But to take my younger sister's refusal! No, no, child; it is not come to that neither! Besides, That would be to leave the door open in your heart for you know who, child; and we would fain bar him out, if possible. In short (and then she changed both her tone, and her looks), had I been as forward as somebody, to throw myself [Page 288] into the arms of one of the greatest profligates in Eng­land, who had endeavoured to support his claim to me thro' the blood of my brother, then might all my family join together to save me from such a wretch, and to marry me as fast as they could, to some wor­thy gentleman, who might oppor- tune-ly offer him­self. And now, Clary, all's out, and make the most of it.

Did not this deserve a severe return? Do, say it did, to justify my reply.—Alas! for my poor sister! said I.—The man was not always so great a profligate. How true is the observation, That unrequited love turns to deepest hate!

I thought she would have beat me.—But I pro­ceeded—I have heard often of my brother's danger, and my brother's murderer. When so little ceremony is made with me, why should I not speak out?—Did he not seek to kill the other, if he could have done it? Would he have given him his life, had it been in his power?—The aggressor should not complain.—And, as to oppor- tune offers, would to heaven some one had offer'd oppor- tune-ly to somebody. It is not my fault, Bella, the oppor- tune gentleman don't come!

Could you, my dear, have shewn more spirit? I expected to feel the weight of her hand. She did come up to me, with it held up: Then, speechless with passion, ran down half way of the stairs, and then up again.

When she could speak—God give her patience with me!

Amen, said I: But you see, Bella, how ill you bear the retort you provoke. Will you forgive me; and let me find a sister in you, as I am sorry, if you have reason to think me unsisterly in what I have said?

Then did she pour upon me, with greater violence; considering my gentleness as a triumph of temper over [Page 289] her. She was resolved, she said, to let every-body know how I took the wicked Lovelace's part against my brother.

I wish'd, I told her, I could make the plea for my-self, which she might for her-self: That my anger was more inexcusable than my judgment. But I pre­sumed she had some other view in coming to me, than she had hitherto acquainted me with. Let me, said I, but know (after all that has passed) if you have anything to propose that I can comply with; any thing that can make my only sister once more my friend?

I had before, upon her ridiculing me on my sup­posed character of meekness, said, that, altho' I wished to be thought meek, I would not be abject; altho' humble, not mean: And here, in a sneering way, she cautioned me on that head.

I replied, that her pleasantry was much more agree­able than her anger: But I wished she would let me know the end of a visit that had hitherto (between us) been so unsisterly?

She desired to be informed, in the name of every­body, was her word, what I was determined upon: And whether to comply or not?—One word for all: My friends were not to have patience with so perverse a creature, for ever.

This then I told her I would do: Absolutely break with the man they were all so determined against: Upon condition, however, that neither Mr. Solmes, nor any other, were urged to me with the force of a command.

And what was this, more than I had offered be­fore? What, but ringing my changes upon the same bells, and neither receding nor advancing one tittle?

If I knew what other proposals I could make, that would be acceptable to them all, and free me from the address of a man so disagreeable to me, I would make them. I had indeed before offered, never to marry without my father's consent—

[Page 290]She interrupted me, That was because I depended upon my whining tricks to bring my father and mo­ther to what I pleased.

A poor dependence! I said:—She knew those who would make that dependence vain—

And I should have brought them to my own beck, very probably, and my uncle Harlowe too, as also my aunt Hervey, had I not been forbidden their sight, and thereby hindered from playing my pug's tricks before them.

At least, Bella, said I, you have hinted to me to whom I am obliged, that my father and mother, and every-body else, treat me thus harshly. But surely you make them all very weak. Indifferent persons, judging of us two, from what you say, would either think me a very artful creature, or you a very spiteful one.

You are indeed a very artful one, for that matter, interrupted she in a passion: One of the artfullest I every knew! And then followed an accusation so low! so unsisterly!—That I next-to-bewitch'd people, by my insinuating address: That no-body could be va­lued or respected, but must stand like cyphers where­ever I came. How often, said she, have I and my brother been talking upon a subject, and had every­body's attention, till you came in, with your bewitch­ing meek pride, and humble significance; and then have we either been stopped by references to Miss Clarissa's opinion, forsooth; or been forced to stop ourselves, or must have talked on unattended to by every-body.

She paused. Dear Bella, proceed!—She indeed seemed only gathering breath.

