LETTER I. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Eſq. Upper-FLaſk, Hamſtead, Friday (June 9) morn. 7 o'clock.

I AM now here, and here have been this hour and half. What an induſtrious ſpirit have I! Nobody can ſay, that I eat the bread of idleneſs. I take true pains for all the pleaſure I enjoy. I can⯑not chooſe but to admire myſelf ſtrangely; for, cer⯑tainly, with this active ſoul, I ſhould have made a very great figure in whatever ſtation I had filled. But had I been a prince! — To be ſure I ſhould have made a moſt noble prince! I ſhould have led up a military dance equal to that of the great Macedonian. I ſhould have added kingdom to kingdom, and rob⯑bed all my neighbour-ſovereigns, in order to have obtained the name of Robert the Great. And I would have gone to war with the Great Turk, and the [2] Perſian, and the Mogholl, for their Seraglios; for not one of thoſe Eaſtern Monarchs ſhould have had a pretty woman to bleſs himſelf with, till I had done with her.

And now I have ſo much leiſure upon my hands, that, after having informed myſelf of all neceſſary par⯑ticulars, I am ſet to my ſhort-hand writing, in order to keep up with time as well as I can: For the ſubject is now become worthy of me; and it is yet too ſoon, I doubt, to pay my compliments to my charmer, after all her fatigues for two or three days paſt: And, moreover, I have abundance of matters preparative to my future proceedings, to recount, in order to connect, and render all intelligible.

I parted with the captain at the foot of the hill, trebly inſtructed; that is to ſay, as to the Fact, to the Probable, and to the Poſſible. If my beloved and I can meet and make up, without the mediation of this worthy gentleman, it will be ſo much the better. As little foreign aid, as poſſible, in my amorous con⯑flicts, has always been a rule with me; tho' here I have been obliged to call in ſo much. And who knows but it may be the better for her, the leſs ſhe makes neceſſary? I cannot bear, that ſhe ſhould ſit ſo indifferent to me, as to be in earneſt to part with me for ever, upon ſo ſlight, or even upon any occaſion. If I find ſhe is—But no more threatenings till ſhe is in my power—Thou knoweſt what I have vowed.

All Will's account, from the lady's flight to his finding her again, all the accounts of the people of the houſe, the coachman's information to Will, and ſo forth, collected together, ſtand thus.

‘They ſhewed her up to the very room where I now am. She ſat at the very table I now write upon; and, I believe, the chair I ſit in was hers.’ O Belford, if thou knoweſt what Love is, thou wilt be able to account for theſe minutiae.

‘Tender Spirits, ſhe replied, could not part with dear friends without concern.’ She meant me, no doubt.

‘They offered to ſend to know, if a Hamſtead coach were not to go to Hendon that evening. No [4] matter, ſhe ſaid—Perhaps ſhe might meet the cha⯑riot.’ Another of her feints, I ſuppoſe; for how, or with whom, could any thing of this ſort have been concerted ſince yeſterday morning?

Better for her, if ſhe do, Jack, once more I ſay! —Woe be to the girl who could think of marrying [5] me, yet be able to run away from me, and renounce me for ever!

I am glad ſhe wept ſo much, becauſe no heart burſts (be the occaſion for the ſorrow what it will) which has that kindly relief. Hence I hardly ever am moved at the ſight of theſe pellucid fugitives in a fine woman. How often, in the paſt twelve hours, have I wiſhed, that I could cry moſt confoundedly!

‘She then ſaw a coach and four driving towards her empty. She croſſed the path ſhe was in, as if to meet it; and ſeemed to intend to ſpeak to the coachman, had he ſtopt, or ſpoke firſt. He, as earneſtly, looked at her. Every one did ſo, who paſſed her (ſo the man who dogg'd her was the leſs ſuſpected)’ —Happy rogue of a coachman, hadſt thou known whoſe notice thou didſt engage, and whom thou mighteſt have obliged!—It was the divine Clariſſa Harlowe at whom thou gazedſt!—My own Clariſſa Harlowe!—But it was well for me that thou wert as undiſtinguiſhing as the beaſts thou droveſt; otherwiſe, what a wild-gooſe chace had I been led?

And here, ſuppoſing my narrative of the dramatic kind, ends Act the Firſt. And now begins,

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

NOW, Belford, for the narrative of narratives. I will continue it, as I have opportunity; and that ſo dextrouſly, that if I break off twenty times, thou ſhalt not diſcern where I piece my thread.

Although grievouſly afflicted with the gout, I alight⯑ed out of my chariot (leaning very hard on my cane with one hand, and on my new ſervant's ſhoulder with the other) the ſame inſtant almoſt that he had knock'd at the door, that I might be ſure of admiſſion into the houſe.

I took care to button my great coat about me, and to cover with it even the pommel of my ſword; it being a little too gay for my years. I knew not what occaſion I might have for my ſword. I ſtoop'd forward; blink'd with my eyes to conceal their luſtre [No vanity in ſaying that, Jack!]; my chin wrapt up for the tooth-ach; my ſlouch'd, laced hat, and ſo much of my wig as was viſible, giving me, all together, the appearance of an antiquated beau.

My wife, I reſolved beforehand, ſhould have a complication of diſorders.

[13]The maid came to the door. I aſk'd for her miſtreſs. She ſhew'd me into one of the parlours; and I ſat down, with a gouty Oh!—

Your ſervant, Madam—but you muſt excuſe me; I cannot well ſtand.—I find by the bill at the door, that you have lodgings to let [Mumbling my words as if, like my man Will, I had loſt ſome of my fore⯑teeth]: Be pleaſed to inform me what they are; for I like your ſituation:—And I will tell you my family —I have a wife, a good old woman—Older than my⯑ſelf, by the way, a pretty deal. She is in a bad ſtate of health, and is adviſed into the Hamſtead air. She will have two maid-ſervants and a footman. The coach or chariot (I ſhall not have them up both to⯑gether), we can put up any-where, and the coachman will be with his horſes.

When, Sir, ſhall you want to come in?

I will take them from this very day; and, if con⯑venient, will bring my wife in the afternoon.

Perhaps, Sir, you would board, as well as lodge?

That as you pleaſe. It will ſave me the trouble of bringing my cook, if we do. And I ſuppoſe you have ſervants who know how to dreſs a couple of diſhes. My wife muſt eat plain food, and I don't love kickſhaws.

We have a ſingle lady, who will be gone in two or three days. She has one of the beſt apartments: That will then be at liberty.

You have one or two good ones mean time, I preſume, Madam, juſt to receive my wife; for we have loſt time—Theſe damn'd phyſicians—Excuſe me, Madam, I am not uſed to curſe; but it is owing to the love I have for my wife—They have kept her in hand, till they are aſham'd to take more fees, and now adviſe her to the air. I wiſh we had ſent her hither at firſt. But we muſt now make the beſt of it.

[14]Excuſe me, Madam (for ſhe looked hard at me), that I am muffled up thus in this warm weather. I am but too ſenſible, that I have left my chamber ſooner than I ought, and perhaps ſhall have a return of my gout for it. I came out thus muffled up, with a dreadful pain in my jaws; an ague in them, I believe. But my poor dear will not be ſatisfied with any body's care but mine. And, as I told you, we have loſt time.

You ſhall ſee what accommodations I have, if you pleaſe, Sir. But I doubt, you are too lame to walk up ſtairs.

I can make ſhift to hobble up, now I have reſted a little. I'll juſt look upon the apartment my wife is to have. Any thing may do for the ſervants: And as you ſeem to be a good ſort of gentlewoman, I ſhan't ſtand for a price, and will pay well, beſides, for the trouble I ſhall give.

She led the way; and I, leaning upon the baniſters, made ſhift to get up with leſs fatigue than I expected from ancles ſo weak. But oh! Jack, What was Sixtus the Vth's artful depreſſion of his natural powers to mine, when, as the half-dead Montalto, he gaped for the pretendedly unſought Pontificate, and, the mo⯑ment he was choſen, leapt upon the prancing beaſt, which it was thought, by the amazed conclave, he was not able to mount without help of chairs and men? Never was there a more joyous heart and lighter heels than mine, joined together, yet both denied their functions; the one fluttering in ſecret, ready to burſt its bars for relief-ful expreſſion, the others obliged to an hobbling motion; when, unreſtrained, they would, in their maſter's imagination, have mounted him to the lunar world, without the help of a ladder.

There were three rooms on a floor; two of them handſome; and the third, ſhe ſaid, ſtill handſomer; but the lady was in it.

I ſaw!—I ſaw, ſhe was! for as I hobbled up, cry⯑ing out upon my weak ancles, in the hoarſe mumbling [15] voice I had aſſumed, I beheld a little piece of her, juſt caſting an eye, with the door a-jar, as they call it, to obſerve who was coming up; and, ſeeing ſuch an old clumſy fellow great-coated in weather ſo warm, ſlouched, and muffled up, ſhe withdrew, ſhutting the door without any emotion. But it was not ſo with me; for thou canſt not imagine how my heart danced to my mouth, at the very glimpſe of her; ſo that I was afraid the thump, thump, thump⯑ing villain, which had ſo lately thumped as much to no purpoſe, would have choak'd me.

I liked the lodgings well; and the more, as ſhe ſaid the third room was ſtill handſomer. I muſt ſit down, Madam (and choſe the darkeſt part of the room): Won't you take a ſeat yourſelf? No price ſhall part us. But I will leave the terms to you and my wife, if you pleaſe: And alſo whether for board or not. Only pleaſe to take This for earneſt, putting a guinea into her hand.—And one thing I will ſay; My poor wife loves money; but is not an ill-natured woman. She was a great fortune to me: But, as the real eſtate goes away at her death, I would fain pre⯑ſerve her for that reaſon, as well as for the love I bear her, as an honeſt man. But if ſhe makes too cloſe a bargain with you, tell me; and, unknown to her, I will make it up. This is my conſtant way: She loves to have her pen'worths; and I would not have her vexed or made uneaſy on any account.

She ſaid, I was a very conſiderate gentleman; and, upon the condition I had mentioned, ſhe was content to leave the terms to my lady.

But, Madam, cannot a-body juſt peep into the other apartment, that I may be more particular to my wiſe in the furniture of it?

The lady deſires to be private, Sir—But—And was going to aſk her leave.

I caught hold of her hand—However, ſtay, ſtay, [16] Madam: It mayn't be proper, if the lady loves to be private. Don't let me intrude upon the lady—

No intruſion, Sir, I dare ſay: The lady is good-humoured. She will be ſo kind as to ſtep down into the parlour, I dare ſay. As ſhe ſtays ſo little a while, I am ſure ſhe will not wiſh to ſtand in my way.

No, Madam, that's true, if ſhe be good-humoured, as you ſay—Has ſhe been with you long, Madam?

But yeſterday, Sir—

I believe I juſt now ſaw the glimpſe of her. She ſeems to be an elderly lady.

No, Sir; you're miſtaken. She's a young lady; and one of the handſomeſt I ever ſaw.

Cot ſo, I beg her pardon! Not but that I ſhould have liked her the better, were ſhe to ſtay longer, if ſhe had been elderly. I have a ſtrange taſte, Madam, you'll ſay, but I really, for my wife's ſake, love every elderly woman: Indeed I ever thought age was to be reverenced, which made me (taking the for⯑tune into the ſcale too, that I own) make my addreſſes to my preſent dear.

Very good of you, Sir, to reſpect age: We all hope to live to be old.

Right, Madam. But you ſay the lady is beautiful. Now you muſt know, that tho' I chuſe to converſe with the elderly, yet I love to ſee a beautiful young woman, juſt as I love to ſee fine flowers in a garden. There's no caſting an eye upon her, is there, without her notice? For in this dreſs, and thus muffled up about my jaws, I ſhould not care to be ſeen, any more than ſhe, let her love privacy as much as ſhe will.

I will go aſk, if I may ſhew a gentleman the apartment, Sir; and, as you are a married gentle⯑man, and not over-young, ſhe'll perhaps make the leſs ſcruple.

Then, like me, ſhe loves elderly folks beſt, per⯑haps. But it may be ſhe has ſuffered by young ones?

[17]I fancy ſhe has, Sir, or is afraid ſhe ſhall. She deſired to be very private, and if by deſcription in⯑quired after, to be denied.

Thou art true woman, goody Moore, thought I!

Good lack!—Good lack!—What may be her ſtory then, I pray?

She is pretty reſerv'd in her ſtory; but, to tell you my thoughts, I believe Love is in the caſe: She is always in tears, and does not much care for company.

Nay, Madam, it becomes not me to dive into ladies ſecrets; I want not to pry into other peoples affairs. But, pray, how does ſhe employ herſelf?—Yet ſhe came but yeſterday; ſo you can't tell.

Writing continually, Sir.

Theſe women, Jack, when you aſk them que⯑ſtions by way of information, don't care to be igno⯑rant of any thing.

Nay, excuſe me, Madam, I am very far from be⯑ing an inquiſitive man. But if her caſe be difficult, and not merely Love, as ſhe is a friend of yours, I would give her my advice.

Then you are a lawyer, Sir—

Why, indeed, Madam, I was ſome time at the Bar; but I have long left practice; yet am much conſulted by my friends in difficult points. In a pauper caſe I frequently give money; but never take any from the richeſt.

You are a very good gentleman, then, Sir.

Ay, Madam, we cannot live always here; and we ought to do what good we can—But I hate to appear officious. If the lady ſtays any time, and thinks fit, upon better acquaintance, to let me in to her caſe, it may be a happy day for her, if I find it a juſt one; for, you muſt know, that when I was at the Bar, I never was ſuch a ſad fellow as to undertake, for the ſake of a paltry fee, to make white black, and black white; for what would that have been, but to en⯑deavour to eſtabliſh iniquity by quirks, while I robbed the innocent?

[18]You are an excellent gentleman, Sir: I wiſh (and then ſhe ſighed) I had had the happineſs to know there was ſuch a lawyer in the world; and to have been acquainted with him.

Come, come, Mrs. Moore, I think your name is, it may not be too late—When you and I are better acquainted, I may help you perhaps.—But mention nothing of this to the lady; for, as I ſaid, I hate to appear officious.

This prohibition, I knew, if goody Moore anſwer'd the ſpecimen ſhe had given of her womanhood, would make her take the firſt opportunity to tell, were it to be neceſſary to my purpoſe that ſhe ſhould.

I appeared, upon the whole, ſo indifferent about ſeeing the room, or the lady, that the good woman was the more eager I ſhould ſee both. And the rather, as I, to ſtimulate her, declared, that there was more required in my eye to merit the character of a hand⯑ſome woman, than moſt people thought neceſſary; and that I had never ſeen ſix truly lovely ladies in my life.

To be brief, ſhe went in; and after a little while came out again. The lady, Sir, is retired to her cloſet, ſo you may go in and look at the room.

Then how my heart began again to play its pug's tricks!

I hobbled in, and ſtump'd about, and liked it very much; and was ſure my wife would. I begg'd ex⯑cuſe for ſitting down, and aſk'd, Who was the mini⯑ſter of the place? If he were a good preacher? Who preached at the chapel? And if he were a good preacher, and good liver too, Madam—I muſt inquire after That: For I love, I muſt needs ſay, that the Clergy ſhould practiſe what they preach.

Very right, Sir; but that is not ſo often the caſe, as were to be wiſhed.

More's the pity, Madam. But I have a great veneration for the Clergy in general. It is more a ſatire upon Human nature, than upon the Cloth, if [19] we ſuppoſe thoſe who have the beſt opportunities to be good, leſs perfect than other people. For my part, I don't love profeſſional any more than national re⯑flections.—But I keep the lady in her cloſet. My gout makes me rude.

Then up from my ſeat ſtumped I—What do you call theſe window-curtains, Madam?

Stuff-damaſk, Sir.

It looks mighty well, truly. I like it better than ſilk. It is warmer to be ſure, and much fitter for lodgings in the country; eſpecially for people in years. The bed is in a pretty taſte.

It is neat and clean, Sir: That's all we pretend to.

Ay, mighty well—Very well—A ſilk camlet, I think—Very well, truly!—I am ſure my wife will like it. But we would not turn the lady out of her lodging for the world. The other two apartments will do for us at the preſent.

Then ſtumping towards the cloſet, over the door of which hung a picture—What picture is that?— Oh! I ſee: A St. Caecilia!

A common print, Sir—

Pretty well, pretty well! It is after an Italian ma⯑ſter.—I would not for the world turn the lady out of her apartment. We can make ſhift with the other two, repeated I, louder ſtill: But yet mumblingly hoarſe; for I had as great regard to uniformity in accent, as to my words.

O Belford! to be ſo near my angel, think what a painful conſtraint I was under!—

I was reſolved to fetch her out, if poſſible: And pretending to be going—You can't agree as to any time, Mrs. Moore, when we can have this third room, can you?—Not that (whiſper'd I, loud enough to be heard in the next room; Not that) I would in⯑commode the lady: But I would tell my wife when-abouts—And women, you know, Mrs. Moore, love to have every thing before them of this nature.

[20]Mrs. Moore, ſays my charmer [and never did her voice ſound ſo harmonious to me: Oh how my heart bounded again! It even talked to me, in a manner; for I thought I heard, as well as felt, its un⯑ruly flutters; and every vein about me ſeemed a pulſe: Mrs. Moore], you may acquaint the gentle⯑man, that I ſhall ſtay here only for two or three days, at moſt, till I receive an anſwer to a letter I have written into the country; and rather than be your hindrance, I will take up with any apartment a pair of ſtairs higher.

Not for the world! Not for the world, young lady, cried I!—My wife, well as I love her, ſhould lie in a garret, rather than put ſuch a conſiderate lady, as you ſeem to be, to the leaſt inconvenien-cy.

She opened not the door yet; and I ſaid, But ſince you have ſo much goodneſs, Madam, if I could but juſt look into the cloſet, as I ſtand, I could tell my wife, whether it is large enough to hold a cabinet ſhe much values, and will have with her where-ever ſhe goes.

Then my charmer opened the door, and blazed upon me, as it were, in a flood of light, like what one might imagine would ſtrike a man, who, born blind, had by ſome propitious power been bleſſed with his ſight, all at once, in a meridian ſun.

Upon my ſoul, I never was ſo ſtrangely affected before. I had much ado to forbear diſcovering my⯑ſelf that inſtant: But, heſitatingly, and in great diſ⯑order, I ſaid, looking into the cloſet, and around it, There is room, I ſee, for my wife's cabinet; and it has many jewels in it of high price; but, upon my ſoul (for I could not forbear ſwearing, like a puppy: —Habit is a curſed thing, Jack—) Nothing ſo valuable as the lady I ſee, can be brought into it!—

She ſtarted, and looked at me with terror. The truth of the compliment, as far as I know, had taken diſſimulation from my accent.

[21]I ſaw it was impoſſible to conceal myſelf longer from her, any more than (from the violent impulſes of my paſſion) to forbear manifeſting myſelf. I un⯑buttoned therefore my cape, I pulled off my flapt, ſlouched hat; I threw open my great coat, and, like the devil in Milton (an odd compariſon tho'!),

Now, Belford, for a ſimilitude—Now for a like⯑neſs to illuſtrate the ſurpriſing ſcene, and the effect it had upon my charmer, and the gentlewoman!—But nothing was like it, or equal to it. The plain fact can only deſcribe it, and ſet it off. Thus then take it.

She no ſooner ſaw who it was, than ſhe gave three violent ſcreams; and, before I could catch her in my arms (as I was about to do the moment I diſcover'd myſelf), down ſhe ſunk at my feet, in a fit; which made me curſe my indiſcretion for ſo ſuddenly, and with ſo much emotion, revealing myſelf.

The gentlewoman, ſeeing ſo ſtrange an alteration in my perſon, and features, and voice, and dreſs, cried out, Murder, help! Murder, help! by turns, for half a dozen times running. This alarmed the houſe, and up ran two ſervant maids, and my ſervant after them. I cried out for water and hartſhorn, and every one flew a different way, one of the maids as faſt down as ſhe came up; while the gentlewoman ran out of one room into another, and by turns up and down the apartment we were in, without mean⯑ing or end, wringing her fooliſh hands, and not knowing what ſhe did.

Up then came running a gentleman and his ſiſter, fetched, and brought in by the maid who had run down; and who having let in a curſed crabbed old wretch, hobbling with his gout, and mumbling with his hoarſe broken-toothed voice, was metamorphoſed all at [22] once into a lively gay young fellow, with a clear accent, and all his teeth; and ſhe would have it, that I was neither more nor leſs than the devil, and could not keep her eye from my foot; expecting, no doubt, every minute to ſee it diſcover itſelf to be cloven.

For my part, I was ſo intent upon reſtoring my angel, that I regarded nobody elſe. And at laſt, ſhe ſlowly recovering motion, with bitter ſighs and ſobs (only the whites of her eyes however appearing for ſome moments), I called upon her in the tendereſt accent, as I kneeled by her, my arm ſupporting her head; My angel! My charmer! My Clariſſa! look upon me, my deareſt life!—I am not angry with you! —I will forgive you, my beſt beloved!—

The gentleman and his ſiſter knew not what to make of all this: And the leſs, when my fair one, recovering her ſight, ſnatched another look at me; and then again groaned, and fainted away.

I threw up the cloſet-ſaſh for air, and then left her to the care of the young gentlewoman, the ſame notable Miſs Rawlins, whom I had heard of at the Flaſk; and to that of Mrs. Moore; who by this time had recover'd herſelf; and then retiring to one corner of the room, I made my ſervant pull off my gouty ſtockens, bruſh my hat, and loop it up into the uſual ſmart cock.

I then ſtept to the cloſet to Mr. Rawlins, whom, in the general confuſion, I had not much minded before. —Sir, ſaid I, you have an uncommon ſcene before you. The lady is my wife, and no gentleman's pre⯑ſence is neceſſary here but my own.

I beg pardon, Sir: If the lady is your wife, I have no buſineſs here. But, Sir, by her concern at ſee⯑ing you—

Pray, Sir, none of your if's, and but's, I beſeech you: Nor your concern about the lady's concern. You are a very unqualified judge in this cauſe; and I beg of you, Sir, to oblige me with your abſence. [23] The ladies only are proper to be preſent on this occa⯑ſion, added I; and I think myſelf obliged to them for their care and kind aſſiſtance.

'Tis well he made not another word: For I found my choler begin to riſe. I could not bear, that the fineſt neck, and arms, and foot, in the world, ſhould be expoſed to the eyes of any man living but mine.

I withdrew once more from the cloſet, finding her beginning to recover, leſt the ſight of me too ſoon, ſhould throw her back again.

The firſt words ſhe ſaid, looking round her with great emotion, were, O hide me! Hide me! Is he gone!—O hide me! Is he gone!

Sir, ſaid Miſs Rawlins, coming to me with an air ſomewhat peremptory and aſſured, This is ſome ſur⯑priſing caſe. The lady cannot bear the ſight of you. What you have done, is beſt known to yourſelf. But another ſuch fit will probably be her laſt. It would be but kind, therefore, for you to retire.

It behov'd me to have ſo notable a perſon of my party; and the rather, as I had diſobliged her imper⯑tinent brother.

The dear creature, ſaid I, may well be concerned to ſee me. If you, Madam, had a huſband who loved you, as I love her, you would not, I am confident, fly from him, and expoſe yourſelf to hazards, as ſhe does whenever ſhe has not all her way—And yet with a mind not capable of intentional evil—But, mother-ſpoilt! This is her fault, and All her fault: And the more inexcuſable it is, as I am the man of her choice, and have reaſon to think ſhe loves me above all the men in the world.

Here, Jack, was a ſtory to ſupport to the lady; face to face too ^[a]!

[24]You ſpeak like a gentleman; you look like a gentle⯑man, ſaid Miſs Rawlins—But, Sir, this is a ſtrange caſe; the lady ſeems to dread the ſight of you.

No wonder, Madam; taking her a little on one ſide, nearer to Mrs. Moore. I have three times already forgiven the dear creature.—But this jealouſy —There is a ſpice of that in it—and of phrenſy too (whiſpered I, that it might have the face of a ſecret, and, of conſequence, the more engage their attention) —But our ſtory is too long—

I then made a motion to go to the lady. But they deſired, that I would walk into the next room; and they would endeavour to prevail upon her to lie down.

[25]I begg'd that they would not ſuffer her to talk; for that ſhe was accuſtomed to fits, and would, when in this way, talk of any thing that came uppermoſt; and the more ſhe was ſuffered to run on, the worſe ſhe was; and if not kept quiet, would fall into rave⯑ings; which might poſſibly hold her a week.

They promiſed to keep her quiet; and I withdrew into the next room; ordering every one down but Mrs. Moore and Miſs Rawlins.

She was full of exclamations. Unhappy creature! miſerable! ruined! and undone! ſhe called herſelf; wrung her hands, and begged they would aſſiſt her to eſcape from the terrible evils ſhe ſhould otherwiſe be made to ſuffer.

They preached patience and quietneſs to her; and would have had her to lie down; but ſhe refuſed; ſinking, however, into an eaſy chair; for ſhe trem⯑bled ſo, ſhe could not ſtand.

By this time, I hoped that ſhe was enough re⯑cover'd to bear a preſence, that it behoved me to make her bear; and fearing ſhe would throw out ſomething in her exclamations, that would ſtill more diſconcert me, I went into the room again.

O! there he is! ſaid ſhe, and threw her apron over her face—I cannot ſee him!—I cannot look upon him! —Begone! begone! touch me not!—

For I took her ſtruggling hand, beſeeching her to be pacified; and aſſuring her, that I would make all up with her, upon her own terms and wiſhes.

Baſe man! ſaid the violent lady, I have no wiſhes, but never to behold you more! Why muſt I be thus purſued and haunted? Have you not made me miſerable enough already? Deſpoiled of all ſuccour and help, and of every friend, I am contented to be poor, low, and miſerable, ſo I may be free from your perſecutions!—

[26]Miſs Rawlins ſtared at me [A confident ſlut this Miſs Rawlins, thought I!] So did Mrs. Moore—I told you ſo! whiſperingly ſaid I, turning to the women; ſhaking my head with a face of great con⯑cern and pity; and then to my charmer, My dear creature, how you rave!—You will not eaſily re⯑cover from the effects of this violence! Have pa⯑tience, my love! Be pacified! and we will coolly talk this matter over: For you expoſe yourſelf, as well as me: Theſe ladies will certainly think, you have fallen among robbers; and that I am the chief of them.

So you are! ſo you are! ſtamping, her face ſtill covered [She thought of Wedneſday night, no doubt]; and, ſighing as if her heart were breaking, ſhe put her hand to her forehead—I ſhall be quite diſtracted!

I will not, my deareſt love, uncover your face. You ſhall not look upon me, ſince I am ſo odious to you. But this is a violence I never thought you capable of.—

And I would have preſſed her hand, as I held it, with my lips; but ſhe drew it from me with indignation.

Unhand me, Sir, ſaid ſhe. I will not be touched by you. Leave me to my fate. What right, what title, have you to perſecute me thus?

What right, what title, my dear!—But this is not a time—I have a letter from Captain Tomlinſon— Here it is—offering it to her—

I will receive nothing from your hands—Tell me not of Captain Tomlinſon—Tell me not of any⯑body—You have no right to invade me thus—Once more, leave me to my fate—Have you not made me miſerable enough?—

I touched a delicate ſtring, on purpoſe to ſet her in ſuch a paſſion before the women, as might confirm the intimation I had given of a phrenſical diſorder.

What a turn is here!—Lately ſo happy!—Nothing wanting but a reconciliation between you and your [27] friends!—That reconciliation in ſuch a happy train!— Shall ſo ſlight, ſo accidental an occaſion be ſuffered to overturn all our happineſs?

She ſtarted up with a trembling impatience, her apron falling from her indignant face—Now, ſaid ſhe, that thou dareſt to call the occaſion ſlight and accidental, and that I am happily out of thy vile hands, and out of a houſe I have reaſon to believe as vile, traitor and wretch that thou art, I will venture to caſt an eye upon thee—And O that it were in my power, in mercy to my ſex, to look thee firſt into ſhame and remorſe, and then into death!

This violent tragedy-ſpeech, and the high manner in which ſhe uttered it, had its deſired effect. I looked upon the women, and upon her, by turns, with a pitying eye; and they ſhook their wiſe heads, and be⯑ſought me to retire, and her to lie down to compoſe herſelf.

This hurricane, like other hurricanes, was preſently allayed by a ſhower. She threw herſelf once more in⯑to her armed chair—And begg'd pardon of the women for her paſſionate exceſs; but not of me: Yet I was in hopes, that when compliments were ſtirring, I ſhould have come in for a ſhare.

Indeed, ladies, ſaid I (with aſſurance enough, thou'lt ſay), this violence is not natural to my beloved's temper—Miſapprehenſion—

Miſapprehenſion, wretch!—And want I excuſes from thee!

What a ſcorn was every lovely feature agitated by!

Then turning her face from me, I have not pa⯑tience, O thou guileful betrayer, to look upon thee! —Begone! Begone! With a face ſo unbluſhing, how dareſt thou my preſence?

I thought then, that the character of a huſband obliged me to be angry.

You may one day, Madam, repent this treatment: [28] —By my ſoul you may.—You know I have not de⯑ſerved it of you—You know I have not.

Do I know you have not? —Wretch! Do I know—

You do, Madam!—And never did man of my figure and conſideration [I thought it was proper to throw that in] meet with ſuch treatment. [She lifted up her hands: Indignation kept her ſilent.]—But all is of a piece with the charge you bring againſt me of deſpoiling you of all ſuccour and help, of making you poor and low, and with other unprecedented language. I will only ſay, before theſe two gentlewomen, that ſince it muſt be ſo, and ſince your former eſteem for me is turned into ſo riveted an averſion, I will ſoon, very ſoon, make you intirely eaſy. I will be gone: —I will leave you to your own fate, as you call it; and may That be happy!—Only, that I may not ap⯑pear to be a ſpoiler, a robber indeed, let me know whither I ſhall ſend your apparel, and every thing that belongs to you, and I will ſend it.

Send it to this place; and aſſure me, that you will never moleſt me more; never more come near me; and that is all I aſk of you.

I will do ſo, Madam, ſaid I, with a dejected air. But did I ever think I ſhould be ſo indifferent to you? —However, you muſt permit me to inſiſt on your reading this letter; and on your ſeeing Captain Tom⯑linſon, and hearing what he has to ſay from your uncle. He will be here by-and-by.

Don't trifle with me, ſaid ſhe, in an imperious tone—Do as you offer. I will not receive any letter from your hands. If I ſee Captain Tomlinſon, it ſhall be on his own account; not on yours. You tell me you will ſend me my apparel: If you would have me believe any thing you ſay, let This be the teſt of your ſincerity—Leave me now, and ſend my things.

[29]The women ſtared. They did nothing but ſtare; and appeared to be more and more at a loſs what to make of the matter between us.

I pretended to be going from her in a pet: But when I had got to the door, I turned back; and, as if I had recollected myſelf, One word more, my deareſt creature!—Charming even in your anger!—O my fond ſoul! ſaid I, turning half round, and pulling out my handkerchief.

I believe, Jack, my eyes did gliſten a little—I have no doubt but they did.—The women pitied me. Honeſt ſouls!—They ſhew'd, that they had each of them a handkerchief as well as I. So, haſt thou not obſerved (to give a familiar illuſtration) every man in a company of a dozen, or more, obligingly pull out his watch, when ſome one has aſked, What's o'clock?

One word only, Madam, repeated I, as ſoon as my voice had recovered its tone—I have repreſented to Captain Tomlinſon in the moſt favourable light the cauſe of our preſent miſunderſtanding. You know what your uncle inſiſts upon; and which you have acquieſced with. The letter in my hand [and again I offered it to her] will acquaint you with what you have to apprehend from your brother's active malice.

She was going to ſpeak in a high accent, putting the letter from her, with an open palm—Nay, hear me out, Madam—The Captain, you know, has re⯑ported our marriage to two different perſons. It is come to your brother's ears. My own relations have alſo heard of it. Letters were brought me from town this morning, from Lady Betty Lawrance and Miſs Montague. Here they are [I pulled them out of my pocket, and offered them to her, with That of the Captain; but ſhe held back her ſtill open palm, that ſhe might not receive them]: Reflect, Madam, I beſeech you reflect, upon the fatal conſequences [30] which this your high reſentment may be attended with.

Ever ſince I knew you, ſaid ſhe, I have been in a wilderneſs of doubt and error. I bleſs God that I am out of your hands. I will tranſact for myſelf what relates to myſelf. I diſmiſs all your ſolicitude for me. Am I not my own miſtreſs!—Am I not—

The women ſtared [The devil ſtare ye, thought I, can ye do nothing but ſtare?]. It was high time to ſtop her here. I raiſed my voice to drown hers— You uſed, my deareſt creature, to have a tender and apprehenſive heart—You never had ſo much reaſon for ſuch a one as now.

Let me judge for myſelf, upon what I ſhall ſee, not upon what I ſhall hear—Do you think I ſhall ever—

I dreaded her going on—I muſt be heard, Madam, raiſing my voice ſtill higher. You muſt let me read one paragraph or two of This letter to you, if you will not read it yourſelf—

Begone from me, Man!—Begone from me with thy Letters! What pretence haſt thou for tormenting me thus—

Deareſt creature, what queſtions you aſk! Que⯑ſtions that you can as well anſwer yourſelf—

I can, I will—And thus I anſwer them—

Still louder raiſed I my voice. She was overborne. Sweet ſoul! It would be hard, thought I [and yet I was very angry with her], if ſuch a ſpirit as thine cannot be brought to yield to ſuch a one as mine!

I lowered my voice on her ſilence. All gentle, all intreative, my accent: My head bowed; one hand held out; the other on my honeſt heart:—For heaven's ſake, my deareſt creature, reſolve to ſee Captain Tomlinſon with temper. He would have come along with me: But I was willing to try to ſoften your mind firſt, on this fatal miſapprehenſion; and This for the ſake of your own wiſhes: For what is it otherwiſe to me, whether your friends, are, or [31] are not, reconciled to us? Do I want any favour from them?—For your own mind's ſake therefore, fruſtrate not Captain Tomlinſon's negotiation. That worthy gentleman will be here in the afternoon—Lady Betty will be in town with my couſin Montague, in a day or two. They will be your viſiters. I beſeech you do not carry this miſunderſtanding ſo far, as that Lord M. and Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, may know it [How conſiderable this made me look to the women!]. Lady Betty will not let you reſt till you conſent to accompany her to her own ſeat—And to that lady may you ſafely intruſt your cauſe.

Again, upon my pauſing a moment, ſhe was go⯑ing to break out. I liked not the turn of her coun⯑tenance, nor the tone of her voice— ‘And thinkeſt thou, baſe wretch,’ were the words ſhe did utter. I again raiſed my voice, and drowned hers—Baſe wretch, Madam!—You know, that I have not de⯑ſerved the violent names you have called me. Words ſo opprobrious, from a mind ſo gentle—But this treatment is from you, Madam!—From you, whom I love more than my own ſoul—By that ſoul, I ſwear that I do—[The women looked upon each other. They ſeemed pleaſed with my ardor. Women, whether wives, maids, or widows, love ardors. Even Miſs Howe, thou knoweſt, ſpeaks up for ardors ^(a)] — Nevertheleſs, I muſt ſay, that you have carried matters too far for the occaſion. I ſee you hate me—

She was juſt going to ſpeak—If we are to ſeperate for ever, in a ſtrong and ſolemn voice, proceeded I, this iſland ſhall not long be troubled with me.—Mean time, only be pleaſed to give theſe letters a peruſal, and conſider what is to be ſaid to your uncle's friend; and what he is to ſay to your uncle.—Any thing will I come into (renounce me if you will), that ſhall make for your peace, and for the reconciliation your heart was ſo lately ſet upon. But I humbly conceive, [32] that it is neceſſary, that you ſhould come into better temper with me, were it but to give a favourable ap⯑pearance to what has paſſed, and weight to any future application to your friends, in whatever way you ſhall think proper to make it.

I then put the letters into her lap, and retired into the next apartment with a low bow, and a very ſolemn air.

I was ſoon followed by the two women. Mrs. Moore withdrew to give the fair Perverſe time to read them: Miſs Rawlins for the ſame reaſon; and becauſe ſhe was ſent for home.

The widow beſought her ſpeedy return. I joined in the ſame requeſt; and ſhe was ready enough to promiſe to oblige us.

I excuſed myſelf to Mrs. Moore for the diſguiſe I had appeared in at firſt, and for the ſtory I had in⯑vented. I told her, that I held myſelf obliged to ſatisfy her for the whole floor we were upon; and for an up⯑per room for my ſervant; and that for a month certain.

She made many ſcruples, and begg'd ſhe might not be urged on this head, till ſhe had conſulted Miſs Rawlins.

I conſented; but told her, that ſhe had taken my earneſt; and I hoped there was no room for diſpute.

Juſt then Miſs Rawlins return'd, with an air of eager curioſity; and having been told, what had paſſed between Mrs. Moore and me, ſhe gave herſelf airs of office immediately: Which I humoured, plainly per⯑ceiving, that if I had her with me, I had the other.

She wiſhed, if there were time for it, and if it were not quite impertinent in her to deſire it, that I would give Mrs. Moore and her a brief hiſtory of an affair, which, as ſhe ſaid, bore the face of novelty, myſtery, and ſurprize: For ſometimes it looked to her as if we were married; at other times, that point appeared doubtful; and yet the lady did not abſolutely deny [33] it; but, upon the whole, thought herſelf highly injured.

I ſaid, That ours was a very particular caſe: That were I to acquaint them with it, ſome part of it would hardly appear credible. But, however, I would give them, as they ſeemed to be perſons of diſcretion, a brief account of the whole; and this in ſo plain and ſincere a manner, that it ſhould clear up to their ſatisfaction every thing that had paſſed, or might hereafter paſs between us.

They ſat down by me, and threw every feature of their faces into attention. I was reſolved to go as near the truth as poſſible, leſt any thing ſhould drop from my ſpouſe to impeach my veracity; and yet keep in view what paſſed at the Flaſk.

It is neceſſary, altho' thou knoweſt my whole ſtory, and a good deal of my views, that thou ſhouldſt be apprized of the ſubſtance of what I told them.

‘I gave them, in as conciſe a manner as I was able, the hiſtory of our families, fortunes, alliances, an⯑tipathies (her brother's, and mine, particularly). I averred the truth of our private marriage.’ The Captain's letter, which I will incloſe, will give thee my reaſons for that: And beſides, the women might alſo, perhaps, have propoſed a parſon to me by way of compromiſe. ‘I told them the condition my ſpouſe had made me ſwear to; and which ſhe held me to, in order, I ſaid, to induce me the ſooner to be re⯑conciled to her relations.’

‘I owned, that this reſtraint made me ſometimes ready to fly out.’ And Mrs. Moore was ſo good as to declare, that ſhe did not much wonder at it.

Thou art a very good ſort of woman, Mrs. Moore, thought I.

As Miſs Howe has actually detected our mother; and might poſſibly find ſome way ſtill to acquaint her friend with her diſcoveries; I thought it proper to [34] prepoſſeſs them in Mrs. Sinclair's favour; and in that of her two nieces.

I ſaid, ‘They were gentlewomen born; had not bad hearts; that indeed my ſpouſe did not love them; they having once jointly taken the liberty to blame her for her over-niceneſs with regard to me. People, I ſaid, even good people, who knew them⯑ſelves to be guilty of a fault they had no inclination to mend, were too often leaſt patient, when told of it; as they could leſs bear than others, to be thought indifferently of.’

Too often the caſe, they owned.

‘Mrs. Sinclair's houſe was a very handſome houſe, and fit to receive the firſt quality [True enough, Jack!]: Mrs. Sinclair was a woman very eaſy in her circumſtances: A widow-gentlewoman—as you, Mrs. Moore, are. Lets lodgings—as you, Mrs. Moore, do. Once had better proſpects—as you, Mrs. Moore, may have had: The relict of Colonel Sinclair: You, Mrs. Moore, might know Colonel Sinclair—He had lodgings at Hamſtead.’

She had heard of the name.

‘O, he was related to the beſt families in Scot⯑land: And his widow is not to be reflected upon, becauſe ſhe lets lodgings, you know Mrs. Moore; —You know, Miſs Rawlins.’

Very true, and, Very true: And they muſt needs ſay, it did not look quite ſo pretty in ſuch a lady as my ſpouſe, to be ſo cenſorious.

A foundation here, thought I, to procure theſe womens help to get back the fugitive, or their con⯑nivance at leaſt at my doing ſo; as well as for anticipa⯑ting any future information from Miſs Howe.

I gave them a character of that virago: And in⯑tin [...]ated, ‘that for a head to contrive miſchief, and a heart to execute it, ſhe had hardly her equal in her ſex.’

[35]To this Miſs Howe it was, Mrs. Moore ſaid, ſhe ſuppoſed, that my ſpouſe was ſo deſirous to diſpatch a man and horſe, by day-dawn, with a letter ſhe wrote before ſhe went to bed laſt night; propoſing to ſtay no longer than till ſhe had received an anſwer to it.

The very ſame, ſaid I. I knew ſhe would have immediate recourſe to her. I ſhould have been but too happy, could I have prevented ſuch a letter from paſſing, or ſo to have managed, as to have it given into Mrs. Howe's hands, inſtead of her daughter's. Women who had lived ſome time in the world, knew better, than to encourage ſuch ſkittiſh pranks in young wives.

Let me juſt ſtop to tell thee, while it is in my head, that I have ſince given Will. his cue to find out where the man lives who is gone with the fair fugitive's letter; and, if poſſible, to ſee him on his return, before he ſees her.

I told the women, ‘That I deſpaired it would ever be better with us, while Miſs Howe had ſo ſtrange a predominance over my ſpouſe, and re⯑mained herſelf unmarried; and until the reconcili⯑ation with her friends could be effected; or a ſtill happier event,—as I ſhould think it, who am the laſt male of my family; and which my fooliſh vow, and her rigour, had hitherto—’

Here I ſtopt, and looked modeſt, turning my diamond ring round my finger: While goody Moore looked mighty ſignificant, calling it a very particular caſe; and the maiden lady fann'd away, and primm'd and purs'd, to ſhew, that what I ſaid needed no far⯑ther explanation.

‘I told them the occaſion of our preſent differ⯑ence: Avowed the reality of the fire: But owned, that I would have made no ſcruple of breaking the unnatural oath ſhe had bound me in (having an huſband's right of my ſide), when ſhe was ſo acci⯑dentally frighted into my arms: And I blamed my⯑ſelf [36] exceſſively, that I did not; ſince ſhe thought fit to carry her reſentment ſo high, and had the injuſtice to ſuppoſe the fire to be a contrivance of mine.’

Nay, for that matter, Mrs. Moore ſaid—as we were married, and Madam was ſo odd—Every gentle⯑man would not—And there ſtopt Mrs. Moore.

‘To ſuppoſe I ſhould have recourſe to ſuch a poor contrivance, ſaid I, when I ſaw the dear creature every hour—’ Was not this a bold put, Jack?

A moſt extraordinary caſe, truly! the maiden lady: Fanning, yet coming in with her Well-buts, and her ſifting Pray-Sir's!— And her reſtraining Enough-Sir's!—flying from the queſtion to the que⯑ſtion; her ſeat now-and-then uneaſy, for fear my want of delicacy ſhould hurt her abundant modeſty; and yet it was difficult to ſatisfy her ſuper-abundant curioſity.

‘My beloved's jealouſy; which of itſelf, to female minds, accounts for a thouſand unaccountableneſſes; and the imputation of her half-phrenſy brought upon her by her father's wicked curſe, and by the previous perſecutions ſhe had undergone from all her family; were what I dwelt upon, in order to provide againſt what might happen.’

In ſhort, ‘I owned againſt myſelf moſt of the offences which I did not doubt but ſhe would charge me with in their hearing: And as every cauſe has a black and a white ſide, I gave the worſt parts of our ſtory the gentleſt turn. And when I had done, gave them ſome partial hints of the contents of Cap⯑tain Tomlinſon's letter, which I had left with her: With a caution, to be guarded againſt the inquiries of James Harlowe, and of Captain Singleton, or of any ſailor-looking men.’ This thou wilt ſee from the letter itſelf was neceſſary to be done. Here therefore thou mayeſt read it. And a charming letter to my purpoſe, if thou giveſt the leaſt attention to its contents, wilt thou find it to be.

During the above converſation I had planted my⯑ſelf at the further end of the apartment we were in, over-againſt the door; which was open; and oppoſite to the lady's chamber-door; which was ſhut. I ſpoke ſo low, that it was impoſſible, at that diſtance, that ſhe ſhould hear what we ſaid; and in this ſituation I could ſee if her door opened.

I told the women, that what I had mentioned of Lady Betty's and her niece's coming to town, and of their intention to viſit my ſpouſe, whom they had never ſeen, nor ſhe them, was real; and that I ex⯑pected news of their arrival every hour. I then ſhewed them copies of the other two letters, which I had left with her; the one from lady Betty, the other from my couſin Montague.—And here thou mayeſt read them if thou wilt.

Eternally reproaching, eternally upbraiding me, are my impertinent relations. But they are fond of occaſions to find fault with me. Their love, their love, Jack, and their dependence on my known good humour, their inducement!

The women having read the copies of theſe two letters, I thought that I might then threaten and ſwagger— ‘But very little heart have I, ſaid I, to encourage ſuch a viſit from Lady Betty and Miſs Montague to my ſpouſe. For after all, I am tired out with her ſtrange ways. She is not what ſhe was, and (as I told her in your hearing, ladies) I will leave this plaguy iſland, tho' the place of my birth, and tho' the ſtake I have in it is very con⯑ſiderable; and go and reſide in France or Italy, and never think of myſelf as a married man, nor live like one.’

O dear! ſaid one.

That would be a ſad thing! ſaid the other.

Nay, Madam, turning to Mrs. Moore—Indeed, Madam, to Miſs Rawlins—I am quite deſperate. I can no longer bear ſuch uſage. I have had the good fortune to be favoured by the ſmiles of very fine ladies, tho' I ſay it (and I looked modeſt), both abroad and at home—[Thou knoweſt this to be true, Jack]. With regard to my ſpouſe here, I had but one hope left [46] (for as to the reconciliation with her friends, I ſcorn them all too much to value that, but for her ſake); and that was, that if it pleaſed God to bleſs us with children, ſhe might intirely recover her uſual ſerenity; and we might then be happy. But the reconciliation her heart was ſo much ſet upon, is now, as I hinted before, intirely hopeleſs—Made ſo, by this raſh ſtep of hers, and by the raſher temper ſhe is in; ſince (as you will believe) her brother and ſiſter, when they come to know it, will make a fine handle of it againſt us both;—affecting, as they do at preſent, to diſbelieve our marriage—and the dear creature herſelf too ready to countenance ſuch a disbelief,—as nothing more than the ceremony—

Here I was baſhful; for Miſs Rawlins by her pre⯑paratory primneſs, put me in mind, that it was proper to be ſo—

I turned half round; then facing the fan-player, and the matron—You yourſelves, ladies, knew not what to believe till Now, that I have told you our ſtory: And I do aſſure you, that I ſhall not give myſelf the ſame trouble to convince people I hate: People from whom I neither expect nor deſire any favour; and who are determined not to be convinced. And what, pray, muſt be the iſſue, when her uncle's friend comes, altho' he ſeems to be a truly worthy man? Is it not natural for him to ſay, ‘To what purpoſe, Mr. Lovelace, ſhould I endeavour to bring about a reconciliation between Mrs. Lovelace and her friends, by means of her elder uncle, when a good underſtanding is wanting between yourſelves?’ —A fair inference, Mrs. Moore!—A fair inference, Miſs Rawlins!—And here is the unhappineſs—Till ſhe is reconciled to them, this curſed oath, in her notion, is binding!

The women ſeem'd moved; for I ſpoke with great earneſtneſs, tho' low—And beſides, they love to have their ſex, and its favours, appear of importance to us. They ſhook their deep heads at each other, [47] and looked ſorrowful: And this moved my tender heart too.

'Tis an unheard-of caſe, ladies—Had ſhe not pre⯑ferred me to all mankind—There I ſtopped—And that, reſumed I, feeling for my handkerchief, is, what ſtaggered Captain Tomlinſon, when he heard of her flight; who, the laſt time he ſaw us together, ſaw the moſt affectionate couple on earth!—The moſt affectionate couple on earth!—in the accent-grievous, repeated I.

Out then I pulled my handkerchief, and, putting it to my eyes, aroſe, and walked to the window—It makes me weaker than a woman!—Did I not love her, as never man loved his wife [I have no doubt but I do, Jack]—

There again I ſtopt; and reſuming—Charming creature, as you ſee ſhe is, I wiſh I had never beheld her face!—Excuſe me, ladies; traverſing the room. And having rubbed my eyes till I ſuppoſed them red, I turned to the women; and, pulling out my letter⯑caſe, I will ſhew you one letter—Here it is—Read it, Miſs Rawlins, if you pleaſe—It will confirm to you, how much all my family are prepared to ad⯑mire her. I am freely treated in it;—ſo I am in the two others: But after what I have told you, no⯑thing need be a ſecret to you two.

