LETTER I. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

WHEN you reflect upon my unhappy ſitua⯑tion, which is attended with ſo many indelicate and even ſhocking circum⯑ſtances, ſome of which my pride will not let me think of with patience; all aggravated by the contents of my couſin's affecting letter; you will not wonder, that the vapouriſhneſs which has laid hold of my heart, ſhould riſe to my pen. And yet it would be more kind, more friendly in me, to conceal from you, who take ſuch a gene⯑rous intereſt in my concerns, that worſt part of my griefs, which communication and complaint cannot relieve.

But to whom can I unboſom myſelf but to you?—When the man who ought to be my protector, as he [2] has brought upon me all my diſtreſſes, adds to my ap⯑prehenſions; when I have not even a ſervant on whoſe fidelity I can rely, or to whom I can break my griefs as they ariſe; and when his bountiful temper and gay heart, attach every one to him; and I am but a cy⯑pher, to give him ſignificance, and myſelf pain?—Theſe griefs, therefore, do what I can, will ſome⯑times burſt into tears; and theſe mingling with my ink, will blot my paper.—And I know you will not grudge me the temporary relief.

But I ſhall go on in the ſtrain I left off with in my laſt; when I intended rather to apologize for my me⯑lancholy. But let what I have above written, once for all, be my apology. My misfortunes have given you a call to diſcharge the nobleſt offices of the friend⯑ſhip we have vowed to each other, in advice and con⯑ſolation, and it would be an injury to it, and to you, to ſuppoſe it needed even that call.

Now, my dear, ſays ſhe, I cannot bear the life I live. I would be glad at my heart to be out of his reach. If I were, he ſhould ſoon ſee the difference. If I muſt be humbled, it had better be by thoſe to whom I owe duty, than by him. My aunt writes in [...]er letter ^(a), that SHE dare not propoſe any thing in [3] my favour. You tell me, that, upon inquiry, you find ^(b), that, had I not been unhappily ſeduced away, a change of meaſures was actually reſolved upon; and that my mamma, particularly, was deter⯑mined to exert herſelf, for the reſtoration of the family peace; and, in order to ſucceed the better, had thoughts of trying to engage my uncle Harlowe in her party.

Let me build on theſe foundations.—I can but try, my dear.—It is my duty to try all probable methods to reſtore the poor outcaſt to favour.—And who knows but that once indulgent uncle, who has very great weight in the family, may be induced to inter⯑poſe in my behalf?—I will give up all right and title to my grandfather's bequeſts, with all my heart and ſoul, to whom they ſhall think fit, in order to make my propoſal palatable to my brother. And that my ſur⯑render may be effectual, I will engage never to marry.

What think you, my dear, of this expedient? Surely they cannot reſolve to renounce me for ever. If they look with impartial eyes upon what has happened, they will have ſomething to blame themſelves for, as well as me.

I preſume, that you will be of opinion, that this ex⯑pedient is worth trying. But here is my difficulty; If I ſhould write, my hard-hearted brother has ſo ſtrong⯑ly confederated every-body againſt me, that my let⯑ter would be handed about from one to another, till he had hardened every one to refuſe my requeſt; where⯑as, could my uncle be engaged to eſpouſe my cauſe, as from himſelf, I ſhould have ſome hope; as I pre⯑ſume to think he would ſoon have my mother, and my aunt, of his party.

What therefore I am thinking of, is this.—Suppoſe Mr. Hickman, whoſe good character has gained him every-body's reſpect, ſhould put himſelf in my uncle Harlowe's way? And as if, from your knowlege of [4] the ſtate of things between Mr. Lovelace and me, aſſure him not only of the above particulars, but that I am under no obligations, that ſhall hinder me from taking his directions?

I ſubmit the whole to your diſcretion, whether to purſue it at all, or in what manner. But if it be pur⯑ſued, and if my uncle refuſes to intereſt himſelf in my favour, upon Mr. Hickman's application, as from you (for ſo, for obvious reaſons, it muſt be put), I can then have no hope; and my next ſtep, in the mind I am in, ſhall be, to throw myſelf into the protection of the ladies of his family.

It were an impiety to adopt the following lines, be⯑cauſe it would be throwing upon the decrees of Provi⯑dence a fault too much my own. But often do I re⯑volve them, for the ſake of the general ſimilitude which they bear to my unhappy, yet undeſigned error.

Miſs Harlowe dates again on Monday, to let Miſs Howe know, that Mr. Lovelace, on obſerving her uneaſineſs, had introduced to her Mr. Mennell, Mrs. Fretchville's kinſman, who managed all her affairs [a young officer of ſenſe and politeneſs, ſhe calls him]; and who gave her an account of the houſe and furni⯑ture, to the ſame effect that Mr. Lovelace had done before; as alſo of the melancholy way Mrs. Fretch⯑ville is in.

She tells Miſs Howe, how extremely urgent Mr. Lovelace was with the gentleman, to get his ſpouſe (as he now always calls her before company) a ſight of the houſe: And that Mr. Mennell undertook that very [5] afternoon to ſhew her all of it, except the apartment Mrs. Fretchville ſhould be in, when ſhe went. But that ſhe choſe not to take another ſtep till ſhe knew how ſhe approved of her ſcheme to have her uncle ſounded; and what ſucceſs, if try'd, it would be at⯑tended with.

Mr. Lovelace, in his humourous way, gives his friend an account of the Lady's peeviſhneſs and de⯑jection, on receiving a letter with her cloaths. He regrets that he has loſt her confidence; which he at⯑tributes to bringing her into the company of his four companions. Yet he thinks he muſt excuſe them, and cenſure her for over-niceneſs; for that he never ſaw men behave better, at leaſt not them.

Mentioning his introducing Mr. Mennell to her, ‘'Now, Jack, ſays he, was it not very kind of Mr. Mennell, Captain Mennell, I ſometimes called him (for among the military men there is no ſuch offi⯑cer, thou knoweſt, as a Lieutenant or an Enſign): Was it not very kind in him, to come along with me ſo readily as he did, to ſatisfy my beloved about the vapouriſh lady and the houſe?'’

‘'But who is Captain Mennell, methinks thou aſkeſt? I never heard of ſuch a man as Captain Mennell.’

‘'Very likely. But knoweſt thou not young New⯑comb, 'honeſt Doleman's nephew?’

‘'O-ho! Is it he?’

‘'It is. And I have chang'd his name by virtue of my own ſingle authority. Knoweſt thou not, that I am a great name-father? Preferments I beſtow, both military and civil. I give eſtates, and take them away at my pleaſure. Quality too I create. And by a ſtill more valuable prerogative, I degrade by virtue of my own imperial will, without any other act of forfeiture than my own convenience. What a poor thing is a monarch to me!’

[6] ‘'But Mennell, now he has ſeen this angel of a wo⯑man, has qualms; that's the devil!—I ſhall have enough to do to keep him right. But it is the leſs wonder, that he ſhould ſtagger, when a few hours converſation with the ſame lady could make four much more harden'd varlets find hearts—Only, that I am confident, that I ſhall at laſt reward her virtue, if her virtue overcome me, or I ſhould find it impoſſible to perſevere.—For at times, I have confounded qualms myſelf. But ſay not a word of them to the Confraternity: Nor laugh at me for them thyſelf.'’

In another letter, dated Monday night, he tells his friend, That the lady keeps him at ſuch diſtance, that he is ſure ſomething is going on between her and Miſs Howe, notwithſtanding the prohibition from Mrs. Howe to both; and as he has thought it ſome degree of merit in himſelf to puniſh others for their tranſgreſ⯑ſions, he thinks both theſe girls puniſhable for the breach of parental injunctions. And as to their let⯑ter-carrier, he has been inquiring into his way of living; and finding him to be a common poacher, a deer-ſtealer, and warren-robber, who, under pretence of higgling, deals with a ſet of cuſtomers, who con⯑ſtantly take all he brings, whether fiſh, fowl, or ve⯑niſon, he holds himſelf juſtify'd (ſince Wilſon's con⯑veyance muſt at preſent be ſacred) to have him ſtript and robbed, and what money he has about him given to the poor; ſince, if he take not money as well as letters, he ſhall be ſuſpected.

‘'To ſerve one's ſelf, ſays he, and puniſh a villain at the ſame time, is ſerving public and private. The law was not made for ſuch a man as me. And I muſt come at correſpondencies ſo diſobediently carried on.’

‘'But, on ſecond thoughts, if I could find out, that the dear creature carried any of her letters in [7] her pockets, I can get her to a play or to a concert, and ſhe may have the misfortune to loſe her pockets.'’

‘'But how ſhall I find this out; ſince her Dorcas knows no more of her dreſſing or undreſſing than her Lovelace? For ſhe is dreſſed for the day, be⯑fore ſhe appears even to her ſervant.—Vilely ſuſ⯑picious!—Upon my ſoul, Jack, a ſuſpicious temper is a puniſhable temper. If a lady ſuſpects a rogue in an honeſt man, is it not enough to make the ho⯑neſt man who knows it, a rogue?'’

‘'But as to her pockets, I think my mind hankers after them, as the leſs miſchievous attempt.—But they cannot hold all the letters that I ſhould wiſh to ſee. And yet a woman's pockets are half as deep as ſhe is high. Ty'd round them as ballaſt-bags, I preſume, leſt the wind, as they move with full ſail, from whale-ribb'd canvas, ſhould blow away the gypſies.'’

He then, in apprehenſion, that ſomething is medi⯑tating between the two ladies, or that ſomething may be ſet on foot to get Miſs Harlowe out of his hands, relates ſeveral of his contrivances, and boaſts of his inſtructions given in writing to Dorcas and to his ſervant Wil [...] ▪ Summers; and ſays, that he has pro⯑vided againſt every poſſible accident, even to bring her back, if ſhe ſhould eſcape, or in caſe ſhe ſhould go abroad, and then refuſe to return; and hopes ſo to manage, as that, ſhould he make an attempt, whe⯑ther he ſucceed in it, or not, he may have a pre⯑tence to detain her.

He orders Dorcas to cultivate by all means her lady's favour; to lament her incapacity as to write⯑ing and reading; to ſhew her lady letters from pre⯑tended country relations, and beg her advice how to anſwer them, and to get them anſwer'd; to be al⯑ways aiming at ſcrawling with a pen, leſt inky fingers ſhould give ſuſpicions. And ſays, that he has given [8] her an ivory-leaved pocket-book, with a ſilver pen⯑cil, that ſhe may make memoranda on occaſion.

The lady has already, he ſays, at Mrs. Sinclair's motion, removed her cloaths out of the trunks they came in, into an ample mahogany repoſitory, where they will lie at full-length, and which has drawers in it for linen.— ‘'A repoſitory, ſays he, that uſed to hold the richeſt ſuits which ſome of the nymphs put on, when they are to be dreſſed out, to captivate or to ape quality. For many a counteſs, thou knoweſt, has our mother equipp'd; nay, two or three ducheſſes, who live upon quality-terms with their lords. But this to ſuch as will come up to her price, and can make an appearance like quality themſelves on the occaſion: For the reputation of perſons of birth muſt not lie at the mercy of every under-degreed ſinner.'’

‘'A maſter-key which will open every lock in this cheſt, is put into Dorcas's hands; and ſhe is to take care, when ſhe ſearches for papers, before ſhe re⯑moves any thing, to obſerve how it lies, that ſhe may replace all to a hair. Sally and Polly can oc⯑caſionally help to tranſcribe. Slow and ſure with ſuch a lady muſt be all my movements.'’

‘'It is impoſſible that one ſo young and ſo inexpe⯑rienced can have all her caution from herſelf; the behaviour of the women ſo unexceptionable; no revellings, no company ever admitted into this inner-houſe; all genteel, quiet, and eaſy, in it; the nymphs well-bred, and well-read; her firſt diſguſts to the old one got over.—It muſt be Miſs Howe therefore, who once was in danger of being taken in by one of our claſs, by honeſt Sir George Col⯑mar, as thou haſt heard, that makes my progreſs difficult.'’

Thou ſeeſt, Belford, by the above precautionaries, that I forget nothing. As he ſong ſays, it is not to be imagin'd [9]

‘'So far, ſo good. I ſhall never let my goddeſs reſt till I have firſt diſcover'd where ſhe puts her let⯑ters, and next till I have got her to a play, to a con⯑cert, or to take an airing with me of a day, or ſo.'’

‘'I GAVE thee juſt now ſome of my contrivances. Dorcas, who is ever attentive to all her lady's mo⯑tions, has given me ſome inſtances of her miſtreſs's precautions. She wafers her letters, it ſeems, in two places; pricks the wafers; and then ſeals upon them. No doubt but thoſe brought hither are taken the ſame care of. And ſhe always examines the ſeals of the latter before ſhe opens them. I muſt, I muſt, come at them. This difficulty augments my curioſity. Strange, ſo much as ſhe writes, and at all hours, that not one ſleepy or forgetful moment has offer'd in our favour!'’

‘'A fair contention, thou ſeeſt. Do not thou therefore reproach me for endeavouring to take ad⯑vantage of her tender years. Credulity ſhe has none. Am not I a young fellow, myſelf? As to her for⯑tune, that's out of the queſtion; fortune never had any other attractions for me, than to ſtimulate me on; and this, as I have elſewhere ſaid, for motives not ignoble. As to beauty; pr'ythee, Jack, do thou, to ſpare my modeſty, make a compariſon be⯑tween my Clariſſa for a woman, and thy Lovelace for a man!—The only point that can admit of de⯑bate, as I conceive, is, who has moſt wit, moſt circumſpection: And that is what remains to be try'd.'’

‘'A ſad life, however, for the poor lady to live, as well as for me; that is to ſay, if ſhe be not naturally jealous. If ſhe be, her uneaſineſs is conſtitutional, [10] and ſhe cannot help it; nor will it, in that caſe, hurt her. For a ſuſpicious temper will make occaſions for doubt, if none were to offer to her hand; and ſo my fair one is obliged to me for ſaving her the trouble of ſtudying for theſe occaſions.—But after all, the plain way in every affair of the human life is the beſt, I believe. But it is not given me to chooſe it. Nor am I ſingular in the purſuit of the more intricate paths; ſince there are thouſands and ten thouſands, beſides me, who had rather fiſh in troubled waters than in ſmooth.'’

LETTER II. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELEORD, Eſq.

LETTER III. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE; To Miſs HOWE.

IF, my dear, you approve of the application to my uncle Harlowe, I wiſh it may be made as ſoon as poſſible. We are quite out again. I have ſhut my⯑ſelf up from him. The offence indeed not very great—And yet it is too: He had like to have got a letter. One of yours. But never will I write again, or re-peruſe my papers, in an apartment where he thinks himſelf intitled to come. He did not read a line of it. Indeed he did not. So don't be uneaſy: And depend upon future caution.

[19]Thus it was. The ſun being upon my cloſet, and Mr. Lovelace abroad—

And now, my dear, proceeds ſhe, I am more and more convinced, that I am too much in his power to make it prudent to ſtay with him. And if my friends will but give me hope—Till I can know whether they will or not, I muſt do what I never ſtudied to do be⯑fore in any caſe—that is, try to keep this difference open: And yet it will make me look little in my own eyes; becauſe I ſhall mean by it more than I can own. But this is one of the conſequences of a ſtep which will be ever deplored by

LETTER IV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Much approve of your reſolution to leave this man, if you can have any encouragement from your uncle. And the rather, as I have heard but within theſe two hours ſome well-atteſted ſtories of him, that ſhew him to be one of the worſt of men as to our Sex. I do aſſure you, my dear friend, that had he a dozen lives, if all I have heard be true, he might have for⯑feited them all, and been dead twenty crimes ago.

If ever you condeſcend to talk familiarly with him again, aſk him after Miſs Betterton, and what became of her: And if he ſhuffle and prevaricate, queſtion him about Miſs Lockyer.—O my dear, the man's a villain!

I will have your uncle ſounded, as you deſire, and that out of hand. But yet I am afraid of the ſuc⯑ceſs; [20] and this for ſeveral reaſons. 'Tis hard to ſay what the ſacrifice of your eſtate would do with ſome people: And yet I muſt not, when it comes to the teſt, permit you to make it.

As your Hannah continues ill, I would adviſe you to try to attach Dorcas to your intereſt. Have you not been impoliticly ſhy of her?

I wiſh you could come at ſome of his letters. Sure⯑ly a man of his negligent character cannot be always guarded. If he were, and if you cannot engage your ſervant, I ſhould ſuſpect them both. Let him be called upon at a ſhort warning when he is writing, or when he has papers lying about, and ſo ſurprize him into negligence.

Such inquiries, I know, are of the ſame nature with thoſe we make at an inn in travelling, when we look into every corner and cloſet for fear of a villain; yet ſhould be frighted out of our wits, were we to find one. But 'tis better to detect ſuch a one when awake and up, than to be attacked by him when in bed and aſleep.

I am glad you have your cloaths. But no money; no books; but a Spira, a Drexelius, and a Practice of Piety. Thoſe who ſent the latter, ought to have kept it for themſelves.—But I muſt hurry myſelf from this ſubject.

You have excceedingly alarmed me by what you hint of his attempt to get one of my letters. I am aſſured by my new informant, that he is the head of a gang of wretches [Thoſe he brought you among, no doubt, were ſome of them], who join together to betray innocent creatures, and to ſupport one another, when they have done, by violence: And were he to come at the knowlege of the freedoms I take with him, I ſhould be afraid to ſtir out without a guard.

I am ſorry to tell you, that I have reaſon to think, that your brother has not laid aſide his fooliſh plot. A ſun-burnt, ſailor-looking fellow was with me juſt [21] now, pretending great ſervice to you from Captain Singleton, could he be admitted to your ſpeech. I pleaded ignorance. The fellow was too well inſtructed for me to get any thing out of him.

I wept for two hours inceſſantly, on reading yours, which incloſed that from your couſin Morden ^(a). My deareſt creature, do not deſert yourſelf: Let your Anna Howe obey the call of that friendſhip, which has united us as one ſoul, and endeavour to give you conſolation.

I wonder not at the melancholy reflections you ſo often caſt upon yourſelf in your letters, for the ſtep you have been forced upon, on one hand, and tricked into on the other. A ſtrange fatality! As if it were deſigned to ſhew the vanity of all human prudence. I wiſh, my dear, as you hint, that both you and I have not too much prided ourſelves in a perhaps too conſcious ſuperiority over others—But I will ſtop—How apt are weak minds to look out for judgments in any extraordinary event! 'Tis ſo far right, that it is better, and ſafer, and juſter, to arraign ourſelves, or our deareſt friends, than Providence; which muſt always have wiſe ends to anſwer in its diſpenſations.

But do not talk, as in one of your former, of be⯑ing a warning only ^(b).—You will be as excellent an example, as ever you hoped to be, as well as a warn⯑ing: And that will make your ſtory, to all that ſhall come to know it, of double efficacy: For were it that ſuch a merit as yours could not enſure to herſelf noble and generous uſage from a libertine heart, who will ex⯑pect any tolerable behaviour from men of his character?

If YOU think yourſelf inexcuſable for taking a ſtep that put you into the way of deluſion, without any intention to go off with him, what muſt thoſe giddy creatures think of themſelves, who, without half your provocations and inducements, and without any re⯑gard [22] to decorum, leap walls, drop from windows, and ſteal away from their parents houſe, to the ſe⯑ducer's bed, in the ſame day?

Again, if YOU are ſo ready to accuſe yourſelf for diſpenſing with the prohibitions of the moſt unreaſon⯑able parents, which yet were but half-prohibitions at firſt, what ought thoſe to do, who wilfully ſhut their ears to the advice of the moſt reaſonable; and that, perhaps, where apparent ruin, or undoubted inconve⯑nience, is the conſequence of the predetermin'd raſh⯑neſs?

And, laſtly, to all who will know your ſtory, you will be an excellent example of watchfulneſs, and of that caution and reſerve, by which a prudent perſon, who has been ſuppoſed to be a little miſled, endeavours to mend her error; and, never once loſing ſight of her duty, does all in her power to recover the path ſhe has been rather driven out of, than choſen to ſwerve from.

Come, come, my deareſt friend, conſider but theſe things; and ſteadily, without deſponding, purſue your earneſt purpoſes to amend what you think has been amiſs; and it may not be a misfortune in the end, that you have erred; eſpecially as ſo little of your will was in your error.

And, indeed, I muſt ſay, that I uſe the words miſ⯑led, and error, and ſuch-like, only in compliment to your own too ready ſelf-accuſations, and to the opi⯑nion of one to whom I owe duty: For I think in my conſcience, that every part of your conduct is defen⯑ſible; and that thoſe only are blameable, who have no other way to clear themſelves, than by condemn⯑ing you.

I expect, however, that ſuch melancholy reflec⯑tions, as drop from your pen but too often, wil [...] mingle with all your future pleaſures, were you to marry I ovelace, and were he to make the beſt of huſbands.

[23]You was immenſely happy, above the happineſs of a mortal creature, before you knew him: Every⯑body almoſt worſhiped you: Envy itſelf, which has of late reared up its venomous head againſt you, was awed by your ſuperior worthineſs, into ſilence and ad⯑miration. You was the ſoul of every company where you viſited: Your elders have I ſeen declining to offer their opinions upon a ſubject, till you had de⯑livered yours; often to ſave themſelves the mortifica⯑tion of retracting theirs, when they heard yours. Yet, in all this, your ſweetneſs of manners, your humility and affability, cauſed the ſubſcription every one made to your ſentiments, and to your ſuperiority, to be equally unfeigned and unheſitating; for they ſaw, that their applauſe, and the preference they gave you to themſelves, ſubjected not themſelves to inſults, nor exalted you into any viſible triumph over them; for you had always ſomething to ſay, on every point you carried, that raiſed the yielding heart, and left every⯑one pleaſed and ſatisfied with themſelves, tho' they carried not off the palm.

Your works were ſhewn, or referred to, where⯑ever fine works were talked of. Nobody had any but an inferior and ſecond-hand praiſe for diligence, for oeconomy, for reading, for writing, for memory, for facility in learning every-thing laudable, and even for the more envied graces of perſon and dreſs, and an all-ſurpaſſing elegance in both, where you were known, and thoſe ſubjects talked of.

The Poor bleſſed you every ſtep you trod: The Rich thought you their honour, and took a pride, that they were not obliged to deſcend from their own claſs, for an example that did credit to it.

Tho' all men wiſhed for you, and ſought you, young as you was, yet, had not thoſe, who were brought to addreſs you, been encouraged out of ſor⯑did and ſpiteful views to attempt your preſence, not [24] one of them would have dared to lift up his eyes to you.

Thus happy in all about you, thus making happy all within your circle, could you think that nothing would happen to you, to convince you, that you were not to be exempted from the common lot?—To convince you, that you were not abſolutely per⯑fect; and that you muſt not expect to paſs thro' life, without trial, temptation, and misfortune?

Indeed, it muſt be owned, that no trial, no tempta⯑tion, worthy of you, could have well attacked you ſooner, or more effectually, than thoſe heavy ones have done: For every common caſe you were ſupe⯑rior to: It muſt be ſome man, or ſome worſe ſpirit in the ſhape of one, that, formed on purpoſe, was to be ſent to invade you; while as many other ſuch ſpi⯑rits, as there are perſons in your family, were permitted to take poſſeſſion, ſeverally, in one dark hour, of the heart of every one of it, there to ſit perching, perhaps, and directing every motion to the motions of the ſe⯑ducer without, in order to irritate, to provoke, to puſh you forward to meet him.

So, upon the whole, there ſeems, as I have often ſaid, a kind of fate in your error, if an error; and this, perhaps, admitted, for the ſake of a better ex⯑ample to be collected from your ſufferings, than could have been given, had you never erred: For, my dear, ADVERSITY is your SHINING-TIME: I ſee evi⯑dently, that it muſt call forth graces and beauties, that could not have been ſeen in a run of that pro⯑ſperous fortune, which attended you from your cradle till now; admirably as you became, and, as we all thought, greatly as you deſerved, that proſperity.

All the matter is, the trial muſt be grievous to you: It is to me: It is to all who love you, and looked upon you as one ſet aloft to be admired and imitated, and not as a mark, as you have lately found, for Envy to ſhoot its ſhafts at.

[25]Let what I have written above, have its due weight [...]ith you, my dear; and then, as warm imaginations [...]re not without a mixture of enthuſiaſm, your Anna [...]owe, who, on reperuſal of it, imagines it to be in [...] ſtyle ſuperior to her uſual ſtyle, will be ready to flat⯑ [...]er herſelf, that ſhe has been in a manner inſpired with the hints that have comforted and raiſed the de⯑ [...]ected heart of her ſuffering friend; who, from ſuch [...]ard trials, in a bloom ſo tender, may find at times [...]er ſpirits ſunk too low to enable her to pervade the [...]urrounding darkneſs, which conceals from her the [...]opeful dawning of the better day which awaits her.

I will add no more at preſent, than that I am

LETTER V. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER VI. Miſs HOWE, To Mrs. JUDITH NORTON.

CANNOT you, without naming me as an adviſer, who am hated by the family, contrive a way to let Mrs. Harlowe know, that in an accidental conver⯑ſation with me, you had been aſſured, that my be⯑loved friend pines after a reconciliation with her rela⯑tions: That ſhe has hitherto, in hopes of it, refuſed [29] to enter into any obligations, that ſhall be in the leaſt an hindrance to it: That ſhe would fain avoid giving Mr. Lovelace a right to make her family uneaſy, in relation to her grandfather's eſtate: That all ſhe wiſhes for ſtill, is to be indulged in her choice of a ſingle life, and, on that condition, would make her father's pleaſure hers with regard to that eſtate: That Mr. Lovelace is continually preſſing her to marry him; and all his friends likewiſe: But that I am ſure, ſhe has ſo little liking to the man, becauſe of his faulty morals, and of her relations antipathy to him, that if ſhe had any hope given her of a reconciliation, ſhe would forego all thoughts of him, and put herſelf into her father's protection. But that their reſolution muſt be ſpeedy; for otherwiſe ſhe would find herſelf ob⯑liged to give way to his preſſing intreaties; and it might then be out of her power to prevent diſagree⯑able litigations.

I do aſſure you, Mrs. Norton, upon my honour, that our deareſt friend knows nothing of this proce⯑dure of mine: And therefore it is proper to acquaint you, in confidence, with my grounds for it.—Theſe are they:—

She had deſired me to let Mr. Hickman drop hints to the above effect to her uncle Harlowe; but indi⯑rectly as from himſelf, leſt, if the application ſhould not be attended with ſucceſs; and Mr. Lovelace (who already takes it ill, that he has ſo little of her favour) come to know it, ſhe may be deprived of every protection, and be perhaps ſubjected to great inconveniences from ſo haughty a ſpirit.

Having this authority from her; and being very ſollicitous about the ſucceſs of the application, I thought, that if the weight of ſo good a wife, mother, and ſiſter, as Mrs. Harlowe is known to be, were thrown into the ſame ſcale, with that of Mr. John Harlowe (ſuppoſing he could be engaged) it could hardly fail of making a due impreſſion.

[30]Mr. Hickman will ſee Mr. Harlowe to-morrow: By that time you may ſee Mrs. Harlowe. If Mr. Hickman finds the old gentleman favourable, he will tell him, that you will have ſeen Mrs. Harlowe upon the ſame account; and will adviſe him to join in con⯑ſultation with her how beſt to proceed to melt the moſt obdurate hearts in the world.

This is the fair ſtate of the matter, and my true motive for writing to you. I leave all therefore to your diſcretion: And moſt heartily wiſh ſucceſs to it; being of opinion that Mr. Lovelace cannot poſſibly deſerve our admirable friend: Nor, indeed, know I the man who can.

Pray acquaint me, by a line, of the reſult of your kind interpoſition. If it prove not ſuch, as may be reaſonably hoped for, our dear friend ſhall know no⯑thing of this ſtep from me; and pray let her not from you. For, in that caſe, it would only give deeper grief to an heart already too much afflicted. I am, dear and worthy Mrs. Norton,

LETTER VII. Mrs. NORTON, To Miſs HOWE.

MY heart is almoſt broken to be obliged to let you know, that ſuch is the ſituation of things in the family of my ever-dear Miſs Harlowe, that there can be at preſent no ſucceſs expected from any application in her favour. Her poor mother is to be pity'd. I have a moſt affecting letter from her; but muſt not communicate it to you; and ſhe forbids me to let it be known that ſhe writes upon the ſubject; although ſhe is compelled, as it were, to do it, for the eaſe of her own heart. I mention it therefore in confidence.

[31]I hope in God that my beloved Miſs has preſerved her honour inviolate. I hope there is not a man breathing, who could attempt a ſacrilege ſo deteſtable. I have no apprehenſion of a failure in a virtue ſo eſta⯑bliſhed: God for ever keep ſo pure a heart out of the reach of ſurprizes and violence! Eaſe, dear Madam, I beſeech you, my over-anxious heart, by one line, by the bearer, altho' but by one line, to acquaint me, as ſurely you can, that her honour is unſully'd! If it be not, adieu to all the comforts this life can give: Since none will it be able to afford

LETTER VIII. Miſs HOWE, To Mrs. JUDITH NORTON.

YOUR beloved's honour is inviolate!—Muſt be inviolate! And will be ſo, in ſpite of men and devils. Could I have had hope of a reconciliation, all my view was, that ſhe ſhould not have had this man!—All that can be ſaid now is, She muſt run the risk of a bad huſband: She of whom no man living is worthy.

You pity her mother!—So don't I!—I pity no⯑body, that puts it out of their power to ſhew maternal love, and humanity, in order to patch up for them⯑ſelves a precarious and ſorry quiet, which every blaſt of wind ſhall diſturb!

I hate tyrants in every form and ſhape: But pater⯑nal and maternal tyrants are the worſt of all: For they can have no bowels.

I repeat, that I pity none of them!—My beloved and your beloved only deſerves pity. She had never been in the hands of this man, but for them. She is quite blameleſs. You don't know all her ſtory. Were I to tell you ſhe had no intention to go off with this man, it would avail her nothing. It would only [32] condemn thoſe who drove her to extremities; and him, who now muſt be her refuge. I am

LETTER IX. Mrs. HARLOWE, To Mrs. NORTON.

I Return an anſwer in writing, as I promiſed, to your communication. But take no notice, that I do write, either to my Bella's Betty, who I under⯑ſtand, ſometimes viſits you, or to the poor wretch herſelf; nor to any-body. I charge you don't. My heart is full. Writing may give ſome vent to my griefs, and perhaps I may write what lies moſt upon my heart, without confining myſelf ſtrictly to the pre⯑ſent ſubject.

You know how dear this ingrateful creature ever was to us all. You know how ſincerely we joined with every one of thoſe who ever had ſeen her, or con⯑verſed with her, to praiſe and admire her; and ex⯑ceeded in our praiſe even the bounds of that modeſty, which, becauſe ſhe was our own, ſhould have re⯑ſtrained us; being of opinion, that to have been ſilent in the praiſe of ſo apparent a merit, muſt rather have argued blindneſs or affectation in us, than that we ſhould incur the cenſure of vain partiality to our own.

When therefore any-body congratulated us on ſuch a daughter, we received their congratulations without any diminution. If it was ſaid, You are happy in this child, we owned, that no parents ever were hap⯑pier in a child. If more particularly, they praiſed her dutiful behaviour to us, we ſaid, She knew not how to offend. If it was ſaid, Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe has [33] a wit and penetration beyond her years; we, inſtead of diſallowing it, would add,—And a judgment no leſs extraordinary than her wit. If her prudence was praiſed, and a forethought, which every one ſaw ſup⯑ply'd what only years and experience gave to others; Nobody need to ſcruple taking leſſons from Miſs Cla⯑riſſa Harlowe, was our proud anſwer.

Forgive me, O forgive me, my dear Norton—But I know you will—For yours, when good, was this child, and your glory as well as mine!

But have you not heard ſtrangers, as ſhe paſſed to and from church, ſtop to praiſe the angel of a crea⯑ture, as they called her; when it was enough for thoſe who knew who ſhe was, to cry, Why, it is Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe!—As if every-body were obliged to know, or to have heard of Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, and of her excellencies. While, accuſtom'd to praiſe, it was too familiar to her, to cauſe her to alter either her look or her pace.

For my own part, I could not ſtifle a pleaſure, that had perhaps a faulty vanity for its foundation, when⯑ever I was ſpoken of, or addreſſed to, as the mother of ſo ſweet a child: Mr. Harlowe and I, all the time, loving each other the better for the ſhare each had in ſuch a daughter.

Still, ſtill, indulge the fond, the overflowing heart of a mother! I could dwell for ever upon the remem⯑brance of what ſhe was, would but that remem⯑brance baniſh from my mind what ſhe is!

In her boſom, young as ſhe was, could I repoſe all my griefs—Sure of receiving from her prudence, ad⯑vice as well as comfort: And both inſinuated in ſo humble, in ſo dutiful a manner, that it was impoſ⯑ſible to take thoſe exceptions which the diſtance of years and character between a mother and a daughter, would, from any other daughter, have made one appre⯑henſive of. She was our glory when abroad, our de⯑light when at home. Every-body was even covetous [34] of her company; and we grudg'd her to our brothers Harlowe, and to our ſiſter and brother Hervey.—No other contention among us, then, but who ſhould be favoured by her next.—No chiding ever knew ſhe from us, but the chiding of lovers, when ſhe was for ſhut⯑ting herſelf up too long together from us, in purſuit of thoſe charming amuſements, and uſeful employ⯑ments, which, however, the whole family was the better for.

Our other children had reaſon, good children as they always were, to think themſelves neglected. But they likewiſe were ſo ſenſible of their ſiſter's ſu⯑periority, and of the honour ſhe reflected upon the whole family, that they confeſſed themſelves eclipſed, without envying the eclipſer. Indeed there was not any-body ſo equal with her, in their own opinions, as to envy what all aſpired but to emulate.—The dear creature, you know, my Norton, gave an eminence to us all: And now, that ſhe has left us, ſo diſgrace⯑fully left us! we are ſtript of our ornament, and are but a common family!

Then her acquirements. Her ſkill in muſic, her fine needleworks, her elegance in dreſs; for which ſhe was ſo much admired, that the neighbouring ladies uſed to ſay, that they need not fetch faſhions from London; ſince whatever Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe wore, was the beſt faſhion, becauſe her choice of natural beauties ſet thoſe of art far behind them. Her genteel eaſe, and fine turn of perſon; her deep reading; and theſe, joined to her open manners, and her chearful modeſty—O my good Norton, what a ſweet child was once my Clary Harlowe!

This, and more, you knew her to be: For many of her excellencies were owing to yourſelf; and with the milk you gave her, you gave her what no other nurſe in the world could give her.

And do you think, my worthy woman, do you think, that the wilful lapſe of ſuch a child is to be [35] forgiven? Can ſhe herſelf think, that ſhe deſerves not the ſevereſt puniſhment for the abuſe of ſuch ta⯑lents as were intruſted to her?

Her fault was a fault of premeditation, of cunning, of contrivance. She has deceived every-body's ex⯑pectations. Her whole ſex, as well as the family ſhe ſprung from, is diſgraced by it.

Would any-body ever have believed, that ſuch a young creature as this, who had by her advice ſaved even her over-lively friend from marrying a fop, and a libertine, would herſelf have gone off with one of the vileſt and moſt notorious of libertines? A man whoſe character ſhe knew; and knew to be worſe than his ſhe ſaved her friend from; whoſe vices ſhe was warned of: One who had had her brother's life in his hands; and who conſtantly ſet our whole fa⯑mily at defiance.

Think for me, my good Norton; think what my unhappineſs muſt be, both as a wife and a mother. What reſtleſs days, what ſleepleſs nights; yet my own rankling anguiſh endeavoured to be ſmoothed over, to ſoften the anguiſh of fiercer ſpirits, and to keep them from blazing out to further miſchief. O this naughty, naughty girl! who knew ſo well what ſhe did; and who could look ſo far into conſequences, that we thought ſhe would have dy'd, rather than have done as ſhe has done!

Her known character for prudence leaves no plea for excuſe. How then can I offer to plead for her, if, thro' motherly indulgence, I would forgive her myſelf?—And have we not, moreover, ſuffer'd all the diſgrace that can befal us? Has not ſhe?

If now, ſhe has ſo little liking to his morals, had ſhe not reaſon before to have as little? Or has ſhe ſuf⯑fered by them in her own perſon?—O my good wo⯑man, I doubt—I doubt—Will not the character of the man make one doubt an angel, if once in his power? The world will think the worſt. I am told [36] it does. So likewiſe her father fears; her brother hears; and what can I do?

Our antipathy to him ſhe knew before, as well as his character. Theſe therefore cannot be new mo⯑tives without a new reaſon.—O my dear Mrs. Nor⯑ton, how ſhall I, how can you, ſupport ourſelves un⯑der the apprehenſions that theſe thoughts lead to, of my Clary Harlowe, and your Clary Harlowe!

He continually preſſing her, you ſay, to marry him. His friends likewiſe. She has reaſon, no doubt ſhe has reaſon, for this application to us: And her crime is gloſs'd over, to bring her to us with new diſgrace!—Whither, whither, does one guilty ſtep lead the miſguided heart!—And now truly, to ſave a ſtubborn ſpirit, we are only to be ſounded, that the application may be retracted or deny'd!

Upon the whole: Were I inclined to plead for her, it is now the moſt improper of all times. Now that my brother Harlowe has diſcouraged (as he laſt night came hither on purpoſe to tell us) Mr. Hick⯑man's inſinuated application; and been applauded for it. Now, that my brother Antony is intending to carry his great fortune, thro' her fault, into another family:—She expecting, no doubt, herſelf, to be put into her grandfather's eſtate, in conſequence of a re⯑conciliation, and as a reward for her fault: And inſiſt⯑ing ſtill upon terms, that ſhe offer'd before, and were rejected.—Not thro' my fault, I am ſure, rejected.

From all theſe things, you will return ſuch an an⯑ſwer as the caſe requires.—It might coſt me the peace of my whole life, at this time, to move for her. God forgive her!—If I do, nobody elſe will. And let it be for your own ſake, as well as mine, a ſecret that you and I have enter'd upon this ſubject. And I de⯑ſire you not to touch upon it again but by particular permiſſion: For, O my dear good woman, it ſets my heart a-bleeding in as many ſtreams as there are veins in it!

[37]Yet think me not impenetrable by a proper con⯑trition and remorſe! But what a torment is it to have a will without a power!

Adieu! adieu! God give us both comfort; and to the once dear—the ever-dear creature (for can a mo⯑ther forget her child?), repentance, deep repentance! And as little ſuffering as may befit his bleſſed will, and her grievous fault, prays

LETTER X. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

HOW it is now, my dear, between you and Mr. Lovelace, I cannot tell. But wicked as the man is, I am afraid he muſt be your lord and maſter.

I called him by ſeveral very hard names in my laſt. I had but juſt heard ſome of his vileneſſes, when I ſat down to write; ſo my indignation was raiſed. But on inquiry, and recollection, I find that the facts laid to his charge were all of them committed ſome time ago; not ſince he has had ſtrong hopes of your fa⯑vour. This is ſaying ſomething for him. His gene⯑rous behaviour to the innkeeper's daughter, is a more recent inſtance to his credit; to ſay nothing of the univerſal good character he has as a kind landlord. And then I approve much of the motion he made to put you in poſſeſſion of Mrs. Fretchville's houſe, while he continues at the other widow's, till you agree that one houſe ſhall hold you. I wiſh this was done. Be ſure you embrace this offer, if you do not ſoon meet at the altar, and get one of his couſins with you.

Were you once marry'd, I ſhould think you can⯑not be very unhappy, tho' you n [...] not be ſo happy with him as you deſerve to be. [...] ſtake he has in [38] his country, and his reverſions: The care he takes of his affairs; his freedom from obligation; nay, his pride, with your merit, muſt be a tolerable ſecurity for you, I ſhould think. Tho' particulars of his wickedneſs, as they come to my knowlege, hurt and incenſe me; yet, after all, when I give myſelf time to reflect, all that I have heard of him, to his diſadvan⯑tage, was comprehended in the general character given of him long ago, by his uncle's and his own diſmiſs'd bailiff ^(a), and which was confirm'd to you by Mrs. Greme ^(b).

You can have nothing therefore, I think, to be deeply concerned about, but his future good, and the bad example he may hereafter ſet to his own family. Theſe indeed are very juſt concerns: But were you to leave him now, either with or without his conſent, his fortune and alliances ſo conſiderable, his perſon and addreſs ſo engaging (every-one excuſing you now on thoſe accounts, and becauſe of your relations fol⯑lies), it would have a very ill appearance for your reputation. I cannot therefore, on the moſt delibe⯑rate conſideration, adviſe you to think of that, while you have no reaſon to doubt his honour. May eternal vengeance purſue the villain, if he gives room for an apprehenſion of this nature!

Yet his teazing ways are intolerable: His ac⯑quieſcence with your ſlight delays, and his reſigned⯑neſs to the diſtance you now keep him at (for a fault ſo much ſlighter, as he muſt think, than the puniſh⯑ment), are unaccountable: He doubts your love of him, that is very probable; but you have reaſon to be ſurpriſed at his want of ardour; a bleſſing ſo great, within his reach, as I may ſay.

By the time you have read to this place, you will have no doubt of what has been the iſſue of the con⯑ference between the Two Gentlemen. I am equally ſhock'd, and enraged againſt them All: Againſt them [39] All, I ſay; for I have try'd your good Norton's weight with your mother, to the ſame purpoſe as the gentleman ſounded your uncle.—Never were there ſuch determin'd brutes in the world! Why ſhould I mince the matter? Yet would I fain, methinks, make an exception for your mother.

Your uncle will have it, that you are ruin'd. ‘'He can believe every-thing bad of a creature, who could run away with a man—With ſuch a one eſpecially as Lovelace. They all expected applications from you, when ſome heavy diſtreſs had fallen upon you.—But they were all reſolved not to ſtir an inch in your favour; no, not to ſave your life!'’

My deareſt ſoul! reſolve to aſſert your right. Claim your own, and go and live upon it, as you ought. Then, if you marry not, how will the wretches creep to you, for your reverſionary diſpoſitions!

You were accuſed (as in your aunt's letter) ‘'of premeditation and contrivance in your eſcape.'’ In⯑ſtead of pitying you, the mediating perſon was called upon ‘'to pity them; who once, he ſaid, doted upon you: Who took no joy but in your preſence: Who devour'd your words as you ſpoke them: Who trod over again your footſteps, as you walked before them.'’ —And I know not what of this ſort.

Upon the whole, it is now evident to me, and ſo it muſt be to you, when you read this letter, that you have but one choice. And the ſooner you make it the better.—Shall we ſuppoſe that it is not in your power to make it?—I cannot have patience to ſup⯑poſe that.

I am concern'd, methinks, to know how you will do to condeſcend, now you ſee you muſt be his, after you have kept him at ſuch a diſtance; and for the revenge his pride may put him upon taking for it. But let me tell you, that if my going up, and ſhare⯑ing fortunes with you, will prevent ſuch a noble crea⯑ture from ſtooping too low; much more, were it [40] likely to prevent your ruin, I would not heſitate a mo⯑ment about it. What's the whole world to me, weigh'd againſt ſuch a friendſhip as ours?—Think you, that any of the enjoyments of this life, could be enjoyments to me, were ſuch a friend as you to be involved in calamities, which I could either relieve her from, or alleviate, by giving them up? And what in ſaying this, and acting up to it, do I offer you, but the fruits of a friendſhip your worth has created?

Excuſe my warmth of expreſſion. The warmth of my heart wants none. I am enraged at your re⯑lations; for, bad as what I have mentioned is, I have not told you all; nor now, perhaps, ever will:—I am angry at my own mother's narrowneſs of mind, and adherence to old notions indiſcriminately—And I am exaſperated againſt your fooliſh, your low-va⯑nity'd Lovelace!—But let us ſtoop to take the wretch as he is, and make the beſt of him, ſince you are deſtin'd to ſtoop, to keep grovelers and worldlings in countenance. He has not been guilty of direct in⯑decency to you. Nor dare he. Not ſo much of a devil as that comes to neither!—Had he ſuch villain⯑ous intentions, ſo much in his power as you are, they would have ſhewn themſelves before now to ſuch a penetrating and vigilant eye, and to ſuch a pure heart as yours. Let us ſave the wretch then, if we can, tho' we ſoil our fingers in lifting him up from his dirt.

There is yet, to a perſon of your fortune and in⯑dependence, a good deal to do, if you enter upon thoſe terms, which ought to be enter'd upon. I don't find, that he has once talked of ſettlements; much leſs of the licence. It is hard! But as your evil de⯑ſtiny has thrown you out of all other protection and medi [...]tion, you muſt be father, mother, uncle to yourſelf, and enter upon the requiſite points for your⯑ſelf. Indeed you muſt. Your ſituation requires it. What room for delicacy now? Or would you have [41] me write to the wretch? Yet that would be the ſame thing, as if you were to write yourſelf. Yet write you ſhould, I think, if you cannot ſpeak. But ſpeaking is certainly beſt: For words leave no traces; they paſs as breath; and mingle with air; and may be explained with latitude. But the pen is a witneſs on record.

I know the gentleneſs of your ſpirit; I know the laudable pride of your heart; and the juſt notion you have of the dignity of our ſex, in theſe delicate points. But once more, all this is nothing now: Your honour is concerned, that the dignity I ſpeak of, ſhould not be ſtood upon.

‘'Mr. Lovelace,' would I ſay; yet hate the fooliſh fellow, for his low, his ſtupid pride, in wiſhing to triumph over the dignity of his own wife;— 'I am deprived, by your means, of every friend I have in the world. In what light am I to look upon you? I have well conſider'd of every thing: You have made ſome people, much againſt my liking, think me a wife: Others know I am not married; nor do I deſire any body ſhould believe I am. Do you think your being here in the ſame houſe with me, can be to my reputation? You talk to me of Mrs. Fretchville's houſe—" [This will bring him to re⯑new his laſt diſcourſe on that ſubject, if he does not revive it of himſelf.] 'If Mrs. Fretchville knows not her own mind, what is her houſe to me? You talked of bringing up your couſin Montague to bear me company: If my brother's ſchemes be your pre⯑tence for not going yourſelf to fetch her, you can write to her.—I inſiſt upon bringing theſe two points to an iſſue: Off or on, ought to be indifferent to me, if ſo to them.'’

Such a declaration muſt bring all forward. There are twenty ways, my dear, that you would find out to adviſe another how to act in your circumſtances. He will diſdain, from his native inſolence, to have it thought he [42] has any-body to conſult. Well then, will he not be obliged to declare himſelf? And if he does, no delays on your ſide, I beſeech you. Give him the day: Let it be a ſhort one. It would be derogating from your own merit, and honour too, let me tell you, even altho' he ſhould not be ſo explicit as he ought to be, to ſeem but to doubt his meaning; and to wait for that explanation which I ſhould for ever deſpiſe him for, if he makes neceſſary. Twice already have you, my dear, if not oftener, modeſty'd away ſuch opportunities as you ought not to have ſlipt.—As to ſettlements, if they come not in naturally, e'en leave them to his own juſtice, and to the juſtice of his fa⯑mily. And there's an end of the matter.

This is my advice: Mend it, as circumſtances offer, and follow your own. But indeed, my dear, this, or ſomething like it, would I do. As witneſs

I Muſt trouble you with my concerns, tho' your own are ſo heavy upon you.—A piece of news I have to tell you. Your uncle Antony is diſpoſed to marry.—With whom, think you?—With my mamma. True indeed. Your family know it. All is laid with redoubled malice at your door. And there the old ſoul himſelf lays it.

Take no notice of this intelligence, not ſo much as in your letters to me, for fear of accidents.

I think it can't do. But were I to provoke my mother, that might afford a pretence. Elſe, I ſhould have been with you before now, I fancy.

The firſt likelihood that appears to me of encou⯑ragement, I diſmiſs Hickman, that's certain. If my mother diſoblige me in ſo important an article, I ſhan't think of obliging her in ſuch another. It is impoſſible, ſurely, that the deſire of popping me off to that honeſt man can be with ſuch a view.

[43]I repeat, that it cannot come to any thing. But theſe widows—Then ſuch a love in us all, both old and young, of being courted and admired!—And ſo irre⯑ſiſtible to their elderſhips to be flatter'd, that all power is not over with them; but that they may ſtill claſs and prank it with their daughters. It vexed me hear⯑tily to have her tell me of this propoſal with ſelf-com⯑plaiſant ſimperings; and yet ſhe affected to ſpeak of it, as if ſhe had no intention to encourage it.

Theſe antiquated batchelors, old before they think themſelves ſo, imagine, that when they have once perſuaded themſelves, they have nothing elſe to do, but to make their minds known to the lady. His overgrown fortune is indeed a bait—a tempting one. A ſaucy daughter to be got rid of! The me⯑mory of the father of that daughter not precious enough to weigh!—But let him advance if he dare—Let her encourage—But I hope ſhe won't.

Excuſe me, my dear. I am nettled. They have fearfully rumpled my gorget. You'll think me faulty. So I won't put my name to this ſeparate paper. Other hands may reſemble mine. You did not ſee me write it.

LETTER XI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

I Think once more, we ſeem to be in a kind of train; but through a ſtorm. I will give you the particulars.

I heard him in the dining-room at five in the morn⯑ing. I had reſted very ill, and was up too: But opened not my door till ſix: When Dorcas brought me his requeſt for my company.

He approached me, and taking my hand, as I en⯑ter'd the dining-room, I went not to bed, Madam, till two, yet ſlept not a wink. For God's ſake, torment me not, as you have done for a week paſt.

He paus'd. I was ſilent.

At firſt, proceeded he, I thought your reſentment of a mere unavailing curioſity could not be deep; [48] and that it would go off of itſelf: But when I found, it was to be kept up till you knew the ſucceſs of ſome new overtures which you had made, and which com⯑ply'd with, might have deprived me of you for ever; how, Madam, could I ſupport myſelf under the thoughts of having, with ſuch an union of intereſts, made ſo little impreſſion upon your mind in my fa⯑vour?

He paus'd again. I was ſtill ſilent. He went on.

I acknowlege that I have a proud heart, Madam. I cannot but hope for ſome inſtance of previous and preferable favour from the lady I am ambitious to call mine; and that her choice of me ſhould not appear, not flagrantly appear, directed by the perverſeneſs of her ſelfiſh perſecutors, and my irreconcileable ene⯑mies.

More to the ſame purpoſe he ſaid: You know, my dear, the room he had given me to recriminate upon him, in twenty inſtances: I did not ſpare him: But I need not repeat thoſe inſtances to you. Every one of theſe inſtances, I told him, convinced me of his pride, indeed, but not of his merit. I confeſſed, that I had as much pride as himſelf; altho' I hoped it was of another kind, than that he ſo readily avowed. But that if he had the leaſt mixture in his of the true pride (a pride worthy of his birth, of his family, and of his fortune), he ſhould rather wiſh, I would pre⯑ſume to ſay, to promote mine, than either to ſuppreſs, or to regret that I had it: That hence it was, that I thought it beneath me to diſown what had been my motives for declining, for ſome days paſt, any conver⯑ſation with him, or viſit from Mr. Mennell, that might lead to points out of my power to determine upon, until I heard from my uncle Harlowe; whom, I confeſſed, I had cauſed to be ſounded, whether [...] might be favoured with his intereſt, to obtain for me a reconciliation with my friends, upon terms which I had cauſed to be propoſed to him.