And so I will, said she. Did you not bewitch my grandfather? Could any thing be pleasing to him, that you did not say or do? How did he use to hang, till he slabber'd again, poor doting old man! on your silver tongue! Yet what did you say, that we could not have said? What did you do, that we did not endeavour to do?—And what was all this for? His [Page 291] Last Will shewed what effect your smooth obligingness had upon him!—To leave the acquired part of his estate from the next heirs, his own sons, to a grand­child; to his youngest grandchild! a daughter too!—To leave the family-pictures from his sons to you, because you could tiddle about them, and, tho' you now neglect their examples, could wipe and clean them with your dainty hands! The family-plate too, in such quantities, of two or three generations stand­ing, must not be changed, because his precious child ^(a), humouring his old fal-lal taste, admired it, to make it all her own.

This was too low too move me: O my poor sister! said I: Not to be able, or at least willing, to distin­guish between art and nature! If I did oblige, I was happy in it: I looked for no further reward: My mind is above art, from the dirty motives you men­tion. I wish with all my heart my grandfather had not thus distinguished me: He saw my brother likely to be amply provided for out of the family, as well as in it: He desired that you might have the greater share of my papa's favour for it; and no doubt but you both will. You know, Bella, that the estate my grandfather bequeathed me was not half the real estate he left.

What's all that to an estate in possession, and left you with such distinctions, as gave you a reputation of greater value than the estate itself?

Hence my misfortune, Bella, in your Envy, I doubt! But have I not given up that possession in the best manner I could—

Yes, interrupting me, she hated me for that best manner. Specious little witch! she called me: Your best manner, so full of art and design, had never been seen thro', if you, with your blandishing ways, had not been put out of sight, and reduced to positive decla­rations!—Hindered from playing your little, whining [Page 292] tricks; curling, like a serpent, about your mamma; and making her cry to deny you any thing your little obstinate heart was set upon!

Obstinate heart, Bella!

Yes, obstinate heart! For did you ever give up any thing? Had you not the art to make them think all was right you asked, tho' my brother and I were fre­quently refused favours of no greater import?

I knew not, Bella, that I ever asked any thing un­fit to be granted. I seldom asked favours for myself, but for others.

I was a reflecting creature for this!

All you speak of, Bella, was a long time ago. I cannot go so far back into our childish follies. Little did I think of how long standing this your late-shewn antipathy is.

I was a reflecter again! Such a saucy meekness; such a best manner; and such venom in words!—O Clary! Clary! Thou wert always a two-faced girl!

No-body thought I had two faces, when I gave up All into my papa's management; taking from his bounty, as before, all my little pocket-money, with­out a shilling addition to my stipend, or desiring it—

Yes, cunning creature!—And that was another of your fetches!—For did it not engage my fond papa (as no doubt you thought it would) to tell you, that, since you had done so grateful and dutiful a thing, he would keep intire, for your use, all the produce of the estate left you, and be but your steward in it; and that you should be intitled to the same allowances as before: Another of your hook-in's, Clary!—So that all your extravagancies have been supported gratis.

My extravagancies, Bella!—But did my papa ever give me any-thing he did not give you?

Yes, indeed; I got more by that means, than I should have had the conscience to ask. But I have still the greater part to shew! But you! What have you to shew?—I dare to say, not fifty pieces in the world!

[Page 293]Indeed I have not!

I believe you!—Your mamma Norton, I suppose—But mum for that!

Unworthy Bella!—The good woman, altho' low in circumstance, is great in mind! Much greater than those who would impute meanness to a soul incapable of it.

What then have you done with the sums given you from infancy to squander?—Let me ask you (affect­ing archness), Has, has, has, Lovelace, has your Rake, put it out at interest for you?

O that my sister would not make me blush for her! It is, however, out at interest!—And I hope it will bring me interest upon interest!—Better than to lie rusting in my cabinet, as yours does.

She understood me, she said. Were I a man, she should suppose I was aiming to carry the County. Popularity! A croud to follow me with their blessings, when I went to and from church, and no-body else to be regarded, were agreeable things! House-top proclamations! I hid not my light under a bushel, she would say that for me. But was it not a little hard upon me, to be kept from blazing on a Sunday?—And to be hindered from my charitable ostentations?

This, indeed, Bella, is cruel in you, who have so largely contributed to my confinement.—But go on. You'll be out of breath by-and-by. I cannot wish to be able to return this usage.— Poor Bella! And I believe I smiled a little too contemptuously for a sister.