She took it, with an air of eager curioſity, and looked at the ſeal, oſtentatiouſly coronetted; and at the ſuperſcription, reading out, To Robert Lovelace, Eſq— Ay, Madam—Ay, Miſs—that's my name (giving myſelf an air, tho' I had told it to them be⯑fore) I am not aſhamed of it. My wife's maiden name—Unmarried name, I ſhould rather ſay,—fool that I am!—and I rubbed my cheek for vexation [Fool enough in conſcience, Jack!] was Harlowe— Clariſſa Harlowe — You heard me call her My Clariſſa.—

I did—but thought it to be a feigned or love-name, ſaid Miſs Rawlins.

[48]I wonder what is Miſs Rawlins's love-name, Jack. Moſt of the fair Romancers have in their early womanhood choſen Love-names. No parſon ever gave more real names, than I have given fictitious ones. And to very good purpoſe: Many a ſweet dear has anſwered me a letter for the ſake of owning a name which her godmother never gave her.

No—It was her real name, I ſaid.

I bid her read out the whole letter. If the ſpell⯑ing be not exact, Miſs Rawlins, ſaid I, you will ex⯑cuſe it; the writer is a Lord. But, perhaps, I may not ſhew it to my ſpouſe; for if thoſe I have left with her have no effect upon her, neither will this: And I ſhall not care to expoſe my Lord M. to her ſcorn. Indeed I begin to be quite careleſs of conſequences.

Miſs Rawlins, who could not but be pleaſed with this mark of my confidence, looked as if ſhe pitied me.

And here thou mayeſt read the letter. No. III.

This letter clench'd the nail. Not but that, Miſs Rawlins ſaid, ſhe ſaw I had been a wild gentleman; and, truly, ſhe thought ſo, the moment ſhe beheld me.

They began to intercede for my ſpouſe (ſo nicely had I turn'd the tables), and that I would not go abroad, and diſappoint a reconciliation ſo much wiſhed [50] for on one ſide, and ſuch deſirable proſpects on the other in my own family.

Who knows, thought I to myſelf, but more may come of this plot, than I had even promiſed myſelf? What a happy man ſhall I be, if theſe women can be brought to join to carry my marriage into conſumma⯑tion?

Ladies, you are exceeding good to us both. I ſhould have ſome hopes, if my unhappily-nice ſpouſe could be brought to diſpenſe with the unnatural oath ſhe has laid me under. You ſee what my caſe is. Do you think I may not inſiſt upon her abſolving me from this abominable oath? Will you be ſo good, as to give your advice, that one apartment may ſerve for a man and his wife at the hour of retirement? —Modeſtly put, Belford!—And let me here obſerve, that few rakes, beſides me, would find a language ſo decent, as to engage modeſt women to talk with him in, upon ſuch ſubjects.

They both ſimper'd, and look'd upon one an⯑other.

Theſe ſubjects always make women ſimper, at leaſt. No need but of the moſt delicate hints to them. A man who is groſs in a woman's company, ought to be knock'd down with a club: For, like ſo many muſical inſtruments, touch but a ſingle wire, and the dear ſouls are ſenſible all over.

To be ſure, Miſs Rawlins learnedly ſaid, playing with her fan, a caſuiſt would give it, that the matri⯑monial vow ought to ſuperſede any other obligation.

Mrs. Moore, for her part, was of opinion, that, if the lady owned herſelf to be a wife, ſhe ought to behave like one.

Whatever be my luck, thought I, with this all-eyed fair one, any other woman in the world, from fifteen to five-and-twenty, would be mine upon my own terms before the morning.

And now, that I may be at hand to take all ad⯑vantages, [51] I will endeavour, ſaid I to myſelf, to make ſure of good quarters.

I am your lodger, Mrs. Moore, in virtue of the earneſt I have given you, for theſe apartments, and for any one you can ſpare above for my ſervants; Indeed for all you have to ſpare—for who knows what my ſpouſe's brother may attempt? I will pay you your own demand: and that for a month or two certain (board included), as I ſhall or ſhall not be your hindrance. Take that as a pledge; or in part of payment.—Offering her a thirty pound bank note.

She declined taking it; deſiring ſhe might conſult the lady firſt; adding, that ſhe doubted not my ho⯑nour; and that ſhe would not lett her apartments to any other perſon, whom ſhe knew not ſomething of, while I and the lady were here.

The lady, The lady! from both the womens mouths continually (which ſtill implied a doubt in their hearts): And not Your ſpouſe, and Your lady, Sir.

I never met with ſuch women, thought I; — So thoroughly convinced but this moment, yet already doubting! I am afraid I have a couple of Sceptics to deal with.

I knew no reaſon, I ſaid, for my wife to object to my lodging in the ſame houſe with her here, any more than in town, at Mrs. Sinclair's. But were ſhe to make ſuch objection, I would not quit poſſeſſion; ſince it was not unlikely, that the ſame freakiſh diſorder which brought her to Hamſtead, might carry her ab⯑ſolutely out of my knowlege.

They both ſeemed embarraſſed; and looked upon one another; yet with ſuch an air, as if they thought there was reaſon in what I ſaid. And I declared my⯑ſelf her boarder, as well as lodger; and, dinner-time approaching, was not denied to be the former.

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

I Thought it was now high time to turn my whole mind to my beloved; who had had full leiſure to weigh the contents of the letters I had left with her.

I therefore requeſted Mrs. Moore to ſtep in, and deſire to know, whether ſhe would be pleaſed to admit me to attend her in her apartment, on occaſion of the letters I had left with her; or whether ſhe would fa⯑vour me with her company in the dining-room?

Mrs. Moore deſired Miſs Rawlins to accompany her in to the lady. They tapp'd at her door, and were both admitted.

I cannot but ſtop here for one minute, to remark, tho' againſt myſelf, upon that ſecurity which inno⯑cence gives, that nevertheleſs had better have in it a greater mixture of the Serpent with the Dove. For here, heedleſs of all I could ſay behind her back, be⯑cauſe ſhe was ſatisfied with her own worthineſs, ſhe permitted me to go on with my own ſtory, without interruption, to perſons as great ſtrangers to her as to me; and who, as ſtrangers to both, might be ſup⯑poſed to lean to the ſide moſt injured: And that, as I managed it, was to mine. A dear ſilly ſoul! thought I, at the time, to depend upon the goodneſs of her own heart, when the heart cannot be ſeen into but by its actions; and ſhe, to appearance, a runaway, an eloper, from a tender, a moſt indulgent huſband!—To neglect to cultivate the opinion of in⯑dividuals, when the whole world is governed by ap⯑pearance!

Yet, what can be expected of an angel under twenty?—She has a world of knowlege; knowlege ſpeculative, as I may ſay; but no experience! How ſhould ſhe?—Knowlege by theory only is a vague un⯑certain [53] light: A Will o' the Wiſp, which as often miſleads the doubting mind, as puts it right.

There are many things in the world, could a moralizer ſay, that would afford inexpreſſible pleaſure to a reflecting mind, were it not for the mixture they come to us with. To be graver ſtil; I have ſeen parents (perhaps my own did ſo) who delighted in thoſe very qualities in their children, while young, the natural conſequences of which (too much in⯑dulged and encouraged) made them, as they grew up, the plague of their hearts.—To bring this home to my preſent purpoſe, I muſt tell thee, that I adore this charming creature for her vigilant prudence; but yet, I would not, methinks, wiſh her, by virtue of that prudence, which is, however, neceſſary to carry her above the devices of all the reſt of the world, to be too wiſe for mine.

My revenge, my ſworn revenge, is nevertheleſs (adore her as I will) uppermoſt in my heart!—Miſs Howe ſays, that my Love is an Herodian Love ^(a): By my ſoul, that girl's a witch!—I am half ſorry to ſay, that I find a pleaſure in playing the tyrant over what I love. Call it an ungenerous pleaſure, if thou wilt: Softer hearts than mine know it. The women to a woman know it, and ſhew it too, whenever they are truſted with power. And why ſhould it be thought ſtrange, that I, who love them ſo dearly, and ſtudy them ſo much, ſhould catch the infection of them?

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

I Will now give thee the ſubſtance of the dialogue that paſſed between the two women and the lady.

Wonder not, that a perv [...]rſe wife makes a liſten⯑ing huſband. The event, however, as thou wilt [54] find, juſtified the old obſervation, That liſteners ſel⯑dom hear good of themſelves. Conſcious of their own demerits (if I may gueſs by myſelf: There's inge⯑nuity, Jack!), and fearful of cenſure, they ſeldom find themſelves diſappointed. There is ſomething of ſenſe, after all, in theſe proverbs, in theſe phraſes, in this wiſdom of nations.

Mrs. Moore was to be the meſſenger; but Miſs Rawlins began the dialogue.

Your SPOUSE, Madam — [Devil!—Only to fiſh for a negative or affirmative declaration.]

My ſpouſe, Madam —

Mr. Lovelace, Madam, averrs, that you are married to him; and begs admittance, or your company in the dining-room, to talk upon the ſub⯑ject of the letters he left with you.

He is a poor wicked wretch. Let me beg of you, Madam, to favour me with your company as often as poſſible while he is hereabouts, and I remain here.

I ſhall with pleaſure attend you, Madam. But, methinks, I could wiſh you would ſee the gentleman, and hear what he has to ſay, on the ſub⯑ject of the letters.

My caſe is a hard, a very hard one—I am quite bewilder'd!—I know not what to do!—I have not a friend in the world, that can or will help me!—Yet had none but friends till I knew that man!

The gentleman neither looks nor talks like a bad man.—Not a very bad man; as men go.

As men go!—Poor Miſs Rawlins, thought I!— And doſt thou know, how men go?

O Madam, you know him not!—He can put on the appearance of an angel of light; but has a black, a very black heart!—

Poor I!—

I could not have thought it, truly!—But men are very deceitful now-a-days!

[55] Now-a-days! — a fool! — Have not her hiſtory-books told her, that they were always ſo?

I have found it ſo, I am ſure, to my coſt!—

Who knows but in her time, poor goody Moore may have met with a Lovelace, or a Belford, or ſome ſuch vile fellow?—My little hare-um-ſcare-um Beauty knows not what ſtrange hiſtories every woman living, who has had the leaſt independence of will, could tell her, were ſuch to be as communicative as ſhe is. — But here's the thing; — I have given her cauſe enough of offence; but not enough to make her hold her tongue.

As to the letters he has left with me, I know not what to ſay to them:—But am reſolved never to have any thing to ſay to him.

If, Madam, I may be allowed to ſay ſo, I think you carry matters very far.

Has he been making a bad cauſe a good one with you, Madam? — That he can do, with thoſe who know him not. Indeed I heard him talking, tho' not what he ſaid, and am indifferent about it. But what account does he give of himſelf?

I was pleaſed to hear this. To arreſt, to ſtop her paſſion, thought I, in the height of its career, is a charming preſage.

Then the buſy Miſs Rawlins fiſh'd on, to find out from her either a confirmation or diſavowal of my ſtory. Was Lord M. my uncle?—Did I court her at firſt with the allowance of her friends, her brother excepted? Had I a rencounter with that brother? Was ſhe ſo perſecuted in favour of a very diſagreeable man, one Solmes, as to induce her to throw herſelf into my protection?

None of theſe were denied. All the objections ſhe could have made, were ſt [...]fled, or kept in, by the conſideration (as ſhe mentioned) that ſhe ſhould ſtay there but a little while; and that her ſtory was too [56] long. But Miſs Rawlins would not be thus eaſily anſwered.

He ſays, Madam, that he could not pre⯑vail for marriage, till he had conſented, under a ſo⯑lemn oath, to ſeparate beds, while your family re⯑main'd unreconciled.

O the wretch!—What can be ſtill in his head, to endeavour to paſs theſe ſtories upon ſtrangers!

So no direct denial, thought I!—Admirable!— All will do by-and-by!

He has owned, that an accidental fire had frighten'd you very much on Wedneſday night— And that—And that—And that—an accidental fire had frighten'd you—Very much frighten'd you—laſt Wedneſday night!—

Then, after a ſhort pauſe—In ſhort, He owned, That he had taken ſome innocent liberties, which might have led to a breach of the oath you had im⯑poſed upon him: And that This was the cauſe of your diſpleaſure.

I would have been glad to ſee how my charmer then look'd.—To be ſure ſhe was at a loſs in her own mind, to juſtify herſelf for reſenting ſo highly an offence ſo trifling. She heſitated—Did not pre⯑ſently ſpeak—When ſhe did, ſhe wiſh'd, That ſhe, Miſs Rawlins, might never meet with any man who would take ſuch innocent liberties with her.

Miſs Rawlins puſh'd further.

Your caſe, to be ſure, Madam, is very particular. But if the hope of a reconciliation with your own friends is made more diſtant by your le [...]ving him, give me leave to ſay, That 'tis pity—'tis pity—[I ſuppoſe the maiden then primm'd, fann'd, and bluſh'd; —'tis pity] the oath cannot be diſpenſed with; eſpecially as he owns, he has not been ſo ſtrict a liver.—

I could have gone in, and kiſs'd the girl.

You have heard his ſtory. Mine, as I told you before, is too long, and too melancholy; my diſ⯑order on ſeeing the wretch is too great; and my time here is too ſhort, for me to enter upon it. And if he has any end to ſerve by his own vindication, in which I ſhall not be a perſonal ſufferer, let him make him⯑ſelf appear as white as an angel; with all my heart.

My love for her, and the excellent character I gave her, were then pleaded.

Specious ſeducer!—Only tell me, if I cannot get away from him by ſome backway?

How my heart then went pit-a-pat!

Let me look out—[I heard the ſaſh lifted up] Whither does that path lead to? Is there no poſſibility of getting to a coach?—Surely, he muſt deal with ſome fiend, or how could he have found me out?— Cannot I ſteal to ſome neighbouring houſe, where I may be concealed till I can get quite away? —You are good people!—I have not been always among ſuch!—O help me, help me, ladies

or I am ruined!

Then pauſing, Is that the way to Hendon? [point⯑ing, I ſuppoſe]—Is Hendon a private place?—The Hamſtead coach, I am told, will carry paſſengers thither.

I have an honeſt friend at Mill-hill [Devil fetch her, thought I]; where, if ſuch be your determination, Madam, and if you think yourſelf in danger, you may be ſafe, I believe.

Any-whither, if I can but eſcape from this man!—Whither does that path lead to, out yonder? —What is that town on the right-hand called?

Highgate, Madam.

On the ſide of the heath is a little village called North-end. A kinſwoman of mine lives there. But her houſe is ſmall. I am not ſure ſhe could ac⯑commodate ſuch a lady.

Devil take her too, thought I!—I imagined, that [58] I had made myſelf a better intereſt in theſe women. But the whole Sex love plotting; and plot-ters, too, Jack.

A barn, an outhouſe, a garret, will be a pa⯑lace to me, if it will but a afford me a refuge from this man!—

Her ſenſes, thought I, are much livelier than mine. What a devil have I done, that ſhe ſhould be ſo very implacable!—I told thee, Belford, All I did: Was there any thing in it ſo very much amiſs!—Such proſpects of family-reconciliation before her too!— To be ſure ſhe is a very ſenſible lady!—

She then eſpied my new ſervant walking under the window, and aſked, If he were not one of mine?—

Will. was on the look-out for old Grimes [So is the fellow called whom my beloved has diſpatch'd to Miſs Howe]. And being told, that the man ſhe ſaw was my ſervant; I ſee, ſaid ſhe, that there is no eſcaping, unleſs you, Madam [To Miſs Rawlins, I ſuppoſe], can befriend me till I can get farther. I have no doubt that that fellow is planted about the houſe to watch my ſteps. But the wicked wretch his maſter has no right to controul me. He ſhall not hinder me from going whither I pleaſe. I will raiſe the town upon him, if he moleſts me. Dear ladies, is there no back-door for me to get out at while you hold him in talk?

Give me leave to aſk you, Madam; Is there no room to hope for accommodation? Had you not better ſee him? He certainly loves you dearly: He is a fine gentleman: You may exaſperate him, and make matters more unhappy for yourſelf.

O Mrs. Moore, O Miſs Rawlins! you know not the man!—I wiſh not to ſee his face, nor to ex⯑change another word with him as long as I live.

I don't find, Miſs Rawlins, that the gentleman has miſrepreſented any-thing. You ſee, Madam

how reſpectful he is; not [59] to come in till permitted. He certainly loves you dearly. Pray, Madam, let him talk to you, as he wiſhes to do, on the ſubject of the letters.

Very kind of Mrs. Moore. Mrs. Moore, thought I, is a very good woman.—I did not curſe her then.

Miſs Rawlins ſaid ſomething; but ſo low, that I could not hear what it was. Thus it was anſwer'd.

I am greatly diſtreſſed! I know not what to do!—But, Mrs. Moore, be ſo good as to give his letters to him—Here they are.—Be pleaſed to tell him, That I wiſh him and his aunt and couſin a happy meeting. He never can want excuſes to them for what has happened, any more than pretences to thoſe he would delude. Tell him, That he has ruined me in the opinion of my own friends. I am for that reaſon the leſs ſolicitous how I appear to his.

Mrs. Moore then came to me; and being afraid, that ſomething would paſs mean time between the other two, which I ſhould not like, I took the let⯑ters, and entered the room, and found them retired into the cloſet; my beloved whiſpering with an air of earneſtneſs to Miſs Rawlins, who was all atten⯑tion.

Her back was towards me; and Miſs Rawlins, by pulling her ſleeve, giving intimation of my being there, Can I have no retirement uninvaded, Sir, ſaid ſhe, with indignation, as if ſhe was interrupted in ſome talk her heart was in?—What buſineſs have you here, or with me?—You have your letters, han't you?

I have, my dear; and let me beg of you to conſider what you are about. I every moment expect Capt. Tomlinſon here. Upon my ſoul, I do. He has promiſed to keep from your uncle what has happened.—But what will he think, if he finds you hold in this ſtrange humour?

I will endeavour, Sir, to have patience with you for a moment or two, while I aſk you a few [60] queſtions before this lady and Mrs. Moore [who juſt then came in], both whom you have prejudiced in your favour by your ſpecious ſtories:—Will you ſay, Sir, that we are married together? Lay your hand upon your heart, and anſwer me, Am I your wedded wife?

I am gone too far, thought I, to give up for ſuch a puſh as this—home-one as it is.

My deareſt ſoul! how can you put ſuch a que⯑ſtion?—Is it either for your honour or my own, that it ſhould be doubted?—Surely, ſurely, Madam, you cannot have attended to the contents of Capt. Tom⯑linſon's letter.

She complained often of want of ſpirits through⯑out our whole contention, and of weakneſs of perſon and mind, from the fits ſhe had been thrown into: But little reaſon had ſhe for this complaint, as I thought, who was able to hold me to it, as ſhe did. I own that I was exceſſively concern'd for her ſeve⯑ral times.

You and I! Vileſt of men—

My name is Lovelace, Madam—

Therefore it is, that I call you the vileſt of men. [Was this pardonable, Jack?] You and I know the truth, the whole truth—I want not to clear up my reputation with theſe gentlewomen:—That is already loſt with every one I had moſt reaſon to value: But let me have this new ſpecimen of what you are capable of— Say, wretch (ſay, Lovelace, if thou hadſt rather), Art thou really and truly my wedded huſhand?—Say! anſwer without heſitation!—

She trembled with impatient indignation; but had a wildneſs in her manner, which I took ſome advantage of, in order to parry this curſed thruſt—And a curſed thruſt it was; ſince, had I poſitively averr'd it, ſhe never would have believed any-thing I had ſaid: And had I owned that I was not married, I had deſtroyed my own plot, as well with the women as with her; and [61] could have had no pretence for purſuing her, or hin⯑dering her from going whitherſoever ſhe pleaſed. Not that I was aſham'd to averr it, had it been con⯑ſiſtent with policy. I would not have thee think me ſuch a milkſop neither.

My deareſt Love, how wildly you talk! What would you have me anſwer? Is it neceſſary that I ſhould anſwer? May I not re-appeal this to your own breaſt, as well as to Captain Tomlinſon's treaty and letter? You know yourſelf how matters ſtand between us.—And Captain Tomlinſon—

O wretch! Is this an anſwer to my queſtion? Say, Are we married, or are we not?

What makes a marriage, we all know. If it be the union of two hearts, [There was a turn, Jack!] to my utmoſt grief, I muſt ſay we are not; ſince now I ſee you hate me. If it be the comple⯑tion of marriage, to my confuſion and regret, I muſt own we are not. But, my dear, will you be pleaſed to conſider what anſwer half a dozen people whence you came, could give to your queſtion? And do not now, in the diſorder of your mind, and in the height of paſſion, bring into queſtion before theſe gentle⯑women a point you have acknowleged before thoſe who know us better.

I would have whiſper'd her about the treaty with her uncle, and the contents of the Captain's letter; But, retreating, and with a rejecting hand, Keep thy diſtance, man, cry'd the dear inſolent—To thy own heart I appeal, ſince thou evadeſt me thus piti⯑fully!—I own no marriage with thee! Bear witneſs, ladies, I do not. And ceaſe to torment me, ceaſe to follow me. Surely, ſurely, faulty as I have been, I have not deſerved to be thus perſecuted!—I reſume, therefore, my former language: You have no right to purſue me: You know you have not: Begone, then; and leave me to make the beſt of my hard lot. O my dear cruel papa! ſaid ſhe, in a violent [62] fit of grief (falling upon her knees, and claſping her uplifted hands together), thy heavy curſe is completed upon thy devoted daughter! I am puniſhed, dreadfully puniſhed, by the very wretch in whom I had placed my wicked confidence!

By my ſoul, Belford, the little witch with her words, but more by her manner, moved me! Won⯑der not then, that her action, her grief, her tears, ſet the women into the like compaſſionate manifeſta⯑tions.

Had not I a curſed taſk of it?

The two women withdrew to the further end of the room, and whiſper'd, A ſtrange caſe! There is no frenzy here—I juſt heard ſaid.

The charming creature threw her handkerchief over her head and neck, continuing kneeling, her back towards me, and her face hid upon a chair, and repeatedly ſobb'd with grief and paſſion.

I took this opportunity to ſtep to the women, to keep them ſteady.

You ſee, ladies (whiſpering), what an unhappy man I am! You ſee what a ſpirit this dear creature has!—All, all owing to her implacable relations, and to her father's curſe.—A curſe upon them all; they have turn'd the head of the moſt charming woman in the world.

Ah! Sir, Sir, replied Miſs Rawlins, whatever be the fault of her relations, all is not as it ſhould be be⯑tween you and her. 'Tis plain ſhe does not think herſelf married: 'Tis plain ſhe does not: And if you have any value for the poor lady, and would not totally deprive her of her ſenſes, you had better withdraw, and leave to time and cooler conſidera⯑tion the event in your favour.

She will compel me to this at laſt, I fear, Miſs Rawlins; I fear ſhe will; and then we are both un⯑done: For I cannot live without her; ſhe knows it too well:—And ſhe has not a friend will look upon [63] her: This alſo ſhe knows. Our marriage, when her uncle's friend comes, will be proved incon⯑teſtably. But I am aſhamed to think I have given her room to believe it no marriage: That's what ſhe harps upon!

Well, 'tis a ſtrange caſe, a very ſtrange one, ſaid Miſs Rawlins; and was going to ſay further, when the angry Beauty, coming towards the door, ſaid, Mrs. Moore, I beg a word with you. And they both ſtepped into the dining-room.

I ſaw her, juſt before, put a parcel into her pocket, and followed them out, for fear ſhe ſhould ſlip away; and ſtepping to the ſtairs, that ſhe might not go by me, Will. cry'd I, aloud (tho' I knew he was not near)—Pray, child, to a maid, who anſwered, call either of my ſervants to me.

She then came up to me, with a wrathful counte⯑nance: Do you call your ſervant, Sir, to hinder me, between you, from going whither I pleaſe?

Don't, my deareſt life, miſinterpret every thing I do. Can you think me ſo mean and ſo unworthy, as to employ a ſervant to conſtrain you?—I call him to ſend to the public houſes, or inns in this town, to inquire after Captain Tomlinſon, who may have alighted at ſome one of them, and be now, perhaps, needleſly adjuſting his dreſs; and I would have him come, were he to be without cloaths, God forgive me! for I am ſtabb'd to the heart by your cruelty.

Anſwer was returned, that neither of my ſervants was in the way.

Not in the way, ſaid I!—Whither can the dogs be gone?

O Sir! with a ſcornful air; Not far, I'll warrant. One of them was under the window juſt now; ac⯑cording to order, I ſuppoſe, to watch my ſteps—But I will do what I pleaſe, and go whither I pleaſe; and that to your face.

[64]God forbid, that I ſhould hinder you in any thing that you may do with ſafety to yourſelf!

Now I verily believe, that her deſign was, to ſlip out in purſuance of the cloſet-whiſpering between her and Miſs Rawlins; perhaps to Miſs Rawlins's houſe.

She then ſtept back to Mrs. Moore, and gave her ſomething, which proved to be a diamond ring, and deſired her, not whiſperingly, but with an air of defiance to me, that That might be a pledge for her, till ſhe defray'd her demands; which ſhe ſhould ſoon find means to do; having no more money about her, than ſhe might have occaſion for, before ſhe came to an acquaintance's.

Mrs. Moore would have declined taking it; but ſhe would not be deny'd; and then, wiping her eyes, ſhe put on her gloves—Nobody has a right to ſtop me, ſaid ſhe!—I will go!—Who ſhould I be afraid of?—Her very queſtion, charming creature! teſti⯑fying her fear.

I beg pardon, Madam (turning to Mrs. Moore, and courteſying), for the trouble I have given you.—I beg pardon, Madam, to Miſs Rawlins (courteſying likewiſe to her)—You may both hear of me in a happier hour, if ſuch a one falls to my lot—And God bleſs you both!—ſtruggling with her tears till ſhe ſobb'd—and away was tripping.

I ſtepped to the door: I put it to; and ſetting my back againſt it, took her ſtruggling hand—My deareſt life! My angel! ſaid I, why will you thus diſtreſs me? —Is this the forgiveneſs which you ſo ſolemnly pro⯑miſed?—

Unhand me, Sir!—You have no buſineſs with me! You have no right over me! You know you have not.

But whither, whither, my deareſt love, would you go?—Think you not that I will follow you, were it to the world's end?—Whither would you go?

Well do you aſk me, Whither I would go, who [65] have been the occaſion, that I have not a friend left! —But God, who knows my innocence, and my up⯑ [...]ight intentions, will not wholly abandon me, when I am out of your power—But while in it, I cannot expect a gleam of the divine grace or favour to reach me.

How ſevere is this!—How ſhockingly ſevere!— Out of your preſence, my angry fair one! I can neither hope for the one nor the other. As my couſin Montague, in the letter you have read, ob⯑ſerves, You are my pole-ſtar, and my guide; and if ever I am to be happy, either here or hereafter, it muſt be in and by you.

She would then have urged me from the door. But reſpectfully oppoſing her, Begone, man! Begone, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe.—Stop not my way.—If you would not that I ſhould attempt the window, give me paſſage by the door; for, once more, you have no right to detain me!

Your reſentments, my deareſt life, I will own to be well-grounded—I will acknowlege, that I have been all in fault. On my knee (and down I dropt) I aſk your pardon. And can you refuſe to ratify your own promiſe?—Look forward to the happy proſpect before us. See you not my Lord M. and Lady Sarah longing to bleſs you, for bleſſing me, and their whole family? Can you take no pleaſure in the promiſed viſit of Lady Betty and my couſin Mon⯑tague? And in the protection they offer you, if you are diſſatisfied with mine?—Have you no wiſh to ſee your uncle's friend?—Stay only till Captain Tomlin⯑ſon comes.—Receive from him the news of your uncle's compliance with the wiſhes of both.

She ſeem'd altogether diſtreſſed; was ready to ſink; and forced to lean againſt the wainſcot, as I kneeled at her feet. A ſtream of tears at laſt burſt from her leſs indignant e [...]es—Good heaven, ſaid ſhe, lifting up her lovely face, and claſped hands, what is [66] at laſt to be my deſtiny!—Deliver me from this dan⯑gerous man; and direct me!—I know not what I do; what I can do; nor what I ought to do!—

The women, as I had owned our marriage to be but half completed, heard nothing in this whole ſcene to contradict (not flagrantly to contradict) what I had aſſerted: They believed they ſaw in her returning temper, and ſtagger'd reſolution, a love for me, which her indignation had before ſuppreſſed; and they joined to perſuade her to tarry till the Captain came, and to hear his propoſals; repreſenting the dangers to which ſhe would be expoſed; the fatigues ſhe might endure; a lady of her appearance, unguarded, un⯑protected. On the other hand, they dwelt upon my declared contrition, and on my promiſes: For the performance of which they offered to be bound.—So much had my kneeling humility affected them.

Women, Jack, tacitly acknowlege the inferiority of their own ſex, in the pride they take to behold a kneeling lover at their feet.

She turned from me, and threw herſelf into a chair.

I aroſe, and approached her with reverence—My deareſt creature, ſaid I—and was proceeding—But, with a face glowing with conſcious dignity, ſhe inter⯑rupted me — Ungenerous, ungrateful Lovelace! — You know not the value of the heart you have in⯑ſulted! Nor can you conceive how much my ſoul deſpiſes your meanneſs. But meanneſs muſt ever be the portion of the man, who can act vilely!—

The women believing we were likely to be on better terms, retired. The dear perverſe oppoſed their going; but they ſaw I was deſirous of their ab⯑ſence. And when they had withdrawn, I once more threw myſelf at her feet, and acknowleged my offences; implored her forgiveneſs for this one time, and promiſed the exacteſt circumſpection for the fu⯑ture.

[67]It was impoſſible for her, ſhe ſaid, to keep her memory, and forgive me. What hadſt thou ſeen in the conduct of Clariſſa Harlowe, that ſhould encou⯑rage ſuch an inſult upon her, as thou didſt dare to make? How meanly muſt thou think of her, that thou couldſt preſume to be ſo guilty, and expect her to be ſo weak, as to forgive thee?—

I beſought her to let me go over with her Captain Tomlinſon's letter. I was ſure it was impoſſible ſhe could have given it the requiſite attention.

I have given it the requiſite attention, ſaid ſhe; and the other letters too. So that what I ſay, is upon deliberation. And what have I to fear from my brother and ſiſter?—They can but complete the ruin of my fortunes with my father and uncles. Let them, and welcome. You, Sir, I thank you, have lowered my fortunes: But, I bleſs God, that my mind is not ſunk with my fortunes. It is, on the contrary, raiſed above Fortune, and above You; and for half a word, they ſhall have the eſtate they have envied me for, and an acquittal of all expectations from my family, that may make them uneaſy.

I lifted up my hands and eyes in ſilent admiration of her!

My brother, Sir, may think me ruined. To the praiſe of your character, by whom I have been ſe⯑duced from them, he may think it it impoſſible to be with you, and be innocent. You have but too well juſtified their harſheſt cenſures in every part of your conduct. But I will, now that I have eſcaped from you, and that I am out of the reach of your myſte⯑rious devices, wrap myſelf up in my own innocence (and then ſhe paſſionately folded her arms about her⯑ſelf), and leave to time, and to my future circum⯑ſpection, the re-eſtabliſhment of my character.— Leave me then, Sir—Purſue me not!—

Good God! interrupting her—And all this, for what?—Hand I not yielded to your intreaties (For⯑give [68] me, Madam), you could not have carried farther your reſentments —

Wretch!—Was it not crime enough to give occa⯑ſion for thoſe intreaties? Wouldſt thou make a merit to me, that thou didſt not utterly ruin her whom thou oughteſt to have protected? — Begone, man! turning from me, her face crimſon'd over with paſ⯑ſion:—See me no more!—I cannot bear thee in my ſight!—

Deareſt, deareſt creature!—

If I forgive thee, Lovelace—And there ſhe ſtopp'd. To endeavour, proceeded ſhe, to endeavour, to terrify a poor creature by premeditation, by low contrivance, by cries of fire—A poor creature who had conſented to take a wretched chance with thee for life!

For Heaven's ſake—offering to take her repulſing hand, as ſhe was flying from me towards the cloſet—

What haſt thou to do, to plead the ſake of Heaven in thy favour, O darkeſt of human minds!

Then turning from me, wiping her eyes, and again turning towards me, but her ſweet face half-aſide, What difficulties haſt thou involved me in!—Thou that hadſt a plain path before thee, after thou hadſt betray'd me into thy power—At once my mind takes in the whole of thy crooked behaviour; and if thou thinkeſt of Clariſſa Harlowe as her proud heart tells her thou oughteſt to think of her, thou wilt ſeek thy fortunes elſewhere. How often haſt thou provoked me to tell thee, that my ſoul is above thee?

For God's ſake, Madam, for a ſoul's ſake, which it is in your power to ſave from perdition, forgive me the paſt offence. I am the greateſt villain on earth, if it was a premeditated one. Yet I preſume not to excuſe myſelf. On your mercy I throw myſelf. I will not offer at any plea, but that of penitence. See but Captain Tomlinſon. See but my aunt and couſin: let them plead for me; let them be guaranties for m [...] honour.

[69]If Captain Tomlinſon come while I ſtay here, I may ſee him. But as for you, Sir—

Deareſt creature! let me beg of you not to aggra⯑vate my offence to the Captain, when he comes. Let me beg of you—

What aſkeſt thou?—Is it not, that I ſhall be of party againſt myſelf?—That I ſhall palliate—

Do not charge me, Madam, interrupted I, with villainous premeditation!—Do not give ſuch a con⯑ſtruction to my offence, as may weaken your uncle's opinion—as may ſtrengthen your brother's—

She flung from me to the further end of the room; She could go no further—And juſt then Mrs. Moore came up, and told her, that dinner was ready; and that ſhe had prevailed upon Miſs Rawlins to give her her company.

You muſt excuſe me, Mrs. Moore, ſaid ſhe. Miſs Rawlins I hope alſo will—But I cannot eat. I can⯑not go down. As for you, Sir, I ſuppoſe you will think it right to depart hence; at leaſt till the gentle⯑man comes whom you expect.

I reſpectfully withdrew into the next room, that Mrs. Moore might acquaint her [I durſt not myſelf], that I was her lodger and boarder, as (whiſperingly) I deſired ſhe would: And meeting Miſs Rawlins in the paſſage, Deareſt Miſs Rawlins, ſaid I, ſtand my friend: Join with Mrs. Moore to pacify my ſpouſe, if ſhe has any new f [...]ights upon my having taken lodgings, and intending to board here. I hope ſhe will have more generoſity than to think of hindering a gentlewoman from letting her lodgings.

I ſuppoſe Mrs. Moore (whom I left with my fair one) had appriſed her of this before Miſs Rawlins went in; for I heard her ſay, while I with-held Miſs Rawlins— ‘No, indeed: He is much miſtaken— Surely he does not think I will.’

They both expoſtulated with her, as I could ga⯑ther from bits and ſcraps of what they ſaid; for they [70] ſpoke ſo low, that I could not hear any diſtinct ſen⯑tence, but from the fair perverſe, whoſe anger made her louder. And to this purpoſe I heard her deliver herſelf in anſwer to different parts of their talk to her: — ‘Good Mrs. Moore, dear Miſs Rawlins, preſs me no further—I cannot ſit down at table with him!’

They ſaid ſomething, as I ſuppoſe in my behalf— ‘O the inſinuating wretch!—What defence have I againſt a man, who, go where I will, can turn every one, even of the virtuous of my ſex, in his favour?’

After ſomething elſe ſaid, which I heard not di⯑ſtinctly,— ‘This is execrable cunning!—Were you to know his wicked heart, he is not without hope of engaging you two good perſons to ſecond him in the vileſt of his machinations.’

How came ſhe (thought I at the inſtant) by al [...] this penetration? My devil ſurely does not play m [...] booty. If I thought he did, I would marry, and live honeſt, to be even with him.

I ſuppoſe then, they urged the plea which I hinted to Miſs Rawlins at going in, that ſhe would not be Mrs. Moore's hindrance; for thus ſhe expreſſed her⯑ſelf— ‘He will no doubt pay you your own price. You need not queſtion his liberality. But one houſe cannot hold us. Why, if it would, did I fly from him, to ſeek refuge among ſtrangers?’

Then, in anſwer to ſomewhat elſe they pleaded— ‘'Tis a miſtake, Madam; I am not reconciled to him. I will believe nothing he ſays. Has he no [...] given you a flagrant ſpecimen of what a man he is, and of what he is capable, by the diſguiſes you ſaw him in? My ſtory is too long, and my ſtay here will be but ſhort; or I could convince you, tha [...] my reſentments againſt him are but too wel [...] founded.’

I ſuppoſe then, that they pleaded for her leave, for my dining with them: For ſhe ſaid; ‘I have nothing [71] to ſay to that—It is your own houſe, Mrs. Moore— It is your own table —You may admit whom you pleaſe to it—Only leave me at my liberty to chooſe my company.’

Then in anſwer, as I ſuppoſe, to their offer of ſending her up a plate— ‘A bit of bread, if you pleaſe, and a glaſs of water: That's all I can ſwallow at preſent. I am really very much diſcompoſed. Saw you not how bad I was?—Indignation only could have ſupported my ſpirits!—’

'I have no objection to his dining with you, Madam;' added ſhe, in reply, I ſuppoſe, to a farther queſtion of the ſame nature— ‘But I will not ſtay a night in the houſe, where he lodges, if I can help it.’

I preſume Miſs Rawlins had told her, that ſhe would not ſtay dinner—for ſhe ſaid, ‘Let me not deprive Mrs. Moore of your company, Miſs Raw⯑lins. You will not be diſpleaſed with his talk. He can have no deſign upon you.’

Then I ſuppoſe they pleaded what I might ſay be⯑hind her back, to make my own ſtory good;— ‘I care not what he ſays, or what he thinks of me. Repentance and amendment are all the harm I wiſh him, whatever becomes of me!’

By her accent, ſhe wept when ſhe ſpoke theſe laſt words.

They came out both of them wiping their eyes; and would have perſuaded me to relinquiſh the lodg⯑ings, and to depart till her uncle's friend came. But I knew better. I did not care to truſt the devil, well as ſhe and Miſs Howe ſuppoſe me to be acquainted with him, for finding her out again, if once more ſhe eſcaped me.

What I am moſt afraid of, is, that ſhe will throw herſelf among her own relations; and if ſhe does, I am confident they will not be able to withſtand her affecting eloquence. But yet, as thou'lt ſee, the Captain's letter to me is admirably calculated to ob⯑viate [72] my apprehenſions on this ſcore; particularly in that paſſage, where it is ſaid, that her uncle thinks not himſelf at liberty to correſpond directly with her, or to receive applications from her—But thro' Captain Tomlinſon, as is ſtrongly imply'd ^(a).

I muſt own (notwithſtanding the revenge I have ſo ſolemnly vowed) that I would very fain have made for her a merit with myſelf in her returning favour, and owed as little as poſſible to the mediation of Cap⯑tain Tomlinſon. My pride was concerned in this. And this was one of my reaſons for not bringing him with me. Another was; That, if I were ob⯑liged to have recourſe to his aſſiſtance, I ſhould be better able (by viſiting her without him) to direct him what to ſay or to do, as I ſhould find out the turn of her humour.

I was, however, glad at my heart, that Mrs. Moore came up ſo ſeaſonably with notice, that dinner was ready. The fair fugitive was all in Alt. She had the game in her own hands; and by giving me ſo good an excuſe for withdrawing, I had time to ſtrengthen myſelf; the Captain had time to come; and the Lady to cool. Shakeſpeare adviſes well.

I went down with the women to dinner. Mrs. Moore ſent her fair boarder up a plate; but ſhe only eat a little bit of bread, and drank a glaſs of water. [...] doubted not but ſhe would keep her word, when it [73] was once gone out. Is not ſhe an Harlowe?—She ſeems to be inuring herſelf to hardſhips, which, at the worſt, ſhe can never know; ſince, tho' ſhe ſhould ultimately refuſe to be obliged to me, or, to expreſs myſelf more ſuitably to my own heart, to oblige me, every one who ſees her muſt befriend her.

But let me aſk thee, Belford, Art thou not ſoli⯑citous for me, in relation to the contents of the letter which the angry beauty has written and diſpatch'd away by man and horſe; and for what may be Miſs Howe's anſwer to it? Art thou not ready to inquire, Whether it be not likely that Miſs Howe, when ſhe knows of her ſaucy friend's flight, will be concern'd about her letter, which ſhe muſt know could not be at Wilſon's till after that flight; and ſo, probably, would fall into my hands?—

All theſe things, as thou'lt ſee in the ſequel, are provided for with as much contrivance as human foreſight can admit.

I have already told thee, that Will. is upon the look-out for old Grimes.—Old Grimes is, it ſeems, a goſſiping, ſottiſh raſcal; and if Will. can but light of him, I'll anſwer for the conſequence: For has not Will. been my ſervant upwards of ſeven years?

LETTER V. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

WE had at dinner, beſides Miſs Rawlins, a young widow-niece of Mrs. Moore, who is come to ſtay a month with her aunt—Bevis her name; very forward, very lively, and a great admirer of me, I aſſure you; — hanging ſmirkingly upon all I ſaid; and prepared to approve of every word before I ſpoke: And who, by the time we had half-dined (by the help of what ſhe had collected before), was as [74] much acquainted with our ſtory, as either of the other two.

As it behoved me to prepare them in my favour againſt whatever might come from Miſs Howe, I im⯑proved upon the hint I had thrown out above-ſtairs againſt that miſchief-making Lady. I repreſented her to be an arrogant creature, revengeful, artful, enterpriſing, and one who, had ſhe been a man, would have ſworn and curs'd, and committed rapes, and play'd the devil, as far as I knew [and I have no doubt of it, Jack]: but who, nevertheleſs, by ad⯑vantage of a female education, and pride, and inſo⯑lence, I believed was perſonally virtuous.

Mrs. Bevis allowed, that there was a vaſt deal in education—and in pride too, ſhe ſaid. While Miſs Rawlins came with a prudiſh God forbid, that virtue ſhould be owing to education only! However, I declared, that Miſs Howe was a ſubtle contriver of miſchief; one who had always been my enemy: her motives I knew not: but, deſpiſing the man whom her mother was deſirous ſhe ſhould have, one Hick⯑man; altho' I did not directly averr, that ſhe would rather have had me; yet they all immediately ima⯑gined, that that was the ground of her animoſity to me, and of her envy to my beloved; and it was pity, they ſaid, that ſo fine a young Lady did not ſee thro' ſuch a pretended friend.

And yet nobody (added I) has more reaſon than ſhe to know by experience the force of a hatred founded in envy; as I hinted to you above, Mrs. Moore, and to you, Miſs Rawlins, in the caſe of her ſiſter Ara⯑bella.

I had compliments made to my perſon and talents on this occaſion; which gave me a ſingular opportu⯑nity of diſplaying my modeſty, by diſclaiming the merit of them, with a No, indeed!—I ſhould be very vain, Ladies, if I thought ſo. While thus abaſing [75] myſelf, and exalting Miſs Howe, I got their opinion both for modeſty and generoſity; and had all the graces which I diſclaimed, thrown in upon me, be⯑ſides.

In ſhort, they even oppreſſed that modeſty, which (to ſpeak modeſtly of myſelf) their praiſes created, by diſbelieving all I ſaid againſt myſelf.

And, truly, I muſt needs ſay, they have almoſt perſuaded even me myſelf, that Miſs Howe is actu⯑ally in love with me. I have often been willing to hope this. And who knows but ſhe may? The Cap⯑tain and I have agreed, that it ſhall be ſo inſinuated occaſionally—And what's thy opinion, Jack? She cer⯑tainly hates Hickman: And girls who are diſengaged ſeldom hate, tho' they may not love: And if ſhe had rather have another, why not that other ME? For am I not a ſmart fellow, and a rake? And do not your ſprightly Ladies love your ſmart fellows, and your rakes? And where is the wonder, that the man who could engage the affections of Miſs Harlowe, ſhould engage thoſe of a Lady (with her ^(a) Alas's) who would be honoured in being deemed her ſecond?

Nor accuſe thou me of SINGULAR vanity in this preſumption, Belford. Wert thou to know the ſe⯑cret vanity that lurks in the hearts of thoſe who diſ⯑guiſe or cloak it beſt, thou wouldſt find great reaſon to acquit, at leaſt to allow for, me: ſince it is gene⯑rally the conſcious over-fulneſs of conceit, that makes the hypocrite moſt upon his guard to conceal it.— Yet with theſe fellows, proudly-humble as they are, it will break out ſometimes in ſpite of thier cloaks, tho' but in ſelf-denying, compliment-begging ſelf-degra⯑dation.

But now I have appealed this matter to thee, let [76] me uſe another argument in favour of my obſerva⯑tion, that the Ladies generally prefer a rake to a ſober man; and of my preſumption upon it, that Miſs Howe is in love with me: It is this:—Common fame ſays, That Hickman is a very virtuous, a very innocent fellow—a male-virgin, I warrant!—An odd dog I al⯑ways thought him.—Now women, Jack, like not novices. They are pleaſed with a Love of the Sex that is founded in the knowlege of it. Reaſon good. Novices expect more than they can poſſibly find in the commerce with them. The man who knows them, yet has ardors for them, to borrow a word from Miſs Howe ^(a), tho' thoſe ardors are generally owing more to the devil within him, than to the witch without him, is the man who makes them the higheſt and moſt grateful compliment. He knows what to expect, and with what to be ſatisfied.

Then the merit of a woman, in ſome caſes, muſt be ignorance, whether real or pretended. The Man, in theſe caſes, muſt be an adept. Will it then be wondered at, that a woman prefers a libertine to a novice?—While ſhe expects in the one the confidence ſhe wants; ſhe conſiders the other and herſelf as two parallel lines; which, tho' they run ſide by ſide, can never meet.

Yet in this the Sex is generally miſtaken too; for theſe ſheepiſh fellows are fly.—I myſelf was modeſt once; and this, as I have elſewhere hinted to thee ^(b), has better enabled me to judge of both.—But to proceed with my narrative:

Having thus prepared every-one againſt any letter ſhould come from Miſs Howe, and againſt my belo⯑ved's meſſenger returns, I thought it proper to con⯑clude that ſubject with a hint, that my ſpouſe could not bear to have any-thing ſaid that reflected upon [77] Miſs Howe; and, with a deep ſigh, added, that I had been made very unhappy more than once by the ill-will of Ladies, whom I had never offended.

The widow Bevis believed, that might very eaſily be.

Theſe hints within-doors, joined with others to Will. both without and within (for I intend he ſhall fall in love with widow Moore's maid, and have ſaved one hundred pounds in my ſervice, at leaſt), will be great helps, as things may happen.

LETTER VI. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

WE had hardly dined, when my coachman, who kept a look-out for Captain Tomlinſon, as Will. did for old Grimes, conducted hither that worthy gentleman, attended by one ſervant, both on horſe⯑back. He alighted. I went out to meet him at the door.

Thou knoweſt his ſolemn appearance, and un⯑bluſhing freedom; and yet canſt not imagine what a dignity the raſcal aſſumed, nor how reſpectful to him I was.

I led him into the parlour, and preſented him to the women, and them to him.—I thought it highly imported me (as they might ſtill have ſome diffidences about our marriage, from my fair-one's home puſh'd queſtions on that head) to convince them intirely of the truth of all I had aſſerted. And how could I do this better, than by dialoguing with him before them a little?

Dear Captain, I thought you long; for I have had a terrible conflict with my ſpouſe.

I am ſorry that I am later than my inten⯑tion—My account with my banker—[There's a dog, [78] Jack!] took me up longer time to adjuſt than I had foreſeen

for there was a ſmall difference between us— only twenty pounds, indeed, which I had taken no account of. The raſcal has not ſeen twenty pounds of his own theſe ten years.

Then had we between us the characters of the Harlowe family: I railing againſt them all; the Cap⯑tain taking his dear friend Mr. John Harlowe's part; with a Not ſo faſt!—Not ſo faſt, young gentleman!— and the like free aſſumptions.

He accounted for their animoſity by my defiances: No good family, having ſuch a charming daughter, would care to be defied, inſtead of courted: He muſt ſpeak his mind: Never was a double-tongu'd man.— He appealed to the Ladies, if he were not right.

He got them of his ſide.

The correction I had given the brother, he told me, muſt have aggravated matters.

How valiant this made me look to the women!— The Sex love us mettled fellows at their hearts.

Be that as it would, I ſhould never love any of the family but my ſpouſe; and, wanting nothing from them, would not, but for her ſake, have gone ſo far as I had gone towards a reconciliation.

This was very good of me; Mrs. Moore ſaid.

Very good indeed; Miſs Rawlins.

Good!—It is more than good; it is very generous; ſaid the widow.

Why, ſo it is, I muſt needs ſay: For I am ſenſible, that Mr. Lovelace has been rudely treated by them all—More rudely, than it could have been imagined a man of his quality and ſpirit would have put up with. But then, Sir

I think you are amply rewarded in ſuch a Lady; and that you ought to forgive the father for the daugh⯑ter's ſake.

Indeed ſo I think.

So muſt every-one think, who has ſeen the Lady.

A fine Lady! to be ſure! But ſhe has a violent ſpirit; and ſome very odd humours too, by what I have heard. The value of good huſbands is not known till they are loſt!

Her conſcience then drew a ſigh from her.