[49]He knew not, he ſaid, and ſuppoſed muſt not pre⯑ſume to aſk, what theſe terms were. But he could but too well gueſs at them; and that he was to have been the preliminary ſacrifice. But I muſt allow him to ſay, That as much as he admired the nobleneſs of my ſentiments in general, and in particular that true pride in me, which I had ſpoken of; he wiſh'd, that he could compliment me with ſuch an uniformity in it, as ſhould have ſet me as much above all ſubmiſſion to minds implacable and unreaſonable (he hoped he might, without offence, ſay that my brother's and ſiſter's were ſuch), as it had above all favour and condeſcenſion to him.

Duty and nature, Sir, call upon me to make the ſubmiſſions you ſpeak of: There is a father, there is a mother, there are uncles, in the one caſe, to juſtify and demand thoſe ſubmiſſions—What, pray, Sir, can be pleaded for the condeſcenſion, as you call it?—Will you ſay, your merits, either with regard to them, or to myſelf, may?

This to be ſaid, after the perſecution of thoſe re⯑lations! After what you have ſuffer'd! After what you have made me hope! Let me aſk you, Madam (we talk'd of pride juſt now), What ſort of pride muſt his be, which could diſpenſe with inclination and preference in his lady's part of it?—What muſt be that love—

Love, Sir! who talks of love?—Was not merit the thing we were talking of?—Have I ever profeſſed; have I ever required of you profeſſions of a paſſion of that nature? But there is no end of theſe debatings; each ſo faultleſs, each ſo full of ſelf—

I do not think myſelf faultleſs, Madam:—But—

But what, Sir!—Would you evermore argue with me, as if you were a child?—Seeking palliations, and making promiſes?—Promiſes of what, Sir? Of being in future the man it is a ſhame a gentleman is not?—Of being the man—

[50]Good God! interrupted he, with eyes lifted up, if thou wert to be thus ſevere—

Well, well, Sir, impatiently—I need only to ob⯑ſerve, that all this vaſt difference in ſentiments ſhews how unpair'd our minds are—So let us—

Let us what, Madam!—My ſoul is riſing into tu⯑mults! And he look'd ſo wildly, that it ſtartled me a good deal—Let us what, Madam—

Why, Sir, let us reſolve to quit every regard for each other—[Nay, flame not out—I am a poor weak-minded creature in ſome things: But where what I ſhould be, or not deſerve to live, if I am not, is in the queſtion, I have great and invincible ſpirit, or my own conceit betrays me].—Let us reſolve to quit every regard for each other that is more than civil. This you may depend upon; you may, if it will fewel your pride, gratify it with this aſſurance; That I will never marry any other man. I have ſeen enough of your ſex; at leaſt of you.—A ſingle life ſhall ever be my choice—While I will leave you at liberty to purſue your own.

Indifference, worſe than indifference! ſaid he, in a paſſion—

Interrupting him—Indifference let it be—You have not, in my opinion, at leaſt, deſerved it ſhould be other: If you have in your own, you have cauſe, at leaſt your pride has, to hate me for misjudging you.—

Deareſt, deareſt creature! ſnatching my hand with wildneſs, let me beſeech you to be uniformly noble! Civil regards, Madam!—Civil regards!—Can you ſo expect to narrow and confine ſuch a paſſion as mine!—

Such a paſſion as yours, Mr. Lovelace, deſerves to be narrow'd and confin'd.—It is either the paſſion you do not think it; or I do not.—I queſtion whe⯑ther your mind is capable of being ſo narrow'd and ſo widen'd, as is neceſſary to make it be what I wiſh [51] it to be. Lift up your hands and your eyes, Sir, in that emphatical ſilent wonder, as you pleaſe: But what does it expreſs, what does it convince me of; but that we are not born for one another?

By his ſoul, he ſaid, and graſp'd my hand with an eagerneſs that hurt it, we were born for one another: I muſt be his—I ſhould be his (and put his other arm round me), altho' his damnation were to be the pur⯑chaſe!—

I was terrify'd!—Let me leave you—or begone from me, Sir—Is the paſſion you boaſt, to be thus ſhockingly declared!

You muſt not go, Madam!—You muſt not leave me in anger—

I will return—I will return—When you can be leſs violent—leſs ſhocking.

And he let me go.

The man quite frighted me; inſomuch that when I got into my chamber, I found a ſudden flow of tears a great relief to me.

In half an hour, he ſent a little billet, expreſſing his concern for the vehemence of his behaviour, and praying to ſee me.

I went—Becauſe I could not help myſelf, I went.

He was full of his excuſes.—O my dear, what would you, even you, do with ſuch a man as this; and in my ſituation?

It was very poſſible for him now, he ſaid, to ac⯑count for the workings of a frenzical diſorder. For his part, he was near diſtraction. All laſt week to ſuffer as he had ſuffer'd; and now to talk of civil re⯑gards only, when he had hoped from the nobleneſs of my mind—

Hope what you will, interrupted I; I muſt inſiſt upon it, that our minds are by no means ſuited to each other. You have brought me into difficulties. I am deſerted of every friend but Miſs Howe. My [52] true ſentiments I will not conceal: It is againſt my will, that I muſt ſubmit to owe protection from a bro⯑ther's projects, which Miſs Howe thinks are not given over, to you, who have brought me into theſe ſtreights; not with my own concurrence brought me into them; remember that—

I do remember that, Madam! So often reminded, how can I forget it?

Yet I will owe to you this protection, if it be ne⯑ceſſary, in the earneſt hope, that you will ſhun rather than ſeek miſchief, if any further inquiry after me be made. But what hinders you from leaving me?—Cannot I ſend to you? The Widow Fretchville, it is plain, knows not her own mind: The people here indeed are civiller every day than other: But I had ra⯑ther have lodgings more agreeable to my circum⯑ſtances. I beſt know what will ſuit them; and am reſolved not to be obliged to any body. If you leave me, I will take a civil leave of theſe people, and re⯑tire to ſome one of the neighbouring villages, and there, ſecreting myſelf, wait my couſin Morden's ar⯑rival with patience.

He preſumed, he told me, from what I ſaid, that my application to my relations was unſucceſsful: That therefore he hoped I would give him leave now to mention the terms in the nature of ſettlements, which he had long intended to propoſe to me; and which having till now delay'd to do, thro' accidents not proceeding from himſelf, he had thoughts of urg⯑ing to me the moment I enter'd upon my new houſe; and upon finding myſelf as independent in appear⯑ance as I was in fact. Permit me, Madam, to pro⯑poſe theſe matters to you:—Not with an expectation of your immediate anſwer; but for your conſidera⯑tion.

Were not heſitation, a ſelf-felt glow, a downcaſt eye, more than enough? Your advice was too much in my head: I heſitated.

[53]He urg'd on upon my ſilence: He would call God to witneſs to the juſtice, nay to the generoſity of his in⯑tentions to me, if I would be ſo good as to hear what he had to propoſe to me, as to ſettlements.

Could not the man have fallen into the ſubject without this parade? Many a point, you know, is refuſed, and ought to be refuſed, if leave be aſked to introduce it; and when once refuſed, the refuſal muſt in honour be adhered to:—Whereas, had it been ſlid in upon one, as I may ſay, it might have merited fur⯑ther conſideration. If ſuch a man as he knows not this, who ſhould?

I thought myſelf obliged, tho' not to depart from this ſubject intirely, yet, to give it a more diffuſe turn; in order, on the one hand, to ſave myſelf the morti⯑fication of appearing too ready in my compliance, after ſuch a diſtance as had been between us; and on the other, to avoid (in purſuance of your advice) the neceſſity of giving him ſuch a repulſe, as might again throw us out of the courſe.

A cruel alternative to be reduced to!

You talk of generoſity, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid I; and you talk of juſtice; perhaps without having conſider'd the force of the words, in the ſenſe you uſe them on this occaſion.—Let me tell you what generoſity is, in my ſenſe of the word—TRUE GENEROSITY is not confined to pecuniary inſtances: It is more than po⯑liteneſs: It is more than good faith: It is more than honour: It is more than juſtice: Since all theſe are but duties, and what a worthy mind cannot diſpenſe with. But TRUE GENEROSITY is greatneſs of ſoul: It in⯑cites us to do more by a fellow-creature, than can be ſtrictly required of us: It obliges us to haſten to the relief of an object that wants relief; anticipating even hope or expectation. Generoſity, Sir, will not ſurely permit a worthy mind to doubt of its honourable and beneficent intentions: Much leſs will it allow itſelf to ſhock, to offend any one; and, leaſt of all, a per⯑ſon [54] thrown by adverſity, miſhap, or accident, into its protection.

What an opportunity had he to clear his intentions, had he been ſo diſpoſed, from the latter part of this home obſervation!—But he run away with the firſt, and kept to that.

Admirably defin'd! he ſaid.—But who at this rate, Madam, can be ſaid to be generous to you?—Your generoſity I implore; while, juſtice, as it muſt be my ſole merit, ſhall be my aim. Never was there a wo⯑man of ſuch nice and delicate ſentiments!

It is a reflection upon yourſelf, Sir, and upon the company you have kept, if you think theſe notions either nice or delicate. Thouſands of my ſex are more nice than I; for they would have avoided the devious path I have been ſurprized into: The conſe⯑quences of which ſurprize have laid me under the ſad neceſſity of telling a man, who has not delicacy enough to enter into thoſe parts of the female chara⯑cter, which are its glory and diſtinction, what True Generoſity is.

His divine monitreſs, he called me!—He would en⯑deavour to form his manners, as he had often pro⯑miſed, by my example. But he hoped I would now permit him to mention briefly the juſtice he propoſed to do me, in the terms of the ſettlement; a ſubject ſo proper, before now, to have been enter'd upon; and which would have been enter'd upon long ago, had not my frequent diſpleaſure taken from him the opportunity he had often wiſh'd for: But now having ventur'd to lay hold of this, nothing ſhould divert him from improving it.

I have no ſpirits juſt now, Sir, to attend to ſuch weighty points. What you have a mind to propoſe, write to me: And I ſhall know what anſwer to re⯑turn. Only one thing let me remind you of, that if you touch upon any ſubject, in which my papa has [55] a concern, I ſhall judge by your treatment of the father, what value you have for the daughter.

He looked, as if he would chooſe rather to ſpeak than write: But had he ſaid ſo, I had a ſevere return to have made upon him; as poſſibly he might ſee by my looks.

LETTER XIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MR. Lovelace has ſent me, by Dorcas, his pro⯑poſals, as follow:

‘'To ſpare a delicacy ſo extreme, and to obey you, I write: And the rather, that you may communi⯑cate this paper to Miſs Howe, who may conſult any of her friends you ſhall think proper to have intruſted on this occaſion. I ſay, intruſted; becauſe, as you know, I have given it out to ſeveral perſons, that we are actually marry'd.'’

‘'In the firſt place, Madam, I offer to ſettle upon you, by way of jointure, your whole eſtate. And moreover to veſt in truſtees ſuch a part of mine in Lancaſhire, as ſhall produce a clear four hundred pounds a year, to be paid to your ſole and ſeparate uſe, quarterly.'’

‘'My own eſtate is a clear 2000 l. per annum. Lord M. propoſes to give me poſſeſſion either of That which he has in Lancaſhire (to which, by the way, I think I have a better title than he has himſelf), or That we call The Lawn in Hertfordſhire, upon my nuptials with a lady whom he ſo greatly admires; and to make that I ſhall chooſe a clear 1000 l. per annum.'’

‘'My too great contempt of cenſure has ſubjected me to much traduction. It may not therefore be improper to aſſure you, on the word of a gentle⯑man, that no part of my eſtate was ever mortgaged: And that altho' I lived very expenſively abroad, and made large draughts, yet, that Midſummer-Day next will diſcharge all that I owe in the world. My notions are not all bad ones. I have been thought, in pecuniary caſes, generous. It would have de⯑ſerved another name, had I not firſt been juſt.'’

[58] ‘'If, as your own eſtate is at preſent in your father's hands, you rather chooſe that I ſhould make a jointure out of mine, tantamount to yours, be it what it will, it ſhall be done. I will engage Lord M. to write to you, what he propoſes to do on the happy occaſion: Not as your deſire or expectation, but to demonſtrate, that no advantage is intended to be taken of the ſituation you are in with your own family.'’

‘'To ſhew the beloved daughter the conſideration I have for her, I will conſent, that ſhe ſhall pre⯑ſcribe the terms of agreement in relation to the large ſums, which muſt be in her father's hands, ariſing from her grandfather's eſtate. I have no doubt, but he will be put upon making large de⯑mands upon you. All thoſe it ſhall be in your power to comply with, for the ſake of your own peace. And the remainder ſhall be paid into your hands, and be intirely at your diſpoſal, as a fund to ſupport thoſe charitable donations, which I have heard you ſo famed for out of your family; and for which you have been ſo greatly reflected upon in it.'’

‘'As to cloaths, jewels, and the like, againſt the time you ſhall chooſe to make your appearance, it will be my pride, that you ſhall not be beholden for ſuch of theſe, as ſhall be anſwerable to the rank of both, to thoſe who have had the ſtupid folly to re⯑nounce a daughter they deſerved not. You muſt excuſe me, Madam: You would miſtruſt my ſin⯑cerity in the reſt, could I ſpeak of theſe people with leſs aſperity, tho' ſo nearly related to you.'’

‘'Theſe, Madam, are my propoſals. They are ſuch as I always deſigned to make, whenever you would permit me to enter into the delightful ſub⯑ject. But you have been ſo determin'd to try every method for reconciling yourſelf to your relations even by giving me abſolutely up for ever, that yo [...] have ſeem'd to think it but juſtice to keep me at [...] [59] diſtance, till the event of that your predominant hope could be ſeen. It is now ſeen!—And altho' I have been, and perhaps ſtill am, ready to regret the want of that preference I wiſh'd for from you as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe; yet I am ſure, as the huſband of Mrs. Lovelace, I ſhall be more ready to adore than to blame you for the pangs you have given to a heart, the generoſity, or rather juſtice of which, my im⯑placable enemies have taught you to doubt: And this ſtill the readier, as I am perſuaded, that thoſe pangs never would have been given by a mind ſo noble, had not the doubt been entertained, perhaps, with too great an appearance of reaſon; and as I hope I ſhall have it to reflect, that the moment the doubt ſhall be overcome, the indifference will ceaſe.'’

‘'I will only add, that if I have omitted any thing, that would have given you further ſatisfaction; or if the above terms be ſhort of what you would wiſh; you will be pleaſed to ſupply them as you think fit. And when I know your pleaſure, I will inſtantly order articles to be drawn up conformably; that no⯑thing in my power may be wanting to make you happy.'’

‘'You will now, deareſt Madam, judge, how far all the reſt depends upon yourſelf.'’

YOU ſee, my dear, what he offers. You ſee it is all my fault, that he has not made theſe offers before.—I am a ſtrange creature! To be to blame in every⯑thing, and to every-body! Yet neither intend the ill at the time, nor know it to be the ill till too late, or ſo nearly too late, that I muſt give up all the delicacy he talks of, to compound for my fault!

I ſhall now judge how far all the reſt depends upon myſelf! So coldly concludes he ſuch warm, and, in the main, unobjectible propoſals! Would you not, as you read, have ſuppoſed, that the paper would con⯑clude with the moſt earneſt demand of a day?—I [60] own, I had that expectation ſo ſtrong, reſulting natu⯑rally, as I may ſay, from the premiſes, that without ſtudying for diſſatisfaction, I could not help being diſ⯑ſatisfied, when I came to the concluſion.—But you ſay, there is no help. I muſt, perhaps, make further ſacrifices. All delicacy, it ſeems, is to be at an end with me! But if ſo, this man knows not what every wiſe man knows, that prudence, and virtue, and de⯑licacy of mind in a wife, do the huſband more real honour, in the eye of the world, than the ſame qua⯑lities (were ſhe deſtitute of them) in himſelf: As the want of them in her does him more diſ-honour: For are not the wife's errors, the huſband's reproach? How juſtly his reproach, is another thing.

I will conſider this paper; and write to it, if I am able: For it ſeems now, all the reſt depends upon my⯑ſelf.

LETTER XIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

Four letters are written by Mr. Lovelace from the date of his laſt, giving the ſtate of affairs between him and the lady, pretty much the ſame as in hers in the ſame period, allowing for the humour in his; and for his reſentments expreſſed with vehemence on her re⯑ſolution to leave him, if her friends could be prevailed upon.—A few extracts from them will be only given.

‘'What, ſays he, might have become of me, and my projects, had not her father, and the reſt of the [66] implacables, ſtood my friends?' After violent threat⯑nings and vows of revenge, he ſays— ''Tis plain ſhe would have given me up for ever; nor ſhould I have been able to prevent her abandoning of me, unleſs I had torn up the tree by the roots to come at the fruit; which I hope ſtill to bring down by a gentle ſhake or two, if I can but have patience to ſtay the ripening ſeaſon.'’

Thus triumphing in his unpolite cruelty, he ſays,— ‘'After her haughty treatment of me, I am reſolved ſhe ſhall ſpeak out. There are a thouſand beauties to be diſcovered in the face, in the accent, in th [...] buſh-beating heſitations of a woman that is earneſt about a ſubject which ſhe wants to introduce, yet knows not how. Silly rogues, calling themſelves generous ones, would value themſelves for ſparing a lady's confuſion: But they are ſilly rogues indeed▪ and rob themſelves of prodigious pleaſure by the [...] forwardneſs; and at the ſame time deprive her o [...] diſplaying a world of charms, which only can be manifeſted on theſe occaſions. Hard-heartedneſs, as it is called, is an eſſential of the libertine's cha⯑racter. Familiarized to the diſtreſſes he occaſions, he is ſeldom betray'd by tenderneſs into a complai⯑ſant weakneſs unworthy of himſelf. How have I enjoyed a charming creature's confuſion, as I have ſat over-againſt her; her eyes loſt in admiration of my ſhoebuckles, or meditating ſome uncouth figure in the carpet!'’

Mentioning the ſettlements, he ſays,— ‘'I am in earneſt as to the terms. If I marry her (and I have no doubt but that I ſhall, after my pride, my am⯑bition, my revenge, if thou wilt, is gratify'd), I will do her noble juſtice. The more I do for ſuch a prudent, ſuch an excellent oeconomiſt, the more ſhall I do for myſelf.—But, by my ſoul, Belford, her haughtineſs ſhall be brought down to own both love [67] and obligation to me.—Nor will this ſketch of ſettlements bring us forwarder than I would have it. Modeſty of ſex will ſtand my friend at any time. At the very altar, our hands join'd, I'd en⯑gage to make this proud beauty leave the parſon and me, and all my friends preſent, tho' there were twenty of them, to look like fools upon one another, while ſhe took wing, and flew out of the church-door, or window, if that were open, and the door ſhut; and this only by a very word.'’

He mentions his raſh expreſſion, that ſhe ſhould be his, altho' damnation were to be the purchaſe; and owns that, at that inſtant, he was upon the point of making a violent attempt; but that he was check'd in the very moment, and but juſt in time, by the awe he was ſtruck with on again caſt⯑ing his eye upon her terrified but lovely face, and ſee⯑ing, as he thought, her ſpotleſs heart in every line of it.

‘'O virtue, virtue! ſays he, what is there in thee, that can thus affect the heart of ſuch a man as me, againſt my will!—Whence theſe involuntary tre⯑mors, and fear of giving mortal offence?—What art thou, that acting in the breaſt of a feeble wo⯑man, canſt ſtrike ſo much awe into a ſpirit ſo intre⯑pid! Which never before, no, not in my firſt at⯑tempt, young as I then was, and frighted at my own boldneſs (till I found myſelf forgiven), had ſuch an effect upon me!'’

He paints, in lively colours, that part of the ſcene [...]tween him and the Lady, where ſhe ſays, ‘'The word father has a ſweet and venerable found with it.'’

‘'I was exceedingly affected, ſays he, upon the oc⯑caſion. But was aſhamed to be ſurpriſed by her into ſuch a fit of unmanly weakneſs:—So aſhamed, that I was reſolved to ſubdue it at the inſtant, and guard againſt the like for the future. Yet, at that [68] moment, I more than half regretted, that I could not permit her to enjoy a triumph which ſhe ſo well deſerved to glory in:—Her youth, her beauty, her artleſs innocence, and her manner, equally beyond compariſon or deſcription. But her indiffe [...]ence, Belford!—That ſhe could reſolve to ſacrifice me to the malice of my enemies; and carry on the deſig [...] in ſo clandeſtine a manner—Yet love her, as I do to frenzy!—Revere her, as I do, to adoration!—Theſe were the recollections with which I fortify'd my recreant heart againſt her.—Yet, after all, if ſhe perſevere, ſhe muſt conquer!—Coward, as ſhe has made me, that never was a coward before!'’

HE concludes his fourth letter in a vehement rage, upon her repulſing him, when he offer'd to ſalute her; having ſuppoſed, as he owns, that ſhe would have bee [...] all condeſcenſion on his propoſals to her.

‘'This, ſays he, I will for ever remember againſt her, in order to ſteel my own heart, that I may c [...] thro' a rock of ice to hers; and repay her for th [...] diſdain, the ſcorn, which glow'd in her counte⯑nance, and was apparent in her air, at her abrup [...] departure from me, after ſuch obliging behaviour on my ſide, and after I had ſo earneſtly preſſed h [...] for an early day.—The women below ſay, Sh [...] hates me, ſhe deſpiſes me!—And 'tis true: Sh [...] does; ſhe muſt.—And why cannot I take their ad⯑vice?—I will not long, my fair one, be deſpiſed by thee, and laughed at by them!'’

‘'Let me acquaint thee, Jack, adds he, by way of poſtſcript, That this effort of hers to leave me if ſhe could have been received; her ſending for a coach on Sunday; no doubt, reſolving not to return, if ſhe had gone out without me (for did ſhe not declare, that ſhe had thought to retire to ſome of the villages about town where ſhe could be ſafe and private?); have al [...] [69] together ſo much alarm'd me, that I have been adding to the written inſtructions for my ſer⯑vant, and the people below, how to act, in caſe ſhe ſhould elope in my abſence: Parti⯑cularly letting my fellow know what he ſhall report to ſtrangers, in caſe ſhe ſhall throw herſelf upon any ſuch, with a reſolution to abandon me. Theſe inſtructions I ſhall further add to, as circumſtances offer.'’

LETTER XV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Have neither time nor patience, my dear friend, to anſwer to every material article in your laſt let⯑ [...]ers, juſt now received. Mr. Lovelace's propoſals [...]e all I like of him. And yet (as you do) I think, [...]hat he concludes them not with that warmth and [...]arneſtneſs which we might naturally have expected [...]om him. Never in my life did I hear or read of ſo [...]atient a man, with ſuch a bleſſing in his reach. But [...]retches of his caſt, between you and me, my dear, [...]ave not, I fancy, the ardors that honeſt men have. Who knows, as your Bell once ſpitefully ſaid, but he may have half a dozen creatures to quit his hands of, before he engages for life?—Yet I believe you muſt not expect him to be honeſt on this ſide of his grand [...]macteric.

He, to ſuggeſt delay from a compliment to be made to Lord M. and to give time for ſettlements!—He, a part of whoſe character it is, not to know what complaiſance to his relations is!—I have no patience with him!—You did indeed want an interpoſing [...]iend, on the affecting occaſion which you mention [...]n yours of yeſterday morning. But, upon my word, were I to have been that moment in your [...]u [...]tion, and been ſo treated, I would have torn his [70] eyes out, and left it to his own heart, when I had done, to furniſh the reaſon for it.

Would to Heaven to-morrow, without complimenting any-body, might be his happy day!—Villain! After he had himſelf ſuggeſted the compliment!—And I think he accuſes YOU of delaying!—Fellow, that he is!—How my heart is wrung—

But, as matters now ſtand betwixt you, I am very unſeaſonable in expreſſing my reſentments againſt him.—Yet I don't know whether I am or not, nei⯑ther; ſince it is the cruelleſt of fates, for a woman to be forced to have a man whom her heart deſpiſes You muſt, at leaſt, deſpiſe him; at times, however. His clenched fiſt offered to his forehead on your leav⯑ing him in juſt diſpleaſure; I wiſh it had been a pole⯑ax, and in the hand of his worſt enemy.

I will endeavour to think of ſome method, of ſome ſcheme, to get you from him, and to fix you ſafel [...] ſomewhere, till your couſin Morden arrives: A ſcheme to lie by you, and to be purſued as occaſio [...] may be given. You are ſure, that you can go abroa [...] when you pleaſe; and that our correſpondence is ſafe I cannot, however, for the reaſons heretofore men⯑tioned, reſpecting your own reputation, wiſh you [...] leave him, while he gives you not cauſe to ſuſpec [...] his honour. But your heart, I know, would be th [...] eaſier, if you were ſure of ſome aſylum, in caſe of ne⯑ceſſity.

Yet once more, I ſay, I can have no notion th [...] he can or dare to mean you diſhonour.—But then th [...] man is a fool, my dear—that's all.

However, ſince you are thrown upon a fool, ma [...] the fool, at the firſt opportunity; and tho' I do [...] that this man will be the moſt ungovernable of foo [...] as all witty and vain fools are, take him as a puniſh⯑ment, ſince you cannot as a reward. In ſhort, as o [...] given, to convince you, that there is nothing but i [...] perfection in this life.

[71]I ſhall be impatient till I have your next. I am, my deareſt friend,

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

I Would conceal nothing from you that relates to yourſelf ſo much as the incloſed. You will ſee what the noble writer apprehends from you, and wiſhes of you, with regard to Miſs Harlowe, and how much at heart all your relations have it, that you do honourably by her. They compliment me with an influence over you, which I wiſh with all my ſoul you would let me have in this article.

Let me once more intreat thee, Lovelace, to re⯑flect, before it be too late, before the mortal offence [...]e given, upon the graces and merits of this lady. Let thy frequent remorſes at laſt end in one effectual one. Let not pride and wantonneſs of heart, ruin thy fairer proſpects. By my faith, Lovelace, there is nothing [...]ut vanity, conceit, and nonſenſe, in our wild ſchemes. As we grow older, we ſhall be wiſer, and looking back upon our fooliſh notions of the preſent hour, ſhall certainly deſpiſe ourſelves (our youth diſſi⯑pated), when we think of the honourable engagements we might have made. Thou, more eſpecially, if thou letteſt ſuch a matchleſs creature ſlide thro' thy fingers. A creature pure from her cradle. In all her actions and ſentiments uniformly noble. Strict in the per⯑formance of all her even unrewarded duties to the moſt unreaſonable of fathers, what a wife will ſhe make the man who ſhall have the honour to call her his!

Reflect likewiſe upon her ſufferings for thee. Actual⯑ly [72] at the time thou art forming ſchemes to ruin her (at leaſt, in her ſenſe of the word) is ſhe not labouring under a father's curſe laid upon her by thy means, and for thy ſake? And wouldſt thou give operation and completion to this curſe?

And what, Lovelace, all the time is thy pride? Thou that vainly imagineſt, that the whole family of the, Harlowes, and that of the Howes too, are but thy machines, unknown to themſelves, to bring about thy purpoſes, and thy revenge: What art thou more, or better, than the inſtrument even of her implacable brother, and envious ſiſter, to perpetrate the diſgrace of the moſt excellent of ſiſters, which they are moved to by vilely low and ſordid motives?—Canſt thou bear, Lovelace, to be thought the machine of thy in⯑veterate enemy James Harlowe?—Nay, art thou not the cully of that ſtill viler Joſeph Leman, who ſerves himſelf as much by thy money, as he does thee by the double part he acts by thy direction?—And the devil's agent beſides, who only can, and who cer⯑tainly will, ſuitably reward thee, if thou proceedeſt, and if thou effecteſt thy wicked purpoſe?

Could any man but you put together upon paper the following queſtions, with ſo much unconcern as you ſeem to have written them?—Give them a reperuſal, O heart of adamant! ‘'Whither can ſhe fly to avoid me? Her parents will not receive her; her uncles will not entertain her: Her beloved Norton is in their direction, and cannot. Miſs Howe dare not. She has not one friend in town but ME: Is intirely a ſtranger to the town ^(a).'’—What muſt that heart be that can triumph in a diſtreſs ſo deep, into which ſhe has been plunged by thy ela⯑borate arts and contrivances? And what a ſweet, yet ſad reflection was that, which had almoſt had its due effect upon thee, ariſing from thy naming Lord M. for her nuptial father! Her tender years inclining [73] her to wiſh a father, and to hope a friend.—O my dear Lovelace, canſt thou reſolve to be, inſtead of the father thou haſt robbed her of, a devil?

Thou knoweſt, that I have no intereſt, that I can have no view, in wiſhing thee to do juſtice to this ad⯑mirable creature. For thy own ſake, once more I conjure thee, for thy family's ſake, and for the ſake of our common humanity, let me beſeech thee to be juſt to Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe.

No matter whether theſe expoſtulations are in cha⯑racter from me, or not. I have been, and am, bad enough. If thou takeſt my advice, which is, as the incloſed will ſhew thee, the advice of all thy family, thou wilt perhaps have it to reproach me (and but perhaps neither), that thou art not a worſe man than myſelf. But if thou doſt not, and if thou ruineſt ſuch a virtue, all the complicated wickedneſs of ten devils, let looſe among the innocent, with full power over them, will not do ſo much vile and baſe miſchief as thou wilt be guilty of.

It is ſaid, that the prince on his throne is not ſafe, if a mind ſo deſperate can be found, as values not its own life. So may it be ſaid, that the moſt immacu⯑late virtue is not ſafe, if a man can be met with, who has no regard to his own honour, and makes a jeſt of the moſt ſolemn vows and proteſtations.

Thou mayeſt by trick, chicane, and falſe colours, thou who art worſe than a pickeroon in love, over⯑come a poor lady ſo intangled as thou haſt intangled her; ſo unprotected as thou haſt made her: But conſider, how much more generous and juſt to her, and noble to thyſelf, it is, to overcome thyſelf.

Once more, it is no matter, whether my paſt or future actions countenance my preachment, as perhaps thou'lt call what I have written: But this I promiſe thee, that whenever I meet with a woman of but one half of Miſs Harlowe's perfections, who will favour me with her acceptance, I will take the ad⯑vice [74] I give, and marry. Nor will I attempt to try her honour at the hazard of my own. In other words, I will not degrade an excellent creature in her own eyes, by trials, when I have no cauſe for ſuſpicion. And let me add, with reſpect, to thy Eagleſhip's manifeſtation, of which thou boaſteſt, in thy attempts upon the innocent and uncorrupted, ra⯑ther than upon thoſe whom thou humourouſly com⯑pareſt to wrens, philtits, and wagtails ^(a), that I hope I have it not once to reproach myſelf, that I ruin'd the morals of any one creature, who otherwiſe would have been uncorrupted. Guilt enough in contributing to the continued guilt of other poor wretches, if I am one of thoſe who take care ſhe ſhall never riſe again, when ſhe has once fallen.

Whatever the capital devil, under whoſe banner thou haſt liſted, will let thee do, with regard to this incomparable woman, I hope thou wilt act with ho⯑nour, in relation to the incloſed, between Lord M. and me; who, as thou wilt ſee, deſires, that thou mayeſt not know he wrote on the ſubject; for reaſons, I think, very far from being creditable to thyſelf: And that thou wilt take as meant, the honeſt zeal for thy ſervice, of

LETTER XVII. Lord M. To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq

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

WHEN I have opened my views to thee ſo amply, as I have done in my former letters; and have told thee, that my principal deſign is but to bring virtue to a trial, that, if virtue, it need not be afraid of; and that the reward of it will be marriage (that is to ſay, if, after I have carried my point, I cannot prevail upon her to live with me the Life of Honour^(a); for that thou knoweſt is the wiſh of my heart); I am amazed at the repetition of thy wambling nonſenſe.

I am of opinion with thee, that ſome time hence, when I am grown wiſer, I ſhall conclude, that there is nothing but vanity, conceit, and nonſenſe, in my pre⯑ſent wild ſchemes. But what is this ſaying, but that I muſt be firſt wiſer?

I do not intend to let this matchleſs creature ſlide through my fingers.

Art thou able to ſay half the things in her praiſe, that I have ſaid, and am continually ſaying or writing?

Her gloomy father curſed the ſweet creature, be⯑cauſe ſhe put it out of his wicked power to compel her to have the man ſhe hated. Thou knoweſt how little merit ſhe has with me on this ſcore.—And ſhall I not try the virtue I intend, upon full proof, to reward, be⯑cauſe her father is a tyrant?—Why art thou thus eternally reflecting upon ſo excellent a woman, as if thou wert aſſured ſhe would fail in the trial?—Nay, thou declareſt, every time thou writeſt on the ſubject, that ſhe will, that ſhe muſt yield, intangled as ſhe is: And yet makeſt her virtue the pretence of thy ſolicitude for her.

An inſtrument of the vile James Harlowe, doſt thou call me?—O Jack! how I could curſe thee!—I an [80] inſtrument of that brother! of that ſiſter!—But mark the end—And thou ſhalt ſee what will become of that brother, and of that ſiſter!

Play not againſt me my own acknowleged ſenſi⯑bilities, I deſire thee. Senſibilities which, at the ſame time that they contradict thy charge of an adamantine heart in thy friend, thou hadſt known nothing of, had I not communicated them to thee.

If I ruin ſuch a virtue, ſayeſt thou?—Eternal mo⯑notoniſt!—Again; The moſt immaculate virtue may be ruined by men, who have no regard to their honour, and who make a jeſt of the moſt ſolemn oaths, &c. What muſt be the virtue that will be ruined without oaths? Is not the world full of theſe deceptions? And are not lovers oaths a jeſt of hundreds of years ſtanding? And are not cautions againſt the perfidy of our ſex, a ne⯑ceſſary part of the female education?

I do intend to endeavour to overcome myſelf; but I muſt firſt try, if I cannot overcome this lady. Have I not ſaid, that the honour of her Sex is concerned that I ſhould try?

Whenever thou meeteſt with a woman of but half her perfections, thou wilt marry.—Do, Jack.

Can a girl be degraded by trials, who is not over⯑come?

I am glad, that thou takeſt crime to thyſelf, for not endeavouring to convert the poor wretches whom others have ruined. I will not recriminate upon thee, Belford, as I might, when thou flattereſt thyſelf, that thou never ruinedſt the morals of any young creature, who otherwiſe would not have been corrupted.—The palliating conſolation of an Hottentot heart, de⯑termined rather to gluttonize on the garbage of other ſoul feeders, than to reform.—But tell me, Jack, wouldſt thou have ſpared ſuch a girl as my Roſebud, had I not, by my example, engaged thy generoſity? Nor was my Roſebud the only girl I ſpared:—When my power was acknowleged, who more merciful than thy friend?

The women know this as well as the men. They love to be addreſſed with ſpirit;

Whence, for a by-reflection, the ardent, the com⯑plaiſant Gallant is ſo often preferr'd to the cold Huſ⯑band. And yet the Sex do not conſider, that Variety or Novelty gives the ardour and the obſequiouſneſs; and that, were the Rake as much uſed to them as the Huſband is, he would be (and is to his own wife, if married) as indifferent to their favours; and the Huſ⯑band, in his turn, would, to another woman, be the Rake. Let the women, upon the whole, take this leſſon from a Lovelace-Always to endeavour to make themſelves as New to a Huſband, and to appear as elegant and as obliging to him, as they are deſirous to appear to a Lover, and actually were to him as ſuch; and then the Rake, which all women love, will laſt longer in the Huſband, than it generally does.

But to return:—If I have not ſufficiently clear'd my conduct to thee in the above; I refer thee once more to mine of the 13th of laſt month ^(a). And pr'ythee, Jack, lay me not under a neceſſity to repeat the ſame things ſo often. I hope thou readeſt what I write more than once.

I am not diſpleaſed that thou art ſo apprehenſive of my reſentment, that I cannot miſs a day, without making thee uneaſy. Thy conſcience, 'tis plain, tells thee, that thou haſt deſerved my diſpleaſure: And if it has convinced thee of that, it will make thee afraid of repeating thy fault. See that this be the conſequence. Elſe, now that thou haſt told me how I can pu⯑niſh [82] thee, it is very likely that I do puniſh thee by my ſilence, altho' I have as much pleaſure in writing on this charming ſubject, as thou canſt have in reading what I write.

When a boy, if a dog ran away from me thro' fear, I generally looked about for a ſtone, a ſtick, or a brickbat; and if neither offer'd to my hand, I ſkimm'd my hat after him, to make him afraid for ſomething. What ſignifies power, if we do not exert it?

Let my Lord know thou haſt ſcribbled to me. But give him not the contents of thy epiſtle. Tho' a parcel of crude ſtuff, he would think there was ſome⯑thing in it. Poor arguments will do in favour of what we like. But the ſtupid Peer little thinks, that this lady is a rebel to love. On the contrary, not only he, but all the world, believe her to be a volunteer in his ſervice.—So I ſhall incur blame, and ſhe will be pity'd, if any thing happen amiſs.

Since my Lord's heart is ſo ſet upon this match, I have written already to let him know, ‘'That my unhappy character has given my beloved an unge⯑nerous diffidence of me. That ſhe is ſo mother-ſick and father-fond, that ſhe had rather return to Harlowe-Place, than marry. That ſhe is even ap⯑prehenſive, that the ſtep ſhe has taken of going off with me, will make the ladies of a family of ſuch name and rank as ours, think ſlightly of her. That therefore I deſire his Lordſhip (tho' this hint, I tell him, muſt be very delicately touched) to write me ſuch a letter as I can ſhew her. Let him treat me in it ever ſo freely, I ſhall not take it amiſs, becauſe I know his Lordſhip takes pleaſure in writing to me in a corrective ſtyle. That he may make what offers he pleaſes on the marriage. That I deſire his pre⯑ſence at the ceremony; that I may take from his hand the greateſt bleſſing that mortal man can give me.'’

[83]I have not abſolutely told the lady that I would write to his Lordſhip to this effect; yet have given her reaſon to think I will. So that without the laſt neceſſity I ſhall not produce the anſwer I expect from him: For I am very loth, I own, to make uſe of any of my family's names for the furthering of my deſigns. And yet I muſt make all ſecure, before I pull off the maſk. This was my motive for bringing her hither.

Thus, thou ſeeſt, that the old Peer's letter came very ſeaſonably. I thank thee for it. But as to his ſentences, they cannot poſſibly do me good. I was early ſuffocated with his Wiſdom of nations. When a boy, I never aſked any thing of him, but out flew a proverb; and if the tendency of that was to deny me, I never could obtain the leaſt favour. This gave me ſo great an averſion to the very word, that, when a child, I made it a condition with my tutor, who was an honeſt parſon, that I would not read my Bible at all, if he would not excuſe me one of the wiſeſt books in it: To which, however, I had no other objection, than that it was called The Proverbs. And as for So⯑lomon, he was then a hated character with me, not becauſe of his polygamy, but becauſe I had conceived him to be ſuch another muſty old fellow as my uncle.

Well, but let us leave old ſaws to old men.—What ſignifies thy tedious whining over thy departing relation? Is it not generally agreed, that he cannot recover? Will it not be kind in thee, to put him out of his miſery? I hear, that he is peſter'd ſtill with viſits from doctors, and apothecaries, and ſurgeons; that they cannot cut ſo deep as the mortification has gone; and that in every viſit, in every ſcarification, inevitable death is pronounced upon him. Why then do they keep tormenting him? Is it not to take away more of his living fleece than of his dead fleſh?—When a man is given over, the fee ſhould ſurely be refuſed. Are they not now robbing his heirs?—What haſt thou to do, if the will be as thou'dſt have it?— [84] He ſent for thee [Did he not?] to cloſe his eyes. He is but an uncle, is he?

Let me ſee, if I miſtake not, it is in the Bible, or ſome other good book: Can it be in Herodotus?—O, I believe it is in Joſephus; A half-ſacred and half-pro⯑fane author. He tells us of a king of Syria, put out of his pain by his prime miniſter, or one who deſerved to be ſo for his contrivance. The ſtory ſays, if I am right, that he ſpread a wet cloth over his face, which killing him, he reigned in his place. A notable fel⯑low! Perhaps this wet cloth, in the original, is what we now call laudanum; a potion that overſpreads the faculties, as the wet cloth did the face of the royal patient, and the tranſlator knew not how to render it.

But how like a forlorn varlet thou ſubſcribeſt, Thy melancholy friend, J. BELFORD!—Melancholy! for what? To ſtand by, and ſee fair play between an old man and death? I thought thou hadſt been more of a man; thou that art not afraid of an acute death, a ſword's point, to be ſo plaguily hyp'd at the conſe⯑quences of a chronical one?—What tho' the ſcarifi⯑cators work upon him day by day? it is only upon a caput mortuum: And pr'ythee Go to, to uſe the ſty⯑lum veterum, and learn of the Royal butchers; who, for ſport [an hundred times worſe men than thy Love⯑lace] widow ten thouſand at a bruſh, and make twice as many fatherleſs; and are dubb'd Magnus or Le Grand for it: Learn of them, I ſay, how to ſupport a ſingle death.

I wiſh my uncle had given me the opportunity of ſetting thee a better example: Thou ſhouldſt have ſeen what a brave fellow I had been. And had I had occaſion to write, my concluſion would have been this: 'I hope the old Trojan's happy. In that hope, I am ſo; and

Dwell not always, Jack, upon one ſubject. Let me have poor Belton's ſtory; the ſooner the bet⯑ter. If I can be of ſervice to him, tell him he may command me, either in purſe or perſon. Yet the former with a freer will than the latter; for how can I leave my goddeſs? But I'll iſſue my commands to my other vaſſals to attend thy ſummons. If ye want head, let me know. If not, my quota on this occaſion is money.

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

NOT one word will I reply to ſuch an abandon'd wretch, as thou haſt ſhewn thyſelf to be in thine of laſt night. I will leave the lady to the protection of that Power who only can work miracles; and to her own merits. Still I have hopes that theſe will ſave her.

I will proceed, as thou deſireſt, to poor Belton's caſe; and the rather, as it has thrown me into ſuch a train of thinking upon our paſt lives, our preſent courſes, and our future views, as may be of ſervice to both, if I can give due weight to the reflections that ariſe from it.

The poor man made me a viſit on Thurſday, in this my melancholy attendance. He began with com⯑plaints of his ill health and ſpirits, his hectic cough, and his increaſed malady of ſpitting of blood; and then led to his ſtory.

A confounded one it is; and which highly aggra⯑vates his other maladies: For it has come out, that his Thomaſine (who truly would be new-chriſten'd, you know, that her name might be nearer in ſound to the chriſtian name of the man whom ſhe pretended to doat upon) has for many years carried on an intrigue [86] with a fellow who had been hoſtler to her father (an [...] innkeeper at Darking); of whom, at the expence o [...] poor Tom, ſhe has made a gentleman; and managed it ſo, that having the art to make herſelf his caſhier, ſhe has been unable to account for large ſums, which poor Belton thought forthcoming at his demand, and had truſted to her cuſtody, in order to pay off a mortgage upon his paternal eſtate in Kent, which his heart had run upon leaving clear; but which cannot now be done, and will ſoon be forecloſed. And yet ſhe has ſo long paſſed for his wife, that he knows not what to reſolve upon about her; nor about the two boys he was ſo fond of, ſuppoſing them to be his; whereas now he begins to doubt his ſhare in them.

So KEEPING don't do, Lovelace. 'Tis not the eligible life. ‘'A man my keep a woman, ſaid the poor fellow to me, but not his eſtate!—Two inter⯑eſts!—Then, my tottering fabric!'’ pointing to his emaciated carcaſe.

We do well to value ourſelves upon our liberty, or, to ſpeak more properly, upon the liberties we take! We had need to run down matrimony as we do, and to make that ſtate the ſubject of our frothy jeſts; when we frequently render ourſelves [for this of Tom's is not a ſingular caſe] the dupes and fools of women, who generally govern us (by arts our wiſe heads penetrate not) more abſolutely than a wife would attempt to do!

Let us conſider this point a little; and that upon our own principles, as libertines, ſetting aſide what the laws of our country, and its cuſtoms, oblige from us; which, nevertheleſs, we cannot get over, till we have got over almoſt all moral obligations, as members of ſociety.

In the firſt place, let us conſider [we, who are in poſſeſſion of eſtates by legal deſcent], how we ſhould have liked to have been ſuch naked deſtitute varlets as we muſt have been, had our fathers been as wiſe [87] as ourſelves; and deſpiſed matrimony as we do—And then let us aſk ourſelves, if we ought not to have the ſame regard for our poſterity, as we are glad our fa⯑thers had for theirs?

But this, perhaps, is too moral a conſideration.—To proceed therefore to thoſe which will be more ſtriking to us, How can we reaſonably expect oeco⯑nomy or frugality (or any thing indeed but riot and waſte) from creatures who have an intereſt, and muſt therefore have views, different from our own?

They know the uncertain tenure [our fickle hu⯑mours] by which they hold: And is it to be won⯑der'd at, ſuppoſing them to be provident harlots, that they ſhould endeavour, if they have the power, to lay up againſt a rainy day; or, if they have not the power, that they ſhould ſquander all they can come at, when they are ſure of nothing but the preſent hour; and when the life they live, and the ſacrifices they have made, put conſcience and honour out of the queſtion?

Whereas a wife, having the ſame family-intereſt with her huſband, lies not under either the ſame ap⯑prehenſions or temptations; and has not broken through [of neceſſity, at leaſt, has not] thoſe reſtraints which education has faſten'd upon her: And if ſhe make a private purſe, which we are told by anti-matrimonial⯑iſts, all wives love to do, and has children, it goes all into the ſame family, at the long-run.

Then, as to the great article of fidelity to your bed, are not women of family, who are well-edu⯑cated, under greater reſtraints, than creatures, who, if they ever had reputation, ſacrifice it to ſordid in⯑tereſt, or to more ſordid appetite, the moment they give up to you? Does not the example you furniſh, of having ſucceeded with her, give encourage⯑ment for others to attempt her likewiſe? For, with all her blandiſhments, can any man be ſo credulous, [88] or ſo vain, as to believe, that the woman be could perſuade, another may not prevail upon?

Adultery is ſo capital a guilt, that even rakes and libertines, if not wholly abandon'd, and, as I may ſay, invited by a woman's levity, diſavow and con⯑demn it: But here, in a ſtate of KEEPING, a woman is in no danger of incurring, legally, at leaſt, that guilt; and you yourſelf have broken thro', and over⯑thrown in her, all the fences and boundaries of moral honeſty, and the modeſty and reſerves of her Sex: And what tie ſhall hold her againſt inclination, or in⯑tereſt? And what ſhall deter an attempter?

While a huſband has this ſecurity from legal ſan⯑ctions, that if his wife be detected in a criminal con⯑verſation with a man of fortune [the moſt likely by bribes to ſeduce her], he may recover very great da⯑mages, and procure a divorce beſides: Which, to ſay nothing of the ignominy, is a conſideration that muſt have ſome force upon both parties. And a wife muſt be vicious indeed, and a reflection upon a man's own choice, who, for the ſake of change, and where there are no qualities to ſeduce, nor affluence to cor⯑rupt, will run ſo many hazards to injure her huſband in the tendereſt of all points.

But there are difficulties in procuring a divorce—[And ſo there ought:]—And none, ſays the rake, in parting with a miſtreſs, whenever you ſuſpect her; or, whenever, weary of her, you have a mind to change her for another.

But muſt not the man be a brute indeed, who can caſt off a woman, whom he has ſeduced [If he take her from the town, that's another thing], without ſome flagrant reaſon; ſomething that will better juſ⯑tify him to himſelf, as well as to her, and to the world, than mere power and novelty?

But I don't ſee, if we judge by fact, and by the practice of all we have been acquainted with, of the [89] Keeping claſs, that we know how to part with them when we have them.

That we know we can if we will, is all we have for it: And this leads us to bear many things from a miſtreſs, which we would not from a wife. But if we are good-natur'd and humane: If the woman has art [And what woman wants it, who has fallen by art? and to whoſe precarious ſituation art is ſo ne⯑ceſſary?] If you have given her the credit of being called by your name: If you have a ſettled place of abode, and have received and paid viſits in her com⯑pany, as your wife: If ſhe has brought you children; you will allow, that theſe are ſtrong obligations upon you, in the world's eye, as well as to your own heart, againſt tearing yourſelf from ſuch cloſe con⯑nexions. She will ſtick to you as your ſkin: And it will be next to flaying yourſelf to caſt her off.

Even if there be cauſe for it, by infidelity, ſhe will have managed ill, if ſhe have not her defenders—Nor did I ever know a cauſe, or a perſon, ſo bad, as to want advocates, either from ill will to the one, or pity to the other; and you will then be thought a hard-hearted miſcreant: And even were ſhe to go off without credit to herſelf, ſhe will leave you as little; eſpecially with all thoſe whoſe good opinion a man would wiſh to cultivate.

Well, then, ſhall this poor privilege, that we may part with a woman, if we will, be deem'd a balance for the other inconveniencies? Shall it be thought by us, who are men of family and fortune, an equivalent for giving up equality of degree; and taking for the partner of our bed, and very probably more than the partner in our eſtates (to the breach of all family-rule and order), a low-born, a low-educated creature, who has not brought any-thing into the common ſtock; and can poſſibly make no returns for the ſolid benefits ſhe receives, but thoſe libidinous ones, which [90] a man cannot boaſt of, but to his diſgrace, nor think of, but to the ſhame of both?

Moreover, as the man advances in years, the fury of his libertiniſm will go off. He will have different aims and purſuits, which will diminiſh his appetite to ranging, and make ſuch a regular life as the matri⯑monial and family-life, palatable to him, and every day more palatable.

If he has children, and has reaſon to think them his, and if his lewd courſes have left him any eſtate, he will have cauſe to regret the reſtraint his boaſted liberty has laid him under, and the valuable privilege it has deprived him of; when he finds, that it muſt deſcend to ſome relation, for whom, whether near or diſtant, he cares not one farthing; and who, per⯑haps, from his diſſolute life, if a man of virtue, has held him in the utmoſt contempt.

And were we to ſuppoſe his eſtate in his power to bequeath as he pleaſes; why ſhould a man reſolve, for the gratifying of his wicked humour only, to ba⯑ſtardize his race? Why ſhould he wiſh to expoſe them to the ſcorn and inſults of the reſt of the world?—Why ſhould he, whether they are men or women, lay them under the neceſſity of complying with pro⯑poſals of marriage, either inferior as to fortune, or unequal as to age?—Why ſhould he deprive the children he loves, and who are themſelves guilty of no fault (if they have regard to morals, and to legal and ſocial ſanctions), of the reſpect they would wiſh to have, and to deſerve?—and of the opportunity of aſſociating themſelves with proper, that is to ſay, with reputable company?—And why ſhould he make them think themſelves under obligation to every per⯑ſon of character, who ſhould vouchſafe to viſit them▪ What little reaſon, in a word, would ſuch children have to bleſs their father's obſtinate defiance of the laws and cuſtoms of his country; and for giving them [91] a mother, whom they could not think of with ho⯑nour; to whoſe crime it was, that they owed their very beings, and whoſe example it was their duty to ſhun?