None of my saucy contempts (rising in her voice): None of my poor Bella's, with that air of superiority in a younger sister!

Well then, rich Bella! courtesying—that will please you better—And it is due likewise to the hoards you boast of.

Look-ye, Clary, holding up her hand, if you are not a little more abject in your meekness, a little more mean in your humility, and tre [...]t me with the respect due to an elder sister—you shall find—

[Page 294]Not that you will treat me worse than you have done, Bella!—That cannot be; unless you were to let fall your uplifted hand upon me—And that would less become you to do, than me to bear.

Good, meek creature!—But you were upon your overtures just now!—I shall surprize every-body by tarrying so long. They will think some good may be done with you—And supper will be ready.

A tear would stray down my cheek—How happy have I been, said I, sighing, in the supper-time conver­sations, with all my dear friends in my eye, round the hospitable board!

I met only with insult for this—Bella has not a feeling heart: The highest joy in this life she is not capable of: But then she saves herself many griefs, by her impenetrableness.—Yet, for ten times the pain that such a sensibility is attended with, would I not part with the pleasure it brings with it.

She asked me, upon my turning from her, If she should say any thing below of my compliances?

You may say, That I will do every-thing they would have me do, if they will free me from Mr. Solmes's address.

This is all you desire at present, creeper-on! (What words she has!) But will not t'other man flame out, and roar most horribly, upon a prey's being snatch'd from his paws, that he thought himself sure of?

I must let you talk in your own way, or we shall never come to a point. I shall not matter his roar­ing, as you call it: I will promise him, that, if I ever marry any other man, it shall not be till he is mar­ried. And if he be not satisfied with such a conde­scension as this, I shall think he ought: And I will give any assurances, that I will neither correspond with him, nor see him. Surely this will do.

But I suppose then you will have no objection to see and converse, on a civil foot, with Mr. Solmes—as your papa's friend, or so?

[Page 295]No! I must be permitted to retire to my apartment whenever he comes: I would no more converse with the one, than correspond with the other: That would be to make Mr. Lovelace guilty of some rashness, on a belief, that I broke with him, to have Mr. Solmes.

And so, that wicked wretch is to be allowed such a controul over you, that you are not to be civil to your papa's friends, at his own house, for fear of in­censing him!—When this comes to be represented, be so good as to tell me, what it is you expect from it?

Every-thing, I said, or nothing, as she was pleased to represent it.—Be so good as to give it your interest, Bella: And say farther, That I will by any means I can, in the Law, or otherwise, make over to my papa, to my uncles, or even to my brother, all I am in­titled to by my grandfather's will, as a security for the performance of my promises. And as I shall have no reason to expect any favour from my papa, if I break them, I shall not be worth any-body's having. And further still, unkindly as my brother has used me, I will go down to Scotland privately, as his house­keeper (I now see I may be spared here), if he will promise to treat me no worse than he would do an hired one.—Or I will go to Florence, to my cousin Morden, if his stay in Italy will admit of it: And, in either case, it may be given out, that I am gone to the other; or to the world's end: I care not whither it is said I am gone, or do go.

Let me ask you, child, if you will give your pretty proposal in writing?

Yes, with all my heart. And I stept to my clo­set, and wrote to the purpose I have mentioned; and, moreover, a few lines to my brother with it; ex­pressing ‘'my concern for having offended him; be­seeching him to support with his interest the accom­panying proposal; disdaining subterfuge and art; re­ferring to him to draw up a writing to bind me to the observance of my promises; declaring, that what [Page 296] the law would not establish, my resolution should.—I told him, That he could do more than any-body to reconcile my father and mother to me: And I should be infinitely obliged to him, if he would let me owe this favour to his brotherly mediation.'’

And how do you think Bella employed herself while I was writing?—Why, playing gently upon my harpsichord: And humming to it, to shew her uncon­cernedness.

When I approached her with what I had written, the cruel creature arose with an air of levity—Why, love, you have not written already!—You have, I protest!—O what a ready penwoman!—And may I read it?

If you please, Bella.

She read it; and burst into an affected laugh: How wise-ones may be taken in!—Then you did not know, that I was jesting with you all this time!—And so you would have me carry down this pretty piece of non­sense?

Don't let me be surprized at your seeming unsisterli­ness, Bella. I hope it is but seeming. There can be no wit in such jesting as this.