Nobody muſt reflect upon my angel.—An angel ſhe is.—Some little blemiſhes, indeed, as to her over-haſty ſpirit, and as to her unforgiving tem⯑per. But this ſhe has from the Harlowes; inſtigated too by that Miſs Howe.—But her innumerable ex⯑cellencies are all her own.

Ay, talk of ſpirit, There's a ſpirit, now you have named Miſs Howe! [And ſo I led him to confirm all I had ſaid of that vixen.] Yet ſhe was to be pitied too, looking with meaning at me.

As I have already hinted, I had before agreed with him to impute ſecret love occaſionally to Miſs Howe, as the beſt means to invalidate all that might come from her in my disfavour.

Mr. Lovelace, but that I know your mo⯑deſty, or you could give a reaſon—

looking down, and very modeſt—I can't think ſo, Captain—But let us call another cauſe.

Every woman preſent could look me in the face, ſo baſhful was I.

Well, but, as to our preſent ſituation—Only it mayn't be proper— looking upon me, and round upon the women.

O Captain, you may ſay any-thing before this company—Only, Andrew, to my new ſervant, who attended us at table, do you withdraw: This good girl

will help us to all we want.

Away went Andrew: He wanted not his cue; and [80] the maid ſeemed highly pleaſed at my honour's pre⯑ference of her.

As to our preſent ſituation, I ſay, Mr. Love⯑lace—Why, Sir, we ſhall be all untwiſted, let me tell you, if my friend Mr. John Harlowe were to know what that is: He would as much queſtion the truth of your being married, as the reſt of the fa⯑mily do.

Here the women perked up their ears; and were all ſilent attention.

I asked you before for particulars, Mr. Love⯑lace: but you declined giving them.—Indeed it may not be proper for me to be acquainted with them.— But I muſt own, that it is paſt my comprehenſion, that a wife can reſent any-thing a huſband can do (that is not a breach of the peace), ſo far as to think herſelf juſtified for eloping from him.

Captain Tomlinſon—Sir—I do aſſure you, that I ſhall be offended—I ſhall be extremely con⯑cerned—if I hear that word mention'd again—

Your nicety, and your love, Sir, may make you take offence—But it is my way to call every⯑thing by its proper name, let who will be offended—

Thou canſt not imagine, Belford, how brave, and how independent, the raſcal look'd.

When, young Gentleman, you ſhall think proper to give us particulars, we will find a word that ſhall pleaſe you better, for this raſh act in ſo admi⯑rable a Lady—You ſee, Sir, that, being the repre⯑ſentative of my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe, I ſpeak as freely as I ſuppoſe he would do, if preſent. But you bluſh, Sir—I beg your pardon, Mr. Love⯑lace: It becomes not a modeſt man to pry into thoſe ſecrets, which a modeſt man cannot reveal.

I did not bluſh, Jack; but denied not the com⯑pliment, and looked down: the women ſeem'd de⯑lighted with my modeſty: but the widow Bevis was [81] more inclined to laugh at me, than praiſe me for it.

Whatever be the cauſe of this ſtep (I will not again, Sir, call it elopement, ſince that harſh word wounds your tenderneſs), I cannot but expreſs my ſurprize upon it, when I recollect the affection⯑ate behaviour, which I was witneſs to between you, when I attended you laſt. Over-love, Sir, I think you once mentioned—but Over-love

give me leave to ſay, Sir, is an odd cauſe of quarrel. — Few Ladies—

Dear Captain! And I tried to bluſh.

The women alſo tried; and, being more uſed to it, ſucceeded better.—Mrs. Bevis, indeed, has a red-hot countenance, and always bluſhes.

It ſignifies nothing to mince the matter: but the Lady above as good as denies her marriage. You know, Sir, that ſhe does; turning to me.

Denies her marriage! Heavens! how then have I impoſed upon my dear friend Mr. John Har⯑lowe!

Poor dear!—But let not her veracity be called in queſtion. She would not be guilty of a wil⯑ful untruth for the world.

Then I had all their praiſes again.

Dear creature!—ſhe thinks ſhe has reaſon for her denial. You know, Mrs. Moore; you know, Miſs Rawlins; what I owned to you above, as to my vow—

I look'd down, and, as once before, turned round my diamond ring.

Mrs. Moore looked awry; and with a leer at Miſs Rawlins, as to her partner in the hinted-at refer⯑ence.

Miſs Rawlins look'd down as well as I; her eye⯑lids half-cloſed, as if mumbling a Pater-noſter, me⯑ditating [82] her ſnuff-box, the diſtance between her noſe and chin lengthened by a cloſe-ſhut mouth.

She put me in mind of the pious Mrs. Fetherſtone at Oxford, whom I pointed out to thee once, among other groteſque figures, at St. Mary's church, where we went to take a view of her two ſiſters: Her eyes ſhut, not daring to truſt her heart with them open; and but juſt half-rearing the lids, to ſee who the next-comer was; and falling them again, when her curioſity was ſatisfied.

The widow Bevis gazed, as if on the hunt for a ſecret.

The Captain looked archly, as if half in poſſeſſion of one.

Mrs. Moore at laſt broke the baſhful ſilence. Mrs. Lovelace's behaviour, ſhe ſaid, could be no other⯑wiſe ſo well accounted-for, as by the ill-offices of that Miſs Howe; and by the ſeverity of her relations; which might but too probably have affected her head a little at times: Adding, that it was very generous in me to give way to the ſtorm, when it was up, ra⯑ther than to exaſperate at ſuch a time.

But let me tell you, Sirs, ſaid the widow Bevis, that is not what one huſband in a thouſand would have done.

I deſired, that no part of this converſation might be hinted to my ſpouſe; and looked ſtill more baſhfully. Her great fault, I muſt own, was over-delicacy.

The Captain leered round him; and ſaid, He be⯑lieved he could gueſs from the hints I had given him in town (of my over-love), and from what had now paſſed, that we had not conſummated our marriage.

O Jack! how ſheepiſhly then looked, or endea⯑voured to look, thy friend! how primly Goody Moore! how affectedly Miſs Rawlins!—while the honeſt widow Bevis gazed around her fearleſs; and [83] tho' only ſimpering with her mouth, her eyes laugh'd out-right, and ſeem'd to challenge a laugh from every eye in the company.

He obſerv'd, that I was a phoenix of a man, if ſo; and he could not but hope, that all matters would be happily accommodated in a day or two; and that then he ſhould have the pleaſure to averr to her uncle, that he was preſent, as he might ſay, on our wed⯑ding-day.

The women ſeem'd all to join in the ſame hope.

Ah, Captain! ah, Ladies!—how happy ſhould I be, if I could bring my dear ſpouſe to be of the ſame mind!

It would be a very happy concluſion of a very knotty affair, ſaid widow Bevis; and I ſee not why we may not make this very night a merry one.

The Captain ſuperciliouſly ſmiled at me. He ſaw plainly enough, he ſaid, that we had been at chil⯑drens play hitherto. A man of my character muſt have a prodigious value for his Lady, who could give way to ſuch a caprice as This. But one thing he would venture to tell me; and that was This—That, however deſirous young ſkittiſh Ladies might be to have their way in this particular, it was a very bad ſetting-out for the man; as it gave his bride a very high proof of the power ſhe had over him: And he would engage, that no woman, thus humoured, ever valued the man the more for it; but very much the contrary—And there were reaſons to be given why ſhe ſhould not.

Well, well, Captain, no more of this ſubject be⯑fore the Ladies.—One feels (in a baſhful try-to-bluſh manner, ſhrugging my ſhoulders), that one is ſo ridi⯑culous—I have been puniſh'd enough for my tender folly.

Miſs Rawlins had taken her fan, and would needs [84] hide her face behind it: I ſuppoſe becauſe her bluſh was not quite ready.

Mrs. Moore hemm'd, and look'd down, and by that, gave hers over.

While the jolly widow, laughing out, praiſed the Captain, as one of Hudibras's metaphyſicians, re⯑peating,

This made Miſs Rawlins bluſh indeed:—Fie, fie, Mrs. Bevis! cry'd ſhe, unwilling I ſuppoſe, to be thought abſolutely ignorant.

Upon the whole, I began to think, that I had not made a bad exchange of our profeſſing mother, for the un-profeſſing Mrs. Moore. And indeed the women and I, and my Beloved too, all mean the ſame thing: We only differ about the manner of coming at the propoſed end.

LETTER VII. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

IT was now high time to acquaint my ſpouſe, that Captain Tomlinſon was come. And the rather, as the maid told us, that the lady had aſked her, If ſuch a gentleman (deſcribing him) was not in the parlour?

Mrs. Moore went up, and requeſted, in my name, that ſhe would give us audience.

But ſhe return'd, with a deſire, that Captain Tomlinſon would excuſe her for the preſent. She was very ill. Her ſpirits were too weak to enter into converſation with him; and ſhe muſt lie down.

I was vexed, and, at firſt, extremely diſconcerted. [85] The Captain was vexed too. And my concern, thou mayſt believe, was the greater on his account.

She had been very much fatigued, I own. Her fits in the morning muſt have weaken'd her: And ſhe had carried her reſentment ſo high, that it was the leſs wonder ſhe ſhould find herſelf low, when her raiſed ſpirits had ſubſided. Very low, I may ſay; if ſinkings are proportioned to riſings; for ſhe had been lifted up above the ſtandard of a common mortal.

The Captain, however, ſent up in his own name, that if he could be admitted to drink one diſh of tea with her, he ſhould take it for a favour; and would go to town, and diſpatch ſome neceſſary buſineſs, if poſſible, to leave his morning free to attend her.

But ſhe pleaded a violent head-ach; and Mrs. Moore confirm'd the plea to be juſt.

I would have had the Captain lodge there that night, as well in compliment to him, as introductory to my intention of entering my ſelf upon my new-taken apartment. But his hours were of too much importance to him to ſtay the evening.

It was indeed very inconvenient for him, he ſaid, to return in the morning; but he was willing to do all in his power to heal this breach, and that as well for the ſakes of me and my lady, as for that of his dear friend Mr. John Harlowe; who muſt not know how far this miſunderſtanding had gone. He would therefore only drink one diſh of tea with the ladies and me.

And accordingly, after he had done ſo, and I had had a little private converſation with him, he hurried away.

His fellow had given him, in the interim, a high character to Mrs. Moore's ſervants: And this re⯑ported by the Widow Bevis (who, being no proud woman, is hail fellow, well met, as the ſaying is, with all her aunt's ſervants), he was a fine gentleman, a diſcreet gentleman, a man of ſenſe and breeding, with [86] them all: And it was pity, that, with ſuch great buſineſs upon his hands, he ſhould be obliged to come again.

My life for yours, audibly whiſper'd the Widow Bevis, There is humour as well as head-ach in Some⯑body's declining to ſee this worthy gentleman.—Ah, Lord! how happy might ſome people be, if they would!—

No perfect happineſs in this world, ſaid I, very gravely, and with a ſigh; for the widow muſt know that I heard her. If we have not real unhappineſs, we can make it, even from the overflowings of our own good fortune.

Very true, and, Very true, the two widows: A charming obſervation, Mrs. Bevis. Miſs Rawlins ſmil'd her aſſent to it; and I thought ſhe call'd me in her heart, Charming man! For ſhe profeſſes to be a great admirer of moral obſervations.

I had hardly taken leave of the Captain, and ſat down again with the women, when Will. came; and calling me out, 'Sir, Sir,' ſaid he, grinning with a familiarity in his looks, as if what he had to ſay in⯑titled him to take liberties; ‘I have got the fellow down!—I have got old Grimes—Hah, hah, hah, hah—He is at the Lower-Flaſk—Almoſt in the condition of David's ſow, and pleaſe your Honour —[The dog himſelf not much better] Here is his letter—from—from Miſs Howe—Ha, ha, ha, ha,’ laugh'd the varlet; holding it faſt, as if to make conditions with me, and to excite my praiſes, as well as my impatience.

I could have knock'd him down; but he would have his ſay out— ‘Old Grimes knows not that I have the letter—I muſt get back to him before he miſſes it—I only made a pretence to go out for a few minutes—But—but’ —and then the dog laugh'd [87] again— ‘He muſt ſtay—Old Grimes muſt ſtay—till I go back to pay the reckoning.’

D—n the prater!—Grinning raſcal!—The letter —The letter!—

He gather'd in his wide mothe, as he calls it, and gave me the letter; but with a ſtrut, rather than a bow; and then ſidled off like one of Widow Sorlings's dunghill cocks, exulting after a great feat performed. And all the time that I was holding up the billet to the light, to try to get at its contents, without break⯑ing the ſeal (for, diſpatch'd in a hurry, it had no cover), there ſtood he laughing, ſhrugging, playing off his legs; now ſtroking his ſhining chin; now turning his hat upon his thumb; then leering in my face, flouriſhing with his head—O Chriſt! now-and-then cry'd the raſcal—

What joy has this dog in miſchief!—More than I can have in the completion of my moſt favourite purpoſes!—Theſe fellows are ever happier than their maſters.

I was once thinking to rumple up this billet till I had broken the ſeal. Young families (Miſs Howe's is not an antient one) love oſtentatious ſealings: And it might have been ſuppoſed to have been ſqueez'd in pieces, in old Grimes's breeches pocket. But I was glad to be ſaved the guilt as well as ſuſpicion of having a hand in ſo dirty a trick; for thus much of the contents (enough for my purpoſe) I was enabled to ſcratch out in character, without it; the folds de⯑priving me only of a few connecting words; which I have ſupply'd between hooks.

My Miſs Harlowe, thou knoweſt, had before changed her name to Miſs Laetitia Beaumont. An⯑other alias now, Jack: I have learn'd her to be half a rogue in this inſtance; for this billet was directed to her by the name of Mrs. Harriot Lucas.

O Jack, what heart's-eaſe does this interception give me!—I ſent the raſcal back with the letter to old Grimes, and charg'd him to drink no deeper. He own'd, that he was half ſeas over, as he phraſed it.

Dog! ſaid I, are you not to court one of Mrs. Moore's maids to night?—

Cry your mercy, Sir!—I will be ſober.—I had forgot that—But old Grimes is plaguy tough—I thought I ſhould never have got him down.

Away, villain!—Let old Grimes come; and on horſeback, too, to the door—

He ſhall, and pleaſe your Honour, if I can get him on the ſaddle, and if he can ſit—

And charge him not to have alighted, nor to have ſeen any-body—

[89]Enough, Sir! familiarly nodding his head, to ſhew he took me. And away went the villain: Into the parlour, among the women, I.

In a quarter of an hour came old Grimes on horſe⯑back, waving to his ſaddle-bow, now on this ſide, now on that; his head, at others, joining to that of his more ſober beaſt.

It look'd very well to the women, that I made no effort to ſpeak to old Grimes (tho' I wiſh'd before them, that I knew the contents of what he brought); but, on the contrary, deſired that they would in⯑ſtantly let my ſpouſe know, that her meſſenger was return'd. Down ſhe flew, violently as ſhe had the head-ach!

O how I pray'd for an opportunity to be reveng'd of her, for the ingrateful trouble ſhe had given to her uncle's friend!

She took the letter from old Grimes with her own hands, and retired to an inner parlour to read it.

She preſently came out again to the fellow, who had much ado to ſit his horſe—Here is your money, friend. I thought you long. But what ſhall I do to get ſomebody to go to town immediately for me? I ſee you cannot.

Old Grimes took his money; let fall his hat in d'offing it; had it given him; and rode away; his eyes iſing-glaſs, and ſet in his head, as I ſaw thro' the window; and in a manner ſpeechleſs; all his language hiccoughs. My dog need not have gone ſo deep with this tough old Grimes.—But the raſcal was in his kingdom with him.

The lady apply'd to Mrs. Moore: She matter'd not the price. Could a man and horſe be engaged for her?—Only to go for a letter left for her, at one Mr. Wilſon's in Pall-mall.

A poor neighbour was hired. A horſe procured for him. He had his directions.

[90]In vain did I endeavour to engage my Beloved, when ſhe was below. Her head-ach, I ſuppoſe, re⯑turn'd. She, like the reſt of her ſex, can be ill or well when ſhe pleaſes —

I ſee her drift, thought I: It is to have all her lights from Miſs Howe before ſhe reſolves; and to take her meaſures accordingly.

Up ſhe went, expreſſing great impatience about the letter ſhe had ſent for; and deſired Mrs. Moore to let her know, if I offer'd to ſend any of my ſer⯑vants to town—To get at the letter, I ſuppoſe, was her fear. But ſhe might have been quite eaſy on that head; and yet perhaps would not, had ſhe known, that the worthy Captain Tomlinſon (who will be in town before her meſſenger) will leave there the important letter: Which I hope will help to pacify her, and to reconcile her to me.

O Jack! Jack! thinkeſt thou that I will take all this roguiſh pains, and be ſo often called villain, for nothing?

But yet, is it not taking pains to come at the fineſt creature in the world, not for a tranſitory moment only, but for one of our lives?—The ſtruggle, Whether I am to have her in my own way, or in hers?

But now I know thou wilt be frighten'd out of thy wits for me—What, Lovelace! wouldſt thou let her have a letter that will inevitably blow thee up; and blow up the mother, and all her nymphs!—yet not intend to reform, to marry?

Patience, puppy! Canſt thou not truſt thy maſter?

LETTER VIII. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

I Went up to my new-taken apartment, and fell to writing in character, as uſual. I thought I had made good my quarters. But the cruel creature, un⯑derſtanding [91] that I intended to take up my lodgings there, declared with ſo much violence againſt it, that I was obliged to ſubmit, and to accept of another lodging, about twelve doors off, which Mrs. Moore recommended. And all the advantage I could ob⯑tain, was, that Will. unknown to my ſpouſe, and for fear of a freak, ſhould lie in the houſe.

Mrs. Moore, indeed, was unwilling to diſoblige either of us. But Miſs Rawlins was of opinion, that nothing more ought to be allow'd me: And yet Mrs. Moore owned, that the refuſal was a ſtrange piece of tyranny to an huſband, if I were an huſ⯑band.

I had a good mind to make Miſs Rawlins ſmart for it. Come and ſee Miſs Rawlins, Jack—If thou likeſt her, I'll get her for thee with a wet finger, as the ſaying is!

The Widow Bevis indeed ſtickled hard for me [An innocent or injur'd man will have friends every⯑where]. She ſaid, That to bear much with ſome wives, was to be obliged to bear more: And I reflected, with a ſigh, that tame ſpirits muſt always be impoſed upon. And then, in my heart, I renew'd my vows of revenge upon this haughty and perverſe beauty.

The ſecond fellow came back from town about nine o'clock, with Miſs Howe's letter of Wedneſ⯑day laſt. ‘Collins, it ſeems, when he left it, had deſired, that it might be ſafely and ſpeedily de⯑livered into Miſs Laetitia Beaumont's own hands. But Wilſon, underſtanding that neither ſhe nor I were in town [He could not know of our difference, thou muſt think], reſolved to take care of it till our return, in order to give it into one of our own hands; and now deliver'd it to her meſſenger.’

This was told her. Wilſon, I doubt not, is in her favour upon it.

[92]She took the letter with great eagerneſs, open'd it in a hurry [I am glad ſhe did: Yet, I believe, all was right] before Mrs. Moore, and Mrs. Bevis (Miſs Rawlins was gone home); and ſaid, She would not for the world, that I ſhould have had that letter; for the ſake of her dear friend the writer; who had written to her very uneaſily about it.

Her dear friend! repeated Mrs. Bevis, when ſhe told me this; — Such miſchief-makers are always deem'd dear friends till they are found out!

The widow ſays, that I am the fineſt gentleman ſhe ever beheld.

I have found a warm kiſs now-and-then very kindly taken.

I might be a very wicked fellow, Jack, if I were to do all the miſchief in my power. But I am ever⯑more for quitting a too-eaſy prey to reptile-rakes. What but difficulty (tho' the lady is an angel), en⯑gages me to ſo much perſeverance here? And here, Conquer or die, is now the determination!

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

THE lady gave Will's ſweetheart a letter laſt night to be carried to the poſt-houſe as this morning, directed for Miſs Howe, under cover to [99] Hickman. I dare ſay neither cover nor letter will be ſeen to have been open'd. The contents but eight lines—To own— ‘The receipt of her double-dated letter in ſafety: and referring to a longer let⯑ter, which ſhe intends to write, when ſhe ſhall have a quieter heart, and leſs trembling fingers. But mentions ſomething to have happen'd [My detecting her, ſhe means], which has given her very great flutters, confuſions, and apprehenſions: But which ſhe will await the iſſue of [Some hopes for me hence, Jack!] before ſhe gives her freſh perturbation or concern on her account.—She tells her how impatient ſhe ſhall be for her next, &c.’

Now, Belford, I thought it would be but kind in me to ſave Miſs Howe's concern on theſe alarming hints; ſince the curioſity of ſuch a ſpirit muſt have been prodigiouſly excited by them. Having there⯑fore ſo good a copy to imitate, I wrote; and, taking out that of my Beloved, put under the ſame cover the following ſhort billet; inſcriptive and con⯑cluſive parts of it in her own words.

I took great pains in writing this. It cannot, I hope, be ſuſpected. Her hand is ſo very delicate. [100] Yet hers is written leſs beautifully than ſhe uſually writes: And I hope Miſs Howe will allow ſomewhat for hurry of ſpirits, and unſteady fingers.

My conſideration for Miſs Howe's eaſe of mind extended ſtill farther than to the inſtance I have mentioned.

That this billet might be with her as ſoon as poſ⯑ſible (and before it could have reach'd Hickman by the poſt), I diſpatch'd it away by a ſervant of Mow⯑bray's. Miſs Howe, had there been any failure or delay, might, as thou wilt think, have communicated her anxieties to her fugitive friend; and ſhe to me, per⯑haps, in a way I ſhould not have been pleaſed with.

Once more wilt thou wonderingly queſtion—All this pains for a ſingle girl?

Yes, Jack! —But is not this girl a CLARISSA?— And who knows, but kind Fortune, as a reward for my perſeverance, may toſs me in her charming friend? Leſs likely things have come to paſs, Bel⯑ford!—And to be ſure I ſhall have her, if I reſolve upon it.

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

I Am come back from Mrs. Moore's, whither I went in order to attend my charmer's commands. But no admittance. A very bad night.

Doubtleſs ſhe muſt be as much concern'd, that ſhe has carried her reſentments ſo very far, as I have reaſon to be, that I made ſuch a poor uſe of the op⯑portunity I had on Wedneſday night.

But now, Jack, for a brief review of my preſent ſituation; and a ſlight hint or two of my precautions.

I have ſeen the women this morning, and find them half-right, half-doubting.

[101]Miſs Rawlins's brother tells her, that ſhe lives at Mrs. Moores's.

Mrs. Moore can do nothing without Miſs Raw⯑lins.

People who keep lodgings at public places expect to get by every one who comes into their purlieus. Tho' not permitted to lodge there myſelf, I have engag'd all the rooms ſhe has to ſpare, to the very gar⯑rets; and that, as I have told thee before, for a month certain, and at her own price, board included; my ſpouſe's and all: But ſhe muſt not, at preſent, know it. So I hope I have Mrs. Moore faſt by the intereſt.

This, devil-like, is ſuiting temptations to in⯑clinations.

I have always obſerved, and, I believe, I have [...]inted as much formerly ^(a), that all dealers, tho' but for pins, may be taken in by cuſtomers for pins, ſooner than by a direct bribe of ten times the value; eſpecially if pretenders to conſcience: For the offer of a bribe, would not only give room for ſuſpicion; but would ſtartle and alarm their ſcrupulouſneſs; while a high price paid for what you buy, is but ſub⯑mitting to be cheated in the method the perſon makes a profeſſion to get by. Have I not ſaid, that human nature is a rogue ^(c)?—And do not I know it?

To give a higher inſtance, How many proud ſena⯑tors, in the year 1720, were induced, by preſents or ſubſcriptions of South Sea ſtock, to contribute to a ſcheme big with national ruin; who yet would have ſpurn'd the man who ſhould have preſumed to offer them even twice the ſum certain, that they had a chance to gain by the ſtock?—But to return to my review, and my precautions.

Miſs Rawlins fluctuates as ſhe hears the lady's ſtory, or as ſhe hears mine. Somewhat of an infi⯑del, I doubt, is this Miſs Rawlins. I have not yet [102] conſider'd her foible. The next time I ſee her, I will take particular notice of all the moles and freckles in her mind; and then infer and apply.

The Widow Bevis, as I have told thee, is all my own.

My man Will. lies in the houſe. My other new fellow attends upon me; and cannot therefore be quite ſtupid.

Already is Will. over head and ears in love with one of Mrs. Moore's maids. He was ſtruck with her the moment he ſet his eyes upon her. A raw country wench too. But all women, from the counteſs to the cookmaid, are put into high good humour with themſelves, when a man is taken with them at firſt ſight. Be they ever ſo plain [No woman can be ugly, Jack!], they'll find twenty good reaſons, beſides the great one, for Sake's ſake, by the help of the glaſs without (and perhaps in ſpite of it), and conceit within, to juſtify the honeſt fellow's caption.

"The rogue has ſaved 150 l. in my ſervice"— More by 50 than I bid him ſave. No doubt he thinks he might have done ſo; tho', I believe, not worth a groat. ‘The beſt of maſters I—Paſſionate, indeed: But ſoon appeaſed.’

The wench is extremely kind to him already. The other maid is alſo very civil to him. He has a huſ⯑band for her in his eye. She cannot but ſay, that Mr. Andrew, my other ſervant [The girl is for fixing the perſon] is a very well-ſpoken civil young man.

‘We common folks have our joys, and pleaſe your Honour, ſays honeſt Joſeph Leman, like as our betters have ^(a).’ And true ſays honeſt Jo⯑ſeph—Did I prefer eaſe to difficulty, I ſhould envy theſe low-degree ſinners ſome of their joys.

But if Will. had not made amorous pretenſions to the wenches, we all know, that ſervants, united in [103] one common compare-note cauſe, are intimate the moment they ſee one another—Great genealogiſts too; they know immediately the whole kin and kin's kin of each other, tho' diſperſed over the three king⯑doms, as well as the genealogies and kin's kin of thoſe they ſerve.

But my precautions end not here.

O Jack, with ſuch an invention, what occaſion had I to carry my Beloved to Mrs. Sinclair's?

My ſpouſe may have further occaſion for the meſ⯑ſengers whom ſhe diſpatch'd, one to Miſs Howe, the other to Wilſon's. With one of theſe Will. is al⯑ready well-acquainted, as thou haſt heard—To mingle liquor is to mingle ſouls with theſe fellows: With the other he will ſoon be acquainted, if he be not al⯑ready.

The Captain's ſervant has his uſes and inſtructions aſſign'd him. I have hinted at ſome of them al⯑ready ^(a). He alſo ſerves a moſt humane and con⯑ſiderate maſter. I love to make every-body reſpected to my power.

The poſt, general and peny, will be ſtrictly watch'd likewiſe.

Miſs Howe's Collins is remember'd to be de⯑ſcribed. Miſs Howe's and Hickman's liveries alſo.

James Harlowe and Singleton are warned againſt. I am to be acquainted with any inquiry that ſhall happen to be made after my ſpouſe, whether by her married or maiden name, before ſhe ſhall be told of it—And this that I may have it in my power to prevent miſchief.

I have order'd Mowbray and Tourville (and Belton, if his health permit) to take their quarters at Ham⯑ſtead for a week, with their fellows to attend them. I ſpare thee for the preſent, becauſe of thy private [104] concerns. But hold thyſelf in chearful readineſs however, as a mark of thy allegiance.

As to my ſpouſe herſelf, has ſhe not reaſon to be pleaſed with me, for having permitted her to receive Miſs Howe's letter from Wilſon's? A plain caſe, either that I am no deep plotter, or that I have no further views but to make my peace with her, for an offence ſo ſlight, and ſo accidental.

Miſs Howe ſays, tho' prefaced with an alas! that her charming friend loves me: She muſt therefore yearn after this reconciliation—Proſpects ſo fair—If ſhe uſed me with leſs rigor, and more politeneſs; if ſhe ſhewed me any compaſſion; ſeemed inclinable to ſpare me, and to make the moſt favourable conſtructions; I cannot but ſay, that it would be impoſſible not to ſhew her ſome. But to be inſulted and defied by a rebel in one's power, what prince can bear that?

But I return to the ſcene of action. I muſt keep the women ſteady. I had no opportunity to talk to my worthy Mrs. Bevis in private.

Tomlinſon, a dog, not come yet!

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

MISS Rawlins at her brother's; Mrs. Moore en⯑gaged in houſhold matters; Widow Bevis dreſſing; I have nothing to do but write. This curſed Tomlinſon not yet arrived! Nothing to be done without him.

I think he ſhall complain in pretty high language of the treatment he met with yeſterday. ‘What are our affairs to him? He can have no view but to ſerve us. Cruel, to ſend back to town, un⯑audienced, unſeen, a man of his buſineſs and im⯑portance. [105] He never ſtirs a foot, but ſomething of conſequence depends upon his movements. A confounded thing to trifle thus humourſomely with ſuch a gentleman's moments! — Theſe women think, that all the buſineſs of the world muſt ſtand ſtill for their figaries [A good female word, Jack!]: The greateſt triflers in the creation, to fancy them⯑ſelves the moſt important beings in it—Marry come up! as I have heard Goody Sorlings ſay to her ſer⯑vants, when ſhe has rated at them, with mingled anger and diſdain.’

After all, methinks I want theſe toſtications [Thou ſeeſt how women, and womens words, fill my mind] to be over, happily over, that I may ſit down quietly, and reflect upon the dangers I have paſſed thro', and the troubles I have undergone. I have a reflecting mind, as thou knoweſt; but the very word implies, All got over.

What bryars and thorns does the wretch ruſh into (a ſcratch'd face and tatter'd garments the unavoid⯑able conſequence), who will needs be for ſtriking out a new path thro' overgrown underwood; quitting that beaten out for him by thoſe who have travelled the ſame road before him!

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

WHAT will be the iſſue of all my plots and con⯑trivances, devil take me if I am able to divine! But I will not, as Lord M. would ſay foreſtall my own market.

At four, the appointed hour, I ſent up, to deſire admittance in the Captain's name and my own.

She would wait upon the Captain preſently [Not upon me!]; and in the parlour, if it were not en⯑gaged.

The dining-room being mine, perhaps that was the reaſon of her naming the parlour—Mighty nice again, if ſo!—No good ſign for me, thought I, this ſtiffneſs.

In the parlour, with me and the Captain, were Mrs. Moore, Miſs Rawlins, and Mrs. Bevis.

The women ſaid, they would withdraw, when the Lady came down.

Not, except ſhe chooſes you ſhould, La⯑dies.—People who are ſo much above-board as I am, need not make ſecrets of any of their affairs. Beſides, you three Ladies are now acquainted with all our concerns.

I have ſome things to ſay to your Lady, that perhaps ſhe would not herſelf chooſe that any-body ſhould hear; not even you, Mr. Lovelace, as you and her family are not upon ſuch a good foot of under⯑ſtanding as were to be wiſhed.

Well, well, Captain, I muſt ſubmit. Give us a ſign to withdraw; and we will withdraw.

It was better that the excluſion of the women ſhould come from him, than from me.

I will bow, and wave my hand, thus— when I wiſh to be alone with the lady. Her uncle dotes upon her: I hope, Mr. Lovelace, you will not make a reconciliation more difficult, for the earneſt⯑neſs which my dear friend ſhews to bring it to bear: But indeed I muſt tell you, as I told you more than once before, that I am afraid you have made lighter of the occaſion of this miſunderſtanding to me, than it ought to have been made.

I hope, Captain Tomlinſon, you do not queſtion my veracity!

I beg your pardon, Mr. Lovelace—But thoſe things which we men may think lightly of, may not be ſo to a lady of delicacy.—And then, if you have bound yourſelf by a vow, you ought—

Miſs Rawlins bridling, her lips cloſed

tacitly ſhewed herſelf pleaſed with the Captain for his delicacy.

Mrs. Moore could ſpeak—Very true, however, was all ſhe ſaid, with a motion of her head that expreſſed the bow-approbatory.

For my part, ſaid the jolly widow, ſtaring with eyes as big as eggs, I know what I know—But Man and Wife are Man and Wife; or they are not Man and Wife.—I have no notion of ſtanding upon ſuch niceties.

But here ſhe comes! cried one—hearing her cham⯑ber-door open—Here ſhe comes! another—hearing it ſhut after her—And down dropt the angel among us.

We all ſtood up, bowing and courteſying; and could not help it. For ſhe entered with ſuch an air as commanded all our reverence. Yet the Captain look'd plaguy grave.

Pray keep your ſeats, Ladies—Pray do not go

Before this time you have heard all my ſtory, I make no doubt—Pray keep your ſeats—At leaſt all Mr. Lovelace's.

A very ſaucy and whimſical beginning, thought I.

Capt. Tomlinſon, your ſervant, addreſſing herſelf to him with inimitable dignity. I hope you did not take amiſs my declining your viſit yeſterday. I was really incapable of talking upon any ſubject that re⯑quired attention.

I am glad I ſee you better now, Madam. I hope I do.

Indeed I am not well. I would not have ex⯑cuſed myſelf from attending you ſome hours ago, but in hopes I ſhould have been better. I beg your par⯑don, Sir, for the trouble I have given you; and ſhall the rather expect it, as this day will, I hope, con⯑clude it all.

Thus ſet! thus determin'd! thought I—Yet to have ſlept upon it!—But, as what ſhe ſaid was capable of a good, as well as a bad conſtruction, I would not put an unfavourable one upon it.

The Captain was ſorry, my dear, he did not offer his attendance the moment he arrived yeſter⯑day. He was afraid that you took it amiſs, that he did not.

Perhaps I thought that my uncle's friend might have wiſhed to ſee me as ſoon as he came [How we ſtared!]—But, Sir

it might be convenient to you to detain him.

The devil, thought I!—So there really was reſent⯑ment, as well as head-ach, as my good friend Mrs. Bevis obſerved, in her refuſing to ſee the honeſt gen⯑tleman.

You would detain me, Mr. Lovelace—I was for paying my reſpects to the lady the moment I came—

Well, Sir

to wave this; for I would not be thought captious—If you have not ſuffer'd inconveniency, in being obliged to come again, I ſhall be eaſy.

A little, I can't ſay but I have. I have, indeed, too many affairs upon my hands. But the deſire I have to ſerve you and Mr. Lovelace, as well as to oblige my dear friend your uncle Harlowe, make great inconveniencies but ſmall ones.

You are very obliging, Sir.—Here is a great alteration ſince you parted with us laſt.

A great one indeed, Madam! I was very much ſurpriſed at it, on Thurſday evening, when Mr. Lovelace conducted me to your lodgings, where we hoped to find you.

Have you any thing to ſay to me, Sir, from my uncle himſelf, that requires my private ear? Don't go, Ladies

:—If Mr. Lovelace ſtays, I am ſure you may.

I frown'd. I bit my lip. I looked at the women; and ſhook my head.

I have nothing to offer, but what Mr. Love⯑lace is a party to, and may hear, except one private word or two, which may be poſtponed to the laſt.

Pray, Ladies, keep your ſeats.—Things are altered, Sir, ſince I ſaw you. You can mention no⯑thing that relates to me now, to which that gentleman can be a party.

You ſurpriſe me, Madam! I am ſorry to hear this!—Sorry for your uncle's ſake!—Sorry for your ſake!—Sorry for Mr. Lovelace's ſake—And yet I am ſure he muſt have given greater occaſion than he has mentioned to me, or—

Indeed, Captain, Indeed, Ladies, I have told you great part of my ſtory!—And what I told you of my offence was the truth;—What I concealed [112] of my ſtory was only what I apprehended would, if known, cauſe this dear creature to be thought more cenſorious than charitable.

Well, well, Sir, ſay what you pleaſe. Make me as black as you pleaſe. Make yourſelf as white as you can. I am not now in your power: That will comfort me for all.

God forbid that I ſhould offer to plead in behalf of a crime, that a lady of virtue and honour cannot forgive. But ſurely, ſurely, Madam, this is going too far.

Do not blame me, Capt. Tomlinſon. I have a good opinion of you, as my uncle's friend. But if you are Mr. Lovelace's friend, that is another thing; for my intereſts and Mr. Lovelace's muſt now be for ever ſeparated.

One word with you, Madam, if you pleaſe —offering to retire.

You may ſay all that you pleaſe to ſay before theſe gentlewomen, Mr. Lovelace may have ſecrets. I have none. You ſeem to think me faulty: I ſhould be glad, that all the world knew my heart. Let my enemies ſit in judgment upon my actions: Fairly ſcanned, I fear not the reſult. Let them even aſk me my moſt ſecret thoughts, and, whether they make for me, or againſt me, I will reveal them.

Noble Lady! who can ſay as you ſay?

The women held up their hands and eyes; each, as if ſhe had ſaid, Not I.

No diſorder here, ſaid Miſs Rawlins! But (judg⯑ing by her own heart) A confounded deal of impro⯑bability, I believe ſhe thought.

Finely ſaid, to be ſure ſaid the widow Bevis, ſhrugging her ſhoulders.

Mrs. Moore ſighed.

Jack Belford, thought I, knows all mine: And in this I am more ingenuous than any of the three, and a fit match for this paragon.

How Mr. Lovelace has found me out here, I cannot tell. But ſuch mean devices, ſuch artful, ſuch worſe than Waltham diſguiſes put on, to ob⯑trude himſelf into my company; ſuch bold, ſuch ſhocking untruths—

The favour of but one word, Madam, in private—

In order to ſupport a right which he has not over me!—O Sir, O Capt. Tomlinſon!—I think I have reaſon to ſay, that the man is capable of any vileneſs!—

The women looked upon one another, and upon me, by turns, to ſee how I bore it. I had ſuch dartings in my head at the inſtant, that I thought I ſhould have gone diſtracted. My brain ſeemed on fire. What would I have given to have had her alone with me!—I traverſed the room; my clenched fiſt to my forehead. O that I had any-body here, thought I, that, Hercules-like, when flaming in the tortures of Deianira's poiſon'd ſhirt, I could tear in pieces?

Dear Lady! ſee you not how the poor gen⯑tleman—Lord, how have I impoſed upon your un⯑cle, at this rate! How happy, did I tell him, I ſaw you! How happy I was ſure you would be in each other!

Oh, Sir, you don't know how many preme⯑ditated offences I had forgiven when I ſaw you laſt, before I could appear to you, what I hoped then I might for the future be!—But now you may tell my uncle, if you pleaſe, that I cannot hope for his me⯑diation. Tell him, that my guilt, in giving this man an opportunity to ſpirit me away from my try'd, my experienced, my natural friends, harſhly as they treated me, ſtares me every day more and more in the face; and ſtill the more, as my fate ſeems to be drawing to a criſis, according to the malediction of my offended father!

[114]And then ſhe burſt into tears, which even affected that dog, who, brought to abet me, was himſelf all Belforded over.

The women, ſo uſed to cry without grief, as they are to laugh without reaſon, by mere force of ex⯑ample [confound their promptitudes!], muſt needs pull out their handkerchiefs. The leſs wonder, how⯑ever, as I myſelf, between confuſion, ſurprize, and concern, could hardly ſtand it.

What's a tender heart good for!—Who can be happy, that has a feeling heart?—And yet thou'lt ſay, that he who has it not, muſt be a tyger, and no man.

Let me beg the favour of one word with you, Madam, in private; and that on my own ac⯑count.

The women hereupon offered to retire. She in⯑ſiſted, that if they went, I ſhould not ſtay.

Sir, bowing to me, ſhall I beg—

I hope, thought I, that I may truſt this ſolemn dog, inſtructed as he is. She does not doubt him. I'll ſtay out no longer than to give her time to ſpend her firſt fire.

I then paſſively withdrew, with the women—But with ſuch a bow to my goddeſs, that it won for me every heart but that I wanted moſt to win; for the haughty maid bent not her knee in return.

The converſation between the Captain and the Lady, when we were retired, was to the following effect: They both talked loud enough for me to hear them. The Lady from anger, the Captain with de⯑ſign; and, thou mayſt be ſure, there was no liſtener but myſelf. What I was imperfect in was ſupply'd afterwards; for I had my vellom-leav'd book, to note all down.—If ſhe had known this, perhaps ſhe would have been more ſparing of her invectives— and but perhaps neither.

[115]He told her, that as her brother was abſolutely re⯑ſolved to ſee her; and as he himſelf, in compliance with her uncle's expedient, had reported her mar⯑riage; and as that report had reached the ears of Lord M. Lady Betty, and the reſt of my relations; and as he had been obliged, in conſequence of his firſt report, to vouch it; and as her brother might find out where ſhe was, and apply to the women here, for a confirmation or refutation of the mar⯑riage; he had thought himſelf obliged to countenance the report before the women: That this had em⯑baraſſed him not a little, as he would not for the world that ſhe ſhould have cauſe to think him capa⯑ble of prevarication, contrivance, or double-dealing: And that this made him deſirous of a private conver⯑ſation with her.

It was true, ſhe ſaid, ſhe had given her conſent to ſuch an expedient, believing it was her uncle's; and little thinking, that it would lead to ſo many er⯑rors. Yet ſhe might have known, that one error is frequently the parent of many. Mr. Lovelace had made her ſenſible of the truth of that obſervation, on more occaſions than one; and it was an obſervation that he the Captain had made, in one of the letters that was ſhewn her yeſterday ^(a).

He hoped, that ſhe had no miſtruſt of him. That ſhe had no doubts of his honour. If, Madam, you ſuſpect me—If you think me capable—What a man— The Lord be merciful to me!—What a man muſt you think me!

I hope, Sir, there cannot be a man in the world, who could deſerve to be ſuſpected in ſuch a caſe as this. I do not ſuſpect you. If it were poſſible there could be one ſuch man, I am ſure, Capt. Tomlinſon, a father of children, a man in years, of ſenſe and experience, cannot be that man.

[116]He told me, that juſt then, he thought he felt a ſudden flaſh from her eye, an eye-beam, as he called it, dart thro' his ſhivering reins; and he could not help trembling.

The dog's conſcience, Jack! Nothing elſe!—I have felt half a dozen ſuch flaſhes, ſuch eye-beams, in as many different converſations with this ſoul-piercing beauty.

Her uncle, ſhe muſt own, was not accuſtom'd to think of ſuch expedients: But ſhe had reconciled this to herſelf, as the caſe was unhappily uncommon; and by the regard he had for her honour.

This ſet the puppy's heart at eaſe, and gave him more courage.

She aſked him, If he thought Lady Betty and Miſs Montague intended her a viſit?

He had no doubt but they did.

And does he imagine, ſaid ſhe, that I could be brought to countenance to them the report you have given out?

[I had hoped to bring her to this, Jack, or ſhe had not ſeen their letters. But I had told the Captain, that I believe I muſt give up this expectation.]

No. He believed, that I had not ſuch a thought. He was pretty ſure, that I intended, when I ſaw them, to tell them (as in confidence) the naked truth.

He then told her, that her uncle had already made ſome ſteps towards a general reconciliation. The mo⯑ment, Madam, that he knows you are really married, he will enter into conference with your father upon it; having actually expreſſed his deſire to be reconciled to you, to your mother.

And what, Sir, ſaid my mother? What ſaid my dear mother? [with great emotion; holding out her ſweet face, as the Captain deſcribed her, with the moſt earneſt attention, as if ſhe would ſhorten [117] the way which his words were to have to her heart.]

Your mother, Madam, burſt into tears upon it: And your uncle was ſo penetrated by her tenderneſs, that he could not proceed with the ſubject. But he intends to enter upon it with her in form, as ſoon as he hears that the ceremony is over.

By the tone of her voice ſhe wept. The dear creature, thought I, begins to relent!—And I grudg'd the dog his eloquence. I could hardly bear the thought, that any man breathing ſhould have the power, which I had loſt, of perſuading this high-ſoul'd lady, tho' in my own favour. And, wouldſt thou think it? this reflection gave me more uneaſineſs at the mo⯑ment, than I felt from her reproaches, violent as they were; or than I had pleaſure in her ſuppoſed relenting. For there is beauty in every-thing ſhe ſays and does: Beauty in her paſſion: Beauty in her tears!—Had the Captain been a young fellow, and of rank and fortune, his throat would have been in dan⯑ger; and I ſhould have thought very hardly of her!

O Capt. Tomlinſon, ſaid ſhe, you know not what I have ſuffer'd by this man's ſtrange ways. He had, as I was not aſhamed to tell him yeſterday, a plain path before him. He at firſt betray'd me into his power: But when I was in it—There ſhe ſtopt. Then reſuming—O, Sir, you know not what a ſtrange man he has been!—An unpolite, a rough-manner'd man!—In diſgrace of his birth, and educa⯑tion, and knowlege, an unpolite man!—And ſo acting, as if his worldly and perſonal advantages ſet him above thoſe graces which diſtinguiſh a gentleman.

The firſt woman that ever ſaid or that ever thought ſo of me, that's my comfort, thought I!— But this (ſpoken to her uncle's friend behind my back) helps to heap up thy already too-full meaſure, dear⯑eſt!—It is down in my vellom-book.

When I look back on his whole behaviour to a poor young creature (for I am but a very young crea⯑ture), I cannot acquit him either of great folly, or of deep deſign.—And, laſt Wedneſday—

[There ſhe ſtopt; and I ſuppoſe turn'd away her face. I won⯑der ſhe was not aſham'd to hint at what ſhe thought ſo ſhameful; and that to a man, and alone with him.]

Far be it from me, Madam, to offer to en⯑ter too cloſely into ſo tender a ſubject. He owns, that you have reaſon to be diſpleaſed with him. But he ſo ſolemnly clears himſelf to me, of premeditated offence—

He cannot clear himſelf, Mr. Tomlinſon. The people of the houſe muſt be very vile, as well as he. I am convinced, that there was a wicked confede⯑racy—But no more upon ſuch a ſubject.

Only one word more, Madam: He tells me, that he gave you ſuch an inſtance of your power over him, as never man gave: And that you pro⯑miſed to pardon him.

He knew, that he deſerved not pardon, or he had not extorted that promiſe from me. Nor had I given it to him, but to ſhield myſelf from the vileſt outrage—

I could wiſh, Madam, inexcuſable as his behaviour has been, ſince he has ſomething to plead in the reliance he made upon your promiſe; that, for the ſake of appearances to the world, and to avoid the miſchiefs that may follow, if you abſolutely break with him, you could prevail upon your naturally ge⯑nerous mind, to lay an obligation upon him by your forgiveneſs.

She was ſilent.

Your father and mother, Madam, deplore a daughter loſt to them, whom your generoſity to Mr. Lovelace may reſtore: Do not put it to the poſ⯑ſible chance, that they may have cauſe to deplore a [119] double loſs; the loſing of a ſon, as well as a daugh⯑ter, who, by his own violence, which you may perhaps prevent, may be for ever loſt to them, and to the whole family.

She pauſed. She wept. She owned, that ſhe felt the force of this argument.

I will be the making of this fellow, thought I!

Permit me, Madam, to tell you, that I do not think it would be difficult to prevail upon your uncle, if you inſiſt upon it, to come up pri⯑vately to town, and to give you with his own hand to Mr. Lovelace—Except, indeed, your preſent miſ⯑underſtanding were to come to his ears.

But why, Sir, ſhould I be ſo much afraid of my brother? My brother has injured me, not I him. Shall I ſeek protection from my brother of Mr. Love⯑lace? And who ſhall protect me from Mr. Love⯑lace?—Will the one offer to me, what the other has offer'd!—Wicked, ungrateful man! to inſult a friendleſs, unprotected creature, made friendleſs by himſelf—I cannot, cannot think of him in the light I once thought of him. He has no buſineſs with me. Let him leave me. Let my brother find me. I am not ſuch a poor creature, as to be afraid to face the brother who has injured me.

Were you and your brother to meet only to confer together, to expoſtulate, to clear up diffi⯑culties, it were another thing. But what, Madam, can you think will be the iſſue of an interview (Mr. Solmes with him), when he finds you unmarried, and reſolved never to have Mr. Lovelace; ſuppoſing Mr. Lovelace were not to interfere; which cannot be ſuppoſed?

Well, Sir, I can only ſay, I am a very un⯑happy creature!—I muſt reſign to the will of Provi⯑dence, and be patient under evils, which that will not permit me to ſhun. But I have taken my mea⯑ſures. Mr. Lovelace can never make me happy, nor [120] I him. I wait here only for a letter from Miſs Howe. That muſt determine me—

Determine you as to Mr. Lovelace, Madam? in⯑terrupted the Captain.

I am already determin'd as to him.

If it be not in his favour, I have done. I cannot uſe ſtronger arguments than I have uſed, and it would be impertinent to repeat them.—If you can⯑not forgive his offence, I am ſure it muſt have been much greater than he has owned to me.—If you are abſolutely determined, be pleaſed to let me know what I ſhall ſay to your uncle? You was pleaſed to tell me, that this day would put an end to what you called my trouble: I ſhould not have thought it any, could I have been an humble means of reconciling perſons of worth and honour to each other.

Here I enter'd with a ſolemn air.

Mr. Tomlinſon, I have heard a great part of what has paſſed between you and this unforgiving, however otherwiſe excellent lady. I am cut to the heart to find the dear creature ſo determined. I could not have believed it poſſible, with ſuch proſpects, that I had ſo little a ſhare in her eſteem. Never⯑theleſs I muſt do myſelf juſtice with regard to the offence I was ſo unhappy as to give, ſince I find you are ready to think it much greater than it really was.