If the education and morals of theſe children are left to chance, as too generally they are (for the man who has humanity and a feeling heart, and who is ca⯑pable of fondneſs for his offspring, I take it for granted, will marry); the caſe is ſtill worſe; his crime is perpetuated, as I may ſay, by his children: And the Sea, the Army, perhaps the Highway, for the boys; the Common for the girls; too often point out the way to a worſe cataſtrophe.

What therefore, upon the whole, do we get by treading in theſe crooked paths, but danger, diſgrace, and a too late repentance?

And after all, do we not frequently become the cullies of our own libertiniſm; ſliding into the very ſtate with thoſe half-worn-out doxies; which, per⯑haps we might have enter'd into with their ladies; at leaſt with their ſuperiors, both in degree and for⯑tune? And all the time, lived handſomely like our⯑ſelves; not ſneaking into holes and corners; and, when we crept abroad with our women, looking about us at every opening into the ſtreet or day, as if we were confeſſedly accountable to the cenſures of all honeſt people.

My couſin Tony Jenyns, thou kneweſt. He had not the actively miſchievous ſpirit, that Thou, Bel⯑ton, Mowbray, Myſelf, and Tourville, have: But he imbibed the ſame notions we do, and carried them into practice.

How did he prate againſt wedlock! How did he ſtrut about as a wit and a ſmart! And what a wit and a ſmart did all the boys and girls of our family, myſelf among the reſt, then an urchin, think him, for the airs he gave himſelf?—Marry! No, not for the world; what man of ſenſe would bear the inſolences, [92] the petulances, the expenſiveneſs of a wife! He could not for the heart of him think it tolerable, that a wo⯑man of equal rank and fortune, and, as it might hap⯑pen, ſuperior talents to his own, ſhould look upon herſelf to have a right to ſhare the benefit of that for⯑tune which ſhe brought him.

So, after he had flutter'd about the town for two or three years, in all which time he had a better opinion of himſelf than any-body elſe had, what does he do, but enter upon an affair with his fencing-maſter's daughter?

He ſucceeds, takes private lodgings for her at Hack⯑ney; viſits her by ſtealth, both of them tender of re⯑putations, that were extremely tender, but which nei⯑ther had quite given over; for rakes of either ſex are always the laſt to condemn or cry down themſelves: Viſited by nobody, nor viſiting: The life of a thief, or of a man beſet by creditors, afraid to look out of his own houſe, or to be ſeen abroad with her. And thus went he on for twelve years, and, tho' he had a good eſtate, hardly making both ends meet; for, tho' no glare, there was no oeconomy; and beſides, he had every year a child, and very fond of them was he. But none of them lived above three years: And being now, on the death of the dozenth, grown as dully ſober, as if he had been a real huſband, his good Mrs. Thomas (for he had not permitted her to take his own name) prevailed upon him, to think the loſs of their children a judgment upon the parents for their wicked way of life [There is a time, when calamities will beget reflection! The royal cully of France, thou know⯑eſt, was Maintenon'd into it by his ill ſucceſſes in the field]: And ſo, when more than half-worn out both of them, the ſorry fellow took it into his head to marry her: And then had leiſure to ſit down, and contemplate the many offers of perſons of family and fortune, which he had declined in the prime of his life: His ex⯑pences equal at leaſt: His reputation not only leſs, but loſt: His enjoyments ſtollen: His partnerſhip unequal, [93] and ſuch as he had always been aſhamed of. But the women ſaid, That after twelve years cohabitation, Tony did an honeſt thing by her. And that was all my poor couſin got by making his old miſtreſs his new wife:—Not a drum, not a trumpet, not a fife, not a tabret, nor the expectation of a new joy, to ani⯑mate him on!

What Belton will do with his Thomaſine, I know not; nor care I to adviſe him: For I ſee the poor fellow does not like that any-body ſhould curſe her but himſelf: And that he does very heartily. And ſo low is he reduced, that he blubbers over the reflection upon his paſt fondneſs for her cubs, and upon his preſent doubts of their being his: ‘'What a d—n'd thing is it, Belford, if Tom and Hall ſhould be the hoſtler dog's puppies, and not mine!'’ Very true! and I think the ſtrong health of the chubby-faced, muſcular whelps, confirms the too great probability. But I ſay not ſo to him.

You, he ſays, are ſuch a gay, lively mortal, that this ſad tale would make no impreſſion upon you: Eſpecially now, that your whole heart is engaged as it is. Mowbray would be too violent upon it; he has not, he ſays, a feeling heart: Tourville has no diſcretion: And, a pretty jeſt! although he and his Thomaſine lived without reputation in the world (People gueſſing that they were not married, notwith⯑ſtanding ſhe went by his name); yet ‘'he would not too much diſcredit the curſed ingrate neither!'’ —Could a man act a weaker part, had he been really married; and were he ſure he was going to ſeparate from the mother of his own children?

I leave this as a leſſon upon thy heart, without making any application: Only, with this remark, That after we libertines have indulged our licentious appetites, reflecting in the conceit of our vain hearts, both with our lips and by our lives, upon our anceſ⯑ [...]rs, and the good old ways, we find out, when we [94] come to years of diſcretion, if we live till then [what all who knew us found out before, that is to ſay, we find out] our own deſpicable folly; that thoſe good old ways would have been beſt for us, as well as for the reſt of the world; and that in every ſtep we have de⯑viated from them, we have only expoſed our vanity and our ignorance at the ſame time.

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

I Am pleaſed with the ſober reflection thou con⯑cludeſt thy laſt with; and I thank thee for it: Poor Belton!—I did not think his Thomaſine would have proved ſo very a devil. But this muſt everlaſt⯑ingly be the riſque of a keeper, who takes up with a low-bred girl. This I never did. Nor had I occaſion to do. Such a one as I, Jack, needed only, till now, to ſhake the ſtatelieſt tree, and the mellow'd fruit dropt into my mouth: Always of Montaign's taſte, thou knoweſt:—Thought it a glory to ſubdue a girl of family.—More truly delightful to me the ſeduc⯑tion-progreſs than the crowning act:—For that's a vapour, a bubble!—And moſt cordially do I thank thee for thy indirect hint, that I am right in my pre⯑ſent purſuit.

From ſuch a lady as Miſs Harlowe, a man is ſe⯑cured from all the inconveniencies thou expatiateſ [...] upon.

Once more, therefore, do I thank thee, Belford, for thy approbation!—One need not, as thou ſayeſt, ſneak into holes and corners, and ſhun the day, in the company of ſuch a lady as this. How friendly in thee, thus to abet the favourite purpoſe of my heart!—Nor can it be a diſgrace to me, to per⯑mit ſuch a lady to be called by my name!—Nor [95] ſhall I be at all concerned about the world's cenſure, if I live to the years of diſcretion, which thou men⯑tioneſt, ſhould I be taken in, and prevailed upon to tread with her the good old path of my anceſtors.

A bleſſing on thy heart, thou honeſt fellow! I thought thou wert but in jeſt, or acting but by my uncle's deſire, when thou wert pleading for matri⯑mony in behalf of this lady!—It could not be prin⯑ciple, I knew, in thee: It could not be compaſſion—A little envy indeed I ſuſpected!—But now I ſee thee once more thyſelf: And once more, ſay I, A bleſſing on thy heart, thou true friend, and very honeſt fellow!

Now will I proceed with courage in all my ſchemes, and oblige thee with the continued narrative of my progreſſions towards bringing them to effect!—But I could not forbear to interrupt my ſtory, to ſhew my gratitude!

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

AND now will I favour thee with a brief account of our preſent ſituation.

From the higheſt to the loweſt we are all extremely happy.—Dorcas ſtands well in her lady's graces. Polly has aſked her advice in relation to a courtſhip affair of her own. No oracle ever gave better. Sally has had a quarrel with her woollen-draper; and made my beloved Lady-chancellor in it. She blamed Sally for behaving tyrannically to a man who loves her. Dear creature! to ſtand againſt a glaſs, and to ſhut her eyes becauſe ſhe will not ſee her face in it!—Mrs. Sinclair has paid her court to ſo unerr⯑ing a judge, by requeſting her advice with regard to both nieces.

This the way we have been in for ſeveral days with the people below. Yet ſola generally at her meals, [96] and ſeldom at other times in their company. They now, uſed to her ways [Perſeverance muſt conquer], never preſs her; ſo when they meet, all is civility on both ſides. Even marry'd people, I believe, Jack, prevent abundance of quarrels, by ſeeing one another but ſeldom.

But how ſtands it between thyſelf and the lady, methinks thou aſkeſt, ſince her abrupt departure from thee, and undutiful repulſe of Wedneſday morning? Why, pretty well in the main. Nay, very well. For why? The dear ſaucy-face knows not how to help herſelf. Can fly to no other protection. And has, beſides, overheard a converſation [Who would have thought ſhe had been ſo near?] which paſſed between Mrs. Sinclair, Miſs Martin, and myſelf, that very Wedneſday afternoon; which has ſet her heart at eaſe, with reſpect to ſeveral doubtful points.

Such as, particularly, Mrs. Fretchville's unhappy ſtate of mind:—Moſt humanely pitied by Miſs Martin, who knows her very well; the huſband ſhe has loſt, and herſelf, lovers from their cradles. Pity from one begets pity from another; and ſo many circumſtances were given to poor Mrs. Fretchville's diſtreſs, that it was impoſſible but my beloved muſt extremely pity her, whom the leſs tender-hearted Miſs Martin greatly pitied.

My Lord M.'s gout his only hindrance from viſit⯑ing my ſpouſe.

Lady Betty and Miſs Montague ſoon expected i [...] town.

My earneſt deſire ſignify'd to have my ſpouſe receiv [...] them in her own houſe, if Mrs. Fretchville would bu [...] know her own mind.

My intention to ſtay at their houſe notwithſtanding, as I ſaid I had told them before, in order to grati [...] her utmoſt punctilio.

My paſſion for my beloved, which I told them, is a high and fervent accent, was the trueſt that m [...] [97] could have for woman, I boaſted of. It was, in ſhort, I ſaid, of the true Platonic kind; or I had no notion of what Platonic Love was.

So it is, Jack; and muſt end as Platonic Love ge⯑nerally does end.

Sally and Mrs. Sinclair praiſed, but not groſly, my beloved. Sally particularly admired her purity, called it exemplary; yet, to avoid ſuſpicion, expreſſed her thoughts, that ſhe was-rather over-nice, if ſhe might preſume to ſay ſo before me. But applauded me for the ſtrict obſervation I made of my vow.

I more freely blamed her reſerves to me; called her cruel; inveighed againſt her relations; doubted her love. Every favour I aſked of her deny'd me. Yet my behaviour to her as pure and delicate when alone, as when before them. Hinted at ſomething that had paſſed between us that very day, that ſhewed her indifference to me in ſo ſtrong a light, that I could not bear it. But that I would aſk her for her company to the play of Venice preſerv'd, given out for Saturday night, as a benefit play; the prime actors to be in it; and this to ſee, if I were to be denied every favour.—Yet, for my own part, I loved not tra⯑gedies; tho' ſhe did, for the ſake of the inſtruction, the warning, and the example generally given in them.

I had too much feeling, I ſaid. There was enough in the world to make our hearts ſad, without carry⯑ing grief into our diverſions, and making the diſtreſſes of others our own.

True enough, Belford; and I believe, generally ſpeaking, that all the men of our caſt are of my mind—They love not any tragedies but thoſe in which they themſelves act the parts of tyrants and executioners; and, afraid to truſt themſelves with ſerious and ſolemn reflections, run to comedies, to laugh away the di⯑ſtreſſes they have occaſioned, and to find examples of [98] as immoral men as themſelves. For very few of our comic performances, as thou knoweſt, give us good ones.—I anſwer, however, for myſelf—Yet thou, I think, on recollection, loveſt to deal in the lamentable.

Sally anſwered for Polly, who was abſent, Mrs. Sinclair for herſelf, and for all her acquaintance, even for Miſs Partington, in preferring the comic to the tragic ſcenes.—And I believe they are right; for the devil's in it, if a confided-in rake does not give a girl enough of tragedy in his comedy.

I aſk'd Sally to oblige my fair-one with her com⯑pany.

She was engaged [That was right, thou'lt ſuppoſe]. I aſked Mrs. Sinclair's leave for Polly. To be ſure, ſhe anſwer'd, Polly would think it an honour to at⯑tend Mrs. Lovelace: But the poor thing was tender-hearted; and as the tragedy was deep, would weep herſelf blind.

Sally, mean time, objected Singleton, that I might anſwer the objection, and ſave my beloved the trouble of making it, or debating the point with me.

I then, from a letter juſt before received from one in her father's family, warned them of a perſon who had undertaken to find us out, and whom I thus in writing (calling for pen and ink) deſcribed, that they might arm all the family againſt him— ‘'A ſun-burnt, pock-fretten ſailor, ill-looking, big-boned; his ſta⯑ture about ſix foot; an heavy eye, an over-hanging brow, a deck-treading ſtride in his walk; a couteau generally by his ſide; lips parched from his gums, as if by ſtaring at the ſun in hot climates; a brown coat; a colour'd handkerchief about his neck; an oaken plant in his hand, near as long as himſelf, and proportionably thick.'’

No queſtions muſt be anſwer'd, that he ſhould aſk. They ſhould call me to him. But not let my beloved know a tittle of this, ſo long as it could be help'd. And I added, that if her brother or Singleton [99] came, and if they behaved civilly, I would, for her ſake, be civil to them: And in this caſe, ſhe had no⯑thing to do, but to own her marriage, and there could be no pretence for violence on either ſide. But moſt fervently I ſwore, that if ſhe was convey'd away, ei⯑ther by perſuaſion or force, I would directly, on miſſ⯑ing her but one day, go to demand her at her father's, whether ſhe were there or not; and if I recover'd not a ſiſter, I would have a brother; and ſhould find out a captain of a ſhip as well as he. And now, Jack, doſt thou think ſhe'll attempt to get from me, do what I will?

Mrs. Sinclair began to be afraid of miſchief in her houſe—I was apprehenſive that ſhe would overdo the matter, and be out of character. I therefore wink'd at her. She primm'd; nodded, to ſhew ſhe took me, twang'd out a high-ho, lapp'd one horſe-lip over the other, and was ſilent.

Here's preparation, Belford!—Doſt think I will throw it all away, for any thing thou canſt ſay, or Lord M. write?—No indeed!—as my charmer ſays, when ſhe bridles.

AND what muſt neceſſarily be the conſequence of all this, with regard to my beloved's behaviour to me?—Canſt thou doubt, that it was all complai⯑ſance next time ſhe admitted me into her preſence?

Thurſday we were very happy. All the morning extremely happy. I kiſſed her charming hand—I need not deſcribe to thee her hand and arm. When thou ſaweſt her, I took notice that thy eyes dwelt upon them, whenever thou couldſt ſpare them from that beauty-ſpot of wonders, her face. Fifty times kiſſed her hand, I believe.—Once her cheek, intending her [...]lip, but ſo rapturouſly, that ſhe could not help ſeeming angry.

Had ſhe not thus kept me at arms-length; had ſhe not denied me thoſe innocent liberties which our [100] Sex, from degree to degree, aſpire to; could I but have gained acceſs to her in her hours of heedleſſneſs and diſhabille (for full dreſs creates dignity, augments conſciouſneſs, and compels diſtance), we had been familiarized to each other long ago. But keep her up ever ſo late; meet her ever ſo early; by breakfaſt-time dreſſed for the day; and at her earlieſt hour, as nice as others dreſſed.—All her forms thus kept up, wonder not that I have made ſo little progreſs in the propoſed trial.—But how muſt all this diſtance ſti⯑mulate!

Thurſday morning, I ſaid, we were extremely hap⯑py—About noon, ſhe number'd the hours ſhe had been with me; all of them to me but as one minute; and deſired to be left to herſelf. I was loth to comply: But obſerving the ſun-ſhine begin to ſhut in, I yielded.

I dined out. Returned; talked of the houſe, and of Mrs. Fretchville: Had ſeen Mennell—Had preſſed him to get the widow to quit—She pitied Mrs. Fretch⯑ville—Another good effect of the overheard conver⯑ſation—Had written to my uncle; expected an an⯑ſwer ſoon from him. I was admitted to ſup with her. Urged for her approbation or correction of my writ⯑ten terms. She promiſed an anſwer as ſoon as ſhe had heard from Miſs Howe.

Then I preſſed for her company to the play on Sa⯑turday night. She made objections, as I had foreſeen: Her brother's projects, warmth of the weather, &c. But in ſuch a manner, as if half-afraid to diſoblige me [Another happy effect of the overheard converſation]. Got over theſe therefore; and ſhe conſented to fa⯑vour me.

Friday paſſed as the day before.

Here were two happy days to both!—Why cannot I make every day equally happy? It looks as if it wer [...] in my power to do ſo.—Strange I ſhould thus deligh [...] in teazing a woman I ſo dearly love!—I muſt, doubt, have ſomething in my temper like Miſs Howe [101] who loves to plague the man who puts himſelf in her power.—But I could not do thus by ſuch an angel as this, did I not believe, that after her probation-time is expired, and if there is no bringing her to cohabitation (my darling view), I ſhall reward her as ſhe wiſhes.

Saturday is half-over, equally happy—Preparing for the play—Polly has offer'd, and is accepted. I have directed her where to weep—And this not only to ſhew her humanity [a weeping eye indicates a gentle heart], but to have a pretence to hide her face with her fan or handkerchief; yet Polly is far from being every man's girl—And we ſhall ſit in the gallery green-box.

The woes of others ſo well repreſented, as thoſe of Belvidera particularly will be, muſt, I hope, unlock and open my charmer's heart. Whenever I have been able to prevail upon a girl to permit me to attend her to a play, I have thought myſelf ſure of her. The fe⯑male heart, all gentleneſs and harmony, when obliged, expands, and forgets its forms, when attention is car⯑ried out of itſelf at an agreeable or affecting enter⯑tainment: Muſic, and perhaps a collation after⯑wards, co-operating. I have no hope of ſuch an effect here; but I have more than one end to anſwer, by my earneſtneſs in getting her to a play. To name but one: Dorcas has a maſter-key, as I have told thee—And it were worth carrying her to Venice pre⯑ſerved, were it but to ſhew her, that there have been, and may be, much deeper diſtreſſes than ſhe can poſ⯑ſibly know.

Thus exceedingly happy are we at preſent. I hope we ſhall not find any of Nat. Lee's left-handed gods at work, to daſh our bowl of joy with wormwood.

The Lady, in her next letter, dated Friday, May 19. acquaints her friend, that her proſpects are once more mended; and that ſhe has known four-and-twenty hours together, ſince her laſt, not unhappy [102] ones, her ſituation conſidered. ‘'How willing am I, ſays ſhe, to compound for tolerable appearances! how deſirous to turn the funny ſide of things to⯑wards me, and to hope, where reaſon for hope offers! and this, not only for my own ſake, but for yours, who take ſuch generous concern in all that befalls me.'’

She then gives the particulars of the converſation which ſhe had overheard between Mr. Lovelace, Mrs. Sinclair, and Miſs Martin; but accounts more minutely than he had done, for the opportunity ſhe had of overhearing it, unknown to them.

She gives the reaſon ſhe has to be pleaſed with what ſhe heard from each: But is ſhocked at the meaſure he is reſolved to take, if he miſſes her but for one day. Yet is pleaſed, that he propoſes to avoid ag⯑greſſive violence, if her brother and he meet in town.

She thought herſelf obliged, ſhe ſays, from what paſſed between them on Wedneſday, and from what ſhe overheard him ſay, to conſent to go with him to the play; eſpecially, as he had the diſcretion to pro⯑poſe one of the nieces to accompany her.

She expreſſes herſelf pleaſed, that he has actually written to Lord M.

She tells her, that ſhe has promiſed to give him an anſwer to his propoſals, as ſoon as ſhe has heard from her on the ſubject: And hopes, that in her future letter ſhe ſhall have reaſon to confirm theſe favour⯑able appearances. ‘'Favourable, ſays ſhe, I muſt think them in the wreck I have ſuffer'd.'’

She thinks it not amiſs, however, that ſhe ſhould perfect her ſcheme with Mrs. Townſend. He is cer⯑tainly, ſhe ſays, a deep and dangerous man; and it is therefore but prudence to be watchful, and to provide againſt the worſt.

She is certain, ſhe tells her, that her letters are ſafe.

[103]He would never be out of her company by his good-will; otherwiſe ſhe has no doubt that ſhe is miſtreſs of her goings-out and comings-in; and did ſhe think it needful, and were ſhe not afraid of her brother, and Capt. Singleton, would oftener put it to trial.

LETTER XXII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Did not know, my dear, that you deferred giving an anſwer to Mr. Lovelace's propoſals, till you had my opinion of them. A particular hand occa⯑ſionally going to town, will leave this at Wilſon's, that no delay may be made on that account.

I never had any doubt of the man's juſtice and ge⯑neroſity in matters of ſettlement; and all his relations are as noble in their ſpirits, as in their deſcent: But now, it may not be amiſs for you to wait, to ſee what returns my Lord makes to his letter of invitation.

The ſcheme I think of is this.

There is a perſon (I believe you have ſeen her with me), one Mrs. Townſend, who is a great dealer in Indian ſilks, Bruſſels and French laces, cambricks, linen, and other valuable goods; which ſhe has a way of coming at, duty-free; and has a great vead for them, and for other curioſities which ſhe imports, in the private families of the gentry round us.

She has her days of being in town, and then is at a chamber ſhe rents in an inn in Southwark, where ſhe has patterns of all her ſilks, and much of her port⯑able goods, for the conveniency of her London cuſ⯑tomers. But her place of reſidence, and where ſhe has her principal warehouſe, is at Deptford, for the opportunity of getting her goods on ſhore.

She was firſt brought to me by my mother, to whom ſhe was recommended, on the ſuppoſal of my ſpeedy [104] marriage; that I might have an opportunity to be as fine as a princeſs, was my mamma's expreſſion, at a moderate expence.

Now, my dear, I muſt own, that I do not love to encourage theſe contraband traders. What is it, but bidding defiance to the laws of our country, when we do; and hurting fair traders; and at the ſame time robbing our Prince of his legal due, to the di⯑minution of thoſe duties which poſſibly muſt be made good by new levies upon the whole public?

But, however, Mrs. Townſend and I, though we have not yet dealt, are upon a very good foot of under⯑ſtanding. She is a ſenſible woman; ſhe has been abroad, and often goes abroad, in the way of her bu⯑ſineſs; and gives very entertaining accounts of all ſhe has ſeen. And having applied to me, to recommend her to you (as it is her view to be known to young ladies, who are likely to change their condi⯑tion), I am ſure I can engage her to give you pro⯑tection at her houſe at Deptford; which ſhe ſays is a populous village; and one of the laſt, I ſhould think, that you would be ſought for in. She is not much there, you will believe, by the courſe of her dealings; but, no doubt, muſt have ſomebody on the ſpot, in whom ſhe can confide: And there perhaps you might be ſafe, till your couſin comes. And I ſhould not think it amiſs, that you write to him out of hand. I cannot ſuggeſt to you what you ſhould write. That muſt be left to your own diſcretion. For you will be afraid, no doubt, of the conſequence of a variance between the two men.

I will think further of this ſcheme of mine, in re⯑lation to Mrs. Townſend, if you find it neceſſary that I ſhould. But I hope there will be no occaſion to do ſo, ſince your proſpects ſeem to be changed, and that you have had twenty-four-not unhappy hours together. How my indignation riſes for this poor conſolation in the courtſhip (courtſhip muſt I call it?) of ſuch a lady!

[105]Mrs. Townſend, as I have recollected, has two brothers, each a maſter of a veſſel; and who knows, as ſhe and they have great concerns together, but that, in caſe of need, you may have a whole ſhip's crew at your devotion? If he give your cauſe to leave him, take no thought for the people at Harlowe-place. Let them take care of one another. It is a care they are uſed to. The Law will help to ſecure them. The wretch is no aſſaſſin; no night-murderer. He is an open, becauſe a fearleſs enemy; and ſhould he attempt any thing that ſhould make him obnoxious to the Laws of ſociety, you might have a fair riddance of him either by flight or the gallows; no matter which.

Had you not been ſo minute in your account of the circumſtances that attended the opportunity you had of overhearing the dialogue between Mr. Lovelace and two of the women, I ſhould have thought the conference contrived on purpoſe for your ears.

I ſhew'd Mr. Lovelace's propoſals to Mr. Hick⯑man, who had chambers once at Lincoln's-Inn, be⯑ing deſigned for the Law, had his elder brother lived. He looked ſo wiſe, ſo proud, and ſo important, upon the occaſion; and wanted to take ſo much conſidera⯑tion about them—would take them home if I pleaſed—and weigh them well—and ſo-forth—and the like—and all that—that I had no patience with him, and ſnatched them back with anger.

O dear!—to be ſo angry, and pleaſe me, for his zeal—

Yes, zeal without knowlege, I ſaid—like moſt other zeals—If there were no objections that ſtruck him at once, there were none.

So haſty, deareſt Madam!—

And ſo ſlow, un-deareſt Sir, I could have ſaid—But, SURELY, ſaid I, with a look which imply'd, Would you rebel, Sir!—

[106]He begged my pardon—Saw no objection, indeed!—But might he be allowed once more—

No matter—No matter—I would have ſhewn them to my mother, I ſaid, who, tho' of no Inn of Court, knew more of theſe things than half the lounging lub⯑bers of them; and that at firſt ſight—only that ſhe would have been provoking upon the confeſſion of our continued correſpondence.

But, my dear, let the articles be drawn up, and ingroſſed; and ſolemnize upon them; and there's no more to be ſaid.

Let me add, that the ſailor fellow has been tamper⯑ing with my Kitty, and offered a bribe, to find where to direct to you. Next time he comes, I will have him drawn through one of our deepeſt fiſh-ponds, if I can get nothing out of him. His attempt to corrupt a ſer⯑vant of mine will juſtify my orders.

I ſend this away directly. But will follow it by another; which ſhall have for its ſubject only my Mother, Myſelf, and your uncle Antony. And as your proſpects are more promiſing than they have been, I will endeavour to make you ſmile upon this occaſion. For you will be pleaſed to know, that my mamma has had a formal tender from that grey gooſe; which may make her ſkill uſeful to herſelf, were ſhe to encourage it.

May your proſpects be ſtill more and more happy, prays

LETTER XXIII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

I AM too much diſturbed in my mind, to think of any think but revenge; or I had intended to give thee an account of Miſs Harlowe's curious obſervations on the play. Miſs Harlowe's, I ſay. Thou knoweſt that I hate the name of Harlowe; and I am exceed⯑ingly out of humour with her, and with her ſaucy friend.

What's the matter now, thou'lt aſk?—Matter enough; for while we were at the play, Dorcas, who had her orders, and a key to her lady's chamber, as well as a maſter-key to her drawers and mahogany cheſt, cloſet-key and all, found means to come at ſome of Miſs Howe's laſt-written letters. The vigilant wench was directed to them by ſeeing her lady take a letter out of her ſtays, and put it to the others, before ſhe went out with me—Afraid, as the women up⯑braidingly tell me, that I ſhould find it there.

[124]Dorcas no ſooner found them, than ſhe aſſembled three ready writers of the non-apparents, and Sally, and ſhe and they employed themſelves with the utmoſt diligence, in making extracts, according to former directions, from theſe curſed letters, for my uſe. Curſed, I may well call them—Such abuſes, ſuch virulence! O this little fury Miſs Howe!—Well might her ſaucy friend (who has been equally free with me, or the occaſion could not have been given) be ſo violent as ſhe lately was, at my endeavouring to come at one of theſe letters.

I was ſure, that this fair-one, at ſo early an age, with a conſtitution ſo firm, health ſo blooming, eyes ſo ſparkling, could not be abſolutely, and from her own vigilance, ſo guarded and ſo apprehenſive, as I have found her to be.—Sparkling eyes, Jack, when the poetical tribe have ſaid all they can for them, are an infallible ſign of a rogue, or room for a rogue, in the heart.

Thou may'ſt go on with thy preachments, and Lord M. with his Wiſdom of nations, I am now more aſſured of her than ever. And now my revenge is up, and join'd with my love, all reſiſtance muſt fall before it. And moſt ſolemnly do I ſwear, that Miſs Howe ſhall come in for her ſnack.

And here, juſt now, is another letter brought from the ſame little virulent devil.—I hope to procure tran⯑ſcripts from that too, very ſpeedily, if it be put to the reſt; for the ſaucy lady is reſolved to go to church this morning; not ſo much from a ſpirit of devotion, I have reaſon to think, as to try whether ſhe can go out without check or controul, or my attendance.

I HAVE been denied breakfaſting with her. In⯑deed ſhe was a little diſpleaſed with me laſt night; becauſe, on our return from the play, I obliged her to paſs the reſt of the night with the women and me, in their parlour, and to ſtay till near One. She told [125] me at parting, that ſhe expected to have the whole next day to herſelf.—I had not read the extracts then; ſo was all affectionate reſpect, awe, and di⯑ſtance; for I had reſolved to begin a new courſe, and, if poſſible, to baniſh all jealouſy and ſuſpicion from her heart: And yet I had no reaſon to be much troubled at her paſt ſuſpicions; ſince, if a woman will continue with a man whom ſhe ſuſpects, when ſhe can get from him, or thinks ſhe can, I am ſure it is a very hopeful ſign.

SHE is gone. Slipt down before I was aware. She had ordered a chair, on purpoſe to exclude my per⯑ſonal attendance. But I had taken proper precau⯑tions. Will. attended her by conſent; Peter, the houſe-ſervant, was within Will.'s call.

I had, by Dorcas, repreſented her danger from Single⯑ton, in order to diſſuade her from going at all, unleſs ſhe allowed me to attend her; but I was anſwer'd, That if there was no cauſe of fear at the playhouſe, when there were but two playhouſes, ſurely there was leſs at church, when there were ſo many churches. The chairmen were ordered to carry her to St. James's church.

But ſhe would not be ſo careleſs of obliging me, if ſhe knew what I have already come at, and how the women urge me on; for they are continually com⯑plaining of the reſtraint they lie under; in their be⯑haviour; in their attendance; neglecting all their con⯑cerns in the front-houſe; and keeping this elegant back one intirely free from company, that ſhe may have no ſuſpicion of them. They doubt not my generoſity, they ſay: But why for my own ſake, in Lord M.'s ſtyle, ſhould I make ſo long a harveſt of ſo little corn?—Women, ye reaſon well. I think I will begin my operations the moment ſhe comes in.

[126]I HAVE come at the letter brought her from Miſs Howe to-day.—Plot, conjuration, ſorcery, witch⯑craft, all going forward!—I ſhall not be able to ſee this Miſs Harlowe with patience. As the nymphs be⯑low ſay, Why is night neceſſary?—And Sally and Polly upbraidingly remind me of my firſt attempts upon themſelves.—Yet force anſwers not my end—And yet it may, if there be truth in that part of the libertines creed, That once ſubdued, is always ſubdued! And what woman anſwers affirmatively to the que⯑ſtion?

SHE is returned—But refuſes to admit me. Deſires to have the day to herſelf. Dorcas tells me, that ſhe believes her denial is from motives of piety—Oons, Jack, is there impiety in ſeeing me!—Would it not be the higheſt act of piety, to reclaim me? And is this to be done by her refuſing to ſee me, when ſhe is in a devouter frame than uſual? But I hate her, hate her heartily!—She is old, ugly, and deformed.—But O the blaſphemy!—Yet ſhe is an Harlowe—And I hate her for that.

But ſince I muſt not ſee her [She will be miſtreſs of her own will, and of her time truly!], let me fill up mine, by telling thee what I have come at.

The firſt letter the women met with, is dated April 27 ^(a). Where can ſhe have put the preceding ones? It mentions Mr. Hickman as a buſy fellow be⯑tween them. Hickman had beſt take care of him⯑ſelf. She ſays in it, I hope you have no cauſe to repent returning my Norris—It is forthcoming on demand. Now, what the devil can this mean!—Her Norris forthcoming on demand!—The devil take me, if I am out-Norris'd!—If ſuch innocents can allow them⯑ſelves to plot, to Norris, well may I.

[127]She is ſorry, that her Hannah can't be with her.—And what if ſhe could?—What could Hannah do for her in ſuch a houſe as this?

The women in the houſe are to be found out in one breakfaſting. The women are enraged at both the correſpondents for this; and more than ever make a point of conquering her. I had a good mind to give them Miſs Howe in full property. Say but the word, Jack, and it ſhall be done.

She is glad that Miſs Harlowe had thoughts of take⯑ing me at my word. She wondered I did not offer again. Adviſes her, if I don't ſoon, not to ſtay with me. Cautions her to keep me at diſtance; not to per⯑mit the leaſt familiarity—See, Jack—See Belford—Exactly as I thought!—Her vigilance all owing to a cool friend; who can ſit down quietly, and give that advice, which, in her own caſe, ſhe could not take.—She tells her, it is my intereſt to be honeſt—INTEREST, fools!—I thought theſe girls knew, that my intereſt was ever ſubſervient to my pleaſure.

What would I give to come at the copies of the let⯑ters to which thoſe of Miſs Howe are anſwers!

The next letter is dated May 3 ^(a). In this the little termagant expreſſes her aſtoniſhment, that her mother ſhould write to Miſs Harlowe, to forbid her to correſpond with her daughter. Mr. Hickman, ſhe ſays, is of opinion, that ſhe ought not to obey her mother. How the creeping fellow trims between both! I am afraid, that I muſt puniſh him, as well as this virago; and I have a ſcheme rumbling in my head, that wants but half an hour's muſing to bring into form, that will do my buſineſs upon both. I cannot bear, that the parental authority ſhould be thus deſpiſed, thus trampled under-foot—But obſerve the vixen, 'Tis well he is of her opinion; for her mother having ſet her up, ſhe muſt have ſomebody to quarrel with.—Could a Love⯑lace have allowed himſelf a greater licence? This [128] girl's a deviliſh rake in her heart. Had ſhe been a man, and one of us, ſhe'd have outdone us all in en⯑terprize and ſpirit.

She wants but very little farther provocation, ſhe ſays, to fly privately to London. And if ſhe does, ſhe will not leave her till ſhe ſees her either honourably married, or quit of the wretch. Here, Jack, the tranſcriber Sally has added a prayer— ‘'For the Lord's ſake, dear Mr. Lovelace, get this fury to London!'’ —Her fate, I can tell thee, Jack, if we had her among us, ſhould not be ſo long deciding as her friend's. What a gant⯑lope would ſhe run, when I had done with her, among a dozen of her own pityleſs Sex, whom my charmer ſhall never ſee!—But more of this anon.

I find by this letter, that my ſaucy captive had been drawing the characters of every varlet of ye. Nor am I ſpared in it more than you. The man's a fool, to be ſure, my dear. Let me die, if they either of them find me one. A ſilly fellow, at leaſt. Curſed contemptible!—I ſee not but they are a ſet of infern⯑als—There's for thee, Belford—and he the Beelzebub. There's for thee, Lovelace!—And yet ſhe would have her friend marry a Beelzebub.—And what have any of us done, to the knowlege of Miſs Harlowe, that ſhe ſhould give ſuch an account of us, as ſhould war⯑rant ſo much abuſe from Miſs Howe?—But that's to come!

She blames her, for not admitting Miſs Partington to her bed—Watchful as you are, what could have hap⯑pen'd?—If violence were intended, he would not ſtay for the night. Sally writes upon this hint— ‘'See, Sir, what is expected from you. An hundred and an hundred times have we told you of this.'’ —And ſo they have. But, to be ſure, the advice from them was not of half the efficacy as it will be from Miſs Howe.—You might have ſat up after her, or not gone to bed. But can there be ſuch apprehenſions between them, yet the one adviſe her to ſtay, and the other [129] reſolve to wait my imperial motion for marriage? I am glad I know that.

She approves of my propoſal about Mrs. Fretch⯑ville's houſe. She puts her upon expecting ſettle⯑ments; upon naming a day: And concludes, with inſiſting upon her writing, notwithſtanding her mo⯑ther's prohibition; or bids her take the conſequence. Undutiful wretches!

Thou wilt ſay to thyſelf, by this time, And can this proud and inſolent girl be the ſame Miſs Howe, who ſighed for honeſt Sir George Colmar; and who, but for this her beloved friend, would have followed him in all his broken fortunes, when he was obliged to quit the kingdom?

Yes, ſhe is the very ſame. And I always found in others, as well as in myſelf, that a firſt paſſion thoroughly ſubdued, made the conqueror of it a rover; the conquereſs a tyrant.

Well, but now, comes mincing in a letter from one who has the honour of dear Miſs Howe's commands ^(a), to acquaint Miſs Harlowe, that Miſs Howe is exceſſively concerned for the concern ſhe has given her.

I have great temptations, on this occaſion, ſays the prim Gothamite, to expreſs my own reſentments upon your preſent ſtate.

My own reſentments!—And why did he not fall in⯑to this temptation?—Why, truly, becauſe he knew not what that ſtate was, which gave him ſo tempting a ſubject—Only by conjecture, and ſo forth.

He then dances in his ſtyle, as he does in his gaite! To be ſure, to be ſure, he muſt have made the grand tour, and come home by the way of Tipperary.

And being moreover forbid, ſays the prancer, to en⯑ter into the cruel ſubject—This prohibition was a mercy to thee, friend Hickman!—But why cruel ſubject, if thou knoweſt not what it is, but conjectureſt only from the diſturbance it gives to a girl, that is her [130] mother's diſturbance, will be thy diſturbance, and the diſturbance, in turn, of every-body with whom ſhe is intimately acquainted, unleſs I have the hum⯑bling of her?

In another letter ^(a), She approves of her deſign to leave me, if ſhe can be received by her friends.

Has heard ſome ſtrange ſtories of me, that ſhew me to be the worſt of men. Had I a dozen lives, I might have forfeited them all twenty crimes ago.—An odd way of reckoning, Jack!

Miſs Betterton, Miſs Lockyer, are named—The man (ſo ſhe irreverently calls me!), ſhe ſays, is a vil⯑lain. Let me periſh if I am called a villain for no⯑thing!—She will have her uncle (as Miſs Harlowe deſires) ſounded about receiving her. Dorcas is to be attach'd to her intereſt: My letters are to be come at by ſurprize or trick—See, Jack!

She is alarmed at my attempt to come at a letter of hers.

Were I to come at the knowlege of her freedoms with my character, ſhe ſays, ſhe ſhould be afraid to ſtir out without a guard.—I would adviſe the vixen to get her guard ready.

I am at the head of a gang of wretches [Thee, Jack, and thy brother varlets, ſhe owns ſhe means], who join together to betray innocent creatures, and to ſupport one another in their villainies.—What ſayeſt thou to this, Belford?

She wonders not at her melancholy reflections for meeting me, for being forced upon me, and tricked by me.—I hope, Jack, thou'lt have done preaching after this!

But ſhe comforts her, that ſhe will be both a warn⯑ing and example to all her Sex.—I hope the Sex will thank me for this.

The nymphs had not time, they ſay, to tranſcribe all that was worthy of my reſentment in this letter— [131] So I muſt find an opportunity to come at it myſelf. Noble rant, they ſay, it contains.—But I am a ſe⯑ducer, and a hundred vile fellows, in it—And the devil, it ſeems, took poſſeſſion of my heart, and of the hearts of all her friends, in the ſame dark hour, in order to pro⯑voke her to meet me. Again, There is a fate in her error, ſhe ſays—Why then ſhould ſhe grieve?—Ad⯑verſity is her ſhining-time, and I cannot tell what—Yet never to thank the man to whom ſhe owes the ſhine!

In the next ^(a), Wicked as I am, ſhe fears I muſt be her lord and maſter.—I hope ſo.

She retracts what ſhe ſaid againſt me in her laſt.—My behaviour to my Roſebud; Miſs Harlowe to take poſſeſſion of Mrs. Fretchville's houſe; I to ſtay at Mrs. Sinclair's; the ſtake I have in my country; my reverſions; my oeconomy; my perſon; my addreſs; all are brought in my favour, to induce her now not to leave me. How do I love to puzzle theſe long-ſighted girls!

Yet my teazing ways, it ſeems, are intolerable.—Are women only to teaze, I trow?—The Sex may thank themſelves for learning me to out-teaze them. So the headſtrong Charles XII. of Sweden learned the Czar Peter to beat him, by continuing a war with the Muſcovites againſt the antient maxims of his king⯑dom.

May eternal vengeance PURSUE the villain [Thank heaven, ſhe does not ſay overtake], if he give room to doubt his honour!—Women can't ſwear, Jack—Sweet ſouls! they can only curſe.

I am ſaid, to doubt her love.—Have I not reaſon? And ſhe, to doubt my ardor?—Ardor, Jack!—Why, 'tis very right—Women, as Miſs Howe ſays, and as every Rake knows, love ardors!

She apprizes her of the ill ſucceſs of the application made to her uncle.—By Hickman, no doubt!—I muſt [132] have this fellow's ears in my pocket, very quickly, believe.

She ſays, She is equally ſhocked and enraged againſt all her family: Mrs. Norton's weight has been try'd upon Mrs. Harlowe, as well as Mr. Hickman's upon the uncle: But never were there, ſays the vixen, ſuch determin'd brutes in the world. Her uncle concludes her ruin'd already.—Is not that a call upon me, as well as a reproach?—They all expected applications from her when in diſtreſs—but were reſolved not to ſtir an inch to ſave her life. She was accuſed of premedi⯑tation and contrivance. Miſs Howe is concerned, ſhe tells her, for the revenge my pride may put me upon taking for the diſtance ſhe has kept me at.—And well ſhe may.—She has now but one choice [for her couſin Morden, it ſeems, is ſet againſt her too], and that's to be mine.—An act of neceſſity, of convenience.—Thy friend, Jack, to be already made a woman's conve⯑nience!—Is this to be borne by a Lovelace?

I ſhall make great uſe of this letter. From Miſs Howe's hints of what paſſed between her uncle Har⯑lowe and Hickman [It muſt be Hickman], I can give room for my invention to play; for ſhe tells her, that ſhe will not reveal all. I muſt endeavour to come at this letter myſelf; I muſt have the very words; extracts will not do. This letter, when I have it, muſt be my compaſs to ſteer by.

The fire of friendſhip then blazes out and crackles. I never before imagin'd, that ſo fervent a friendſhip could ſubſiſt between two ſiſter-beauties, both toaſts. But even here it may be inflamed by oppoſition, and by that contradiction which gives ſpirit to female ſpi⯑rits of a warm and romantic turn.

She raves about coming up, if by ſo doing ſhe could prevent ſo noble a creature from ſtooping too low, or ſave her from ruin—One reed to ſupport another! Theſe girls are frenzical in their friendſhip. They know not what a ſteady fire is.

[133]How comes it to paſs, that I cannot help being pleaſed with this virago's ſpirit, tho' I ſuffer by it? Had I her but here, I'd engage in a week's time, to teach her ſubmiſſion without reſerve. What pleaſure ſhould I have in breaking ſuch a ſpirit! I ſhould wiſh for her but for one month, in all, I think. She would be too tame and ſpiritleſs for me after that. How ſweetly pretty to ſee the two lovely friends, when humbled and tame, both ſitting in the darkeſt corner of a room, arm in arm, weeping and ſobbing for each other!—And I their emperor, their then acknowleged emperor, reclined on a ſophee, in the ſame room, Grand Signor like, uncertain to which I ſhould firſt throw out my handkerchief?

Mind the girl: She is enraged at the Harlowes: She is angry at her own mother; ſhe is exaſperated againſt her fooliſh and low-vanity'd Lovelace.—FOOLISH, a little toad! [God forgive me for calling a virtuous girl a toad!] Let us ſtoop to lift the wretch out of his dirt, tho' we ſoil our fingers in doing it! He has not been guilty of direct indecency to you.—It ſeems extraordinary to Miſs Howe that I have not.—Nor dare he—She ſhould be ſure of that. If women have ſuch things in their heads, why ſhould not I in my heart?—Not ſo much of a devil as that comes to neither. Such villainous in⯑tentions would have ſhewn themſelves before now, if I had them.—Lord help them!—

She then puts her friend upon urging for ſettlements, licence, and ſo forth.—No room for delicacy now, ſhe ſays.—And tells her what ſhe ſhall ſay, to bring all forward from me.—Doſt think, Jack, that I ſhould not have carried my point long ago, but for this vixen?—She reproaches her for having MODESTY'D-away, as ſhe calls it, more than one opportunity, that ſhe ought not to have ſlipt.—Thus thou ſeeſt, that the nobleſt of the Sex mean nothing in the world by their ſhyneſs and diſtance, but to pound a poor fellow, whom they diſlike not, when he comes into their pur⯑ [...]ieus.

[134]Annexed to this letter is a paper the moſt ſaucy that ever was wrote of a mother by a daughter. There are in it ſuch free reflections upon widows and batchel⯑ors, that I cannot but wonder how Miſs Howe came by her learning. Sir George Colmar, I can tell thee, was a greater fool than thy friend, if ſhe had it all for nothing.

The contents of this paper acquaints Miſs Har⯑lowe, that her uncle Antony has been making pro⯑poſals of marriage to her mother. The old fellow's heart ought to be a tough one, if he ſucceed, or ſhe who broke that of a much worthier man, the late Mr. Howe, will ſoon get rid of him. But be this as it may, the ſtupid family is more irreconcileable than ever to their goddeſs-daughter, for old Antony's thoughts of marrying: So I am more ſecure of her than ever; ſince, as Miſs Howe ſays, ſhe can have but one choice now. Though this diſguſts my pride, yet I believe, at laſt, my tender heart will be moved in her favour. For I did not wiſh, that ſhe ſhould have nothing but perſecution and diſtreſs.—But why loves ſhe the brutes, as Miſs Howe juſtly calls them, ſo much; me ſo little?—But I have ſtill more un⯑pardonable tranſcripts from other letters.

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

THE next letter is of ſuch a nature, that, I dare ſay, theſe proud varleteſſes would not have had it fall into my hands for the world ^(a).

I ſee by it to what her diſpleaſure with me, in rela⯑tion to my propoſals, was owing. They were not ſumm'd up, it ſeems, with the warmth, with the ardor, which ſhe had expected. This whole letter was tranſcribed by Dorcas, to whoſe lot it fell. Thou ſhalt have copies of them all at full length ſhortly.

[135] Men of our caſt, this little devil ſays, ſhe fancies, cannot have the ardors that honeſt men have. Miſs Howe has very pretty fancies, Jack. Charming girl! Would to heaven I knew whether my fair-one anſwers her as freely as ſhe writes! 'Twould vex a man's heart, that this virago ſhould have come honeſtly by her fancies.

Who knows but I may have half a dozen creatures to get off my hands, before I engage for life?—Yet, leſt this ſhould mean me a compliment, as if I would re⯑form, ſhe adds her belief, that ſhe muſt not expect me to be honeſt on this ſide my grand climacteric. She has an high opinion of her Sex, to think they can charm ſo long, with a man ſo well acquainted with their iden⯑ticalneſs.

He to ſuggeſt delays, ſhe ſays, from a compliment to be made to Lord M.!—Yes, I, my dear—Becauſe a man has not been accuſtomed to be dutiful, muſt he never be dutiful?—In ſo important a caſe as this too; the hearts of his whole family engaged in it? You did indeed, ſays ſhe, want an interpoſing friend—But were I to have been in your ſituation, I would have tore his eyes out, and left it to his own heart to furniſh the rea⯑ſon for it. See! See! What ſayeſt thou to this, Jack?

Villain—Fellow that he is! follow. And for what? Only for wiſhing that the next day were to be my happy one; and for being dutiful to my neareſt rela⯑tion.

It is the cru [...]lleſt of fates, ſhe ſays, for a woman to be forced to have a man whom her heart deſpiſes.—That is what I wanted to be ſure of.—I was afraid, that my beloved was too conſcious of her talents; of her ſuperiority!—I was afraid that ſhe indeed deſpiſed me; and I cannot bear it. But, Belford, I do not intend that this lady ſhall be bound down by ſo cruel a fate. Let me periſh, if I marry a woman who has given her moſt intimate friend reaſon to ſay, ſhe deſpiſes me!—A Lovelace to be deſpiſed, Jack!

[136] His clench'd fiſt to his forehead on your leaving him in juſt diſpleaſure—that is, when ſhe was not ſatiſ⯑fied with my ardors, and pleaſe ye!—I remember the motion: But her back was toward me at the time. Are theſe watchful ladies all eye?—But obſerve her wiſh, I wiſh it had been a poll-ax, and in the hands of his worſt enemy.—I will have patience, Jack; I will have patience! My day is at hand.—Then will I ſteel my heart with theſe remembrances.

But here is a ſcheme to be thought of, in order to get my fair prize out of my hands, in caſe I give her reaſon to ſuſpect me.

This indeed alarms me. Now the contention be⯑comes arduous. Now wilt thou not wonder, if I let looſe my plotting genius upon them both. I will not be out-Norris'd, Belford.

But once more, ſhe has no notion, ſhe ſays, that I can or dare to mean her diſhonour. But then the man is a fool—that's all.—I ſhould indeed be a fool, to proceed as I do, and mean matrimony! However, ſince you are thrown upon a fool, ſays ſhe, marry the fool, at the firſt opportunity; and tho' I doubt that this man will be the moſt unmanageable of fools, as all witty and vain fools are, take him as a puniſhment, ſince you can⯑not as a reward.—Is there any bearing this, Belford?

But in the letter I came at to-day, while ſhe was at church, her ſcheme is further opened, and a curſed one it is.

Mr. Lovelace then tranſcribes, from his ſhort-hand notes, that part of Miſs Howe's letter, which relates to the deſign of engaging Mrs. Townſend (in caſe of neceſſity) to give her protection till Colonel Morden comes ^(a): And repeats his vows of revenge; eſpecially for thoſe words; that ſhould he attempt any thing that would make him obnoxious to the laws of ſociety, ſhe might have a fair riddance of him, either by flight or the gal⯑lows; no matter which.

[137] He then adds;—'Tis my pride, to ſubdue girls who know too much to doubt their knowlege; and to con⯑vince them, that they know too little, to defend themſelves from the inconveniencies of knowing too much.

How paſſion drives a man on! I have written, as thou'lt ſee, a prodigious quantity in a very few hours! Now my reſentments are warm, I will ſee, and per⯑haps will puniſh, this proud, this double-arm'd beauty. I have ſent to tell her, that I muſt be admitted to ſup with her. We have neither of us dined: She re⯑fuſed to drink tea in the afternoon.—And I believe neither of us will have much ſtomach to our ſupper.

LETTER XXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

THE dear creature deſires to be excuſed ſeeing me till evening. She is not very well, Dorcas tells me.

Read here, if thou wilt, the paper tranſcribed by Dorcas. It is impoſſible that I ſhould proceed with my projects againſt this admirable woman, were it not that I am reſolved, after a few trials more, as [163] nobly ſuſtained as thoſe ſhe has already paſſed through, to make her (if ſhe really hate me not) legally mine.

THE original of this charming paper, as Dorca [...] tells me, was torn almoſt in two:—In one of her pet [...] I ſuppoſe!—What buſineſs have the Sex, whoſe prin⯑cipal glory is meekneſs, and patience, and reſignation to be in a paſſion, I trow?—Will not ſhe, who allow herſelf ſuch liberties as a maiden lady, take greate [...] when a married one?