The folly of the creature! How natural it is for people, when they set their hearts upon any-thing, to think every-body must see with their eyes!—Pray, dear child, what becomes of your papa's authority here?—Who stoops here, the parent, or the child?—How does this square with the engagements actually agreed upon between your Papa and Mr. Solmes? What security, that your Rake will not follow you to the world's-end?—Pr'ythee, pr'ythee, take it back; and put it to thy love-sick heart, and never think I will be laughed at for being taken-in by thy whining nonsense. I know thee better, my dear.—And, with another spiteful laugh, she flung it on my toilette; and away she went.—Contempts for contempts, as she passed!—That's for your poor Bella's!

[Page 297]Nevertheless, I inclosed what I had written, in a few lines directed to my brother: As modestly as I could, accounting, from my sister's behaviour, for sending it down to him; lest she, having, in her pas­sion, mistaken me, as I said, should set what I had written in a worse light than, as I apprehended, it deserved to appear in. The following is the answer I received to it, delivered to me just as I was going to bed. His passion would not let him stay till morning.

There's a brother!—There's flaming duty to a fa­ther, and mother, and uncles!—But he sees himself valued, and made of consequence; and he gives him­self airs accordingly!—

LETTER XLIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

MY aunt Hervey lay here last night, and is but just gone from me. She came up to me with my sister. They would not trust my aunt without this ill-natur'd witness. When she enter'd my cham­ber, I told her, That this visit was a high favour to a poor prisoner, in her hard confinement. I kiss'd her hand. She, kindly saluting me, said, Why this distance to your aunt, my dear, who loves you so well?

She own'd, That she came to expostulate with me, for the peace sake of the family: For that she could not believe it possible, if I did not conceive myself un­kindly treated, that I, who had ever shewn such a sweetness of temper, as well as manners, should be thus resolute, in a point so very near to my father, and all my friends. My mamma and she were both willing to impute my resolution to the manner I had been begun with; and to my supposing, that my bro­ther had originally more of a hand in the proposals made by Mr. Solmes, than my father, or other friends. And fain would she have furnish'd me with an excuse to come off of my opposition; Bella all the while humming a tune, and opening this book and that, without meaning; but saying nothing. After having shewed me, that my opposition could not be of signi­fication, [Page 299] my father's honour being engaged, she con­cluded with inforcing upon me my duty, in stronger terms than I believe she would have done, the circum­stances of the case consider'd, had not my sister been present. It would but be repeating what I have so often mentioned, to give you the arguments that passed on both sides. So I will only recite what she was pleased to say, that carried with it the face of newness.

When she found me inflexible, as she was pleased to call it, she said—For her part, she could not but say, that if I were not to have either Mr. Solmes or Mr. Lovelace, and yet, to make my friends easy, must marry, she should not think amiss of Mr. Wyerley. What did I think of Mr. Wyerley?

Ay, Clary, put in my sister, what say you to Mr. Wyerley?

I saw thro' this immediately. It was said on pur­pose, I doubted not, to have an argument against me of absolute prepossession in Lovelace's favour: Since Mr. Wyerley every-where proclaims his value, even to veneration, for me; and is far less exception­able, both in person and mind, than Mr. Solmes: And I was willing to turn the tables, by trying how far Solme's terms might be dispens'd with; since the same terms could not be expected from Mr. Wyerley?

I therefore desired to know, Whether my answer, if it should be in favour of Mr. Wyerley, would re­lease me from Mr. Solmes?—For I own'd, that I had not the aversion to him, that I had to the other.

Nay, she had no commission to propose such a thing—She only knew, that my papa and mamma would not be easy till Mr. Lovelace's hopes were in­tirely defeated.

Cunning creature! said my sister.—And this, and her joining in the question-before, confirm'd me, that it was a designed snare for me.

Don't YOU, dear Madam, said I, put questions that can answer no end, but to support my brother's [Page 300] schemes against me.—But are there any hopes of an end to my sufferings and disgrace, without having this hated man imposed upon me? Will not what I have offer'd be accepted? I am sure it ought: I will ven­ture to say That.

Why, niece, if there be not any such hopes, I pre­sume you don't think yourself absolv'd from the duty due from a child to her parents?