I hear not, Sir, your recapitulations. I am, and ought to be, the ſole judge of inſults offered to my perſon. I enter not into diſcuſſion with you, nor hear you on the ſhocking ſubject. And was going.

I put myſelf between her and the door—You may hear all I have to ſay, Madam. My fault is not o [...] ſuch a nature, but that you may. I will be a juſt accuſer of myſelf; and will not wound your ears.

I then proteſted that the fire was a real fire [So it was]. I diſclaimed [leſs truly indeed] premedita⯑tion. I owned that I was hurried on by the vio⯑lence of a youthful paſſion, and by a ſudden impulſe, [121] which few other perſons, in the like ſituation, would have been able to check: That I withdrew, at her command and intreaty, on the promiſe of pardon, without having offered the leaſt indecency, or any freedom, that would not have been forgiven by per⯑ſons of delicacy, ſurpriſed in an attitude ſo charm⯑ing—Her terror, on the alarm of fire, calling for a ſoothing behaviour, and perſonal tenderneſs, ſhe be⯑ing ready to fall into fits: My hoped-for happy day ſo near, that I might be preſumed to be looked upon as a betrothed lover—And that this excuſe might be pleaded even for the women of the houſe, that they, thinking us actually married, might ſuppoſe them⯑ſelves to be the leſs concerned to interfere on ſo ten⯑der an occaſion—There, Jack, was a bold inſinua⯑tion in behalf of the women!

High indignation filled her diſdainful eye, eye-beam after eye-beam flaſhing at me. Every feature of her ſweet face had ſoul in it. Yet ſhe ſpoke not. Perhaps, Jack, ſhe had a thought, that this plea for the women accounted for my contrivance to have her paſs to them as married, when I firſt carried her thither.

Indeed, Sir, I muſt ſay, that you did not well to add to the apprehenſions of a lady ſo much terrified before.

She offer'd to go by me. I ſet my back againſt the door, and beſought her to ſtay a few moments. I had not ſaid thus much, my deareſt creature, but for your ſake, as well as for my own, that Captain Tomlinſon ſhould not think I had been viler than I was. Nor will I ſay one word more on the ſubject, after I have appealed to your own heart, whether it was not neceſſary, that I ſhould ſay ſo much; and to the Captain, whether otherwiſe he would not have gone away with a much worſe opinion of me, if he [122] had judged of my offence by the violence of your reſentment.

Indeed I ſhould. I own I ſhould. And I am very glad, Mr. Lovelace, that you are able to defend yourſelf thus far.

That cauſe muſt be well tried, where the of⯑fender takes his ſeat upon the ſame bench with the judge.—I ſubmit not mine to men—Nor, give me leave to ſay, to You, Captain Tomlinſon, tho' I am willing to have a good opinion of you. Had not the man been aſſured, that he had influenced you in his favour, he would not have brought you up to Ham⯑ſtead.

That I am influenced, as you call it, Ma⯑dam, is for the ſake of your uncle, and for your own ſake, more (I will ſay to Mr. Lovelace's face) than for his. What can I have in view, but peace and reconciliation? I have, from the firſt, blamed, and I now, again, blame, Mr. Lovelace, for adding diſtreſs to diſtreſs, and terror to terror; the lady, as you acknowlege, Sir

ready before to fall into fits.

Let me own to you, Captain Tomlinſon, that I have been a very faulty, a very fooliſh man; and, if this dear creature ever honoured me with her love, an ingrateful one. But I have had too much reaſon to doubt it. And this is now a flagrant proof that ſhe never had the value for me which my proud heart wiſhed for, that, with ſuch proſpects before us; a day ſo near; ſettlements approved and drawn; her uncle mediating a reconciliation, which, for her ſake, not my own, I was deſirous to give into; ſhe can, for an offence ſo really ſlight, on an occaſion ſo truly accidental, renounce me for ever; and, with me, all hopes of that reconciliation in the way her uncle had put it in, and ſhe had acquieſced with; and [123] riſque all conſequences, fatal ones as they may too poſſibly be.—By my ſoul, Captain Tomlinſon, the dear creature muſt have hated me all the time ſhe was intending to honour me with her hand. And now ſhe muſt reſolve to abandon me, as far as I know, with a preference in her heart of the moſt odi⯑ous of men—in favour of that Solmes, who, as you tell me, accompanies her brother: And with what hopes, with what view, accompanies him?—How can I bear to think of this?—

It is fit, Sir, that you ſhould judge of my re⯑gard for you, by your own conſcious demerits. Yet you know, or you would not have dared to behave to me as ſometimes you did, that you had more of it than you deſerved.

She walked from us; and then returning, Captain Tomlinſon, ſaid ſhe, I will own to you, that I was not capable of reſolving to give my hand, and—no⯑thing but my hand.—Have I not given a flagrant proof of this to the once moſt indulgent of parents? which has brought me into a diſtreſs, which this man has heightened, when he ought, in gratitude and ho⯑nour, to have endeavoured to render it ſupportable. I had even a byas, Sir, in his favour, I ſcruple not to own it. Long, too long! bore I with his unac⯑countable ways, attributing his errors to unmeaning gaiety, and to a want of knowing what true deli⯑cacy, and true generoſity, required from a heart ſuſ⯑ceptible of grateful impreſſions to one involved by his means in unhappy circumſtances. It is now wick⯑edneſs in him (a wickedneſs which diſcredits all his profeſſions) to ſay, that his laſt cruel and ingrateful inſult was not a premeditated one.—But what need I ſay more of this inſult, when it was of ſuch a nature, that it has changed that byas in his favour, and made me chooſe to forego all the inviting proſpects he [124] talks of, and to run all hazards, to free myſelf from his power?

O my deareſt creature! how happy for us both, had I been able to diſcover that byas, as you conde⯑ſcend to call it, thro' ſuch reſerves as man never en⯑countered with!—

He did diſcover it, Captain Tomlinſon. He brought me, more than once, to own it; the more needleſly brought me to own it, as I dare ſay his own vanity gave him no cauſe to doubt it; and as I had no other motive in not being forward to own it, than my too juſt apprehenſions of his want of generoſity. In a word, Captain Tomlinſon (and now, that I am de⯑termined upon my meaſures, I the leſs ſcruple to ſay it), I ſhould have deſpiſed myſelf, had I found my⯑ſelf capable of affectation or tyranny to the man I in⯑tended to marry. I have always blamed the deareſt friend I have in the world for a fault of this nature. In a word—

And had my angel really and indeed the favour for me ſhe is pleaſed to own?—Deareſt crea⯑ture, forgive me. Reſtore me to your good opinion. Surely I have not ſinned beyond forgiveneſs. You ſay, that I extorted from you the promiſe you made me. But I could not have preſumed to make that promiſe the condition of my obedience, had I not thought there was room to expect forgiveneſs. Per⯑mit, I beſeech you, the proſpects to take place, that were opening ſo agreeably before us. I will go to town, and bring the licence. All difficulties to the obtaining of it are ſurmounted. Captain Tomlinſon ſhall be witneſs to the deeds. He will be preſent at the ceremony on the part of your uncle. Indeed he gave me hope, that your uncle himſelf—

I did, Mr. Lovelace: And I will tell you my grounds for the hope I gave. I propoſed to my [125] dear friend (Your uncle, Madam), that he ſhould give out, that he would take a turn with me to my little farm-houſe, as I call it, near Northampton, for a week or ſo.—Poor gentleman! he has of late been very little abroad! Too viſibly indeed decline⯑ing!—Change of air, it might be given out, was good for him.—But I ſee, Madam, that this is too tender a ſubject—

The dear creature wept. She knew how to ap⯑ply, as meant, the Captain's hint to the occaſion of her uncle's declining ſtate of health.

We might indeed, I told him, ſet out in that road, but turn ſhort to town in my chariot; and he might ſee the ceremony performed with his own eyes, and be the deſired father, as well as the be⯑loved uncle.

She turned from us, and wiped her eyes.

And, really, there ſeem now to be but two objections to this; as Mr. Harlowe diſcouraged not the propoſal—The one, the unhappy miſunderſtand⯑ing between you; which I would not by any means he ſhould know; ſince then he might be apt to give weight to Mr. James Harlowe's unjuſt ſurmizes.— The other, that it would neceſſarily occaſion ſome delay to the ceremony; which I cannot ſee, but may be performed in a day or two—If—

And then he reverently bowed to my goddeſs. — Charming fellow!—But often did I curſe my ſtars, for making me ſo much obliged to his adroitneſs.

She was going to ſpeak; but, not liking the turn of her countenance (altho', as I thought, its ſeverity and indignation ſeemed a little abated), I ſaid, and had like to have blown myſelf up by it—One expe⯑dient I have juſt thought of—

None of your expedients, Mr. Lovelace! I abhor your expedients, your inventions—I have had too many of them.

See, Capt. Tomlinſon!—See, Sir—O how we expoſe ourſelves to you!—Little did you think, I dare ſay, that we have lived in ſuch a continued miſ⯑underſtanding together! But you will make the beſt of it all. We may yet be happy. O that I could have been aſſured, that this dear lady loved me with the hundredth part of the love I have for her!—Our diffidences have been mutual. This dear creature has too much punctilio: I am afraid, that I have too lit⯑tle. Hence our difficulties. But I have a heart, Capt. Tomlinſon, a heart, that bids me hope for her love, becauſe it is reſolved to deſerve it, as much as man can deſerve it.

I am indeed ſurpriſed at what I have ſeen and heard. I defend not Mr. Lovelace, Madam, in the offence he has given you—As a father of daugh⯑ters myſelf, I cannot defend him, tho' his fault ſeems to be lighter than I had apprehended—But in my con⯑ſcience I think, that you, Madam, cany your re⯑ſentment too high.

Too high, Sir!—Too high, to the man that might have been happy if he would!—Too high to the man that has held my ſoul in ſuſpenſe an hundred times, ſince (by artifice and deceit) he obtained a power over me!—Say, Lovelace, thyſelf ſay, Art thou not the very Lovelace, that, by inſulting me, haſt wrong'd thy own hopes?—The wretch that ap⯑peared in vile diſguiſes, perſonating an old lame crea⯑ture, ſeeking for lodgings for thy ſick wife?—Tell⯑ing the gentlewomen here, ſtories all of thy own in⯑vention; and aſſerting to them an huſband's right over me, which thou hadſt not?—And is it

to be expected, that I ſhould give credit to the proteſtations of ſuch a man?

Treat me, deareſt creature, as you pleaſe, I will bear it: And yet your ſcorn and your violence have fixed daggers in my heart—But was it poſſible, [127] without thoſe diſguiſes, to come at your ſpeech?— And could I loſe you, if ſtudy, if invention, would put it in my power to arreſt your anger, and give me hope to engage you to confirm to me the pro⯑miſed pardon?—The addreſs I made to you before the women, as if the marriage-ceremony had paſſed, was in conſequence of what your uncle had adviſed, and what you had acquieſced with; and the rather made, as your brother, and Singleton, and Solmes, were reſolved to find out whether what was reported of your marriage were true or not, that they might take their meaſures accordingly; and in hopes to prevent that miſchief, which I have been but too ſtu⯑dious to prevent, ſince this tameneſs has but invited inſolence from your brother and his confederates.

O thou ſtrange wretch, how thou talkeſt!— But, Captain Tomlinſon, give me leave to ſay, that, were I inclin'd to talk any farther upon this ſubject, I would appeal to Miſs Rawlins's judgment (Who elſe have I to appeal to?); ſhe ſeems to be a perſon of pru⯑dence and honour; but not to any man's judgment, whether I carry my reſentment beyond fit bounds, when I reſolve—

Forgive, Madam, the interruption—But I think there can be no reaſon for this. You ought, as you ſaid, to be the ſole judge of indignities offered you. The gentlewomen here are ſtrangers to you. You will perhaps ſtay but a little while among them. If you lay the ſtate of your caſe before any of them, and your brother come to inquire of them, your uncle's intended mediation will be diſcover'd, and rendered abortive—I ſhall appear in a light that I never ap⯑peared in, in my life—for theſe women may not think themſelves obliged to keep the ſecret.

O what difficulties has one fatal ſtep involved me in!—But there is no neceſſity for ſuch an appeal. I am reſolved on my meaſures.

Abſolutely reſolved, Madam?

I am.

What ſhall I ſay to your uncle Harlowe, Madam?—Poor gentleman! how will he be ſur⯑priſed! —You ſee, Mr. Lovelace—You ſee, Sir— turning to me, with a flouriſhing hand—But you may thank yourſelf—and admirably ſtalk'd he from us.

True, by my ſoul, thought I. I traverſed the room, and bit my unperſuaſive lips, now upper, now under, for vexation.

He made a profound reverence to her—And went to the window, where lay his hat and whip; and, taking them up, open'd the door. Child, ſaid he, to ſomebody he ſaw, pray, order my ſervant to bring my horſe to the door—

You won't go, Sir—I hope you won't!— I am the unhappieſt man in the world!—You won't go—Yet, alas! —But you won't go, Sir! —There may be yet hopes, that Lady Betty may have ſome weight—

Dear Mr. Lovelace; and may not my wor⯑thy friend, an affectionate uncle, hope for ſome in⯑fluence upon his daughter-niece?—But I beg pardon —A letter will always find me diſpoſed to ſerve the lady, and that as well for her ſake, as for the ſake of my dear friend.

She had thrown herſelf into a chair; her eyes caſt down: She was motionleſs, as in a profound ſtudy.

The Captain bowed to her again: But met with no return to his bow. Mr. Lovelace, ſaid he (with an air of equality and independence), I am Yours.

Still the dear unaccountable ſat as immoveable as a ſtatue; ſtirring neither hand, foot, head, nor eye— I never before ſaw any one in ſo profound a reſverie, in ſo waking a dream.

He paſſed by her to go out at the door ſhe ſat near, tho' the other door was his direct way; and [129] bowed again. She moved not. I will not diſturb the lady in her meditations, Sir.—Adieu, Mr. Love⯑lace—No farther, I beſeech you.

She ſtarted, ſighing—Are you going, Sir?

I am, Madam. I could have been glad to do you ſervice: But I ſee it is not in my power.

She ſtood up, holding out one hand, with inimi⯑table dignity and ſweetneſs—I am ſorry you are go⯑ing, Sir—I can't help it—I have no friend to adviſe with—Mr. Lovelace has the art (or good-fortune, perhaps, I ſhould call it) to make himſelf many.— Well, Sir—If you will go, I can't help it.

I will not go, Madam, his eyes twinkling

I will not go, if my longer ſtay can do you either ſervice or pleaſure. What, Sir

what, Mr. Lovelace, was your expedient?—Perhaps ſomething may be offer'd, Madam—

She ſighed, and was ſilent.

REVENGE, invoked I to myſelf, keep thy throne in my heart—If the uſurper LOVE once more drive thee from it, thou wilt never regain poſſeſſion!

What I had thought of, what I had intend⯑ed to propoſe, and I ſigh'd—was this, That the dear creature, if ſhe will not forgive me, as ſhe promiſed, would ſuſpend the diſpleaſure ſhe has conceived againſt me, till Lady Betty arrives. —That lady may be the mediatrix between us. This dear creature may put herſelf into her protection, and accompany her down to her ſeat in Oxfordſhire. It is one of her Ladyſhip's purpoſes to prevail on her ſuppoſed new niece to go down with her. It may paſs to every one but to Lady Betty, and to you, Capt. Tomlin⯑ſon, and to your friend Mr. Harlowe (as he deſires), that we have been ſome time married: And her be⯑ing with my relations, will amount to a proof to James Harlowe, that we are; and our nuptials may [130] be privately, and at this beloved creature's pleaſure, ſolemnized; and your report, Captain, authenticated.

Upon my honour, Madam, clapping his hand upon his breaſt, a charming expedient! This will anſwer every end.

She muſed—She was greatly perplexed—At laſt, God direct me, ſaid ſhe! I know not what to do— A young unfriended creature, whom have I to adviſe with?—Let me retire, if I can retire.

She withdrew with ſlow and trembling feet, and went up to her chamber.

For Heaven's ſake, ſaid the penetrated varlet, his hands lifted up, for Heaven's ſake, take compaſſion upon this admirable lady!—I cannot proceed—I can⯑not proceed—She deſerves all things—

Softly!—damn the fellow!—The women are com⯑ing in.

He ſobb'd up his grief—turn'd about—hemm'd up a more manly accent—Wipe thy curſed eyes—He did. The ſunſhine took place on one cheek, and ſpread ſlowly to the other, and the fellow had his whole face again.

The women all three came in, led by that ever-curious Miſs Rawlins. I told them, that the lady was gone up to conſider of every-thing: That we had hopes of her. And ſuch a repreſentation we made of all that had paſſed, as brought either tacit or declared blame upon the fair perverſe, for hardneſs of heart, and over-delicacy.

The widow Bevis, in particular, put out one lip, toſſed up her head, wrinkled her forehead, and made ſuch motions with her now-lifted-up, now caſt-down eyes, as ſhew'd, that ſhe thought there was a great deal of perverſeneſs and affectation in the lady. Now-and-then ſhe changed her cenſuring looks to looks of pity of me—But (as ſhe ſaid) She loved not to aggra⯑vate!—A poor buſineſs, God help's! ſhrugging up [131] her ſhoulders, to make ſuch a rout about! and then her eyes laugh'd heartily — Indulgence was a good thing! Love was a good thing!—But too much was too much!

Miſs Rawlins, however, declared, after ſhe had called the Widow Bevis, with a prudiſh ſimper, a comical gentlewoman! That there muſt be ſomething in our ſtory, which ſhe could not fathom; and went from us into a corner, and ſat down, ſeemingly vexed that ſhe could not.

LETTER XIII. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

THE lady ſtaying longer above than we wiſhed; and hoping that (lady-like) ſhe only waited for an invitation to return to us; I deſired the Widow Bevis, in the Captain's name (who wanted to go to town), to requeſt the favour of her company.

I cared not to ſend up either Miſs Rawlins or Mrs. Moore on the errand, leſt my beloved ſhould be in a communicative diſpoſition; eſpecially as ſhe had hinted at an appeal to Miſs Rawlins; who, beſides, has ſuch an unbounded curioſity.

Mrs. Bevis preſently return'd with an anſwer (winking and pinking at me), that the lady would follow her down. Miſs Rawlins could not but offer to retire, as the others did. Her eyes, however, in⯑timated that ſhe had rather ſtay. But they not be⯑ing anſwer'd as ſhe ſeemed to wiſh, ſhe went with the reſt, but with ſlower feet; and had hardly left the parlour, when the lady enter'd it by the other door; a melancholy dignity in her perſon and air.

She ſat down. Pray, Mr. Tomlinſon, be ſeated. He took his chair over againſt her. I ſtoo [...] beh [...] hers, that I might give him agreed-upon ſignals, ſhould there be occaſion for them.

[132]As thus — A wink of the left-eye was to ſignify, Puſh that point, Captain.

A wink of the right, and a nod, was to indicate Approbation of what he had ſaid.

My fore-finger held up, and biting my lip, Get off of that, as faſt as poſſible.

A right-forward nod, and a frown—Swear to it, Captain.

My whole ſpread hand, To take care not to ſay too much on that particular ſubject.

And theſe motions I could make, even thoſe with my hand, without holding up my arm, or moving my wriſt, had the women been there; as, when they were agreed upon, I knew not but they would.

A ſcouling brow, and a poſitive nod, was to bid him riſe in his temper.

She hemm'd—I was going to ſpeak, to ſpare her ſuppoſed confuſion: But this lady never wants pre⯑ſence of mind, when preſence of mind is neceſſary either to her honour, or to that conſcious dig⯑nity which diſtinguiſhes her from all the women I ever knew.

I have been conſidering, ſaid ſhe, as well as I was able, of every thing that has paſſed; and of all that has been ſaid; and of my unhappy ſituation. I mean no ill; I wiſh no ill, to any creature living, Mr. Tomlinſon. I have always delighted to draw fa⯑vourable rather than unfavourable concluſions, ſome⯑times, as it has proved, for very bad hearts. Cen⯑ſoriouſneſs, whatever faults I have, is not naturally my fault.—But, circumſtanced as I am; treated as I have been, unworthily treated by a man who is full of contrivances, and glories in them—

My deareſt life!—But I will not interrupt you.

Thus treated, it becomes me to doubt — It concerns my honour to doubt, to fear, to apprehend— [133] Your intervention, Sir, is ſo ſeaſonable, ſo kind, for this man — My uncle's expedient, the firſt of the kind he ever, I believe, thought of; a plain, honeſt, good-minded man, as he is, not affecting ſuch ex⯑pedients — Your report in conformity, to it — The conſequences of that report; The alarm taken by my brother; His raſh reſolution upon it—The alarm taken by Lady Betty, and the reſt of Mr. Love⯑lace's relations—The ſudden letters written to him, upon it, which, with yours, he ſhew'd me—All ceremony, among perſons born obſervers of ceremony, and intitled to value themſelves upon their diſtinction— All theſe things have happen'd ſo quick, and ſome of them ſo ſeaſonable—

Lady Betty, you ſee, Madam, in her let⯑ter, diſpenſes with punctilio, avowedly in compliment to you. Charlotte, in hers, profeſſes to do the ſame for the ſame reaſon. Good Heaven, that the reſpect intended you by my relations, who, in every other caſe, are really punctilious, ſhould be thus con⯑ſtrued! They were glad, Madam, to have an op⯑portunity to compliment you at my expence. Every one of my family takes delight in raillying me. But their joy on the ſuppoſed occaſion—

Do I doubt, Sir, that you have not ſomething to ſay, for any-thing you think fit to do?—I am ſpeaking to Captain Tomlinſon, Sir.—I wiſh you would be pleaſed to withdraw—At leaſt to come from behind my chair.

And ſhe looked at the Captain, obſerving, no doubt, that his eyes ſeemed to take leſſons from mine.

A fair match, by Jupiter!

The Captain was diſconcerted. The dog had not had ſuch a bluſh upon his face for ten years before. I bit my lip for vexation: Walk'd about the room; but nevertheleſs took my poſt again; and blink'd [134] with my eyes to the Captain, as a caution for him to take more care of his: And then ſcouling with my brows, and giving the nod poſitive, I as good as ſaid, Reſent that, Captain.

I hope, Madam, you have no ſuſpicion, that I am capable—

Be not diſpleaſed with me, Captain Tomlinſon. I have told you, that I am not of a ſuſpicious tem⯑per. Excuſe me for the ſake of my ſincerity. There is not, I will be bold to ſay, a ſincerer heart in the world, than hers before you.

She took out her handkerchief, and put it to her eyes.

I was going at the inſtant, after her example, to vouch for the honeſty of my heart; but my con⯑ſcience Mennell'd upon me; and would not ſuffer the meditated vow to paſs my lips.—A deviliſh thing, thought I, for a man to be ſo little himſelf, when he has moſt occaſion for himſelf!

The villain Tomlinſon look'd at me with a rueful face, as if he begg'd leave to cry for company. It might have been as well, if he had cried. A feeling heart, or the tokens of it, given by a ſenſible eye, are very reputable things, when kept in countenance by the occaſion.

And here let me fairly own to thee, that twenty times in this trying converſation I ſaid to myſelf, that could I have thought, that I ſhould have all this trouble, and incurr'd all this guilt, I would have been honeſt at firſt. But why, queſtion'd I, is this dear creature ſo lovely?—Yet ſo invincible?—Ever heardſt thou before, that the ſweets of May bloſſom'd in De⯑cember?

Be pleaſed — be pleaſed, Madam—if you have doubts of my honour—

A whining varlet! He ſhould have been quite an⯑gry—For what gave I him the nod poſitive? He [135] ſhould have ſtalk'd to the window, as for his whip and hat.

I am only making ſuch obſervations as my youth, my inexperience, and my preſent unhappy circumſtances, ſuggeſt to me—A worthy heart (ſuch, I hope, is Captain Tomlinſon's) need not fear an examination—need not fear being looked into — Whatever doubt that man, who has been the cauſe of my errors, and, as my ſevere father imprecated, the puniſher of the errors he has cauſed, might have had of me, or of my honour, I would have forgiven him for them, if he had fairly propoſed them to me: For he might, perhaps, have had ſome doubt of the future conduct of a creature, whom he could induce to correſpond with him againſt parental prohibition, and againſt the lights which her own judgment threw in upon her: And if he had propounded them to me like a man and a gentleman, I would have been glad of the opportunity given me to clear my intentions, and to have ſhewn myſelf intitled to his good opinion —And I hope you, Sir—

I am ready to hear all your doubts, Madam, and to clear them up—

I can only put it, Sir, to your conſcience and honour—

The dog ſat uneaſy: He ſhifted his feet: Her eye was upon him; he was therefore, after the rebuff he had met with, afraid to look at me for my motions; and now turn'd his eyes towards me, then from me, as if he would unlook his own looks; his head turning about like a weathercock in a hurricane.

—That all is true, that you have written, and that you have told me.

I gave him a right-forward nod, and a frown—as much as to ſay, Swear to it, Captain. But the var⯑let did not round it off as I would have had him. However, he averr'd that it was.

[136]He had hoped, he ſaid, that the circumſtances with which his commiſſion was attended, and what he had communicated to her, which he could not know but from his dear friend her uncle, might have ſhielded him even from the ſhadow of ſuſpicion—But I am contented, ſaid he, ſtammering, to be thought—to be thought—what—what you pleaſe to think me— till, till, you are ſatisfied—

A whore's-bird!

The circumſtances you refer to, I muſt own, ought to ſhield you, Sir, from ſuſpicion—But the man before you is a man that would make an angel ſuſpected, ſhould that angel plead for him.

I came forward. Travers'd the room—Was in⯑deed in a bloody paſſion—I have no patience, Madam! —And again I bit my unperſuaſive lip—

No man ought to be impatient at imputations he is not aſham'd to deſerve. An innocent man will not be outrageous upon ſuch imputations. A guilty man ought not.

But I am not now trying you, Sir, on the foot of your merits. I am only ſorry, that I am conſtrained to put queſtions to this worthier gentleman, which per⯑haps I ought not to put, ſo far as they regard him⯑ſelf.—And I hope, Captain Tomlinſon, that you, who know not Mr. Lovelace ſo well, as, to my unhappineſs, I do, and who have children of your own, will excuſe a poor young creature, who is de⯑prived of all worthy protection, and who has been inſulted and endangered, by the moſt deſigning man in the world, and perhaps by a confederacy of his crea⯑tures.

There ſhe ſtopt; and ſtood up, and looked at me; fear, nevertheleſs, apparently mingled with her an⯑ger. And ſo it ought. I was glad, however, of this [137] poor ſign of love—No one fears whom they value not.

Womens tongues were licenſed, I was going to ſay—But my conſcience would not let me call her a woman; nor uſe to her ſo vulgar a phraſe. I could only rave by my motions; lift up my eyes, ſpread my hands, rub my face, pull my wig, and look like a fool. Indeed, I had a great mind to run mad. Had I been alone with her, I would; and ſhe ſhould have taken conſequences.

The Captain interpoſed in my behalf; gently, however, and as a man not quite ſure that he was himſelf acquitted. Some of the pleas we had both inſiſted on, he again inforced—And, ſpeaking low— Poor gentleman! ſaid he, who can but pity him! —Indeed, Madam, it is eaſy to ſee, with all his fail⯑ings, the power you have over him!

I have no pleaſure, Sir, in diſtreſſing any one.— Not even him, who has ſo much diſtreſſed me.—But, Sir, when I THINK, and when I ſee him before me, I cannot command my temper! — Indeed, indeed, Captain Tomlinſon, Mr. Lovelace has not acted by me either as a grateful, a generous, or a prudent man!—He knows not, as I told him yeſterday, the value of the heart he has inſulted!

There the angel ſtopt; her handkerchief at her eyes!

O Belford, Belford! that ſhe ſhould ſo greatly excel, as to make me, at times, a villain in my own eyes!

I beſought her pardon. I promiſed, that it ſhould be the ſtudy of my whole life to deſerve it. My faults, I ſaid, whatever they had been, were rather faults in her apprehenſion, than in fact. I beſought her to give way to the expedient I had hit upon—I repeated it. The Captain inforced it, for her uncle's ſake. I, once more, for the ſake of the general reconcilia⯑tion; [138] for the ſake of all my family; for the ſake of preventing future miſchief—

She wept—She ſeemed ſtagger'd in her reſolution— She turned from me. I mention'd the letter of Lord M. I beſought her to reſign to Lady Betty's media⯑tion all our differences, if ſhe would not forgive me before ſhe ſaw her.

She turned towards me—She was going to ſpeak; but her heart was full—And again ſhe turned away her face—Then, half turning it to me, her handker⯑chief at her eyes—And do you really and indeed ex⯑pect Lady Betty and Miſs Montague?—And do you —Again ſhe ſtopt—

I anſwer'd in a ſolemn manner.

She turned from me her whole face, and pauſed, and ſeemed to conſider. But, in a paſſionate accent, again turning towards me [O how difficult, Jack, for a Harlowe ſpirit to forgive!]—Let her Ladyſhip come, if ſhe pleaſes, ſaid ſhe—I cannot, cannot wiſh to ſee her—And if ſhe plead for you, I cannot wiſh to hear her!—The more I think, the leſs can I forgive an attempt, that I am convinced was intended to de⯑ſtroy me. [A plaguy ſtrong word for the occaſion, ſuppoſing ſhe was right!] What has my conduct been, that an inſult of ſuch a nature ſhould be offer'd to me, as it would be a weakneſs to forgive? I am ſunk in my own eyes!—And how can I receive a viſit that muſt depreſs me more?

The Captain urged her in my favour with greater earneſtneſs than before. We both even clamour'd, as I may ſay, for mercy and forgiveneſs. [Didſt thou never hear the good folks talk of taking heaven by ſtorm?]—Contrition repeatedly avowed — A total reformation promiſed—The happy expedient again pleaded—

I have taken my meaſures. I have gone too far to recede, or to wiſh to recede. My mind is pre⯑pared [139] for adverſity. That I have not deſerved the evils I have met with, is my conſolation!—I have written to Miſs Howe what my intentions are. My heart is not with you—It is againſt you, Mr. Lovelace. I had not written to you, as I did, in the letter I left behind me, had I not reſolved, whatever became of me, to renounce you for ever.

I was full of hope now. Severe as her expreſſions were, I ſaw ſhe was afraid, that I ſhould think of what ſhe had written. And indeed, her letter is violence itſelf. Angry people, Jack, ſhould never write while their paſſion holds.

The ſeverity you have ſhewn me, Madam, whether by pen or by ſpeech, ſhall never have place in my remembrance, but for your honour. In the light you have taken things, all is deſerved, and but the natural reſult of virtuous reſentment; and I adore you, even for the pangs you have given me.

She was ſilent. She had employment enough with her handherchief at her eyes.

You lament ſometimes, that you have no friends of your own ſex to conſult with. Miſs Rawlins, I muſt confeſs, is too inquiſitive to be con⯑fided in

She may mean well. But I never in my life knew a perſon who was fond of prying into the ſecrets of others, that was fit to be truſted. The curioſity of ſuch is govern'd by pride, which is not gratified but by whiſpering about a ſecret till it becomes public, in order to ſhew either their conſe⯑quence, or their ſagacity. It is ſo in every caſe. What man or woman, who is covetous of power, or of wealth, is covetous of either, for the ſake of making a right uſe of it?—But in the ladies of my family you may confide. It is their ambition to think of you, as one of themſelves. Renew but your con⯑ſent to paſs to the world, for the ſake of your uncle's [140] expedient, and for the prevention of miſchief, as a lady ſome time married. Lady Betty may be ac⯑quainted with the naked truth; and you may (as ſhe hopes you will) accompany her to her ſeat; and, if it muſt be ſo, conſider me as in a ſtate of peni⯑tence or probation, to be accepted or rejected, as I may appear to deſerve.

The Captain again clapt his hand on his breaſt, and declared upon his honour, that this was a pro⯑poſal, that, were the caſe that of his own daughter, and ſhe were not reſolved upon immediate marriage (which yet he thought by far the more eligible choice), he ſhould be very much concerned, were ſhe to refuſe it.

Were I with Mr. Lovelace's relations, and to paſs as his wife to the world, I could not have any choice. And how could he be then in a ſtate of probation? O Mr. Tomlinſon, you are too much his friend to ſee into his drift.

His friend, Madam, as I ſaid before, as I am yours and your uncle's, for the ſake of a general reconciliation, which muſt begin with a better un⯑derſtanding between yourſelves.

Only, my deareſt life, reſolve to attend the arrival and viſit of Lady Betty: And permit her to arbitrate between us.

There can be no harm in that, Madam— You can ſuffer no inconvenience from that. If Mr. Lovelace's offence be ſuch, that a lady of that lady's character judges it to be unpardonable, why then—

If am not invaded by you, Sir—If I am (as I ought to be) my own miſtreſs, I think to ſtay here, in this honeſt hou [...]e

till I receive a letter from Miſs Howe. That, I hope, will be in a day or two. If in that time the ladies come whom you expect, and if they are [141] deſirous to ſee the creature whom you have made unhappy, I ſhall know whether I can, or cannot, receive their viſit.

She turn'd ſhort to the door, and retiring, went up ſtairs to her chamber.

O Sir, ſaid the Captain, as ſoon as ſhe was gone, what an angel of a woman is this!—I have been, and I am, a very wicked man.—But if any thing ſhould happen amiſs to this admirable lady, thro' my means, I ſhall have more cauſe for ſelf-reproach, than for all the bad actions of my life put together.

And his eyes gliſten'd.

Nothing can happen amiſs, thou ſorrowful dog! —What can happen amiſs?—Are we to form our opinion of things by the romantic notions of a girl, who ſuppoſes that to be the greateſt which is the ſlighteſt of evils? Have I not told thee our whole ſtory? Has ſhe not broken her promiſe? Did I not generouſly ſpare her, when in my power? I was de⯑cent, tho' I had her at ſuch advantage. Greater liberties have I taken with girls of character at a com⯑mon romping-bout, and all has been laugh'd off, and handkerchief and headcloaths adjuſted, and petticoats ſhaken to rights, in my preſence. Never man, in the like circumſtances, and reſolved as I was reſolved, goaded on as I was goaded on, as well by her own ſex, as by the impulſes of a violent paſſion, was ever ſo decent. Yet what mercy does ſhe ſhew me?

Now, Jack, this pitiful dog was ſuch another un⯑fortunate one as thyſelf—His arguments ſerving to confirm me in the very purpoſe, he brought them to prevail upon me to give up. Had he left me to my⯑ſelf, to the tenderneſs of my own nature, moved as I was when the lady withdrew, and had ſat down, and made odious faces, and ſaid nothing; it is very poſſible, that I ſhould have taken the chair over-againſt him, which ſhe had quitted; and have cry'd [142] and blubber'd with him for half an hour together. But the varlet to argue with me! To pretend to convince a man, who knows in his heart that he is doing a wrong thing!—He muſt needs think, that this would put me upon trying what I could ſay for myſelf; and when the excited compunction can be carried from the heart to the lips, it muſt evapo⯑rate in words.

Thou perhaps, in this place, wouldſt have urged the ſame pleas that he urged. What I anſwer'd to him therefore may do for thee, and ſpare thee the trouble of writing, and me of reading, a good deal of non⯑ſenſe.

You was pleaſed to tell me, Sir, that you only propoſed to try her virtue; and that you believed you ſhould actually marry her.

So I ſhall, and cannot help it. I have no doubt but I ſhall. And as to trying her, is ſhe not now in the height of her trial? Have I not reaſon to think, that ſhe is coming about? Is ſhe not now yielding up her reſentment for an attempt which ſhe thinks ſhe ought not to forgive?—And if ſhe do, may ſhe not forgive the laſt attempt?—Can ſhe, in a word, reſent that more than ſhe does this?—Wo⯑men often, for their own ſakes, will keep the laſt ſecret; but will oſtentatiouſly din the ears of gods and men with their clamours upon a ſucceſsleſs offer. It was my folly, my weakneſs, that I gave her not more cauſe for this her unſparing violence!

O Sir, you never will be able to ſubdue this lady without force.

Well, then, puppy, muſt I not endeavour to find a proper time and place—

Forgive me, Sir! But can you think of force to ſuch a fine creature?

Force, indeed, I abhor the thought of; and for what, thinkeſt thou, have I taken all the pains [143] I have taken, and engaged ſo many perſons in my cauſe, but to avoid the neceſſity of violent compul⯑ſion? But yet, imagineſt thou that I expect direct conſent from ſuch a lover of forms, as this lady is known to be? Let me tell thee, M^c Donald, that thy maſter Belford has urged on thy ſide of the queſtion, all that thou canſt urge. Muſt I have every puppy's conſcience to pacify, as well as my own?—By my ſoul, Patrick, ſhe has a friend here

that pleads for her with greater and more irreſiſtable eloquence, than all the men in the world can plead for her. And had ſhe not eſcaped me?—And yet how have I anſwer'd my firſt deſign of trying her ^(a), and in her the virtue of the moſt virtuous of the ſex? — Thou puppy! Wouldſt thou have me decline a trial that may make for the honour of a ſex we all ſo dearly love?

Then, Sir, you have no thoughts—no thoughts—(looking ſtill more ſorrowfully) of marrying this wonderful lady?

Yes, puppy, but I have. But let me, firſt, to gratify my pride, bring down hers. Let me ſee, that ſhe loves me well enough to forgive me for my own ſake. Has ſhe not heretofore lamented, that ſhe ſtaid not in her father's houſe, tho' the conſequence muſt have been, if ſhe had, that ſhe would have been the wife of the odious Solmes? If now ſhe be brought to conſent to be mine, ſeeſt thou not, that the reconciliation with her deteſted relations is the in⯑ducement, as it always was, and not love of me?— Neither her virtue nor her love can be eſtabliſhed but upon full trial; the laſt trial—But if her re⯑ſiſtance and reſentment be ſuch as hitherto I have reaſon to expect they will be, and if I find in that reſentment leſs of hatred of me, than of the fact, then ſhall ſhe be mine in her own way. Then, hateful as is the life of ſhackles to me, will I marry her.

[144]Well, Sir, I can only ſay, that I am dough in your hands, to be moulded into what ſhape you pleaſe. But if, as I ſaid before —

None of your ſaids-before. I remember all thou ſaidſt — And I know all thou canſt further ſay — Thou art only, Pontius Pilate like, waſhing thine own hands (don't I know thee?), that thou mayſt have ſomething to ſilence thy conſcience with by loading me. But we have gone too far to recede. Are not all our engines in readineſs?—Dry up thy ſorrowful eyes. Let unconcern and heart's-eaſe once more take poſſeſſion of thy ſolemn features. Thou haſt hitherto performed extremely well. Shame not thy paſt, by thy future behaviour; and a rich re⯑ward awaits thee. If thou art dough, be dough; and I ſlapt him on the ſhoulder — Reſume but thy former ſhape—And I'll be anſwerable for the event.

He bow'd aſſent and compliance: Went to the glaſs; and began to untwiſt and unſadden his fea⯑tures: Pull'd his wig right, as if that, as well as his head and heart, had been diſcompoſed by his com⯑punction; and once more became old Mulciber's and mine.

But didſt thou think, Jack, that there was ſo much—What-ſhall-I-call it?—in this Tomlinſon? Didſt thou imagine, that ſuch a fellow as that, had bowels? That nature, ſo long dead and buried in him, as to all humane effects, ſhould thus revive and exert itſelf?—Yet why do I aſk this queſtion of thee, who, to my equal ſurprize, haſt ſhewn, on the ſame occaſion, the like compaſſionate ſenſibilities?

As to Tomlinſon, it looks as if poverty had made him the wicked fellow he is; as plenty and wanton⯑neſs have made us what we are. Neceſſity, after all, is the teſt of principle. But what is there in this dull word, or thing, called HONESTY, that even I, who cannot in my preſent views be ſerved by it, can⯑not [145] help thinking even the accidental emanations of it amiable in Tomlinſon, tho' demonſtrated in a fe⯑male caſe; and judging better of him for being ca⯑pable of ſuch?

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

THIS debate between the Captain and me, was hardly over, when the three women, led by Miſs Rawlins, enter'd, hoping, No intruſion—But very deſirous, the maiden ſaid, to know if we were likely to accommodate.

O yes, I hope ſo. You know, ladies, that your Sex muſt, in theſe caſes, preſerve their forms. They muſt be courted to comply with their own happineſs. A lucky expedient, we have hit upon. The uncle has his doubts of our marriage. He cannot believe, nor will any-body, that it is poſſible that a man ſo much in love, the lady ſo deſirable —

They all took the hint—It was a very extraordi⯑nary caſe, the two widows allowed. Women, Jack, as I believe I have obſerved elſewhere, have a high opinion of what they can do for us.—Miſs Rawlins deſired, if I pleaſed, to let them know the expe⯑dient; and look'd as if there was no need to proceed in the reſt of my ſpeech.

I begg'd, that they would not let the lady know that I had told them what this expedient was.

They promiſed.

It was this: That to oblige and ſatisfy Mr. Har⯑lowe, the ceremony was to be again performed. He was to be privately preſent, and to give his niece to me with his own hands—And ſhe was retired to conſider of it.

Thou ſeeſt, Jack, that I have provided an excuſe, to ſave my veracity to the women here, in caſe I [146] ſhould incline to marriage, and ſhe ſhould chooſe to have Miſs Rawlins's aſſiſtance at the ceremony. Nor doubted I to bring my Fair-one to ſave my credit on this occaſion, if I could get her to conſent to be mine.

A charming expedient! cried the widow. They were all three ready to clap their hands for joy upon it. Women love to be married twice at leaſt, Jack; tho' not indeed to the ſame man; and all bleſs'd the reconciliatory ſcheme, and the propoſer of it; and, ſuppoſing it came from the Captain, they look'd at him with pleaſure, while his face ſhined with the ap⯑plauſe implied. He ſhould think himſelf very happy, if he could bring about a general reconciliation; and he flouriſh'd with his head like my man Will. on his victory over old Grimes; bridling by turns, like Miſs Rawlins in the height of a prudiſh fit.

But now it was time for the Captain to think of returning to town, having a great deal of buſineſs to diſpatch before morning: Nor was he certain that he ſhould again be able to attend us at Hamſtead be⯑fore he went home.

And yet I did not intend that he ſhould leave Hampſtead this night: Every thing drawing on to a criſis.

A meſſage to the above effect was carried up, at my deſire, by Mrs. Moore; with the Captain's com⯑pliments, and to know if ſhe had any commands for him to her uncle?

But I hinted to the women, that it would be pro⯑per for them to withdraw, if the lady did come down; leſt ſhe ſhould not care to be ſo free before them, on a propoſal ſo particular, as ſhe would be to us, who had offer'd it to her conſideration.

Mrs. Moore brought down word, that the lady was following her. They all three withdrew; and ſhe enter'd at one door, as they went out at the other.

[147]The Captain accoſted her, repeating the contents of the meſſage ſent up; and deſired, that ſhe would give him her commands in relation to the report he was to make to her uncle Harlowe.

I know not what to ſay, Sir, nor what I would have you to ſay, to my uncle. Perhaps you may have buſineſs in town—Perhaps you need not ſee my uncle, till I have heard from Miſs Howe; till after Lady Betty—I don't know what to ſay.

I implored the return of that value, which ſhe had ſo generouſly acknowleged once to have had for me. I preſumed, I ſaid, to flatter myſelf that Lady Betty, in her own perſon, and in the name of all my fa⯑mily, would be able, on my promiſed reformation and contrition, to prevail in my favour; eſpecially as our proſpects in other reſpects, with regard to the general reconciliation wiſhed for, were ſo happy. But let me owe to your own generoſity, my deareſt creature, ſaid I, rather than to the mediation of any perſon on earth, the forgiveneſs I am an humble ſuitor for. How much more agreeable to yourſelf, O beſt beloved of my ſoul, muſt it be, as well as obliging to me, that your firſt perſonal knowlege of my relations, and theirs of you (for they will not be denied attending you), ſhould not be begun in re⯑criminations and appeals! As Lady Betty will be here ſo ſoon, it will not perhaps be poſſible for you to receive her viſit with a brow abſolutely ſerene. But, deareſt, deareſt creature, I beſeech you, let the miſunderſtanding paſs as a ſlight one—As a miſunder⯑ſtanding clear'd up. Appeals give pride and ſuperi⯑ority to the perſons appealed to, and are apt to leſſen the appellant, not only in their eye, but in her own. Exalt not into judges thoſe who are prepared to take leſſons and inſtructions from you. The individuals of my family are as proud as I am ſaid to be. But they will chearfully reſign to your ſuperiority—You [148] will be the firſt woman of the family in every one's eyes.

This might have done with any other woman in the world but this; and yet ſhe is the only woman in the world of whom it may with truth be ſaid— But thus, angrily, did ſhe diſclaim the compliment.

Yes, indeed!—(and there ſhe ſtopt a moment, her ſweet boſom heaving with a noble diſdain)—Trick'd out of myſelf, from the very firſt—A fugitive from my own family! Renounced by my relations! In⯑ſulted by you!—Laying humble claim to the pro⯑tection of yours!—Is not this the light in which I muſt appear not only to the ladies of your family, but to all the world?—Think you, Sir, that in theſe circumſtances, or even had I been in the happieſt, that I could be affected by this plea of undeſerved ſuperiority?—You are a ſtranger to the mind of Clariſſa Harlowe, if you think her capable of ſo poor and ſo undue a pride!

She went from us to the farther end of the room.

The Captain was again affected—Excellent crea⯑ture! I called her; and, reverently approaching her, urged further the plea I had laſt made.

It is but lately, ſaid I, that the opinions of my relations have been more than indifferent to me, whether good or bad; and it is for your ſake, more than for my own, that I now wiſh to ſtand well with my whole family. The principal motive of Lady Betty's coming up, is, to purchaſe preſents for the whole family to make on the happy occaſion.

This conſideration, turning to the Captain, with ſo noble-minded a dear creature, I know, can have no weight; only as it will ſhew their value and re⯑ſpect. But what a damp would their worthy hearts receive, were they to find their admired new niece, as they now think her, not only not their niece, but capable of renouncing me for ever! They love me. [149] They all love me. I have been guilty of careleſſneſs and levity to them, indeed; but of careleſſneſs and le⯑vity only; and that owing to a pride that has ſet me above meanneſs, tho' it has not done every thing for me.

My whole family will be guaranties for my good behaviour to this dear creature, their niece, their daughter, their couſin, their friend, their choſen companion and directreſs, all in one.—Upon my ſoul, Captain, we may, we muſt be happy.

But, deareſt, deareſt creature, let me on my knees (and down I dropt, her face all the time turn'd half from me, as ſhe ſtood at the window, her handker⯑chief often at her eyes) plead your promiſed forgive⯑neſs; and let us not appear to them, on their viſit, thus unhappy with each other. Lady Betty, the next hour that ſhe ſees you, will write her opinion of you, and of the likelihood of our future happineſs, to Lady Sarah, her ſiſter, a weak-ſpirited woman, who now hopes to ſupply to herſelf, in my bride, the loſt daughter ſhe ſtill mourns for!

The Captain then joined in, re-urging her uncle's hopes and expectations; and his reſolution effectually to ſet about the general reconciliation: The miſchief that might be prevented: The certainty he was in, that her uncle might be prevailed upon to give her to me with his own hand, if ſhe made it her choice to wait for his coming up. But, for his own part, he humbly adviſed, and fervently preſſed her, to make the very next day, or Monday at fartheſt, my happy day.

Permit me, deareſt Lady, ſaid he, and I could kneel to you myſelf (bending his knee); tho' I have no intereſt in my earneſtneſs, but the pleaſure I ſhould have to be able to ſerve you all; to beſeech you to give me an opportunity to aſſure your uncle, that I myſelf ſaw with my own eyes the happy knot ty'd!—All miſunderſtandings, all doubts, all diffi⯑dences, will then be at an end.

[150]And what, Madam, rejoined I, ſtill kneeling, can there be in your new meaſures, be they what they will, that can ſo happily, ſo reputably, I will pre⯑ſume to ſay, for all round, obviate the preſent diffi⯑culties?

Miſs Howe herſelf, if ſhe loves you, and loves your fame, Madam, urged the Captain, his knee ſtill bent, muſt congratulate you on ſuch a happy con⯑cluſion.

Then turning her face, ſhe ſaw the Captain half-kneeling—O Sir! O Capt. Tomlinſon!—Why this undue condeſcenſion? extending her hand to his el⯑bow, to raiſe him.—I cannot bear this!—Then caſt⯑ing her eye to me, Riſe, Mr. Lovelace. Kneel not to the poor creature whom you have inſulted!—How cruel the occaſion for it!—And how mean the ſub⯑miſſion!

Not mean to ſuch an angel!—Nor can I riſe, but to be forgiven!—

The Captain then re-urged once more the day— He was amazed, he ſaid, if ſhe ever valued me—

O Captain Tomlinſon, interrupted ſhe, how much are you the friend of this man!—If I had never va⯑lued him, he never would have had it in his power to inſult me; nor could I have taken to heart as I do, the inſult (execrable as it was) ſo undeſervedly, ſo ungratefully given—But let him retire—For a mo⯑ment let him retire.