And a wife, to be in a paſſion!—Let me tell th [...] ladies, it is a d—n'd impudent thing, begging the pardon, and as imprudent as impudent, for a wife [...] be in a paſſion, if ſhe mean not eternal ſeparation, [...] [167] wicked defiance, by it: For is it not rejecting at once all that expoſtulatory meekneſs, and gentle reaſoning, mingled with ſighs as gentle, and graced with bent knees, ſupplicating hands, and eyes lifted up to your imperial countenance, juſt running over, that ſhould make a reconciliation ſpeedy, and as laſting as ſpeedy? Even ſuppoſe the huſband is wrong, will not his being ſo, give the greater force to her expoſtulation?

Now I think of it, a man ſhould be wrong now-and-then, to make his wife ſhine. Miſs Howe tells my charmer, that adverſity is her ſhining-time. 'Tis a generous thing in a man, to make his wife ſhine at his own expence: To give her leave to triumph over him by patient reaſoning: For were he to be too im⯑perial to acknowlege his fault on the ſpot, ſhe will find the benefit of her duty and ſubmiſſion in future, and in the high opinion he will conceive of her pru⯑dence and obligingneſs—And ſo, by degrees, ſhe will be her maſter's maſter.

But for a wife to come up with a kemboed arm, the other hand thrown out, perhaps, with a pointing finger—Look ye here, Sir!—Take notice!—If you are wrong, I'll be wrong!—If you are in a paſſion, I'll be in a paſſion!—Rebuff, for rebuff, Sir!—If you [...]ly, I'll tear!—If you ſwear, I'll curſe!—And the ſame room, and the ſame-bed, ſhall not hold us, Sir!—For, remember, I am marry'd, Sir!—I'm a wife, Sir!—You can't help yourſelf, Sir!—Your honour, as well as your peace, is in my keeping!—And, [...]f you like not this treatment, you may have worſe, Sir!

Ah! Jack, Jack! What man, who has obſerved [...]heſe things, either imply'd, or expreſs'd, in other fami⯑lies, would wiſh to be an huſband!

Dorcas found this paper in one of the drawers of her [...]ady's dreſſing-table: She was re-peruſing it, as ſhe [...]uppoſes, when the honeſt wench carried my meſſage [...]o deſire her to favour me at the tea-table; for ſhe [168] ſaw her pop a paper into the drawer, as ſhe came in; and there, on her miſtreſs's going to meet me in the dining-room, ſhe found it: And to be This.

But I had better not to have had a copy of it, as far as I know: For, determined as I was before upon my operations, it inſtantly turned all my reſolutions in her favour. Yet I would give ſomething to be convinced, that ſhe did not pop it into her drawer before the wench, in order for me to ſee it; and perhaps (if I were to take notice of it) to diſcover whether Dorcas, according to Miſs Howe's advice, were moſt my friend, or hers.

The very ſuſpicion of this will do her no good: For I cannot bear to be artfully treated. People love to enjoy their own peculiar talents in monopoly, as I may ſay. I am aware, that it will ſtrengthen thy argu⯑ments againſt me in her behalf. But I know every tittle thou canſt ſay upon it: So ſpare thy wambling nonſenſe, I deſire thee; and leave this ſweet excel⯑lence and me to our fate: That will determine for us, as it ſhall pleaſe itſelf: For, as Cowley ſays,

But, after all, I am ſorry, almoſt ſorry (for how ſhall I do to be quite ſorry, when it is not given to me to be ſo?), that I cannot, without making any fur⯑ther trials, reſolve upon wedlock.

I have juſt read over again this intended anſwer to my propoſals: And how I adore her for it!

But yet; another Yet!—She has not given it o [...] ſent it to me.—So it is not her anſwer. It is not writ⯑ten for me, tho' to me.

Nay, ſhe has not intended to ſend it to me: Sh [...] has even torn it, perhaps with indignation, as think⯑ing [169] it too good for me. By this action ſhe abſolutely retracts it. Why then does my fooliſh fondneſs ſeek to eſtabliſh for her the ſame merit in my heart, as if ſhe avowed it? Prythee, dear Belford, once more leave us to our fate; and do not thou interpoſe with thy nonſenſe, to weaken a ſpirit already too ſqueamiſh, and ſtrengthen a conſcience that has declared itſelf of her party.

Then again, remember thy recent diſcoveries, Love⯑lace!—Remember her indifference, attended with all the appearance of contempt and hatred. View her, even now, wrapt up in reſerve and myſtery; medi⯑tating plots, as far as thou knoweſt, againſt the ſove⯑reignty thou haſt, by right of conqueſt, obtained over her: Remember, in ſhort, all thou haſt threatened to remember againſt this inſolent beauty, who is a rebel to the power ſhe has liſted under!

But yet, how doſt thou propoſe to ſubdue thy ſweet enemy?—Abhorr'd be force, be the neceſſity of force, if that can be avoided! There is no triumph in force! No conqueſt over the will!—No prevail⯑ing, by gentle degrees, over the gentle paſſions! Force is the devil!

My curſed character, as I have often ſaid, was againſt me at ſetting out!—Yet is ſhe not a woman? Cannot I find one but half-yielding moment, if ſhe do not abſolutely hate me?

But with what can I tempt her?—RICHES ſhe was born to, and deſpiſes, knowing what they are. JEW⯑ELS and ornaments, to a mind ſo much a jewel, and ſo richly ſet, her worthy conſciouſneſs will not let her value. LOVE, if ſhe be ſuſceptible of Love, it ſeems to be ſo much under the direction of prudence, that one unguarded moment, I fear, cannot be reaſonably hoped for: And ſo much VIGILANCE, ſo much Apprehen⯑ſiveneſs, that her fears are ever aforehand with her dan⯑gers. Then her LOVE OF VIRTUE ſeems to be prin⯑ciple, native, or, if not native, ſo deeply rooted, that [170] its fibres have ſtruck into her heart, and, as ſhe grew up, ſo blended and twiſted themſelves with the ſtrings of life, that I doubt there is no ſeparating of the one, without cutting the others aſunder.

What then can be done to make ſuch a matchleſs creature as this get over the firſt teſts, in order to put her to the grand proof, whether once overcome, ſhe will not be always overcome?

By my faith, Jack, as I ſit gazing upon her, my whole ſoul in my eyes, contemplating her perfections, and thinking, when I have ſeen her eaſy and ſerene, what would be her thoughts, did ſhe know my heart as well as I know it; when I behold her diſturbed and jealous, how juſt her apprehenſions, and that ſhe can⯑not fear ſo much as there is room for her to fear; my heart often miſgives me.

And muſt, think I, O creature ſo divinely excellent, and ſo beloved of my ſoul, thoſe arms, thoſe incir⯑cling arms, that would make a monarch happy, be uſed to repel brutal force; all their ſtrength, unavail⯑ingly perhaps, exerted to repel it, and to defend a perſon ſo delicately framed? Can violence enter into the heart of a wretch, who might intitle himſelf to all thy willing, yet virtuous love, and make the bleſſ⯑ings thou aſpireſt after, her duty to confer?—Begone, villain-purpoſes!—Sink ye all to the hell that could only inſpire ye!—And I am ready to throw myſelf at her feet, confeſs my villainous deſigns, avow my re⯑pentance, and put it out of my power to act un⯑worthily by ſuch a peerleſs excellence.

How then comes it, that all theſe compaſſionate, and, as ſome would call them, honeſt ſenſibilities go off?—Why, Miſs Howe will tell thee: She ſays, I am the devil.—By my conſcience, I think he has, at preſent, a great ſhare in me.

There's ingenuity!—How I lay myſelf open to thee!—But ſeeſt thou not, that the more I ſay againſt myſelf, the leſs room there is for thee to take me to [171] taſk?—O Belford, Belford! I cannot, cannot (at leaſt at preſent I cannot) marry.

Then her family, my bitter enemies!—To ſupple to them, or, if I do not, to make her as unhappy, as ſhe can be from my attempts—

Then muſt ſhe love Them too much, Me too little.

She now ſeems to deſpiſe me: Miſs Howe declares, that ſhe really does deſpiſe me. To be deſpiſed by a WIFE!—What a thought is that!—To be excelled by a WIFE too, in every part of praiſeworthy know⯑lege!—To take leſſons, to take inſtructions, from a WIFE!—More than deſpiſe me, ſhe herſelf has taken time to conſider whether ſhe does not hate me:—I hate you, Lovelace, with my whole heart, ſaid ſhe to me but yeſterday!—My ſoul is above thee, man!—Urge me not to tell thee, how ſincerely I think my ſoul above thee!—How poor indeed was I then, even in my own heart!—So viſible a ſuperiority, to ſo proud a ſpirit as mine!—And here from Below, from BE⯑LOW indeed! I am ſo goaded on—

Yet 'tis poor too, to think myſelf a machine.—I am no machine.—Lovelace, thou art baſe to thyſelf, but to ſuppoſe thyſelf a machine.

But having gone thus far, I ſhould be unhappy, if, after marriage, in the petulance of ill humour, I had it to reproach myſelf, that I did not try her to the utmoſt. And yet I don't know how it is, but this lady, the moment I come into her preſence, half aſſi⯑milates me to her own virtue.—Once or twice (to ſay nothing of her triumph over me on Sunday night) I was prevailed upon to fluſter myſelf, with an intention to make ſome advances, which, if obliged to recede, I might lay upon raiſed ſpirits: But the inſtant I beheld her, I was ſoberized into awe and reverence: And the majeſty of her even viſible purity firſt damped, and then extinguiſhed, my double flame.

What a ſurpriſingly powerful effect, ſo much and ſo [172] long in my power, ſhe! ſo inſtigated by ſome of her own ſex, and ſo ſtimulated by paſſion, I!—How can this be accounted for, in a Lovelace!

But what a heap of ſtuff have I written!—How have I been run away with!—By what?—Canſt thou ſay, by what?—O thou lurking varleteſs CON⯑SCIENCE!—Is it Thou, that haſt thus made me of party againſt myſelf?—How cameſt thou in?—In what diſguiſe, thou egregious haunter of my more agreeable hours?—Stand thou, with fate, but neuter in this controverſy; and, if I cannot do credit to human nature, and to the female ſex, by bringing down ſuch an angel as this to claſs with and adorn it (for adorn it ſhe does in her very foibles), then I am all yours, and never will reſiſt you more.

Here I aroſe. I ſhook myſelf. The window was open. Away the troubleſome boſom-viſiter, the in⯑truder, is flown.—I ſee it yet!—I ſee it yet!—And now it leſſens to my aching eye!—And now the cleft air has cloſed after it, and it is out of ſight!—And once more I am

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

WELL did I, and but juſt in time, conclude to have done with Mrs. Fretchville and the houſe: For here Mennell has declar'd, that he cannot in con⯑ſcience and honour go any farther.—He would not for the world be acceſſory to the deceiving of ſuch a Lady!—I was a fool to let either you or him ſee her; for ever ſince ye have both had ſcruples, which neither would have had, were a woman to have been in the queſtion.

Well, I can't help it!

[173]He has, however, tho' with ſome reluctance, con⯑ſented to write me a letter, provided I will allow it to he the laſt ſtep he ſhall take in this affair.

I preſumed, I told him, that if I could make Mrs. Fretchville's woman ſupply his place, he would have no objection to that.

None, he ſays,—But is it not pity—

A pitiful fellow! Such a ridiculous kind of pity his, as thoſe ſilly ſouls have, who would not kill an innocent chicken for the world; but when killed to their hands, are always the moſt greedy devourers of it.

Now this letter gives the ſervant the ſmall-pox: And ſhe has given it to her unhappy vapouriſh lady. Vapouriſh people are perpetual ſubjects for diſeaſes to work upon. Name but the malady, and it is theirs in a moment. Ever fitted for inoculation.—The phyſical tribe's milch-cows.—A vapouriſh or ſple [...]netic patient is a fiddle for the doctors; and they are eternally playing upon it. Sweet muſic does it make them. All their difficulty, except a caſe extraordinary happens (as poor Mrs. Fretchville's, who has rea⯑lized her apprehenſions), is but to hold their counte⯑nance, while their patient is drawing up a bill of in⯑dictment againſt himſelf;—and when they have heard it, proceed to puniſh:—The right word for preſcribe. Why ſhould they not, when the criminal has con⯑feſſed his guilt?—And puniſh they generally do with a vengeance.

Yet, ſilly toads too, now I think of it! For why, when they know they cannot do good, may they not as well endeavour to gratify, as to nauſeate, the pa⯑tient's palate?

Were I a phyſician, I'd get all the trade to myſelf: For Malmſey, and Cyprus, and the generous pro⯑ducts of the Cape, a little diſguiſed, ſhould be my principal doſes: As theſe would create new ſpirits, [174] how would the revived patient covet the phyſic, and adore the doctor!

Give all the paraders of the faculty whom thou knoweſt, this hint.—There could but one inconve⯑nience ariſe from it. The APOTHECARIES would find their medicines coſt them ſomething: But the demand for quantities would anſwer that: Since the honeſt NURSE would be the patient's taſter; perpetually re⯑quiring repetitions of the laſt cordial julap.

Well, but to the letter—Yet what need of further explanation after the hints in my former? The widow cannot be removed; and that's enough: And Men⯑nell's work is over; and his conſcience left to plague him for his own ſins, and not another man's: And, very poſſibly, plague enough will it give him for thoſe.

This letter is directed, To Robert Lovelace, Eſq or, in his abſence, To his Lady. She had refuſed dining with me, or ſeeing me; and I was out when it came. She open'd it: So is my lady by her own conſent, proud and ſaucy as ſhe is.

I am glad at my heart that it came before we intirely make up. She would elſe, perhaps, have concluded it to be contrived for a delay: And now, moreover, we can accommodate our old and new quarrels together; and that's contrivance, you know. But how is her dear haughty heart humbled to what it was when I knew her firſt, that ſhe can apprehend any delays from me; and have nothing to do but to vex at them!

I came in to dinner. She ſent me down the letter, deſiring my excuſe for opening it. Did it before ſhe was aware. Lady-Pride, Belford!—Recollection, then Retrogradation!

I requeſted to ſee her upon it that moment. But ſhe deſires to ſuſpend our interview till morning. I will bring her to own, before I have done with her, that ſhe can't ſee me too often.

[175]My impatience was ſo great, on an occaſion ſo un⯑expected, that I could not help writing, to tell her, ‘'how much vex'd I was at the accident: But that it need not delay my happy day, as That did not depend upon the houſe [She knew That before, ſhe'll think, and ſo did I]: And as Mrs. Fretchville, by Mr. Mennell, ſo handſomely expreſſed her con⯑cern upon it, and her wiſhes, that it could ſuit us to bear with the unavoidable delay, I hoped, that going down to The Lawn for two or three of the ſum⯑mer-months, when I was made the happieſt of men, would be favourable to all round.'’

The dear creature takes this incident to heart, I be⯑lieve: And ſends word to my repeated requeſt to ſee her, notwithſtanding her denial, that ſhe cannot till the morning: It ſhall be then at ſix o'clock, if I pleaſe!

To be ſure I do pleaſe!

Can ſee her but once a day now, Jack!

Did I tell thee, that I wrote a letter to my couſin Montague, wondering that I heard not from Lord M. as the ſubject was ſo very intereſting? In it I acquainted her with the houſe I was about taking; and with Mrs. Fretchville's vapouriſh delays.

I was very loth to engage my own family, either man or woman, in this affair; but I muſt take my meaſures ſecurely: And already they all think as bad of me as they well can. You obſerve by my Lord M.'s to yourſelf, that the well-manner'd Peer is afraid I ſhould play this admirable creature one of my uſual dog's tricks.

I have received juſt now an anſwer from Charlotte.

Charlotte i'n't well. A ſtomach-diſorder.

No wonder a girl's ſtomach ſhould plague her. A ſingle lady; that's it. When ſhe has a man to plague, it will have ſomething beſides itſelf to prey upon. Knoweſt thou not moreover, that man is the woman's [176] Sun; woman is the man's Earth?—How dreary, how deſolate, the Earth, that is deprived of the all-ſalubri⯑ating Sun-ſhine!

Poor Charlotte! But I heard ſhe was not well: That encouraged me to write to her; and to expreſs myſelf a little concerned, that ſhe had not of her own accord thought of a viſit in town to my charmer.

Here follows a copy of her letter: Thou wilt ſee by it, that every little monkey is to catechiſe me. They all depend upon my good-nature.

THOU ſeeſt how ſeaſonably this letter comes. I hope my Lord will write nothing but what I may ſhew my beloved. I have actually ſent her up this letter of Charlotte's; and hope for happy effects from it.

THE Lady, in her next letter, gives Miſs Howe an account of what has paſſed between Mr. Lovelace and herſelf. She reſents his behaviour with her uſual dignity: But when ſhe comes to mention Mr. Men⯑nell's letter, ſhe re-urges Miſs Howe to perfect her ſcheme for her deliverance; being reſolved to leave [178] him. But, dating again, on his ſending up to her Miſs Montague's letter, ſhe alters her mind, and de⯑ſires her to ſuſpend, for the preſent, her application to Mrs. Townſend.

‘'I had begun, ſays ſhe, to ſuſpect all he had ſaid of Mrs. Fretchville and her houſe; and even Mr. Mennell himſelf, though ſo well appearing a man. But now that I find Mr. Lovelace had apprized his relations of his intention to take it; and had en⯑gaged ſome of the Ladies to viſit me there; I could hardly forbear blaming myſelf for cenſuring him as capable of ſo vile an impoſture. But may he not thank himſelf for acting ſo very unaccountably, and taking ſuch needleſly-wry ſteps, as he has done; embaraſſing, as I told him, his own meanings, if they were good?'’

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

IT is not in the power of woman, ſays he, to be al⯑together ſincere on theſe occaſions. But why?—Do they think it ſo great a diſgrace to be found out to be really what they are?

I regretted the illneſs of Mrs. Fretchville; as the in⯑tention I had to fix her dear ſelf in the houſe before the happy knot was tied, would have ſet her in that independence in appearance, as well as fact, which was neceſſary to ſhew to all the world, that her choice was free; and as the ladies of my family would have been proud to make their court to her there; while [179] the ſettlements and our equipages were preparing. But on any other account, there was no great matter in it; ſince when my happy day was over, we could, with ſo much convenience, go down to the Lawn, or to my Lord M.'s, or to either of my aunts in town; which would give full time to provide ourſelves with ſervants, and other accommodations.

How ſweetly the charmer liſten'd!

I aſked her, If ſhe had had the ſmall-pox?

'Twas always a doubtful point with her mother and Mrs. Norton, ſhe own'd. But altho' ſhe was not afraid of it, ſhe choſe not unneceſſarily to ruſh into places where it was.

Right, thought I—Elſe, I ſaid, it would not have been amiſs for her to ſee the houſe before ſhe went into the country; for, if ſhe liked it not, I was not obliged to have it.

She aſked, If ſhe might take a copy of Miſs Mon⯑tague's letter?

I ſaid, She might keep the letter itſelf, and ſend it to Miſs Howe, if ſhe pleaſed; for that, I ſuppoſed, was her intention. She bow'd her head to me. There, Jack!—I ſhall have her courteſy to me, by-and-by, I queſtion not. What a-devil had I to do, to terrify the ſweet creature by my termagant projects!—Yet it was not amiſs, I believe, to make her afraid of me. She ſays, I am an unpolite man—And every polite inſtance from ſuch a one, is deem'd a favour.

Talking of the ſettlements, I told her, that I had rather Pritchard (mentioned by my couſin Charlotte), had not been conſulted on this occaſion. Pritchard, indeed, was a very honeſt man; and had been for a generation in the family; and knew the eſtates, and the condition of them, better than either my Lord or myſelf: But Pritchard, like other old men, was diffi⯑dent and ſlow; and valued himſelf upon his ſkill as a draughts-man; and for the ſake of that paltry repu⯑tation, [180] muſt have all his forms preſerved, were an imperial crown to depend upon his diſpatch.

I kiſſed her unrepulſing hand no leſs than five times during this converſation. Lord, Jack, how my ge⯑nerous heart run over!—She was quite obliging at parting.—She in a manner aſked me leave to retire; to reperuſe Charlotte's letter.—I think ſhe bent her knees to me; but I won't be ſure.—How happy might we have both been long ago, had the dear crea⯑ture been always as complaiſant to me! For I do love reſpect, and, whether I deſerved it or not, al⯑ways had it, till I knew this proud beauty.

And now, Belford, are we in a train, or the duce is in it. Every fortified town has its ſtrong and its weak place. I had carried on my attacks againſt the impregnable parts. I have no doubt but I ſhall either ſhine or ſmuggle her out of her cloak, ſince ſhe and Miſs Howe have intended to employ a ſmuggler againſt me.—All we wait for now, is my Lord's letter.

But I had like to have forgot to tell thee, that we have been not a little alarm'd, by ſome inquiries that have been made after me and my beloved, by a man of good appearance; who yeſterday procured a tradeſman in the neighbouroood to ſend for Dorcas: Of whom he aſked ſeveral queſtions relating to us; and particularly (as we boarded and lodged in one houſe), whether we were married?

This has given my beloved great uneaſineſs. And I could not help obſerving upon it, to her, how right a thing it was, that we had given out below that we were married. The inquiry, moſt probably, I ſaid, was from her brother's quarter; and now, perhaps, that our marriage was owned, we ſhould hear no more of his machinations. The perſon, it ſeems, was curious to know the day that the ceremony was performed. But Dorcas refuſed to give him any other particulars, than that we were married; and was the more reſerved, as he declined to tell her the motives of his inquiry.

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

THE devil take this uncle of mine! He has at laſt ſent me a letter, which I cannot ſhew, without expoſing the head of our family for a fool. A con⯑founded parcel of pop-guns has he let off upon me. I was in hopes he had exhauſted his whole ſtock of this ſort, in his letter to you.—To keep it back, to delay ſending it, till he had recollected all this farrago of nonſenſe—Confound his Wiſdom of nations, if ſo much of it is to be ſcraped together, in diſgrace of it⯑ſelf, to make one egregious ſimpleton!—But I am glad I am fortified with this piece of flagrant folly, however; ſince, in all human affairs, the convenient and inconvenient, the good and the bad, are ſo mingled, that there is no having the one without the other.

I have already offer'd the bill incloſed in it to my beloved; and read to her part of the letter. But ſhe refuſed the bill: And I, being in caſh, ſhall return it. She ſeemed very deſirous to peruſe the whole let⯑ter. And when I told her, that were it not for ex⯑poſing the writer, I would oblige her, ſhe ſaid, It would not be expoſing his Lordſhip to ſhew it to her; and that ſhe always preferred the heart to the head. I knew her meaning—But did not thank her for it.

All that makes for me in it, I will tranſcribe for her—Yet, hang it, ſhe ſhall have the letter, and my ſoul with it, for one conſenting kiſs.

SHE has got the letter from me, without the re⯑ward. Duce take me, if I had the courage to pro⯑poſe the condition! A new character this of baſhful⯑neſs in thy friend.—I ſee, that a truly modeſt woman [182] may make even a confident man keep his diſtance. By my ſoul, Belford, I believe, that nine women in ten, who fall, fall either from their own vanity, or levity, or for want of circumſpection, and proper re⯑ſerves.

I DID intend to take my reward on her returning a letter ſo favourable to us both. But ſhe ſent it to me, ſealed up by Dorcas.—I might have thought that there were two or three hints in it, that ſhe would be too nice immediately to appear to. I ſend it to thee; and here will ſtop, to give thee time to read it. Re⯑turn it as ſoon as thou haſt peruſed it.

LETTER XXXII. Lord M. To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

IT is a long lane that has no turning.—Do not deſpiſe me for my proverbs—You know I was always fond of them; and, if you had been ſo too, it would have been the better for you, let me tell you. I dare ſwear, the fine lady you are ſo likely to be ſoon happy with, will be far from deſpiſing them; for I am told, that ſhe writes well, and that all her letters are full of ſen⯑tences. God convert you! for nobody but He and this lady, can.

I have no manner of doubt now but that you will marry, as your father, and all your anceſtors, did be⯑fore you: Elſe you would have had no title to be my heir; nor can your deſcendents have any title to be yours, unleſs they are legitimate; that's worth your remembrance, Sir!—No man is always a fool, every man ſometimes.—But your follies, I hope, are now at an end.

I know, you have vowed revenge againſt this fine lady's family: But no more of that, now. You muſt [183] look upon them all as your relations; and forgive, and forget. And when they ſee you make a good huſband, and a good father (which God ſend, for all our ſakes!), they will wonder at their nonſenſical antipathy, and beg your pardon: But while they think you a vile fellow, and a rake, how can they either love you, or excuſe their daughter?

And methinks I could wiſh to give a word of comfort to the lady, who, doubtleſs, muſt be under great fears, how ſhe ſhall be able to hold-in ſuch a wild creature, as you have hitherto been. I would hint to her, that, by ſtrong arguments, and gentle words, ſhe may do any thing with you; for tho' you are too apt to be hot, gentle words will cool you, and bring you into the temper that is neceſſary for your cure.

Would to God, my poor lady, your aunt, who is dead and gone, had been a proper patient for the ſame remedy! God reſt her ſoul! No reflections upon her memory! Worth is beſt known by want! I know hers now; and if I had went firſt, ſhe would by this time have known mine.

There is great wiſdom in that ſaying, God ſend me a friend, that may tell me of my faults: If not, an enemy; and he will. Not that I am your enemy; and that you know well. The more noble any one is, the more humble: So bear with me, if you would be thought noble.—Am I not your uncle? And do I not deſign to be better to you, than your father could be? Nay, I will be your father too, when the happy day comes; ſince you deſire it: And pray make my compliments to my dear niece; and tell her, I wonder much that ſhe has ſo long deferred your happineſs.

Pray let her know, I will preſent HER (not you) either my Lancaſhire ſeat, or The Lawn in Hert⯑fordſhire; and ſettle upon her a thouſand pounds a year, peny-rents; to ſhew her, that we are not a family to take baſe advantages: And you may have [184] writings drawn, and ſettle as you will.—Honeſt Pritchard has the rent-roll of both theſe eſtates at his fingers end; and has been a good old ſervant. I re⯑commend him to your Lady's favour. I have already conſulted him: He will tell you what is beſt for you, and moſt pleaſing to me.

I am ſtill very bad with my gout; but will come in a litter, as ſoon as the day is fixed: It would be the joy of my heart, to join your hands. And let me tell you, if you do not make the beſt of huſbands to ſo good a young lady, and one who has had ſo much courage for your ſake, I will renounce you; and ſettle all I can upon her and hers by you, and leave you out of the queſtion.

If any thing be wanting for your further ſecurity, I am ready to give it (tho' you know, that my word has always been look'd upon as my bond): And when the Harlowes know all this, let us ſee whether they are able to bluſh, and take ſhame upon themſelves.

Your two aunts want only to know the day, to make all the country round them blaze, and all their tenants mad. And, if any one of mine be ſober upon the occaſion, Pritchard ſhall eject him. And, on the birth of the firſt child, if a ſon, I will do ſomething more for you, and repeat all our rejoicings.

I ought indeed to have written ſooner. But I knew, that if you thought me long, and were in haſte as to your nuptials, you would write and tell me ſo. But my gout was very troubleſome: And I am but a ſlow writer, you know, at beſt: For Compoſing is a thing, that tho' formerly I was very ready at it (as my Lord Lexington uſed to ſay); yet having left it off a great while, I am not ſo now. And I choſe, on this occaſion, to write all out of my own head and me⯑mory; and to give you my beſt advice; for I may never have ſuch an opportunity again. You have had (God mend you!) a ſtrange way of turning your back upon all I have ſaid; This once, I hope, you [185] will be more attentive to the advice I give you for your own good.

I had ſtill another end; nay, two other ends.

The one was, That now you are upon the borders of wedlock, as I may ſay, and all your wild cats will [...]e ſown, I would give you ſome inſtructions as to your public as well as private behaviour in life; which, intending you ſo much good as I'do, you ought to hear; and perhaps would never have liſten'd to, on any leſs extraordinary occaſion.

The ſecond is, That your dear lady-elect (who is, it ſeems, herſelf ſo fine and ſo ſententious a writer) will ſee by this, that it is not our faults, nor for want of the beſt advice, that you was not a better man than you have hitherto been.

And now, in few words, for the conduct I would wiſh you to follow in public, as well as in private; if you would think me worthy of adviſing. It ſhall be ſhort; ſo be not uneaſy.

As to the private life: Love your Lady as ſhe de⯑ſerves. Let your actions praiſe you. Be a good huſ⯑band; and ſo give the lye to all your enemies; and make them aſham'd of their ſcandals: And let us have pride in ſaying, that Miſs Harlowe has not done either herſelf, or family, any diſcredit by coming among us. Do this; and I, and your aunts, will love you for ever.

As to your public conduct:—This is what I could wiſh: But I reckon your Lady's wiſdom will put us both right—No diſparagement, Sir; ſince, with all your wit, you have not hitherto ſhewn much wiſ⯑dom, you know.

Get into parliament as ſoon as you can: For you have talents to make a great figure there. Who ſo proper to aſſiſt in making new holding laws, as thoſe whom no law in being could hold?

Then, for ſo long as you will give attendance, in St. Stephen's chapel—(Its being called a chapel, I hope, [186] will not diſguſt you: I am ſure I have known many a riot there:—A Speaker has a hard time of it! But we Peers have more decorum.—But what was I going to ſay?—I muſt go back.

For ſo long as you will give your attendance in par⯑liament) for ſo long will you be out of miſchief; out of private miſchief, at leaſt: And may St. Stephen's fate be yours, if you wilfully do public miſchief!

When a new election comes, you will have two or three Boroughs, you know, to chooſe out of:—But if you ſtay till then, I had rather you were for the Shire.

You'll have intereſt enough, I am ſure; and being ſo handſome a man, the women will make their huſ⯑bands vote for you.

I ſhall long to read your ſpeeches. I expect you will ſpeak, if occaſion offers, the very firſt day. You want no courage; and think highly enough of your⯑ſelf, and lowly enough of every-body elſe, to ſpeak on all occaſions.

As to the methods of the houſe, you have ſpirit enough, I fear, to be too much above them: Take care of that.—I don't ſo much fear your want of good-manners. To men, you want no decency, if they don't provoke you: As to that, I wiſh you'd only learn to be as patient of contradiction from others, as you would have other people be to you.

Altho' I would not have you to be a Courtier; nei⯑ther would I have you be a Malecontent. I remember (for I have it down) what my old friend Archibald Hutcheſon ſaid, and it was a very good ſaying—(to Mr. Secretary Craggs, I think, it was)— ‘'I look up⯑on an adminiſtration, as intitled to every vote I can with good conſcience give it; for a Houſe of Com⯑mons ſhould not needleſly put drags upon the wheels of Government: And, when I have not given it my vote, it was with regret: And, for my Country's ſake, I wiſh'd with all my heart, the meaſure had been ſuch as I could have approved.'’

[187]And another ſaying he had, which was this; ‘'Neither can an Oppoſition, neither can a Miniſtry, be always wrong. To be a plumb man therefore with either, is an infallible mark, that that man muſt mean more and worſe than he will own he does mean.'’

Are theſe Sayings bad, Sir? Are they to be de⯑ſpiſed?—Well then, why ſhould I be deſpiſed for remembering them, and quoting them, as I love to do? Let me tell you, if you loved my company more than you do, you would not be the worſe for it: I may ſay ſo without any vanity; ſince it is other mens wiſdom, and not my own, that I am ſo fond of. But to add a word or two more, on this occa⯑ſion; and I may never have ſuch another; for you muſt read this thro'—Love honeſt men, and herd with them, in the houſe and out of the houſe; by whatever names they be dignified or diſtinguiſhed: Keep good men company, and you ſhall be of the number. But did I, or did I not, write this before?—Writing, at ſo many different times, and ſuch a quantity, one may forget.

You may come in for the title when I am dead and gone—God help me!—So I would have you keep an equilibrium. If once you get the name of being a fine ſpeaker, you may have any thing: And, to be ſure, you have naturally a great deal of elocution; a tongue that would delude an angel, as the women ſay: To their ſorrow, ſome of them, poor creatures!—A leading man in the Houſe of Commons, is a very import⯑ant character; becauſe that houſe has the giving of money: And Money makes the mare to go; ay, and Queens and Kings too, ſometimes, to go in a manner very different from what they might otherwiſe chooſe to go, let me tell you.

However, methinks, I would not have you take a place neither—It will double your value, and your [188] intereſt, if it be believed, that you will not: For, you will then ſtand in no man's way, you will ha [...] no envy; but pure ſterling reſpect; and both ſides w [...] court you.

For your part, you will not want a plac [...] as ſome others do, to piece up their broken fortune If you can now live reputably upon two thouſa [...] pounds a year, it will be hard if you cannot hereaft [...] upon ſeven or eight—Leſs you will not have, if yo [...] oblige me; as now by marrying ſo fine a lady, [...]e [...] much you will—And all this, beſide Lady Betty and Lady Sarah's favours!—What, in the name [...] wonder, could poſſibly poſſeſs the proud Harlowes That Son, that Son of theirs!—But, for his dear ſiſter' [...] ſake, I will ſay no more of him.

I never was offer'd a place myſelf: And the on [...] one I would have taken, had I been offer'd it, wa [...] Maſter of the Buckhounds; for I loved hunting whe [...] I was young; and it carries a good ſound with it for us who live in the country. Often have I though [...] of that excellent old adage; He that eats the King' [...] gooſe, ſhall be choaked with his feathers. I wiſh t [...] the Lord, this was thoroughly conſider'd by place hunters! It would be better for them, and for thei [...] poor families.—I could ſay a great deal more, and a [...] equally to the purpoſe. But really I am tired; and ſ [...] I doubt are you. And beſides, I would reſerve ſome thing for converſation.

My couſins Montague, and my two ſiſters, join i [...] compliments to my niece that is to be. If ſhe woul [...] chooſe to have the knot tied among us, pray tell her, that we ſhall ſee it ſecurely done: And we will make all the country ring, and blaze, for a week to⯑gether. But ſo, I believe, I ſaid before.

If any thing farther may be needful toward pro⯑moting your reciprocal felicity, let me know it; and how you order about the day; and all that. The in⯑cloſed bill is very much at your ſervice: 'Tis payable [189] [...]t ſight, as whatever elſe you may have occaſion [...]or, ſhall be.

So God bleſs you both; and make things as conve⯑nient to my gout as you can; tho' be it whenever it will, I will hobble to you; for I long to ſee you; and my niece full as much as you; and am, in expec⯑ [...]tion of that happy time,

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

THOU ſeeſt, Belford, how we now drive before the wind.—The dear creature now comes almoſt at the firſt word, whenever I deſire the honour of her company. I told her laſt night, that, apprehending delay from Pritchard's ſlowneſs, I was determined to [...]eave it to my Lord to make his compliments in his [...]wn way; and had actually that afternoon put my writings into the hands of a very eminent lawyer, Counſellor Williams, with directions for him to draw [...]p ſettlements from my own eſtate, and conformable [...]o thoſe of my own mother; which I put into his hands at the ſame time. It had been, I ſaid, no ſmall part of my concern, that her frequent diſpleaſure, and our mutual miſapprehenſions, had hindered me from adviſing with her before, on this ſubject. Indeed, [...]ndeed, my deareſt life, ſaid I, you have hitherto af⯑forded me but a very thorny courtſhip.

She was ſilent. Kindly ſilent. For well know I, that ſhe could have recriminated upon me with a ven⯑geance.—But I was willing to ſee, if ſhe were not [...]oth to diſoblige me now.—I comforted myſelf, I [...]aid, with the hopes, that all my difficulties were over; and that every paſt diſobligation would now be [...]uried in oblivion.

[190]Now, Belford, I have actually depoſited theſe writings with Counſellor Williams; and I expect the draughts in a week at furtheſt. So ſhall be doubly armed. For if I attempt, and fail, theſe will be ready to throw in, to make her have patience with me till I can try again.

I have more contrivances ſtill in embryo. I could tell thee of an hundred, and ſtill hold another hun⯑dred in petto, to pop in, as I go along, to excite thy ſurprize, and to keep up thy attention. Nor rave thou at me; but, if thou art my friend, think of Miſs Howe's letters, and of her ſmuggling ſcheme. All owing to my fair captive's informations and incite⯑ments.—Am I not a villain, a fool, a Beelzebub, with them already?—Yet no harm done by me, nor ſo much as attempted?

Every thing of this nature, the dear creature an⯑ſwered (with a downcaſt eye, and a bluſhing cheek), ſhe left to me.

I propoſed my Lord's chapel for the celebration, where we might have the preſence of Lady Betty, Lady Sarah, and my two couſins Montague.

She ſeemed not to favour a public celebration; and waved this ſubject for the preſent. I did ſuppoſe, that ſhe would not chooſe to be married in public, any more than me: So I preſſed not this matter further juſt then.

But patterns I actually produced; and a jeweller was to bring as this day ſeveral ſets of jewels, for her choice. But the patterns ſhe would not open. She ſighed at the mention of them; The ſecond patterns, ſhe ſaid, that had been offered to her ^(a): And very peremptorily forbid the jeweller's coming; as well as declined my offer of getting my own mother's to be new-ſet; at leaſt for the preſent.

I do aſſure thee, Belford, I was in earneſt in all this. My whole eſtate is nothing to me, put in com⯑petition with her hoped-for favour.

[191]She then told me, that ſhe had written her opinion of my general propoſals; and there had expreſſed her mind, as to cloaths and jewels:—But on my beha⯑viour to her, for no cauſe that ſhe knew of, on Sun⯑day night, ſhe had torn the paper in two. I earneſtly preſſed her to let me be favoured with a ſight of this paper, torn as it was. And after ſome heſitation, ſhe withdrew, and ſent it to me by Dorcas.

I peruſed it again. It was in a manner new to me, tho' I had read it ſo lately; and by my ſoul I could hardly ſtand it. An hundred admirable creatures I called her to myſelf.—But I charge thee, write not a word to me in her favour, if thou meaneſt her well; for if I ſpare her, it muſt be all ex mero motu.

You may eaſily ſuppoſe, when I was re-admitted to her preſence, that I ran over in her praiſes, and in vows of gratitude, and everlaſting love. But here's the devil; ſhe ſtill receives all I ſay with reſerve; or if it be not with reſerve, ſhe receives it ſo much as her due, that ſhe is not at all raiſed by it. Some women are undone by praiſe, by flattery. I myſelf am proud of praiſe.—Perhaps thou wilt ſay, that thoſe are moſt proud of it, who leaſt deſerve it—As thoſe are of riches and grandeur, who are not born to either. I own, that it requires a ſoul to be ſuperior to theſe foibles. Have I not then a ſoul?—Surely, I have.—Let me then be conſider'd as an exception to the rule.

Now have I a foundation to go upon in my terms. My Lord, in the exuberance of his generoſity, men⯑tions a thouſand pounds a year peny-rents. This I know, that were I to marry this Lady, he would ra⯑ther ſettle upon her all he has a mind to ſettle, than upon me: And has even threatened, that if I prove not a good huſband to her, he will leave all he can at his death, from me, to her.—Yet conſiders not, that a woman ſo perfect, can never be diſpleaſed with her huſband but to his diſgrace; for who will blame her? [192] Another reaſon, why a Lovelace ſhould not wiſh to marry a CLARISSA.

But what a pretty fellow of an uncle mine, to think of making a wife independent of her emperor, and a rebel of courſe—Yet ſmarted himſelf for an error of this kind!

My beloved, in her torn paper, mentions but two hundred pounds a year, for her ſeparate uſe. I in⯑ſiſted upon her naming a larger ſum. She ſaid, it might then be three; and I, for fear ſhe ſhould ſu⯑ſpect very large offers, named five, and the intire diſ⯑poſal of all arrears in her father's hands, for the be⯑nefit of Mrs. Norton, or whom ſhe pleaſed.

She ſaid, that the good woman would be uneaſy, if any thing more than a competency were done for her. She was for ſuiting all her diſpoſitions of this kind, ſhe ſaid, to the uſual way of life of the perſon. To go beyond it, was but to put the benefited upon projects, or to make them aukward in a new ſtate, when they might ſhine in that they were accuſtomed to. And to put it into ſo good a mother's power to give her ſon a beginning in his buſineſs, at a proper time; yet to leave her ſomething for herſelf, to ſet her above want, or the neceſſity of taking back from her child what ſhe had been enabled to beſtow upon him, would be the height of ſuch a worthy parent's ambition.

Here is prudence! Here is judgment in ſo young a creature! How do I hate the Harlowes for producing ſuch an angel!—O why, why, did ſhe refuſe my ſin⯑cere addreſs to tie the knot before we came to this houſe!

But yet, what mortifies my pride, is, that this ex⯑alted creature, if I were to marry her, would not be governed in her behaviour to me by love, but by ge⯑neroſity merely, or by blind duty; and had rather live ſingle, than be mine.

I cannot bear this. I would have the woman whom I honour with my name, if ever I confer this honour [193] upon any, forego even her ſuperior duties for me. I would have her look after me when I go out, as far as ſhe can ſee me, as my Roſebud after her Johnny; and meet me at my return with rapture. I would be the ſubject of her dreams, as well as of her waking thoughts. I would have her look upon every moment loſt, that is not paſſed with me: Sing to me, read to me, play to me when I pleaſed; no joy ſo great as in obeying me. When I ſhould be inclined to love, overwhelm me with it; when to be ſerious or ſolitary, if intruſive, awfully ſo; retiring at a nod; approach⯑ing me only if I ſmiled encouragement: Steal into my preſence with ſilence; out of it, if not noticed, on tiptoe. Be a Lady Eaſy to all my pleaſures, and valuing thoſe moſt, who moſt contributed to them; only ſighing in private, that it was not herſelf at the time.—Thus of old did the contending wives of the honeſt patriarchs; each recommending her handmaid to her lord, as ſhe thought it would oblige him, and looking upon the genial product as her own.

The gentle Waller ſays, Women are born to be controul'd. Gentle as he was, he knew that. A ty⯑rant-huſband makes a dutiful wife. And why do the Sex love rakes, but becauſe they know how to direct their uncertain wills, and manage them?

ANOTHER agreeable converſation. The day of days the ſubject. As to fixing a particular one, that need not be done till the ſettlements are completed. As to marrying at my Lord's chapel, the ladies of my family preſent, that would be making a public affair of it; and my charmer obſerved with regret, that it ſeemed to be my Lord's intention to make it ſo.

It could not be imagined, I ſaid, but that his Lord⯑ſhip's ſetting out in a litter, and coming to town, as well as his taſte for glare, and the joy he would take to ſee me married at laſt, would give it as much the [194] air of a public marriage, as if the ceremony were per⯑formed at his own chapel, all the ladies preſent.

She could not bear the thoughts of a public day. It would carry with it an air of inſult upon her whole family. And, for her part, if my Lord would not take it amiſs (and perhaps he would not, as the mo⯑tion came not from himſelf, but from me), ſhe would very willingly diſpenſe with his Lordſhip's preſence; the rather, as dreſs and appearance would then be un⯑neceſſary. For ſhe could not bear to think of decking her perſon, while her parents were in tears.

How excellent this, did not her parents richly de⯑ſerve to be in tears!

See, Belford, with ſo charming a niceneſs, we might have been a long time ago upon the ve [...]ge of the ſtate, and yet found a great deal to do, before we enter'd into it.

All obedience, all reſignation—No will but hers. I withdrew, and wrote directly to my Lord; and ſhe not diſapproving of it, ſent it away. The purport as follows; for I took no copy.

‘'That I was much obliged to his Lordſhip for his intended goodneſs to me, on an occaſion that was the moſt ſolemn and awful of my life. That the ad⯑mirable Lady, whom he ſo juſtly praiſed, thought his Lordſhip's propoſals in her favour too high. That ſhe choſe not to make a public appearance, if, without diſobliging my friends, ſhe could avoid it, till a reconciliation with her own could be effected. That altho' ſhe expreſſed a grateful ſenſe of his Lordſhip's conſent to give her to me with his own hand; yet preſuming, that the motive to his kind intention, was rather to do her honour, than that it otherwiſe would have been his own choice (eſpe⯑cially as travelling would be at this time ſo incon⯑venient to him), ſhe thought it adviſeable to ſave his Lordſhip trouble on this occaſion; and hoped he would take, as meant, her declining the favour.'’

[195] ‘'The Lawn, I tell him, will be moſt acceptable to retire to; and ſtill the more, as it is ſo to his Lordſhip.'’

‘'But, if he pleaſes, the jointure may be made from my own eſtate; leaving to his Lordſhip's goodneſs the alternative.'’

‘'That I had offer'd to preſent to the Lady his Lordſhip's bill; but on her declining to accept of it (having myſelf no preſent occaſion for it), I re⯑turned it incloſed, with my thanks, &c.'’

And is not this going a plaguy length? What a figure ſhould I make in rakiſh annals, if at laſt I ſhould be caught in my own gin?

The Sex may ſay what they will, but a poor inno⯑cent fellow had need to take great care of himſelf, when he dances upon the edge of the matrimonial pre⯑cipice. Many a faint-hearted man, when he began in jeſt, or only deſigned to ape gallantry, has been forced into earneſt, by being over-prompt, and taken at his word, not knowing how to own that he meant leſs, than the Lady ſuppoſed he meant. I am the better enabled to judge that this muſt have been the caſe of many a ſneaking varlet; becauſe I, who know the female world as well as any man in it of my ſtanding, am ſo frequently in doubt of myſelf, and know not what to make of the matter.

Then theſe little ſly rogues, how they lie couchant, ready to ſpring upon us harmleſs fellows, the moment we are in their reach!—When the ice is once broken for them, how ſwiftly can they make to port!—Mean⯑time, the ſubject they can leaſt ſpeak to, they moſt think of. Nor can you talk of the ceremony before they have laid out in their minds how it is all to be.—Little ſaucy-face deſigners! how firſt they draw them⯑ſelves in, then us!

But be all theſe things as they will, Lord M. never in his life received ſo handſome a letter as this from his nephew.

[196]THE Lady, after having given to Miſs Howe the particulars which are contained in Mr. Lovelace's laſt letter, thus expreſſes herſelf.

MR. Lovelace, to ſhew the wantonneſs of his in⯑vention, in his next, gives his friend an account of a ſcheme he had framed to be revenged on Miſs Howe, when ſhe ſet out for the iſle of Wight; which he heard ſhe was to do, accompanied by her mother and Mr. Hickman, in order to viſit a rich aunt there, who deſired to ſee her, and her future conſort, before ſhe changed her name. But as he does not intend to carry it into execution, it is omitted.

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

IF, Belford, thou likeſt not my plot upon Miſs Howe, I have three or four more as good in my own opinion; better, perhaps, they will be in thine: And ſo 'tis but getting looſe from thy preſent engage⯑ment, and thou ſhalt pick and chooſe. But as for thy three brethren, they muſt do as I'd have them: And ſo, indeed, muſt thou:—Elſe why am I your general?—But I will refer this ſubject to its proper ſea⯑ſon. Thou knoweſt, that I never abſolutely conclude upon a project, till 'tis time for execution: And then lightning ſtrikes not quicker than I.

And now to the ſubject next my heart.

Wilt thou believe me, when I tell thee, that I have ſo many contrivances riſing up and crouding upon me for preference, with regard to my Gloriana, that I hardly know which to chooſe?—I could tell thee of no leſs than ſix princely ones, any of which muſt do. But as the dear creature has not grudged giving me trouble, I think I ought not, in gratitude, to ſpare combuſtibles for her; but, on the contrary, to make her ſtare and ſtand aghaſt, by ſpringing three or four mines at once.

Thou remembreſt what Shakeſpeare, in his Troilus and Creſſida, makes Hector, who, however, is not uſed to boaſt, ſay to Achilles, in an interview between them; and which, applied to this watchful Lady, and to the vexation ſhe has given me, and to the certainty I now think I have of ſubduing her; will run thus:—Suppoſing the charmer before me; and I meditating her ſweet perſon from head to foot:

Then, I imagine thee interpoſing to qualify my impa⯑tience, as Ajax did to Achilles:

And now, Jack, what doſt think?

That thou art a curſed fellow, if—

If! No If's—But I ſhall be very ſick to-morrow. I ſhall, 'faith.

Sick!—Why ſick?—What a devil ſhouldſt thou be ſick for?

For more good reaſons than one, Belford.

I ſhould be glad to hear but one.—Sick, quotha! Of all thy roguiſh inventions, I ſhould not have thought of this.

Perhaps thou thinkeſt my view to be, to draw the lady to my bedſide: That's a trick of three or four thouſand years old; and I ſhould find it much more to my purpoſe, if I could get to her's. However, I'll condeſcend to make thee as wiſe as myſelf.

I am exceſſively diſturb'd about this ſmuggling ſcheme of Miſs Howe. I have no doubt, that my fair one will fly from me, if ſhe can, were I to make an attempt, and miſcarry. I once believed ſhe loved me: But now I doubt whether ſhe does or not: At leaſt, that it is with ſuch an ardor, as Miſs Howe calls it, as will make her overlook a premeditated fault, ſhould I be guilty of one.

And what will being ſick do for thee?

Have patience. I don't intend to be ſo very bad as Dorcas ſhall repreſent me to be. But yet I know [199] I ſhall reach confoundedly, and bring up ſome clot⯑ted blood. To be ſure, I ſhall break a veſſel: There's no doubt of that; and a bottle of Eaton's ſtyptic ſhall be ſent for; but no doctor. If ſhe has humanity, ſhe will be concerned. But if ſhe has love, let it have been puſh'd ever ſo far back, it will, on this occa⯑ſion, come forward, and ſhew itſelf; not only in her eye, but in every line of her ſweet face.

I will be very intrepid. I will not fear death, or any thing elſe. I will be ſure of being well in an hour or two, having formerly found great benefit by this balſamic medicine, on occaſion of an inward bruiſe by a fall from my horſe in hunting, of which, perhaps, this malady may be the remains. And this will ſhew her, that tho' thoſe about me may make the moſt of it, I don't; and ſo can have no deſign in it.

Well, methinks thou ſayeſt, I begin to think to⯑lerably of this device.

I knew thou wouldſt, when I explained myſelf. Another time prepare to wonder; and baniſh doubt.

Now, Belford, if ſhe be not much concerned at the broken veſſel, which, in one ſo fiery in his temper as I have the reputation to be thought, may be very dangerous; a malady that I ſhall calmly attribute to the haraſſes and doubts, that I have laboured under for ſome time paſt; which will be a further proof of my love, and will demand a grateful return—

What then, thou egregious contriver?

Why then I ſhall have the leſs remorſe, if I am to uſe a little violence: For can ſhe deſerve compaſſion, who ſhews none?

And what if ſhe ſhew a great deal of concern?

Then ſhall I be in hope of building on a good foun⯑dation. Love hides a multitude of faults, and dimi⯑niſhes thoſe it cannot hide. Love, when found out, or acknowleged, authorizes freedom; and freedom [200] begets freedom; and I ſhall then ſee how far I can go.

Well but, Lovelace, how the duce wilt thou, with that full health and vigour of conſtitution, and with that bloom in thy face, make any-body believe thou art ſick?