Yes, said my sister, I do not doubt but it is Miss Clary's aim, if she does not fly to her Lovelace, to get her estate into her own hands, and go to live at The Grove, in that independence upon which she builds all her perverseness. And, dear heart! my little love, how will you then blaze away! Your mamma Norton your oracle, with your Poor at your gates, mingling so proudly and so meanly with the rag­ged herd! Reflecting, by your ostentation, upon all the Ladies in the county, who do not as you do. This is known to be your scheme! And the Poor without-doors, and Lovelace within, with one hand building up a name, pulling it down with the other!—O what a charming scheme is this!—But let me tell you, my pretty little frighty one, that my papa's living Will shall controul my grandfather's dead one; and That estate will be disposed of as my fond grandfather would have disposed of it, had he lived to see such a change in his favourite. In a word, Miss, it will be kept out of your hands, till my papa sees you discreet enough to have the management of it, or till you can dutifully, by Law, tear it from him.

Fie, Miss Harlowe, said my aunt, this is not pretty to your sister.

O Madam, let her go on. This is nothing to what I have borne from Miss Harlowe. She is either commissioned to treat me ill by her envy, or by an higher authority, to which I must submit.—As to revoking the estate, what hinders, if I pleased? I know my power; but have not the least thought of [Page 301] exerting it. Be pleased to let my papa know, that, whatever be the consequences to myself, were he to turn me out of doors (which I should rather he would, than to be confined and insulted as I am), and were I to be reduced to indigence and want, I would seek no resources, that should be contrary to his will.

For that matter, child, said my aunt, were you to marry, you must do as your husband will have you. If that husband be Mr. Lovelace, he will be glad of any opportunity of embroiling the families more. And let me tell you, niece, if he had the respect for you he pretends to have, he would not be upon such de­fiances as he is. He is known to be a very revenge­ful man; and were I you, Miss Clary, I should be afraid he would wreak upon me that vengeance, tho' I had not offended him, which he is continually threaten­ing to pour upon the family.

Mr. Lovelace's threaten'd vengeance is in return for threaten'd vengeance. It is not every-body will bear insult, as, of late, I have been forced to bear it.

O how my sister's face shone with passion!

But Mr. Lovelace, proceeded I, as I have said twenty and twenty times, would be quite out of the question, were I to be generously treated!

My sister said something with great vehemence: But only raising my voice, to be heard, without minding her, Pray, Madam, provokingly interrogated I, was he not known to have been as wild a man, when he was at first introduced into our family, as he now is said to be? Yet then, the common phrases of wild oats, and black oxen, and such-like, were qualifiers; and marriage, and the wise's discretion, were to perform wonders—But (turning to my sister) I find I have sai [...] too much.

O thou wicked reflecter!—And what made me ab­hor him, think you, but the proof of those villainous freedoms that ought to have had the same effect upon you, were you but half so good a creature as you pretend to be?

[Page 302] Proof, did you say, Bella! I thought you had not proof?—But you know best. [Was not this very spite­ful, my dear?]

Now, Clary, would I give a thousand pounds to know all that is in thy little rancorous and reflecting heart, at this moment.

I might let you know for a much less sum, and not be afraid of being worse treated than I have been.

Well, young Ladies, I am sorry to see things run so high between you. You know, niece (to me), you had not been confined thus to your apartment, could your mamma by condescensions, or your papa by authority, have been able to have done any thing with you. But how can you expect, when there must be a concession on one side, that it should be on theirs? If my Dolly, who has not the hundredth part of your understanding, were thus to set herself up in absolute contradiction to my will, in a point so material, I should not take it well of her—Indeed I should not.

I believe not, Madam: And if Miss Hervey had just such a brother, and just such a sister (you may look, Bella!)—and if both were to aggravate her parents, as my brother and sister do mine—Then, perhaps, you might use her as I am used: And if she hated the man you proposed to her, and with as much reason as I do Mr. Solmes—

[And loved a Rake and Libertine, Miss, as you do Lovelace, said my sister—]

Then might she (continued I, not minding her) beg to be excused from obeying. But yet if she did, and would give you the most solemn assurances, and security besides, that she never would have the man you disliked, against your consent—I dare say, Miss Hervey's father and mother would sit down satisfy'd, and not endeavour to force her inclinations.

So!—said my sister, with uplifted hands, father and mother now come in for their share!

But if, child, reply'd my aunt, I knew she loved [Page 303] a Rake, and suspected, that she sought only to gain time, in order to wire-draw me into a consent—

I beg pardon, Madam, for interrupting you; but if Miss Hervey could obtain your consent, what fur­ther would be to be said?

True, child; but she never should.