I was more than half afraid to truſt the Captain by himſelf with her—He gave me a ſign that I might depend upon him—And then I took out of my poc⯑ket his letter to me, and Lady Betty's, and Miſs Montague's, and Lord M.'s (which laſt ſhe had not then ſeen), and giving them to him: Procure for me, in the firſt place, Mr. Tomlinſon, a re-peruſal of theſe three letters; and of This, from Lord M. And I beſeech you, my deareſt life, give them due [151] conſideration: And let me on my return find the happy effects of it.

I then withdrew; with ſlow feet, however, and a miſgiving heart.

The Captain inſiſted upon this re-peruſal previouſly to what ſhe had to ſay to him, as he tells me. She comply'd, but with ſome difficulty; as if ſhe was afraid of being ſoften'd in my favour!

She lamented her unhappy ſituation; deſtitute of friends, and not knowing whither to go, or what to do.—She aſked queſtions, ſifting queſtions, about her uncle, about her family, and after what he knew of Mr. Hickman's fruitleſs application in her favour.

He was well prepared in this particular; for I had ſhewn him the letters, and extracts of letters, of Miſs Howe, which I had ſo happily come at ^(a). Might ſhe be aſſured, ſhe aſked him, that her bro⯑ther, with Singleton, and Solmes, were actually in queſt of her?

He averr'd that they were.

She aſked, If he thought I had hopes of prevailing on her to go back to town?

He was ſure I had not.

Was he really of opinion, that Lady Betty would pay her a viſit?

He had no doubt of it.

But, Sir; but, Captain Tomlinſon—Then impa⯑tiently turning from him, and again to him, I know not what to do—But were I your daughter, Sir— Were you my own father—Alas, Sir, I have neither father nor mother!

He turned from her, and wiped his eyes.

O Sir! you have humanity! [She wept too] There are ſome men in the world, thank Heaven, that can be moved. O Sir, I have met with hard-hearted men; and in my own family too—or I could not [152] have been ſo unhappy as I am—But I make every⯑body unhappy!

I ſuppoſe his eyes run over.

Deareſt Madam! Heavenly Lady!—Who can— who can—heſitated and blubber'd the dog, as he owned. And indeed I heard ſome part of what paſſed, tho' they both talked lower than I wiſhed; for, from the nature of their converſation, there was no room for altitudes.

THEM, and BOTH, and THEY!—How it goes againſt me to include this angel of a creature, and any man on earth, but myſelf, in one word!

Who can forbear being affected?—But, Madam, you can be no other man's.

Nor would I be. But he is ſo ſunk with me!— To fire the houſe!—An artifice ſo vile!—contrived for the worſt of purpoſes!—Would you have a daugh⯑ter of yours—But what would I ſay?—Yet you ſee, that I have nobody in whom I can confide!—Mr. Lovelace is a vindictive man!—He could not love the creature whom he could inſult as he has inſulted me! Then pauſing—In ſhort, I never, never can forgive him, nor he me.—Do you think, Sir, I would have gone ſo far, as I have gone, if I had intended ever to draw with him in one yoke?—I left behind me ſuch a letter—

You know, Madam, he has acknowleged the ju⯑ſtice of your reſentment—

O Sir, he can acknowlege, and he can retract, fifty times a day—But do not think I am trifling with myſelf and you, and want to be perſuaded to forgive him, and to be his.—There is not a creature of my ſex, who would have been more explicit, and more frank, than I would have been, from the moment I intended to be his, had I had a heart like my own to deal with. I was always above reſerve, Sir, I will preſume to ſay, where I had no cauſe of doubt. Mr. Lovelace's conduct has made me appear, perhaps, [153] over-nice, when my heart wanted to be encouraged and aſſured; and when, if it had been ſo, my whole behaviour would have been governed by it.

She ſtopt, her handkerchief at her eyes. I in⯑quired after the minuteſt part of her behaviour, as well as after her words. I love, thou knoweſt, to trace human nature, and more particularly female nature, thro' its moſt ſecret receſſes.

The pitiful fellow was loſt in ſilent admiration of her—And thus the noble creature proceeded.

It is the fate of unequal unions, that tolerable crea⯑tures, thro' them, frequently incurr cenſure, when, more happily yoked, they might be intitled to praiſe. And ſhall I not ſhun an union with a man, that might lead into errors a creature who flatters herſelf that ſhe is bleſt with an inclination to be good; and who wiſhes to make every-one happy with whom ſhe has any connexion, even to her very ſervants?

She pauſed, taking a turn about the room—the fellow, devil fetch him, a mummy all the time: Then proceeded.

Formerly, indeed, I hoped to be an humble means of reforming him. But, when I have no ſuch hope, is it right (You are a ſerious man, Sir) to make a venture that ſhall endanger my own morals!

Still ſilent was the varlet. If my advocate had no⯑thing to ſay for me, what hope of carrying my cauſe?

And now, Sir, what is the reſult of all?—It is this—That you will endeavour, if you have that in⯑fluence over him which a man of your ſenſe and ex⯑perience ought to have, to prevail upon him, and that for his own ſake, as well as mine, to leave me free to purſue my own deſtiny. And of this you may aſſure him, that I never will be any other man's.

Impoſſible, Madam!—I know that Mr. Lovelace would not hear me with patience on ſuch a topic. And I do aſſure you, that I have ſome ſpirit, and [154] ſhould not care to take an indignity from him, or from any man living.

She pauſed—Then reſuming—And think you, Sir, that my uncle will refuſe to receive a letter from me?—How averſe, Jack, to concede a tittle in my favour!

I know, Madam, as matters are circumſtanced, that he would not anſwer it. If you pleaſe I will carry one down from you.

And will he not purſue his intentions in my favour, nor be himſelf reconciled to me, except I am mar⯑ried?

From what your brother gives out, and affects to believe, on Mr. Lovelace's living with you in the ſame—

No more, Sir—I am an unhappy creature!

He then re-urged, that it would be in her power inſtantly, or on the morrow, to put an end to all her difficulties.

How can that be, ſaid ſhe? The licence ſtill to be obtained? The ſettlements ſtill to be ſigned? Miſs Howe's anſwer to my laſt unreceived?—And ſhall I, Sir, be in ſuch a HURRY, as if I thought my honour in danger if I delay'd? Yet marry the man from whom only it can be endanger'd?—Unhappy, thrice unhappy, Clariſſa Harlowe!—In how many difficul⯑ties has one raſh ſtep involved thee?—And ſhe turn'd from him, and wept.

The varlet, by way of comfort, wept too: Yet her tears, as he might have obſerved, were tears that indicated rather a yielding than a perverſe temper.

There is a ſort of ſtone, thou knoweſt, ſo ſoft in the quarry, that it may, in a manner, be cut with a knife; but if the opportunity be not taken, and it is expoſed to the air for any time, it will become as hard as marble, and then with difficulty it yields to the chizel ^(a). So this lady, not taken at the mo⯑ment, [155] after a turn or two croſs the room, gained more reſolution; and then ſhe declared, as ſhe had done once before, that ſhe would wait the iſſue of Miſs Howe's anſwer to the letter ſhe had ſent her from hence, and take her meaſures accordingly; leav⯑ing it to him, mean time, to make what report he thought fit, to her uncle; the kindeſt that truth could bear, ſhe doubted not from Captain Tomlin⯑ſon: And ſhe ſhould be glad of a few lines from him, to hear what that was.

She wiſhed him a good journey. She complained of her head; and was about to withdraw: But I ſtept round to the door next the ſtairs, as if I had but juſt come in from the garden; which, as I entered, I called a very pretty one; and took her reluctant hand, as ſhe was going out: My deareſt life, you are not going?—What hopes, Captain?—Have you not ſome hopes to give me of pardon and reconciliation?

She ſaid, She would not be detained. But I would not let her go, till ſhe had promiſed to return, when the Captain had reported to me what her reſolution was.

And when he had, I claimed her promiſe; and ſhe came down again, and repeated it, as what ſhe was determined upon.

I expoſtulated with her upon it, in the moſt ſub⯑miſſive and earneſt manner. She made it neceſſary for me to repeat many of the pleas I had before urged. The Captain ſeconded me with equal earneſtneſs. At laſt, each fell down on his knees before her.

She was diſtreſſed. I was afraid at one time ſhe would have fainted. Yet neither of us would riſe without ſome conceſſions. I pleaded my own ſake; the Captain, his dear friend her uncle's; and both, the prevention of future miſchief; and the peace and hap⯑pineſs of the two families.

She own'd herſelf unequal to the conflict. She ſigh'd, ſhe ſobb'd, ſhe wept, ſhe wrung her hands.

[156]I was perfectly eloquent in my vows and proteſta⯑tions. Her tearful eyes were caſt down upon me; a glow upon each charming cheek; a viſible anguiſh in every lovely feature—At laſt, her trembling knees ſeeming to fail her, ſhe dropt into the next chair; her charming face, as if ſeeking for a hiding-place (which a mother's boſom would have beſt ſupply'd), ſinking upon her own ſhoulder.

I forgot at the inſtant all my vows of revenge. I threw myſelf at her feet as ſhe ſat; and, ſnatching her hand, preſſed it with my lips. I beſought Hea⯑ven to forgive my paſt offences, and proſper my fu⯑ture hopes, as I deſigned honourably and juſtly by the charmer of my heart, if once more ſhe would re⯑ſtore me to her favour. And I thought I felt drops of ſcalding water (Could they be tears?) trickle down upon my cheeks; while my cheeks, glowing like fire, ſeemed to ſcorch up the unwelcome ſtrangers.

I then aroſe, not doubting of an imply'd pardon in this ſilent diſtreſs. I raiſed the Captain. I whiſper'd him—By my ſoul, man, I am in earneſt.—Now talk of reconciliation, of her uncle, of the licence, of ſettlements—And raiſing my voice, If now at laſt, Captain Tomlinſon, my angel will give me leave to call ſo great a bleſſing mine, it will be impoſſible that you ſhould ſay too much to her uncle in praiſe of my gratitude, my affection, and fidelity to his charming niece; and he may begin as ſoon as he pleaſes, his kind ſchemes for effecting the deſirable reconciliation!—Nor ſhall he preſcribe any terms to me, that I will not comply with.

The Captain bleſs'd me with his eyes and hands— Thank God, whiſper'd he. We approached the lady together.

What hinders, deareſt Madam, ſaid he, what now hinders, but that Lady Betty Lawrance, when ſhe comes, may be acquainted with the truth of every⯑thing? And aſſiſt privately at your nuptials?—I will [157] ſtay till they are celebrated; and then ſhall I go down with the happy tidings to my dear Mr. Har⯑lowe.—And all will, all muſt, ſoon be happy.

I muſt have an anſwer from Miſs Howe, reply'd the ſtill trembling Fair-one. I cannot change my new meaſures, but with her advice. I will forfeit all my hopes of happineſs in this world, rather than her good opinion, and that ſhe ſhould think me giddy, unſteady, or precipitate. All I will further ſay on the preſent ſubject is this, That, when I have her anſwer to what I have written, I will write to her the whole ſtate of the matter, as I ſhall then be enabled to do.

Then muſt I deſpair for ever—O Captain Tomlinſon, Miſs Howe hates me!—Miſs Howe—

Not ſo, perhaps—When Miſs Howe knows your concern for having offended, ſhe will never ad⯑viſe, that, with ſuch proſpects of general reconcili⯑ation, the hopes of ſo many conſiderable perſons in both families, ſhould be fruſtrated. Some little time, as that excellent lady has foreſeen and hinted, will neceſſarily be taken up, in actually procuring the li⯑cence, and in peruſing and ſigning the ſettlements. In that time Miſs Howe's anſwer may be received; and Lady Betty may arrive; and ſhe, no doubt, will have weight to diſſipate the lady's doubts, and to ac⯑celerate the day. It ſhall be my part, mean time, to make Mr. Harlowe eaſy. All I fear from delay is, from Mr. James Harlowe's quarter; and there⯑fore all muſt be conducted with prudence and pri⯑vacy;—As your uncle, Madam, has propoſed.

She was ſilent: I rejoiced in her ſilence: The dear creature, thought I, has actually forgiven me in her heart!—But why will ſhe not lay me under ob⯑ligation to her, by the generoſity of an explicit de⯑claration?—And yet, as that would not accelerate any-thing, while the licence is not in my hands, ſhe is the leſs to be blamed (if I do her juſtice), that ſhe took more time to deſcend.

[158]I propoſed, as on the morrow night, to go to town; and doubted not to bring the licence up with me on Monday morning. Would ſhe be pleaſed to aſſure me, that ſhe would not depart from Mrs. Moore's?

She ſhould ſtay at Mrs. Moore's, till ſhe had an anſwer from Miſs Howe.

I told her, that I hop'd I might have her tacit con⯑ſent, at leaſt, to the obtaining of the licence.

I ſaw by the turn of her countenance, that I ſhould not have aſked this queſtion. She was ſo far from tacitly conſenting, that ſhe declared to the contrary.

As I never intended, I ſaid, to aſk her to enter again into a houſe, with the people of which ſhe was ſo much offended, would ſhe be pleaſed to give or⯑ders for her cloaths to be brought up hither? Or ſhould Dorcas attend her for any of her commands on that head?

She deſired not ever more to ſee any-body belong⯑ing to that houſe. She might perhaps get Mrs. Moore or Mrs. Bevis to go thither for her, and take her keys with them.

I doubted not, I ſaid, that Lady Betty would ar⯑rive by that time. I hoped ſhe had no objection to my bringing that lady and my couſin Montague up with me?

She was ſilent.

To be ſure, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid the Captain, the lady can have no objection to this.

She was ſtill ſilent. So ſilence in this caſe was aſſent.

Would ſhe be pleaſed to write to Miſs Howe?—

Sir! Sir! peeviſhly interrupting—No more que⯑ſtions: No preſcribing to me.—You will do as you think fit. So will I, as I pleaſe. I own no obligation to you. Captain Tomlinſon, your ſervant. Re⯑commend me to my uncle Harlowe's favour: And was going.

[159]I took her reluctant hand, and beſought her only to promiſe to meet me early in the morning.

To what purpoſe meet you? Have you more to ſay, than has been ſaid?—I have had enough of vows and proteſtations, Mr. Lovelace. To what purpoſe ſhould I meet you to-morrow morning?

I repeated my requeſt, and that in the moſt fer⯑vent manner, naming ſix in the morning.

‘You know, that I am always ſtirring before that hour, at this ſeaſon of the year,’ was the half-expreſſed conſent.

She then again recommended herſelf to her uncle's favour; and withdrew.

And thus, Belford, has ſhe mended her markets, as Lord M. would ſay, and I worſted mine. Miſs Howe's next letter is now the hinge, on which the fate of both muſt turn. I ſhall be abſolutely ruin'd and undone, if I cannot intercept it.

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

NO reſt, ſays a text that I once heard preached upon, to the wicked—And I cannot cloſe my eyes; yet wanted only to compound for half an hour in an elbow-chair. So muſt ſcribble on.

I parted with the Captain, after another ſtrong de⯑bate with him in relation to what is to be the fate of this lady. As the fellow has an excellent head, and would have made an eminent figure in any ſtation of life, had not his early days been tainted with a deep crime, and he detected in it; and as he had the right ſide of the argument; I had a good deal of dif⯑ficulty with him; and at laſt brought myſelf to pro⯑miſe, that if I could prevail upon her generouſly to forgive me, and to reinſtate me in her favour, I would make it my whole endeavour to get off of my [160] contrivances, as happily as I could (only that Lady Betty and Charlotte muſt come); and then, ſubſti⯑tuting him for her uncle's proxy, take ſhame to myſelf, and marry.

But if I ſhould, Jack (with the ſtrongeſt anti⯑pathy to the ſtate that ever man had), what a figure ſhall I make in rakiſh annals? And can I have taken all this pains for nothing? Or for a wife only, that, however excellent (and any woman, do I think, I could make good, becauſe I could make any woman fear as well as love me), might have been obtained with⯑out the plague I have been at, and much more re⯑putably than with it? And haſt thou not ſeen, that this haughty lady knows not how to forgive with gra⯑ciouſneſs? Indeed has not at all forgiven me? But holds my ſoul in a ſuſpenſe, which has been ſo grie⯑vous to her own.

At this ſilent moment I think, that if I were to purſue my former ſcheme, and reſolve to try whe⯑ther I cannot make a greater fault ſerve as a ſponge to wipe out a leſs; and then be forgiven for that; I can juſtify myſelf to myſelf; and that, as the fair Im⯑placable would ſay, is all in all.

It is my intention, in all my reflections, to avoid repeating, at leaſt dwelling upon, what I have before written to thee, tho' the ſtate of the caſe may not have varied; ſo I would have thee reconſider the old reaſonings (particularly thoſe contained in my anſwer to thy laſt expoſtulatory nonſenſe ^(a); and add the new, as they fall from my pen; and then I ſhall think myſelf invincible;—at leaſt, as arguing rake to rake.

I take the gaining of this lady to be eſſential to my happineſs: And is it not natural for all men to aim at obtaining whatever they think will make them happy, be the object more or leſs conſiderable in the eyes of others?

As to the manner of endeavouring to obtain her, [161] by falſification of oaths, vows, and the like—Do not the poets of two thouſand years and upwards tell us, that Jupiter laughs at the perjuries of lovers? And let me add, to what I have heretofore mentioned on that head, a queſtion or two.

Do not the mothers, the aunts, the grandmothers, the governeſſes of the pretty innocents, always, from their very cradles to riper years, preach to them the de⯑ceitfulneſs of men?—That they are not to regard their oaths, vows, promiſes?—What a parcel of fibbers would all theſe reverend matrons be, if there were not now-and-then a pretty credulous rogue taken in for a juſtification of their preachments, and to ſerve as a beacon lighted up for the benefit of the reſt?

Do we not then ſee, that an honeſt prowling fel⯑low is a neceſſary evil on many accounts? Do we not ſee, that it is highly requiſite that a ſweet girl ſhould be now-and-then drawn aſide by him?—And the more eminent the lady, in the graces of perſon, mind, and fortune, is not the example likely to be the more efficacious?

If theſe poſtulata be granted me, who, I pray, can equal my charmer in all theſe? Who therefore ſo fit for an example to the reſt of the Sex?—At worſt, I am intirely within my worthy friend Man⯑deville's rule, That private vices are public benefits.

Well then, if this ſweet creature muſt fall, as it is called, for the benefit of all the pretty fools of the Sex, ſhe muſt; and there's an end of the matter. And what would there have been in it of uncommon or rare, had I not been ſo long about it?—And ſo I diſmiſs all further argumentation and debate upon the queſtion: And I impoſe upon thee, when thou writeſt to me, an eternal ſilence on this head.

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

A Few words to the information thou ſenteſt me laſt night concerning thy poor old man; and then I riſe from my ſeat, ſhake myſelf, refreſh, new-dreſs, and ſo to my charmer, whom, notwithſtand⯑ing her reſerves, I hope to prevail upon to walk out with me on the heath, this warm and fine morning.

The birds muſt have awaken'd her before now. They are in full ſong. She always gloried in accu⯑ſtoming herſelf to behold the ſun-riſe; one of God's natural wonders, as once ſhe called it.

Her window ſalutes the Eaſt. The valleys muſt be gilded by his rays, by the time I am with her; for already have they made the up-lands ſmile, and the face of nature chearful.

How unſuitable wilt thou find this gay preface to a ſubject ſo gloomy, as that I am now turning to!

I am glad to hear thy tedious expectations are at laſt anſwered.

Thy ſervant tells me, that thou art plaguily grieved at the old fellow's departure.

I can't ſay, but thou mayſt look as if thou wert; haraſſed as thou haſt been for a number of days and nights with a cloſe attendance upon a dying man, be⯑holding his drawing-on hour—Pretending, for de⯑cency's ſake, to whine over his excruciating pangs— To be in the way to anſwer a thouſand impertinent inquiries after the health of a man thou wiſhedſt to die— To pray by him—for ſo once thou wroteſt to me!— [165] To read by him—To be forced to join in conſulta⯑tions with a parcel of ſolemn wou'd-ſeem-wiſe doct⯑ors, and their officious Zanies the apothecaries, joined with the butcherly tribe of ſcarificators; all combined to carry on the phyſical farce, and to cut out thongs both from his fleſh and his eſtate—To have the ſuper-added apprehenſion of dividing thy intereſt in what he ſhall leave with a crew of eager-hoping, never-to-be-ſatisfied relations, legatees, and the devil knows who, of private gratificators of paſſions laudable and illauda⯑ble—In theſe circumſtances, I wonder not that thou lookeſt to ſervants (as little grieved at heart as thy⯑ſelf, and who are gaping after legacies, as thou after heirſhip) as if thou indeed wert grieved; and as if the moſt wry-facing woe had befallen thee.

Then, as I have often thought, the reflection that muſt naturally ariſe from ſuch mortifying objects, as the death of one with whom we have been familiar, muſt afford, when we are obliged to attend it in its ſlow approaches, and in its face-twiſting pangs, that it will one day be our own caſe, goes a great way to credit the appearance of grief.

And This it is that, ſeriouſly reflected upon, may temporarily give a fine air of ſincerity to the wailings of lively widows, heart-exulting heirs, and reſiduary legatees of all denominations; ſince, by keeping down the inward joy, thoſe intereſting reflections muſt ſadden the aſpect, and add an appearance of real concern to the aſſumed ſables.

Well, but, now thou art come to the reward of all thy watchings, anxieties, and cloſe attendances, tell me what it is; tell me if it compenſate thy trou⯑ble, and anſwer thy hope?

As to myſelf, thou ſeeſt, by the gravity of my ſtyle, how the ſubject has help'd to mortify me. But the neceſſity I am under of committing either ſpeedy matrimony, or a rape, has ſadden'd over my gayer proſpects, and, more than the caſe itſelf, con⯑tributed [166] to make me ſympathize with thy preſent joy⯑ful-ſorrow.

Adieu, Jack. I muſt be ſoon out of my pain, and my Clariſſa ſhall be ſoon out of hers—For ſo does the arduouſneſs of the caſe require.

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

I Have had the honour of my charmer's company for two complete hours. We met before ſix in Mrs. Moore's garden: A walk on the heath refuſed me.

The ſedateneſs of her aſpect, and her kind com⯑pliance in this meeting, gave me hopes. And all that either the Captain or I had urged yeſterday to obtain a full and free pardon, that re-urged I; and I told her, beſides, that Capt. Tomlinſon was gone down with hopes to prevail upon her uncle Harlowe to come up in perſon, in order to preſent me with the greateſt bleſſing that man ever received.

But the utmoſt I could obtain was, That ſhe would take no reſolution in my favour, till ſhe re⯑ceived Miſs Howe's next letter.

I will not repeat the arguments uſed by me: But I will give thee the ſubſtance of what ſhe ſaid in an⯑ſwer to them.

She had conſidered of every thing, ſhe told me. My whole conduct was before her. The houſe I carried her to, muſt be a vile houſe. The peo⯑ple early ſhewed what they were capable of, in the earneſt attempt made to faſten Miſs Partington upon her; as ſhe doubted not, with my approbation.— [Surely, thought I, ſhe has not received a duplicate of Miſs Howe's letter of detection!] They heard her cries. My inſult was undoubtedly premeditated. By my whole recollected behaviour to her, previous to [167] it, it muſt be ſo. I had the vileſt of views, no que⯑ſtion. And my treatment of her put it out of all doubt.

Soul all over, Belford! ſhe ſeems ſenſible of liber⯑ties, that my paſſion made me inſenſible of having taken.

She beſought me to give over all thoughts of her. Sometimes, ſhe ſaid, ſhe thought herſelf cruelly treated by her neareſt and deareſt relations: At ſuch times, a ſpirit of repining, and even of reſentment, took place, and the reconciliation, at other times ſo de⯑ſirable, was not then ſo much the favourite wiſh of her heart, as was the ſcheme ſhe had formerly plan⯑ned—of taking her good Norton for her directreſs and guide, and living upon her own eſtate in the manner her grandfather had intended ſhe ſhould live.

This ſcheme, ſhe doubted not, that her couſin Morden, who was one of her truſtees for that eſtate, would enable her (and that as ſhe hoped, without litigation) to purſue. And if he can, and does, what, Sir, let me aſk you, ſaid ſhe, have I ſeen in your conduct, that ſhould make me prefer to it an union of intereſts, where there is ſuch a diſunion in minds?

So thou ſeeſt, Jack, there is reaſon, as well as reſentment, in the preference ſhe makes againſt me!— Thou ſeeſt, that ſhe preſumes to think, that ſhe can be happy without me; and that ſhe muſt be unhappy with me!

I had beſought her, in the concluſion of my re⯑urged arguments, to write to Miſs Howe before Miſs Howe's anſwer could come, in order to lay before her the preſent ſtate of things; and if ſhe would de⯑fere to her judgment, to let her have an opportunity to give it, on the full knowlege of the caſe —

So I would, Mr. Lovelace, was the anſwer, if I were in doubt myſelf, which I would prefer; mar⯑riage, or the ſcheme I have mentioned. You cannot think, Sir, but the latter muſt be my choice. I wiſh [168] to part with you with temper—Don't put me upon repeating—

Part with me, Madam, interrupted I!—I cannot bear thoſe words!—But let me beſeech you, how⯑ever, to write to Miſs Howe. I hope, if Miſs Howe is not my enemy—

She is not the enemy of your perſon, Sir;—as you would be convinced, if you ſaw her laſt letter to me ^(a). But were ſhe not an enemy to your actions, ſhe would not be my friend, nor the friend of virtue. Why will you provoke from me, Mr. Lovelace, the harſhneſs of expreſſion, which, however deſerved by you, I am unwilling juſt now to uſe; having ſuf⯑fered enough in the two paſt days from my own ve⯑hemence?

I bit my lip for vexation. I was ſilent.

Miſs Howe, proceeded ſhe, knows the full ſtate of matters already, Sir. The anſwer I expect from her reſpects myſelf, not you. Her heart is too warm in the cauſe of friendſhip, to leave me in ſuſpenſe one moment longer than is neceſſary, as to what I want to know. Nor does her anſwer depend abſo⯑lutely upon herſelf. She muſt ſee a perſon firſt; and that perſon perhaps muſt ſee others.

The curſed ſmuggler-woman, Jack!—Miſs Howe's Townſend, I doubt not!—Plot, contrivance, in⯑trigue, ſtratagem!—Underground moles theſe ladies- But let the earth cover me! let me be a mole too, thought I, if they carry their point!—And if this lady eſcape me now.

She frankly owned, that ſhe had once thought of embarking out of all our ways for ſome one of our American colonies. But now that ſhe had been com⯑pelled to ſee me (which had been her greateſt dread, and which ſhe would have given her life to avoid), ſhe thought ſhe might be happieſt in the reſumption [169] of her former favourite ſcheme, if Miſs Howe could find her a reputable and private aſylum, till her cou⯑ſin Morden could come. But if he came not ſoon, and if ſhe had a difficulty to get to a place of refuge, whether from her brother or from any-body elſe (meaning me, I ſuppoſe), ſhe might yet perhaps go abroad: For, to ſay the truth, ſhe could not think of returning to her father's houſe; ſince her brother's rage, her ſiſter's upbraidings, her father's anger, her mother's ſtill more-affecting ſorrowings, and her own conſciouſneſs under them all, would be inſupportable to her.

O Jack! I am ſick to death, I pine, I die, for Miſs Howe's next letter! I would bind, gag, ſtrip, rob, and do any thing but murder, to intercept it.

But, determined as ſhe ſeems to be, it was evident to me, nevertheleſs, that ſhe had ſtill ſome tender⯑neſs for me.

She often wept as ſhe talk'd, and much oftener ſigh'd. She looked at me twice with an eye of un⯑doubted gentleneſs, and three times with an eye tend⯑ing to compaſſion and ſoftneſs: But its benign rays were as often ſnatch'd back, as I may ſay, and her face averted, as if her ſweet eye were not to be truſted, and could not ſtand againſt my eager eyes; ſeeking, as they did, for a loſt heart in hers, and en⯑deavouring to penetrate to her very ſoul.

More than once I took her hand. She ſtruggled not much againſt the freedom. I preſſed it once with my lips. She was not very angry. A frown indeed; but a frown that had more diſtreſs in it than indigna⯑tion.

How came the dear ſoul (cloathed as it is with ſuch a ſilken veſture) by all its ſteadineſs ^(a)?—Was it neceſſary, that the active gloom of ſuch a tyrant of a father, ſhould commix with ſuch a paſſive ſweet⯑neſs [170] of a will-leſs mother, to produce a conſtancy, an equanimity, a ſteadineſs, in the daughter, which never woman before could boaſt of?—If ſo, ſhe is more obliged to that deſpotic father than I could have imagined a creature to be, who gave diſtinction to every one related to her, beyond what the crown itſelf can confer.

I hoped, I ſaid, that ſhe would admit of the in⯑tended viſit of the two ladies, which I had ſo often mentioned.

She was here. She had ſeen me. She could not help herſelf at preſent. She ever had the higheſt re⯑gard for the ladies of my family, becauſe of their worthy characters. There ſhe turned away her ſweet face, and vanquiſhed a half-riſen ſigh.

I kneeled to her then. It was upon a verdant cu⯑ſhion; for we were upon the graſs-walk. I caught her hand. I beſought her with an earneſtneſs that called up, as I could feel, my heart to my eyes, to make me, by her forgiveneſs and example, more worthy of them, and of her own kind and generous wiſhes. By my ſoul, Madam, ſaid I, you ſtab me with your goodneſs, your undeſerved goodneſs! and I cannot bear it!

Why, why, thought I, as I did ſeveral times in this converſation, will ſhe not generouſly forgive me? Why will ſhe make it neceſſary for me to bring my aunt and my couſin to my aſſiſtance? Can the fort⯑reſs expect the ſame advantageous capitulation, which yields not to the ſummons of a reſiſtleſs conqueror, as if it gave not the trouble of bringing up, and raiſ⯑ing its heavy artillery againſt it?

What ſenſibilities, ſaid the divine creature, with⯑drawing her hand, muſt thou have ſuppreſſed!— What a dreadful, what a judicial hardneſs of heart muſt thine be; who canſt be capable of ſuch emo⯑tions as ſometimes thou haſt ſhewn; and of ſuch ſentiments, as ſometimes have flowed from thy lips; [171] yet canſt have ſo far overcome them all, as to be able to act as thou haſt acted, and that, from ſettled pur⯑poſe and premeditation; and this, as it is ſaid, through⯑out the whole of thy life, from infancy to this time!

I told her, that I had hoped, from the generous concern ſhe had expreſſed for me, when I was ſo ſud⯑denly and dangerouſly taken ill—[The Ipecacuanha experiment, Jack!].

She interrupted me.—Well have you rewarded me for the concern you ſpeak of! — However, I will frankly own, now that I am determined to think no more of you, that you might (unſatisfied as I never⯑theleſs was with you) have made an intereſt—

She pauſed. I beſought her to proceed.

Do you ſuppoſe, Sir, and turned away her ſweet face as we walked; do you ſuppoſe, that I had not thought of laying down a plan to govern myſelf by, when I found myſelf ſo unhappily over-reached, and cheated, as I may ſay, out of myſelf?—When I found, that I could not be, and do, what I wiſhed to be, and to do, do you imagine, that I had not caſt about, what was the next proper courſe to take?— And do you believe, that this next courſe has not coſt me ſome pain, to be obliged to—

There again ſhe ſtopt.

But let us break off diſcourſe, reſumed ſhe. The ſubject grows too—She ſigh'd—Let us break off diſ⯑courſe—I will go in—I will prepare for church— [The devil! thought I.] Well as I can appear in theſe every-day worn cloaths—looking upon herſelf— I will go to church.

She then turned from me to go into the houſe.

Bleſs me, my beloved creature, bleſs me with the continuance of this affecting converſation—Remorſe has ſeized my heart!—I have been exceſſively wrong— Give me further cauſe to curſe my heedleſs folly, by the continuance of this calm, but ſoul-penetrating converſation.

[172]No, no, Mr. Lovelace. I have ſaid too much. Impatience begins to break in upon me. If you can excuſe me to the ladies, it will be better for my mind's ſake, and for your credit's ſake, that I do not ſee them. Call me to them over-nice, petulant, prudiſh; what you pleaſe, call me to them. Nobody but Miſs Howe, to whom, next to the Almighty, and my own mother, I wiſh to ſtand acquitted of wilful error, ſhall know the whole of what has paſſed. Be happy, as you may!—Deſerve to be happy, and happy you will be, in your own reflection at leaſt, were you to be ever ſo unhappy in other reſpects. For myſelf, if I ſhall be enabled, on due reflection, to look back upon my own conduct, without the great reproach of having wilfully, and againſt the light of my own judgment, erred, I ſhall be more happy, than if I had all that the world accounts deſirable.

The noble creature proceeded; for I could not ſpeak.

This ſelf-acquittal, when ſpirits are lent me to diſpel the darkneſs which at preſent too often over⯑clouds my mind, will, I hope, make me ſuperior to all the calamities that can befall me.

Her whole perſon was informed by her ſentiments. She ſeemed to be taller than before. How the God within her exalted her, not only above me, but above herſelf.

Divine creature! (as I thought her) I called her. I acknowleged the ſuperiority of her mind; and was proceeding—But ſhe interrupted me—All human ex⯑cellence, ſaid ſhe, is comparative only. My mind, I believe, is indeed ſuperior to yours, debaſed as yours is by evil habits. But I had not known it to be ſo, if you had not taken pains to convince me of the inferiority of yours.

How great, how ſublimely great, this creature!— By my ſoul, I cannot forgive her for her virtues!— There is no bearing the conſciouſneſs of the infinite [173] inferiority ſhe charged me with.—But why will ſhe break from me, when good reſolutions are taking place?—The red-hot iron ſhe refuſes to ſtrike—O why will ſhe ſuffer the yielding wax to harden?

We had gone but a few paces towards the houſe, when we were met by the impertinent women, with notice, that breakfaſt was ready. I could only, with up-lifted hands, beſeech her to give me hope of a renewed converſation after breakfaſt.

No; ſhe would go to church.

And into the houſe ſhe went, and up-ſtairs direct⯑ly. Nor would ſhe oblige me with her company at the tea-table.

I offered by Mrs. Moore to quit both the table and the parlour, rather than ſhe ſhould exclude herſelf, or deprive the two widows of the favour of her com⯑pany.

That was not all the matter, ſhe told Mrs. Moore. She had been ſtruggling to keep down her temper. It had coſt her ſome pains to do it. She was deſi⯑rous to compoſe herſelf, in hopes to receive benefit by the divine worſhip ſhe was going to join in.

Mrs. Moore hoped for her preſence at dinner.

She had rather be excuſed. Yet, if ſhe could ob⯑tain the frame of mind ſhe hoped for, ſhe might not be averſe to ſhew, that ſhe had got above thoſe ſen⯑ſibilities, which gave conſideration to a man who de⯑ſerved not to be to her what he had been.

This ſaid, no doubt, to let Mrs. Moore know, that the garden-converſation had not been a recon⯑ciling one.

Mrs. Moore ſeemed to wonder, that we were not upon a better foot of underſtanding, after ſo long a conference; and the more, as ſhe believed, that the lady had given in to the propoſal for the repetition of the ceremony, which I had told them was inſiſted upon by her uncle Harlowe. But I accounted for this, by telling both widows, that ſhe was reſolved to [174] keep on the reſerve, till ſhe heard from Capt. Tom⯑linſon, whether her uncle would be preſent in per⯑ſon at the ſolemnity, or would name that worthy gentleman for his proxy.

Again I injoined ſtrict ſecrecy, as to this particu⯑lar; which was promiſed by the widows, as well for themſelves, as for Miſs Rawlins; of whoſe tacitur⯑nity they gave me ſuch an account, as ſhewed me, that ſhe was ſecret-keeper-general to all the women of faſhion at Hamſtead.

The Lord, Jack! What a world of miſchief, at this rate, muſt Miſs Rawlins know!—What a Pan⯑dora's box muſt her boſom be!—Yet, had I nothing that was more worthy of my attention to regard, I would engage to open it, and make my uſes of the diſcovery.

And now, Belford, thou perceiveſt, that all my reliance is upon the mediation of Lady Betty, and Miſs Montague; and upon the hope of intercepting Miſs Howe's next letter.

THE fair inexorable is actually gone to church, with Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Bevis. But Will. cloſely attends her motions; and I am in the way to receive any occaſional intelligence from him.

She did not chooſe [A mighty word with the ſex! as if they were always to have their own wills!] that I ſhould wait upon her. I did not much preſs it, that ſhe might not apprehend, that I thought I had reaſon to doubt her voluntary return.

I once had it in my head, to have found the widow Bevis other employment. And I believe ſhe would have been as well pleaſed with my company as to go to church; for ſhe ſeemed irreſolute when I told her, that two out of a family were enough to go to church for one day. But having her things on, as the women call every-thing, and her aunt Moore expecting her company, ſhe thought it beſt to go— [175] Leſt it ſhould look oddly, you know, whiſper'd ſhe, to one, who was above regarding how it look'd.

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

O Belford! what a hair's-breadth eſcape have I had! — Such a one, that I tremble between terror and joy, at the thoughts of what might have happen'd, and did not.

What a perverſe girl is this, to contend with her fate, yet has reaſon to think, that her very ſtars fight againſt her! I am the luckieſt of men! — But my breath almoſt fails me, when I reflect upon what a ſlender thread my deſtiny hung.

But not to keep thee in ſuſpenſe; I have, within this half-hour, obtained poſſeſſion of the expected letter from Miſs Howe—And by ſuch an accident! But here, with the former, I diſpatch this; thy meſſenger waiting.

LETTER XX. Mr. LOVELACE. In Continuation.

THUS it was—My charmer accompanied Mrs. Moore again to church this afternoon. I had been very earneſt, in the firſt place, to obtain her company at dinner: But in vain. According to what ſhe had ſaid to Mrs. Moore ^(a), I was too con⯑ſiderable to her to be allowed that favour. In the next place, I beſought her to favour me, after dinner, with another garden-walk. But ſhe would again go to church. And what reaſon have I to rejoice that ſhe did!

My worthy friend Mrs. Bevis thought one ſermon a day, well-obſerved, enough; ſo ſtay'd at home to bear me company.

The Lady and Mrs. Moore had not been gone a [176] quarter of an hour, when a young country-fellow on horſeback came to the door, and inquired for Mrs. Harriot Lucas. The widow and I (undetermined how we were to entertain each other) were in the parlour next the door; and hearing the fellow's in⯑quiry, O my dear Mrs. Bevis, ſaid I, I am undone, undone for ever, if you don't help me out!—Since here, in all probability, is a meſſenger from that im⯑placable Miſs Howe with a letter; which, if de⯑livered to Mrs. Lovelace, may undo all we have been doing.

What, ſaid ſhe, would you have me do?

Call the maid in this moment, that I may give her her leſſon; and if it be as I imagine, I'll tell you what you ſhall do.

Margaret! — Margaret! come in this minute.

What anſwer, Mrs. Margaret, did you give the man, upon his aſking for Mrs. Harriot Lucas?

I only aſked, What was his buſineſs, and who he came from? (For, Sir, your Honour's ſer⯑vant had told me how things ſtood): And I came at your call, Madam, before he anſwer'd me.

Well, child, if ever you wiſh to be happy in wedlock yourſelf, and would have people diſap⯑pointed, who want to make miſchief between you and your huſband, get out of him his meſſage, or letter, if he has one, and bring it to me, and ſay nothing to Mrs. Lovelace, when ſhe comes in; and here is a guinea for you.

I will do all I can to ſerve your Honour's Worſhip for nothing

For Mr. William tells me, what a good gentleman you be.

Away went Peggy to the fellow at the door.

What is your buſineſs, friend, with Mrs. Harry Lucas?

I muſt ſpeak to her, her own ſelf.

My deareſt widow, do you perſonate Mrs. Lovelace—For Heaven's ſake do you perſonate Mrs. Lovelace!

I perſonate Mrs. Lovelace, Sir! How can I do that?—She is fair: I am a brown woman. She is ſlender: I am plump—

No matter, no matter — The fellow may be a new-come ſervant: He is not in livery, I ſee. He may not know her perſon. You can but be bloated, and in a dropſy.

Dropſical people look not ſo freſh and ruddy as I do—

True—But the clown may not know That —'Tis but for a preſent deception.

Peggy, Peggy, call'd I, in a female tone, ſoftly at the door. Madam, anſwer'd Peggy; and came up to me to the parlour-door.

Tell him the Lady is ill, and has lain down upon the couch. And get his buſineſs from him, whatever you do.

Away went Peggy.

Now, my dear widow, lie along on the ſettee, and put your handkerchief over your face, that, if he will ſpeak to you himſelf, he may not ſee your eyes and your hair.—So—that's right. I'll ſtep into the cloſet by you.

I did ſo.

He won't deliver his buſineſs to me. He will ſpeak to Mrs. Harry Lucas her own ſelf.

Tell him, that This is Mrs. Harriot Lucas; and let him come in. Whiſper him, if he doubts, that ſhe is bloated, dropſical, and not the woman ſhe was.

Away went Margery.

And now, my dear widow, let me ſee what a charming Mrs. Lovelace you'll make!—Aſk, If he comes from Miſs Howe. Aſk, If he live with [178] her. Aſk, How ſhe does. Call her, at every word, your dear Miſs Howe. Offer him money—Take this half-guinea—Complain of your head, to have a pretence to hold it down; and cover your forehead and eyes with your hand, where your handkerchief hides not your face.—That's right—And diſmiſs the raſcal—(Here he comes)—as ſoon as you can.

In came the fellow, bowing and ſcraping, his hat poked out before him with both his hands.

I am ſorry, Madam, and pleaſe you, to find you be'n't well.

What is your buſineſs with me, friend?

You are Mrs. Harriot Lucas, I ſuppoſe, Madam?

Yes. Do you come from Miſs Howe?

I do, Madam.

Doſt thou know my right name, friend?

I can give a ſhrewd gueſs. But that is none of my buſineſs.

What is thy buſineſs? I hope Miſs Howe is well.

Yes, Madam; pure well, I thank God. I wiſh you were ſo too.

I am too full of grief to be well.

So belike I have hard ſay.

My head akes ſo dreadfully, I cannot hold it up. I muſt beg of you to let me know your buſineſs?

Nay, and that be all, my buſineſs is ſoon known. It is but to give this letter into your own partiklar hands—Here it is.

From my dear friend Miſs Howe?—Ah, my head!

Yes, Madam: But I am ſorry you are ſo bad.

Do you live with Miſs Howe?

No, Madam: I am one of her tenant's ſons. Her lady-mother muſt not know as how I [179] came of this errand. But the letter, I ſuppoſe, will tell you all.

How ſhall I ſatisfy you for this kind trouble?

Na how at all. What I do is for love of Miſs Howe. She will ſatisfy me more than enough. But, may-hap, you can ſend no anſwer, you are ſo ill.

Was you order'd to wait for an anſwer?

No. I can't ſay I was. But I was bidden to obſerve how you looked, and how you was; and if you did write a line or ſo, to take care of it, and give it only to our young landlady, in ſecret.

You ſee I look ſtrangely. Not ſo well as I uſed to do.

Nay, I don't know that I ever ſaw you but once before; and that was at a ſtile, where I met you and my young landlady; but knew better than to ſtare a gentlewoman in the face; eſpecially at a ſtile.

Will you eat, or drink, friend?

A cup of ſmall ale, I don't care if I do.

Margaret, take the young man down, and treat him with what the houſe affords.

Your ſervant, Madam. But I ſtaid to eat as I came along, juſt upon the Heath yonder, or elſe, to ſay the truth, I had been here ſooner

A piece of powder'd beef was upon the table, at the ſign of the Caſtle, where I ſtopt to inquire for this houſe: And ſo, thoff I only intended to whet my whiſtle, I could not help eat⯑ing. So ſhall only taſte of your ale; for the beef was woundily corn'd.

He withdrew, bowing and ſcraping.

Pox on thee, thought I: Get thee gone for a prating dog!

Margaret, whiſper'd I, in a female voice, whip⯑ping out of the cloſet, and holding the parlour-door in my hand, Get him out of the houſe as faſt as you [180] can, leſt they come from church, and catch him here.

Never fear, Sir.

The fellow went down, and, it ſeems, drank a large draught of ale; and Margaret finding him very talkative, told him, ſhe begg'd his pardon; but ſhe had a ſweetheart juſt come from ſea, whom ſhe was forced to hide in the pantry; ſo was ſure he would excuſe her from ſtaying with him.

Ay, ay, to be ſure, the clown ſaid: For if he could not make ſport, he would ſpoil none. But he whiſper'd her, that one 'Squire Lovelace was a damnation rogue, if the truth might be told.

For what, ſaid Margaret? And could have given him, ſhe ſaid, a good dowſe of the chaps.

For kiſſing all the women he came near.

At the ſame time, the dog wrapp'd himſelf round Margery, and gave her a ſmack, that, ſhe told Mrs. Bevis afterwards, ſhe might have heard into the par⯑lour.

Such, Jack, is human nature: Thus does it ope⯑rate in all degrees; and ſo does the clown, as well as his betters, practiſe what he cenſures; and cen⯑ſure what he practiſes! Yet this ſly dog knew not but the wench had a ſweetheart lock'd up in the pantry. If the truth were known, ſome of the ruddy-faced dairy wenches might perhaps call him a damna⯑tion rogue, as juſtly as their betters of the ſame ſex, might 'Squire Lovelace.

The fellow told the maid, that, by what he diſ⯑cern'd of the young lady's face, it look'd very roſy to what he took it to be; and he thought her a good deal fatter, as ſhe lay, and not ſo tall.

All women are born to intrigue, Jack; and pra⯑ctiſe it more or leſs, as fathers, guardians, governeſſes, from dear experience can tell; and in love-affairs are naturally expert, and quicker in their wits by half than men. This ready, tho' raw, wench gave an inſtance of this, and improved on the dropſical hint I had [181] given her. The lady's ſeeming plumpneſs was owing to a dropſical diſorder, and to the round poſture ſhe lay in—Very likely, truly. Her appearing to him to be ſhorter, he might have obſerved was owing to her drawing her feet up, from pain, and becauſe the couch was too ſhort, ſhe ſuppos'd—Ad-ſo, he did not think of that. Her roſy colour was owing to her grief and head-ach—Ay, that might very well be.—But he was highly pleas'd he had given the letter into Mrs. Harriot's own hand, as he ſhould tell Miſs Howe.

He deſir'd once more to ſee the lady, at his going away, and would not be denied. The widow there⯑fore ſat up, with her handkerchief over her face, lean⯑ing her head againſt the wainſcot.

He aſked, If ſhe had any partiklar meſſage.

No: She was ſo ill ſhe could not write, which was a great grief to her.

Should he call next day? for he was going to Lon⯑don, now he was ſo near; and ſhould ſtay at a couſin's that night, who lived in a ſtreet call'd Fetter-lane.

No: She would write as ſoon as able, and ſend by the poſt.

Well then, if ſhe had nothing to ſend by him, may-hap he might ſtay in town a day or two; for he had never ſeen the Lions in the Tower, nor Bedlam, nor the Tombs; and he would make a holiday or two, as he had leave to do, if ſhe had no buſineſs or meſſage that required his poſting down next day.

She had not.

She offered him the half-guinea I had given her for him; but he refuſed it, with great profeſſions of diſintereſtedneſs, and love, as he called it, to Miſs Howe; to ſerve whom, he would ride to the world's end, or even to Jericho.

And ſo the ſhocking raſcal went away: And glad at my heart was I when he was gone; for I feared [182] nothing ſo much as that he would have ſtaid till they came from church.

Thus, Jack, got I my heart's-eaſe, the letter of Miſs Howe; and thro' ſuch a train of accidents, as makes me ſay, that the Lady's ſtars fight againſt her: But yet I muſt attribute a good deal to my own precaution, in having taken right meaſures: For had I not ſecured the widow by my ſtories, and the maid by my ſervant, all would have ſignified nothing. And ſo heartily were they ſecured, the one by a ſingle guinea, the other by half a dozen warm kiſſes, and the averſion they both had to ſuch wicked crea⯑tures as delighted in making miſchief between man and wife, that they promiſed, that neither Mrs. Moore, Miſs Rawlins, Mrs. Lovelace, nor any⯑body living, till a week at leaſt were paſt, and till I gave leave, ſhould know any thing of the matter.

The widow rejoiced that I had got the miſchief-maker's letter. I excuſed myſelf to her, and in⯑ſtantly withdrew with it; and, after I had read it, fell to my ſhort-hand, to acquaint thee with my good luck: And they not returning ſo ſoon as church was done (ſtepping, as it proved, in to Miſs Rawlins's, and tar⯑rying there a while, to bring that buſy girl with them to drink tea); I wrote thus far to thee, that thou mighteſt, when thou cameſt to this place, rejoice with me upon the occaſion.

They are all three juſt come in—I haſten to them.

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

I Have begun another letter to thee, in continua⯑tion of my narrative: But I believe I ſhall ſend thee this before I ſhall finiſh that. By the incloſed thou wilt ſee, that neither of the correſpondents de⯑ſerve mercy from me: And I am reſolved to make the ending with one, the beginning with the other.