How!—Why take a few grains of Ipecacuanha; enough to make me reach like a fury.

Good!—But how wilt thou manage to bring up blood, and not hurt thyſelf?

Fooliſh fellow! Are there not pigeons and chick⯑ens in every poulterer's ſhop?

Cry thy mercy.

But then I will be perſuaded by Mrs. Sinclair, that I have of late confined myſelf too much; and ſo will have a chair called, and be carried to the Park; where I will try to walk half the length of the Mall, or ſo; and in my return, amuſe myſelf at White's or the Cocoa.

And what will this do?

Queſtioning again?—I am afraid thou'rt an infidel, Belford.—Why then ſhall I not know if my beloved offers to go out in my abſence?—And ſhall I not ſe [...] whether ſhe receives me with tenderneſs at my return? But this is not all: I have a foreboding that ſomething affecting will happen while I am out. But of this more in its place.

And now, Belford, wilt thou, or wilt thou not, allow, that it is a right thing to be ſick?—Lord, Jack, ſo much delight do I take in my contrivances, that I ſhall be half-ſorry, when the occaſion for them is over; for never, never ſhall I again have ſuch charming exerciſe for my invention.

Mean time theſe plaguy women are ſo impertinent, ſo full of reproaches, that I know not how to do any thing but curſe them. And then, truly, they are for helping me out with ſome of their trite and vulgar artifices.—Sally particularly; who pretends to be a mighty contriver, has juſt now, in an inſolent manner, [201] told me, on my rejecting her proffer'd aids, that I had no mind to conquer; and that I was ſo wicked as to intend to marry, tho' I would not own it to her.

Becauſe this little devil made her firſt ſacrifice at my altar, ſhe thinks ſhe may take any liberty with me: And what makes her outrageous at times, is, that I have, for a long time, ſtudiouſly, as ſhe ſays, ſlighted her too readily offer'd favours: But is it not very impudent in her to think, that I will be any man's ſucceſſor? It is not come to that neither. This, thou knoweſt, was always my rule—Once any other man's, and I know it, and never more mine. It is for ſuch as thou, and thy brethren, to take up with harlots. I have been always aiming at the merit of a firſt diſcoverer.

The more devil I, perhaps thou'lt ſay, to endea⯑vour to corrupt the uncorrupted.

But I ſay, Not; ſince, hence, I have but very few adulteries to anſwer for.

One affair, indeed, at Paris, with a married lady [I believe I never told thee of it] touched my con⯑ſcience a little: Yet brought on by the ſpirit of in⯑trigue, more than by ſheer wickedneſs. I'll give it thee in brief:

‘'A French marquis, ſomewhat in years, employ'd by his court in a public function at that of Madrid, had put his charming, young, new-married wife un⯑der the controul and wardſhip, as I may ſay, of his inſolent ſiſter, an old prude.’

‘'I ſaw the lady at the opera. I liked her at firſt ſight, and better at ſecond, when I knew the ſitua⯑tion ſhe was in. So, pretending to make my ad⯑dreſſes to the prude, got admittance to both.’

‘'The firſt thing I had to do, was, to compliment my prude into ſhyneſs, by complaints of ſhyneſs: Next to take advantage of the marquiſe's ſituation, between her huſband's jealouſy, and his ſiſter's ar⯑rogance, to inſpire her with reſentment; and, as I [202] hoped, with a regard to my perſon. The Frenc [...] ladies have no diſlike to intrigue.’

‘'The ſiſter began to ſuſpect me: The lady had no mind to part with the company of the only man who had been permitted to viſit there; and told me of her ſiſter's ſuſpicions.—I put her upon concealing the prude, as if unknown to me, in a cloſet in one of her own apartments, locking her in, and putting the key in her own pocket; And ſhe was to queſtion me on the ſincerity of my profeſſions to her ſiſter, in her ſiſter's hearing.’

‘'She comply'd. My miſtreſs was locked up. The lady and I took our ſeats. I owned fervent love, and made high profeſſions: For the marquiſe put it home to me. The prude was delighted with what ſhe heard.’

‘'And how doſt think it ended?—I took my ad⯑vantage of the lady herſelf, who durſt not for her life cry out: Drew her after me to the next apart⯑ment, on pretence of going to ſeek her ſiſter, who all the time was locked up in the cloſet.’

‘'No woman ever gave me a private meeting for nothing; my deareſt Miſs Harlowe excepted.’

‘'My ingenuity obtained my pardon: The lady being unable to forbear laughing thro' the whole affair, to find both ſo uncommonly tricked; her gaolereſs her priſoner, ſafe locked up, and as much pleaſed as either of us.’

‘'The Engliſh, Jack, do not often outwit the French.’

‘'We had contrivances afterwards equally ingeni⯑ous, in which the lady, the ice once broken [once ſubdued, always ſubdued], co-operated—But a more tender tell-tale revealed the ſecret—Revealed it, be⯑fore the marquis could come to cover the diſgrace. The ſiſter was inveterate; the huſband irreconcile⯑able; in every reſpect unfit for a huſband, even for a French one—made, perhaps, more delicate to [203] theſe particulars by the cuſtoms of a people among whom he was then reſident▪ ſo contrary to thoſe of his own countrymen. She was obliged to throw herſelf into my protection—Nor thought herſelf un⯑happy in it, till childbed pangs ſeized her: Then peni⯑tence, and death, overtook her in the ſame hour!'’

Excuſe a tear, Belford!—She deſerv'd a better fate! What has ſuch a vile inexorable huſband to anſwer for!—The ſiſter was puniſhed effectually! That pleaſes me on reflection! The ſiſter was puniſh'd ef⯑fectually!—But perhaps I have told thee this ſtory before.

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

JUST returned from an airing with my charmer▪ comply'd with after great importunity. She wa [...] attended by the two nymphs. They both topp'd their parts; kept their eyes within bounds; made moral reflections now-and-then. O Jack! what devils are women, when all teſts are got over, and we have completely ruin'd them!

The coach carried us to Hamſtead, to Highgate, to Muzzle-hill; back to Hamſtead to the Upper-Flaſk▪ There, in compliment to the nymphs, my beloved conſented to alight, and take a little refection. Then home early by Kentiſh Town.

Delightfully eaſy ſhe: And ſo reſpectful and ob⯑liging I, all the way, and as we walk'd out upon the Heath, to view the variegated proſpects, which that agreeable elevation affords, that ſhe promiſed to take now-and-then a little excurſion with me. I think, Miſs Howe—I think, ſaid I to myſelf, every now-and-then as we walked, that thy wicked devices are ſuper⯑ſeded,

[204]We have both been writing ever ſince we cam [...] home. I am to be favoured with her company [...] an hour, before ſhe retires to reſt.

All that obſequious love can ſuggeſt, in order to en⯑gage her tendereſt ſentiments for me againſt to-mor⯑row's ſickneſs, will I aim at when we meet. But at parting will complain of a diſorder in my ſtomach.

WE have met. All was love and unexceptionable reſpect on my part. Eaſe and complaiſance on hers. She was concerned for my diſorder. So ſudden!—Juſt as we parted. But it was nothing. I ſhould be quite well by morning.

Faith, Jack, I think I am ſick already!—Is it poſ⯑ſible for ſuch a giddy fellow as me to perſuade myſelf to be ill? I am a better mimic at this rate than I wiſh to be. But every nerve and fibre of me is always ready to contribute its aid, whether by health or by ailment, to carry a reſolved on roguery into execu⯑tion.

Dorcas has tranſcribed for me the whole letter of Miſs How, dated Sunday May 14. ^(a), of which before I had only extracts. But ſhe found no other letter added to that parcel. But this, and that which I copy'd myſelf in character laſt Sunday while ſhe was at church, relating to the ſmuggling ſcheme ^(b), are enough for me.

DORCAS tells me, that her lady has been removing her papers from the mahogany-cheſt into a wainſcot⯑ [...]ox, which held her linen, and which ſhe put into her dark cloſet. We have no key of that at preſent. No doubt but all her letters, previous to thoſe I have c [...]me at, are in that box. Dorcas is uneaſy upon it: Yet hopes that her lady does not ſuſpect her; for ſhe is ſure that ſhe laid in every thing as ſhe found it.

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

THIS Ipecacuanha is a moſt diſagreeable medicine▪ That theſe curſed phyſical folks can find out no⯑thing to do us good, but what would poiſon the devil▪ In the other world, were they only to take phyſic, it would be puniſhment enough of itſelf for a miſ-ſpent life. A doctor at one elbow, and an apothecary at the other, and the poor ſoul labouring under their preſcribed operations, he need no worſe tormentors.

But now this was to take down my countenance. It has done it: For, with violent reachings, having taken enough to make me ſick, and not enough water to carry it off, I preſently looked as if I had kept my bed a fortnight. Ill-jeſting, as I thought in the midſt of the exerciſe, with edge-tools, and worſe with phy⯑ſical ones.

Two hours it held me. I had forbid Dorcas to let my beloved know any thing of the matter; out of tenderneſs to her; being willing, when ſhe knew my prohibition, to let her ſee that I expected her to be con⯑cerned for me:—What a worthleſs fellow muſt he be, whoſe own heart gives him up, as deſerving of no one's regard!

Well, but Dorcas nevertheleſs is a woman, and ſhe can whiſper to her lady the ſecret ſhe is injoin'd to keep!

Come hither, you toad (ſick as a devil at the in⯑ſtant); Let me ſee what a mixture of grief and ſur⯑prize may be beat up together in thy pudden-face.

That won't do. That dropt jaw, and mouth d [...]ſ⯑tended into the long oval, is more upon the Horrible, than the Grievous.

Nor that pinking and winking with thy odious eyes, as my charmer once called them.

[206]A little better That; yet not quite right: But keep your mouth cloſer. You have a muſcle or two which you have no command of, between your cheek-bone and your lips, that ſhould carry one cor⯑ner of your mouth up towards your crows-foot, and that down to meet it.

There! Begone! Be in a plaguy hurry running up ſtairs and down, to fetch from the dining-room what you carry up on purpoſe to fetch, till motion extraor⯑dinary put you out of breath, and give you the ſigh-natural.

What's the matter, Dorcas?

Nothing, Madam.

My beloved wonders ſhe has not ſeen me this morn⯑ing, no doubt; but is too ſhy to ſay ſhe wonders. Repeated What's the matter's, however, as Dorcas runs up and down ſtairs by her door, bring on, Oh! Madam,! my maſter!—my maſter!

What! How! When!—And all the monoſyllables of ſurprize.

[Within parentheſis let me tell thee, that I have often thought, that the little words in the republic of letters, like the little folks in a nation, are the moſt ſignificant. The triſyllables, and the rumblers of ſyl⯑lables more than three, are but the good for little mag⯑nates.]

I muſt not tell you, Madam—My maſter ordered me not to tell you—But he is in a worſe way than he thinks for!—But he would not have you frighted.

High concern took poſſeſſion of every ſweet feature. She pity'd me!—By my ſoul, ſhe pity'd me!

Where is he?

Too much in a hurry for good manners [Another parentheſis, Jack! Good manners are ſo little natu⯑ral, that we ought to be compos'd to obſerve them: Politeneſs will not live in a ſtorm], I cannot ſtay to anſwer queſtions, cries the wench—tho' deſirous to anſwer [A third parentheſis—Like the people crying [207] proclamations, running away from the cuſtomers they want to ſell to]. This hurry puts the lady in a hurry to aſk [A fourth, by way of embelliſhing the third!] as the other does the people in a hurry to buy. And I have in my eye now a whole ſtreet raiſed, and running after a proclamation or expreſs crier, as if the firſt was a thief, the other his purſuers.

At laſt, O Lord! let Mrs. Lovelace know!—There is danger, to be ſure! whiſper'd from one nymph to another, in her hearing; but at the door, and ſo loud, that my liſtening fair one might hear.

Out ſhe darts.—As how! as how, Dorcas!

O Madam—A vomiting of blood! A veſſel broke, to be ſure!

Down ſhe haſtens; finds every one as buſy over my blood in the entry, as if it were that of the Neapolitan ſaint.

In ſteps my charmer! with a face of ſweet concern.

How do you, Mr. Lovelace?

O my beſt love!—Very well!—Very well!—No⯑thing at all! Nothing of conſequence!—I ſhall be well in an inſtant!—ſtraining again; for I was indeed plaguy ſick, tho' no more blood came.

In ſhort, Belford, I have gain'd my end. I ſee the dear ſoul loves me. I ſee ſhe forgives me all that's paſt. I ſee I have credit for a new ſcore.

Miſs Howe, I defy thee, my dear—Mrs. Townſ⯑end!—Who the devil are you?—Troop away with your contrabands. No ſmuggling! Nor ſmuggler, but myſelf! Nor will the choiceſt of my fair one's favours be long prohibited goods to me!

EVERY one now is ſure, that ſhe loves me. Tears were in her eyes more than once for me. She ſuf⯑fer'd me to take her hand, and kiſs it as often as I pleaſed. On Mrs. Sinclair's mentioning, that I too much confin'd myſelf, ſhe preſſed me to take an air⯑ing; but obligingly deſired me to be careful of myſelf. [208] Wiſh'd I would adviſe with a phyſician. God made phyſicians, ſhe ſaid.

I did not think That, Jack. God indeed made us All. But I fanſy ſhe meant phyſic inſtead of phyſicians; and then the phraſe might mean what the vulgar phraſe means;—God ſends meat, the devil cooks.

I was well already, on taking the ſtyptic from her dear hands.

On her requiring me to take the air, I aſked, If I might have the honour of her company in a coach; and This, that I might obſerve if ſhe had an intention of going out in my abſence.

If ſhe thought a chair were not a more proper ve⯑hicle for my caſe, ſhe would with all her heart!

There's a precious!

I kiſs'd her hand again! She was all goodneſs!—Would to Heaven I better deſerv'd it, I ſaid!—But all were golden days before us!—Her preſence and generous concern had done every thing. I was well! Nothing ailed me. But ſince my beloved will have it ſo, I'll take a little airing!—Let a chair be called!—O my charmer!—were I to have owed this indiſpo⯑ſition to my late haraſſes, and to the uneaſineſs I have had for diſobliging you; all is infinitely compenſated by your goodneſs!—All the art of healing is in your ſmiles!—Your late diſpleaſure was the only malady!

While Mrs. Sinclair, and Dorcas, and Polly, and even poor ſilly Mabell (for Sally went out, as my angel came in), with uplifted hands and eyes, ſtood thanking Heaven that I was better, in audible whiſ⯑pers: See the power of love, cry'd one!—What a charming huſband, another!—Happy couple, all!

O how the dear creature's cheek mantled!—How her eyes ſparkled!—How ſweetly acceptable is praiſe to conſcious merit, while it but reproaches when ap⯑ply'd to the undeſerving!—What a new, what a gay creation it makes at once in a diffident or diſpirited heart!—

[209]And now, Belford, was it not worth while to be ſick? And yet I muſt tell thee, that too many plea⯑ſanter expedients offer themſelves, to make trial any more of this confounded Ipecacuanha.

LETTER XXXVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MR. Lovelace, my dear, has been very ill. Sud⯑denly taken. With a vomiting of blood in great quantities. Some veſſel broken. He complained of a diſorder in his ſtomach over-night. I was the more affected with it, as I am afraid it was occaſioned by the violent contentions between us.—But was I in fault?

How lately did I think I hated him!—But hatred and anger, I ſee, are but temporary paſſions with me. One cannot, my dear, hate people in danger of death, or who are in diſtreſs or affliction. My heart, I find, is not proof againſt kindneſs, and acknowlegement of errors committed.

He took great care to have his illneſs concealed from me as long as it could. So tender in the vio⯑lence of his diſorder!—So deſirous to make the beſt of it!—I wiſh he had not been ill in my ſight. I was too much affected—Every-body alarming me with his danger—The poor man, from ſuch high health ſo ſuddenly taken!—And ſo unprepared!—

He is gone out in a chair. I adviſed him to do ſo. I fear that my advice was wrong; ſince Quiet in ſuch a diſorder muſt needs be beſt. We are apt to be ſo ready, in caſes of emergency, to give our advice, without judgment, or waiting for it!—I propoſed a phyſician indeed; but he would not hear of one. I have great honour for the faculty; and the greater, as I have always obſerved, that thoſe who treat the [210] profeſſors of the art of healing contemptuouſly, too generally treat higher inſtitutions in the ſame manner.

I am really very uneaſy. For I have, I doubt, expoſed myſelf to him, and to the women below. They indeed will excuſe me, as they think us mar⯑ried. But if he be not generous, I ſhall have cauſe to regret this ſurprize; which has taught me more than I knew of myſelf; as I had reaſon to think my⯑ſelf unaccountably treated by him.

Nevertheleſs let me tell you (what I hope I may juſtly tell you, that if again he give me cauſe to re⯑ſume diſtance and reſerve, I hope my reaſon will ga⯑ther ſtrength enough from his imperfections (for Mr. Lovelace, my dear, is not a wiſe man in all his ways) to enable me to keep my paſſions under.—What can we do more than govern ourſelves by the temporary lights lent us?

You will not wonder that I am grave on this de⯑tection—Detection, muſt I call it? What can I call it?—I have not had heart's-eaſe enough, to inſpect that heart as I ought.

Diſſatisfied with myſelf, I am afraid to look back upon what I have written. And yet know not how to have done writing. I never was in ſuch an odd frame of mind.—I know not how to deſcribe it.—Was you ever ſo?—Afraid of the cenſure of her I love—Yet not conſcious that I deſerve it.

Of this, however, I am convinced, that I ſhould indeed deſerve cenſure, if I kept any ſecret of my heart from you.

But I will not add another word, after I have aſ⯑ſured you, that I will look ſtill more narrowly into myſelf: And that I am

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

I Had a charming airing. No return of my ma⯑lady. My heart perfectly eaſy, how could my ſtomach be otherwiſe?

But when I came home, I found that my ſweet ſoul had been alarmed by a new incident. The in⯑quiry after us both, in a very ſuſpicious manner, and that by deſcription of our perſons, and not by names, by a ſervant in a blue livery turned up and trimmed with yellow.

Dorcas was called to him, as the upper ſervant, and ſhe refuſing to anſwer any of his queſtions, unleſs he told his buſineſs, and from whom he came, the fel⯑low, as ſhort as ſhe, ſaid, That if ſhe would not an⯑ſwer him, perhaps ſhe might anſwer ſomebody elſe; and went away out of humour.

Dorcas hurried up to her lady, and alarmed her not only with the fact, but with her own conjectures; adding, that he was an ill-looking fellow, and ſhe was ſure could come for no good.

The livery and the features of the ſervant were particularly inquired after, and as particularly de⯑ſcribed—Lord bleſs her! no end of her alarms, ſhe thought! And then was ſhe aforehand with every evil that could happen.

She wiſhed Mr. Lovelace would come in.

Mr. Lovelace came in ſoon after; all lively, grate⯑ful, full of hopes, of duty, of love, to thank his charmer, and to congratulate with her upon the cure ſhe had performed. And then ſhe told the ſtory, with all its circumſtances; and Dorcas, to point her lady's fears, told us, that the ſervant was a ſun-burnt fel⯑low, and looke as if he had been at ſea.

[212]He was then, no doubt, Captain Singleton's ſer⯑vant, and the next news ſhe ſhould hear, was, th [...] the houſe was ſurrounded by a whole ſhip's crew; th [...] veſſel lying no farther off, as ſhe underſtood, than Rotherhith.

Impoſſible, I ſaid. Such an attempt would not be uſher'd in by ſuch a manner of inquiry. And why may it not rather be a ſervant of your couſin Mor⯑den's, with notice of his arrival, and of his deſign to attend you?

This ſurmize delighted her. Her apprehenſions went off, and ſhe was at leiſure to congratulate me upon my ſudden recovery; which ſhe did in the moſt obliging manner.

But we had not ſat long together, when Dorcas again came fluttering up to tell us, that the footman, the very footman, was again at the door, and inquired, whether Mr. Lovelace and his Lady, by name, had no [...] lodgings in this houſe? He aſked, he told Dorcas, for no harm: But this was a demonſtration with my appre⯑henſive fair-one, that harm was intended. And as the ſellow had not been anſwered by Dorcas, I propoſed to go down to the ſtreet-parlour, and hear what he had to ſay.

I ſee your cauſeleſs terror, my deareſt life, ſaid I, and your impatience—Will you be pleaſed to walk down—And without being obſerved, as he ſhall come no farther than the parlour-door, you may hear all that paſſes?

She conſented. We went down. Dorcas bid the man come forward.—Well, friend, what is your bu⯑ſineſs with Mr. or Mrs. Lovelace?

Bowing, ſcraping, I am ſure you are the gentle⯑man, Sir. Why, Sir, my buſineſs is only to know if your honour be here, and to be ſpoke with; or it you ſhall be here for any time?

Who came you from?

From a gentleman who ordered me to ſay, if I was [213] made to tell, but not elſe, it was from a friend of Mr. John Harlowe's, Mrs. Lovelace's eldeſt uncle.

The dear creature was ready to ſink upon this. It was but of late, that ſhe had provided herſelf with ſalts. She pulled them out.

Do you know any thing of Colonel Morden, friend, ſaid I?

No; I never heard of his name.

Of Captain Singleton?

No, Sir. But the gentleman, my maſter, is a cap⯑tain too.

What is his name?

I don't know if I ſhould tell.

There can be no harm in telling the gentleman's name, if you come upon a good account.

That I do; for my maſter told me ſo; and there is not an honeſter gentleman on the face of God's earth.—His name is Captain Tomlinſon, Sir.

I don't know ſuch a one.

I believe not, Sir. He was pleaſed to ſay, He don't know your honour, Sir; but I heard him ſay, as how he ſhould not be an unwelcome viſitor to you, for all that.

Do you know ſuch a man as Captain Tomlinſon, my deareſt life, aſide, your uncle's friend?

No; but my uncle may have acquaintance, no doubt, that I don't know.—But I hope, trembling, this is not a trick.

Well, friend, if your maſter has any thing to ſay to Mr. Lovelace, you may tell him, that Mr. Love⯑lace is here; and will give him a meeting whenever he pleaſes.

The dear creature looked as if afraid that my en⯑gagement was too prompt for my own ſafety; and away went the fellow.—I wondering, that ſhe might not wonder, that this Captain Tomlinſon, whoever he was, came not himſelf, or ſent not a letter the ſe⯑cond time, when he had reaſon to ſuppoſe that I might be here.

[214]Mean time, for fear that this ſhould be a contrive⯑ance of James Harlowe's, who, I ſaid, loved plot⯑ting, though he had not a head turned for it, I gave ſome precautionary directions to the ſervants, and the women, whom, for the greater parade, I aſſembled before us: And my beloved was reſolved not to ſtir abroad till ſhe ſaw the iſſue of this odd affair.

And here muſt I cloſe though in ſo great a puzzle.

Only let me add, that poor Belton wants thee; for I dare not ſtir for my life.

Mowbray and Tourville ſkulk about like vaga⯑bonds, without heads, without hands, without ſouls; having neither Thee nor Me to conduct them. They tell me, they ſhall ruſt beyond the power of oil or action to brighten them up, or give them motion.

How goes it with thy uncle?

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

THIS ſtory of Captain Tomlinſon employed us not only for the time we were together laſt night, but all the while we ſat at breakfaſt this morn⯑ing. She would ſtill have it, that it was the prelude to ſome miſchief from Singleton. I inſiſted, that it might much more probably be a method taken by Co⯑lonel Morden to alarm her, previous to a perſonal viſit. Travelled gentlemen affected to ſurprize in this manner. And why, deareſt creature, ſaid I, muſt every thing that happens, which we cannot im⯑mediately account for, be what we leaſt wiſh?

She had had ſo many diſagreeable things befal her of late, that her fears were too often ſtronger than her hopes.

And this, Madam, makes me apprehenſive, that you will get into ſo low-ſpirited a way, that you will [215] not be able to enjoy the happineſs that ſeems to await us.

Her duty and her gratitude, ſhe gravely ſaid, to the Diſpenſer of all good, would ſecure her, ſhe hoped, againſt unthankfulneſs. And a thankful ſpi⯑rit was the ſame as a joyful one.

So, Belford, for all her future joys ſhe depends in⯑tirely upon the Inviſible Good. She is certainly right; ſince thoſe who fix leaſt upon Second Cauſes are the leaſt likely to be diſappointed—And is not this gravity for her gravity?

She had hardly done ſpeaking, when Dorcas came running up in a hurry—She ſet even my heart into a palpitation—Thump, thump, thump, like a precipi⯑tated pendulum in a clock-caſe—Flutter, flutter, flut⯑ter my charmer's, as by her ſweet boſom riſing to her chin I ſaw.

This lower claſs of people, my Beloved herſelf ob⯑ſerved, were for ever aiming at the ſtupid Wonderful, and for making even common incidents matter of ſur⯑prize.

Why the devil, ſaid I to the wench, this alarming hurry?—And with your ſpread fingers, and your O Madams, and O Sirs!—and be curs'd to you: Would there have been a ſecond of time difference, had you come up ſlowly?

Captain Tomlinſon, Sir!

Captain Devilſon, what care I!—Do you ſee how you have diſordered your lady?

Good Mr. Lovelace, ſaid my charmer, trembling, See, Jack, when ſhe has an end to ſerve, I am good Mr. Lovelace] If—if my brother,—if Captain Single⯑ [...]on ſhould appear—Pray now—I beſeech you—Let me beg of you—to govern your temper—My brother is my brother—Captain Singleton is but an [...]gent.

My deareſt life, folding my arms about her [When [216] ſhe aſks favours, thought I, the devil's in it, if ſhe will not allow of ſuch innocent freedoms as this, from good Mr. Lovelace too], you ſhall be witneſs of all that paſſes between us. Dorcas, deſire the gentle⯑man to walk up.

Let me retire to my chamber firſt! Let me not be known to be in the houſe!

Charming dear!—Thou ſeeſt, Belford, ſhe is afraid of leaving me!—O the little witchcrafts! Were it not for ſurprize now-and-then, how would an honeſt man know where to have them?

She withdrew to liſten—And tho' this incident has not turned out to anſwer all I wiſh'd from it, yet is it neceſſary, if I would acquaint thee with my whole circulation, to be very particular in what paſſed be⯑tween Captain Tomlinſon and me.

Enter Captain Tomlinſon in a riding-dreſs, whip in hand.

Your ſervant, Sir—Mr. Lovelace, I preſume?

My name is Lovelace, Sir.

Excuſe the Day, Sir.—Be pleaſed to excuſe my Garb. I am obliged to go out of town directly, that I may return at night.

The Day is a good day. Your Garb needs no apology.

When I ſent my ſervant, I did not know that I ſhould find time to do myſelf this honour. All that I thought I could do to oblige my friend this journey, was only to aſſure myſelf of your abode; and whether there was a probability of being admitted to your ſpeech, or to your Lady's.

Sir, you know beſt your own motives. What your time will permit you to do, you alſo beſt know. And here I am, attending your pleaſure.

My charmer owned afterwards her concern on my be⯑ing ſo ſhort. Whatever I ſhall mingle of her em [...] ⯑tions, thou wilt eaſily gueſs I had afterwards.

[217]Sir, I hope no offence. I intend none.

None—None at all, Sir.

Sir, I have no intereſt in the affair I come about. I may appear officious; and if I thought I ſhould, I would decline any concern in it, after I have juſt hinted what it is.

And what, pray, Sir, is it?

May I aſk you, Sir, without offence, whether you wiſh to be reconciled, and to co-operate upon honour⯑able terms, with one gentleman of the name of Har⯑lowe; preparative, as it may be hoped, to a general reconciliation?

O how my heart flutter'd, cried my charmer!

I can't tell, Sir [And then it flutter'd ſtill more, no doubt]: The whole family have uſed me extremely ill. They have taken greater liberties with my cha⯑racter than are juſtifiable, and with my family too; which I can leſs forgive.

Sir, Sir, I have done. I beg pardon for this intru⯑ſion.

My Beloved then was ready to ſink, and thought very hardly of me.

But pray, Sir, to the immediate purpoſe of your preſent commiſſion; ſince a commiſſion it ſeems to be?

It is a commiſſion, Sir; and-ſuch a one, as I thought would be agreeable to all parties, or I ſhould not have given myſelf concern about it.

Perhaps it may, Sir, when known. But let me aſk you one previous queſtion? Do you know Colonel Morden, Sir?

No, Sir. If you mean perſonally, I do not. But I have heard my good friend Mr. John Harlowe talk of him with great reſpect; and as a co-truſtee with him in a certain truſt.

I thought it probable, Sir, ſaid I, that the Colonel might be arrived; that you might be a gentleman of [218] his acquaintance; and that ſomething of an agree⯑able ſurprize might be intended.

Had Colonel Morden been in England, Mr. John Harlowe would have known it; and then I ſhould not have been a ſtranger to it.

Well but, Sir, have you then any commiſſion to me from Mr. John Harlowe?

Sir, I will tell you, as briefly as I can, the whole of what I have to ſay; but you'll excuſe me alſo a pre⯑vious queſtion, for which curioſity is not my mo⯑tive; but it is neceſſary to be anſwered before I can proceed; as you will judge when you hear it.

What, pray, Sir, is your queſtion?

Briefly, Whether you are actually, and bona fide, married to Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe?

I ſtarted, and, in a haughty tone, Is this, Sir, a queſtion that muſt be anſwered before you can pro⯑ceed in the buſineſs you have undertaken?

I mean no offence, Mr. Lovelace. Mr. Harlowe ſought to me to undertake this office. I have daugh⯑ters and nieces of my own. I thought it a good office, or I, who have many conſiderable affairs upon my hands, had not accepted of it. I know the world; and will take the liberty to ſay, That if that young Lady—

Captain Tomlinſon, I think you are called?

My name is Tomlinſon.

Why then, Captain Tomlinſon, no liberty, as you call it, will be taken well, that is not extremely de⯑licate, when that lady is mentioned.

When you had heard me out, Mr. Lovelace, and had found, I had ſo behaved, as to make the caution neceſſary, it would have been juſt to have given it.—Allow me to ſay, I know what is due to the character of a woman of virtue, as well as any man alive.

Why, Sir! Why, Captain Tomlinſon, you ſeem warm. If you intend any-thing by this [O how I trembled! ſaid the Lady, when ſhe took notice of this [219] part of our converſation afterwards:], I will only ſay, that this is a privileged place. It is at preſent my home, and an aſylum for any gentleman who thinks it worth his while to inquire after me, be the manner or end of his inquiry what it will.

I know not, Sir, that I have given occaſion for this. I make no ſcruple to attend you elſewhere, if I am troubleſome here. I was told, I had a warm young gentleman to deal with: But as I knew my intention, and that my commiſſion was an amicable one, I was the leſs concerned about that. I am twice your age, Mr. Lovelace, I dare ſay: But I do aſſure you, that if either my meſſage, or my manner, give you of⯑fence, I can ſuſpend the one or the other for a day, or for ever, as you like. And ſo, Sir, any time be⯑fore eight to-morrow morning, you will let me know your further commands.—And was going to tell me where he might be found.

Captain Tomlinſon, ſaid I, you anſwer well. I love a man of ſpirit. Have you not been in the army?

I have, Sir; but have turned my ſword into a plough⯑ſhare, as the Scripture has it [There was a clever fel⯑low, Jack!—He was a good man with ſomebody, I warrant!].—And all my delight, added he, for ſome years paſt, has been in cultivating my paternal eſtate. I love a brave man, Mr. Lovelace, as well as ever I did in my life. But, let me tell you, Sir, that when you come to my time of life, you will be of opinion, that there is not ſo much true bravery in youthful choler, as you may now think there is.

A clever fellow again, Belford—Ear and heart, both at once, he took in my charmer.—'Tis well, ſhe ſays, there are ſome men who have wiſdom in their anger.

Well, Captain, that is reproof for reproof. So we are upon a foot. And now give me the pleaſure of hearing your commiſſion.

Sir, you muſt firſt allow me to repeat my queſtion: [220] Are you really, and bona fide, married to Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe? Or are you not yet married?

Bluntly put, Captain. But if I anſwer that I am, what then?

Why then, Sir, I ſhall ſay, that you are a man of honour.

That I hope I am, whether you ſay it or not, Cap⯑tain Tomlinſon.

Sir, I will be very frank in all I have to ſay on this ſubject.—Mr. John Harlowe has lately found out, that you and his niece are both in the ſame lodgings; that you have been long ſo; and that the lady was at the Play with you yeſterday was ſe'ennight; and he hopes, that you are actually married: He has indeed heard that you are; but, as he knows your enter⯑prizing temper, and that you have declared, that you diſdain a relation to their family, he is willing by me to have your marriage confirmed from your own mouth, before he takes the ſteps he is inclined to take in his niece's favour. You will allow me to ſay, Mr. Lovelace, that he will not be ſatisfied with an anſwer that admits of the leaſt doubt.

Let me tell you, Captain Tomlinſon, that it is a damn'd degree of vileneſs for any man to ſuppoſe—

Sir—Mr. Lovelace—don't put yourſelf into a paſ⯑ſion. The Lady's relations are jealous of the honour of their family. They have prejudices to overcome as well as you—Advantage may have been taken—and the Lady, at the time, not to blame.

This Lady, Sir, could give no ſuch advantages: And if ſhe had, what muſt the man be, Captain Tom⯑linſon, who could have taken them?—Do you know the Lady, Sir?

I never had the honour to ſee her but once; and that was at church; and ſhould not know her again.

Not know her again, Sir!—I thought that there was not a man living who had once ſeen her, and would not know her among a thouſand.

[221]I remember, Sir, that I thought I never ſaw a finer woman in my life. But, Mr. Lovelace, I believe, you will allow, that it is better that her relations ſhould have wronged you, than you the Lady. I hope, Sir, you will permit me to repeat my queſtion.

Enter Dorcas, in a hurry.

A gentleman, this minute, Sir, deſires to ſpeak with your honour—My Lady, Sir!—[Aſide.

Could the dear creature put Dorcas upon telling this fib, yet want to ſave me one?—

Deſire the gentleman to walk into one of the par⯑lours. I will wait on him preſently.

[Exit Dorcas.

The dear creature, I doubted not, wanted to in⯑ſtruct me how to anſwer the Captain's home-put. I knew how I intended to anſwer it—Plumb▪ thou may'ſt be ſure—But Dorcas's meſſage ſtagger'd me. And yet I was upon one of my maſter-ſtrokes—Which was, To take advantage of the Captain's inquiries, and to make her own her marriage before him, as ſhe had done to the people below; and if ſhe had been brought to that, to induce her, for her uncle's ſatisfaction, to write him a letter of gratitude; which of courſe muſt have been ſigned Clariſſa Lovelace. I was loth, therefore, thou may'ſt believe, to attend her ſudden commands: And yet, afraid of puſhing matters be⯑yond recovery with her, I thought proper to lead him from the queſtion, to account for himſelf; for Mr. Harlowe's coming at the knowlege of where we are; and for other particulars which I knew would engage her attention; and which might poſſibly convince her of the neceſſity there was for her to acquieſce in the affirmative I was diſpoſed to give. And this for her own ſake; for what; as I aſked her afterwards, is it to me, whether I am ever reconciled to a family I muſt for ever deſpiſe?

[222]You think, Captain, that I have anſwered doubt⯑fully to the queſtion you have put. You may think ſo. And you muſt know, that I have a good deal of pride: And only, that you are a gentleman, and ſeem in this affair to be governed by generous principles, or I ſhould ill brook being interrogated as to my honour to a lady ſo dear to me.—But before I anſwer more directly to the point, pray ſatisfy me in a queſtion or two that I ſhall put to you.

With all my heart, Sir. Aſk me what queſtions you pleaſe, I will anſwer them with ſincerity and can⯑dour.

You ſay, That Mr. Harlowe has found out that we were at a Play together: And that we are both in the ſame lodgings—How pray, came he at his know⯑lege?—For, let me tell you, that I have, for certain conſiderations not reſpecting myſelf, condeſcended, that our abode ſhould be kept ſecret. And this has been ſo ſtrictly obſerved, that even Miſs Howe, tho' ſhe and my beloved correſpond, knows not directly whither to ſend to us.

Why, Sir, the perſon who ſaw you at the Play, was a tenant of Mr. John Harlowe. He watched all your motions. When the Play was done, he follow⯑ed your coach to your lodgings. And early the next day, Sunday, he took horſe, and acquainted his land⯑lord with what he had obſerved.

How oddly things come about, Captain Tomlin⯑ſon!—But does any other of the Harlowes know where we are?

It is an abſolute ſecret to every other perſon of the family; and ſo it is intended to be kept: As alſo that Mr. John Harlowe is willing to enter into treaty with you, by me, if his niece be actually married; for perhaps he is aware, that he ſhall have difficulty enough with ſome people to bring about the deſirable [223] reconciliation, altho' he could give them this aſ⯑ſurance.

I doubt it not, Captain.—To James Harlowe is all the family folly owing.—Fine fools! [heroically ſtalk⯑ing about] to be governed by one to whom malice, and not genius, gives the buſy livelineſs that di⯑ſtinguiſhes him from a natural!—But how long, pray, Sir, has Mr. John Harlowe been in this pacific diſ⯑poſition?

I will tell you, Mr. Lovelace, and the occaſion; and be very explicit upon it, and upon all that con⯑cerns you to know of me, and of the commiſſion I have undertaken; and this the rather, as when you have heard me out, you will be ſatisfied, that I am not an officious man in this my preſent addreſs to you.

I am all attention, Captain Tomlinſon.

And ſo I doubt not was my beloved.

‘'You muſt know, Sir, ſaid the Captain, that I have not been many months in Mr. John Har⯑lowe's neighbourhood. I removed from North⯑amptonſhire, partly for the ſake of better managing one of two Executorſhips, which I could not avoid engaging in (the affairs of which frequently call me to town, and are part of my preſent buſineſs), and partly for the ſake of occupying a neglected farm, which has lately fallen into my hands. But tho' an acquaintance of no longer ſtanding, and that com⯑mencing on the Bowling-green [Uncle John is a great bowler, Belford] (upon my deciſion of a point to every one's ſatisfaction, which was ap⯑pealed to me by all the gentlemen; and which might have been attended with bad conſequences), no two brothers have a more cordial eſteem for each other. You know, Mr. Lovelace, that there is a conſent, as I may call it, in ſome minds, which will unite them ſtronger in a few hours, than years will [224] do with others, whom yet we ſee not with diſ⯑guſt.'’

Very true, Captain.

‘'It was on the foot of this avowed friendſhip on both ſides, that on Monday the 15th, as I very well remember, Mr. Harlowe invited himſelf home with me. And when there, he acquainted me with the whole of the unhappy affair, that had made them all ſo uneaſy. Till then I knew it only by report; for, intimate as we were, I forbore to ſpeak of what was ſo near his heart, till he began firſt. And then he told me, that he had had an application made to him two or three days before by a gentle⯑man whom he named ^(a), to induce him not only to be reconciled to his niece himſelf, but to forward for her a general reconciliation.’

‘'A like application, he told me, had been made to his ſiſter Harlowe, by a good woman whom every-body reſpected; who had intimated, that his niece, if encouraged, would again put herſelf into the protection of her friends, and leave you: But if not, that ſhe muſt unavoidably be yours.'’

I hope, Mr. Lovelace, I make no miſchief.—You look concerned—You ſigh, Sir.

Proceed, Captain Tomlinſon. Pray proceed.—And I ſighed ſtill more profoundly.

‘'They all thought it extremely particular, that a lady ſhould decline marriage with a man ſhe had ſo lately gone away with.'’

Pray, Captain—Pray, Mr. Tomlinſon—No more of this ſubject. My beloved is an angel. In every thing unblameable. Whatever faults there have been, have been theirs and mine. What you would further ſay, is, that the unforgiving family rejected her appli⯑cation. They did. She and I had had a miſunder⯑ſtanding. [225] The falling out of lovers—you know, Captain.—We have been happier ever ſince.

‘'Well, Sir; but Mr. John Harlowe could not but better conſider the matter afterwards. And he deſired my advice how to act in it. He told me, that no father ever loved a daughter as he loved this niece of his; whom, indeed, he uſed to call his daughter-niece. He ſaid, ſhe had really been un⯑kindly treated by her brother and ſiſter: And as your alliance, Sir, was far from being a diſcredit to their family, he would do his endeavour to recon⯑cile all parties, if he could be ſure that ye were ac⯑tually man and wife.'’

And what, pray, Captain, was your advice?

‘'I gave it as my opinion, that if his niece were un⯑worthily treated, and in diſtreſs, as he apprehended from the application to him, he would ſoon hear of her again: But that it was likely, that this applica⯑tion was made without expecting it would ſucceed; and as a ſalvo only, to herſelf, for marrying without their conſent. And the rather, as he had told me, that it came from a young lady her friend, and not in a direct way from herſelf; which young lady was no favourite of the family; and therefore would hardly have been employed, had ſucceſs been ex⯑pec [...]ed.'’

Very well, Captain Tomlinſon.—Pray proceed.

‘'Here the matter reſted till laſt Sunday evening, when Mr. John Harlowe came to me with the man who had ſeen you and your lady (as I hope ſhe is) at the Play; and who had aſſured him, that you both lodged in the ſame houſe.—And then the ap⯑plication having been ſo lately made, which im⯑plied, that you were not then married, he was ſo uneaſy for his niece's honour, that I adviſed him to diſpatch to town ſome one in whom he could con⯑fide, to make proper inquiries.’

[226]Very well, Captain.—And was ſuch a perſon em⯑ployed on ſuch an errand by her uncle?

‘'A truſty and diſcreet perſon was accordingly ſent; and laſt Tueſday, I think it was (for he returned to us on the Wedneſday), he made the inquiries among the neighbours firſt [The very inquiry, Jack, that gave us all ſo much uneaſineſs ^(a)]. But finding, that none of them could give any ſatisfactory ac⯑count, the lady's woman was come at, who de⯑clared, that you were actually married. But the inquiriſt keeping himſelf on the reſerve as to his employers, the girl refuſed to tell the day, or to give him other particulars.'’

You give a very clear account of every-thing, Cap⯑tain Tomlinſon. Pray go on.

‘'The gentleman returned; and on his report Mr. Harlowe, having ſtill doubts, and being willing to proceed on ſome grounds in ſo important a point, beſought me, as my affairs called me frequently to town, to undertake this matter. You, Mr. Tomlinſon, he was pleaſed to ſay, have children of your own: You know the world: You know what I drive at: You will proceed, I know, with under⯑ſtanding and ſpirit: And whatever you are ſatisfied with, ſhall ſatisfy me.'’

Enter Dorcas, again in a hurry.

Sir, The gentleman is impatient.

I will attend him preſently.

The Captain then accounted for his not calling in perſon, when he had reaſon to think us here.

He ſaid, he had buſineſs of conſequence a few miles out of town, whither he thought he muſt have gone yeſterday; and having been obliged to put off his little journey till this day, and underſtanding that we were within, not knowing whether he ſhould have ſuch another opportunity, he was willing to try his [227] good fortune before he ſet out; and this made him come booted and ſpurred, as I ſaw him.

He dropped a hint in commendation of the people of the houſe; but it was in ſuch away, as to give no room for ſuſpicion, that he thought it neceſſary to make any inquiries after the character of perſons who make ſo genteel an appearance, as he obſerved they do.

And here let me remark, to the ſame purpoſe, that my beloved might collect another circumſtance in their favour, had ſhe doubted them, from the ſilence of her uncle's inquiriſt on Tueſday, among the neigh⯑bours.

And now, Sir, ſaid he, that I believe I have ſatiſ⯑fied you in every thing relating to my commiſſion, I hope you will permit me to repeat my queſtion—which is,—

Enter Dorcas again, out of breath.

Sir, the gentleman will ſtep up to you.—My lady is impatient. She wonders at your honour's delay, [Aſide].

Excuſe me, Captain, for one moment.

I have ſtaid my full time, Mr. Lovelace.—What may reſult from my queſtion and your anſwer, what⯑ever it ſhall be, may take us up time.—And you are engaged.—Will you permit me to attend you in the morning, before I ſet out on my return?

You will then breakfaſt with me, Captain?

It muſt be early if I do. I muſt reach my own houſe to-morrow night, or I ſhall make the beſt of wives unhappy. And I have two or three places to call at in my way.

It ſhall be by ſeven o'clock, if you pleaſe, Captain. We are early folks. And this I will tell you, that if ever I am reconciled to a family ſo implacable as I have always found the Harlowes to be, it muſt be by the mediation of ſo cool and ſo moderate a gentle⯑man as yourſelf.

And ſo, with the higheſt civilities on both ſides, we [228] parted. But for the private ſatisfaction of ſo good a man, I left him out of doubt, that we were man and wife, tho' I did not directly aver it.

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

THIS Captain Tomlinſon is one of the happieſt, as well as one of the beſt men in the world. What would I give to ſtand as high in my beloved's opinion, as he does! But yet, I am as good a man as he, were I to tell my own ſtory, and have equal credit given to it. But the devil ſhould have had him before I had ſeen him on the account he came upon, had I thought I ſhould not have anſwered my princi⯑pal end in it.—I hinted to thee in my laſt what that was.

But to the particulars of the conference between my fair one, and me, on her haſty meſſages; which I was loth to come to, becauſe ſhe has had a half triumph over me in it.

After I had attended the Captain down to the very paſſage, I returned to the dining-room, and put on a joyful air, on my beloved's entrance into it.—O my deareſt creature, let me congratulate you on a pro⯑ſpect ſo agreeable to your wiſhes!—And I ſnatched her hand, and ſmothered it with my kiſſes.

I was going on; when, interrupting me,—You ſee, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe, how you have embaraſſed yourſelf, by your own obliquities!—You ſee, that you have not been able to return a direct anſwer to a plain and honeſt queſtion, tho' upon it depends all the happineſs you congratulate me upon the proſpect of.

You know, my beſt love, what my prudent, and I will ſay, my kind motives were, for giving out, that we were married. You ſee, that I have taken [229] no advantage of it; and that no inconvenience has followed it.—You ſee; that your uncle wants only to be aſſured from ourſelves, that it is ſo—

Not another word to this purpoſe, Mr. Lovelace. I will not only riſk, but I will forfeit, the reconcilia⯑tion ſo near my heart, rather than I will go on to countenance a ſtory ſo untrue!

My deareſt ſoul—Would you have me appear—

I would have you appear, Sir, as you are! I am reſolved that I will appear to my uncle's friend, and to my uncle, as I am.

For one week, my deareſt life, cannot you for one week, only till the ſettlements—

Not for one hour, with my own conſent.—You don't know, Sir, how much I have been afflicted, that I have appeared to the people below what I am not. But my uncle, Sir, ſhall never have it to up⯑braid me, nor will I to upbraid myſelf, that I have wilfully paſſed myſelf upon him in falſe lights.

What, my dear, would you have me to ſay to the Captain to-morrow morning?—I have given him room to think—

Then put him right, Mr. Lovelace. Tell the truth. Tell him what you pleaſe of your relations favour to me: Tell him what you will about the ſettlements: And if when drawn, you will ſubmit them to his peruſal and approbation, it will ſhew him how much you are in earneſt.

My deareſt life—Do you think, that he would diſapprove of the terms I have offer'd?—No.

Then may I be accurſed, if I willingly ſubmit to be trampled under foot by my enemies!

And may I, Mr. Lovelace, never be happy in this life, if I ſubmit to the paſſing upon my uncle Har⯑lowe a wilful and premeditated falſhood for truth!—I have too long laboured under the affliction which the rejection of all my friends has given me, to pur⯑chaſe [230] their reconciliation now at ſo dear a price as at that of my veracity.

The women below, my dear—

What are they to me?—I want not to eſtabliſh myſelf with them. Need they know all that paſſes between my relations and you and me?

Neither are they any thing to me, Madam. Only, that when, for the ſake of preventing the fatal miſ⯑chiefs which might have attended your brother's pro⯑jects, I have made them think us married, I would not appear to them in a light, which you yourſelf think ſo ſhocking. By my ſoul, Madam, I had ra⯑ther die, than contradict myſelf ſo flagrantly, after I have related to them ſo many circumſtances of our marriage.

Well, Sir, the women may believe what they pleaſe. That I have given countenance to what you told them, is my error. The many circumſtances which you own one untruth has drawn you in to re⯑late, is a juſtification of my refuſal in the preſent caſe.

Don't you ſee, Madam, that your uncle wiſhes to find us married? May not the ceremony be privately over, before his mediation can take place?

Urge this point no farther, Mr. Lovelace. If you will not tell the truth, I will to-morrow morning, if I ſee Captain Tomlinſon, tell it myſelf. Indeed I will.

Will you, Madam, conſent, that things paſs as before with the people below? This mediation of Tomlinſon may come to nothing. Your brother's ſchemes may be purſued; the rather, that now he will know (perhaps from your uncle), that you are not under a legal protection.—You will, at leaſt, conſent, that things paſs here as before?

To permit this, is to go on in an error, Mr. Love⯑lace. But as the occaſion for ſo doing (if there can be an occaſion in your opinion, that will warrant an untruth), will, as I preſume, ſoon be over, I ſhall the [231] leſs diſpute that point with you. But a new error I will not be guilty of, if I can avoid it.

Can I, do you think, Madam, have any diſ⯑honourable view in the ſtep I ſuppoſed you would not ſcruple to take towards a reconciliation with your own family?—Not for my own ſake, you know, did I hope you to take it.—For what is it to me, if I am never reconciled to your family? I want no favours from them.

I hope, Mr. Lovelace, there is no occaſion, in our preſent not diſagreeable ſituation, to anſwer ſuch a queſtion. And let me ſay, that I ſhall think my proſpects ſtill more agreeable, if, to-morrow morn⯑ing, you will not only own the very truth, but give my uncle's friend ſuch an account of the ſteps you have taken, and are taking, as may keep up my uncle's favourable intentions towards me. This you may do under what reſtrictions of ſecrecy you pleaſe. Cap⯑tain Tomlinſon is a prudent man; a promoter of fa⯑mily-peace, you find; and, I dare ſay, may be made a friend.

I ſaw there was no help. I ſaw that the inflexible Harlowe ſpirit was all up in her.—A little witch!—A little—Forgive me, Love, for calling her names: And ſo I ſaid, with an air, We have had too many miſunderſtandings, Madam, for me to wiſh for new ones; I will obey you without reſerve. Had I not thought I ſhould have obliged you by the other me⯑thod (eſpecially as the ceremony might have been over, before any thing could have operated from your uncle's intentions, and of conſequence no un⯑truth perſiſted in), I would not have propoſed it.—But think not, my beloved creature, that you ſhall enjoy, without condition, this triumph over my judgment.

And then, claſping my arms about her, I gave her ſtruggled-away cheek (her charming lip deſigned) a ſervent kiſs.—And your forgiveneſs of this ſweet freedom (bowing) is that condition.

[232]She was not mortally offended.—And now muſt I make out the reſt as well as I can. But this I will tell thee, that altho' her triumph has not diminiſhed my love for her; yet has it ſtimulated me more than ever to Revenge, as thou wilt be apt to call it. But Victory or Conqueſt is the more proper name.