Then, Madam, it never would be.

That I doubt, niece.

If you do, Madam, can you think confinement and ill usage is the way to prevent the apprehended rashness?

My dear, this sort of intimation would make one but too apprehensive, that there is no trusting to yourself, when one knows your inclination.

That apprehension, Madam, seems to have been conceived before this intimation was made, or the least cause for it given. Why else the disgraceful confine­ment I have been laid under?—Let me venture to say, that my sufferings are rather owing to designed terror, knowing there were too good grounds for my opposition, than doubt of my conduct; for, when they were inflicted upon me first, I had given no cause of doubt; nor should there now be room for any, if my discretion might be trusted to.

My aunt, after a little hesitation, said, But, con­sider, my dear, what confusion will be perpetuated in your family, if you marry this hated Lovelace?

And, let it be considered, what misery to me, Ma­dam, if I marry that hated Solmes?

Many a young creature has thought she could not love a man, with whom she has afterwards been very happy. Few women, child, marry their first loves.

That may be the reason there are so few happy marriages.

But there are few first-impressions fit to be encou­raged.

I am afraid so too, Madam. I have a very indif­ferent opinion of light and first impressions. But, as I have often said, all I wish for is, to have leave to live single.

[Page 304]Indeed you must not, Miss. Your father and mo­ther will be unhappy till they see you marry'd, and out of Lovelace's reach.—I am told, that you propose to condition with him (so far are matters gone between you), never to have any man, if you have not him.

I know no better way to prevent mischief on all sides, I freely own it—And there is not, if he be out of the question, another man in the world, I can think favourably of.—Nevertheless, I would give all I have in the world, that he were marry'd to some other person—Indeed I would, Bella, for all you put on that smile of incredulity.

May be so, Clary: But I will smile for all that.

If he be out of the question! repeated my aunt—So, Miss Clary, I see how it is.—I will go down.—(Miss Harlowe, shall I follow you?)—And I will endeavour to persuade your papa to let my sister her­self come up: And a happier event may then result.—

Depend upon it, Madam, said my sister, This will be the case: My mamma and she will be both in tears; but with this different effect; My mamma will come down soften'd, and cut to the heart; but will leave her favourite harden'd, from the advantages she will think she has over my mamma's tenderness.—Why, Madam, it was for this very reason the girl is not admitted into her presence.

Thus she run on, as she went down-stairs.

LETTER XLIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

MY heart fluttered with the hope and the fear of seeing my mamma, and with the shame and the grief of having given her so much uneasiness. But it needed not: She was not permitted to come. But my aunt was so good as to return; yet not without my sister: And, taking my hand, made me sit down by her.

[Page 305]She came, she must own, officiously, she said, this once more; tho' against the opinion of my father: But knowing, and dreading, the consequence of my opposition, she could not but come.

She then set forth to me, my friends expectations from me; Mr. Solmes's riches (three times as rich he came out to be as any-body had thought him); the set­tlements proposed; Mr. Lovelace's bad character; their aversion to him; all in a very strong light; but not a stronger, than my mamma had before placed them in. My mamma, surely, could not have given the particulars of what had passed between herself and me: If she had, my aunt would not have repeated many of the same sentiments, as you will find she did, that had been still more strongly urged, without ef­fect, by her venerable sister.

She said, it would break the heart of my father to have it imagin'd, that he had not a power over his child; and that, as he thought, for my own good: A child too, whom they always had doated upon!—Dearest, dearest Miss, concluded she, clasping her fingers, with the most condescending earnestness, let me beg of you for my sake, for your own sake, for a hundred sakes, to get over this averseness, and give up your prejudices, and make every-one happy and easy once more.—I would kneel to you, my dearest niece—Nay, I will kneel to you!—

And down she dropp'd, and I with her, kneeling to her, and beseeching her not to kneel; clasping my arms about her, and bathing her worthy bosom with my tears!

Oh rise! rise! my beloved aunt, said I: You cut me to the heart with this condescending goodness.

Say then, my dearest niece, say then, that you will oblige all your friends! If you love us, I beseech you do!

How can I promise what I can sooner choose to die than to perform!—

[Page 306]Say then, my dear, you'll consider of it. Say you will but reason with yourself. Give us but hopes. Don't let me intreat, and thus intreat, in vain. For still she kneeled, and I by her.