[183]If thou ſayeſt, That the provocations I have given to one of them, will juſtify her freedoms; I anſwer, So they will to any other perſon but myſelf. But he that is capable of giving thoſe provocations, and has the power to puniſh thoſe who abuſe him for giving them, will ſhew his reſentment; and the more vin⯑dictively, perhaps, as he has deſerved the freedoms?

If thou ſayeſt, It is, however, wrong to do ſo; I reply, that it is nevertheleſs human nature:—And would'ſt not have me be a man, Jack?

Here read the letter, if thou wilt. But thou art not my friend, if thou offereſt to plead for either of the ſaucy creatures, after thou haſt read it.

AND now, Jack, I will ſuppoſe, that thou haſt read this curſed letter. Allow me to make a few obſervations upon ſome of its contents, which I will do in my crow-quill ſhort-hand, that they may have the appearance of notes upon the vixen's text.

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

I WENT down with revenge in my heart; the contents of Miſs Howe's letter almoſt engroſſing me, the moment that Miſs Harlowe and Mrs. Moore, accompanied by Miſs Rawlins, came in: But in my [194] countenance all the gentle, the placid, the ſerene, that the glaſs could teach; and in my behaviour all the polite, that ſuch an unpolite creature, as ſhe has often told me I am, could put on.

Miſs Rawlins was ſent for home, almoſt as ſoon as ſhe came in, to entertain an unexpected viſiter; to her great regret, as well as to the diſappointment of my fair one, as I could perceive from the looks of both: For they had agreed, it ſeems, if I went to town, as I ſaid I intended to do, to take a walk upon the heath; at leaſt in Mrs. Moore's garden; and who knows, what might have been the iſſue, had the ſpirit of curioſity in the one met with the ſpirit of communication in the other?

Miſs Rawlins promiſed to return, if poſſible: But ſent to excuſe herſelf; her viſiter intending to ſtay with her all night.

I rejoiced in my heart, at her meſſage; and after much ſupplication obtained the favour of my Be⯑loved's company for another walk in the garden, having, as I told her, abundance of things to ſay, to propoſe, and to be informed of, in order ultimately to govern myſelf in my future ſteps.

She had vouchſafed, I ſhould tell thee, with eyes turned from me, and in an half-aſide attitude, to ſip two diſhes of tea in my company—Dear ſoul!—How anger unpoliſhes the moſt polite! for I never ſaw Miſs Harlowe behave ſo aukwardly. I imagined ſhe knew not how to be aukward.

When we were in the garden, I poured my whole ſoul into her attentive ear; and beſought her return⯑ing favour.

She told me, that ſhe had formed her ſcheme for her future life: That, vile as the treatment was which ſhe had received from me, that was not all the reaſon ſhe had for rejecting my ſuit: But that, on the ma⯑tureſt deliberation, ſhe was convinced, that ſhe could [195] neither be happy with me, nor make me happy; and ſhe injoined me, for both our ſakes, to think no more of her.

The Captain, I told her, was rid down poſt in a manner, to forward my wiſhes with her uncle.

Lady Betty and Miſs Montague were undoubtedly arrived in town by this time.

I would ſet out early in the morning to attend them.

They adored her. They longed to ſee her. They would ſee her.—They would not be denied her com⯑pany into Oxfordſhire.

Where could ſhe better go, to be free from her brother's inſults?—Where, to be abſolutely made unapprehenſive of any-body elſe?—Might I have any hopes of her returning favour, if Miſs Howe could be prevailed upon to intercede for me?

Miſs Howe prevailed upon to intercede for you! repeated ſhe, with a ſcornful bridle, but a very pretty one.—And there ſhe ſtopt.

I repeated the concern it would be to me, to be under a neceſſity of mentioning the miſunderſtand⯑ing to Lady Betty and my couſin, as a miſunder⯑ſtanding ſtill to be made up; and as if I were of very little conſequence to a dear creature, who was of ſo much to me; urging, that it would extremely lower me, not only in my own opinion, but in that of my relations.

But ſtill ſhe referred to Miſs Howe's next letter; and all the conceſſion I could bring her to in this whole conference, was, that ſhe would wait the arrival and viſit of the two ladies, if they came in a day or two, or before ſhe received the expected letter from Miſs Howe.

Thank Heaven for this! thought I. And now may I go to town with hopes at my return to find thee, deareſt, where I ſhall leave thee.

But yet I ſhall not intirely truſt to this, as ſhe may [196] find reaſons to change her mind in my abſence. My fellow, therefore, who is in the houſe, and who, by Mrs. Bevis's kind intelligence, will know every ſtep ſhe can take, ſhall have Andrew and a horſe ready, to give me immediate notice of her motions; and more⯑over, go where ſhe will, he ſhall be one of her re⯑tinue, tho' unknown to herſelf, if poſſible.

This was all I could make of the fair Inexorable. Should I be glad of it, or ſorry for it?—

Glad, I believe: And yet my pride is confoundedly abated to think, that I had ſo little hold in the affections of this daughter of the Harlowes.

Don't tell me, that virtue and principle are her guides on this occaſion!—'Tis pride, a greater pride than my own, that governs her. Love, ſhe has none, thou ſeeſt; nor ever had; at leaſt not in a ſuperior degree.—Love never was under the dominion of prudence, or of any reaſoning power.—She cannot bear to be thought a woman, I warrant!—And if, in the laſt attempt, I find her not one, what will ſhe be the worſe for the tryal?—No one is to blame for ſuffering an evil he cannot ſhun or avoid.

Were a general to be overpower'd, and robb'd by a highwayman, would he be leſs fit for the command of an army on that account?—If indeed the general, pretending great valour, and having boaſted, that he never would be robb'd, were to make but faint re⯑ſiſtance, when he was brought to the teſt, and to yield his purſe when he was maſter of his own ſword, then indeed will the highwayman, who robs him, be thought the braver man.

But from theſe laſt conferences am I furniſhed with an argument in defence of my favourite purpoſe, which I never yet pleaded.

O Jack! what a difficulty muſt a man be allowed to have, to conquer a predominant paſſion, be it what it will, when the gratifying of it is in his power, however wrong he knows it to be to reſolve to gra⯑tify [197] it! Reflect upon this; and then wilt thou be able to account for, if not to excuſe, a projected crime, which has habit to plead for it, in a breaſt as ſtormy, as uncontroulable!—

This my new argument—

Should ſhe fail in the trial; ſhould I ſucceed; and ſhould ſhe refuſe to go on with me; and even to marry me; which I can have no notion of—And ſhould ſhe diſdain to be obliged to me for the hand⯑ſome proviſion I ſhould be proud to make for her, even to the half of my eſtate; yet cannot ſhe be altogether unhappy—Is ſhe not intitled to an inde⯑pendent fortune? Will not Col. Morden, as her truſtee, put her in poſſeſſion of it? And did ſhe not, in our former conference, point out the way of life, that ſhe always preferred to the married life?— ‘To take her good Norton for her directreſs and guide, and to live upon her own eſtate in the manner her grandfather deſired ſhe ſhould live ^(a)?’

It is moreover to be conſidered, that ſhe cannot, according to her own notions, recover above one half of her fame, were we now to intermarry; ſo much does ſhe think ſhe has ſuffered by her going off with me. And will ſhe not be always repining and mourn⯑ing for the loſs of the other half?—And if ſhe muſt live a life of ſuch uneaſineſs and regret for half, may ſhe not as well repine and mourn for the whole?

Nor, let me tell thee, will her own ſcheme of penitence, in this caſe, be half ſo perfect, if ſhe do not fall, as if ſhe does: For what a fooliſh penitent will ſhe make, who has nothing to repent of?— She piques herſelf, thou knoweſt, and makes it mat⯑ter of reproach to me, that ſhe went not off with me by her own conſent; but was tricked out of herſelf.

Nor upbraid thou me upon the meditated breach of vows ſo repeatedly made. She will not, thou ſeeſt, [198] permit me to fulfil them. And if ſhe would, this I have to ſay, that at the time I made the moſt ſolemn of them, I was fully determined to keep them. But what prince thinks himſelf obliged any longer to obſerve the articles of the moſt ſacredly ſworn-to treaties, than ſuits with his intereſt or inclination; altho' the conſequence of the infraction muſt be, as he knows, the deſtruction of thouſands?

Is not this then the reſult of all, that Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe, if it be not her own fault, may be as virtuous after ſhe has loſt her honour, as it is called, as ſhe was before? She may be a more eminent ex⯑ample to her ſex; and if ſhe yield (a little yield) in the tryal, may be a completer penitent. Nor can ſhe, but by her own wilfulneſs, be reduced to low for⯑tunes.

And thus may her old nurſe and ſhe; an old coachman; and a pair of old coach-horſes; and two or three old maid-ſervants, and perhaps a very old footman or two (for every thing will be old and penitential about her), live very comfortably toge⯑ther; reading old ſermons, and old prayer-books; and relieving old men, and old women; and giving old leſſons, and old warnings, upon new ſubjects, as well as old ones, to the young ladies of her neigh⯑bourhood; and ſo paſs on to a good old age, doing a great deal of good, both by precept and example, in her generation.

And is a lady, who can live thus prettily, without controul; who ever did prefer, and who ſtill prefers, the Single to the Married life; and who will be en⯑abled to do every thing, that the plan ſhe had formed will direct her to do; be ſaid to be ruined, undone, and ſuch ſort of ſtuff?—I have no patience with the pretty fools, who uſe thoſe ſtrong words, to deſcribe the moſt tranſitory evil; and which a mere church-form makes none?

At this rate of romancing, how many flouriſhing [199] ruins doſt thou, as well as I, know? Let us but look about us, and we ſhall ſee ſome of the haughtieſt and moſt cenſorious ſpirits among our acquaintance of that ſex, now paſſing for chaſte wives, of whom ſtrange ſtories might be told; and others, whoſe huſband's hearts have been made to ake for their gaieties, both before and after marriage; and yet know not half ſo much of them, as ſome of us honeſt fellows could tell them.

But, having thus ſatisfied myſelf in relation to the worſt that can happen to this charming creature; and that it will be her own fault, if ſhe be unhappy; I have not at all reflected upon what is likely to be my own lot.

This has always been my notion, tho' Miſs Howe grudges us the beſt of the ſex, and ſays, that the worſt is too good for us ^(a); That the wife of a libertine ought to be pure, ſpotleſs, uncontaminated. To what purpoſe has ſuch a one lived a free life, but to know the world, and to make his advantages of it?—And, to be very ſerious, it would be a misfortune to the public, for two perſons, heads of a family, to be both bad; ſince, between two ſuch, a race of varlets might be propagated, Lovelaces and Belfords, if thou wilt, who might do great miſ⯑chief in the world.

Thou ſeeſt at bottom, that I am not an aban⯑doned fellow; and that there is a mixture of gravity in me. This, as I grow older, may increaſe; and when my active capacity begins to abate, I may ſit down with the Preacher, and reſolve all my paſt life into vanity and vexation of ſpirit.

This is certain, that I ſhall never find a woman ſo well ſuited to my taſte, as Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe. I only wiſh (if I live to ſee that day), that I may have ſuch a lady as her to comfort and adorn my ſetting-ſun. I have often thought it very unhappy for us both, that ſo excellent a creature ſprung up a little [200] too late for my ſetting-out, and a little too early in my progreſs, before I can think of returning. And yet, as I have pick'd up the ſweet traveller in my way, I cannot help wiſhing, that ſhe would bear me com⯑pany in the reſt of my journey, altho' ſhe were to ſtep out of her own path to oblige me. And then, per⯑haps, we could put up in the evening at the ſame inn; and be very happy in each other's converſation; re⯑counting the difficulties and dangers we had paſſed in our way to it.

I imagine, that thou wilt be apt to ſuſpect, that ſome paſſages in this letter were written in town. Why, Jack, I cannot but ſay, that the Weſtminſter air is a little groſſer than that at Hamſtead; and the converſation of Mrs. Sinclair, and the Nymphs, leſs innocent than Mrs. Moore's and Miſs Rawlins's. And I think in my heart, that I can ſay and write thoſe things at one place, which I cannot at the other; nor indeed any-where elſe.

I came to town about ſeven this morning.—All neceſſary directions and precautions remember'd to be given.

I beſought the favour of an audience before I ſet out. I was deſirous to ſee which of her lovely faces ſhe was pleaſed to put on, after another night had paſſed. But ſhe was reſolved, I found, to leave our quarrel open. She would not give me an opportunity ſo much as to intreat her again to cloſe it, before the arrival of Lady Betty and my couſin.

I had notice from my proctor, by a few lines brought by man and horſe, juſt before I ſet out, that all difficulties had been for two days paſt ſurmounted; and that I might have the licence for fetching.

I ſent up the letter to my Beloved, by Mrs. Bevis. It procured me not admittance, tho' my requeſt for that, was ſent with it.

And now, Belford, I ſet out upon buſineſs.

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

DIDST ever ſee a Licence, Jack?

N.N. by divine permiſſion, Lord Biſhop of London, To our well-beloved in Chriſt Robert Lovelace [Your ſervant, my good Lord! What have I done to merit ſo much goodneſs, who never ſaw your Lordſhip in my life?], of the pariſh of St. Martin's in the Fields, Batchelor, and Clariſſa Harlowe of the ſame pariſh, Spinſter, ſendeth greeting.—WHEREAS ye are, as is alleged, determined to enter into the holy ſtate of matrimony [This is only alleged, thou obſerveſt], by and with the conſent of, &c. &c. &c. and are very deſirous of obtaining your marriage to be ſolemnized in the face of the church: We are willing, that ſuch your honeſt deſires [Honeſt deſires, Jack!] may more ſpeedily have their due effect: And therefore, that ye may be able to procure ſuch marriage to be freely and lawfully ſolemnized in the pariſh-church of St. Martin in the Fields, or St. Giles's in the Fields, in the county of Middleſex, by the rector, vicar, or curate thereof, at any time of the year [At ANY time of the year, Jack!], without publication of banes: Provided, that by reaſon of any precontract [I verily think, that I have had three or four precontracts in my time; but the good girls have not claimed upon them of a long time], conſanguinity, affinity, or any other lawful cauſe whatſoever, there be no lawful impediment in this be⯑half; and that there be not at this time any action, ſuit, plaint, quarrel, or demand, moved or depending before any judge eccleſiaſtical or temporal, for or concerning any marriage contracted by or with either of you; and that the ſaid marriage be openly ſolemnized in the church above-mentioned, between the hours of eight and twelve in the forenoon; and without prejudice to the miniſter of the place where the ſaid woman is a pariſhioner: We [202] do hereby, for good cauſes [It coſt me—Let me ſee, Jack—What did it coſt me?], give and grant our licence, or faculty, as well to you the parties contracting, as to the rector, vicar, or curate of the ſaid church, where the ſaid marriage is intended to be ſolemnized, to ſolemnize the ſame in manner and form above-ſpecified, according to the rites and ceremonies preſcribed in the Book of Common-prayer in that behalf publiſhed by au⯑thority of parliament. Provided always, That if here⯑after any fraud ſhall appear to have been committed, at the time of granting this licence, either by falſe ſug⯑geſtions, or concealment of the truth [Now this, Bel⯑ford, is a little hard upon us: For I cannot ſay, that every one of our ſuggeſtions is literally true:—So, in good conſcience, I ought not to marry under this licence], the licence ſhall be void to all intents and pur⯑poſes, as if the ſame had not been granted. And in that caſe, we do inhibit all miniſters whatſoever, if any thing of the premiſes ſhall come to their knowlege, from proceed⯑ing to the celebration of the ſaid marriage, without firſt conſulting Us, or our Vicar-general. Given, &c.

The follow the regiſter's name, and a large pen⯑dent ſeal, with theſe words round it — SEAL OF THE VICAR-GENERAL AND OFFICIAL-PRINCI⯑PAL OF THE DIOCESE OF LONDON.

A good whimſical inſtrument, take it all together! —But what, thinkeſt thou, are the arms to this matrimonial harbinger?—Why, in the firſt place, Two croſſed ſwords; to ſhew, that marriage is a ſtate of offence as well as defence: Three lions; to de⯑note, that thoſe who enter into the ſtate, ought to have a triple proportion of courage. And (couldſt thou have imagined, that theſe prieſtly fellows, in ſo ſolemn a caſe, would cut their jokes upon poor ſouls, who come to have their honeſt deſires put in a way to be gratified?) there are three crooked horns, ſmartly top-knotted with ribbands; which being the Ladies wear, ſeem to indicate, that they may very probably adorn, as well as beſtow, the bull's feather.

[203]To deſcribe it according to heraldry-art, if I am not miſtaken—Gules, two ſwords, ſaltire-wiſe, Or; ſecond coat, a chevron ſable between three bugle⯑horns, Or [So it ought to be]: On a chief of the ſe⯑cond, three lions rampant of the firſt—But the devil take them for their hieroglyphics, ſhould I ſay, if I were determined in good earneſt to marry!

And determined to marry I would be, were it not for this conſideration; That once married, and I am married for life.

That's the plague of it! — Could a man do as the birds do, change every Valentine's day [A natural ap⯑pointment! for birds have not the ſenſe, forſooth, to fetter themſelves, as we wiſeacre men take great and ſolemn pains to do]; there would be nothing at all in it. And what a glorious time would the Lawyers have, on the one hand, with their Noverint univerſi's, and ſuits commenceable on reſtitution of goods and chattels; and the Parſons, on the other, with their indulgencies (renewable annually, as other licences) to the honeſt deſires of their clients?

Then, were a ſtated mulct, according to rank or fortune, to be paid on every change, towards the exigencies of the State [But none on renewals with the old loves, for the ſake of encouraging conſtancy, eſpecially among the minores], the change would be made ſufficiently difficult, and the whole Public would be the better for it; while thoſe children, which the parents could not agree about maintaining, might be conſidered as the children of the Public, and provided for like the children of the antient Spartans; who were (as ours would in this caſe be) a nation of heroes. How, Jack, could I have improved upon Lycurgus's inſtitutions, had I been a lawgiver ^(a)?

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

WELL, but now my plots thicken; and my employment of writing to thee on this ſubject will ſoon come to a concluſion. For now, having got the licence; and Mrs. Townſend, with her tars, being to come to Hamſtead next Wedneſday or Thurſday; and another letter poſſibly, or meſſage, from Miſſ Howe, to inquire how Miſs Harlowe does, upon the ruſtic's report of her ill health, and to ex⯑preſs her wonder, that ſhe has not heard from her, in anſwer to hers on her eſcape;—I muſt ſoon blow up the lady, or be blown up myſelf. And ſo I am preparing, with Lady Betty and my couſin Monta⯑gue, to wait upon my Beloved with a coach and four, or a ſet; for Lady Betty will not ſtir out with a pair, for the world; tho' but for two or three miles. And this is a well-known part of her character.

But as to her arms and creſt upon the coach and trappings?

Doſt thou not know, that a Blunt's muſt ſupply her, while her own is new-lining and repairing? An opportunity ſhe is willing to take now ſhe is in town. Nothing of this kind can be done to her mind in the country. Liveries nearly Lady Betty's.

Thou haſt ſeen Lady Betty Lawrance ſeveral times—Haſt thou not, Belford?

No, never in my life.

But thou haſt; and lain with her too; or fame does thee more credit than thou deſerveſt — Why, Jack, knoweſt thou not Lady Betty's other name?

Other name!—Has ſhe two?

She has. And what thinkeſt thou of Lady Bab. Wallis?

O the devil!

Now thou haſt it. Lady Barbara, thou knoweſt, [207] lifted up in circumſtances, and by pride, never ap⯑pears, or produces herſelf, but on occaſions ſpecial— To paſs to men of quality or price, for a ducheſs, or counteſs, at leaſt. She has always been admired for a grandeur in her air, that few women of quality can come up to: And never was ſuppoſed to be other than what ſhe paſſed for; tho' often and often a pa⯑ramour for Lords.

And who, thinkeſt thou, is my couſin Montague?

Nay, how ſhould I know?

How indeed! Why, my little Johanetta Gold⯑ing, a lively, yet modeſt-looking girl, is my couſin Montague.

There, Belford, is an aunt!—There's a couſin! Both have wit at will. Both are accuſtomed to ape quality. Both are genteelly deſcended. Miſtreſſes of themſelves; and well educated—Yet paſt pity. True Spartan dames; aſhamed of nothing but detection— Always, therefore, upon their guard againſt that. And in their own conceit, when aſſuming top parts, the very quality they ape.

And how doſt think I dreſs them out? — I'll tell thee.

Lady Betty in a rich gold tiſſue, adorned with jewels of high price.

My couſin Montague in a pale pink, [...]nding an end with ſilver flowers of her own [...]. Char⯑lotte, as well as my Beloved, is admirable at her needle. Not quite ſo richly jewel'd out as Lady Betty; but ear-rings and ſolitaire very valuable, and infinitely becoming.

Johanetta, thou knoweſt, has a good complexion, a fine neck, and ears remarkably fine.—So has Char⯑lotte. She is nearly of Charlotte's ſtature too.

Laces both, the richeſt that could be procured.

Thou canſt not imagine what a ſum the loan of the jewels coſt me; tho' but for three days.

This ſweet girl will half ruin me. But ſeeſt thou [208] not by this time, that her reign is ſhort?—It muſt be ſo. And Mrs. Sinclair has already prepared every⯑thing for her reception once more.

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

ALL's right, as heart can wiſh!—In ſpite of all objection—in ſpite of a reluctance next to faint⯑ing—In ſpite of all her foreſight, vigilance, ſuſpicion, once more is the charmer of my ſoul in her new lodgings!

Now throbs away every pulſe! Now thump, thump, thumps my bounding heart for ſomething!

But I have not time for the particulars of our ma⯑nagement.

My Beloved is now directing ſome of her cloaths to be packed up—Never more to enter this houſe! Nor ever more will ſhe, I dare ſay, when once again out of it!

Yet not ſo much as a condition of forgiveneſs!— The Harlowe-ſpirited Fair-one will not deſerve my mercy!—She will wait for Miſs Howe's next letter; and then, if ſhe find a difficulty in her new ſchemes [Thank her for nothing] — will — Will what?— Why even then will take time to conſider, whether I am to be forgiven, or for ever rejected. An indif⯑ference that revives in my heart the remembrance of a thouſand of the like nature.—And yet Lady Betty and Miſs Montague [One would be tempted to think, Jack, that they wiſh her to provoke my vengeance] declare, that I ought to be ſatisfied with ſuch a proud ſuſpenſion!

They are intirely attached to her. Whatever ſhe ſays is, muſt be, goſpel!—They are guarantees for her return to Hamſtead this night. They are to go back with her. A ſupper beſpoke by Lady Betty at Mrs. Moore's. All the vacant apartments there, by my permiſſion (for I had engaged them for a month certain), to be filled with them and their attendants, [212] for a week at leaſt, or till they can prevail upon the dear Perverſe, as they hope they ſhall, to reſtore me to her favour, and to accompany Lady Betty to Ox⯑fordſhire.

The dear creature has thus far condeſcended— That ſhe will write to Miſs Howe, and acquaint her with the preſent ſituation of things.

If ſhe write, I ſhall ſee what ſhe writes. But I believe ſhe will have other employment ſoon.

Lady Betty is ſure, ſhe tells her, that ſhe ſhall prevail upon her to forgive me; tho' ſhe dares ſay, that I deſerve not forgiveneſs. Lady Betty is too de⯑licate to inquire ſtrictly into the nature of my offence. But it muſt be an offence againſt herſelf, againſt Miſs Montague, againſt the virtuous of the whole Sex, or it could not be ſo highly reſented. Yet ſhe will not leave her till ſhe forgive me, and till ſhe ſee our nuptials privately celebrated. Mean time, as ſhe approves of her uncle's expedient, ſhe will addreſs her as already my wife, before ſtrangers.

Stedman her ſolicitor may attend her for orders, in relation to her Chancery-affair, at Hamſtead. Not one hour they can be favoured with, will they loſe from the company and converſation of ſo dear, ſo charming a new relation.

Hard then if ſhe had not obliged them with her company, in their coach-and-four, to and from their couſin Leeſon's, who longed (as they themſelves had done) to ſee a lady ſo juſtly celebrated!

'How will Lord M. be raptured when he ſees her, 'and can ſalute her as his niece!

Miſs Montague dwells upon every word that falls from her lips. She perfectly adores her new couſin: ‘For her couſin ſhe muſt be. And her couſin will ſhe call her! She anſwers for equal admiration in her ſiſter Patty.’

[213] ‘Ay, cry I (whiſpering loud enough for her to hear), how will my couſin Patty's dove's eyes gli⯑ſten, and run over, on the very firſt interview! — So gracious, ſo noble, ſo unaffected a dear creature!’

"What a happy family," chorus we all, ‘will ours be!’

Theſe, and ſuch-like congratulatory admirations, every hour repeated: Her modeſty hurt by the ecſta⯑tic praiſes:— ‘Her graces are too natural to herſelf, for her to be proud of them:—But ſhe muſt be content to be puniſhed for excellencies that caſt a ſhade upon the moſt excellent!’

In ſhort, we are here, as at Hamſtead, all joy and rapture: All of us, except my beloved, in whoſe ſweet face [her almoſt fainting reluctance to re-enter theſe doors not overcome] reigns a kind of anxious ſerenity! — But how will even that be changed in a few hours!

Methinks I begin to pity the half-apprehenſive Beauty!—But avaunt, thou unſeaſonably-intruding pity! Thou haſt more than once, already, well nigh undone me! —And, Adieu reflection! Begone con⯑ſideration! and commiſeration! I diſmiſs ye all, for, at leaſt, a week to come!—Be remembred her broken word! Her flight, when my fond ſoul was medi⯑tating mercy to her!—Be remembred her treatment of me, in her letter on her eſcape to Hamſtead!— Her Hamſtead virulence!—What is it ſhe ought not to expect from an unchained Beelzebub, and a plot⯑ting villain?

Be her preference of the ſingle life to me, alſo re⯑membred!—That ſhe deſpiſes me!—That ſhe even refuſes to be my WIFE!—A proud Lovelace to be denied a Wife! — To be more proudly rejected by a daughter of the Harlowes!—The ladies of my own family [She thinks them the ladies of my family] ſup⯑plicating in vain for her returning favour to their de⯑ſpiſed kinſman, and taking laws from her ſtill prouder punctilio!

[214]Be the execrations of her vixen friend likewiſe re⯑membred, poured out upon me from her repreſen⯑tations, and thereby made her own execrations!

Be remembred ſtill more particularly, the Town⯑ſend plot, ſet on foot between them, and now, in a day or two, ready to break out; and the ſordid threat⯑enings thrown out againſt me by that little fury.

Is not this the criſis for which I have been long waiting? Shall Tomlinſon, ſhall theſe women, be engaged; ſhall ſo many engines be ſet at work, at an immenſe expence, with infinite contrivance; and all to no purpoſe?

Is not this the hour of her trial — And in her, of the trial of the virtue of her whole Sex, ſo long pre⯑meditated, ſo long threatened? — Whether her froſt is froſt indeed? Whether her virtue is principle? Whether, if once ſubdued, ſhe will not be always ſub⯑dued? And will ſhe not want the very crown of her glory, the proof of her till now all-ſurpaſſing excel⯑lence, if I ſtop ſhort of the ultimate trial?

Now is the end of purpoſes long over-awed, often ſuſpended, at hand. And need I to throw the ſins of her curſed family into the too weighty ſcale?

Abhorred be force!—Be the thoughts of force! There's no triumph over the will in force! This I know I have ſaid ^(a). But would I not have avoided it, if I could?—Have I not try'd every other method? And have I any other recourſe left me? Can ſhe reſent the laſt outrage more than ſhe has reſented a fainter effort?—And if her reſentments run ever ſo high, cannot I repair by matrimony?—She will not refuſe me, I know, Jack; the haughty Beauty will not re⯑fuſe me, when her pride of being corporally invio⯑late is brought down; when ſhe can tell no tales, but when (be her reſiſtance what it will) even her own ſex will ſuſpect a yielding in reſiſtance; and [215] when that modeſty, which may fill her boſom with reſentment, will lock up her ſpeech.

But how know I, that I have not made my own difficulties?—Is ſhe not a woman?—What redreſs lies for a perpetrated evil?—Muſt ſhe not live?— Her piety will ſecure her life.— And will not time be my friend?—What, in a word, will be her be⯑haviour afterwards?—She cannot fly me!—She muſt forgive me — And, as I have often ſaid, once for⯑given, will be for ever forgiven.

Why then ſhould this enervating pity unſteel my fooliſh heart?—

It ſhall not. All theſe things will I remember; and think of nothing elſe, in order to keep up a re⯑ſolution, which the women about me will have it I ſhall be ſtill unable to hold.

I'll teach the dear charming creature to emulate me in contrivance!—I'll teach her to weave webs and plots againſt her conqueror!—I'll ſhew her, that in her ſmuggling ſchemes ſhe is but a ſpider compared to me, and that ſhe has all this time been ſpinning only a cobweb!

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

AND now, Belford, I can go no farther. The affair is over. Clariſſa lives. And I am

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

O Thou ſavage-hearted monſter! What work haſt thou made in one guilty hour, for a whole age of repentance!

I am inexpreſſibly concerned at the fate of this matchleſs lady! She could not have fallen into the hands of any other man breathing, and ſuffered as ſhe has done with thee.

I had written a great part of another long letter, to try to ſoften thy flinty heart in her favour; for I thought it but too likely, that thou ſhouldeſt ſucceed in getting her back again to the accurſed woman's. But I find it would have been too late, had I finiſhed it, and ſent it away. Yet cannot I forbear writing, to urge thee to make the only amends thou now canſt make her, by a proper uſe of the Licenſe thou haſt obtained.

Poor, poor lady! It is a pain to me, that I ever ſaw her. Such an adorer of virtue to be ſacrificed to the vileſt of her ſex; and thou their implement in the devil's hands, for a purpoſe ſo baſe, ſo ungene⯑rous, ſo inhumane! — Pride thyſelf, O cruelleſt of men, in this reflection; and that thy triumph over a lady, who for thy ſake was abandoned of every friend ſhe had in the world, was effected, not by advantages taken of her weakneſs and credulity; but by the blackeſt artifice; after a long courſe of ſtudied deceits had been tried to no purpoſe.

I can tell thee, it is well either for thee or for me, that I am not the brother of the lady. Had I been her brother, her violation muſt have been followed by the blood of one of us.

Excuſe me, Lovelace; and let not the lady fare the worſe for my concern for her. And yet I have [224] but one other motive to aſk thy excuſe; and that is, becauſe I owe to thy own communicative pen the knowlege I have of thy barbarous villainy; ſince thou might'ſt, if thou would'ſt, have paſſed it upon me for a common ſeduction.

CLARISSA LIVES, thou ſay'ſt. That ſhe does, is my wonder; and theſe words ſhew, that thou thyſelf (tho' thou couldſt, nevertheleſs, proceed) hardly expectedſt ſhe would have ſurvived the outrage. What muſt have been the poor lady's diſtreſs (watch⯑ful as ſhe had been over her honour), when dread⯑ful certainty took place of cruel apprehenſion!—And yet a man may gueſs what it muſt have been, by that which thou painteſt, when ſhe ſuſpected herſelf trick'd, deſerted, and betrayed, by thy pretended aunt and couſin.

That thou couldſt behold her phrenſy on this oc⯑caſion, and her half-ſpeechleſs, half-fainting proſtra⯑tion at thy feet, and yet retain thy evil purpoſes, will hardly be thought credible, even by thoſe who know thee, if they have ſeen her.

Poor, poor Lady! With ſuch noble qualities as would have adorned the moſt exalted married life, to fall into the hands of the only man in the world, who could have treated her as thou haſt treated her!— And to let looſe the old dragon, as thou properly calleſt her, upon the before-affrighted innocent, what a barbarity was that! What a poor piece of barba⯑rity! in order to obtain by terror, what thou de⯑ſpairedſt to do by love, tho' ſupported by ſtratagems the moſt inſidious!

O LOVELACE! LOVELACE! had I doubted it before, I ſhould now be convinced, that there muſt be a WORLD AFTER THIS, to do juſtice to injured me⯑rit, and to puniſh ſuch a barbarous perfidy! Could the divine SOCRATES, and the divine CLARISSA, other⯑wiſe have ſuffered?

But let me, if poſſible, for one moment, try to [225] forget this villainous outrage on the moſt excellent of women.

I have buſineſs here, which will hold me yet a few days; and then perhaps I ſhall quit this houſe for ever.

I have had a ſolemn and tedious time of it. I ſhould never have known, that I had half the reſpect I really find I had for the old gentleman, had I not ſo cloſely, at his earneſt deſire, attended him, and been a witneſs of the tortures he underwent.

This melancholy occaſion may poſſibly have con⯑tributed to humanize me: But ſurely I never could have been ſo remorſeleſs a caitiff as thou haſt been, to a woman of half this lady's excellence.

But pr'ythee, dear Lovelace, if thou'rt a man, and not a devil, reſolve, out of hand, to repair thy ſin of ingratitude, by conferring upon thyſelf the higheſt honour thou canſt receive, in making her lawfully thine.

But if thou canſt not prevail upon thyſelf to do her this juſtice, I think I ſhould not ſcruple a tilt with thee (An everlaſting rupture at leaſt muſt follow), if thou ſacrificeſt her to the accurſed women.

Thou art deſirous to know what advantage I reap by my uncle's demiſe. I do not certainly know; for I have not been ſo greedily ſollicitous on this ſub⯑ject, as ſome of the kindred have been, who ought to have ſhewn more decency, as I have told them, and ſuffered the corpſe to have been cold before they had begun their hungry inquiries. But, by what I gathered from the poor man's talk to me, who, oftener than I wiſhed, touched upon the ſubject, I deem it will be upwards of 5000 l. in caſh, and in the funds, after all legacies paid, beſides the real eſtate, which is a clear 500 l. a year.

I wiſh from my heart, thou wert a money-lover! Were the eſtate to be of double the value, thou ſhouldſt have it every ſhilling; only upon one con⯑dition [226] (for my circumſtances before were as eaſy as I wiſh them to be while I am ſingle)—That thou wouldſt permit me the honour of being this father⯑leſs lady's Father, as it is called, at the altar.

Think of this, my dear Lovelace: Be honeſt: And let me preſent thee with the brighteſt jewel that man ever poſſeſſed; and then, body and ſoul, wilt thou bind to thee for ever, thy

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

LET me alone, you great dog, you!—Let me alone!—have I heard a leſſer boy, his coward arms held over his head and face, ſay to a bigger, who was pummeling him, for having run away with his apple, his orange, or his ginger-bread.

So ſay I to thee, on occaſion of thy ſeverity to thy poor friend, who, as thou owneſt, has furniſhed thee (ungenerous as thou art!) with the weapons thou brandiſheſt ſo fearfully againſt him.—And to what purpoſe, when the miſchief is done; when, of conſequence, the affair is irretrievable? and when a CLARISSA could not move me?

Well, but, after all, I muſt own, that there is ſomething very ſingular in this lady's caſe: And, at times, I cannot help regretting, that I ever attempted her; ſince not one power either of body or ſoul could be moved in my favour; and ſince, to uſe the ex⯑preſſion of the philoſopher, on a much graver occa⯑ſion, There is no difference to be found between the ſkull of king Philip, and that of another man.

But peoples extravagant notions of things alter not facts, Belford: And, when all's done, M [...]ſs Clariſſa Harlowe has but run the fate of a thouſand others of her Sex—Only that they did not ſet ſuch a roman⯑tic [227] value upon what they call their honour; that's all.

And yet I will allow thee this—That if a perſon ſets a high value upon any thing, be it ever ſuch a trifle in itſelf, or in the eye of others, the robbing of that perſon of it is not a trifle to him. Take the mat⯑ter in this light, I own I have done wrong, great wrong, to this admirable creature.

But have I not known twenty and twenty of the ſex, who have ſeemed to carry their notions of vir⯑tue high; yet, when brought to the teſt, have abated of their ſeverity? And how ſhould we be convinced that any of them are proof, till they are try'd?

A thouſand times have I ſaid, that I never yet met with ſuch a woman as this. If I had, I hardly ever ſhould have attempted Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe. Hitherto ſhe is all angel: And was not that the point which at ſetting out I propoſed to try ^(a)? And was not cohabitation ever my darling view? And am I not now, at laſt, in the high-road to it?—It is true, that I have nothing to boaſt of as to her will. The very contrary. But now are we come to the teſt, whe⯑ther ſhe cannot be brought to make the beſt of an irreparable evil?—If ſhe exclaim (ſhe has reaſon to exclaim, and I will ſit down with patience, by the hour together, to hear her exclamations, till ſhe is tired of them), ſhe will then deſcend to expoſtula⯑tion perhaps: Expoſtulation will give me hope: Ex⯑poſtulation will ſhew, that ſhe hates me not. And if ſhe hate me not, ſhe will forgive: And if ſhe now forgive; then will all be over; and ſhe will be mine upon my own terms: And it ſhall then be the whole ſtudy of my future life to make her happy.

So, Belford, thou ſeeſt; that I have journeyed on to this ſtage (indeed, thro' infinite mazes, and as in⯑finite remorſes), with one determined point in view, from the firſt. To thy urgent ſupplication then, that [228] I will do her grateful juſtice by marriage, let me an⯑ſwer in Matt. Prior's two lines on his hoped-for Au⯑ditorſhip; as put into the mouths of his St. John and Harley;

Thou ſeeſt, Jack, that I make no reſolutions, however, againſt doing her, one time or other, the wiſh'd-for juſtice, even were I to ſucceed in my prin⯑cipal view, cohabitation. And of this I do aſſure thee, that, if I ever marry, it muſt, it ſhall, be Miſs Cla⯑riſſa Harlowe.—Nor is her honour at all impaired with me, by what ſhe has ſo far ſuffered: But the contrary. She muſt only take care, that, if ſhe be at laſt brought to forgive me, ſhe ſhew me, that her Lovelace is the only man on earth, whom ſhe could have forgiven on the like occaſion.

But, ah, Jack! what, in the mean time, ſhall I do with this admirable creature? At preſent — I am loth to ſay it—But, at preſent, ſhe is quite ſtupefied.

I had rather, methinks, ſhe ſhould have retained all her active powers, tho' I had ſuffered by her nails and her teeth, than that ſhe ſhould be ſunk into ſuch a ſtate of abſolute—inſenſibility (ſhall I call it), as ſhe has been in ever ſince Tueſday morning. Yet, as ſhe begins a little to revive, and now-and-then to call names, and to exclaim, I dread almoſt to en⯑gage with the anguiſh of a ſpirit that owes its extra⯑ordinary agitations to a niceneſs that has no example either in antient or modern ſtory. For, after all, what is there in her caſe, that ſhould ſtupefy ſuch a glowing, ſuch a blooming charmer?—Exceſs of grief, exceſs of terror, has made a perſon's hair ſtand on end, and even (as we have read) changed the colour of it. But that it ſhould ſo ſtupefy, as to make a perſon, at times, inſenſible to thoſe imaginary wrongs, which would raiſe others from ſtupefaction, is very ſurpriſing!

[229]But I will leave this ſubject, leſt it ſhould make me too grave.

I was yeſterday at Hamſtead, and diſcharged all obligations there, with no ſmall applauſe. I told them, that the lady was now as happy as myſelf: And that is no great untruth; for I am not altogether ſo, when I allow myſelf to think.

Mrs. Townſend, with her tars, had not been then there. I told them what I would have them ſay to her, if ſhe come.

Well, but, after all (How many after-all's have I?), I could be very grave, were I to give way to it.—The devil take me for a fool! What's the mat⯑ter with me, I wonder!—I muſt breathe a freſher air for a few days.

But what ſhall I do with this admirable creature the while?—Hang me, if I know!— For, if I ſtir, the venomous ſpider of this habitation will want to ſet upon the charming fly, whoſe ſilken wings are already ſo intangled in my enormous web, that ſhe cannot move hand or foot: For ſo much has grief ſtupefied her, that ſhe is at preſent as deſtitute of will, as ſhe always ſeemed of deſire. I muſt not therefore think of leaving her yet for two days toge⯑ther.

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

I Have juſt now had a ſpecimen of what this dear creature's reſentment will be, when quite reco⯑ver'd: An affecting one!—For, entering her apart⯑ment after Dorcas; and endeavouring to ſoothe and pacify her diſordered mind; in the midſt of my blandiſh⯑ments, ſhe held up to Heaven, in a ſpeechleſs agony, the innocent Licence (which ſhe has in her own power); as the poor diſtreſſed Catalans held up their [230] Engliſh treaty, on an occaſion that keeps the worſt of my actions in countenance.

She ſeemed about to call down vengeance upon me; when, happily, the Leaden God, in pity to her trembling Lovelace, waved over her half-drowned eyes his ſomniferous wand, and laid aſleep the fair exclaimer, before ſhe could go half thro' with her intended imprecation.

Thou wilt gueſs, by what I have written, that ſome little art has been made uſe of: But it was with a generous deſign (if thou'lt allow me the word on ſuch an occaſion) in order to leſſen the too quick ſenſe ſhe was likely to have of what ſhe was to ſuffer. A contrivance I never had occaſion for before, and had not thought of now, if Mrs. Sinclair had not propoſed it to me: To whom I left the management of it: And I have done nothing but curſe her ever ſince, leſt the quantity ſhould have for ever damped her charming intellects.

Hence my concern—For I think the poor lady ought not to have been ſo treated. Poor lady, did I ſay?—What have I to do with thy creeping ſtyle?— But have not I the worſt of it; ſince her inſenſibility has made me but a thief to my own joys?

I did not intend to tell thee of this little innocent trick; for ſuch I deſigned it to be; but that I hate diſingenuity: To thee, eſpecially: And as I cannot help writing in a more ſerious vein than uſual, thou wouldſt, perhaps, had I not hinted the true cauſe, have imagined, that I was ſorry for the fact itſelf: And this would have given thee a good deal of trou⯑ble in ſcribbling dull perſuaſives to repair by matri⯑mony; and me, in reading thy crude nonſenſe. Be⯑ſides, one day or other, thou mighteſt, had I not con⯑feſſed it, have heard of it in an aggravated manner; and I know thou haſt ſuch an high opinion of this lady's virtue, that thou wouldſt be diſappointed, i [...] thou hadſt reaſon to think, that ſhe was ſubdued by [231] her own conſent, or any the leaſt yielding in her will. And ſo is ſhe beholden to me, in ſome mea⯑ſure, that, at the expence of my honour, ſhe may ſo juſtly form a plea, which will intirely ſalve hers?

And now is the whole ſecret out.

Thou wilt ſay I am a horrid fellow!—As the lady does, that I am the unchained Beelzebub, and a plotting villain: And as this is what you both ſaid beforehand, and nothing worſe can be ſaid, I deſire, if thou wouldſt not have me quite ſerious with thee, and that I ſhould think thou meaneſt more by thy tilting-hint, than I am willing to believe thou doſt, that thou wilt forbear thy invectives: For is not the thing done?—Can it be help'd?—And muſt I not now try to make the beſt of it?—And the rather do I injoin thee this, and inviolable ſecrecy; becauſe I begin to think, that my puniſhment will be greater than the fault, were it to be only from my own reflection.

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

I AM ſorry to hear of thy misfortune; but hope thou wilt not long lie by it. Thy ſervant tells me, what a narrow eſcape thou hadſt with thy neck. I wiſh it may not be ominous: But I think thou ſeemeſt not to be in ſo enterpriſing a way as for⯑merly; and yet, merry or ſad, thou ſeeſt a rake's neck is always in danger, if not from the hangman, from his own horſe. But 'tis a vicious toad, it ſeems; and I think thou ſhouldſt never venture upon his back again; for 'tis a plaguy thing for rider and horſe both to be vicious.

Thy fellow tells me, thou deſireſt me to continue to write to thee, to divert thy chagrin on thy forced [232] confinement: But how I can think it in my power to divert, when my ſubject is not pleaſing to myſelf?

Caeſar never knew what it was to be hyp'd, I will call it, till he came to be what Pompey was; that is to ſay, till he arrived at the height of his ambition: Nor did thy Lovelace know what it was to be gloomy, till he had completed his wiſhes upon the charming'ſt creature in the world, as the other did his upon the moſt potent republic that ever exiſted.

And yet why ſay I, completed? when the will, the conſent, is wanting—And I have ſtill views be⯑fore me of obtaining that?

Yet I could almoſt join with thee in the wiſh, which thou ſendeſt me up by thy ſervant, unfriendly as it is, that I had had thy misfortune before Monday night laſt: For here, the poor lady has run into a contrary extreme to that I told thee of in my laſt: For now is ſhe as much too lively, as before ſhe was too ſtupid; and, 'bating that ſhe has pretty frequent lucid intervals, would be deem'd raving mad, and I ſhould be obliged to confine her.

I am moſt confoundedly diſturb'd about it: For I begin to fear, that her intellects are irreparably hurt.

Who the devil could have expected ſuch ſtrange effects from a cauſe ſo common, and ſo ſlight?

But theſe high ſoul'd and high-ſens'd girls, who had ſet up for ſhining lights and examples to the reſt of the ſex, [I now ſee, that ſuch there are!] are with ſuch difficulty brought down to the common ſtandard, that a wiſe man, who prefers his peace of mind to his glory in ſubduing one of that exalted claſs, would have nothing to ſay to them.

I do all in my power to quiet her ſpirits, when I force myſelf into her preſence.

I go on, begging pardon one minute; and vow⯑ing truth and honour another.

I would at firſt have perſuaded her, and offer'd to [233] call witneſſes to the truth of it, that we were actually married. Tho' the licence was in her hands, I thought the aſſertion might go down in her diſorder; and charming conſequences I hoped would follow. But this would not do.—

I therefore gave up that hope: And now I de⯑clare to her, that it is my reſolution to marry her, the moment her uncle Harlowe informs me, that he will grace the ceremony with his preſence.

But ſhe believes nothing I ſay; nor (whether in her ſenſes, or not) bears me with patience in her ſight.

I pity her with all my ſoul; and I curſe myſelf, when ſhe is in her wailing fits, and when I appre⯑hend, that intellects, ſo charming as hers, are for ever damp'd—But more I curſe theſe women, who put me upon ſuch an expedient! —Lord! Lord! what a hand have I made of it!—And all for what?

Laſt night, for the firſt time ſince Monday laſt, ſhe got to her pen and ink: But ſhe purſues her writing with ſuch eagerneſs and hurry, as ſhew too evidently her diſcompoſure.

I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her ſpirits.

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

I WENT out early this morning, and returned not till juſt now; when I was informed, that my Beloved, in my abſence, had taken it into her head to attempt to get away.

She tripp'd down, with a parcel tied up in a hand⯑kerchief, [248] her hood on; and was actually in the entry, when Mrs. Sinclair ſaw her.

Pray, Madam, whipping between her and the ſtreet-door, be pleaſed to let me know whither you are going?

Who has a right to controul me? was the word.

I have, Madam, by order of your ſpouſe: And, kemboing her arms, as ſhe owned, I deſire you will be pleaſed to walk up again.

She would have ſpoken; but could not: And, burſting into tears, turned back, and went up to her chamber: And Dorcas was taken to taſk for ſuffering her to be in the paſſage before ſhe was ſeen.

This ſhews, as we hoped laſt night, that ſhe is recovering her charming intellects.

Dorcas ſays, ſhe was viſible to her, but once be⯑fore, the whole day; and then ſeemed very ſolemn and ſedate.

I will endeavour to ſee her. It muſt be in her own chamber, I ſuppoſe; for ſhe will hardly meet me in the dining-room. What advantage will the confidence of our ſex give me over the modeſty of hers, if ſhe be recoverd!—I, the moſt confident of men: She, the moſt delicate of women. Sweet ſoul! methinks, I have have her before me: Her face averted: Speech loſt in ſighs—Abaſh'd—Con⯑ſcious—What a triumphant aſpect will this give me, when I gaze in her downcaſt countenance!

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

NEVER blame me for giving way to have Art uſed with this admirable creature. All the princes of the air, or beneath it, joining with me, could never have ſubdued her while ſhe had her ſenſes.

I will not anticipate—Only to tell thee, that I am too much awaken'd by her to think of ſleep, were I to go to bed; and ſo ſhall have nothing to do, but to write an account of our odd converſation, while it is ſo ſtrong upon my mind that I can think of nothing elſe.

She was dreſs'd in a white damaſk night-gown, with leſs negligence than for ſome days paſt. I was ſitting, with my pen in my fingers; and ſtood up when I firſt ſaw her, with great complaiſance, as if the day were ſtill her own. And ſo indeed it is.

She entered with ſuch dignity in her manner, as ſtruck me with great awe, and prepared me for the poor figure I made in the ſubſequent converſation. A poor figure indeed!—But I will do her juſtice.

She came up with quick ſteps, pretty cloſe to me; a white handkerchief in her hand; her eyes neither fierce nor mild, but very earneſt; and a fix'd ſedate⯑neſs in her whole aſpect, which ſeemed to be the effect of deep contemplation: And thus ſhe accoſted me, with an air and action that I never ſaw equal'd.