There is a pleaſure, 'tis true, in ſubduing one of theſe watchful beauties. But, by my ſoul, Belford, men of our caſt take twenty times the pains to be rogues, that it would coſt them to be honeſt; and dear⯑ly, with the ſweat of our brows, and to the puzzling of our brains (to ſay nothing of the hazards we run), do we earn our purchaſe: And ought not therefore to be grudged our ſucceſs, when we meet with it—Eſpecially as, when we have obtained our end, ſa⯑tiety ſoon follows; and leaves us little or nothing to ſhew for it. But this, indeed, may be ſaid of all worldly delights.—And is not that a grave reflection from me?

I was willing to write up to the time. Altho' I have not carried my principal point, I ſhall make ſomething turn out in my favour from Captain Tom⯑linſon's errand.—But let me give thee this caution; that thou do not pretend to judge of my devices by parts; but have patience till thou ſeeſt the whole. But once more I ſwear, that I will not be out-Norris'd by a pair of novices. And yet I am very apprehenſive, at times, of the conſequences of Miſs Howe's Smug⯑gling ſcheme.

'Tis late, or rather early; for the day begins to dawn upon me. I am plaguy heavy. Perhaps I need not to have told thee that. But will only indulge a doze in my chair, for an hour; then ſhake myſelf, waſh, and refreſh. At my time of life, with my conſtitution, that's all that's wanted.

Good night to me!—It cannot be broad day till I am awake.—Aw-w-w-w-haugh—Pox of this yawn⯑ing!

[233]Is not thy uncle dead yet?

What's come to mine, that he writes not to my laſt!—Hunting after more wiſdom of nations, I ſup⯑poſe!—Yaw—Yaw—Yawning again!—Pen, begone.

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

NOW have I eſtabliſhed myſelf for ever in my charmer's heart.

The Captain came at ſeven, as promiſed, and ready equipped for his journey. My beloved choſe not to give us her company till our firſt converſation was over.—Aſhamed, I ſuppoſe [But to my ſhame, if ſhe was], to be preſent at that part of it, which was to reſtore her to her virgin ſtate, by my confeſſion, after her wifehood had been reported to her uncle. But ſhe took her cue nevertheleſs, and liſtened to all that paſſed.

The modeſteſt women, Jack, muſt think, and think deeply ſometimes.—I wonder whether they ever bluſh at thoſe things by themſelves, at which they have ſo charming a knack of bluſhing in com⯑pany.—If not; and if bluſhing be a ſign of grace or modeſty, have not the ſex as great a command over their bluſhes, as they are ſaid to have over their tears? This reflection would lead me a great way into female minds, were I diſpoſed to purſue it.

I told the Captain, that I would prevent his que⯑ſtion; and accordingly, after I had injoined the ſtricteſt ſecrecy, that no advantage might be given to James Harlowe; and which he anſwered for as well on Mr. Harlowe's part as his own; I acknowleged nakedly and fairly the whole truth.—To wit, ‘'That we were not yet married.—I gave him hints of the cauſes of procraſtination.—Some of them owing to [234] unhappy miſunderſtanding: But chiefly to the La⯑dy's deſire of previous reconciliation with her friend [...] and to a delicacy that had no example.'’

Leſs nice ladies than this, Jack, love to have de⯑lays, wilful and ſtudied delays, imputed to them in theſe caſes—Yet are indelicate in their affected deli⯑cacy; for do they not thereby tacitly confeſs, that they expect to be the greateſt gainers in wedlock; and that there is ſelf-denial in the pride they take in delaying?

‘'I told him the reaſon of our paſſing to the people below as marry'd—Yet as under a vow of reſtriction▪ as to conſummation, which had kept us both to the height, one of ſorbearing, the other of vigilant punctilio; even to the denial of thoſe innocent free⯑doms, which betrothed lovers never ſcruple to allow and to take.’

‘'I then communicated to him a copy of my pro⯑poſals of ſettlement; the ſubſtance of her written anſwer; the contents of my letter of invitation to Lord M. to be her nuptial father; and of my Lord's generous reply. But ſaid, that having apprehen⯑ſions of delay from his infirmities, and my beloved chooſing by all means (and that from principles of unrequited duty) a private ſolemnization, I had written to excuſe his lordſhip's preſence; and ex⯑pected an anſwer every hour.’

‘'The ſettlements, I told him, were actually draw⯑ing by counſellor Williams, of whoſe eminence he muſt have heard [He had]; and of the truth of this he might ſatisfy himſelf before he went out of town.’

‘'When theſe were drawn, approved, and ingroſſ⯑ed, nothing, I ſaid, but ſigning, and the nomination of my happy day, would be wanting. I had a pride, I declared, in doing the higheſt juſtice to ſo beloved a creature, of my own voluntary motion, and with⯑out the intervention of a family from whom I had received the greateſt inſults. And this being our [235] preſent ſituation, I was contented, that Mr. John Harlowe ſhould ſuſpend his reconciliatory purpoſes till our marriage were actually ſolemnized.'’

The Captain was highly delighted with all I had ſaid: Yet owned, that as his dear friend Mr. Harlowe had [...]xpreſſed himſelf greatly pleaſed to hear that we were [...]ctually marry'd, he could have wiſhed it had been ſo. But, nevertheleſs, he doubted not that all would be [...]ell.

He ſaw my reaſons, he ſaid, and approved of them, [...]or making the gentlewomen below (whom again he [...]nderſtood to be good ſort of people) believe, that the [...]eremony had paſſed; which ſo well accounted for [...]hat the Lady's maid had told Mr. Harlowe's friend. Mr. James Harlowe, he ſaid, had certainly ends to [...]nſwer in keeping open the breach; and as certainly [...]ad formed a deſign to get his ſiſter out of my hands. Wherefore it as much imported his worthy friend to [...]eep this treaty a ſecret, as it did me; at leaſt till he [...]ad formed his party, and taken his meaſures. Ill- [...]ill and paſſion were dreadful miſrepreſenters. It was amazing to him, that animoſity could be carried [...]as high againſt a man capable of views ſo pacific and [...] honourable, and who had ſhewn ſuch a command of [...]s temper, in this whole tranſaction. Generoſity, [...]deed, in every caſe, where love of ſtratagem and [...]trigue [I would excuſe him] were not concerned, [...]as a part of my character—

He was proceeding, when breakfaſt being ready, [...] came the empreſs of my heart, irradiating all around [...]er, as with a glory—A benignity and graciouſneſs in [...]er aſpect, that, tho' natural to it, had been long ba⯑ [...]iſhed from it.

Next to proſtration lowly bowed the Captain. O [...]ow the ſweet creature ſmiled her approbation of him! [...]everence from one, begets reverence from another. [...]en are more of monkeys in imitation, than they [...]hink themſelves—Involuntarily, in a manner, I bent [236] my knee—My deareſt life—and made a very fine ſpeech on preſenting the captain to her. No title, myſelf, to her lip or cheek, 'tis well he attempted not either—He was indeed ready to worſhip her;—could only touch her charming hand—

I have told the Captain, my dear creature—And then I briefly repeated, as if I had ſuppoſed ſhe had not heard it, all I had told him.

He was aſtoniſh'd, that any-body could be diſpleaſed one moment with ſuch an angel. He undertook her cauſe as the higheſt degree of merit to himſelf.

Never, I muſt needs ſay, did the angel ſo much look the angel. All placid, ſerene, ſmiling, ſelf-aſſured: A more lovely fluſh than uſual heightening her natural graces, and adding charms, even to ra⯑diance, to her charming complexion.

After we had ſeated ourſelves, the agreeable ſub⯑ject was renew'd, as we took our chocolate. How happy ſhould ſhe be in her uncle's reſtored favour!

The Captain engaged for it—No more delays, he hoped, of her part! Let the happy day be but once over, all would then be right!—But was it improper to aſk for copies of my propoſals, and of her anſwer, in order to ſhew them to his dear friend her uncle?

As Mr. Lovelace pleaſed—O that the dear creature would always ſay ſo!

It muſt be in ſtrict confidence then, I ſaid—But would it not be better to ſhew her uncle the draught of the ſettlements, when drawn?

And will you be ſo good, as to allow of this, Mr. Lovelace?

There, Belford! We were once The Quarrel⯑ſome, but now we are The Polite, Lovers.—

Indeed, my deareſt creature, I will, if you deſire it; and if Captain Tomlinſon will engage, that Mr. Harlowe ſhall keep them abſolutely a ſecret; that I may not be ſubjected to the cavil and controul of any other of a family that have uſed me ſo very ill.

[237]Now indeed, Sir, you are very obliging.

Doſt think, Jack, that my face did not now alſo [...]hine?

I held out my hand (firſt conſecrating it with a kiſs) for hers. She condeſcended to give it me. I preſſed it to my lips: You know not, Captain Tom⯑linſon (with an air), all ſtorms overblown, what a happy man—

Charming couple! His hands lifted up—How will my good friend rejoice!—O that he were preſent!—You know not, Madam, how dear you ſtill are to your uncle Harlowe!—

I am unhappy ever to have diſobliged him!

Not too much of that, however, faireſt, thought I!

He repeated his reſolutions of ſervice, and that in ſo acceptable a manner, that the dear creature wiſhed, that neither he, nor any of his, might ever want a friend of equal benevolence.

None of his, ſhe ſaid; for the captain brought it in, that he had five children living, by one of the beſt of wives and mothers, whoſe excellent management made him as happy, as if his eight hundred pounds a year (which was all he had to boaſt of) were two thouſand.

Without oeconomy, the oraculous lady ſaid, no eſtate was large enough. With it, the leaſt was not too ſmall.

Lie ſtill, teazing villain! lie ſtill!—I was only ſpeaking to my conſcience, Jack.

And let me aſk you, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid the Cap⯑tain; yet not ſo much from doubt, as that I may pro⯑ceed upon ſure grounds—You are willing to co-ope⯑rate with my dear friend in a general reconciliation?

Let me tell you, Mr. Tomlinſon, that if it can be diſtinguiſhed, that my readineſs to make up with a family, of whoſe generoſity I have not had reaſon to think highly, is intirely owing to the value I have for this angel of a woman, I will not only co-operate with Mr. John Harlowe, as you aſk; but I will meet [238] Mr. James Harlowe ſenior, and his lady, all the way▪ And furthermore, to make the ſon James and Ara⯑bella quite eaſy, I will abſolutely diſclaim any furthe [...] intereſt, whether living or dying, in any of the thre [...] brothers eſtates; contenting myſelf with what my be⯑loved's grandfather has bequeathed to her: For I hav [...] reaſon to be abundantly ſatisfied with my own cir⯑cumſtances and proſpects—Enough rewarded, wer [...] ſhe not to bring a ſhilling in dowry, in a lady who ha [...] a merit ſuperior to all the goods of fortune. True a [...] the Goſpel, Belford! Why had not this ſcene a rea [...] foundation?

The dear creature, by her eyes, expreſſed her gra⯑titude, before her lips could utter it. O Mr. Love⯑lace, ſaid ſhe—You have infinitely—And there ſh [...] ſtopt—

The Captain run over in my praiſe. He was reall [...] affected.

O that I had not ſuch a mixture of revenge an [...] pride in my love, thought I!—But [my old plea [...] cannot I make her amends at any time?—And is no [...] her virtue now in the heighth of its probation?—Would ſhe lay aſide, like the friends of my uncon⯑tending Roſebud, all thought of defiance—Woul [...] ſhe throw herſelf upon my mercy, and try me but on [...] fortnight in the Life of Honour—What then?—cannot ſay, What then.

Do not deſpiſe me, Jack, for my inconſiſtency—In no two letters perhaps agreeing with myſelf—Who expects conſiſtency in men of our character?—But I am mad with love—Fired by revenge—Puzzle with my own devices—My inventions are my curſe—My pride my puniſhment—Drawn five or ſix wa [...] at once—Can ſhe poſſibly be ſo unhappy as I? [...] why, why was this woman ſo divinely excellent!—Yet how know I that ſhe is?—What have been h [...] tryals? Have I had the courage to make a ſingle o [...] upon her perſon, tho' fifty upon her temper?— [239] Enough, I hope, to make her afraid of ever diſoblige⯑ing me more!—

I MUST baniſh reflection, or I am a loſt man. For [...]heſe two hours paſt have I hated myſelf for my own contrivances. And this not only from what I have related to thee; but from what I have further to re⯑ [...]ate. But I have now once more ſteeled my heart. My vengeance is uppermoſt; for I have been re-per⯑uſing ſome of Miſs Howe's virulence. The con⯑tempt they have both held me in, I cannot bear.—

The happieſt breakfaſt-time, my beloved owned, that ſhe had ever known ſince ſhe had left her father's houſe. She might have let this alone. The Captain renewed all his proteſtations of ſervice. He would write me word how his dear friend received the ac⯑count he ſhould give him of the happy ſituation of our affairs, and what he thought of the ſettlements, as ſoon as I ſhould ſend him the kindly-promiſed draughts. And we parted with great profeſſions of mutual eſteem; my beloved putting up vows for the ſucceſs of his generous mediation.

When I returned from attending the Captain down ſtairs, which I did to the outward door, my beloved met me as I entered the dining-room; complacency reigning in every lovely feature.

You ſee me already, ſaid ſhe, another creature. You know not, Mr. Lovelace, how near my heart this hoped-for reconciliation is. I am now willing to baniſh every diſagreeable remembrance. You know not, Sir, how much you have obliged me. And Oh, Mr. Lovelace, how happy ſhall I be, when my heart [...]s lightened from the all-ſinking weight of a father's curſe! When my dear mamma (You don't know, Sir, half the excellencies of my dear mamma! and what a kind heart ſhe has, when it is left to follow its own impulſes—When this bleſſed mamma) ſhall once more fold me to her indulgent boſom! When I ſhall [240] again have uncles and aunts, and a brother and ſiſter, all ſtriving who ſhall ſhew moſt kindneſs and favour to the poor outcaſt, then no more an outcaſt!—And you, Mr. Lovelace, to behold all this, and to be re⯑ceived into a family ſo dear to me, with welcome—What tho' a little cold at firſt? when they come to know you better, and to ſee you oftener, no freſh cauſes of diſguſt occurring, and you, as I hope, hav⯑ing enter'd upon a new courſe, all will be warmer and warmer love on both ſides, till every one perhaps will wonder, how they came to ſet themſelves againſt you.

Then drying her eyes with her handkerchief, after a few moments pauſing, on a ſudden, as if recollecting that ſhe had been led by her joy to an expreſſion of it, which ſhe had not intended I ſhould ſee, ſhe retired to her chamber with precipitation—Leaving me almoſt as unable to ſtand it, as herſelf.

In ſhort, I was—I want words to ſay how I was—My noſe had been made to tingle before; my eyes have before been made to gliſten by this ſoul-moving beauty; but ſo very much affected, I never was—for, trying to check my ſenſibility, it was too ſtrong for me, and I even ſobbed—Yes, by my ſoul, I audibly ſobbed, and was forced to turn from her before ſhe had well finiſhed her affecting ſpeech.

I want, methinks, now I have owned the odd ſen⯑ſation, to deſcribe it to thee—The thing was ſo ſtrange to me—Something choaking, as it were, in my throat—I know not how—Yet, I muſt needs ſay, tho' I am out of countenance upon the recollection, that there was ſomething very pretty in it; and I wiſh I could know it again, that I might have a more perfect idea of it, and be better able to deſcribe it to thee.

But this effect of her joy on ſuch an occaſion gives me a high notion of what that virtue muſt be [What other name can I call it?] which in a mind ſo capabl [...] of delicate tranſport, ſhould be able to make ſo charm⯑ing [241] a creature in her very bloom, all froſt and ſnow to every advance of Love from the man ſhe hates not. This muſt be all from Education too:—Muſt it not, Belford? Can Education have ſtronger force in a wo⯑man's heart than Nature?—Sure it cannot. But if it can, how intirely right are parents to cultivate their daughters minds, and to inſpire them with notions of reſerve and diſtance to our ſex; and indeed to make them think highly of their own? For pride is an ex⯑cellent ſubſtitute, let me tell thee, where virtue ſhines not out, as the ſun, in its own unborrowed luſtre.

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

AND now it is time to confeſs (and yet I know, that thy conjectures are aforehand with my ex⯑poſition), that this Captain Tomlinſon, who is ſo great a favourite with my charmer, and who takes ſo much delight in healing breaches, and reconciling differ⯑ences, is neither a greater man nor a leſs, than honeſt Patrick M^cDonald, attended by a diſcarded footman of his own finding out.

Thou knoweſt what a various-lifed raſcal he is; and to what better hopes born and educated. But that ingenious knack of Forgery, for which he was expell⯑ed the Dublin-Univerſity, and a detection ſince in Evidenceſhip, have been his ruin. For theſe have thrown him from one country to another; and at laſt, into the way of life, which would make him a fit huſband for Miſs Howe's Townſend with her con⯑trabands. He is, thou knoweſt, admirably qualified for any enterprize that requires adroitneſs and ſolemn⯑ity. And can there, after all, be a higher piece of juſtice aimed at, than to keep one Smuggler in readi⯑neſs to play againſt another?

‘'Well but, Lovelace (methinks thou queſtioneſt), how cameſt thou to venture upon ſuch a contrive⯑ance [242] as this, when, as thou haſt told me, the Lady uſed to be a month at a time at this uncle's; and muſt therefore, in all probability, know, that there was not a Captain Tomlinſon in all his neighbour⯑hood; at leaſt no one of the name ſo intimate with him, as this man pretends to be?'’—

This objection, Jack, is ſo natural a one, that I could not help obſerving to my charmer, that ſhe muſt ſurely have heard her uncle ſpeak of this gentleman. No, ſhe ſaid, ſhe never had. Beſides, ſhe had not been at her uncle Harlowe's for near ten months [This I had heard her ſay before]: And there were ſeveral gentle⯑men who uſed the ſame Green, whom ſhe knew not.

We are all very ready, thou knoweſt, to believe what we like.

And what was the reaſon, thinkeſt thou, that ſhe had not been of ſo long time at this uncle's?—Why, this old ſinner, who imagines himſelf intitled to call me to account for my freedoms with the Sex, has lately fallen into familiarities, as it is ſuſpected, with his houſekeeper, who aſſumes airs upon it.—A curſed deluding Sex!—In youth, middle age, or dotage, they take us all in.

Doſt thou not ſee, however, that this houſekeeper knows nothing, nor is to know any thing, of the treaty of reconciliation deſigned to be ſet on foot; and therefore the Uncle always comes to the Captain, the Captain goes not to the Uncle: And this I ſur⯑miſed to the Lady. And then it was a natural ſug⯑geſtion, that the Captain was the rather applied to, as he is a ſtranger to the reſt of the family: Need I tell thee the meaning of all this?

But this intrigue of the Antient is a piece of private hiſtory, the truth of which my beloved cares not to own, and indeed affects to diſbelieve. As ſhe does alſo ſome puiſny gallantries of her fooliſh brother; which, by way of recrimination, I have hinted at, without naming my informant in their family.

[243]Well but, methinks, thou queſtioneſt again, Is it not probable that Miſs Howe will make inquiry after ſuch a man as Tomlinſon?—And when ſhe cannot—

I know what thou wouldſt ſay—But I have no doubt, that Wilſon will be ſo good, if I deſire it, as to give into my own hands any letter that may be brought by Collins to his houſe, for a week to come. And now I hope thou'rt ſatisfied.

I will conclude with a ſhort ſtory.

‘'Two neighbouring ſovereigns were at war toge⯑ther, about ſome pitiful chuck-farthing thing or other; no matter what; for the leaſt trifles will ſet princes and children at loggerheads. Their armies had been drawn up in battalia ſome days, and the news of a deciſive action expected every hour to ar⯑rive at each court. At laſt, iſſue was joined; a bloody battle was fought; and a fellow, who had been a ſpectator of it, arriving with the news of a complete victory, at the capital of one of the princes, ſome time before the appointed couriers, the bells were ſet a ringing, bonfires and illuminations were made, and the people went to bed intoxicated with joy and good liquor. But the next day all was re⯑verſed: The victorious enemy, purſuing his advan⯑tage, was expected every hour at the gates of the almoſt defenceleſs capital. The firſt reporter was hereupon ſought for, and found; and being que⯑ſtioned, pleaded a great deal of merit, in that he had, in ſo diſmal a ſituation, taken ſuch a ſpace of time from the diſtreſs of his fellow-citizens, and given it to feſtivity, as were the hours between the falſe good news and the real bad.'’

Do thou, Belford, make the application. This I know, that I have given greater joy to my Beloved, than ſhe had thought would ſo ſoon fall to her ſhare. And as the human life is properly ſaid to be chequer⯑work, no doubt but a perſon of her prudence will make the beſt of it, and ſet off ſo much good againſt [244] ſo much bad, in order to ſtrike as juſt a balance as poſ⯑ſible.

THE Lady, in three ſeveral letters, acquaints her friend with the moſt material paſſages and converſa⯑tions contained in thoſe of Mr. Lovelace's preceding. Theſe are her words, on relating what the commiſſion of the pretended Tomlinſon was, after the apprehen⯑ſions that his diſtant inquiry had given her.

‘'At laſt, my dear, all theſe doubts and fears were cleared up, and baniſhed; and, in their place, a delightful proſpect was opened to me. For it comes happily out (but at preſent it muſt be an abſolute ſecret, for reaſons which I ſhall mention in the ſe⯑quel), 'that the gentleman was ſent by my uncle Harlowe [I thought he could not be angry with me for ever]; all owing to the converſation that paſſed between your good Mr. Hickman and him. For although Mr. Hickman's application was too harſhly rejected at the time, my uncle could not but think better of it afterwards, and of the arguments that worthy gentleman uſed in my favour.’

‘'Who, upon a paſſionate repulſe, would deſpair of having a reaſonable requeſt granted?—Who would not, by gentleneſs and condeſcenſion, en⯑deavour to leave favourable impreſſions upon an angry mind; which, when it comes coolly to reflect, may induce it to work itſelf into a con⯑deſcending temper? To requeſt a favour, as I have often ſaid, is one thing; to challenge it as our due, is another. And what right has a petitioner to be angry at a repulſe, if he has not a right to demand what he ſues for as a debt?'’

She deſcribes Captain Tomlinſon, on his breakfaſt viſit, to be ‘'a grave good ſort of man.'’ And in an⯑other place, ‘'A genteel man, of great gravity, and a good aſpect; ſhe believes upwards of fifty years of age I liked him, ſays ſhe, as ſoon as I ſaw him.'’

[245]As her proſpects are now more favourable than here⯑tofore, ſhe wiſhes, that her hopes of Mr. Lovelace's ſo often promiſed reformation were better grounded, than ſhe is afraid they can be.

‘'We have both been extremely puzzled, my dear, ſays ſhe, to reconcile ſome parts of Mr. Love⯑lace's character with other parts of it: His good with his bad; ſuch of the former in particular, as, His generoſity to his tenants; His bounty to the inn⯑keeper's daughter; His readineſs to put me upon doing kind things by my good Norton, and others.’

‘'A ſtrange mixture in his mind, as I have told him! For he is certainly (as I have reaſon to ſay, looking back upon his paſt behaviour to me in twenty in⯑ſtances) a hard-hearted man.—Indeed, my dear, I have thought more than once, that he had rather ſee me in tears, than give me reaſon to be pleaſed with him.’

‘'My couſin Morden ſays, that free livers are re⯑morſeleſs ^(a). And ſo they muſt be in the very na⯑ture of things.’

‘'Mr. Lovelace is a proud man. That we have long obſerved. And I am truly afraid, that his very generoſity is more owing to his pride and his vanity, than to that philanthropy, which diſtinguiſhes a bene⯑ficent mind.’

‘'Money he values not, but as a means to ſupport his pride and his independence. And it is eaſy, as I have often thought, for a perſon to part with a ſecondary appetite, when, by ſo doing, he can pro⯑mote or gratify a firſt.’

‘'I am afraid, my dear, that there muſt have been ſome fault in his Education. His natural byas was not, I fancy, ſufficiently attended to. He was in⯑ſtructed, perhaps (as his power was likely to be [246] large), to do good and beneficent actions; but not from proper motives, I doubt.’

‘'If he had, his generoſity would not have ſtopt at pride, but would have ſtruck into humanity; and then would he not have contented himſelf with do⯑ing praiſeworthy things by fits and ſtarts, or, as if relying on the doctrine of merits, he hoped by a good action to atone for a bad one ^(a); but he would have been uniformly noble, and done the good for its own ſake.’

‘'O my dear! what a lot have I drawn! Pride his virtue; and Revenge his other predominating qua⯑lity!—This one conſolation, however, remains: He is not an infidel, an unbeliever: Had he been an infidel, there would have been no room at all for hope of him; but (priding himſelf, as he does, in his fertile invention) he would have been utterly abandoned, irreclaimable, and a ſavage.'’

When ſhe comes to relate thoſe occaſions, which Mr. Lovelace in his narrative, acknowleges himſelf to be affected by, ſhe thus expreſſes herſelf:

‘'He endeavoured, as once before, to conceal his emotion. But why, my dear, ſhould theſe men (for Mr. Lovelace is not ſingular in this) think them⯑ſelves above giving theſe beautiful proofs of a feeling [247] heart? Were it in my power again to chooſe, or refuſe, I would reject the man with contempt, who ſought to ſuppreſs, or offered to deny, the power of being affected upon proper occaſions, as either a ſavage-hearted creature, or as one who was ſo ig⯑norant of the principal glory of the human nature, as to place his pride in a barbarous inſenſibility.’

‘'Theſe lines tranſlated from Juvenal by Mr. Tate, 'I have been often pleaſed with: Compaſſion proper to mankind appears, Which nature witneſs'd, when ſhe lent us tears. Of tender ſentiments WE only give Theſe proofs: To weep is OUR prerogative; To ſhew by pitying looks, and melting eyes, How with a ſuff'ring friend we ſympathize. Who can all ſenſe of others ills eſcape, Is but a brute at beſt, in human ſhape. THIS natural piety did firſt refine Our wit, and rais'd our thoughts to things divine: THIS proves our ſpirit of the gods deſcent, While that of beaſts is prone and downward bent. To them, but earth-born life they did diſpenſe; To us, for mutual aid, celeſtial ſenſe.’

SHE takes notice, to the advantage of the people of the houſe, that ſuch a good man, as Captain Tom⯑linſon, had ſpoken well of them, upon inquiry.

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

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

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

I Am now almoſt in deſpair of ſucceeding with this charming froſt-piece by love or gentleneſs.—A copy of the draughts, as I told thee, has been ſent to Captain Tomlinſon; and that by a ſpecial meſſenger. Ingroſſments are proceeding with. I have been again at the Commons. Should in all probability have pro⯑cured a licence by Malory's means, had not Malory's friend the proctor been ſuddenly ſent for to Cheſhunt, to make an old lady's will. Pritchard has told me by word of mouth, though my charmer ſaw him not, all that was neceſſary for her to know in the letter my Lord wrote, which I could not ſhew her; and taken my directions about the eſtates to be made over to me on my nuptials.—Yet with all theſe favourable ap⯑pearances no conceding moment to be ſound, no im⯑proveable tenderneſs to be raiſed.

Twice indeed with rapture, which once ſhe called rude, did I ſalute her; and each time, reſenting the freedom, did ſhe retire; tho', to do her juſtice, ſhe [257] favoured me again with her preſence at my firſt in⯑treaty, and took no notice of the cauſe of her with⯑drawing.

Is it policy to ſhew ſo open a reſentment for inno⯑cent liberties, which, in her ſituation, ſhe muſt ſo ſoon forgive?

Yet the woman who reſents not initiatory freedoms muſt be loſt. For Love is an incroacher. Love never goes backward. Love is always aſpiring. Always muſt aſpire. Nothing but the higheſt act of Love can ſatisfy an indulged Love. And what advantages has a lover, who values not breaking the peace, over his miſtreſs, who is ſolicitous to keep it!

I have now at this inſtant wrought myſelf up, for the dozenth time, to a half-reſolution. A thouſand agreeable things I have to ſay to her. She is in the dining-room. Juſt gone up. She always expects me when there.

HIGH diſpleaſure!—followed by an abrupt de⯑parture.

I ſat down by her. I took both her hands in mine. I would have it ſo. All gentle my voice.—Her father mentioned with reſpect. Her mother with reverence. Even her brother amicably ſpoken of. I never thought I could have wiſhed ſo ardently, as I told her I did wiſh, for a reconciliation with her family.

A ſweet and grateful fluſh then overſpread her fair face; a gentle ſigh now-and-then heaved her hand⯑kerchief.

I perfectly long'd to hear from Captain Tomlinſon. It was impoſſible for her uncle to find fault with the draught of the ſettlements: I would not, however, be underſtood, by ſending them down, that I intended to put it in her uncle's power to delay my happy day. When, when, was it to be?

I would haſten again to the Commons; and would not return without the licence.

[258]The Lawn I propoſed to retire to, as ſoon as the happy ceremony was over. This day and that day I propoſed.

It was time enough to name the day, when the ſettlements were completed, and the licence obtained. Happy ſhould ſhe be, could the kind Captain Tom⯑linſon obtain her uncle's preſence privately!

A good hint!—It may perhaps be improved upon—Either for a delay, or a pacifier.

No new delays, for heaven's ſake, I beſought her; reproaching her gently for the paſt. Name but the day—(an early day, I hoped in the following week)—that I might hail its approach, and number the tardy hours.

My cheek reclined on her ſhoulder—kiſſing her hands by turns. Rather baſhfully than angrily re⯑luctant, her hands ſought to be withdrawn; her ſhoul⯑der avoiding my reclined cheek—Apparently loth and more loth to quarrel with me; her downcaſt eye confeſſing more than her lips could utter.—Now ſurely, thought I, it is my time to try if ſhe can for⯑give a ſtill bolder freedom than I had ever yet taken.

I then gave her ſtruggling hands liberty. I put one arm round her waiſt: I imprinted a kiſs on her ſweet lips, with a Be quiet only, and an averted face, as if ſhe feared another.

Encouraged by ſo gentle a repulſe, the tendereſt things I ſaid; and then, with my other hand, drew aſide the handkerchief that concealed the beauty of beauties, and preſſed with my burning lips the charmingeſt breaſt that ever my raviſhed eyes beheld.

A very contrary paſſion to that which gave her bo⯑ſom ſo delightful a ſwell, immediately took place. She ſtruggled out of my incircling arms with in⯑dignation. I detained her reluctant hand. Let me go, ſaid ſhe. I ſee there is no keeping terms with you. Baſe incroacher! Is this the deſign of your flat⯑tering ſpeeches?—Far as matters have gone, I will [259] for ever renounce you. You have an odious heart. Let me go, I tell you.—

I was forced to obey, and ſhe flung from me, re⯑peating baſe, and adding flattering, incroacher.

IN vain have I urged by Dorcas for the promiſed favour of dining with her. She would not dine at all. She could not.

But why makes ſhe every inch of her perſon thus ſacred?—So near the time too, that ſhe muſt ſuppoſe, that all will be my own, by deed of purchaſe and ſettlement?

She has read, no doubt, of the art of the Eaſtern monarchs, who ſequeſter themſelves from the eyes of their ſubjects, in order to excite their adoration, when, upon ſome ſolemn occaſions, they think fit to appear in public.

But let me aſk thee, Belford, whether (on theſe ſo⯑lemn occaſions) the preceding cavalcade; here a great officer, and there a great miniſter, with their ſatellites, and glaring equipages; do not prepare the eyes of the wondering beholders, by degrees, to bear the blaze of canopy'd majeſty (what tho' but an ugly old man per⯑haps himſelf? yet) glittering in the collected riches of his vaſt empire?

And ſhould not my beloved, for her own ſake, de⯑ſcend, by degrees, from goddeſs-hood into humanity? If it be pride that reſtrains her, ought not that pride to be puniſhed? If, as in the Eaſtern emperors, it be art as well as pride, art is what ſhe of all women need not uſe. If ſhame, what a ſhame to be aſhamed to communicate to her adorer's ſight the moſt admirable of her perſonal graces?

Let me periſh, Belford, if I would not forego the brighteſt diadem in the world, for the pleaſure of ſeeing a Twin-Lovelace at each charming breaſt, drawing from it his firſt ſuſtenance; the pious taſk continued for one month, and no more!

[260]I now, methinks, behold this moſt charming of women in this ſweet office, preſſing with her fine fingers the generous flood into the purple mouths of each eager hunter by turns: Her conſcious eye now dropt on one, now on the other, with a ſigh of ma⯑ternal tenderneſs; and then raiſed up to my delighted eye, full of wiſhes, for the ſake of the pretty varlets, and for her own ſake, that I would deign to legiti⯑mate; that I would condeſcend to put on the nuptial fetters.

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

A Letter received from the worthy Captain Tom⯑linſon, has introduced me into the preſence of my charmer, ſooner than perhaps I ſhould otherwiſe have been admitted.

Sullen her brow, at her firſt entrance into the dine⯑ing-room. But I took no notice of what had paſſed, and her anger ſlid away upon its own ice.

‘'The Captain, after letting me know, that he choſe not to write, till he had the promiſed draught of the ſettlements, acquaints me, that his friend Mr. John Harlowe, in their firſt conference (which was held as ſoon as he got down), was extremely ſurprized, and even grieved (as he feared he would be) to hear, that we were not married. The world, he ſaid, who knew my character, would be very c [...]n⯑ſorious, were it owned, that we had lived ſo long together unmarried in the ſame lodgings; altho' our marriage were now to be ever ſo publicly cele⯑brated.'’

‘'His nephew James, he was ſure, would make a great handle of it againſt any motion that might be made towards a reconciliation; and with the greater [261] ſucceſs, as there was not a family in the kingdom more jealous of their honour than theirs.'’

This is true of the Harlowes, Jack: They have been called The proud Harlowes: And I have ever found, that all young Honour is ſupercilious and touchy.

But ſeeſt thou not how right I was in my endeavour to perſuade my fair one to allow her uncle's friend to think us married; eſpecially as he came prepared to believe it; and as her uncle hoped it was ſo?—But nothing on earth is ſo perverſe, as a woman when ſhe is ſet upon carrying a point, and has a meek man, or one who loves his peace, to deal with.

My Beloved was vexed. She pulled out her hand⯑kerchief: But was more inclined to blame me, than herſelf.

Had you kept your word, Mr. Lovelace, and left me when we came to town—And there ſhe ſtopt; for ſhe knew, that it was her own fault that we were not marry'd before we left the country; and how could I leave her afterwards, while her brother was plotting to carry her off by violence?

Nor has he yet given over his machinations.

For, as the Captain proceeds, ‘'Mr. John Harlowe owned to him (but in confidence), that his nephew is at this time buſied in endeavouring to find out where we are; being aſſured, as I am not to be heard of at any of my relations, or at my uſual lodgings, that we are together. And that we are not mar⯑ried, is plain, as he will have it, from Mr. Hick⯑man's application ſo lately made to her uncle; and which was ſeconded by Mrs. Norton to her mother. And he cannot bear, that I ſhould enjoy ſuch a triumph unmoleſted.'’

A profound ſigh, and the handkerchief again lifted to the eye. But did not the ſweet ſoul deſerve this turn upon her, for her felonious intention to rob me of herſelf?

[262]I read on to the following effect:

‘'Why (Mr. Harlowe aſked) was it ſaid to his other inquiring friend, that we were married; and that by his niece's woman, who ought to know? Who could give convincing reaſons, no doubt'’—

Here again ſhe wept, took a turn croſs the room; then returned—Read on, ſaid ſhe—

Will you, my deareſt life, read it yourſelf?

I will take the letter with me, by-and-by—I cannot ſee to read it juſt now, wiping her eyes.—Read on—Let me hear it all—that I may know your ſentiments upon this letter, as well as give my own.

‘'The Captain then told uncle John, the reaſons that induced me to give out that we were married; and the conditions on which my Beloved was brought to countenance it; which had kept us at the moſt punctilious diſtance.’

‘'But ſtill my character was inſiſted upon. And Mr. Harlowe went away diſſatisfied. And the Cap⯑tain was alſo ſo much concerned, that he cared not to write what the reſult of this firſt conference was.’

‘'But in the next, which was held on receipt of the draughts, at his the Captain's houſe (as the former was, for the greater ſecrecy), when the old gentle⯑man had read them, and had the Captain's opinion, he was much better pleaſed. And yet he declared, that it would not be eaſy to perſuade any other per⯑ſon of his family to believe ſo favourably of the mat⯑ter, as he was now willing to believe, were they to know, that we had lived ſo long together unmar⯑ried.’

‘'And then the Captain ſays, his dear friend made a propoſal:—It was this—That we ſhould marry [...] of hand, but as privately as poſſible, as indeed h [...] found we intended (for he could have no objection to the draughts)—But yet, he expected to have pr [...] ⯑ſent one truſty friend of his own, for his better ſatiſ⯑faction—’

[263]Here I ſtopt, with a deſign to be angry—But ſhe deſiring me to read on, I obeyed.—

‘'—But that it ſhould paſs to every one living, ex⯑cept to that truſty perſon, to himſelf, and to the Cap⯑tain, that we were married from the time that we had lived together in one houſe; and that this time ſhould be made to agree with that of Mr. Hickman's appli⯑cation to him from Miſs Howe.'’

This, my deareſt life, ſaid I, is a very conſiderate propoſal. We have nothing to do, but to caution the people below properly on this head. I did not think your uncle Harlowe capable of ſuch an expe⯑dient. But you ſee how much his heart is in the re⯑conciliation.

This was the return I met with—You have always, as a mark of your politeneſs, let me know, how meanly you think of every one of my family.

Yet, thou wilt think, Belford, that I could forgive her for the reproach.

‘'The Captain does not know, he ſays, how this propoſal will be reliſhed by us. But, for his part, he thinks it an expedient that will obviate many difficulties, and may poſſibly put an end to Mr. James Harlowe's further deſigns: And on this ac⯑count he has, by the uncle's advice, already de⯑clared to two ſeveral perſons, by whoſe means it may come to that young gentleman's ears, that he (Captain Tomlinſon) has very great reaſon to be⯑lieve, that we were married ſoon after Mr. Hick⯑man's application was rejected.’

‘'And this, Mr. Lovelace (ſays the Captain), will enable you to pay a compliment to the family, that will not be unſuitable to the generoſity of ſome of the declarations you was pleaſed to make to the Lady before me (and which Mr. John Harlowe may make ſome advantage of in favour of a reconcilia⯑tion); in that you have not demanded your lady's eſtate ſo ſoon as you were intitled to make the de⯑mand.'’ [264] An excellent contriver ſurely ſhe muſt think this worthy Mr. Tomlinſon to be!

‘'But the Captain adds, that if either the Lady or I diſapprove of his report of our marriage, he will retract it. Nevertheleſs he muſt tell me, that Mr. John Harlowe is very much ſet upon this way of proceeding; as the only one, in his opinion, ca⯑pable of being improved into a general reconcilia⯑tion. But if we do acquieſce in it, he beſeeches my fair one not to ſuſpend my day, that he may be authorized in what he ſays, as to the truth of the main fact [How conſcientious this good man!]: Nor muſt it be expected, he ſays, that her uncle will take one ſtep towards the wiſhed-for recon⯑ciliation, till the ſolemnity is actually over.’

He adds, ‘'that he ſhall be very ſoon in town on other affairs; and then propoſes to attend us, and give us a more particular account of all that paſſed, or ſhall further paſs, between Mr. Harlowe and him.'’

Well, my deareſt life, what ſay you to your uncle's expedient? Shall I write to the Captain, and ac⯑quaint him, that we have no objection to it?

She was ſilent for a few minutes. At laſt, with a ſigh—See, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe, what you have brought me to, by treading after you in ſuch crooked paths!—See what diſgrace I have incurred!—Indeed you have not acted like a wiſe man.

My beloved creature, do you not remember, how earneſtly I beſought the honour of your hand before we came to town?—Had I been then favoured—

Well, well, Sir—There has been much amiſs ſomewhere; that's all I will ſay at preſent. And ſince what's paſt cannot be recalled, my uncle muſt be obeyed, I think.

Charmingly dutiful!—I had nothing then to do, that I might not be behindhand with the worthy Cap⯑tain and her uncle, but to preſs for the day. This [...] [265] fervently did. But (as I might have expected) her former anſwer was repeated, That when the ſettle⯑ments were completed; when the licence was actually obtained; it would be time enough to name the day: And, O Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe, turning from me with a grace inimitably tender, her handkerchief at her eyes, what a happineſs, if my dear uncle could be prevailed upon to be perſonally a father, on this occaſion, to the poor fatherleſs girl!—

What's the matter with me!—Whence this dew⯑drop!—A tear!—As I hope to be ſaved, it is a tear, Jack!—Very ready methinks!—Only on reciting!—But her lively image was before me, in the very atti⯑tude ſhe ſpoke the words—And indeed at the time ſhe ſpoke them, theſe lines of Shakeſpeare came into my head.

I withdrew, and wrote to the Captain to the fol⯑lowing effect— ‘'That he would be ſo good as to ac⯑quaint his dear friend, that we intirely acquieſced with what he had propoſed; and had already pro⯑perly cautioned the gentlewomen of the houſe, and their ſervants, as well as our own: That if he would in perſon give me the bleſſing of his dear niece's hand, it would crown the wiſhes of both: That his own day, in this caſe, as I preſumed it would be a ſhort one, ſhould be ours: That by this means the ſecret would be in fewer hands: That I myſelf thought the ceremony could not be too privately performed; and this not only for the ſake of the wiſe end he had intended to be anſwered by it, but becauſe I would not have Lord M. think himſelf ſlighted; as he had once intended (as I had told him) to be our nup⯑tial father, had we not declined his offer, in order [266] to avoid a public wedding; which his beloved niece would not come into, while ſhe was in diſgrace with her friends.—But that, if he choſe not to do us this honour, I wiſhed that Captain Tomlinſon might be the truſty perſon, whom he would have to be pre⯑ſent on the happy occaſion.'’

I ſhewed this letter to my fair one. She was not diſpleaſed with it. So, Jack, we cannot now move too faſt, as to Settlements and Licenſe: The day is her Uncle's day, or Captain Tomlinſon's perhaps, as ſhall beſt ſuit the occaſion. Miſs Howe's Smug⯑gling ſcheme is now ſurely provided againſt in all events.

But I will not by anticipation make thee a judge of all the benefits that may flow from this my elaborate contrivance. Why will theſe girls put me upon my maſter-ſtrokes?

And now for a little mine which I am getting ready to ſpring. The firſt, and at the rate I go on [now a reſolution, and now a remorſe], perhaps the laſt.

A little mine, I call it. But it may be attended with great effects. I ſhall not, however, abſolutely depend upon the ſucceſs of it, having much more effectual ones in reſerve. And yet great engines are often moved by little ſprings. A ſmall ſpark fal⯑ling by accident into a powder-magazine, has ſome⯑times done more execution, than an hundred cannon

Come, the worſt to the worſt, the hymeneal torch, and a white ſheet, muſt be my amende honorable, as the French have it.

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

UNSUCCESSFUL as hitherto my application to thee has been, I cannot for the heart of me for⯑bear writing once more in behalf of this admirable [267] woman: And yet am unable to account for the zeal which impels me to take her part with an earneſtneſs ſo ſincere.

But all her merit thou acknowlegeſt; all thy own vileneſs thou confeſſeſt, and even glorieſt in it; what hope then of moving ſo harden'd a man?—Yet, as it is not too late, and thou art nevertheleſs upon the criſis, I am reſolved to try what another letter will do. It is but my writing in vain, if it do no good; and if thou wilt let me prevail, I know thou wilt hereafter think me richly intitled to thy thanks.

To argue with thee would be folly. The caſe can⯑not require it. I will only intreat thee, therefore, that thou wilt not let ſuch an excellence loſe the re⯑ward of her vigilant virtue.

I believe, there never were libertines ſo vile, but purpoſed, at ſome future period of their lives, to ſet about reforming; and let me beg of thee, that thou wilt, in this great article, make thy future repentance as eaſy, as ſome time hence thou wilt wiſh thou hadſt made it. If thou proceedeſt, I have no doubt, that this affair will end tragically, one way or other. It muſt. Such a woman muſt intereſt both gods and men in her cauſe. But what I moſt apprehend, is, that with her own hand, in reſentment of the perpe⯑trated outrage, ſhe (like another Lucretia) will aſſert the purity of her heart: Or, if her piety preſerve her from this violence, that waſting grief will ſoon put a period to her days. And in either caſe, will not the remembrance of thy ever-during guilt, and tranſitory triumph, be a torment of torments to thee?

'Tis a ſeriouſly ſad thing, after all, that ſo fine a creature ſhould have fallen into ſuch vile and remorſe⯑leſs hands: For, from thy cradle, as I have heard thee own, thou ever delightedſt to ſport with and torment the animal, whether bird or beaſt, that thou lovedſt, and hadſt a power over.

How different is the caſe of this fine woman from [268] that of any other whom thou haſt ſeduced! I need not mention to thee, nor inſiſt upon the ſtriking differ⯑ence: Juſtice, gratitude, thy intereſt, thy vows, all engaging thee; and thou certainly loving her, as far as thou art capable of love, above all her ſex. She not to be drawn aſide by art, or to be made to ſuffer from credulity, nor for want of wit and diſcernment (that will be another cutting reflection to ſo fine a mind as hers): The contention between you only unequal, as it is between naked innocence and armed guilt. In every thing elſe, as thou owneſt, her talents greatly ſuperior to thine!—What a fate will hers be, if thou art not at laſt overcome by thy reiterated remorſes!

At firſt, indeed, when I was admitted into her preſence ^(a), and (till I obſerved her meaning air, and heard her ſpeak), I ſuppoſed that ſhe had no very uncommon judgment to boaſt of: For I made, as I thought, but juſt allowances for her bloſſoming youth, and for that lovelineſs of perſon, and eaſineſs of dreſs, which I imagined muſt have taken up half her time and ſtudy to cultivate; and yet I had been prepared by thee to entertain a very high opinion of her ſenſe and her reading. Her choice of this gay fellow, upon ſuch hazardous terms (thought I), is a confirmation that her wit wants that maturity which only years and experience can give it. Her knowlege (argued I to my⯑ſelf) muſt be all theory; and the complaiſance ever conſorting with an age ſo green and ſo gay, will make ſo inexperienced a lady at leaſt forbear to ſhew her⯑ſelf diſguſted at freedoms of diſcourſe, in which thoſe preſent of her own ſex, and ſome of ours (ſo learned, ſo well read, and ſo travelled), allow themſelves.

In this preſumption, I run on; and, having the advantage, as I conceited, of all the company but thee, and being deſirous to appear in her eyes a mighty clever fellow, I thought I ſhewed away, when I ſaid any fooliſh things that had more ſound than ſenſe [...] [269] them; and when I made ſilly jeſts, which attracted the ſmiles of thy Sinclair, and the ſpecious Partington; and that Miſs Harlowe did not ſmile too, I thought was owing to her youth or affectation, or to a mixture of both, perhaps to a greater command of her fea⯑tures.—Little dreamt I, that I was incurring her con⯑tempt all the time.

But when, as I ſaid, I heard her ſpeak; which ſhe did not till ſhe had fathomed us all; when I heard her ſentiments on two or three ſubjects, and took no⯑tice of that ſearching eye, darting into the very inmoſt cells of our frothy brains, by my faith, it made me look about me; and I began to recollect, and be aſhamed of all I had ſaid before; in ſhort, was re⯑ſolved to ſit ſilent, till every one had talk'd round, to keep my folly in countenance. And then I raiſed the ſubjects that ſhe could join in, and which ſhe did join in, ſo much to the confuſion and ſurprize of every⯑one of us!—For even thou, Lovelace, ſo noted for ſmart wit, repartee, and a vein of raillery, that de⯑lighteth all who come near thee, ſatteſt in palpable darkneſs, and lookedſt about thee, as well as we.

One inſtance only, of this, ſhall I remind thee of?

We talked of wit, and of wit, and aimed at it, bandying it like a ball from one to another of us, and reſting it chiefly with thee, who wert always proud enough and vain enough of the attribute; and then more eſpecially, as thou hadſt aſſembled us, as far as I know, principally to ſhew the lady thy ſuperiority over us; and us thy triumph over her. And then Tour⯑ville (who is always ſatisfied with wit at ſecond-hand; wit upon memory; other mens with), repeated ſome verſes, as applicable to the ſubject; which two of us applauded, tho' full of double entendre. Thou, ſee⯑ing the lady's ſerious air on one of thoſe repetitions, appliedſt thyſelf to her, deſiring her notions of wit: A quality, thou ſaidſt, which every one prized, whe⯑ther flowing from himſelf, or found in another.

[270]Then it was ſhe took all our attention:—It was a quality much talked of, ſhe ſaid, but, ſhe believed, very little underſtood:—At leaſt, if ſhe might be ſo free as to give her judgment of it, from what had paſſed in the preſent converſation, ſhe muſt ſay, that Wit with Gentlemen was one thing; with Ladies, another.

This ſtartled us all:—How the women looked!—How they purſed in their mouths, a broad ſmile the moment before upon each, from the verſes they had heard repeated, ſo well underſtood, as we ſaw, by their looks—While I beſought her to let us know, for our inſtruction, what Wit was with Ladies: For ſuch I was ſure it ought to be, with Gentlemen.

Cowley, ſhe ſaid, had defined it prettily by ne⯑gatives.

Thou deſiredſt her to repeat his definition.

She did; and with ſo much graceful eaſe, and beau⯑ty, and propriety of accent, as would have made bad poetry delightful.

Here ſhe ſtopt, looking round her upon us all with conſcious ſuperiority, as I thought. Lord! how we ſtar'd! Thou attemptedſt to give us thy definition of wit, that thou mighteſt have ſomething to ſay, and not ſeem to be ſurpriſed into ſilent modeſty.

But, as if ſhe cared not to truſt thee with the ſub⯑ject, referring to the ſame author as for his more poſi⯑tive [271] deciſion, ſhe thus, with the ſame harmony of voice and accent, emphatically decided upon it.

If thou recollecteſt this part of the converſation, and how like fools we looked at one another: How much it put us out of conceit with ourſelves, and made us fear her; when we found our converſation thus ex⯑cluded from the very character which our vanity had made us think unqueſtionably ours: And if thou pro⯑fiteſt properly by the recollection, thou wilt be of my mind, that there is not ſo much wit in wickedneſs, as we had flattered ourſelves there was.

And after all, I have been of opinion ever ſince that converſation, that the wit of all the rakes and libertines I ever convers'd with, from the brilliant Bob Lovelace down to little Johnny Hartop the punſter, conſiſts moſtly in ſaying bold and ſhocking things, with ſuch courage, as ſhall make Modeſt people bluſh, the Impudent laugh, and the Ignorant ſtare.

And why doſt thou think I mention theſe things, ſo mal-à-propos, as it may ſeem?—Only, let me tell thee, as an inſtance, among many that might be given from the ſame evening's converſation, of this fine l [...]dy's ſuperiority in thoſe talents which ennoble na⯑ture, and dignify her ſex: Evidenced not only to each of us, as we offended, but to the flippant Partington, and the groſſer, but egregiouſly hypocritical Sinclair, in the correcting eye, the diſcouraging bluſh, in which was mixed as much diſpleaſure as modeſty, and ſome⯑times, as the occaſion called for it (for we were ſome of us hardened above the ſenſe of feeling delicate re⯑proof), [272] by the ſovereign contempt, mingled with a diſdainful kind of pity, that ſhewed, at once, her own conſcious worthy, and our deſpicable worthleſ⯑neſs.