What a hard case is mine!—Could I but doubt, I know I could conquer.—That which is an inducement to my friends, is none at all to me!—How often, my dearest aunt, must I repeat the same thing!—Let me but be single—Cannot I live single? Let me be sent, as I have proposed, to Scotland, to Florence; any-whither: Let me be sent a slave to the Indies; any-whither: Any of these I will consent to. But I cannot, cannot think of giving my vows to a man I cannot endure!—

Well then rising; (Bella silently, with uplifted hands, reproaching my supposed perverseness) I see nothing can prevail with you to oblige us.

What can I do, my dearest aunt Hervey? What can I do? Were I capable of giving a hope I meant not to inlarge, then could I say, I would consider of your kind advice. But I would rather be thought per­verse than insincere. Is there, however, no medium? Can nothing be thought of? Will nothing do, but to have a man who is the more disgustful to me, because he is unjust in the very articles he offers?

Who now, Clary, said my sister, do you reflect upon? Consider That.

Make not invidious applications of what I say, Bella. It may not be look'd upon in the same light by every one. The giver and the accepter are prin­cipally answerable, in an unjust donation. While I think of it in this light, I should be inexcusable to be the latter. But why do I enter upon a sup­position of this nature? My heart, as I have often, often said, recoils at the thoughts of the man, in every light.—Whose father, but mine, agrees upon articles, where there is no prospect of a liking? Where the direct contrary is avow'd, all along avow'd, with­out [Page 307] the least variation, or shadow of a change of sen­timent?—But it is not my father's doing originally. O my cruel, cruel brother, to cause a measure to be forced upon me, which he would not behave tolerably under, were the like to be offer'd to him!

The girl is got into her altitudes, aunt Hervey, said my sister. You see, Madam, she spares no-body. Be pleased to let her know what she has to trust to. Nothing is to be done with her. Pray, Madam, pronounce her doom.

My aunt retir'd to the window, weeping, with my sister in her hand: I cannot, indeed I cannot, Miss Harlowe, said she, softly (but yet I heard every word she said): There is great hardship in her case. She is a noble child, after all. What pity things are gone so far! But Mr. Solmes ought to be told to desist.

O Madam, said my sister, in a kind of loud whis­per, are you caught too by the little Syren?—My mamma did well not to come up!—I question whe­ther my papa himself, after his first indignation, would not be turn'd round by her. Nobody but my bro­ther can do any-thing with her, I am sure.

Don't think of your brother's coming up, said my aunt, still in a low voice—He is too furious by much. I see no obstinacy, no perverseness in her manner! If your brother comes, I will not be answerable for the consequences: For I thought twice or thrice she would have gone into fits.

O Madam, she has a strong heart!—And you see there is no prevailing upon her, tho' you were upon your knees to her.

My sister left my aunt musing at the window, with her back towards us; and took that oppor­tunity to insult me still more barbarously: For, step­ping to my closet, she took up the patterns which my mamma had sent me up, and bringing them to me, she spread them upon the chair by me; and, of­fering one, and then another, upon her sleeve and [Page 308] shoulder, Thus she ran on, with great seeming tran­quillity, but whisperingly, that my aunt might not hear her. This, Clary, is a pretty pattern enough: But This is quite charming! I would advise you to make your appearance in it. And This, were I you, should be my wedding night-gown—and This my second dress'd suit! Won't you give orders, love, to have your grandmother's jewels new set?—Or will you think to shew away in the new ones that Mr. Solmes intends to present to you? He talks of laying out two or three thousand pounds in presents, child! Dear heart!—How gorgeously will you be array'd!—What! silent, my dear, mamma Norton's sweet dear! What! silent still?—But, Clary, won't you have a Velvet suit? It would cut a great figure in a country church, you know: And the weather may bear it for a month yet to come. Crimson Velvet, suppose! Such a fine complection as yours, how would it be set off by it! What an agreeable blush would it give you!—High-ho! (mocking me; for I sighed to be thus fooled with): And do you sigh, love?—Well then, as it will be a solemn wedding, what think you of black Velvet, child?—Silent still, Clary!—Black Velvet, so fair as you are, with those charming eyes, gleaming thro' a wintry cloud, like an April Sun!—Does not Lovelace tell you they are charming eyes!—How lovely will you appear to every one!—What! silent still, love!—But about your laces, Clary!—

She would have gone on still further, had not my aunt advanced towards us, wiping her eyes—What! whispering, Ladies! You seem so easy and so pleas'd, Miss Harlowe, with your private conference, that I hope I shall carry down good news.