[250]You ſee before you, Sir, the wretch, whoſe pre⯑ference of you to all your Sex you have rewarded—as it indeed deſerved to be rewarded. My father's dreadful curſe has already operated upon me in the very letter of it, as to This life; and it ſeems to me too evident, that it will not be your fault, that it is not intirely completed in the loſs of my ſoul, as well as of my honour—Which you, villainous man! have robbed me of, with a baſeneſs ſo unna⯑tural, ſo inhuman, that, it ſeems, you, even you, had not the heart to attempt it, till my ſenſes were made the previous ſacrifice.

Here I made an heſitating effort to ſpeak, laying down my pen—But ſhe proceeded: — Hear me out, guilty wretch!—abandon'd man!—Man did I ſay?— Yet what name elſe can I? ſince the mortal worry⯑ings of the fierceſt beaſt would have been more natural, and infinitely more welcome, than what you have acted by me; and that with a premedita⯑tion and contrivance worthy only of that ſingle heart, which now, baſe as well as ingrateful as thou art, ſeems to quake within thee.—And well may'ſt thou quake; well may'ſt thou tremble and falter; and heſitate, as thou doſt, when thou reflecteſt upon what I have ſuffer'd for thy ſake, and the returns thou haſt made me?

By my ſoul, Belford, my whole frame was ſhaken: For not only her looks, and her action, but her voice, ſo ſolemn, was inexpreſſibly affecting: And then my curſed guilt, and her innocence, and merit, and rank, and ſuperiority of talents, all ſtared me at that inſtant in the face ſo formidably, that my pre⯑ſent account, to which ſhe unexpectedly called me, ſeemed, as I then thought, to reſemble that general one, to which we are told we ſhall be ſummoned, when our conſcience ſhall be our accuſer.

[251]But ſhe had had time to collect all the powers of her eloquence. The whole day probably in her in⯑tellects. And then I was the more diſappointed, as I had thought I could have gazed the dear creature into confuſion—But it is plain, that the ſenſe ſhe has of her wrongs ſets this matchleſs woman above all leſſer, all weaker conſiderations.

My dear—My love—I—I—I never—No never— Lips trembling, limbs quaking, voice inward, heſi⯑tating, broken—Never ſurely did miſcreant look ſo like a miſcreant! While thus ſhe proceeded, waving her ſnowy hand, with all the graces of moving ora⯑tory.

I have no pride in the confuſion viſible in thy whole perſon. I have been all the day praying for a compoſure, if I could not eſcape from this vile houſe, that ſhould once more enable me to look up to my deſtroyer with the conſciouſneſs of an innocent ſufferer.—Thou ſeeſt me, ſince my wrongs are beyond the power of words to expreſs, thou ſeeſt me, calm enough to wiſh, that thou mayſt continue haraſſed by the workings of thy own conſcience, till effectual repentance take hold of thee, that ſo thou mayſt not forfeit all title to that mercy, which thou haſt not ſhewn to the poor creature now before thee, who had ſo well deſerved to meet with a faithful friend, where ſhe met with the worſt of enemies.

But tell me (for no doubt thou haſt ſome ſcheme to purſue), Tell me, ſince I am a priſoner, as I find, in the vileſt of houſes, and have not a friend to pro⯑tect or ſave me, what thou intendeſt ſhall become of the remnant of a life not worth the keeping? Tell me, if yet there are more evils reſerved for me; and whether thou haſt enter'd into a compact with the grand deceiver, in the perſon of his horrid agent in this houſe; and if the ruin of my ſoul, that my father's curſe may be fulfilled, is to complete the triumphs of ſo vile a confederacy?—Anſwer me!— [252] Say, if thou haſt courage to ſpeak out to her whom thou haſt ruined, tell me, what further I am to ſuffer from thy barbarity?

She ſtopp'd here; and, ſighing, turn'd her ſweet face from me, drying up with her handkerchief thoſe tears which ſhe endeavour'd to reſtrain; and, when ſhe could not, to conceal from my ſight.

As I told thee, I had prepared myſelf for high paſſions, raving, flying, tearing, execration: Theſe tranſient violences, the workings of ſudden grief, and ſhame, and vengeance, would have ſet us upon a par with each other, and quitted ſcores. Theſe have I been accuſtomed to; and, as nothing violent is laſting, with theſe I could have wiſhed to encoun⯑ter. But ſuch a majeſtic compoſure—Seeking me— whom yet, it is plain by her attempt to get away, ſhe would have avoided ſeeing — No Lucretia-like vengeance upon herſelf in her thought—Yet ſwal⯑low'd up, her whole mind ſwallow'd up, as I may ſay, by a grief ſo heavy, as, in her own words, to be beyond the power of ſpeech to expreſs—and to be able, diſcompoſed as ſhe was to the very morning, to put ſuch a home-queſtion to me, as if ſhe had pene⯑trated my future view—How could I avoid looking like a fool, and anſwering, as before, in broken ſen⯑tences, and confuſion?

What—What-a—What—has been done—I, I, I —cannot but ſay—Muſt own—Muſt confeſs—Hem —Hem—Is not right—Is not what ſhould have been —But-a—But—But—I am truly—truly—ſorry for it—Upon my ſoul I am—And—And—will do all— do every thing—Do what—What-ever is incumbent upon me—all that you—that you—that you ſhall re⯑quire, to make you amends!—

O Belford! Belford! Whoſe the triumph now! —HERS, or MINE?

Amends! O thou truly deſpicable wretch!—Then, lifting up her eyes—Good Heaven! Who ſhall pity [253] the creature, who could fall by ſo baſe a mind!— Yet — and then ſhe looked indignantly upon me— Yet, I hate thee not, baſe and low-ſoul'd as thou art! half ſo much as I hate myſelf, that I ſaw thee not ſooner in thy proper colours!—That I hoped either morality, gratitude, or humanity from a libertine, who, to be a libertine, muſt have got over and de⯑fied all moral ſanctions ^(a).

She then called upon her couſin Morden's name, as if he had warned her againſt a man of free prin⯑ciples; and walked towards the window; her hand⯑kerchief at her eyes: But, turning ſhort towards me, with an air of mingled ſcorn and majeſty—[What, at the moment, would I have given never to have in⯑jured her!] What amends haſt thou to propoſe!— What amends can ſuch a one as Thou make to a per⯑ſon of ſpirit, or common ſenſe, for the evils thou haſt ſo inhumanly made me ſuffer?

As ſoon, Madam—As ſoon—as—As ſoon as your uncle—or—not waiting—

Thou wouldſt tell me, I ſuppoſe—I know what thou wouldſt tell me—But thinkeſt thou, that mar⯑riage will ſatisfy for a guilt like thine? Deſtitute as thou haſt made me both of friends and fortune, I too much deſpiſe the wretch, who could rob himſelf of his wife's virtue, to endure the thoughts of thee, in the light thou ſeemeſt to hope I will accept thee in!—

I heſitated an interruption: But my meaning dy'd away upon my trembling lips. I could only pro⯑nounce the word marriage—And thus ſhe proceeded:

Let me therefore know, whether I am to be con⯑trouled in the future diſpoſal of myſelf? Whether, in a country of liberty, as this, where the Sovereign of it muſt not be guilty of your wickedneſs; and where you neither durſt have attempted it, had I one friend or relation to look upon me, I am to be kept [254] here a priſoner, to ſuſtain freſh injuries? Whether, in a word, you intend to hinder me from going whi⯑ther my deſtiny ſhall lead me?

After a pauſe; for I was ſtill ſilent;

Can you not anſwer me this plain queſtion? —I quit all claim, all expectation upon you — What right have you to detain me here?

I could not ſpeak. What could I ſay to ſuch a queſtion?

O wretch! wringing her uplifted hands, had I not been robbed of my ſenſes, and that in the baſeſt manner—You beſt know how—Had I been able to account for myſelf, and your proceedings, or to have known but how the days paſſed; a whole week ſhould not have gone over my head, as I find it has done, before I had told you, what I now tell you—That the man, who has been the villain to me you have been, ſhall never make me his wife.—I will write to my uncle, to lay aſide his kind intentions in my favour—All my proſpects are ſhut in — I give myſelf up for a loſt creature as to this world—Hinder me not from en⯑tering upon a life of ſevere penitence, for correſpond⯑ing, after prohibition, with a wretch, who has too well juſtified all their warnings and inveteracy; and for throwing myſelf into the power of your vile arti⯑fices.—Let me try to ſecure the only hope I hav [...] left.—This is all the amends I aſk of you. I repea [...] therefore, Am I now at liberty to diſpoſe of myſe [...] as I pleaſe?

Now comes the fool, the miſcreant again, heſ [...] ⯑tating his broken anſwer: My deareſt love, I am confounded, quite confounded, at the thought o [...] what—of what has been done; and at the thoug [...] of—To whom. I ſee, I ſee, there is no withſtan [...] ⯑ing your eloquence!—Such irreſiſtable proofs of t [...] love of virtue for its own ſake—did I never hear o [...] nor meet with, in all my reading. And if you can fo [...] ⯑give a repentant villain, that thus on his knees i [...] ⯑plores [255] your forgiveneſs [Then down I dropt, abſo⯑lutely in earneſt in all I ſaid], I vow by all that's Sa⯑cred and Juſt (and a may a thunderbolt ſtrike me dead at your feet, if I am not ſincere!), that I will by marriage, before to-morrow-noon, without wait⯑ing for your uncle, or any-body, do you all the ju⯑ſtice I now can do you. And you ſhall ever after controul and direct me as you pleaſe, till you have made me more worthy of your angelic purity, than now I am: Nor will I preſume ſo much as to touch your garment, till I have the honour to call ſo great a bleſſing lawfully mine.

O thou guileful betrayer! There is a juſt God, whom thou invokeſt: Yet the thunderbolt deſcends not; and thou liveſt to imprecate and deceive!

My deareſt life! riſing; for I hoped ſhe was re⯑lenting—

Hadſt thou not ſinned beyond the poſſibility of for⯑giveneſs, interrupted ſhe; and had this been the firſt time that thus thou ſolemnly promiſeſt and invokeſt the vengeance thou haſt as often defied; the deſpe⯑rateneſs of my condition might have induced me to think of taking a wretched chance with a man ſo profligate. But, after what I have ſuffered by thee, it would be criminal in me to wiſh to bind my ſoul in covenant to a man ſo nearly ally'd to perdition.

Good God!—how uncharitable!—I offer not to defend—Would to Heaven that I could recall—So early ally'd to perdition, Madam! — So profligate a man, Madam!—

O how ſhort is expreſſion of thy crimes, and my [...]fferings!—Such premeditation in thy baſeneſs!— [...]o proſtitute the characters of perſons of honour of [...]y own family!—And all to delude a poor creature, [...]hom thou oughteſt— But why talk I to thee?—Be [...]y crimes upon thy head!—Once more I aſk thee, [...]m I, or am I not, at my own liberty now?

[256]I offer'd to ſpeak in defence of the women, de⯑claring that they really were the very perſons—

Preſume not, interrupted ſhe, baſe as thou art, to ſay one word in thine own vindication on this head. I have been contemplating their behaviour, their con⯑verſation, their over-ready acquieſcencies to my de⯑clarations in thy disfavour; their free, yet affectedly reſerved light manners: And now, that the ſad event has open'd my eyes, and I have compared facts and paſſages together, in the little interval that has been lent me, I wonder I could not diſtinguiſh the be⯑haviour of the unmatron-like jilt whom thou broughteſt to betray me, from the worthy lady whom thou haſt the honour to call thy aunt: And that I could not detect the ſuperficial creature, whom thou paſſedſt upon me for the virtuous Miſs Montague.

Amazing uncharitableneſs in a lady ſo good her⯑ſelf!—That the high ſpirits thoſe ladies were in to ſee you, ſhould ſubject them to ſuch cenſures!—I do moſt ſolemnly vow, Madam—

That they were, interrupting me, verily and in⯑deed Lady Betty Lawrance, and thy couſin Montague! —O wretch! I ſee by thy ſolemn averrment. [I had not yet averr'd it] what credit ought to be given to all the reſt. Had I no other proof—

Interrupting her, I beſought her patient ear. ‘I had found myſelf,’ I told her, ‘almoſt a vowedly deſpiſed and hated. I had no hope of gaining he [...] love, or her confidence. The letter ſhe had left behind her, on her removal to Hamſtead, ſuffici⯑ently convinced me, that ſhe was intirely under Miſs Howe's influence, and waited but the return of a letter from her, to enter upon meaſures that would deprive me of her for ever: Miſs Howe had ever been my [...]nemy: More ſo then, no doubt, from the contents of the letter ſhe had written to her on her fi [...]ſt coming to Hamſtead: That I dared not to ſtand the event of ſuch a letter; and was glad [257] of an opportunity, by Lady Betty's and my couſin's means (tho' they knew not my motive), to get her back to town; far, at the time, from intending the outrage which my deſpair, and her want of con⯑fidence in me, put me ſo vilely upon—’

I would have proceeded; and particularly would have ſaid ſomething of Captain Tomlinſon and her Uncle; but ſhe would not hear me further. And in⯑deed it was with viſible indignation, and not without ſeveral angry interruptions, that ſhe heard me ſay ſo much.

Would I dare, ſhe aſked me, to offer at a pallia⯑tion of my baſeneſs? — The two women, ſhe was convinced, were impoſtors—She knew not but Cap⯑tain Tomlinſon, and Mr. Mennell were ſo too. But, whether they were ſo or not, I was. And ſhe in⯑ſiſted upon being at her own diſpoſal for the remainder of her ſhort life—For indeed ſhe abhorred me in every light; and more particularly in that, in which I of⯑fer'd myſelf to her acceptance.

And, ſaying this, ſhe flung from me; leaving me abſolutely ſhock'd and confounded at her part of a converſation, which ſhe began with ſuch uncommon, however ſevere compoſure, and concluded with ſo much ſincere and unaffected indignation.

And now, Jack, I muſt addreſs one ſerious para⯑graph particularly to thee.

I have not yet touched upon cohabitation—Her uncle's mediation ſhe does not abſolutely diſcredit, as I had the pleaſure to find by one hint in this con⯑verſation—Yet ſhe ſuſpects my future views, and has doubts about Mennell and Tomlinſon.

I do ſay, If ſhe come fairly at her lights, at her clues, or what ſhall I call them? her penetration is wonderful.

But if ſhe do not come at them fairly, then is her incredulity, then is her antipathy to me, evidently ac⯑counted for.

[258]I will ſpeak out—Thou couldſt not, ſurely, play me booty, Jack?—Surely thou couldſt not let thy weak pity for her lead thee to an unpardonable breach of truſt to thy friend, who has been ſo unreſerved in his communications to thee?

I cannot believe thee capable of ſuch a baſeneſs, Satisfy me, however, upon this head. I muſt make a curſed figure in her eye, vowing and proteſting, as I ſhall not ſcruple occaſionally to vow and proteſt, if all the time ſhe has had unqueſtionable informations of my perfidy!—I know thou as little feareſt me, as I do thee, in any point of manhood; and wilt ſcorn to deny it, if thou haſt done it, when thus home preſſed.

And here I have a good mind to ſtop, and write no farther, till I have thy anſwer.

And ſo I will.

Monday morn. paſt three.

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

I Muſt write on. Nothing elſe can divert m [...] And I think thou canſt not have been a dog to me.

I would fain have cloſed my eyes: But ſleep [...] me. Well ſays Horace, as tranſlated by Cowley.

Now indeed do I from my heart wiſh, that I h [...] never known this lady. But who would have thoug [...] there had been ſuch a woman in the world? Of [...] the ſex I have hitherto known, or heard, or read [...] [259] it was once ſubdued, and always ſubdued. The firſt ſtruggle was generally the laſt; or, at leaſt, the ſubſe⯑quent ſtruggles were ſo much fainter and fainter, that a man would rather have them, than be without them. But how know I yet—

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

I Have this moment intelligence from Simon Parſo [...] one of Lord M.'s ſtewards, that his Lordſhip is ve [...] ill. Simon, who is my obſequious ſervant, in vir [...] of my preſumptive heirſhip, gives me a hint in [...] letter, that my preſence at M.-Hall will not be am [...] So, I muſt accelerate, whatever be the courſe I ſh [...] be allowed or compelled to take.

No bad proſpects for this charming creature, the old peer would be ſo kind as to ſurrender; a [...] many a ſummons has his gout given him. A g [...] 8000 l. a year; and perhaps the title reverſiona [...] would help me up with her.

[265]Proudly as this lady pretends to be above all pride, grandeur will have its charms with her; for grandeur always makes a man's face ſhine in a woman's eye. I have a pretty good, becauſe a clear, eſtate, as it is: But what a noble variety of miſchief will 8000 l. a year enable a man to do?

Perhaps thou'lt ſay, I do already all that comes into my head: But that's a miſtake — Not one half, I will aſſure thee. And even good folks, as I have heard, love to have the power of doing miſchief, whether they make uſe of it, or not. The late Queen Anne, who was a very good woman, was always fond of prerogative. And her miniſters, in her name, in more inſtances than one, made a miniſterial uſe of this her foible.

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

PITY me, Jack, for pity's ſake; ſince, if thou doſt not, no-body elſe will: And yet never was there a man of my genius, and lively temper, that wanted it more. We are apt to attribute to the devil every-thing that happens to us, which we would not have happen: But here, being (as perhaps thou'lt ſay) the devil, myſelf, my plagues ariſe from an angel. I ſuppoſe all mankind is to be plagu'd by its contrary.

She began with me like a true woman (She in the fault, I to be blamed) the moment I enter'd the dining-room: — Not the leaſt apology, not the leaſt excuſe, for the uproar ſhe had made, and the trouble ſhe had given me.

I come, ſaid ſhe, into thy deteſted preſence, be⯑cauſe I cannot help it. But why am I to be impri⯑ſon'd here? — Altho' to no purpoſe, I cannot help—

Deareſt Madam, interrupted I, give not way to ſo much violence. You muſt know, that your deten⯑tion is intirely owing to the deſire I have to make you all the amends that is in my power to make you. And This, as well for your ſake as my own.—Surely, there is ſtill one way left to repair the wrongs you have ſuffer'd—

Canſt thou blot out the paſt week? Several weeks [267] paſt, I ſhould ſay; ever ſince I have been with thee? Canſt thou call back time?—If thou canſt—

Surely, Madam, again interrupting her, If I may be permitted to call you legally mine, I might have but anticip—

Wretch, that thou art! Say not another word upon this ſubject. When thou vowedſt, when thou promiſedſt at Hamſtead, I had begun to think, that I muſt be thine. If I had conſented, at the requeſt of thoſe I thought thy relations, this would have been a principal inducement, That I could then have brought thee, what was moſt wanted, an unſullied honour in dowry, to a wretch deſtitute of all honour; and could have met the gratulations of a family, to which thy life has been one continued diſgrace, with a con⯑ſciouſneſs of deſerving their gratulations. But thinkeſt thou, that I will give a harlot-niece to thy honourable uncle, and to thy real aunts; and a couſin to thy cou⯑ſins from a brothel? For ſuch, in my opinion, is this deteſted houſe!—Then, lifting up her claſped hands, ‘Great and good God of Heaven, ſaid ſhe, give me patience to ſupport myſelf under the weight of thoſe afflictions, which Thou, for wiſe and good ends, tho' at preſent impenetrable by me, haſt permitted!’

Then, turning towards me, who knew neither what to ſay to her, nor for myſelf, I renounce thee for ever, Lovelace!—Abhorred of my ſoul! for ever I renounce thee! — Seek thy fortunes whereſoever thou wilt! —Only now, that thou haſt already ruin'd me—

Ruin'd you, Madam — The world need not — I knew not what to ſay—

Ruin'd me in my own eyes, and that is the ſame to me, as if all the world knew it—Hinder me not from going whither my myſterious deſtiny ſhall lead me—

Why heſitate you, Sir? What right have you to [268] ſtop me, as you lately did; and to bring me up by force, my hands and arms bruiſed with your violence? What right have you to detain me here?

I am cut to the heart, Madam, with invectives ſo violent. I am but too ſenſible of the wrong I have done you, or I could not bear your reproaches. The man who perpetrates a villainy, and reſolves to go on with it, ſhews not the compunction I ſhew. Yet, if you think yourſelf in my power, I would caution you, Madam, not to make me deſperate. For you ſhall be mine, or my life ſhall be the forfeit! Nor is life worth having without you!—

Be thine!—I be thine!ſaid the paſſionate Beauty. O how lovely in her violence!—

Yes, Madam, Be mine! — I repeat, You ſhall be mine! — My very crime is your glory. My love, my admiration of you is increaſed by what has paſſed: And ſo it ought. I am willing, Madam, to court your returning favour: But let me tell you, were the houſe beſet by a thouſand armed men, re⯑ſolved to take you from me, they ſhould not effect their purpoſe, while I had life.

I never, never will be yours, ſaid ſhe, claſping her hands together, and lifting up her eyes!—I never will be yours!

We may yet ſee many happy years, Madam. All your friends may be reconciled to you. The treaty for that purpoſe is in greater forwardneſs than you imagine. You know better than to think the worſe of yourſelf for ſuffering what you could not help. In⯑join but the terms I can make my peace with you upon, and I will inſtantly comply.

Never, never, repeated ſhe, will I be yours!—

Only forgive me, my deareſt life, this one time!— A virtue ſo invincible! what further view can I have againſt you?—Have I attempted any further outrage? —If you will be mine, your injuries will be injuries done to myſelf. You have too well gueſſed at the [269] unnatural arts that have been uſed? — But can a greater teſtimony be given of your virtue?—And now I have only to hope, that altho' I cannot make you complete amends, yet that you will permit me to make you all the amends that can poſſibly be made.

Hear me out, I beſeech you, Madam; for ſhe was going to ſpeak with an aſpect unpacifiedly angry: The God, whom you ſerve, requires but repentance and amendment. Imitate Him, my deareſt love, and bleſs me with the means of reforming a courſe of life, that begins to be hateful to me. That was once your favourite point. Reſume it, deareſt crea⯑ture: In charity to a ſoul as well as body, which once, as I flatter'd myſelf, was more than indifferent to you, reſume it. And let to-morrow's ſun wit⯑neſs to our eſpouſals.

I cannot judge thee, ſaid ſhe; but the GOD to whom thou ſo boldly referreſt, can; and aſſure thy⯑ſelf He will. But, if compunction has really taken hold of thee; if indeed thou art touched for thy in⯑grateful baſeneſs, and meaneſt any thing by pleading the holy example thou recommendeſt to my imita⯑tion; in this thy pretended repentant moment, let me ſift thee thoroughly; and, by thy anſwer, I ſhall judge of the ſincerity of thy pretended declarations.

Tell me then, Is there any reality in the treaty thou haſt pretended to be on foot between my Uncle and Captain Tomlinſon, and thyſelf?—Say, and heſitate not, is there any truth in that ſtory?—But, remember, if there be not, and thou avoweſt that there is, what further condemnation attends thy averrment, if it be as ſolemn, as I require it to be!

This was a curſed thruſt. What could I ſay?— Surely, this mercileſs lady is reſolved to damn me, thought I, and yet accuſes me of a deſign againſt her ſoul!—But was I not obliged to proceed as I had begun?

[270]In ſhort, I ſolemnly averr'd, that there was!— How one crime, as the good folks ſay, brings on another?

I added, That the Captain had been in town, and would have waited on her, had ſhe not been indiſ⯑poſed: That he went down much afflicted, as well on her account, as on that of her uncle; tho' I had not acquainted him either with the nature of her diſorder, or the ever-to-be-regretted occaſion of it; having told him, that it was a violent fever: That he had twice ſince, by her uncle's deſire, ſent up to inquire after her health: And that I had already diſpatched a man and horſe with a letter, to acquaint him (and her uncle thro' him) with her recovery; making it my earneſt requeſt, that he would re⯑new his application to her uncle for the favour of his preſence at the private celebration of our nuptials; and that I expected an anſwer, if not this night, as to-morrow.

Let me aſk thee next, ſaid ſhe, Thou knoweſt the opinion I have of the women thou broughteſt to me at Hamſtead; and who have ſeduced me hither to my ruin; Let me aſk thee, If really and truly, they were Lady Betty Lawrance and thy couſin Montague?—What ſayeſt thou—Heſitate not—What ſayeſt thou to this queſtion?

Aſtoniſhing, my dear, that you ſhould ſuſpect them!—But, knowing your ſtrange opinion of them, what can I ſay to be believed?

And is this the anſwer thou returneſt me? Doſt thou thus evade my queſtion? But let me know, for I am trying thy ſincerity now, and ſhall judge of thy new profeſſions by thy anſwer to this queſtion; Let me know, I repeat, whether thoſe women be really Lady Betty Lawrance and thy couſin Montague?

Let me, my deareſt love, be enabled to-morrow to call you lawfully mine, and we will ſet out the next day, if you pleaſe, to Berkſhire, to my Lord M.'s, [271] where they both are at this time, and you ſhall con⯑vince yourſelf by your own eyes, and by your own ears; which you will believe ſooner than all I can ſay or ſwear.

Now, Belford, I had really ſome apprehenſion of treachery from thee; which made me ſo miſe⯑rably evade; for elſe, I could as ſafely have ſworn to the truth of this, as to that of the former: But ſhe preſſing me ſtill for a categorical anſwer, I ven⯑tur'd plumb; and ſwore to it [Lovers oaths, Jack] that they were really and truly Lady Betty Lawrance and my couſin Mont [...]gue.

She lifted up her hands, and eyes—What can I think!—What can I think!—

You think me a devil, Madam; a very devil! or you could no, after you have put theſe queſtions to me, ſeem to doubt the truth of anſwers ſo ſolemnly ſworn to.

And if I do think thee ſo, have I not cauſe? Is there another man in the world (I hope, for the ſake of human nature, there is not) who could act by any poor friendleſs creature as thou haſt acted by me, whom thou haſt made friendleſs—And who, be⯑fore I knew thee, had for a friend every one who knew me?

I told you, Madam, before, that my aunt and couſin were actually here, in order to take leave of you, before they ſet out for Berkſhire. But the effects of my ingrateful crime (ſuch, with ſhame and remorſe, I own it to be!) were the reaſon you could not ſee them. Nor could I be fond, that they ſhould ſee you: Since they never would have for⯑given me, had they known what had paſſed—And what reaſon had I to expect your ſilence on the ſubject, had you been recover'd?

It ſignifies nothing now, that the cauſe of their appearance has been anſwer'd in my ruin, who or what they are: But, if thou haſt averr'd thus ſo⯑lemnly [272] to two falſhoods, what a wretch do I ſee before me!—

I thought ſhe had now reaſon to be ſatisfied; and I begg'd her to allow me to talk to her of to-morrow, as of the happieſt day of my life. We have the Licence, Madam—And you muſt excuſe me, that I cannot let you go hence, till I have try'd every way I can try, to obtain your forgiveneſs.

And am I then (with a kind of frantic wildneſs) to be detained a priſoner in this horrid houſe?—Am I, Sir?—Take care!—Take care! holding up her hand, menacing, how you make me deſperate!—If I fall, tho' by my own hand, inquiſition will be made for my blood: And be not out in thy plot, Love⯑lace, if it ſhould be ſo—Make ſure work, I charge thee: Dig a hole deep enough to cram in and conceal this unhappy body: For, depend upon it, that ſome of thoſe, who will not ſtir to protect me living, will move heaven and earth, to avenge me dead!

A horrid dear creature!—By my ſoul, ſhe made me ſhudder! She had need, indeed, to talk of her unhappineſs, in falling into the hands of the only man in the world, who could have uſed her, as I have uſed her! She is the only woman in the world, who could have ſhock'd and diſturb'd me, as ſhe has done.—So we are upon a foot in that reſpect. And I think I have the worſt of it by much. Since very little has been my joy; very much my trouble: And her puniſhment, as ſhe calls it, is over: But when mine will, or what it may be, who can tell?

Here, only recapitulating [think, then, how I muſt be affected at the time], I was forced to leave off, and ſing a ſong to myſelf. I aimed at a lively air; but I croaked rather than ſung: And fell into the old diſmal thirtieth of January ſtrain. I hemm'd up for a ſprightlier note; but it would not do: And at laſt I ended, like a malefactor, in a dead pſalm-melody.

[273]High-ho!—I gape like an unfledg'd kite in its neſt, wanting to ſwallow a chicken, bobb'd at its mouth, by its marauding dam!—

What a devil ails me!—I can neither think nor write!—

Lie down, pen, for a moment!—

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

THERE is certainly a good deal in the obſer⯑vation, That it coſts a man ten times more pains to be wicked, than it would coſt him to be good. What a confounded number of contrivances have I had recourſe to, in order to carry my point with this charming creature; and, after all, how have I puz⯑zled myſelf by it; and yet am near tumbling into the pit, which it was the end of all my plots to ſhun! What a happy man had I been, with ſuch an excel⯑lence, could I have brought my mind to marry when I firſt prevailed upon her to quit her father's houſe! But then, as I have often reflected, how had I known, that a but bloſſoming beauty, who could carry on a private correſpondence, and run ſuch riſques with a notorious wild fellow, was not prompted by inclination, which one day might give ſuch a free liver as myſelf, as much pain to reflect upon, as, at the time, it gave me pleaſure? Thou remembreſt the Hoſt's tale in Arioſto. And thy experience, as well as mine, can furniſh out twenty Fiametto's in proof of the imbecility of the ſex.

But to proceed with my narrative.

The dear creature reſumed the topic her heart was ſo firmly fixed upon; and inſiſted upon quitting the odious houſe, and that in very high terms.

I urged her to meet me the next day at the altar, in either of the two churches mentioned in the Licence. [274] And I beſought her, whatever were her reſolution, to let me debate this matter calmly with her.

If, ſhe ſaid, I would have her give what I deſired, the leaſt moment's conſideration, I muſt not hinder her from being her own miſtreſs. To what purpoſe did I aſk her conſent, if ſhe had not a power over either her own perſon or actions?

Will you give me your honour, Madam, if I conſent to your quitting a houſe ſo diſagreeable to you?—

My honour, Sir! ſaid the dear creature—Alas!— And turned weeping from me with inimitable grace— As if ſhe had ſaid—Alas!—You have robb'd me of my honour!

I hoped then, that her angry paſſions were ſub⯑ſiding! — But I was miſtaken! — For, urging her warmly for the day; and that for the ſake of our mutual honour, and the honour of both our fami⯑lies, in this high-flown, and high-ſoul'd ſtrain, ſhe anſwer'd me:

And canſt thou, Lovelace, be ſo mean—as to wiſh to make a wife of the creature thou haſt inſulted, diſhonoured, and abuſed, as thou haſt me? Was it neceſſary to humble Clariſſa Harlowe down to the low level of thy baſeneſs, before ſhe could be a wife meet for thee? Thou hadſt a father, who was a man of honour: A mother, who deſerved a better ſon—Thou haſt an uncle, who is no diſho⯑nour to the peerage of a kingdom, whoſe peers are more reſpectable than the nobility of any other country. Thou haſt other relations alſo, who may be thy boaſt, tho' thou canſt not be theirs. And canſt thou not imagine, that thou heareſt them call⯑ing upon thee; the dead from their monuments; the living from their laudable pride; not to diſho⯑nour thy antient and ſplendid houſe, by entering into wedlock, with a creature whom thou haſt levelled with the dirt of the ſtreet, and claſſed with the vileſt of her ſex?

[275]I extoll'd her greatneſs of ſoul, and her virtue. I execrated myſelf for my guilt: And told her, how grateful to the manes of my anceſtors, as well as to the wiſhes of the living, the honour I ſupplicated for, would be.

But ſtill ſhe inſiſted upon being a free agent; of ſeeing herſelf in other lodgings before ſhe would give what I urged the leaſt conſideration. Nor would ſhe promiſe me favour even then, or to permit my viſits. How then, as I aſked her, could I comply, without reſolving to loſe her for ever?

She put her hand to her forehead often as ſhe talked; and at laſt, pleading diſorder in her head, retired; neither of us ſatisfied with the other. But ſhe ten times more diſſatisfied with me, than I with her.

Dorcas ſeems to be coming into favour with her—

What now!—What now!—

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

BUT, with all this dear creature's reſentment againſt me, I cannot, for my heart, think but ſhe will get all over, and conſent to enter the pale with me. Were ſhe even to die to-morrow, and to know ſhe ſhould, would not a woman of her ſenſe, of her punctilio, and in her ſituation, and of ſo proud a family, rather die married, than otherwiſe? —No doubt but ſhe would; altho' ſhe were to hate the man ever ſo heartily. If ſo, there is now but one man in the world whom ſhe can have—And that is Me.

Now I talk [familiar writing is but talking, Jack] thus glibly of entering the pale, thou wilt be ready to queſtion me, I know, as to my intentions on this head.

As much of my heart, as I know of it myſelf, will I tell thee.—When I am from her, I cannot ſtill help heſitating about marriage, and I even frequently reſolve againſt it; and am reſolved to preſs my fa⯑vourite ſcheme for cohabitation. But when I am with her, I am ready to ſay, to ſwear, and to do, [280] whatever I think will be moſt acceptable to her: And were a parſon at hand, I ſhould plunge at once, no doubt of it, into the ſtate.

I have frequently thought, in common caſes, that it is happy for many giddy fellows [There are giddy fellows, as well as giddy girls, Jack; and perhaps thoſe are as often drawn in, as theſe], that ceremony and parade are neceſſary to the irrevocable ſolemnity; and that there is generally time for a man to recol⯑lect himſelf in the ſpace between the heated over-night, and the cooler next morning; or I know not who could eſcape the ſweet gypſies, whoſe faſcinating powers are ſo much aided by our own raiſed imagi⯑nations.

A wife at any time, I uſed to ſay. I had ever confidence and vanity enough, to think, that no woman breathing could deny her hand, when I held out mine. I am confoundedly mortified to find, that this lady is able to hold me at bay, and to refuſe all my honeſt vows.

What force [allow me a ſerious reflection, Jack▪ It will be put down!] What force have evil habits upon the human mind! When we enter upon a devious courſe, we think we ſhall have it in ou [...] power, when we will, to return to the right path▪ But it is not ſo, I plainly ſee: For, who can ac⯑knowlege with more juſtice this dear creature's me⯑rits, and his own errors, than I? Whoſe regret, at times, can be deeper than mine, for the injurie [...] I have done her? Whoſe reſolutions to repair thoſe injuries ſtronger?—Yet how tranſitory is my peni⯑tence!—How am I hurried away—Canſt thou te [...] by what?—O devil of Youth, and devil of Intrigue▪ how do ye miſlead me! — How often do we en [...] in occaſions for the deepeſt remorſe, what we begin in wantonneſs!—

At the preſent writing, however, the turn of the [281] ſcale is in favour of matrimony—For I deſpair of carrying with her my favourite point.

The lady tells Dorcas, that her heart is broken; and that ſhe ſhall live but a little while. I think nothing of that, if we marry. In the firſt place, ſhe knows not what a mind unapprehenſive will do for her, in a ſtate to which all the ſex look forward with high ſatisfaction. How often have the whole ſacred conclave been thus deceived in their choice of a pope; not conſidering, that the new dignity is of itſelf ſufficient to give new life! — A few months heart's-eaſe will give my charmer a quite different notion of things: And I dare ſay, as I have hereto⯑fore ſaid ^(a), once married, and I am married for life.

I will allow, that her pride, in one ſenſe, has ſuf⯑fered abaſement: But her triumph is the greater in every other. And while I can think, that all her trials are but additions to her honour, and that I have laid the foundations of her glory in my own ſhame, can I be called cruel, if I am not affected with her grief, as ſome men would be?—

And for what ſhould her heart be broken? Her will is unviolated:—At preſent, however, her will is unviolated. The deſtroying of good habits, and the introducing of bad, to the corrupting of the whole heart, is the violation. That her will is not to be corrupted, that her mind is not to be debaſed, ſhe has hitherto unqueſtionably proved. And if ſhe give cauſe for further trials, and hold faſt her in⯑tegrity; what ideas will ſhe have to dwell upon, that will be able to corrupt her morals?—What veſti⯑gia, what remembrances, but ſuch as will inſpire ab⯑horrence of the attempter?

What nonſenſe then to ſuppoſe, that ſuch a mere notional violation, as ſhe has ſuffered, ſhould be able to cut aſunder the ſtrings of life?

[282]Her religion, married, or not married, will ſet her above making ſuch a trifling accident, ſuch an involuntary ſuffering, f [...]tal to her.

Such conſiderations as theſe, they are, that ſup⯑port me againſt all apprehenſion of bugbear conſe⯑quences: And I would have them have weight with thee; who art ſuch a doughty advocate for her. And yet I allow thee this; That ſhe really makes too much of it: Takes it too much to heart. To be ſure ſhe ought to have forgot it by this time, ex⯑cept the charming, charming conſequence happen, that ſtill I am in hopes will happen, were I to proceed no further. And, if ſhe apprehend this herſelf, then has the dear over-nice ſoul ſome reaſon for taking it ſo much to heart: And yet would not, I think, refuſe to legitimate.

O Jack! had I an imperial diadem, I ſwear to thee, that I would give it up, even to my enemy, to have one charming boy by this lady. And ſhould ſhe eſcape me, and no ſuch effect follow, my revenge on her family, and, in ſuch a caſe, on herſelf, would be incomplete, and I ſhould reproach myſelf as long as I lived.

Were I to be ſure, that this foundation is laid [And why may I not hope it is?], I ſhould not doubt to have her ſtill (ſhould ſhe withſtand her day of grace) on my own conditions: Nor ſhould I, if it were ſo, queſtion that revived affection in her, which a woman ſeldom fails to have for the father of her firſt child, whether born in wedlock, or out of it.

And pr'ythee, Jack, ſee in this aſpiration, let me call it, a diſtinction in my favour from other rakes; who almoſt to a man follow their inclinations, with⯑out troubling themſelves about conſequences. In imitation, as one would think, of the ſtrutting vil⯑lain of a bird▪ which from feather'd lady to feather'd lady purſues his imperial pleaſures, leaving it to his [283] ſleek paramours to hatch the genial product, in holes and corners of their own finding out.

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

WELL, Jack, now are we upon another foot together. This dear creature will not let me be good. She is now authorizing all my plots by her own example.

Thou muſt be partial in the higheſt degree, if now thou blameſt me for reſuming my former ſchemes, ſince in that caſe I ſhall but follow her clue. No forced conſtruction of her actions do I make on this occaſion, in order to juſtify a bad cauſe, or a worſe intention. A little pretence, in⯑deed, ſerved the wolf, when he had a mind to quarrel with the lamb; but this is not now my caſe.

For here (Wouldſt thou have thought it?), taking advantage of Dorcas's compaſſionate temper, and of ſome warm expreſſions, which the tender-hearted wench let fall againſt the cruelty of men; and wiſh⯑ing to have it in her power to ſerve her; has ſhe given her the following Note, ſigned by her maiden name: For ſhe has thought fit, in poſitive and plain words, to own to the pitying Dorcas, that ſhe is not married.

Now, Jack, what terms wouldſt thou have me to keep with ſuch a ſweet corruptreſs?—Seeſt thou not how ſhe hates me?—Seeſt thou not, that ſhe is re⯑ſolved never to forgive me?—Seeſt thou not, how⯑ever, that ſhe muſt diſgrace herſelf in the eye of the world, if ſhe actually ſhould eſcape?—That ſhe muſt be ſubjected to infinite diſtreſs and hazard?—For whom has ſhe to receive and protect her?—Yet to determine to riſque all theſe evils!—And furthermore to ſtoop to artifice, to be guilty of the reigning vice of the times, of bribery and corruption! O Jack, Jack! ſay not, write not, another word in her favour!—

Thou haſt blamed me for bringing her to this houſe: But had I carried her to any other in Eng⯑land, where there would have been one ſervant or inmate capable either of compaſſion or corruption, what muſt have been the conſequence?

But ſeeſt thou not, however, that, in this flimſy contrivance, the dear implacable, like a drowning man, catches at a ſtraw to ſave herſelf!—A ſtraw ſhall ſhe find to be the refuge ſhe has reſorted to.

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

VERY ill!—Exceeding ill!—as Dorcas tells me, in order to avoid ſeeing me—And yet the dear ſoul may be ſo in her mind—But is not that equivo⯑cation?—Some one paſſion predominating, in every human breaſt, breaks thro' principle, and controuls us all. Mine is love and revenge taking turns. Hers is hatred.—But this is my conſolation, that hatred appeaſed, is love begun; or love renew'd, I may rather ſay, if love ever had footing here.

But reflectioning apart, thou ſeeſt, Jack, that her plot is beginning to work. To-morrow it is to break out.

I have been abroad, to ſet on foot a plot of cir⯑cumvention. All fair now, Belford!—

I inſiſted upon viſiting my indiſpoſed fair one. Dorcas made officious excuſes for her. I curſed the wench in her hearing for her impertinence; and ſtamp'd, and made a clutter;—which was improved into an apprehenſion to the lady, that I would have flung her faithful confidante from the top of the ſtairs to the bottom.

He is a violent wretch!—But, Dorcas (dear Dor⯑cas now it is), thou ſhalt have a friend in me to the laſt day of my life.

And what now doſt think, the name of her good angel is?—Why Dorcas Martindale, Chriſtian and ſuper (no more Wykes) as in the promiſory note in my former—And the dear creature has bound her to her by the moſt ſolemn obligations, beſides the tie of intereſt.

Whither, Madam, do you deſign to go when you get out of this houſe?

[286]I will throw myſelf into the firſt open houſe I can find; and beg protection till I can get a coach, or a lodging in ſome honeſt family.

What will you do for cloaths, Madam?—I doubt you'll not be able to take any away with you, but what you'll have on.

O no matter for cloaths, if I can but get out of this houſe.

What will you do for money, Madam? I have heard his Honour expreſs his concern, that he could not prevail upon you to be obliged to him, tho' he apprehended, that you muſt be ſhort of money.

O, I have rings, and other valuables. Indeed I have but four guineas, and two of them, I found lately wrapt up in a bit of lace, deſigned for a charitable uſe: But now, alas! Charity begins at home! But I have one dear friend left, if ſhe be living, as I hope in God ſhe is! to whom I can be obliged, if I want, O Dorcas! I muſt ere now have heard from her, if I had had fair play.

Well, Madam, yours is a hard lot. I pity you at my heart!

Thank you, Dorcas! —I am unhappy, that I did not think before, that I might have confided in thy pity, and in thy ſex!

I pitied you, Madam, often and often: But you were always, as I thought, diffident of me. And then I doubted not but you were married; and I thought his Honour was unkindly uſed by you. So that I thought it my duty to wiſh well to his Ho⯑nour, rather than to what I thought to be your humours, Madam. Would to heaven, that I had known before, that you were not married!—Such a lady! — Such a fortune! — To be ſo ſadly be⯑trayed!—

Ah, Dorcas! I was baſely drawn in! My youth! My ignorance of the world! — And I have ſome things to reproach myſelf with, when I look back!

[287]Lord, Madam, what deceitful creatures are theſe men!—Neither oaths, nor vows!—I am ſure! I am ſure!—And then with her apron ſhe gave her eyes half a dozen hearty rubs—I may curſe the time that I came into this houſe! —

Here was accounting for her bold eyes! And was it not better to give up a houſe, which her lady could not think worſe of than ſhe did, in order to gain the reputation of ſincerity, than by offering to vin⯑dicate it, to make her proffered ſervices ſuſpected?

Poor Dorcas!—Bleſs me! how little do we, who have lived all our time in the country, know of this wicked town!—

Had I been able to write, cried the veteran wench, I ſhould certainly have given ſome other near rela⯑tions I have in Wales, a little inkling of matters; and they would have ſaved me from—from—from—

Her ſobs were enough. The apprehenſions of women on ſuch ſubjects are ever aforehand with ſpeech.

And then, ſobbing on, ſhe lifted her apron to her face again. She ſhewed me how.

Poor Dorcas!—Again wiping her own charming eyes.

All love, all compaſſion, is this dear creature to every one in affliction, but me.

And would not an aunt protect her kinſwoman? —Abominable wretch!

I can't—I can't—I can't—ſay, my aunt was privy to it. She gave me good advice. She knew not for a great while, that I was—that I was—that I was— ugh!—ugh!—ugh!—

No more, no more, good Dorcas! — What a world we live in!—What a houſe am I in! But [...]ome, don't weep (tho' ſhe herſelf could not for⯑ [...]ear): My being betrayed into it, tho' to my own [...], may be a happy event for thee: And, if I live, [...] ſhall.

[288]I thank you, my good lady, blubbering. I am ſorry, very ſorry, you have had ſo hard a lot. But it may be the ſaving of my ſoul, if I can get to your ladyſhip's houſe.—Had I but known that your ladyſhip was not married, I would have eat my own fleſh, before, before, before—

Dorcas ſobb'd and wept. The lady ſighed and wept alſo.

But now, Jack, for a ſerious reflection upon the premiſes.

How will the good folks account for it, that Satan has ſuch faithful inſtruments, and that the bond of wickedneſs is a ſtronger bond, than the ties of virtue? —As if it were the nature of the hu⯑man mind to be villainous. For here, had Dorcas been good, and tempted, as ſhe was tempted, to any thing evil, I make no doubt, but ſhe would have yielded to the temptation.

And cannot our fraternity, in an hundred inſtances, give proof of the like predominance of vice over virtue? And that we have riſqued more to ſerve and promote the intereſts of the former, than ever a good man did to ſerve a good man, or a good cauſe? For have we not been prodigal of life and fortune? Have we not defied the civil magiſtrate upon occaſion; and have we not attempted reſcues, and dared all things, only to extricate a pounded profligate?—

Whence, Jack, can this be?

O I have it, I believe. The vicious are as bad as they can be; and do the devil's work without looking after; while he is continually ſpreading ſnares for the others; and, like a ſkilful angler, ſuit⯑ing his baits to the fiſh he angles for.

Nor let even honeſt people, ſo called, blame po [...] Dorcas for her fidelity in a bad cauſe. For does no [...] the General, who implicitly ſerves an ambitious princ [...] in his unjuſt deſigns upon his neighbours, or upo [...] his own oppreſſed ſubjects; and even the Lawyer [289] who, for the ſake of a paltry fee, undertakes to whi⯑ten a black cauſe, and to defend it againſt one he knows to be good, do the very ſame thing as Dorcas? And are they not both every whit as culpable? Yet the one ſhall be dubbed a hero, the other a charm⯑ing fellow, and be contended for by every client; and his double-paced abilities ſhall carry him thro' all the high preferments of the Law with reputation and applauſe.

Well but, what ſhall be done, ſince the lady is ſo much determined on removing?—Is there no way to oblige her, and yet to make the very act ſubſervient to my own views?—I fancy ſuch a way may be found out.

I will ſtudy for it—

Suppoſe I ſuffer her to make an eſcape? Her heart is in it. If ſhe effect it, the triumph ſhe will have over me upon it will be a counterbalance for all ſhe has ſuffered.

I will oblige her if I can.

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

TIred with a ſucceſſion of fatiguing days and ſleep⯑leſs nights, and with contemplating the preca⯑rious ſituation I ſtand in with my Beloved, I fell into a profound reſverie; which brought on ſleep; and that produced a dream; a fortunate dream; which, as I imagine, will afford my working mind the means to effect the obliging double purpoſe my heart is now once more ſet upon.

What, as I have often contemplated, is the enjoy⯑ment of the fineſt woman in the world, to the con⯑trivance, the buſtle, the ſurprizes, and at laſt the happy concluſion of a well-laid plot?—The charm⯑ing roundabouts, to come the neareſt way home;— [290] the doubts; the apprehenſions; the heart-akings, the meditated triumphs.—Theſe are the joys that make the bleſſing dear.—For all the reſt, what is it?— What but to find an angel in imagination dwindled down to a woman in fact?—But to my dream—

Methought it was about nine on Wedneſday morn⯑ing, that a chariot, with a dowager's arms upon the doors, and in it a grave matronly lady [not unlike Mother H. in the face; but in her heart O how un⯑like!], ſtopp'd at a grocer's ſhop, about ten doors on the other ſide of the way, in order to buy ſome groceries: And methought Dorcas, having been out to ſee if the coaſt were clear for her lady's flight, and if a coach were to be got near the place, eſpied this chariot with the dowager's arms, and this matronly lady: And what, methought, did Dorcas, that ſub⯑tle traitreſs, do, but whip up to the old matronly lady, and, lifting up her voice, ſay, Good my Lady, permit me one word with your Ladyſhip.

What thou haſt to ſay to me, ſay on, quoth the old lady; the grocer retiring, and ſtanding aloof, to give Dorcas leave to ſpeak; who, methought, in words like theſe, accoſted the lady.

‘You ſeem, Madam, to be a very good lady; and here in this neighbourhood, at a houſe of no high repute, is an innocent lady of rank and for⯑tune, beautiful as a May morning, and youth⯑ful as a roſe-bud, and full as ſweet and lovely; who has been trick'd thither by a wicked gentle⯑man, practiſed in the ways of the town; and this very night will ſhe be ruined, if ſhe get not out of his hands. Now, O Lady! if you will extend your compaſſionate goodneſs to this fair young lady, in whom, the moment you behold her, you will ſee cauſe to believe all I ſay; and let her but have a place in your chariot, and remain in your pro⯑tection for one day only, till ſhe can ſend a man [291] and a horſe to her rich and powerful friends; you may ſave from ruin a lady, who has no equal for virtue as well as beauty.’