O Lovelace! what then was the triumph, even in my eye, and what is it ſtill upon reflection, of true modeſty, of true wit, and true politeneſs, over frothy jeſt, laughing impertinence, and an obſcenity ſo ſhame⯑ful, even to the guilty, that they cannot hint at it but under a double meaning!

Then, as thou haſt ſomewhere obſerved, all her correctives avowed by her eye. Not poorly, like the generality of her ſex, affecting ignorance of meanings too obvious to be concealed; but ſo reſenting, as to ſhew each impudent laugher, the offence given to, and taken by, a purity, that had miſtaken its way, when it fell into ſuch company.

Such is the woman, ſuch is the angel, whom thou haſt betrayed into thy power, and wouldſt deceive and ruin.—Sweet creature! did ſhe but know, how ſhe is ſurrounded (as I then thought as well as now think), and what is intended, how much ſooner would death be her choice, than ſo dreadful a ſituation!—And how effectually would her ſtory, were it generally known, warn all the Sex againſt throwing themſelves into the power of ours, let our vows, oaths, and proteſtations, be what they will!

But let me beg of thee, once more, my dear Love⯑lace, if thou haſt any regard for thy honour, for the honour of thy family, for thy future peace, or for my opinion of thee (who yet pretend not to be ſo much moved by principle, as by that dazling merit, which ought ſtill more to attract thee), to be prevailed upon—to be—to be humane, that's all—Only, that thou wouldeſt not diſgrace our common humanity!

Hardened as thou art, I know, that they are the abandoned people in the houſe who keep thee up to a reſolution againſt her. O that the ſagacious fair one, [273] with ſo much innocent charity in her own heart, had not ſo reſolutely held thoſe women at diſtance!—That, as ſhe boarded there, ſhe had oftener tabled with them. Specious as they are, in a week's time, ſhe would have ſeen thro' them; they could not have been always ſo guarded, as they were when they ſaw her but ſeldom, and when they prepared themſelves to ſee her; and ſhe would have fled their houſe as a place infected. And yet, perhaps, with ſo determined an enterprizer, this diſcovery might have accelerated her ruin.

I know that thou art nice in thy loves. But are there not hundreds of women, who, tho' not utterly abandoned, would be taken with thee for mere per⯑ſonal regards? Make a toy, if thou wilt, of principle, with regard to ſuch of the Sex as regard it as a toy; but rob not an angel of thoſe purities, which, in her own opinion, conſtitute the difference between ange⯑lic and brutal qualities.

With regard to the paſſion itſelf, the leſs of ſoul in either man or woman, the more ſenſual are they. Thou, Lovelace, haſt a ſoul, tho' a corrupted one; and art more intent (as thou even glorieſt) upon the preparative ſtratagem, than upon the end of conquer⯑ing.

See we not the natural bent of idiots and the crazed?—The very appetite is body; and when we ourſelves are moſt fools, and crazed, then are we moſt eager in theſe purſuits. See what fools this paſ⯑ſion makes the wiſeſt men! What ſnivellers, what dotards, when they ſuffer themſelves to be run away with by it!—An unpermanent paſſion!—Since, if (aſhamed of its more proper name) we muſt call it Love, Love gratified, is Love ſatisfied—And Love ſatisfied, is Indifference begun. And this is the caſe where conſent on one ſide adds to the obligation on the other. What then but remorſe can follow a forcible attempt?

[274]Do not even chaſte lovers chooſe to be alone in their courtſhip preparations, aſhamed to have even a child to witneſs to their fooliſh actions, and more fooliſh expreſſions?—Is this deified paſſion, in its greateſt altitudes, fitted to ſtand the day?—Do not the lovers, when mutual conſent awaits their wills, retire to co⯑verts and to darkneſs, to complete their wiſhes? And ſhall ſuch a ſneaking paſſion as this, which can be ſo eaſily gratified by viler objects, be permitted to debaſe the nobleſt?

Were not the delays of thy vile purpoſes owing more to the awe which her majeſtic virtue has in⯑ſpired thee with, than to thy want of adroitneſs in villainy [I muſt write my free ſentiments in this caſe; for have I not ſeen the angel?]; I ſhould be ready to cenſure ſome of thy contrivances and pretences to ſuſ⯑pend the expected day, as trite, ſtale, and (to me, who know thy intention) poor; and too often reſorted to, as nothing comes of them, to be gloried in; parti⯑cularly that of Mennell, the vapouriſh lady, and the ready-furniſhed houſe.

She muſt have thought ſo too, at times, and in her heart deſpiſed thee for them, or love thee (ingrateful as thou art) to her misfortune; as well as entertain hope againſt probability. But this would afford an⯑other warning to the Sex, were they to know her ſtory; as it would ſhew them what poor pretences they muſt ſeem to be ſatisfied with, if once they put themſelves into the power of a deſigning man.

If trial only was thy end, as once was thy pre⯑tence ^(a), enough ſurely haſt thou tried this paragon of virtue and vigilance. But I knew thee too well, to expect, at the time, that thou wouldeſt ſtop there. Men of our caſt, whenever they form a deſign upon any of the Sex, put no other bound to their views, than what want of power gives them. I knew, that from one advantage gained, thou wouldeſt proceed to [275] attempt another. Thy habitual averſion to wedlock too well I knew; and indeed thou avoweſt thy hope to bring her to cohabitation, in that very letter in which thou pretendeſt trial to be thy principal view ^(a).

But do not even thy own frequent and involuntary remorſes, when thou haſt time, place, company, and every other circumſtance, to favour thee in thy wicked deſign, convince thee, that there can be no room for a hope ſo preſumptuous?—Why then, ſince thou wouldſt chooſe to marry her, rather than loſe her, wilt thou make her hate thee for ever?

But if thou dareſt to meditate perſonal trial, and art ſincere in thy reſolution to reward her, as ſhe behaves in it, let me beſeech thee to remove her from this vile houſe: That will be to give her and thy conſcience fair play. So intirely now does the ſweet deluded excellence depend upon her ſuppoſed happier pro⯑ſpects, that thou needeſt not to fear that ſhe will fly from thee, or that ſhe will wiſh to have recourſe to that ſcheme of Miſs Howe, which has put thee upon what thou calleſt thy maſter-ſtrokes.

But whatever be thy determination on this head; and if I write not in time, but that thou haſt actually pulled off the maſk; let it not be one of thy devices, if thou wouldſt avoid the curſes of every heart, and hereafter of thy own, to give her, no not for one hour (be her reſentment ever ſo great), into the power of that villainous woman, who has, if poſſible, leſs remorſe than thyſelf; and whoſe trade it is to break the reſiſting ſpirit, and utterly to ruin the heart un⯑practiſed in evil.—O Lovelace, Lovelace, how many dreadful ſtories could this horrid woman tell the Sex! And ſhall that of Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe ſwell the guilty liſt?

But this I might have ſpared. Of this, devil as [276] thou art, thou canſt not be capable. Thou couldſt not enjoy a triumph ſo diſgraceful to thy wicked pride, as well as to humanity.

Shouldſt thou think, that the melancholy ſpectacle hourly before me has made me more ſerious than uſual, perhaps thou wilt not be miſtaken. But no⯑thing more is to be inferr'd from hence (were I even to return to my former courſes), but that whenever the time of cool reflection comes, whether brought on by our own diſaſters, or by thoſe of others, we ſhall un⯑doubtedly, if capable of thought, and if we have time for it, think in the ſame manner.

We neither of us are ſuch fools, as to diſbelieve a futurity, or to think, whatever be our practice, that we came hither by chance, and for no end but to do all the miſchief that we have in our power to do.—Nor am I aſhamed to own, that in the prayers which my poor uncle makes me read to him, in the abſence of a very good clergyman, who regularly attends him, I do not forget to put in a word or two for my⯑ſelf.

If, Lovelace, thou laugheſt at me, thy ridicule will be more conformable to thy actions, than to thy belief.—Devils believe and tremble. Canſt thou be more abandoned than they?

And here let me add, with regard to my poor old man, that I often wiſh thee preſent but for one half hour in a day, to ſee the dregs of a gay life running off in the moſt excruciating tortures, that the colic, the ſtone, and the gangrene, can unitedly inflict; and to hear him bewail the diſſoluteneſs of his paſt life, in the bittereſt anguiſh of a ſpirit every hour expecting to be called to its laſt account.—Yet, by all his confeſ⯑ſions, he has not to accuſe himſelf in ſixty-ſeven years of life, of half the very vile enormities, which you and I have committed in the laſt ſeven only.

I conclude with recommending to thy ſerious con⯑ſideration [277] all I have written, as proceeding from the heart and ſoul of

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

DIfficulties ſtill to be got over in procuring this plaguy licence. I ever hated, and ever ſhall hate, theſe ſpiritual lawyers, and their court.

And now, Jack, if I have not ſecured victory, I have a retreat.

But hold—Thy ſervant with a letter—

A confounded long one! tho' not a narrative one—Once more in behalf of the lady.—Lie thee down, oddity! What canſt thou write that can have force upon me at this criſis?—And have I not, as I went along, made thee to ſay all that was neceſſary for thee to ſay?

Yet once more, I'll take thee up.

Trite, ſtale, poor (ſay'ſt thou) are ſome of my con⯑trivances? That of the widow's particularly!—I have no patience with thee.—Had not that contrivance its effect at the time, for a procraſtination?—And had I not then reaſon to fear, that ſhe would find enough to make her diſlike this houſe? And was it not right (intending what I intended) to lead her on from time o [...] time, with a notion, that a houſe of her own would be ready for her ſoon, in order to induce her to con⯑tinue here till it was?

Trite, ſtale, and poor!—Thou art a ſilly fellow, and no judge, when thou ſayeſt this. Had I not, like a blockhead, revealed to thee, as I went along, the ſecret purpoſes of my heart, but had kept all in, till [278] the event had explained my myſteries, I would have defy'd thee to have been able, any more than the lady, to have gueſſed at what was to befal her, till it had actually come to paſs. Nor doubt I, in this caſe, that, inſtead of preſuming to reflect upon her for credulity, as loving me to her misfortune, and for hoping againſt probability, thou wouldeſt have been readier by far, to cenſure her for nicety and over-ſcrupulouſneſs. And let me tell thee, that had ſhe loved me, as I wiſhed her to love me, ſhe could not poſſibly have been ſo very apprehenſive of my deſigns; nor ſo ready to be influenced by Miſs Howe's pre⯑cautions, as ſhe has always been, altho' my general character made not for me with her.

But in thy opinion, I ſuffer for that ſimplicity in my contrivances, which is their principal excellence. No machinery make I neceſſary. No unnatural flights aim I at. All pure nature, taking advantage of na⯑ture, as nature tends; and ſo ſimple my devices, that when they are known, thou, even thou, imagineſt, thou couldeſt have thought of the ſame. And indeed thou ſeemeſt to own, that the ſlight thou putteſt upon them, is owing to my letting thee into them before⯑hand; undiſtinguiſhing, as well as ingrateful as thou art!

Yet, after all, I would not have thee think, that I do not know my weak places. I have formerly told thee, that it is difficult for the ableſt general to ſay what he will do, or what he can do, when he is obliged to regulate his motions by thoſe of a watch⯑ful enemy ^(a). If thou giveſt due weight to this con⯑ſideration, thou wilt not wonder that I ſhould make many marches and countermarches, ſome of which may appear to a ſlight obſerver unneceſſary.

But let me curſorily enter into this debate with thee on this ſubject, now I am within ſight of my journey's end.

[279]Abundance of impertinent things thou telleſt me in this letter; ſome of which thou hadſt from myſelf; others that I knew before.

All that thou ſayeſt in this charming creature's praiſe, is ſhort of what I have ſaid and written, on this inexhauſtible ſubject.

Her virtue, her reſiſtance, which are her merits, are my ſtimulatives. Have I not told thee ſo twenty times over?

Devil, as theſe girls between them call me, what of devil am I, but in my contrivances? I am not more a devil, than others, in the end I aim at; for when I have carried my point, it is ſtill but one ſeduction. And I have perhaps been ſpared the guilt of many ſe⯑ductions, in the time.

What of uncommon would there be in this caſe, but for her watchfulneſs?—As well as I love intrigue and ſtratagem, doſt think, that I had not rather have gained my end with leſs trouble and leſs guilt?

The man, let me tell thee, who is as wicked as he can be, is a worſe man than I am. Let me aſk any Rake in England, if, reſolving to carry his point, he would have been ſo long about it? or have had ſo much compunction as I have had?

Were every Rake, nay, were every Man, to ſit down, as I do, and write all that enters into his head or into his heart, and to accuſe himſelf with equal freedom and truth, what an army of miſcreants ſhould I have to keep me in countenance!

It is a maxim with ſome, that if they are left alone with a woman, and make not an attempt upon her, ſhe will think herſelf affronted.—Are not ſuch men as theſe worſe than I am?—What an opinion muſt they have of the whole Sex?

Let me defend the Sex I ſo dearly love.—If theſe elder brethren of ours, thirſk they have general reaſon for their aſſertion, they muſt have kept very bad company, or muſt judge of womens hearts by their [280] own. She muſt be an abandoned woman, who will not ſhrink as a ſnail into its ſhell, at a groſs and ſud⯑den attempt. A modeſt woman muſt be naturally cold, reſerved, and ſhy. She cannot be ſo much, and ſo ſoon affected, as libertines are apt to imagine; and muſt, at leaſt, have ſome confidence in the ho⯑nour and ſilence of a man, before deſire can poſſibly put forth in her, to encourage and meet his flame. For my own part, I have been always decent in the company of women, till I was ſure of them. Nor have I ever offered a great offence, till I have found little ones paſſed over; and that they ſhunn'd me not, when they knew my character.

My divine Clariſſa has puzzled me, and beat me out of my play: At one time, I hoped to overcome by intimidating her, at another by Love; by the amorous See-ſaw, as I have called it ^(a). And I have only now to join ſurprize to the other two, and ſee what can be done by all three.

And whoſe property, I pray thee, ſhall I invade, if I purſue my ſchemes of love and vengeance?—Have not thoſe who have a right in her, renounced that right?—Have they not wilfully expoſed her to dangers?—Yet muſt know, that ſuch a woman would be conſidered as lawful prize, by as many as could have the opportunity to attempt her?—And had they not thus cruelly expoſed her, is ſhe not a ſingle woman?—And need I tell thee, Jack, that men of our caſt, the beſt of them [the worſt ſtick at no⯑thing] think it a great grace and favour done to the married men, if they leave them their wives to them⯑ſelves; and compound for their ſiſters, daughters, wards, and nieces?—Shocking as theſe principles muſt be to a reflecting mind; yet ſuch thou knoweſt are the principles of thouſands (who would not act by the Sex as I have acted by them, when in my power); and as often carried into practice, as their opportuni⯑ties [281] or courage will permit.—Such therefore have no right to blame me.

Thou repeatedly pleadeſt her ſufferings from her family. But I have too often anſwered this plea, to need to ſay any more now, than that ſhe has not ſuf⯑fered for my ſake. For has ſhe not been made the victim of the malice of her rapacious brother and en⯑vious ſiſter, who only waited for an occaſion to ruin her with her other relations; and took this as the firſt, to drive her out of the houſe; and, as it happen'd, into my arms?—Thou knoweſt how much againſt her inclination.

As for her own ſins, how many has the dear crea⯑ture to anſwer for to Love and to me!—Twenty, and twenty times twenty, has ſhe not told me, that ſhe refuſed not the odious Solmes in favour to me? And as often has ſhe not offered to renounce me for the ſingle life, if the Implacables would have received her on that condition?—What repetitions does thy weak pity make me guilty of?

To look a little farther back: Canſt thou forget what my ſufferings were from this haughty beauty, in the whole time of my attendance upon her proud mo⯑tions, in the purlieus of Harlowe-Place, and at the little White Hart at Neale, as we called it?—Did I not threaten vengeance upon her then (and had I not reaſon?) for diſappointing me [I will give but this one inſtance] of a promiſed interview?

O Jack! what a night had I of it, in the bleak coppice adjoining to her father's paddock!—My linen and wig frozen; my limbs abſolutely numbed; my fingers only ſenſible of ſo much warmth, as enabled me to hold a pen; and that obtained by rubbing the ſkin off, and beating with my hands my ſhivering ſides.—Kneeling on the hoar moſs on one knee, writing on the other, if the ſtiff ſcrawl could be cal⯑led writing.—My feet, by the time I had done, ſeem⯑ing to have taken root, and actually unable to ſupport [282] me for ſome minutes!—Love and Rage kept then my heart in motion (and only Love and Rage could do it), or how much more than I did ſuffer, muſt I have ſuffered?

I told thee, at my melancholy return, what were the contents of the letter I wrote ^(a). And I ſhewed thee afterwards, her tyrannical anſwer to it ^(b). Thou then, Jack, lovedſt thy friend; and pitiedſt thy poor ſuffering Lovelace. Even the affronted God of Love approved then of my threatened vengeance againſt the fair promiſer; tho' now with thee, in the day of my power, forgetful of the night of my ſufferings, he is become an advocate for her.

Nay, was it not he himſelf that brought to me my adorable Nemeſis; and both together put me upon this very vow, ‘'That I would never reſt, till I had drawn in this goddeſs-daughter of the Harlowes, to coha⯑bit with me; and that in the face of all their proud family?'’ —Nor canſt thou forget this vow.—At this inſtant I have thee before me, as then thou ſorrowfully lookedſt.

Thy ſtrong features glowing with compaſſion for me; thy lips twiſted; thy forehead furrowed; thy whole face drawn out from the ſtupid round into the ghaſtly oval; every muſcle contributing its power to complete the aſpect grievous; and not one word couldſt thou utter, but Amen to my vow.

And what of diſtinguiſhing love, or favour, or con⯑fidence, have I had from her ſince, to make me fore⯑go this vow?

I renewed it not, indeed, afterwards; and actually for a long ſeaſon, was willing to forget it; till repe⯑titions of the ſame faults revived the remembrance of the former:—And now adding to thoſe the contents of ſome of Miſs Howe's virulent letters, ſo lately come at, what canſt thou ſay for the rebel, con⯑ſiſtent with thy loyalty to thy friend?

[283]Every man to his genius and conſtitution. Han⯑nibal was called The father of warlike ſtratagems. Had Hannibal been a private man, and turned his plotting head againſt the other ſex; or had I been a general, and turned mine againſt ſuch of my fellow-creatures of my own, as I thought myſelf intitled to conſider as my enemies, becauſe they were born and l [...]ved in a different climate;—Hannibal would have done leſs miſchief;—Lovelace more.—That would have been the difference.

Not a ſovereign on earth, if he be not a good man, and if he be of a warlike temper, but muſt do a thouſand times more miſchief than me. And why? Becauſe he has it in his power to do more.

An honeſt man, perhaps thou'lt ſay, will not wiſh to have it in his power to do hurt. He ought not, let me tell him: For, if he have it, a thouſand to one but it makes him both wanton and wicked.

In what, then, am I ſo ſingularly vile?

In my contrivances, thou'lt ſay (for thou art my echo), if not in my propoſed end of them.

How difficult does every man find it, as well as me, to forego a predominant paſſion? I have three paſſions that ſway me by turns; all imperial ones. Love, Revenge, Ambition, or a deſire of conqueſt.

As to this particular contrivance of Tomlinſon and the Uncle, which thou'lt think a black one perhaps; that had been ſpared, had not theſe innocent ladies put me upon finding a huſband for their Mrs. Townſend: That device, therefore, is but a preventive one. Thinkeſt thou, that I could bear to be outwitted? And may not this very contrivance ſave a world of miſchief? for, doſt thou think, I would have tamely given up the lady to Townſend's Tars?

What meaneſt thou, except to overthrow thy own plea, when thou ſayeſt, that men of our caſt know no other bound to their wickedneſs, but want of power; yet knoweſt this lady to be in mine?

[284] Enough, ſayeſt thou, have I tried this paragon of virtue. Not ſo; for I have not tried her at all.—All I have been doing, is but preparation to a trial.

But thou art concerned for the means that I may have recourſe to in the trial, and for my veracity.

Silly fellow!—Did ever any man, thinkeſt thou, deceive a girl, but at the expence of his veracity? How otherwiſe, can he be ſaid to deceive?

As to the means, thou doſt not imagine, that I ex⯑pect a direct conſent.—My main hope is but in a yielding reluctance; without which I will be ſworn, whatever rapes have been attempted, none ever were committed, one perſon to one perſon. And good Queen Beſs of England, had ſhe been living, and appealed to, would have declared herſelf of my mind.

It would not be amiſs for the Sex to know, what our opinions are upon this ſubject.—I love to warn them.—I wiſh no man to ſucceed with them but my⯑ſelf. I told thee once, that tho' a rake, I am not a rake's friend ^(a).

Thou ſayeſt, that I ever hated wedlock. And true thou ſayeſt. And yet as true, when thou telleſt me, that I would rather marry than loſe this lady. And will ſhe deteſt me for ever, thinkeſt thou, if I try her, and ſucceed not?—Take care—Take care, Jack!—Seeſt thou not, that thou warneſt me, that I do not try, without reſolving to conquer?

I muſt add, that I have for ſome time been con⯑vinced, that I have done wrong, to ſcribble to thee ſo freely as I have done (and the more ſo, if I make the Lady legally mine); for has not every letter I have written to thee, been a bill of indictment againſt my⯑ſelf? I may partly curſe my vanity for it; and I think I will refrain for the future; for thou art really very impertinent.

A good man, I own, might urge many of the things thou urgeſt; but, by my ſoul, they come very [285] aukwardly from thee. And thou muſt be ſenſible, that I can anſwer every tittle of what thou writeſt, upon the foot of the maxims we have long held and purſued.—By the ſpecimen above, thou wilt ſee that I can.

And pr'ythee tell me, Jack, what but this that fol⯑lows would have been the epitome of mine and my beloved's ſtory, after ten years cohabitation; had I never written to thee upon the ſubject, and had I not been my own accuſer?

‘'Robert Lovelace, a notorious woman-eater, makes his addreſſes in an honourable way to Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe; a young lady of the higheſt me⯑rit.'’ —Fortunes on both ſides out of the queſtion.

‘'After encouragement given, he is inſulted by her violent brother; who thinks it his intereſt to diſ⯑countenance the match; and who at laſt challenging him, is obliged to take his worthleſs life at his hands.’

‘'The family, as much enraged, as if he had taken the life he gave, inſult him perſonally, and find out an odious lover for the young lady.’

‘'To avoid a forced marriage, ſhe is prevailed up⯑on 'to throw herſelf into Mr. Lovelace's protection.’

‘'Yet, diſclaiming any paſſion for him, ſhe repeat⯑edly offers to renounce him for ever, if, on that con⯑dition, her relations will receive her, and free her from the addreſs of the hated lover.’

‘'Mr. Lovelace, a man of ſtrong paſſions, and, as ſome ſay, of great pride, thinks himſelf under very little obligation to her on this account; and not being naturally fond of marriage, and having ſo much reaſon to hate her relations, endeavours to prevail upon her to live with him, what he calls the life of honour: And at laſt, by ſtratagem, art, and contrivance, prevails.’

‘'He reſolves never to marry any other woman: Takes a pride to have her called by his name: A Church-rite all the difference between them: [286] Treats her with deſerved tenderneſs. Nobody que⯑ſtions their marriage but theſe proud relations of hers whom he wiſhes to queſtion it. Every year a charm⯑ing boy. Fortunes to ſupport the increaſing family with ſplendor—A tender father. Always a warm friend; a generous landlord, and a punctual pay⯑maſter—Now-and-then, however, perhaps, in⯑dulging with a new object, in order to bring him back with greater delight to his charming Clariſſa—His only fault Love of the Sex—Which never⯑theleſs, the women ſay, will cure itſelf—Defenſible thus far, that he breaks no contracts by his rove⯑ings—’

And what is there ſo very greatly amiſs, as the world goes, in all this?—

Let me aver, that there are thouſands and ten thouſands, who have worſe ſtories to tell than this would appear to be, had I not intereſted thee in the progreſs to my great end. And beſides, thou knoweſt that the character I gave myſelf to Joſeph Leman, as to my treatment of my miſtreſſes, is pretty near the truth ^(a).

Were I to be as much in earneſt in my defence, as thou art warm in my arraignment, I could con⯑vince thee, by other arguments, obſervations, and compariſons [Is not all human good and evil compara⯑tive?] that tho' from my ingenuous temper (writing only to thee, who art maſter of every ſecret of my heart) I am ſo ready to accuſe myſelf in my narra⯑tions; yet I have ſomething to ſay for myſelf to my⯑ſelf, as I go along; tho' no one elſe, perhaps, that was not a rake, would allow any weight to it.—And this caution might I give to thouſands, who would ſtoop for a ſtone to throw at me: ‘'See that your own predominant paſſions, whatever they be, hurry you not into as much wickedneſs, as mine do me.—See, if ye happen to be better than me, in [287] ſome things, that ye are not worſe in others; and in points too, that may be of more extenſive bad conſequence, than that of ſeducing a girl (and taking care of her afterwards), who from her cradle is arm⯑ed with cautions againſt the deluſions of men.'’ And yet I am not ſo partial to my own faults, as to think lightly of that, when I allow myſelf to think.

Another grave thing will I add, now my hand's in: ‘'So dearly do I love the ſex, that had I found, that a character for virtue had been generally neceſſary to recommend me to them, I ſhould have had a much greater regard to my morals, as to the ſex, than I have had.'’

To ſum up all—I am ſufficiently apprized, that men of worthy and honeſt hearts, who never allowed them⯑ſelves in premeditated evil, and who take into the ac⯑count the excellencies of this fine creature, will, and muſt, not only condemn, but abhor me, were they to know as much of me as thou doſt.—But, me⯑thinks, I would be glad to eſcape the cenſure of thoſe men, and of thoſe women too, who have never known what capital trials and temptations are; who have no genius for enterprize; and moſt particularly of thoſe, who have only kept their ſecret better than I have kept, or wiſhed to keep, mine.

I THREATENED above to refrain writing to thee. But take it not to heart, Jack—I muſt write on, and cannot help it.

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

FAITH, Jack, thou hadſt half undone me with thy nonſenſe, tho' I would not own it in my yeſterday's letter; my conſcience of thy party before. But I think I am my own man again.

[288]So near to execution my plot! So near ſpringing my mine! All agreed upon between the women and me, or I believe thou hadſt overthrown me.

I have time for a few lines preparative to what is to happen in an hour or two; and I love to write to the moment.—

We have been extremely happy. How many agreeable days have we known together! What may the next two hours produce!—

When I parted with my charmer (which I did with infinite reluctance, half an hour ago), it was upon her promiſe, that ſhe would not ſit up to write or read. For ſo engaging was the converſation to me (and, in⯑deed, my behaviour throughout the whole of it, was confeſſedly agreeable to her), that I inſiſted, if ſhe did not directly retire to reſt, that ſhe ſhould add another happy hour to the former.

To have ſat up writing or reading half the night, as ſhe ſometimes does, would have fruſtrated my view, as thou wilt obſerve, when my little plot un⯑ravels.

WHAT—What—What now!—bounding villain! wouldſt thou choak me!—

I was ſpeaking to my heart, Jack!—It was then at my throat.—And what is all this for?—Theſe ſhy ladies, how, when a man thinks himſelf near the mark, do they tempeſt him!—

Is all ready, Dorcas? Has my beloved kept her word with me?—Whether are theſe billowy heavings owing more to Love or to Fear? I cannot tell for the ſoul of me, which I have moſt of. If I can but take her before her apprehenſion, before her eloquence, i [...] awake—

Limbs, why thus convulſed!—Knees, till now ſo firmly knit, why thus relaxed? Why beat ye thus together? Will not theſe trembling fingers [289] which twice have refuſed to direct the pen, and thus curvedly deform the paper, fail-me-in the arduous mo⯑ment?

Once again, Why and for what all theſe convul⯑ſions? This project is not to end in matrimony ſurely!

But the conſequences muſt be greater than I had thought of till this moment—My beloved's deſtiny or my own may depend upon the iſſue of the two next hours!—

I will recede, I think!—

SOFT, O virgin ſaint, and ſafe as ſoft, be thy ſlumbers!—

I will now once more turn to my friend Belford's letter. Thou ſhalt have fair play, my charmer. I'll re-peruſe what thy advocate has to ſay for thee. Weak arguments will do, in the frame I am in!—

BUT, what's the matter!—What's the matter!—What a double—But the uproar abates!—What a double coward am I?—Or is it that I am taken in a cowardly minute? for heroes have their fits of fear; cowards their brave moments: And virtuous ladies, all but my Clariſſa, their moment critical—

But thus coolly enjoying thy reflections in a hurri⯑cane!—Again the confuſion's renew'd!—

What! Where!—How came it!—

Is my beloved ſafe!—

O wake not too roughly my beloved!—

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

NOW is my reformation ſecur'd; for I never ſhall love any other woman!—O ſhe is all variety! She muſt be ever new to me!—Imagination cannot [290] form; much leſs can the pencil paint; nor can the ſoul of painting, poetry, deſcribe an angel ſo exqui⯑ſitely, ſo elegantly lovely!—But I will not by antici⯑pation pacify thy impatience. Altho' the ſubject is too hallowed for profane contemplation; yet ſhalt thou have the whole before thee as it paſſed: And this not from a ſpirit wantoning in deſcription upon ſo rich a ſubject; but with a deſign to put a bound to thy roving thoughts.—It will be iniquity greater than a Lovelace ever was guilty of, to carry them farther than I ſhall acknowlege.

Thus then, connecting my laſt with the preſent, I lead to it.

Didſt thou not, by the concluſion of my former, perceive the conſternation I was in, juſt as I was about to re-peruſe thy letter, in order to prevail upon my⯑ſelf to recede from my purpoſe of awaking in terrors my ſlumbering charmer? And what doſt thou think was the matter?

I'll tell thee—

At a little after two, when the whole houſe was ſtill, or ſeem'd to be ſo, and, as it proved, my Cla⯑riſſa abed, and faſt aſleep; I alſo in a manner undreſſ⯑ed, for an hour before, and in my gown and ſlippers, tho', to oblige thee, writing on;—I was alarm'd by a trampling noiſe over head, and a confuſed buz of mix'd voices, ſome louder than others, like ſcolding, and little ſhort of ſcreaming, all raiſed to vocatives, as in a fright: And while I was wondering what could be the matter, down ſtairs ran Dorcas, and at my door, in an accent rather frightedly and hoarſly in⯑ward, than ſhrilly clamorous, cried out Fire! Fire! And this the more alarmed me, as ſhe ſeem'd to endeavour to cry out louder, but could not.

My pen (its laſt ſcrawl a benediction on my be⯑loved) dropt from my fingers; and up ſtarted I; and making but three ſteps to the door, open'd it, and cry'd Where! Where! almoſt as much terrify'd as [291] the wench. While ſhe, more than half-undreſt, her perticoats in her hand, unable to ſpeak diſtinctly, pointed up ſtairs.

I was there in a moment, and found all owing to the careleſſneſs of Mrs. Sinclair's cook-maid, who, having ſat up to read the ſimple hiſtory of Doraſtus and Fau [...]ia, when ſhe ſhould have been in bed, had ſet fire to an old pair of callicoe window-curtains.

She had had the preſence of mind, in her fright, to tear down the half-burnt vallens, as well as curtains, and had got them, tho' blazing, into the chimney, by the time I came up; ſo that I had the ſatisfaction to find the danger happily over.

Mean time Dorcas, after ſhe had directed me up ſtairs, not knowing the worſt was over, and expect⯑ing every minute the houſe would be in a blaze, out of tender regard for her lady [I ſhall for ever love the wench for it] ran to her door, and rapping loudly at it, in a recovered voice, cry'd out, with a ſhrilneſs equal to her love, Fire! Fire!—The houſe is on fire!—Riſe, Madam!—This inſtant riſe—if you would not be burnt in your bed!

No ſooner had ſhe made this dreadful outcry, but I heard her lady's door, with haſty violence, unbar, unbolt, unlock, and open, and my charmer's voice ſounding like that of one going into a fit.

You may believe how much I was affected. I trembled with concern for her, and haſtened down faſter than the alarm of fire had made me run up, in order to ſatisfy her, that all the danger was over.

When I had flown down to her chamber-door, there I beheld the charmingeſt creature in the world, ſup⯑porting herſelf on the arm of the gaſping Dorcas, ſighing, trembling, and ready to faint, with nothing on but an under-petticoat, her lovely boſom half-open, and her feet juſt ſlipt into her ſhoes. As ſoon as ſhe ſaw me, ſhe panted, and ſtruggled to ſpeak; [292] but could only ſay, Oh, Mr. Lovelace! and down was ready to ſink.

I claſped her in my arms with an ardor ſhe never felt before: My deareſt life! fear nothing: I have been up—The danger is over—The fire is got under—And how (fooliſh devil! to Dorcas) could you thus, by your hideous yell, alarm and frighten my angel!

Oh Jack! how her ſweet boſom, as I claſp'd her to mine, heav'd and panted! I could even diſtinguiſh her dear heart flutter, flutter, flutter, againſt mine; and for a few minutes, I fear'd ſhe would go into fits.

Leſt the half-lifeleſs charmer ſhould catch cold in this undreſs, I lifted her to her bed, and ſat down by her upon the ſide of it, endeavouring with the utmoſt tenderneſs, as well of action as expreſſion, to diſſipate her terrors.

But what did I get by this my generous care of her, and by my ſucceſsful endeavour to bring her to her⯑ſelf?—Nothing, ungrateful as ſhe was! but the moſt paſſionate exclamations: For we had both already for⯑got the occaſion, dreadful as it was, which had thrown her into my arms; I, from the joy of incircling the almoſt diſrobed body of the lovelieſt of her ſex; ſhe, from the greater terrors that aroſe from finding herſelf in my arms, and both ſeated on the bed, from which ſhe had been ſo lately frighted.

And now, Belford, reflect upon the diſtance the watchful charmer had hitherto kept me at. Reflect upon my love, and upon my ſufferings for her: Re⯑flect upon her vigilance, and how long I had lain in wait to elude it; the awe I had ſtood in, becauſe of her frozen virtue and over-niceneſs; and that I never before was ſo happy with her; and then think how [...]ngovernable muſt be my tranſports in thoſe happy moments!—And yet, in my own account, I was both decent and generous. The following lines, alter'd to the fi [...]ſt perſon, come neareſt of any I can recollect, to the rapturous occaſion:

But, far from being affected by an addreſs ſo fer⯑vent (although from a man ſhe had ſo lately owned a regard for, and with whom, but an hour or two be⯑fore, ſhe had parted with ſo much ſatisfaction), that [...] never ſaw a bitterer, or more moving grief, when ſhe came fully to herſelf.

She appealed to Heaven againſt my treachery, as ſhe called it; while I, by the moſt ſolemn vows, pleaded my own equal fright, and the reality of the danger that had alarmed us both.

She conjur'd me, in the moſt ſolemn and affecting manner, by turns threatening and ſoothing, to quit her apartment, and permit her to hide herſelf from the light, and from every human eye.

I beſought her pardon, yet could not avoid offend⯑ing; and repeatedly vow'd, that the next morning's ſun ſhould witneſs our eſpouſals: But taking, I ſup⯑poſe, all my proteſtations of this kind, as an indica⯑tion, that I intended to proceed to the laſt extremity, ſhe would hear nothing that I ſaid; but, redoubling her ſtruggles to get from me, in broken accents, and exclamations the moſt vehement, ſhe proteſted, that ſhe would not ſurvive, what ſhe called a treatment ſo diſgraceful and villainous; and, looking all wildly round her, as if for ſome inſtrument of miſchief, ſhe eſpied a pair of ſharp-pointed ſciſſars on a chair by the bed-ſide, and endeavoured to catch them up, with deſign to make her words good on the ſpot.

Seeing her deſperation, I begged her to be pacify'd; that ſhe would hear me ſpeak but one word, declaring that I intended no diſhonour to her: And having ſeized [294] the ſciſſars, I threw them into the chimney; and ſhe ſtill inſiſting vehemently upon my diſtance, I permit⯑ted her to take the chair.

But, O the ſweet diſcompoſure!—Her bared ſhoul⯑ders and arms, ſo inimitably fair and lovely: Her ſpread hands croſſed over her charming neck; yet not half concealing its gloſſy beauties: The ſcanty coat, as ſhe roſe from me, giving the whole of her admi⯑rable ſhape, and fine-turn'd limbs: Her eyes running-over, yet ſeeming to threaten future vengeance: And at laſt her lips uttering what every indignant look, and glowing feature, portended; exclaiming as if I had done the worſt I could do, and vowing never to forgive me; wilt thou wonder, that I could avoid reſuming the incenſed, the already too-much-provoked fair one?

I did; and claſped her once more to my boſom: But, conſidering the delicacy of her frame, her force was amazing, and ſhewed how much in earneſt ſhe was in her reſentment; for it was with the utmoſt difficulty that I was able to hold her: Nor could I prevent her ſliding through my arms, to fall upon her knees: Which ſhe did at my feet: And there, in the anguiſh of her ſoul, her ſtreaming eyes lifted up to my face with ſupplicating ſoftneſs, hands folded, di⯑ſhevelled hair; for her night head-dreſs having fallen off in her ſtruggling, her charming treſſes fell down in naturally ſhining ringlets, as if officious to conceal the dazling beauties of her neck and ſhoulders; her lovely boſom too heaving with ſighs, and broken ſobs, as if to aid her quivering lips, in pleading for her—In this manner, but when her grief gave way to her ſpeech, in words pronounced with that emphatical propriety, which diſtinguiſhes this admirable creature in her elocution from all the women. I ever heard ſpeak; did ſhe implore my compaſſion, and my ho⯑nour.

‘'Conſider me, dear Lovelace,' were her charming [295] words! 'on my knees I beg you to conſider me, as a poor creature who has no protector but you; who has no defence but your honour: By that Ho⯑nour! By your Humanity! By all you have vow'd! I conjure you not to make me abhor myſelf! Not to make me vile in my own eyes!'’

I mentioned the morrow as the happieſt day of my life.

Tell me not of to-morrow; if indeed you mean me honourably, Now, This very inſtant NOW! you muſt ſhew it, and begone! You can never in a whole long life repair the evils you may NOW make me ſuffer!

Wicked wretch!—Inſolent villain!—[Yes, ſhe called me inſolent villain, altho' ſo much in my power! And for what?—only for kiſſing (with paſ⯑ſion indeed) her inimitable neck, her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, and her ſtreaming eyes, as this aſſem⯑blage of beauties offered itſelf at once to my raviſhed ſight; ſhe continuing kneeling at my feet, as I ſat].

If I am a villain, Madam—And then my graſping but trembling hand—I hope I did not hurt the ten⯑dereſt and lovelieſt of all her beauties—If I am a villain, Madam—

She tore my ruffle, ſhrunk from my happy hand, with amazing force and agility, as with my other arm I would have incircled her waiſt.

Indeed you are!—The worſt of villains!—Help! dear bleſſed people! and ſcream'd—No help for a poor creature!—

Am I then a villain, Madam?—Am I then a vil⯑lain, ſay you?—and claſped both my arms about her, offering to raiſe her to my bounding heart.—

O no!—And yet you are!—And again I was her dear Lovelace!—Her hands again claſped over her charming boſom:—Kill me! Kill me!—If I am odious enough in your eyes, to deſerve this treat⯑ment; and I will thank you!—Too long, much [296] too long, has my life been a burden to me!—O [...], wildly looking all around her, give me but the means, and I will inſtantly convince you, that my honour is dearer to me than my life!

Then, with ſtill folded hands, and freſh-ſtreaming eyes, I was her bleſſed Lovelace; and ſhe would thank me with her lateſt breath, if I would permit her to make that preference, or free her from farther in⯑dignities.

I ſat ſuſpended for a moment: By my ſoul, thought I, thou art, upon full proof, an angel and no woman! Still, however, cloſe claſping her to my boſom, as I had raiſed her from her knees, ſhe again ſlid through my arms, and dropt upon them:— ‘'See, Mr. Love⯑lace!—Good God! that I ſhould live to ſee this hour, and to bear this treatment!—See, at your feet, a poor creature, imploring your pity, who, for your ſake, is abandon'd of all the world! Let not my father's curſe thus dreadfully operate! Be not you the inflicter, who have been the cauſe of it! But ſpare me! I beſeech you ſpare me!—For how have I deſerved this treatment from you?—For your own ſake, if not for my ſake, and as you would that God Almighty, in your laſt hour, ſhould have mercy upon you, ſpare me!'’—

What heart but muſt have been penetrated?

I would again have raiſed the dear ſuppliant from her knees; but ſhe would not be raiſed, till my ſoft⯑ened mind, ſhe ſaid, had yielded to her prayer, and bid her riſe to be innocent.

Riſe then, my angel, riſe, and be what you are, and all you wiſh to be! Only pronounce me pardon'd for what has paſſed, and tell me, you will continue to look upon me with that eye of favour and ſere⯑nity, which I have been bleſſed with for ſome days paſt, and I will ſubmit to my beloved conquer [...]ſs, whoſe power never was at ſo great an height with me, as now; and retire to my apartment.

[297]God Almighty, ſaid ſhe, hear your prayers in your moſt arduous moments, as you have heard mine! And now leave me, this moment leave me, to my own recollection: In that you will leave me to miſery enough, and more than you ought to wiſh to your bittereſt enemy.

Impute not every thing, my beſt Beloved, to de⯑ſign; for deſign it was not—

O Mr. Lovelace!—

Upon my ſoul, Madam, the fire was real—(And ſo it was, Jack!)—The houſe might have been con⯑ſumed by it, as you will be convinced in the morning by ocular demonſtration.

O Mr. Lovelace!—

Let my paſſion for you, Madam, and the unex⯑pected meeting of you at your chamber-door, in an attitude ſo charming—

Leave me, leave me, this moment!—I beſeech you, leave me; looking wildly, and in confuſion, now about her, and now upon herſelf.

Excuſe me, deareſt creature, for thoſe liberties, which, innocent as they were, your too great deli⯑cacy may make you take amiſs.

No more! No more!—Leave me, I beſeech you! Again looking upon herſelf, and around her, in a ſweet confuſion.—Begone! Begone!—Then weeping, ſhe ſtruggled vehemently to withdraw her hands, which all the while I held between mine.—Her ſtruggles! O what additional charms, as I now reflect, did her ſtruggles give to every feature, every limb, of a per⯑ſon ſo ſweetly elegant and lovely!

Impoſſible! my deareſt life, till you pronounce my pardon!—Say but you forgive me!—Say you do!

I beſeech you, begone! Leave me to myſelf, that I may think what I can do, and what I ought to do.

That, my deareſt creature, is not enough. You muſt tell me, that I am forgiven; that you will ſee me to-morrow, as if nothing had happened.

[298]And then, claſping her again in my arms, hoping ſhe would not forgive me—

I will—I do forgive you—Wretch that you are!

Nay, my Clariſſa! And is it ſuch a reluctant par⯑don, mingled with a word ſo upbraiding, that I am to be put off with, when you are thus (claſping her cloſe to me) in my power?

I do, I do forgive you!

Heartily?

Yes, heartily!

And freely?

Freely!

And will you look upon me to-morrow, as if no⯑thing had paſſed?

Yes, yes!

I cannot take theſe peeviſh affirmatives, ſo much like intentional negatives!—Say you will, upon your honour!

Upon my honour, then—O now, begone! be⯑gone! and never—

What, never, my angel!—Is this forgiveneſs?

Never, ſaid ſhe, let what has paſſed be remem⯑bered more!

I inſiſted upon one kiſs to ſeal my pardon—And retired like a fool, a woman's fool, as I was!—I ſneakingly retired!—Couldſt thou have believed it?

But I had no ſooner enter'd my own apartment, than, reflecting upon the opportunity I had loſt, and that all I had gained was but an increaſe of my own difficulties; and upon the ridicule I ſhould meet with below, upon a weakneſs ſo much out of my uſual character; I repented, and haſten'd back, in hope, that through the diſtreſs of mind which I left her in, ſhe had not ſo ſoon faſtened her door; and I was ſully reſolved to execute all my purpoſes, be the conſe⯑quence what it would; for, thought I, I have already ſinned beyond cordial forgiveneſs, I doubt; and if fits [299] and deſperation enſue, I can but marry at laſt, and then I ſhall make her amends.

But I was juſtly puniſh'd;—for her door was faſt: And hearing her ſigh and ſob, as if her heart would burſt, My beloved creature, ſaid I, rapping gently, and her ſobbings ceaſing, I want but to ſay three words to you, which muſt be the moſt acceptable you ever heard from me. Let me ſee you but for one moment.

I thought I heard her coming to open the door, and my heart leapt in that hope; but it was only to draw another bolt, to make it ſtill the faſter, and ſhe either could not, or would not, anſwer me, but retired to the further end of her apartment, to her cloſet, probably: And more like a fool than before, again I ſneaked away.

This was my mine, my plot!—And this was all I made of it!

I love her more than ever!—And well I may!—Never ſaw I ſuch poliſhed ivory as her arms and ſhoulders ſeemed to be; never touched I velvet ſo ſoft as her ſkin: Then ſuch an elegance! O Bel⯑ford, ſhe is all perfection! Her pretty foot, in her ſtruggling, loſing her ſhoe, but juſt ſlipped on, as I told thee, equally white and delicate as the hand of any other lady, or even as her own hand!

But ſeeſt thou not, that I have a claim of merit for a grace that every-body hitherto had denied me? And that is, for a capacity of being moved by prayers and tears: Where, where, on this occaſion, was the callus, where the flint, that my heart was ſaid to be ſurrounded by?

This, indeed, is the firſt inſtance, in the like caſe, that ever I was wrought upon. But why? Becauſe I never before encountered a reſiſtance ſo much in ear neſt: A reſiſtance, in ſhort, ſo irreſiſtible.

What a triumph has her ſex obtained in my thoughts by this trial, and this reſiſtance!

But if ſhe can now forgive me—Can!—She muſt ▪ [300] Has ſhe not upon her honour already done it?—But how will the dear creature keep that part of her pro⯑miſe, which engages her to ſee me in the morning, as if nothing had happened?

She would give the world, I fancy, to have the firſt interview over!—She had not beſt reproach me:—Yet not to reproach me!—What a charming puzzle! Let her break her word with me at her peril. Fly me ſhe cannot: No appeals lie from my tribunal.—What friend has ſhe in the world, if my compaſſion exert not itſelf in her favour?—And then the worthy Captain Tomlinſon, and her Uncle Harlowe, will be able to make all up for me, be my next offence what it will.

As to thy apprehenſions of her committing any raſhneſs upon herſelf, whatever ſhe might have done in her paſſion, if ſhe could have ſeized upon her ſciſ⯑ſars, or found any other weapon, I dare ſay, there is no fear of that from her deliberate mind. A man has trouble enough with theſe truly pious, and truly vir⯑tuous girls [Now I believe there are ſuch]; he had need to have ſome benefit from, ſome ſecurity in, the rectitude of their minds.

In ſhort, I fear nothing in this lady but grief; yet that's a ſlow worker, you know; and gives time to pop in a little joy between its ſullen fits.

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

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

SEveral billets paſſed between us before I went out, by the internuncioſhip of Dorcas: For which reaſon mine are ſuperſcribed by her married name.—She would not open her door to receive them; leſt I ſhould be near it, I ſuppoſe: So Dorcas was forced to put them under the door (after copying them for thee); and thence to take the anſwer. Read them, if thou wilt, at this place.

WHAT pleaſure did I propoſe to take, how to enjoy the ſweet confuſion I expected to find her in, while all was ſo recent!—But ſhe muſt, ſhe ſhall ſee me on my return. It were better for herſelf, as well as for me, that ſhe had not made ſo much ado about nothing. I muſt keep my anger alive, leſt it ſink into compaſ⯑ſion. Love and Compaſſion, be the provocation ever ſo great, are hard to be ſeparated: While Anger converts what would be Pity without it, into Reſent⯑ment. Nothing can be lovely in a man's eye, with which he is thoroughly diſpleaſed.

I ordered Dorcas, on putting the laſt billet under the door, and finding it taken up, to tell her, that I hoped an anſwer to it before I went out.

Her reply was verbal, Tell him that I care not whi⯑ther he goes, nor what he does.—And this, re-urged by Dorcas, was all ſhe had to ſay to me.

I looked thro' her keyhole at my going by her door, and ſaw her on her knees, at her bed's feet, her head and boſom on the bed, her arms extended [ſweet creature!], and in an agony ſhe ſeemed to be, ſobbing, as I heard at that diſtance, as if her heart would break.—By my ſoul, Jack, I am a pity ful fellow. Recollection is my enemy!—Divine excel⯑lence!—Happy for ſo many days together!—Now ſo unhappy!—And for what?—But ſhe is purity it⯑ſelf.—And why, after all, ſhould I thus torment—But I muſt not truſt myſelf with myſelf, in the hu⯑mour I am in.

[310]WAITING here for Mowbray and Mallory, by whoſe aid I am to get the licence, I took papers out o [...] my pocket, to divert myſelf; and thy laſt popt itſelf officiouſly the firſt into my hand. I gave it the ho⯑nour of a re-peruſal; and this revived the ſubject with me, which I had reſolved not to truſt myſelf with.

I remember, that the dear creature, in her torn anſwer to my propoſals, ſays, That condeſcenſion is not meanneſs. She better knows how to make this out, than any mortal breathing. Condeſcenſion, indeed, implies dignity: And dignity ever was there in her condeſcenſion. Yet ſuch a dignity, as gave grace to the condeſcenſion; for there was no pride, no inſult, no apparent ſuperiority, indicated by it.—This Miſs Howe confirms to be a part of her general cha⯑racter ^(a).

I can tell her, how ſhe might behave, to make me her own for ever. She knows ſhe cannot fly me. She knows ſhe muſt ſee me ſooner or later; the ſooner the more gracious.—I would allow her to reſent (not becauſe the liberties I took with her re⯑quire reſentment, were ſhe not a CLARISSA; but as it becomes her particular niceneſs to reſent): But would ſhe ſhew more Love than Abhorrence of me in her reſentment; would ſhe ſeem, if it were but to ſeem, to believe the fire no device, and all that fol⯑lowed merely accidental; and deſcend, upon it, to tender expoſtulation and upbraiding for the advan⯑tage I would have taken of her ſurprize; and would ſhe, at laſt, be ſatisfied (as well ſhe may), that it was attended with no further conſequence; and place ſome generous confidence in my honour [Power loves to be truſted, Jack]; I think I would put an end to all her trials, and pay her my vows at the altar.

Yet, to have taken ſuch bold ſteps, as with Tom⯑linſon and her Uncle—To have made ſuch a progreſs—O Belford, Belford, how have I puzzled myſelf, as [311] well as her!—This curſed averſion to wedlock how has it intangled me!—What contradictions has it not made me guilty of!

How pleaſing to myſelf, to look back upon the happy days I gave her; though mine would doubtleſs have been more unmixedly ſo, could I have deter⯑mined to lay aſide my contrivances, and to be as ſin⯑cere all the time, as ſhe deſerved that I ſhould be!

I [...] find this humour hold but till to-morrow mor [...]ing [And it has now laſted two full hours, and I ſ [...] [...] [...]nks, to have pleaſure in encouraging it], [...] [...]th make thee a viſit, I think, or get thee to come to me; and then will I conſult thee upon it.