I am only giving her my opinion of her patterns, here.—Unask'd indeed.—But she seems, by her silence, to approve of my judgment.

O Bella! said I, that Mr. Lovelace had not taken you at your word!—You had before now been exer­cising [Page 309] your judgment on your own account: And I had been happy, as well as you!—Was it my fault, I pray you, that it was not so?—O how she rav'd!

To be so ready to give, Bella, and so loth to take, is not very fair in you.

The poor Bella descended to call names.

Why, sister, said I, you are as angry, as if there were more in the hint, than possibly might be de­signed. My wish is sincere, for both our sakes!—for the whole family's sake!—And what (good now) is there in it?—Do not, do not, dear Bella, give me cause to suspect, that I have found a reason for your unsisterly behaviour to me; and which till now was wholly unaccountable from sister to sister—

Fie, fie, Miss Clary! said my aunt.

My sister was more and more outrageous.

O how much fitter, said I, to be a jest, than a jester!—But now, Bella, turn the glass to you, and see how poorly sits the robe upon your own shoulders, which you have been so unmercifully fixing upon mine!

Fie, fie, Miss Clary! repeated my aunt.

And fie, fie, likewise, good Madam, to Miss Har­lowe, you would say, were you to have heard her barbarous insults upon me!

Let us go, Madam, said my sister, with great violence; let us leave the creature to swell till she bursts with her own poison.—The last time I will ever come near her, in the mind I am in!

It is so easy a thing, return'd I, were I to be mean enough to follow an example that is so cen­sureable in the setter of it, to vanquish such a teazing spirit as yours, with its own blunt weapons, that I am amaz'd you will provoke me!—Yet, Bella, since you will go (for she had hurry'd to the door), for­give me: I do you. And you have a double reason to do so, both from eldership, and the offence so stu­diously given to one in affliction.—But may you be happy, tho' I never shall!—May you never have half [Page 310] the trials I have had! Be this your comfort, that you cannot have a sister to treat you, as you have treated me! And so God bless you!

O thou art a—And down she flung without say­ing what.

Permit me, Madam, said I to my aunt, sinking down, and clasping her knees with my arms, to de­tain you one moment—Not to say any thing about my poor sister—She is her own punisher—Only to thank you for all your condescending goodness to me. I only beg of you, not to impute to obstinacy the immoveableness I have shewn to so tender a friend; and to forgive me every thing I have said or done amiss in your presence: For it has not proceeded from inward rancour to the poor Bella. But I will be bold to say, that neither She, nor my Brother, nor even my Father himself, knows what a heart they have set a bleeding.

I saw, to my comfort, what effect my sister's ab­sence wrought for me.—Rise, my noble-minded niece!—charming creature!—[Those were her kind words] kneel not to me!—Keep to yourself what I now say to you: I admire you more than I can ex­press—And if you can forbear claiming your estate, and can resolve to avoid Lovelace, you will continue to be the greatest miracle I ever knew at your years.—But I must hasten down after your sister.—These are my last words to you: Conform to your father's will, if you possibly can. How meritorious will it be in you to do so! Pray to God to enable you to con­form. You don't know what may be done.

Only, my dear aunt, one word, one word more (for she was going)—Speak up all you can for my dear Mrs. Norton. She is but low in the world: Should ill health overtake her, she may not know how to live without my mamma's favour. I shall have no means to help her; for I will want necessaries before I will assert my right: And I do assure you, [Page 311] she has said so many things to me in behalf of my re­signing to my father's will, that her arguments have not a little contributed to make me resolve to avoid the extremities, which nevertheless I pray to God they do not at last force me upon. And yet they deprive me of her advice, and think unjustly of one of the most excellent of women.

I am glad to hear you say This: And take This, and This, and This, my charming niece (for so she call'd me at every word almost); kissing me earnestly, and clasping her arms about my neck: And God protect you, and direct you! But you must submit: Indeed you must. Some one day in a month from This, is all the choice that is left you.

And this, I suppose, was the doom my sister call'd for; yet not worse than what had been pronounced upon me before.

She repeated these last sentences louder than the former. And remember, Miss, added she, it is your duty to comply—And down she went, leaving me with my heart full, and my eyes runing over.

The very repetition of this, fills me with almost equal concern, to that which I felt at the time. I can write no more; mistinesses of all the colours in the rainbow twinkling upon my deluged eye.