But ſhe will not truſt me. She will not confide in my honour. Doubt, in this caſe, is defiance. She loves me not well enough, to forgive me generouſly. She is ſo greatly above me! How can I forgive her for a merit ſo mortifying to my pride! She thinks, ſhe knows, ſhe has told me, that ſhe is above me. Theſe words are ſtill in my ears, ‘'Begone, Lovelace!—My ſoul is above thee, man!—Thou haſt a proud heart to contend with!—My ſoul is above thee, man ^(a)!'’ Miſs Howe thinks her above me too. Thou, even thou, my friend, my intimate friend and companion, art of the ſame opinion. I fear her as much as I love her.—How ſhall my pride bear theſe reflections?—My wife, (as I have ſo often ſaid, becauſe it ſo often recurs to my thoughts) to be ſo much my ſuperior!—Myſelf to be conſidered but as the ſecond perſon in my own family!—Canſt thou teach me to bear ſuch a re⯑flection as this!—To tell me of my acquiſition in her, and that ſhe, with all her excellencies, will be mine in full property, is a miſtake—It cannot be ſo—For ſhall I not be hers; and not my own?—Will not every act of her duty (as I cannot deſerve it) be a condeſcenſion, and a triumph over me?—And muſt I owe it merely to her goodneſs, that ſhe does not de⯑ſpiſe [312] me?—To have her condeſcend to bear with my follies!—To wound me with an eye of pity!—A daughter of the Harlowes thus to excel the laſt, and, as I have heretofore ſaid, not the meaneſt of the Love⯑laces—Forbid it!—

Yet forbid it not—For do I not now—do I not every moment—ſee her before me all over charms, and elegance, and purity, as in the ſtruggles of the paſt midnight? And in theſe ſtruggles, heart, voice, eyes, hands, and ſentiments, ſo greatly, ſo gloriouſly conſiſtent with the character ſhe has ſuſtained from her cradle to the preſent hour?

But what advantages do I give thee?

Yet have I not always done her juſtice? Why then thy teazing impertinence?

However, I forgive thee, Jack—Since (ſo much generous love am I capable of!), I had rather all the world ſhould condemn me, than that her character ſhould ſuffer the leaſt impeachment.

The dear creature herſelf once told me, that there was a ſtrange mixture in my mind ^(a).

I have been called Devil, and Beelzebub, between the two proud beauties: I muſt indeed be a Beelzebub, if I had not ſome tolerable qualities.

But as Miſs Howe ſays, her ſuffering-time is her ſhining-time ^(b). Hitherto ſhe has done nothing but ſhine.

She called me villain, Belford, within theſe few hours. And what is the ſum of the preſent argu⯑ment; but that had I not been a villain in her ſenſe of the word, ſhe had not been ſo much an angel?

O Jack, Jack! This midnight attempt has made me mad; has utterly undone me! How can the dear creature ſay, I have made her vile in her own eyes, when her behaviour under ſuch a ſurprize, and her reſentment under ſuch circumſtances, have ſo greatly exalted her in mine?

[313]Whence, however, this ſtrange rhapſody?—Is it owing to my being here? That I am not at Sinclair's? But if there be infection in that houſe, how has my Beloved eſcaped it?

But no more in this ſtrain!—I will ſee what her behaviour will be on my return—Yet already do I begin to apprehend ſome little ſinkings, ſome little retrogradations; for I have juſt now a doubt ariſen, whether, for her own ſake, I ſhould wiſh her to for⯑give me lightly, or with difficulty?

I AM in away to come at the wiſh'd-for licence.

I have now given every-thing between my Beloved and me a full conſideration; and my puzzle is over. What has brought me to a ſpeedier determination, is, that I think I have found out what ſhe means by the week's diſtance ſhe intends to hold me at: It is, that ſhe may have time to write to Miſs Howe, to put in motion that curſed ſcheme of hers, and to take mea⯑ſures upon it, which ſhall enable her to abandon and renounce me for ever.—Now, Jack, if I obtain not admiſſion to her preſence on my return; but am re⯑fuſed with haughtineſs; if her week be inſiſted upon (ſuch proſpects before her); I ſhall be confirmed in my conjecture; and it will be plain to me, that weak at beſt was that Love, which could give place to punctilio, at a time that the all-reconciling ceremony (ſo ſhe muſt think) waits her command:—Then will I recollect all her perverſeneſſes; then will I re-peruſe Miſs Howe's letters, and the tranſcripts from others of them; and give way to my averſion to the life of ſhackles: And then ſhall ſhe be mine in my own way.

But, after all, I am in hopes, that ſhe will have better conſidered of every-thing by the evening. That her threat of a week's diſtance was thrown out in the heat of paſſion; and that ſhe will allow, that I have as much cauſe to quarrel with her for breach of her word, as ſhe has with me for breach of the peace.

[314]Theſe lines of Rowe have got into my head; and I ſhall repeat them very devoutly all the way the chair⯑men ſhall poppet me towards her by-and-by.

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

O For a curſe to kill with!—Ruin'd! Undone! Outwitted, trick'd!—Zounds, man, the lady is gone off!—Abſolutely gone off!—Eſcaped!—

Thou knoweſt not, nor canſt conceive, the pangs that wring my heart!—What can I do!—O Lord, O Lord, O Lord!

And thou, too, who haſt endeavoured to weaken my hands, wilt but clap thy dragon's wings at the tidings!—

Yet I muſt write, or I ſhall go diſtracted. Little leſs have I been theſe two hours; diſpatching meſſen⯑gers to every ſtage; to every inn; to every waggon or coach, whether flying or creeping, and to every houſe with a bill up, for five miles round.

The little hypocrite, who knows not a ſoul in this town [I thought I was ſure of her at any time], ſuch an unexperienced traitreſs; giving me hope too, in her firſt billet, that her expectation of the family-recon⯑ciliation would with-hold her from taking ſuch a ſtep as this—Curſe upon her contrivances!—I thought, that it was owing to her baſhfulneſs, to her modeſty, that, after a few innocent freedoms, ſhe could not look me in the face; when, all the while, ſhe was impudently [yes, I ſay impudently, though ſhe be Cla⯑riſſa Harlowe]; contriving to rob me of the deareſt [315] property I had ever purchaſed—Purchaſed by a pain⯑ful ſervitude of many months; fighting through the wild beaſts of her family for her, and combating with a wind-mill virtue, that hath coſt me millions of per⯑juries only to attempt; and which now, with its damn'd air-fans, has toſt me a mile and a half beyond hope!—And this, juſt as I had arrived within view of the conſummation of all my wiſhes!

O Devil of Love! God of Love no more!—How have I deſerved this of thee!—Never before the friend of frozen virtue!—Powerleſs daemon, for powerleſs thou muſt be, if thou meanedſt not to play me booty; who ſhall henceforth kneel at thy altars!—May every enterprizing heart abhor, deſpiſe, execrate, renounce thee, as I do.—But what ſignifies curſing now!

How ſhe could effect this her wicked eſcape, is my aſtoniſhment; the whole ſiſterhood having charge of her:—For, as yet, I have not had patience enough to inquire into the particulars, nor to let a ſoul of them approach me.

Of this I am ſure, or I had not brought her hither, There is not a creature belonging to this houſe, that could be corrupted either by virtue or remorſe: The higheſt joy every infernal nymph of this worſe than infernal habitation, could have known, would have been to reduce this proud Beauty to her own level.—And as to my villain, who alſo had charge of her, he is ſuch a ſeaſon'd varlet, that he delights in miſchief for the ſake of it: No bribe could ſeduce him to be⯑tray his truſt, were there but wickedneſs in it!—'Tis well, however, he was out of my way, when the curſed news was imparted to me!—Gone, the vil⯑lain! in queſt of her: Not to return, nor to ſee my [...]ace (ſo it ſeems he declared), till he has heard ſome tidings of her; and all the out-of-place varlets of his numerous acquaintance, are ſummoned and employed in the ſame buſineſs.

[316]To what purpoſe brought I this angel [angel I muſt yet call her!] to this helliſh houſe?—And was I not meditating to do her deſerved honour? By my ſoul, Belford, I was reſolved—But thou knoweſt what I had conditionally reſolved—And now, tho' I was de⯑termined ſo much in her favour, who can tell what hands ſhe may have fallen into?

I am mad, ſtark mad, by Jupiter, at the thoughts of this!—Unprovided, deſtitute, unacquainted—ſome villain, worſe than myſelf, who adores her not as I adore her, may have ſeized her, and taken ad⯑vantage of her diſtreſs!—Let me periſh, Belford, if a whole hecatomb of innocents, as the little plagues are called, ſhall atone for the broken promiſe and wicked artifices of this cruel creature.

COMING home with reſolutions ſo favourable to her, judge thou of my diſtraction, when her eſcape was firſt hinted to me, although but in broken ſentences. I knew not what I ſaid, nor what I did; I wanted to kill ſomebody. I flew out of one room into another, while all avoided me but the veteran Betty Carberry, who broke the matter to me: I charged bribery and corruption, in my firſt fury, upon all; and threatened deſtruction to old and young, as they ſhould come in my way.

Dorcas continues locked up from me: Sally and Polly have not yet dared to appear: The vile Sin⯑clair—

But here comes the odious devil: She taps at the door, though that's only a-jar, whining and ſnuffling, to try, I ſuppoſe, to coax me into temper.

WHAT a helpleſs ſtate, where a man can only exe⯑crate himſelf and others; the occaſion of his rage re⯑maining; the evil increaſing upon reflection; time it⯑ſelf conſpiring to deepen it!—O how I curſed her!

[317]I have her now, methinks, before me blubbering—How odious does ſorrow make an ugly face!—Thine, Jack, and this old beldam's, in penitentials, inſtead of moving compaſſion, muſt evermore confirm hatred; while Beauty in tears, is beauty heighten'd, and what my heart has ever delighted to ſee.—

What excuſe!—Confound you, and your curſed daughters, what excuſe can you make! Is ſhe not gone!—Has ſhe not eſcaped!—But before I am quite diſtracted! before I commit half a hundred murders, let me hear how it was.

I HAVE heard her ſtory!—Art, damn'd, con⯑founded, wicked, unpardonable Art, in a woman of her character—But ſhew me a woman, and I'll ſhew thee a plotter!—This plaguy ſex is Art itſelf: Every individual of it is a plotter by nature.

This is the ſubſtance of the old wretch's account.

She told me, ‘'That I had no ſooner left the vile houſe, than Dorcas acquainted the Syren'’ [Do, Jack, let me call her names!—I beſeech thee, Jack, let me call her names!] ‘'than Dorcas acquainted her lady with it; and that I had left word, that I was gone to Doctors-Commons, and ſhould be heard of for ſome hours at the Horn there, if inquired after by the counſellor, or any-body elſe: That afterwards I ſhould be either at the Cocoa-Tree, or King's-Arms; and ſhould not return till late. She then urged her to take ſome refreſhment.'’

‘'She was in tears, when Dorcas approached her; her ſaucy eyes ſwelled with weeping: She refuſed either to eat or drink; ſighed as if her heart would break.'’ Falſe, deviliſh grief! not the humble, ſilent grief, that only deſerves pity!—Contriving to ruin me, to deſpoil me of all that I held valuable, in the very midſt of it!

‘'Nevertheleſs, being reſolved not to ſee me for a week at leaſt, ſhe ordered her to bring her up three or four French rolls, with a little butter, and a de⯑canter [318] of water; telling her, ſhe would diſpenſe with her attendance; and that ſhould be all ſhe would live upon in the interim. So, artful crea⯑ture! pretending to lay up for a week's ſiege.'’ —For, as to ſubſtantial food, ſhe, no more than other angels—Angels, ſaid I!—The devil take me, if ſhe ſhall be any more an angel!—For ſhe is odious in my eyes; and I hate her mortally!—

But oh! Lovelace, thou lyeſt!—She is all that is lovely! All that is excellent!—

But is ſhe, can ſhe, be gone!—O how Miſs Howe will triumph!—But if that little Fury receive her, Fate ſhall make me rich amends; for then will I con⯑trive to have them both.

I was looking back for connexion—but the devil take connexion; I have no buſineſs with it: The contrary beſt befits diſtraction, and that will ſoon be my lot!

‘'Dorcas conſulted the old wretch about obeying her: O yes, by all means, for Mr. Lovelace knew how to come at her at any time; and directed a bottle of ſherry to be added.’

‘'This chearful compliance ſo obliged her, that ſhe was prevailed upon to go up, and look at the da⯑mage done by the fire; and ſeemed not only ſhock⯑ed at it, but ſatisfied it was no trick, as ſhe owned ſhe had at firſt apprehended it to be. All this made them ſecure; and they laughed in their ſleeves, to think what a childiſh way of ſhewing her reſent⯑ment, ſhe had found out; Sally throwing out her witticiſms, that Mrs. Lovelace was right, however, not to quarrel with her bread and butter.'’

Now this very childiſhneſs, as they thought it, in ſuch a genius, would have made me ſuſpect either her head, after what had happened the night before; or her intention, when the marriage was, ſo far as ſhe knew, to be completed within the week ſhe was reſolved to ſecrete herſelf from me in the ſame houſe.

[319] ‘'She ſent Will. with a letter to Wilſon's, directed to Miſs Howe, ordering him to inquire if there were not one for her there.’

'He only pretended to go, and brought word there 'was none; and put her letter in his pocket for me.

‘'She then order'd him to carry another (which ſhe gave him) to the Horn-Tavern to me.—All this done without any ſeeming hurry; yet ſhe appeared to be very ſolemn; and put her handkerchief frequently to her eyes.’

‘'Will. pretended to come to me, with this letter; but tho' the dog had the ſagacity to miſtruſt ſome⯑thing, on her ſending him out a ſecond time (and to me, whom ſhe had refuſed to ſee); which he thought extraordinary; and mentioned his miſtruſts to Sally, Polly, and Dorcas; yet they made light of his ſuſpicions; Dorcas aſſuring them all, that her Lady ſeemed more ſtupid with her grief, than ac⯑tive; and that ſhe really believed ſhe was a little turned in her head, and knew not what ſhe did.—But all of them depended upon her inexperience, her open temper, and upon her not making the leaſt motion towards going out, or to have a coach or chair called, as ſometimes ſhe had done; and ſtill more upon the preparations ſhe had made for a week's ſiege, as I may call it.’

‘'Will. went out, pretending to bring the letter to me; but quickly returned; his heart ſtill miſ⯑giving him; on recollecting my frequent cau⯑tions, that he was not to judge for himſelf, when he had poſitive orders; but if any doubt occurred, from circumſtances I could not foreſee, literally to follow them, as the only way to avoid blame.’

‘'But it muſt have been in this little interval, that ſhe eſcaped; for ſoon after his return, they made faſt the ſtreet-door and hatch, the mother and the two nymphs taking a little turn into the garden; Dorcas [320] going up ſtairs, and Will. (to avoid being ſeen by his lady, or his voice heard) down into the kitchen.’

‘'About half an hour after, Dorcas, who had plant⯑ed herſelf where ſhe could ſee her Lady's door open, had the curioſity to go to look through the key-hole, having a miſgiving, as ſhe ſaid, that her Lady might offer ſome violence to herſelf, in the mood ſhe had been in all day; and finding the key in the door, which was not very uſual, ſhe tapped at it three or four times, and having no anſwer, opened it, with Madam, Madam, did you call?—Suppoſing her in her cloſet.’

‘'Having no anſwer, ſhe ſtept forward, and was aſtoniſhed to find her not there: She haſtily ran in⯑to the dining-room, then into my apartments, ſearched every cloſet; dreading all the time to be⯑hold ſome ſad cataſtrophe.’

‘'Not finding her any-where, ſhe ran down to the old creature, and her nymphs, with a Have you ſeen my Lady?—Then ſhe's gone!—She's no-where above!’

'They were ſure ſhe could not be gone out.

‘'The whole houſe was in an uproar in an inſtant; ſome running up ſtairs, ſome down, from the upper rooms to the lower; and all ſcreaming, How ſhould they look me in the face!’

‘'Will. cried out, he was a dead man! He blamed them; They, him; and every one was an accuſer, and an excuſer at the ſame time.’

‘'When they had ſearched the whole houſe, and every cloſet in it, ten times over, to no purpoſe: They took it into their heads to ſend to all the porters, chairmen, and hackney coachmen, that had been near the houſe for two hours paſt, to inquire if any of them ſaw Such a young Lady; deſcribing her.’

‘'This brought them ſome light: The only dawn⯑ing for hope, that I can have, and which keeps me [321] from abſolute deſpair. One of the chairmen gave them this account: That he ſaw ſuch a one come out of the houſe a little before four (in a great hurry, and as if frighted), with a little parcel tied up in a handkerchief, in her hand: That he took notice to his fellow, who plied her, without her anſwering, that ſhe was a fine young lady: That he'd warrant, ſhe had either a bad huſband, or very croſs parents; for that her eyes ſeemed ſwelled with crying. Upon which, a third fellow replied, That it might be a Doe eſcaped from Mother Damnable's park. This Mrs. Sinclair told me with a curſe, and a wiſh, that ſhe knew the ſaucy villain:—She thought, truly, that ſhe had a better reputation; ſo handſomely as ſhe lived, and ſo juſtly as ſhe paid every-body for what ſhe bought; her houſe viſited by the beſt and civilleſt of gentlemen; and no noiſe or brawls ever heard, or known in it!’

‘'From theſe appearances, the fellow who gave this information, had the curioſity to follow her, unper⯑ceived. She often looked back. Every-body who paſſed her, turned to look after her; paſſing their verdicts upon her tears, her hurry, and her charm⯑ing perſon; till coming to a ſtand of coaches, a coachman plied her; was accepted; alighted, opened the coach-door in a hurry, ſeeing her hurry; and in it ſhe ſtumbled for haſte; and the fellow believed, hurt her ſhins with the ſtumble.'’

The devil take me, Belford, if my generous heart is not moved for her, notwithſtanding her wicked deceit, to think what muſt be her reflections and apprehen⯑ſions at the time!—A mind ſo delicate, heeding no cenſures; yet, probably, afraid of being laid hold of by a Lovelace in every-one ſhe ſaw! At the ſame time, not knowing to what dangers ſhe was going to expoſe herſelf; nor of whom ſhe could obtain ſhelter; a ſtranger to the town, and to all its ways; the after⯑noon [322] far gone; but little money; and no cloaths but thoſe ſhe had on.

It is impoſſible, in this little interval ſince laſt night, that Miſs Howe's Townſend could be co-operating.

But how ſhe muſt abhor me, to run all theſe riſques; how heartily muſt ſhe deteſt me, for my freedoms of laſt night! O that ſhe had had greater reaſon for a reſentment ſo violent!—As to her Virtue, I am too much enraged to give her the merit due to that: To Virtue it cannot be owing, that ſhe ſhould fly from the charming proſpects that were before her: But to Ma⯑lice, Hatred, Contempt, Harlowe-Pride, the worſt of Pride, and to all the deadly paſſions that ever reign⯑ed in a female breaſt.—And if I can but recover her—But be ſtill, be calm, be huſhed, my ſtormy paſſions; for is it not Clariſſa (Harlowe muſt I ſay?), that thus I rave againſt?

‘'The fellow heard her ſay, Drive faſt! Very faſt! Where, Madam?—To Holborn Bars, anſwered ſhe; repeating, Drive very faſt!—And up ſhe pulled both the windows: And he loſt ſight of the coach in a minute.’

‘'Will. as ſoon as he had this intelligence, ſpeeded away in hopes to trace her out; declaring, that he would never think of ſeeing me, till he had heard ſome tidings of his lady.'’

And now, Belford, all my hope is, that this fel⯑low (who attended us in our airing to Hampſtead, to Highgate, to Muzzlehill, to Kentiſh-Town) will hear of her at ſome one or other of thoſe places.—And on this I the rather build, as I remember, ſhe was once, after our return, very inquiſitive about the ſtages, and their prices; praiſing the conveniency to paſſengers in their going off every hour; and this in Will's hearing, who was then in attendance. Woe be to the villain, if he recollect not this!

[323]I HAVE been traverſing her room, meditating, or taking up every-thing ſhe but touched or uſed: The glaſs ſhe dreſſed at, I was ready to break, for not giving me the perſonal image it was wont to reflect, of her, whoſe idea is for ever preſent with me. I call for her, now in the tendereſt, now in the moſt reproachful terms, as if within hearing: Wanting her, I want my own ſoul, at leaſt every-thing dear to it. What a void in my heart! what a chilneſs in my blood, as if its circulation were arreſted! From her room to my own; in the dining-room, and in and out of every place where I have ſeen the beloved of my heart, do I hurry; in none can I tarry; her lovely image in every⯑one, in ſome lively attitude, ruſhing cruelly upon me, in differently remembered converſations.

But when in my firſt fury, at my return, I went up two pair of ſtairs, reſolved to find the locked-up Dor⯑cas, and beheld the vainly-burnt window-board, and recollected my baffled contrivances, baffled by my own weak folly, I thought my diſtraction completed, and down I ran as one frighted at a ſpectre, ready to howl for vexation; my head and my temples ſhooting with a violence I had never felt before; and my back aching as if the vertebrae were disjointed, and falling in pieces.

But now that I have heard the mother's ſtory, and contemplated the dawning hopes given by the chair⯑man's information, I am a good deal eaſier, and can make cooler reflections. Moſt heartily pray I for Will.'s ſucceſs, every four or five minutes. If I loſe her, all my rage will return with redoubled fury. The diſgrace to be thus outwitted by a novice, an infant, in ſtratagem and contrivance, added to the violence of my paſſion for her, will either break my heart, or (what ſaves many a heart in evils inſupportable) turn my brain. What had I to do to go out a licence-hunting, at leaſt till I had ſeen her, and made up [324] matters with her? And indeed, were it not the pri⯑vilege of a principal to lay all his own faults upon his underlings, and never be to blame himſelf▪ I ſhould be apt to reflect, that I am more in fault than any⯑body. And as the ſting of this reflection will ſharpen upon me if I recover her not, how ſhall I be able to bear it?

If ever—

I HAVE juſt now diſmiſſed the ſniveling toad Dor⯑cas, who was introduced to me for my pardon by the whining mother. I gave her a kind of negative and ungracious forgiveneſs.—Yet I ſhall as violently curſe the two nymphs, by-and-by, for the conſequences of my own folly: And this will be a good way too, to prevent their ridicule upon me, for loſing ſo glorious an opportunity as I had laſt night, or rather this morning.

I have collected, from the reſult of the inquiries made of the chairman, and from Dorcas's obſervations before the cruel creature eſcaped, a deſcription of her dreſs; and am reſolved, if I cannot otherwiſe hear of her, to advertiſe her in the Gazette, as an eloped wife, both by her maiden and acknowleged name; for her elopement will ſoon be known by every Enemy, why then ſhould not my Friends be made acquainted with it, from whoſe inquiries and informa⯑tions I may expect ſome tidings of her?

She had on a brown luſtring night-gown, freſh, and looking like new, as every thing ſhe wears does, whether new or not, from an elegance natural to her. A beaver hat, a black ribband about her neck, and blue knots on her breaſt. A quilted petticoat of car⯑nation [325] coloured ſatten; a roſe-diamond ring, ſuppoſed on her finger; and in her whole perſon and appear⯑ance, as I ſhall expreſs it, a dignity, as well as beauty, that commands the repeated attention of every-one who ſees her.

The deſcription of her perſon, I ſhall take a little more pains about. My mind muſt be more at eaſe, before I can undertake that. And I ſhall threaten, that if, after a certain period given for her voluntary return, ſhe be not heard of, I will proſecute any per⯑ſon, who preſumes to entertain, harbour, abett, or encourage her, with all the vengeance that an injur'd gentleman and huſband may be warranted to take by Law, or otherwiſe.

FRESH cauſe of aggravation!—But for this ſcrib⯑ling vein, or I ſhould ſtill run mad!

Again going into her chamber, becauſe it was hers, and ſighing over the bed, and every piece of furni⯑ture in it, I caſt my eye towards the drawers of the dreſſing-glaſs, and ſaw peep out, as it were, in one of the half-drawn drawers, the corner of a letter. I ſnatched it out, and found it ſuperſcribed by her, To Mr. Lovelace. The ſight of it made my heart leap, and I trembled ſo, that I could hardly open the ſeal.

How does this damn'd Love unman me!—But nobody ever loved as I love!—It is even increaſed by her unworthy flight, and my diſappointment. In⯑grateful creature, to fly from a paſſion thus ardently flaming! which, like the palm, riſes the more for be⯑ing depreſſed and ſlighted!

I will not give thee a copy of this letter. I owe her not ſo much ſervice.

But wouldſt thou think, that this haughty promiſe-breaker could reſolve, as ſhe does, abſolutely and for ever to renounce me for what paſſed laſt night? That ſhe could reſolve to forego all her opening proſpects of reconciliation; that reconciliation with a worth⯑leſs [326] family, on which ſhe had ſet her whole heart?—Yet ſhe does!—She acquits me of all obligation to her, and herſelf of all expectations from me!—And for what?—O that indeed I had given her real cauſe! Damn'd confounded Niceneſs, Prudery, Affectation, or pretty Ignorance, if not Affectation!—By my ſoul, Belford, I told thee all—I was more indebted to her ſtruggles, than to my own forwardneſs. I cannot ſupport my own reflections upon a decency ſo ill-re⯑quited.—She could not, ſhe would not have been ſo much a Harlowe in her reſentment had I deſerved, as I ought to have done, her reſentment. All ſhe feared, had then been over, and her own good-ſenſe, and even modeſty, would have taught her to make the beſt of it.

But if ever again I get her into my hands, Art and more Art, and Compulſion too, if ſhe make it neceſ⯑ſary [and 'tis plain that nothing elſe will do], ſhall ſhe experience from the man whoſe fear of her has been above even his paſſion for her; and whoſe gentleneſs and forbearance ſhe has thus perfidiouſly triumphed over. Well ſays the Poet,

Thou knoweſt what I have ſo lately vowed—And yet, at times [cruel creature, and ingrateful as cruel!], I can ſubſcribe with too much truth to thoſe lines of another Poet:

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

A Letter is put into my hands by Wilſon him⯑ſelf—

Such a letter!—

A letter from Miſs Howe to her cruel friend!—

I made no ſcruple to open it.

It is a miracle, that I fell not into fits at the read⯑ing of it; and at the thought of what might have been the conſequence, had it come to the hands of this Cla⯑riſſa Harlowe. Let my juſtly-excited rage excuſe my irreverence.

Collins, tho' not his day, brought it this afternoon to Wilſon's, with a particular deſire, that it might be ſent with all ſpeed to Miſs Beaumont's lodgings, and given, if poſſible, into her own hands. He had before been here (at Mrs. Sinclair's), with intent to deliver it to her himſelf; but was told [too truly told!], that ſhe was abroad; but that they would give her any thing he ſhould leave for her, the moment ſhe returned.—But he cared not to truſt them with his buſineſs, and went away to Wilſon's (as I find by the deſcription of him at both places), and there left the letter; but not till he had a ſecond time called here, and found her not come in.

The letter (which I ſhall incloſe; for it is too long to tranſcribe) will account to thee for his coming hither.

O this deviliſh Miſs Howe!—Something muſt be reſolved upon, and done with that little Fury!

THOU wilt ſee the margin of this curſed letter crouded with indices [☞]. I put them to mark the [328] places devoted for vengeance, or requiring animad⯑verſion. Return thou it to me the moment thou haſt read it.

Read it here; and avoid trembling for me, if thou canſt.

WELL, Jack!—And what thinkeſt thou of this laſt letter?—Miſs Howe values not either fame or cenſure; and thinkeſt thou, that this letter will not bring the little fury up, tho' ſhe could procure no other conveyance than her higgler's paniers, one for herſelf, the other for her maid?—She knows where to come now!—Many a little villain have I puniſhed for knowing more than I would have her know; and that by adding to her knowlege and experience.—What thinkeſt thou, Belford, if by getting hither this virago, and giving cauſe for a lamentable letter from her, to the fair fugitive, I ſhould be able to re⯑cover her?—Would ſhe not viſit that friend in her diſtreſs, thinkeſt thou, whoſe intended viſit to her in hers, brought her into the condition ſhe herſelf had ſo perfidiouſly eſcaped from?

Let me enjoy the thought!

Shall I ſend this letter?—Thou ſeeſt I have left room, if I fail in the exact imitation of ſo charming a hand, to avoid too ſtrict a ſcrutiny.—Do they not both deſerve it of me?—Seeſt thou not how the rave⯑ing girl threatens her mother?—Ought ſhe not to be puniſh'd?—And can I be a worſe devil, or villain, or [346] monſter, than ſhe calls me in this letter; and has cal⯑led me in her former letters; were I to puniſh them both, as my vengeance urges me to puniſh them. And when I have executed That my vengeance, how charmingly ſatisfied may they both go down into the country, and keep houſe together, and have a much better reaſon than their pride could give them, for living the Single-life they have both ſeemed ſo fond of?

I will ſet about tranſcribing it this moment, I think. I can reſolve afterwards. Yet what has poor Hick⯑man done to deſerve this of me?—But gloriouſly would it puniſh the mother (as well as daughter) for all her ſordid avarice; and for her undutifulneſs to honeſt Mr. Howe, whoſe heart ſhe actually broke. I am on tip-toe, Jack, to enter upon this project.—Is not one country as good to me as another, if I ſhould be obliged to take another tour upon it?

BUT I will not venture. Mr. Hickman is a good man, they tell me. I love a good man. I hope one of theſe days to be a good man myſelf. Beſides, I have heard within this week, ſomething of this honeſt fellow that ſhews he has a ſoul; when I thought, if he had one, that it lay a little of the deepeſt to emerge to notice, except on very extraordinary occaſions; and that then it preſently ſunk again into its Cellula adi⯑poſa.—The man is a plump man.—Didſt ever ſee him, Jack?

But the principal reaſon that withholds me (for 'tis a tempting project!) is, for fear of being utterly blown up, if I ſhould not be quick enough with my letter, or if Miſs Howe ſhould deliberate on ſetting out, or try her mother's conſent firſt; in which time, a letter from my frighted beauty might reach her; for I have no doubt, where-ever ſhe has refuged, but her firſt work was to write to her vixen friend. I will therefore go on patiently; and take my revenge upon the little fury at my leiſure.

[347]But, in ſpite of my compaſſion for Hickman, whoſe better character is ſometimes my envy, and who is one of thoſe mortals that bring clumſineſs into credit with the mothers, to the diſgrace of us clever fellows, and often to our diſappointment with the daughters; and who has been very buſy in aſſiſting theſe double-arm'd beauties againſt me; I ſwear by all the Dii Majores, as well as Minores, that I will have Miſs Howe, if I cannot have her more exalted friend!—And then, if there be ſo much flaming love between theſe girls as they pretend, what will my charmer profit by her eſcape?

And now, that I ſhall permit Miſs Howe to reign a little longer, let me aſk thee, If thou haſt not, in the incloſed letter, a freſh inſtance, that a great many of my difficulties with her ſiſter-toaſt are owing to this flighty girl?—'Tis true, that here was natural⯑ly a confounded ſharp wintry air; and, if a little cold water was thrown into the path, no wonder that it was inſtantly frozen; and that a poor honeſt traveller found it next to impoſſible to keep his way; one foot ſliding back as faſt as the other advanced; to the en⯑dangering of his limbs or neck. But yet I think it impoſſible, that ſhe ſhould have baffled me as ſhe has done (novice as ſhe is, and never before from under her parents wing), had ſhe not been armed by a virago, who was formerly very near ſhewing, that ſhe could better adviſe than practiſe. But this, I believe, I have ſaid more than once before.

I am loth to reproach myſelf, now the cruel crea⯑ture has eſcaped me; for what would that do, but add to my torment? Since evils ſelf-cauſed, and avoidable, admit not of palliation or comfort. And yet, if thou telleſt me, that all her ſtrength was owing to my weakneſs, and that I have been a curſed coward in this whole affair; why then, Jack, I may bluſh, and be vexed; but, by my ſoul, I cannot contradict thee.

[348]But this, Belford, I hope—that if I can turn the poiſon of this letter into wholſome aliment; that is to ſay, if I can make uſe of it to my advantage; I ſhall have thy free conſent to do it.

I am always careful to open covers cautiouſly, and to preſerve ſeals intire. I will draw out from this curſed letter an alphabet. Nor was Nick Rowe ever half ſo diligent to learn Spaniſh, at the Quixote re⯑commendation of a certain Peer, as I will be to gain a maſtery of this vixen's hand.

LETTER LV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

AFter my laſt, ſo full of other hopes, the contents of This will ſurpriſe you. O my deareſt friend, the man has at laſt proved himſelf to be a villain! It was with the utmoſt difficulty laſt night, that I pre⯑ſerved myſelf from the vileſt diſhonour. He extorted from me a promiſe of forgiveneſs; and that I would ſee him next day, as if nothing had happened: But if it were poſſible to eſcape from a wretch, who, as I have too much reaſon to believe, formed a plot to fire the houſe, to frighten me, almoſt naked, into his arms, how could I ſee him next day?

I have eſcaped, Heaven be praiſed, I have! And have now no other concern, than that I fly from the only hope that could have made ſuch an huſband to⯑lerable to me; The reconciliation with my friends, ſo agreeably undertaken by my uncle.

All my preſent hope is, To find ſome reputable family, or perſon of my own Sex, who is obliged to go beyond ſea, or who lives abroad; I care not whi⯑ther; but if I might chooſe, in ſome one of our American colonies—Never to be heard of more by my relations, whom I have ſo grievouſly offended.

[349]Nor let your generous heart be moved at what I write: If I can eſcape the dreadfulleſt part of my fa⯑ther's malediction (for the temporary part is already in a manner fulfilled, which makes me tremble in appre⯑henſion of the other), I ſhall think the wreck of my worldly fortunes a happy compoſition.

Neither is there need of the renewal of your ſo often tender'd goodneſs to me: For I have with me rings and other valuables, that were ſent me with my cloaths, which will turn into money, to anſwer all I can want, till Providence ſhall be pleaſed to put me into ſome way to help myſelf, if, for my further puniſh⯑ment, my life is to be lengthen'd beyond my wiſhes.

Impute not this ſcheme, my beloved friend, either to dejection on one hand, or to that romantic turn on the other, which we have ſuppoſed generally to ob⯑tain with our Sex, from Fifteen to Twenty-two: For, be pleaſed to conſider my unhappy ſituation, in the light in which it really muſt appear to every conſider⯑ate perſon, who knows it. In the firſt place, the man, who has had the aſſurance to think me, and to endeavour to make me, his property, will hunt me, and to place to place, and ſearch after me as an eſtray: And he knows he may do ſo with impunity; for whom have I to protect me from him?

Then as to my eſtate, the enviable eſtate, which has been the original cauſe of all my misfortunes, it ſhall never be mine upon litigated terms. What is there in being enabled to boaſt, that I am worth more than I can uſe, or wiſh to uſe?—And if my power is circumſcribed, I ſhall not have that to anſwer for, which I ſhould have, if I did not uſe it as I ought: Which very few do. I ſhall have no huſband, of whoſe intereſt I ought to be ſo regardful, as to pre⯑vent me doing more than juſtice to others, that I may not do leſs to him.—If therefore, my father will be pleaſed (as I ſhall preſume, in proper time, to propoſe to him) to pay two annuities out of it, one to my [350] dear Mrs. Norton, which may make her eaſy for the remainder of her life, as ſhe is now growing into years; the other of 50 l. per annum, to the ſame good wo⯑man, for the uſe of My poor, as I have had the vanity to call a certain ſet of people, concerning whom ſhe knows all my mind; that ſo as few as poſſible may ſuffer by the conſequences of my error; God bleſs them, and give them heart's-eaſe and content with the reſt.

Other reaſons for my taking the ſtep I have hinted at, are theſe:

This wicked man knows I have no friend in the world but you: Your neighbourhood therefore would be the firſt he would ſeek for me in, were you to think it poſſible for me to be concealed in it: And in this caſe You might be ſubjected to inconveniencies greater even than thoſe which you have already ſuſtained on my account.

From my couſin Morden, were he to come, I could not hope protection; ſince, by his letter to me, it is evident, that my brother has engaged him in his party: Nor would I, by any means, ſubject ſo worthy a man to danger; as might be the caſe, from the violence of this ungovernable ſpirit.

Theſe things conſidered, what better method can I take, than to go abroad to ſome one of the Engliſh co⯑lonies; where nobody but yourſelf ſhall know any⯑thing of me; nor You, let me tell you, preſently, nor till I am fixed, and, if it pleaſe God, in a courſe of living tolerably to my mind. For it is no ſmall part of my concern, that my indiſcretions have laid ſo heavy a tax upon You, my dear friend, to whom, once, I hoped to give more pleaſure than pain.

I am at preſent at one Mrs. Moore's at Hamp⯑ſtead. My heart miſgave me at coming to this vil⯑lage, becauſe I had been here with him more than once: But the coach hither was ſo ready a conveni⯑ency, that I knew not what to do better. Then I ſhall ſtay here no longer than till I can receive your [351] anſwer to this: In which you will be pleaſed to let me know, if I cannot be hid, according to your former contrivance [Happy, had I given into it at the time!] by Mrs. Townſend's aſſiſtance, till the heat of his ſearch be over. The Deptford road, I imagine, will be the right direction, to hear of a paſſage, and to get ſafely aboard.

O why was the great fiend of all unchained, and permitted to aſſume ſo ſpecious a form, and yet allow⯑ed to conceal his feet and his talons, till with the one he was ready to trample upon my honour, and to ſtrike the other into my heart!—And what had I done, that he ſhould be let looſe particularly upon me!

Forgive me this murmuring queſtion, the effect of my impatience, my guilty impatience, I doubt: For, as I have eſcaped with my honour, and nothing but my worldly proſpects, and my pride, my ambition, and my vanity, have ſuffered in this wreck of my hopefuller fortunes, may I not ſtill be more happy than I deſerve to be? And is it not in my own power ſtill, by the divine favour, to ſecure the great ſtake of all? And who knows, that this very path into which my inconſideration has thrown me, ſtrew'd as it is with briars and thorns, which tear in pieces my gaudier trappings, may not be the right path to lead me into the great road to my future happineſs; which might have been endanger'd by evil communication?

And after all, Are there not ſtill more deſerving perſons than I, who never failed in any capital point of duty, that have been more humbled than myſelf; and ſome too, by the errors of parents and relations, by the tricks and baſeneſs of guardians, and truſtees, and in which their own raſhneſs or folly had no part?

I will then endeavour to make the beſt of my pre⯑ſent lot. And join with me, my beſt, my only friend, in praying, That my puniſhment may end here; and that my preſent afflictions may be ſanctified to me.

This letter will enable you to account for a line or [352] two, which I ſent to Wilſon's, to be carried to you, only for a feint, to get his ſervant out of the way. He ſeemed to be left, as I thought, for a ſpy upon me. But returning too ſoon, I was forced to write a few lines for him to carry to his Maſter, to a tavern near Doctors-Commons, with the ſame view: And this happily anſwered my end.

I wrote early in the morning a bitter letter to the wretch, which I left for him obvious enough; and I ſuppoſe he has it by this time. I kept no copy of it. I ſhall recollect the contents, and give you the parti⯑culars of all, at more leiſure.

I am ſure you will approve of my eſcape—The ra⯑ther, as the people of the houſe muſt be very vile: For they, and that Dorcas too, did hear me (I know they did) cry out for help: If the fire had been other than a villainous plot (altho' in the morning, to blind them, I pretended to think it otherwiſe), they would have been alarmed as much as I; and have run in, hearing me ſcream, to comfort me, ſuppoſing my terror was the fire; to relieve me, ſuppoſing it were any⯑thing elſe. But the vile Dorcas went away, as ſoon as ſhe ſaw the wretch throw his arms about me!—Bleſs me, my dear, I had only my ſlippers and an under-petticoat on. I was frighted out of my bed, by her cries of fire; and that I ſhould be burnt to aſhes in a moment!—And ſhe to go away, and never to return, nor any-body elſe: And yet I heard wo⯑mens voices in the next room; indeed I did.—An evident contrivance of them all:—God be praiſed, I am out of their houſe!

My terror is not yet over: I can hardly think my⯑ſelf ſafe: Every well-dreſſed man I ſee from my win⯑dows, whether on horſeback or on foot, I think to be him.

I know you will expedite an anſwer. A man and horſe will be procured me to-morrow early, to carry This. To be ſure, you cannot return an anſwer by the [353] ſame man, becauſe you muſt ſee Mrs. Townſend firſt: Nevertheleſs, I ſhall wait with impatience till you can; having no friend but you to apply to; and be⯑ing ſuch a ſtranger to this part of the world, that I know not which way to turn myſelf; whither to go; nor what to do!—What a dreadful hand have I made of it!

Mrs. Moore, at whoſe houſe I am, is a widow, and of a good character: And of this, one of her neigh⯑bours, of whom I bought a handkerchief, purpoſely to make inquiry before I would venture, informed me.

I will not ſet my foot out of doors, till I have your direction: And I am the more ſecure, having dropt words to the people of the houſe where the coach ſet me down, as if I expected a chariot to meet me in my way to Hendon, a village a little diſtance from this.—And when I left their houſe, I walked back⯑ward and forward upon the hill, at firſt not knowing what to do, and afterwards, to be certain that I was not watched, before I ventured to inquire after a lodging.

You will direct for me, my dear, by the name of Mrs. Harriot Lucas.

Had I not made my eſcape when I did, I was re⯑ſolved to attempt it again and again. He was gone to the Commons for a licence, as he wrote me word; for I refuſed to ſee him, notwithſtanding the promiſe he extorted from me.

How hard, how next-to impoſſible, my dear, to avoid many leſſer deviations, when we are betrayed into a capital one!

For fear I ſhould not get away at my firſt effort, I had appriſed him, that I would not ſet eye upon him under a week, in order to gain myſelf time for it in different ways—And were I ſo to have been watched, as to have made it neceſſary, I would, after ſuch an inſtance of the connivance of the women of the houſe, have run out into the ſtreet, and thrown myſelf into the [354] next houſe I could have enter'd, or claimed protection from the firſt perſon I had met—Women to deſert the cauſe of a poor creature, of their own Sex, in ſuch a ſituation, what muſt they be!—Then, ſuch poor guilty ſort of figures did they make in the morn⯑ing, after he was gone out—ſo earneſt to get me up ſtairs, and to convince me, by the ſcorched window-boards, and burnt curtains and vallens, that the fire was real—that (although I ſeemed to believe all they would have me believe) I was more and more reſolved to get out of their houſe at all adventures.

When I began, I thought to write but a few lines. But, be my ſubject what it will, I know not how to conclude, when I write to you. It was always ſo: It is not therefore owing peculiarly to that moſt intereſt⯑ing and unhappy ſituation, which you will allow, however, to engroſs, at preſent, the whole mind of

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

IO Triumphe! Io Clariſſa, ſing!—Once more, what a happy man thy friend!—A ſilly dear no⯑vice, to be heard to tell the coachman whither to carry her!—And to go to Hampſtead, of all the villages about London!—The place where we had been to⯑gether more than once!

Methinks I am ſorry ſhe managed no better!—I ſhall find the recovery of her too eaſy a taſk, I fear! Had ſhe but known, how much difficulty enhances the value of any thing with me, and had ſhe had the leaſt notion of obliging me, ſhe would never have ſtopt ſhort at Hampſtead, ſurely.

Well, but after all this exultation, thou wilt aſk, [355] If I have already got back my charmer?—I have not.—But knowing where ſhe is, is almoſt the ſame thing as having her in my power: And it de⯑lights me to think, how ſhe will ſtart and tremble, when I firſt pop upon her! How ſhe will look with conſcious guilt, that will more than wipe off my guilt of Wedneſday night, when ſhe ſees her injured lover, and acknowleged huſband, from whom, the greateſt of felonies, ſhe would have ſtollen herſelf.

But thou wilt be impatient to know how this came about. Read the incloſed here, and remember the inſtructions, which, from time to time, I have given my fellow, in apprehenſion of ſuch an elopement; and that will tell thee all, and what I may reaſonably expect from the raſcal's diligence and management, if he wiſhes ever to ſee my face again.

I received it about half an hour ago, juſt as I was going to lie down in my cloaths: And it has made me ſo much alive, that, midnight as it is, I have ſent for a Blunt's chariot, to attend me here by day-peep, with my uſual coachman, if poſſible; and knowing not elſe what to do with myſelf, I ſat down, and, in the joy of my heart, have not only wrote thus far, but have concluded upon the meaſures I ſhall take when admitted to her preſence: For well am I aware of the difficulties I ſhall have to contend with from her per⯑verſeneſs.

[357]THE two inner letters, as Will. calls them, 'tis plain, were wrote for no other purpoſe, but to ſend him out of the way with them, and one of them to amuſe me. That directed to Miſs Howe is only this:

Now, Jack, will not her feints juſtify mine? Does ſhe not invade my province, thinkeſt thou? And is it not now fairly come to Who ſhall moſt deceive and cheat the other? So, I thank my ſtars, we are upon a par, at laſt, as to this point—Which is a great eaſe to my conſcience, thou muſt believe. And if what Hudibras tells us is true, the dear fugitive has alſo abundance of pleaſure to come.

THIS is my dear juggler's letter to me; the other inner letter ſent by Will.

Now, Belford, what canſt thou ſay in behalf of this ſweet rogue of a Lady? What canſt thou ſay for her? 'Tis apparent, that ſhe was fully determined upon an elopement, when ſhe wrote it: And thus would ſhe make me of party againſt myſelf, by drawing me in to give her a week's time to compleat it in: And, wickeder ſtill, ſend me upon a fool's errand to bring up one of my couſins:—When we came, to have the ſatisfaction of finding her gone off, and me expoſed for ever!—What puniſhment can be bad enough for ſuch a little villain of a Lady!

But mind, moreover, how plauſibly ſhe accounts by this billet (ſuppoſing ſhe had no opportunity of eloping before I returned) for the reſolution of not ſeeing me for a week; and for the bread and butter expedient!—So childiſh as we thought it!

The chariot is not come; and if it were, it is yet too ſoon for every-thing but my impatience. And as I have already taken all my meaſures, and can think of nothing but my triumph, I will reſume her violent letter, in order to ſtrengthen my reſolutions againſt [359] her. I was before in too gloomy a way to proceed with it: But now the ſubject is all alive to me, and my gayer fancy, like the ſun-beams, will irradiate it, and turn the ſolemn deep green into a brighter ver⯑dure.

When I have called upon my charmer to explain ſome parts of her letter, and to atone for others, I will ſend it, or a copy of it, to thee.

Suffice it at preſent to tell thee, in the firſt place, that ſhe is determined never to be my wife.—To be ſure, there ought to be no compulſion in ſo material a caſe. Compulſion was her parents fault, which I have cen⯑ſured ſo ſeverely, that I ſhall hardly be guilty of the ſame. And I am glad I know her mind as to this eſſential point.

I have ruined her, ſhe ſays!—Now that's a fib, take it in her own way:—If I had, ſhe would not perhaps have run away from me.

She is thrown upon the wide world: Now I own, that Hampſtead-Heath affords very pretty, and very extenſive proſpects; but 'tis not the wide world nei⯑ther: And ſuppoſe that to be her grievance, I hope ſoon to reſtore her to a narrower.

I am the enemy of her ſoul, as well as of her ho⯑nour!—Confoundedly ſevere! Nevertheleſs, another fib!—For I love her ſoul very well; but think no more of it in this caſe than of my own.

She is to be thrown upon ſtrangers!—And is not that her own fault?—Much againſt my will, I am ſure!

She is caſt from a ſtate of independency into one of obli⯑gation. She never was in a ſtate of independency; nor is it fit a woman ſhould, of any age, or in any ſtate of life. And as to the ſtate of obligation, there is no ſuch thing as living without being beholden to ſome⯑body. Mutual obligation is the very eſſence and ſoul of the ſocial and commercial life:—Why ſhould ſhe be exempt from it?—I am ſure the perſon ſhe raves [360] at, deſires not ſuch an exemption;—has been long dependent upon her, and would rejoice to owe further obligations to her, than he can boaſt of hitherto.

She talks of her father's curſe:—But have I not repaid him for it an hundred-fold, in the ſame coin? But why muſt the faults of other people be laid at my door? Have I not enow of my own?

But the grey-eyed dawn begins to peep—Let me ſum up all.

In ſhort, then, the dear creature's letter is a col⯑lection of invectives not very new to me; though the occaſion for them, no doubt, is new to her. A little ſprinkling of the romantic and contradictory runs thro' it. She loves, and ſhe hates: She encourages me to purſue her, by telling me I ſafely may; and yet ſhe begs I will not: She apprehends poverty and want, yet reſolves to give away her eſtate: To gratify whom?—Why, in ſhort, thoſe who have been the cauſe of her misfortunes. And finally, tho' ſhe re⯑ſolves never to be mine, yet ſhe has ſome regrets at leaving me, becauſe of the opening proſpects of a reconciliation with her friends.

But never did morning dawn ſo tardily as this!—The chariot not yet come neither.

A GENTLEMAN to ſpeak with me, Dorcas?—Who can want me thus early?

Captain Tomlinſon, ſayſt thou! Surely he muſt have travelled all night!—Early riſer as I am, how could he think to find me up thus early?

Let but the chariot come, and he ſhall accompany me in it to the bottom of the hill (tho' he return to town on foot; for the Captain is all obliging good⯑neſs), that I may hear all he has to ſay, and tell him all my mind, and loſe no time.

Well, now am I ſatisfied, that this rebellious flight will turn to my advantage, as all cruſh'd rebellions do to the advantage of a Sovereign in poſſeſſion.

[361]DEAR Captain, I rejoice to ſee you: Juſt in the nick of time:—See! See!

Excuſe me, Sir, that I ſalute you, from my favour⯑ite Bard. He that riſes with the Lark, will ſing with the Lark. Strange news ſince I ſaw you, Captain! Poor miſtaken Lady!—But you have too much good⯑neſs, I know, to reveal to her uncle Harlowe the er⯑rors of this capricious Beauty. It will all turn out for the beſt. You muſt accompany me part of the way. I know the delight you take in compoſing differences. But 'tis the task of the Prudent to heal the breaches made by the raſhneſs and folly of the Imprudent.

AND now (all around me ſo ſtill, and ſo ſilent) the rattling of the chariot-wheels at a ſtreet's diſtance, do I hear!—And to this angel of a Lady I fly!

Reward, O God of Love (the cauſe is thy own); reward thou, as it deſerves, my ſuffering perſevere⯑ance!—Succeed my endeavours to bring back to thy obedience, this charming fugitive!—Make her ac⯑knowlege her raſhneſs; repent her inſults; implore my forgiveneſs; beg to be re-inſtated in my favour, and that I will bury in oblivion the remembrance of her heinous offence againſt thee, and againſt me, thy faithful votary.

THE chariot at the door!—I come! I come!—

I attend you, good Captain—

Indeed, Sir—

Pray, Sir—Civility is not ceremony.

[362]And now, dreſſed like a bridegroom, my heart elated beyond that of the moſt deſiring one (attended by a footman whom my Beloved never ſaw), I am already at Hampſtead!