Methought the old lady, moved with Dorcas's ſtory, anſwered and ſaid, ‘Haſten, O damſel, who in a happy moment art come to put it in my power to ſerve the innocent and the virtuous, which it has always been my delight to do; Haſten to this young lady, and bid her hie hither to me with all ſpeed; and tell her, that my chariot ſhall be her aſylum: And if I find all that thou ſayeſt true, my houſe ſhall be her ſanctuary, and I will protect her from all her oppreſſors.’

Hereupon, methought, this traitreſs Dorcas hied back to the lady, and made report of what ſhe had done. And, methought, the lady highly approved of Dorcas's proceeding, and bleſſed her for her good thought.

And I lifted up mine eyes, and behold the lady iſſued out of the houſe, and without looking back, ran to the chariot with the dowager's coat upon it, and was received by the matronly lady with open arms, and ‘Welcome, welcome, welcome, fair young lady, who ſo well anſwer the deſcription of the faithful damſel: And I will carry you inſtantly to my houſe, where you ſhall meet with all the good uſage your heart can wiſh for, till you can appriſe your rich and powerful friends of your paſt dangers, and preſent eſcape.’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, worthy, thrice worthy lady, who afford ſo kindly your protection to a moſt unhappy young creature, who has been baſely ſeduced and betrayed, and brought to the very brink of deſtruction.’

Methought then, the matronly lady, who had by the time the young lady came to her, bought and paid for the goods ſhe wanted, ordered her coach⯑man to drive home with all ſpeed; who ſtopped not [292] till he had arrived in a certain ſtreet, not far from Lincolns-inn-fields, where the matronly lady lived in a ſumptuous dwelling, replete with damſels who wrought curiouſly in muſlins, cambricks, and fine linen, and in every good work that induſtrious dam⯑ſels love to be imployed about, except the loom and the ſpinning-wheel.

And methought, all the way the young lady and the old lady rode, and after they came in, till dinner was ready, the young lady filled up the time with the diſmal account of her wrongs and her ſufferings, the like of which was never heard by mortal ear; and this in ſo moving a manner, that the good old lady did nothing but weep, and ſigh, and ſob, and inveigh againſt the arts of wicked men, and againſt that abominable 'Squire Lovelace, who was a plotting vil⯑lain, methought ſhe ſaid; and, more than that, an unchained Beelzebub.

Methought I was in a dreadful agony, when I found the lady had eſcaped; and in my wrath had like to have ſlain Dorcas, and our mother, and every one I met. But, by ſome quick tranſition, and ſtrange metamorphoſis, which dreams do not uſually account for, methought, all of a ſudden, this matronly lady was turned into the famous Mother H. herſelf; and, being an old acquaintance of Mother Sinclair, was prevailed upon to aſſiſt in my plot upon the young lady.

Then, methought, followed a ſtrange ſcene; for, Mother H. longing to hear more of the young lady's ſtory, and night being come, beſought her to accept of a place in her own bed, in order to have all the talk to themſelves. For, methought, two young nieces of hers had broken in upon them in the middle of the diſmal tale.

Accordingly going early to bed, and the ſad ſtory being reſumed, with as great earneſtneſs on one ſide, as attention on the other, before the young lady had [293] gone far in it, Mother H. methought was taken with a fit of the colic; and her tortures increaſing, was obliged to riſe, to get a cordial ſhe uſed to find ſpe⯑cific in this diſorder, to which ſhe was unhappily ſubject.

Having thus riſen, and ſtept to her cloſet, me⯑thought ſhe let fall the wax taper in her returns and then [O metamorphoſis ſtill ſtranger than the former! What unaccountable things are dreams!], coming to bed again in the dark, the young lady, to her infinite aſtoniſhment, grief, and ſurprize, found Mother H. turned into a young perſon of the other ſex: And altho' Lovelace was the abhorred of her ſoul, yet, fearing it was ſome other perſon, it was matter of ſome conſolation to her, when ſhe found it was no other than himſelf, and that ſhe had been ſtill the bedfellow of but one and the ſame man.

A ſtrange promiſcuous huddle of adventures fol⯑lowed; ſcenes perpetually ſhifting; now nothing heard from the lady, but ſighs, groans, exclamations, faintings, dyings.—From the gentleman, but vows, promiſes, proteſtations, diſclaimers of purpoſes pur⯑ſued; and all the gentle and ungentle preſſures of the lover's warfare.

Then, as quick as thought [for dreams, thou knoweſt, confine not themſelves to the rules of the drama], enſued recoveries, lyings-in, chriſtenings, the ſmiling boy, amply, even in her own opinion, rewarding the ſuffering mother.

Then the grandfather's eſtate yielded up, poſſeſ⯑ſion taken of it—Living very happily upon it:— Her beloved Norton her companion; Miſs Howe her viſitor; and (admirable! thrice admirable I) en⯑abled to compare notes with her; a charming girl, by the ſame father, to her friend's charming boy; who, as they grow up, in order to conſolidate their mam⯑mas friendſhips [for neither have dreams regard to conſanguinity], intermarry; change names by act of [294] parliament, to enjoy my eſtate;—and I know not what of the like incongruous ſtuff.

I awoke, as thou mayeſt believe, in great diſorder, and rejoiced to find my charmer in the next room, and Dorcas honeſt.

Now thou wilt ſay, this was a very odd dream. And yet (for I am a ſtrange dreamer) it is not alto⯑gether improbable, that ſomething like it may hap⯑pen; as the pretty ſimpleton has the weakneſs to confide in Dorcas, whom, till now, ſhe diſliked.

But I forgot to tell thee one part of my dream; and that was, That, the next morning, the lady gave way to ſuch tranſports of grief and reſentment, that ſhe was with difficulty diverted from making an at⯑tempt upon her own life. But, however, at laſt, was prevailed upon to reſolve to live, and to make the beſt of the matter. A letter, methought, from Capt. Tomlinſon helping to pacify her, written to appriſe me, that her uncle Harlowe would certainly be at Kentiſh-town on Wedneſday night June 28. the following day, the 29th, being his anniverſary birth-day; and he doubly deſirous, on that account, that our nuptials ſhould be then privately ſolemnized in his preſence.

But is Thurſday the 29th her uncle's anniverſary, methinks thou aſkeſt?—It is; or elſe the day of cele⯑bration ſhould have been earlier ſtill. Three weeks ago I heard her ſay it was; and I have down the birth-day of every one of her family, and the wed⯑ding-day of her father and mother. The minuteſt circumſtances are often of great ſervice, in matters of the laſt importance.

And what ſayeſt thou now to my dream?

Who ſays, that, ſleeping and waking, I have not fine helps from ſome body, ſome ſpirit rather, as thou'lt be apt to ſay?—But no wonder that a Beel⯑zebub has his devilkins to attend his call.

I can have no manner of doubt of ſucceeding in [295] Mother H.'s part of the ſcheme; for will the lady (who reſolves to throw herſelf into the firſt houſe ſhe can enter, or to beſpeak the protection of the firſt perſon ſhe meets; and who thinks there can be no danger out of this houſe, equal to what ſhe apprehends from Me in it) ſcruple to accept of the chariot of a dowa⯑ger, accidentally offering? And the lady's protection engaged by her faithful Dorcas, ſo highly bribed to promote her eſcape?—And then Mrs. H. has the air and appearance of a venerable matron, and is not ſuch a forbidding devil as Mrs. Sinclair.

The pretty ſimpleton knows nothing of the world; nor that people who have money never want aſſiſt⯑ants in their views, be they what they will. How elſe could the princes of the earth be ſo implicitly ſerved as they are, change they hands ever ſo often, and be their purpoſes ever ſo wicked?

If I can but get her to go on with me till Wedneſ⯑day next week, we ſhall be ſettled together pretty quietly by that time. And indeed if ſhe has any gra⯑titude, and has in her the leaſt of her ſex's foibles, ſhe muſt think I deſerve her favour, by the pains ſhe has coſt me. For dearly do they all love, that men ſhould take pains about them, and for them.

And here, for the preſent, I will lay down my pen, and congratulate myſelf upon my happy inven⯑tion (ſince her obſtinacy puts me once more upon ex⯑erciſing it)—But with this reſolution, I think, That, if the preſent contrivance fail me, I will exert all the faculties of my mind, all my talents, to procure for myſelf a legal right to her favour, and that in defiance of all my antipathies to the married ſtate; and of the ſuggeſtions of the great devil out of the houſe, and of his ſecret agents in it.—Since, if now ſhe is not to be prevailed upon, or drawn in, it will be in vain to attempt her further.

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

NO admittance yet to my charmer! She is very ill — in a violent fever, Dorcas thinks. Yet will have no advice.

Dorcas tells her how much I am concerned at it.

But again let me aſk, Does this lady do right to make herſelf ill, when ſhe is not ill? For my own part, libertine as people think me, when I had occaſion to be ſick, I took a doſe of ipecacuanha, that I might not be guilty of a falſhood; and moſt heartily ſick was I; as ſhe, who then pitied me, full well knew. But here to pretend to be very ill, only to get an op⯑portunity to run away, in order to avoid forgiving a man who has offended her, how unchriſtian! — If good folks allow themſelves in theſe breaches of a known duty, and in theſe preſumptuous contrivances to deceive, who, Belford, ſhall blame us?

I have a ſtrange notion, that the matronly lady will be certainly at the grocer's ſhop at the hour of nine to-morrow morning: For Dorcas heard me tell Mrs. Sinclair, that I ſhall go out at eight preciſely; and then ſhe is to try for a coach: And if the dowager's chariot ſhould happen to be there, how lucky will it be for my charmer! How ſtrangely will my dream be made out!

I HAVE juſt received a letter from Captain Tom⯑linſon. Is it not wonderful! For that was part of my dream!

I ſhall always have a prodigious regard to dreams henceforward. I know not but I may write a book upon that ſubject; for my own experience will fur⯑niſh out a great part of it. Glanville of Witches, and [297] Baxter's Hiſtory of Spirits and Apparitions, and the Royal Inſignificant's Demonology, will be nothing at all to Lovelace's Reſveries.

The letter is juſt what I dream'd it to be. I am only concerned, that uncle John's anniverſary did not happen three or four days ſooner; for ſhould any new misfortune befal my charmer, ſhe may not be able to ſupport her ſpirits ſo long, as till Thurſday in the next week. Yet it will give me the more time for new expedients, ſhould my preſent contrivance fail; which I cannot, however, ſuppoſe.

This letter I ſealed, and broke open. It was brought, thou mayſt ſuppoſe, by a particular meſ⯑ſenger; the ſeal ſuch a one as the writer need not be aſhamed of. I took care to inquire after the Cap⯑tain's health, in my Beloved's hearing; and it is now ready to be produced, as a pacifier, according as ſhe ſhall take on, or reſent, if the two metamorphoſes [299] happen purſuant to my wonderful dream; as, hav⯑ing great faith in dreams, I dare ſay they will.—I think it will not be amiſs in changing my cloaths, to have this letter of the worthy Captain lie in my Be⯑loved's way.

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

WHAT ſhall I ſay now!—I who but a few hours ago had ſuch faith in dreams, and had propoſed out of hand to begin my treatiſe of Dreams-ſleeping and Dreams-waking, and was pleaſing myſelf with the dialoguings between the old matronly lady, and the young lady; and with the two metamorphoſes (abſolutely aſſured that every thing would happen as my dream chalked it out); ſhall never more depend upon thoſe flying follies, thoſe illuſions of a fancy de⯑praved, and run mad.

Thus confoundedly have matters happened.

I went out at eight o'clock in high good humour with myſelf, in order to give the ſought-for oppor⯑tunity to the plotting miſtreſs and corrupted maid; only ordering Will. to keep a good look-out, for fear his lady ſhould miſtruſt my plot, or miſtake a hack⯑ney-coach for the dowager-lady's chariot. But firſt I ſent to know how ſhe did; and received for an⯑wer, Very ill:—Had a very bad night: Which latter was but too probable: Since This I know, that peo⯑ple who have plots in their heads as ſeldom have as deſerve good ones.

I deſired a phyſician might be called in; but was refuſed.

I took a walk in St. James's park, congratulating myſelf all the way on my rare inventions: Then, im⯑patient, I took coach, with one of the windows quite up, the other almoſt up, playing at bo-peep at every [300] chariot I ſaw paſs in my way to Lincolns-inn-fields: And, when arrived there, I ſent the coachman to deſire any one of Mother H.'s family to come to me to the coach-ſide, not doubting but I ſhould have intelligence of my fair fugitive there; it being then half an hour after ten.

A ſervant came to me, who gave me to under⯑ſtand, that the matronly lady was juſt returned by herſelf in the chariot.

Frighted out of my wits, I alighted, and heard from the Mother's own mouth, that Dorcas had in⯑gaged her to protect the lady; but came to tell her afterwards, that ſhe had changed her mind, and would not quit the houſe.

Quite aſtoniſh'd, not knowing what might have happen'd, I order'd the coachman to laſh away to our mother's.

Arriving here in an inſtant, the firſt word I aſk'd, was, If the lady were ſafe ^(a)?

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

DIſappointed in her meditated eſcape;—obliged, againſt her will, to meet me in the dining-room; —and perhaps apprehenſive of being upbraided for her art in feigning herſelf ill; I expected that the dear perverſe would begin with me with ſpirit and indig⯑nation. But I was in hopes, from the gentleneſs of her natural diſpoſition, from the conſideration which I expected from her, on her ſituation on the letter of Captain Tomlinſon, which Dorcas told me ſhe had ſeen, and from the time ſhe had had to cool and reflect, ſince ſhe laſt admitted me to her preſence, that ſhe would not have carried it ſo ſtrongly thro', as ſhe did.

As I enter'd the dining-room, I congratulated her and myſelf upon her ſudden recovery. And would have taken her hand, with an air of reſpectful ten⯑derneſs. But ſhe was reſolved to begin where ſhe left off.

She turned from me, drawing in her hand, with a repulſing and indignant aſpect—I meet you once more, ſaid ſhe, becauſe I cannot help it. What [303] have you to ſay to me? Why am I to be thus de⯑tained againſt my will?

With the utmoſt ſolemnity of ſpeech and behaviour, I urged the ceremony. I ſaw I had nothing elſe for it.—I had a letter in my pocket, I ſaid (feeling for it, altho' I had not taken it from the table where I left it, and which we were then near), the contents of which, if attended to, would make us both happy. I had been loth to ſhew it to her before, becauſe I hoped to prevail upon her to be mine ſooner than the day mentioned in it.

I felt for it in all my pockets, watching her eye mean time, which I ſaw glance towards the table where it lay.

I was uneaſy that I could not find it—At laſt, di⯑rected again by her ſly eye, I ſpied it on the table at the further end of the room.

With joy I fetch'd it. Be pleaſed to read that letter, Madam, with an air of ſatisfied aſſurance.

She took it, and caſt her eye over it, in ſuch a careleſs way, as made it evident, that ſhe had read it before: And then unthankfully toſs'd it into the window-ſeat before her.

I urged her to bleſs me to-morrow, or Friday morn⯑ing: At leaſt, that ſhe would not render vain her uncle's journey, and kind endeavours to bring about a reconciliation among us all.

Among us all, repeated ſhe, with an air equally diſ⯑dainful and incredulous. O Lovelace, thou art ſurely nearly allied to the grand deceiver, in thy endeavour to ſuit temptations to inclinations!—But what honour, what faith, what veracity, were it poſſible that I could enter into parley with thee on this ſubject, which it is not, may I expect from ſuch a man as thou haſt ſhewn thyſelf to be?

I was touch'd to the quick. A lady of your per⯑fect character, Madam, who has feign'd herſelf ſick, on purpoſe to avoid ſeeing the man who adored her, ſhould—

[304]I know what thou wouldſt ſay, interrupted ſhe!— Twenty and twenty low things, that my ſoul would have been above being guilty of, and which I have deſpiſed myſelf for, have I been brought into by the infection of thy company, and by the neceſſity thou haſt laid me under, of appearing mean. But I thank God, deſtitute as I am, that I am not, however, ſunk ſo low, as to wiſh to be thine.

I, Madam, as the injurer, ought to have patience. It is for the injured to reproach. But your uncle is not in a plot againſt you, it is to be hoped. There are circumſtances in the letter you have caſt your eyes over—

Again ſhe interrupted me, Why, once more I aſk thee, am I detained in this houſe? — Do I not ſee myſelf ſurrounded by wretches, who, tho' they wear the habit of my ſex, may yet, as far as I know, lie in wait for my perdition?

She would be very loth, I ſaid, that Mrs. Sinclair and her nieces ſhould be called up to vindicate them⯑ſelves, and their houſe.

Would but they kill me, let them come, and wel⯑come. I will bleſs the hand that will ſtrike the blow; indeed I will.

'Tis idle, very idle, to talk of dying. Mere young-lady talk, when controuled by thoſe they hate.—But let me beſeech you, deareſt creature—

Beſeech me nothing. Let me not be detained thus againſt my will!—Unhappy creature, that I am, ſaid ſhe, in a kind of phrenſy, wringing her hands at the ſame time, and turning from me, her eyes lifted up! Thy curſe, O my cruel father, ſeems to be now in the height of its operation!—I am in the way of being a loſt creature as to both worlds! Bleſſed, bleſſed God, ſaid ſhe, falling on her knees, ſave me, O ſave me from myſelf, and from this man!

I ſunk down on my knees by her, exceſſively af⯑fected.—O that I could recall yeſterday! —Forgive [305] me! my deareſt creature, forgive what is paſt, as it cannot now but by one way be retrieved. Forgive me only on this condition—That my future ſaith and honour—

She interrupted me, riſing—If you mean to beg of me, Never to ſeek to avenge myſelf by Law, or by an appeal to my relations, to my couſin Morden in particular, when he comes to England—

D—n the Law, riſing alſo [She ſtarted], and all thoſe to whom you talk of appealing! — I defy both the one and the other—All I beg, is YOUR forgive⯑neſs; and that you will, on my unfeigned contrition, re-eſtabliſh me in your favour—

O no, no, no! lifting up her claſped hands, I never, never will, never, never can forgive you!— And it is a puniſhment worſe than death to me, that I am obliged to meet you, or to ſee you!

This is the laſt time, my deareſt life, that you will ever ſee me in this poſture, on this occaſion: And again I kneeled to her.—Let me hope, that you will be mine next Thurſday, your uncle's birth-day, if not before. Would to Heaven I had never been a villain! Your indignation is not, cannot be, greater than my remorſe—and I took hold of her gown; for ſhe was going from me.

Be remorſe thy portion!—For thy own ſake, be remorſe thy portion! — I never, never will forgive thee!—I never, never will be thine!—Let me retire! —Why kneeleſt thou to the wretch whom thou haſt ſo vilely humbled?

Say but, deareſt creature, you will conſider—Say but you will take time to reflect upon what the ho⯑nour of both our families require of you. I will not riſe. I will not permit you to withdraw (ſtill hold⯑ing her gown), till you tell me you will conſider.— Take this letter. Weigh well your ſituation, and mine. Say you will withdraw to conſider; and then I will not preſume to with-hold you.

[306]Compulſion ſhall do nothing with me. Tho' a ſlave, a priſoner, in circumſtance, I am no ſlave in my will!—Nothing will I promiſe thee—With-held, compell'd—Nothing will I promiſe thee —

Noble creature!—But not implacable, I hope!— Promiſe me but to return in an hour!—

Nothing will I promiſe thee!—

Say but you will ſee me again this evening!

O that I could ſay—that it were in my power to ſay—I never will ſee thee more!—Would to Heaven I never were to ſee thee more!

Paſſionate beauty—ſtill holding her—

I ſpeak, tho' with vehemence, the deliberate wiſh of my heart.—O that I could avoid looking down up⯑on thee, mean groveler, and abject as inſulting—Let me withdraw! My ſoul is in tumults! Let me with⯑draw!

I quitted my hold to claſp my hands together— Withdraw, O ſovereigneſs of my fate!—Withdraw, if you will withdraw!—My deſtiny is in your power. —It depends upon your breath!—Your ſcorn but augments my love!—Your reſentment is but too we [...] founded! — But, deareſt creature, return, return, with a reſolution to bleſs with pardon and peace your faithful adorer!

She flew from me. As ſoon as ſhe found her wings the angel flew from me. I, the reptile kneeler, the deſpicable ſlave, no more the proud victor, aroſe and, retiring, tried to comfort myſelf, that, circum⯑ſtanced as ſhe is, deſtitute of friends and fortune her uncle moreover, who is to reconcile all ſo ſoon (as, I thank my ſtars, ſhe ſtill believes), expected.—

O that ſhe would forgive me!— Would ſhe b [...] generouſly forgive me, and receive my vows at th [...] altar, at the inſtant of her forgiving me, that I migh [...] not have time to relapſe into my old prejudices!—B [...] my ſoul, Belford, this dear girl gives the lye to al [...] our rakiſh maxims. There muſt be ſomething more [307] than a name in virtue! — I now ſee that there is! — Once ſubdued, always ſubdued — 'Tis an egregious falſhood! — But Oh, Jack, ſhe never was ſubdued. What have I obtained, but an increaſe of ſhame and confuſion!—While her glory has been eſtabliſhed by her ſufferings!

This one merit is, however, left me, that I have laid her ſex under obligations to me, by putting this noble creature to trials, which, ſo gloriouſly ſup⯑ported, have done honour to them all.

But yet—But no more will I add—What a force have evil habits—I will take an airing, and try to fly from myſelf—Do not thou upbraid me on my weak fits—On my contradictory purpoſes—On my irreſo⯑lution — And all will be well.

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

A Man is juſt now arrived from M. Hall, who tells me, that my Lord is in a very dangerous way. The gout in his ſtomach to an extreme degree, occa⯑ [...]ion'd by drinking a great quantity of limonade.

A man of 8000 l. a year to prefer his appetite to [...]s health! — He deſerves to die! — But we have all [...]f us our inordinate paſſions to gratify!—And they [...]enerally bring their puniſhment along with them.— [...]o witneſſes the nephew, as well as the uncle.

The fellow was ſent up on other buſineſs; but [...]retched his orders a little, to make his court to a [...]ucceſſor.

I am glad I was not at M. Hall, at the time my [...]ord took the grateful doſe [It was certainly grateful him at the time]: There are people in the world, [...]o would have had the wickedneſs to ſay, that I [...]d perſuaded him to drink it.

The man ſays, that his Lordſhip was ſo bad when [308] he came away, that the family began to talk of ſend⯑ing for me, in poſt-haſte. As I know the old peer has a good deal of caſh by him, of which he ſeldom keeps account, it behoves me to go down as ſoon as I can. But what ſhall I do with this dear creature the while?—To-morrow over, I ſhall, perhaps, be able to anſwer my own queſtion. — I am afraid ſhe will make me deſperate.

For here have I ſent to implore her company, and am denied with ſcorn.

LETTER XLV. Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BBLFORD, Eſq

LET me periſh, if I know what to make either of myſelf, or of this ſurpriſing creature — Now calm, now tempeſtuous — But I know thou loveſt not anticipation any more than me.

At my repeated requeſts, ſhe met me at ſix this morning. She was ready dreſſed; for ſhe has not had her cloaths off ever ſince ſhe declared, that they never more ſhould be off in this houſe. And charm⯑ingly ſhe looked, with all the diſadvantages of a three hours violent ſtomach-ach (for Dorcas told me, that ſhe had been really ill), no reſt, and eyes red, and ſwell'd with weeping. Strange to me, that thoſe charming fountains have not been long ago exhauſted. But ſhe is a woman. And I believe anatomiſts allow, that women have more watry heads than men.

Well, my deareſt creature, I hope you have now thoroughly conſider'd of the contents of Captain Tom⯑linſon's letter. But as we are thus early met, let me beſeech you to make this my happy day.

She looked not favourably upon me. A cloud hung upon her brow at her entrance: But as ſhe was going [311] to anſwer me, a ſtill greater ſolemnity took poſſeſſion of her charming features.

Your air, and your countenance, my beloved creature, are not propitious to me. Let me beg of you, before you ſpeak, to forbear all further recri⯑minations. For already I have ſuch a ſenſe of my vileneſs to you, that I know not how to bear the re⯑proaches of my own mind.

I have been endeavouring, ſaid ſhe, ſince I am not permitted to avoid you, after a compoſure which I never more expected to ſee you in. How long I may enjoy it, I cannot tell. But I hope I ſhall be enabled to ſpeak to you without that vehemence which I expreſſed yeſterday, and could not help it ^(a).

After a pauſe (for I was all attention) thus ſhe proceeded.

It eaſy for me, Mr. Lovelace, to ſee, that further violences are intended me, if I comply not with your purpoſes, whatever they are. I will ſuppoſe them to be what you ſo ſolemnly profeſs they are. But I have told you as ſolemnly my mind, that I never will, [...]hat I never can, be yours; nor, if ſo, any man's upon earth. All vengeance, nevertheleſs, for the wrongs you have done me, I diſclaim. I want but to ſlide into ſome obſcure corner, to hide myſelf from you, and from every one, who once loved me. The de⯑ſire lately ſo near my heart, of a reconciliation with my friends, is much abated. They ſhall not receive me now, if they would. Sunk in my own eyes, I now think myſelf unworthy of their favour. In the anguiſh of my ſoul, therefore, I conjure you, Love⯑lace (tears in her eyes), to leave me to my fate. In [312] doing ſo, you will give me a pleaſure, the higheſt I now can know.

Whither, my deareſt life—

No matter whither. I will leave to Providence, when I am out of this houſe, the direction of my fu⯑ture ſteps. I am ſenſible enough of my deſtitute condition. I know, that I have not now a friend in the world. Even Miſs Howe has given me up—or you are—But I would fain keep my temper! — By your means I have loſt them all—And you have been a barbarous enemy to me. You know you have.

She pauſed.

I could not ſpeak.

The evils I have ſuffered, proceeded ſhe (turning from me), however irreparable, are but temporary evils —Leave me to my hopes of being enabled to obtain the Divine forgiveneſs, for the offence I have been drawn in to give to my parents, and to virtue; that ſo I may avoid the evils that are more than temporary. This is in now all I have to wiſh for. And what is it that I demand, that I have not a right to, and from which it is an illegal violence to with-hold me?

It was impoſſible for me, I told her plainly, to comply. I beſought her to give me her hand as this very day. I could not live without her. I commu⯑nicated to her my Lord's illneſs, as a reaſon why I wiſh'd not to ſtay for her uncle's anniverſary. I be⯑ſought her to bleſs me with her conſent; and, after the ceremony was paſſed, to accompany me down [...] Berks. And thus, my deareſt life, ſaid I, will yo [...] be freed from a houſe, to which you have conceive [...] ſo great an antipathy.

This, thou wilt own, was a princely offer. And I was reſolved to be as good as my word. I though [...] I had kill'd my Conſcience, as I told thee, Belford ſome time ago. But Conſcience, I find, tho' it ma [...] be temporarily ſtifled, cannot die; and when it da [...] not ſpeak aloud, will whiſper. And at this inſtant [313] I thought I felt the revived varleteſs (on but a ſlight retrograde motion), writhing round my pericardium like a ſerpent; and, in the action of a dying one (collecting all its force into its head), fix its plaguy fangs into my heart.

She heſitated, and looked down, as if irreſolute. And this ſet my heart up at my mouth. And, believe me, I had inſtantly popt in upon me, in imagination, an old ſpectacled parſon, with a white ſurplice thrown over a black habit (A fit emblem of the halcyon of⯑fice, which, under a benign appearance, often intro⯑duces a life of ſtorms and tempeſts), whining and ſnuf⯑fling thro' his noſe the irrevocable ceremony.

I hope now, my dear life, ſaid I, ſnatching her hand, and preſſing it to my lips, that your ſilence bodes me good. Let me, my beloved creature, have but your tacit conſent this moment, to ſtep out, and engage a miniſter—And then I promiſed how much my whole future life ſhould be devoted to her com⯑mands, and that I would make her the beſt and ten⯑dereſt of huſbands.

At laſt, turning to me, I have told you my mind, Mr. Lovelace, ſaid ſhe. Think you, that I could thus ſolemnly—There ſhe ſtopt—I am too much in your power, proceeded ſhe; Your priſoner, rather than a perſon free to chooſe for myſelf, or to ſay what I will do or be.—But, as a teſtimony that you mean me well, let me inſtantly quit this houſe; and I will then give you ſuch an anſwer in writing, as beſt be⯑fits my unhappy circumſtances.

And imagineſt thou, faireſt, thought I, that this will go down with a Lovelace? Thou oughteſt to have known, that free-livers, like miniſters of ſtate, never part with a power put into their hands, without an equivalent of twice the value.

I pleaded, that if we joined hands this morning (if not, to-morrow; if not, on Thurſday, her uncle's birth-day, and in his preſence); and afterwards, as I [314] had propoſed, ſet out for Berks; we ſhould, of courſe, quit this houſe; and, on our return to town, ſhould have in readineſs the houſe I was in treaty for.

She anſwer'd me not, but with tears and ſighs: Fond of believing what I hoped, I imputed her ſilence to the modeſty of her ſex. The dear creature, thought I, ſolemnly as ſhe began with me, is ruminating, in a ſweet ſuſpenſe, how to put into fit words the gentle purpoſes of her condeſcending heart. But, looking in her averted face with a ſoothing gentleneſs, I plainly perceived, that it was reſentment, and not baſhful⯑neſs, that was ſtruggling in her boſom ^(a).

At laſt, ſhe broke ſilence—I have no patience, ſaid ſhe, to find myſelf a ſlave, a priſoner, in a vile houſe —Tell me, Sir, in ſo many words tell me, Whether it be, or be not, your intention to permit me to quit it?—To permit me the freedom which is my birthright as an Engliſh ſubject?

Will not the conſequence of your departure hence be, that I ſhall loſe you for ever, Madam?—And can I bear the thoughts of that?

She flung from me—My ſoul diſdains to hold parley with thee, were her violent words—But I threw my⯑ſelf at her feet, and took hold of her reluctant hand, and began to imprecate, to vow, to promiſe—But thus the paſſionate Beauty, interrupting me, went on:

I am ſick of thee, MAN!—One continued ſtring of vows, oaths, and proteſtations, varied only by time and place, fill thy mouth!—Why detaineſt thou me? My heart riſes againſt thee, O thou cruel im⯑plement of my brother's cauſeleſs vengeance—All I beg of thee is, that thou wilt remit me the future part of my father's dreadful curſe! The temporary part, baſe and ingrateful as thou art! thou haſt completed!

I was ſpeechleſs!—Well I might!—Her brother's [315] implement! —James Harlowe's implement! — Zounds, Jack! what words were theſe!

I let go her ſtruggling hand. She took two or three turns croſs the room, her whole haughty ſoul in her air—Then approaching me, but in ſilence, turning from me, and again to me, in a milder voice—I ſee thy confuſion, Lovelace. Or is it thy remorſe? — I have but one requeſt to make thee.—The requeſt ſo often repeated —That thou wilt this moment per⯑mit me to quit this houſe. Adieu then, let me ſay, for ever adieu! And may'ſt thou enjoy that happi⯑neſs in this world, which thou haſt robbed me of; as thou haſt of every friend I have in it!

And ſaying this, away ſhe flung, leaving me in a confuſion ſo great, that I knew not what to think, ſay, or do.

But Dorcas ſoon rouſed me — Do you know, Sir, I running in haſtily, that my lady is gone down ſtairs!

No, ſure!—And down I flew, and found her once more at the ſtreet-door, contending with Polly Hor⯑ton to get out.

She ruſhed by me into the fore-parlour, and flew to the window, and attempted once more to throw up the ſaſh—Good people! Good people! cried ſhe.

I caught her in my arms, and lifted her from the window. But being afraid of hurting the charming creature (charming in her very rage), ſhe ſlid thro' my arms on the floor; — Let me die here! Let me die here! were her words; remaining jointleſs and immoveable till Sally and Mrs. Sinclair hurried in.

She was viſibly terrified at the ſight of the old wretch; while I, ſincerely affected, appealed, Bear witneſs, Mrs. Sinclair!—Bear witneſs, Miſs Martin! —Miſs Horton! — Every one bear witneſs, that I offer not violence to this beloved creature!

She then found her feet — O houſe (looking to⯑wards the windows, and all round her, O houſe) con⯑trived on purpoſe for my ruin! ſaid ſhe—But let not [316] that woman come into my preſence—Nor that Miſs Horton neither, who would not have dared to con⯑troul me, had ſhe not been a baſe one!

Hoh, Sir! Hoh, Madam! vociferated the old crea⯑ture, her arms kemboed, and flouriſhing with one foot to the extent of her petticoats—What ado's here about nothing!—I never knew ſuch work in my life, betwen a chicken of a gentleman, and a tyger of a lady!—

She was viſibly affrighted: And up ſtairs ſhe haſten'd. A bad woman is certainly, Jack, more terrible to her own ſex, than even a bad man.

I follow'd her up. She ruſhed by her own apart⯑ment into the dining-room: No terror can make her forget her punctilio.

To recite what paſſed there of invective, exclama⯑tions, threatenings, even of her own life, on one ſide; of expoſtulations, ſupplications, and ſometimes me⯑naces, on the other, would be too affecting; and, after my particularity in like ſcenes, theſe things may as well be imagined as expreſſed.

I will therefore only mention, that, at length, I extorted a conceſſion from her. She had reaſon ^(a) to think it would have been worſe for her on the ſpot, if ſhe had not made it. It was, That ſhe would en⯑deavour to make herſelf eaſy, till ſhe ſaw what next Thurſday, her uncle's birth-day, would produce. But O that it were not a ſin, ſhe paſſionately exclaimed, on making this poor conceſſion, to put an end to her own life, rather than yield to give me but that aſ⯑ſurance!

[317]This, however, ſhews me, that ſhe is aware, that the reluctantly-given aſſurance may be fairly con⯑ſtrued into a matrimonial expectation on my ſide. And if ſhe will now, even now, look forward, I think, from my heart, that I will put on her livery, and wear it for life.

What a ſituation am I in, with all my curſed in⯑ventions? I am puzzled, confounded, and aſhamed of myſelf, upon the whole. To take ſuch pains to be a villain!— But (for the fiftieth time) let me aſk thee, Who would have thought, that there had been ſuch a woman in the world?—Nevertheleſs, ſhe had beſt take care, that ſhe carries not her obſtinacy much further. She knows not what revenge for ſlighted love will make me do.

The buſy ſcenes I have juſt paſſed thro', have given emotions to my heart, which will not be quieted one while. My heart, I ſee (on reperuſing what I have written), has communicated its tremors to my fingers; and in ſome places the characters are ſo indiſtinct and unformed, that thou'lt hardly be able to make them out. But if one half of them only are intelli⯑gible, that will be enough to expoſe me to thy con⯑tempt, for the wretched hand I have made of my plots and contrivances.—But ſurely, Jack, I have gained ſome ground by this promiſe.

And now, one word to the aſſurances thou ſendeſt me, that thou haſt not betrayed my ſecrets in rela⯑tion to this charming creature. Thou mighteſt have ſpared them, Belford. My ſuſpicions held no longer than while I wrote about them ^(a). For well I knew, when I allowed myſelf time to think, that thou hadſt no principles, no virtue, to be miſled by. A great deal of ſtrong envy, and a little of weak pity, I knew to be thy motives. Thou couldſt not provoke my anger, and my compaſſion thou ever hadſt; and art [318] now more eſpecially intitled to it; beauſe thou art a pityful fellow.

All thy new expoſtulations in my Beloved's be⯑half, I will anſwer when I ſee thee.

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

COnfoundedly out of humour with this perverſe lady. Nor wilt thou blame me, if thou art my friend. She regards the conceſſion ſhe made, as a conceſſion extorted from her: And we are but juſt where we were before ſhe made it.

With great difficulty I prevailed upon her to favour me with her company for one half-hour this evening. The neceſſity I was under to go down to M. Hall, was the ſubject I wanted to talk to her upon.

I told her, that as ſhe had been ſo good as to pro⯑miſe, that ſhe would endeavour to make herſelf eaſy till ſhe ſaw the Thurſday in next week over,—I hoped, that ſhe would not ſcruple to oblige me with her word, that I ſhould find her here, at my return from M. Hall.

Indeed ſhe would make me no ſuch promiſe. No⯑thing of this houſe was mentioned to me, ſaid ſhe: You know it was not. And do you think that I would have given my conſent to my impriſonment in it?

I was plaguily nettled, and diſappointed too. If I go not down to M. Hall, Madam, you'll have no ſcruple to ſtay here, I ſuppoſe, till Thurſday is over?

If I cannot help myſelf, I muſt.—But I inſiſt upon being permitted to go out of this houſe, whether you leave it, or not.

Well, Madam, then I will comply with your commands. And I will go out this very evening, in queſt of lodgings that you ſhall have no objection to.

I will have no lodgings of your providing, Sir—I will go to Mrs. Moore's at Hamſtead.

[319]Mrs. Moore's, Madam?—I have no objection to Mrs. Moore's.—But will you give me your promiſe, to admit me there to your preſence?

As I do here—When I cannot help it.

Very well, Madam—Will you be ſo good, as to let me know, what you intended by your promiſe to make yourſelf eaſy—

To endeavour, Sir, to make myſelf eaſy—were the words—

—Till you ſaw what next Thurſday would produce?

Aſk me no queſtions that may inſnare me. I am too ſincere for the company I am in.

Let me aſk you, Madam, What meant you, when you ſaid, ‘that, were it not a ſin, you would die before you gave me that aſſurance?’

She was indignantly ſilent.

You thought, Madam, you had given me room to hope your pardon by it?

When I think I ought to anſwer you with patience, I will ſpeak.

Do you think yourſelf in my power, Madam?

If I were not—And there ſhe ſtopt—

Deareſt creature, ſpeak out—I beſeech you, deareſt creature, ſpeak out.—

She was ſilent; her charming face all in a glow.

Have you, Madam, any reliance upon my honour?

Still ſilent.

You hate me, Madam. You deſpiſe me more than you do the moſt odious of God's creatures.

You ought to deſpiſe me, if I did not.

You ſay, Madam, you are in a bad houſe. You have no reliance upon my honour—You believe you cannot avoid me—

She aroſe. I beſeech you, let me withdraw.

I ſnatch'd her hand, riſing, and preſs'd it firſt to my lips, and then to my heart, in wild diſorder. She might have felt the bounding miſchief ready to burſt its bars—You ſhall go—To your own apartment, if [320] you pleaſe—But, by the great God of Heaven, I will accompany you thither.

She trembled—Pray, pray, Mr. Lovelace, don't terrify me ſo!

Be ſeated, Madam! I beſeech you be ſeated!—

I will ſit down—

Do then, Madam—Do then—All my ſoul in my eyes, and my heart's blood throbbing at my fingers ends.

I will—I will—You hurt me—Pray, Mr. Love⯑lace, don't—don't frighten me ſo—And down ſhe ſat, trembling; my hand ſtill graſping hers.

I hung over her throbbing boſom, and putting my other arm round her waiſt—And you ſay, you hate me, Madam — And you ſay, you deſpiſe me!—And you ſay, you promiſed me nothing—

Yes, yes, I did promiſe you—Let me not be held down thus—You ſee I ſat down when you bid me— Why (ſtruggling) need you hold me down thus?— I did promiſe to endeavour to be eaſy till Thurſday was over! But you won't let me! — How can I be eaſy?— Pray, let me not be thus terrified.

And what, Madam, meant you by your promiſe? Did you mean any-thing in my favour?— You de⯑ſigned, that I ſhould, at the time, think you did. Did you mean any thing in my favour, Madam?— Did you intend, that I ſhould think you did?

Let go my hand, Sir—Take away your arm from about me, ſtruggling, yet trembling — Why do you gaze upon me ſo?

Anſwer me, Madam—Did you mean any thing in my favour by your promiſe?

Let me not be thus conſtrained to anſwer.

Then pauſing, and gaining more ſpirit, Let me go, ſaid ſhe: I am but a woman—but a weak woman— But my life is in my own power, tho' my perſon is not—I will not be thus conſtrained.

You ſhall not, Madam, quitting her hand, bow⯑ing, [321] but my heart at my mouth, and hoping farther provocation.

She aroſe, and was hurrying away.

I purſue you not, Madam—I will try your gene⯑roſity—Stop—Return.—This moment ſtop, return, if, Madam, you would not make me deſperate.

She ſtopt at the door; burſt into tears— O Love⯑lace!—How, how, have I deſerved—

Be pleaſed, deareſt angel, to return.

She came back—But with declared reluctance; and imputing her compliance to terror.

Terror, Jack, as I have heretofore found out, tho' I have ſo little benefited by the diſcovery, muſt be my reſort, if ſhe make it neceſſary — Nothing elſe will do with the inflexible charmer.

She ſeated herſelf over-againſt me; extremely diſ⯑compoſed.—But indignation had a viſible predomi⯑nance in her features.

I was going towards her, with a countenance in⯑tendedly changed to love and ſoftneſs: Sweeteſt, deareſt angel, were my words, in the tendereſt ac⯑cent:—But, riſing up, ſhe inſiſted upon my being ſeated at diſtance from her.

I obeyed—and begged her hand over the table, to my extended hand; to ſee, as I ſaid, if in any thing ſhe would oblige me — But nothing gentle, ſoft, or affectionate would do. She refuſed me her hand!— Was ſhe wiſe, Jack, to confirm to me, that nothing but terror would do?

Let me only know, Madam, if your promiſe to endeavour to wait with patience the event of next Thurſday, meant me favour?

Do you expect any voluntary favour from one to whom you give not a free choice?

Do you intend, Madam, to honour me with your hand, in your uncle's preſence, or do you not?

My heart and my hand ſhall never be ſeparated. [322] Why, think you, did I ſtand in oppoſition to the will of my beſt my natural friends?

I know what you mean, Madam—Am I then as hateful to you as the vile Solmes?

Aſk me not ſuch a queſtion, Mr. Lovelace.

I muſt be anſwered. Am I as hateful to you, as the vile Solmes?

Why do you call Mr. Solmes vile?

Don't you think him ſo, Madam?

Why ſhould I? Did Mr. Solmes ever do vilely by me?

Deareſt creature! don't diſtract me by hateful compariſons! And perhaps by a more hateful prefer⯑ence.

Don't you, Sir, put queſtions to me, that you know I will anſwer truly, tho' my anſwer were ever ſo much to enrage you.

My heart, Madam, my ſoul is all yours at pre⯑ſent. But you muſt give me hope, that your promiſe, in your own conſtruction, binds you, no new cauſe to the contrary, to be mine on Thurſday. How elſe can I leave you?

Let me go to Hamſtead; and truſt to my favour.

May I truſt to it?—Say, only, May I truſt to it?

How will you truſt to it, if you extort an anſwer to this queſtion?

Say only, deareſt creature, ſay only, may I truſt to your favour, if you go to Hamſtead?

How dare you, Sir, if I muſt ſpeak out, expect a promiſe of favour from me?—What a mean crea⯑ture muſt you think me, after your ingrateful baſe⯑neſs to me, were I to give you ſuch a promiſe?

Then ſtanding up, Thou haſt made me, O vileſt of men! (her hands claſped, and a face crimſoned over with indignation) an inmate of the vileſt of houſes—Nevertheleſs, while I am in it, I ſhall have a heart incapable of any thing but abhorrence of that and of thee!

[323]And round her looked the angel, and upon me, with fear in her ſweet aſpect of the conſequence of her free declaration.—But what a devil muſt I have been, I, who love bravery in a man, had I not been more ſtruck with admiration of her fortitude at the inſtant, than ſtimulated by revenge?

Nobleſt of creatures! — And do you think I can leave you, and my intereſt in ſuch an excellence, precarious? No promiſe!—No hope!—If you make me not deſperate, may lightning blaſt me, if I do you not all the juſtice 'tis in my power to do you!

If you have any intention to oblige me, leave me at my own liberty, and let me not be detained in this abominable houſe. To be conſtrained as I have been conſtrained! To be ſtopt by your vile agents! To be brought up by force, and to be bruiſed, in my own defence againſt ſuch illegal violence!—I dare to die, Lovelace—And the perſon that fears not death is not to be intimidated into a meanneſs un⯑worthy of her heart and principles!

Wonderful creature! But why, Madam, did you lead me to hope for ſomething favourable for next Thurſday?—Once more, make me not deſperate— With all your magnanimity, glorious creature! [I was more than half frantic, Belford] You may, you may — But do not, do not make me brutally threaten you!—Do not, do not make me deſperate!

My aſpect, I believe, threatened ſtill more than my words. I was riſing—She aroſe—Mr. Lovelace, be pacified—You are even more dreadful than the Lovelace I have long dreaded—Let me retire—I aſk your leave to retire—You really frighten me—Yet I give you no hope—From my heart I ab—

Say not, Madam, you abhor me — You muſt, for your own ſake, conceal your hatred — At leaſt not avow it.—I ſeized her hand.

Let me retire — Let me retire, ſaid ſhe —in a man⯑ner out of breath.

[324]I will only ſay, Madam, that I refer myſelf to your generoſity. My heart is not to be truſted at this inſtant. As a mark of my ſubmiſſion to your will, you ſhall, if you pleaſe, withdraw.—But I will not go to M. Hall—Live or die my uncle, I will not go to M. Hall.—But will attend the effect of your promiſe. Remember, Madam, you have promiſed to endeavour to make yourſelf eaſy, till you ſee the event of next Thurſday—Next Thurſday, remember, your uncle comes up, to ſee us married. — That's the event— You think ill of your Lovelace — Do not, Madam, ſuffer your own morals to be degraded by the in⯑fection, as you called it, of his example.

Away flew the charmer, with this half-permiſ⯑ſion—And no doubt thought, that ſhe had an eſcape-nor without reaſon.

I knew not for half an hour what to do with my⯑ſelf. Vexed at the heart, nevertheleſs, now ſhe was from me, when I reflected upon her hatred of me, and her defiances, that I ſuffered myſelf to be ſo over-awed, checked, reſtrained—

And now I have written thus far (having of courſe recollected the whole of our converſation), I am more and more incenſed againſt myſelf.

But I will go down to theſe women—and perhaps ſuffer myſelf to be laugh'd at by them.

Devil fetch them, they pretend to know their own ſex. Sally was a woman well educated—Polly alſo — Both have read —Both have ſenſe—Of parentage not contemptible—Once modeſt both—Still they ſay had been modeſt, but for me — Not intirely indelicate now; tho' too little nice for my perſonal intimacy, loth as they both are to have me think ſo.—The old one, too, a woman of family, tho' thus (from bad in⯑clination, as well as at firſt from low circumſtances) miſerably ſunk:—And hence they all pretend to re⯑member what once they were; and vouch for the in⯑clinations [325] and hypocriſy of the whole ſex; and wiſh for nothing ſo ardently, as that I will leave the per⯑verſe lady to their management, while I am gone to Berkſhire; undertaking abſolutely for her humility and paſſiveneſs on my return; and continually boaſt⯑ing of the many perverſe creatures whom they have obliged to draw in their traces.

They often upbraidingly tell me, that they are ſure I ſhall marry at laſt:—And Sally, the laſt time I was with her, had the confidence to hint, that, when a wife, ſome other perſon would not find half the difficulty, that I had found.—Confidence, indeed! But yet I muſt ſay, That this dear creature is the only woman in the world, of whom I ſhould not be jealous. And yet, if a man gives himſelf up to the company of theſe devils, they never let him reſt, till he either ſuſpect or hate his wife.

But a word or two of other matters, if poſſible.

Methinks, I long to know how cauſes go at M. Hall. I have another private intimation, that the old Peer is in the greateſt danger.

I muſt go down. Yet what to do with this lady the mean while!—Theſe curſed women are full of cruelty and enterpriſe. She will never be eaſy with them in my abſence. They will have provocation and pretence therefore. But woe be to them, if—

Yet what will vengeance do, after an inſult com⯑mitted? The two nymphs will have jealous rage [...]o goad them on—And what will with-hold a jealous and already-ruined woman?

To let her go elſewhere; that cannot he done. I am ſtill reſolved to be honeſt, if ſhe'll give me hope: If yet ſhe'll let me be honeſt — But I'll ſee how ſhe'll be, after the contention ſhe will certainly have be⯑tween her reſentment, and the terror ſhe had reaſon for, from our laſt converſation.—So let this ſubject reſt till the morning. And to the old Peer once more.

[326]I ſhall have a good deal of trouble, I reckon, tho' no ſordid man, to be decent on the expected occa⯑ſion. Then how to act (I who am no hypocrite) in the days of condolement! What farces have I to go through; and to be a principal actor in them—I'll try to think of my own latter end; a grey beard, and a graceleſs heir; in order to make me ſerious.

Thou, Belford, knoweſt a good deal of this ſort of grimace; and canſt help a gay heart to a little of the diſmal. But then every feature of thy face is cut out for it. My heart may be touched, perhaps, ſooner than thine; for, believe me, or not, I have a very tender one:—But then, no man looking in my face, be the occaſion for grief ever ſo great, will believe that heart to be deeply diſtreſſed.

All is placid, eaſy, ſerene, in my countenance. Sorrow cannot ſit half an hour together upon it. Nay, I believe, that Lord M.'s recovery, ſhould it happen, would not affect me above a quarter of an hour. Only the new ſcenery (and the pleaſure of aping an Heraclitus to the family, while I am a Democritus among my private friends), or I want nothing that the old Peer can leave me. Wherefore then ſhould grief ſadden and diſtort ſuch blythe, ſuch jocund features as mine?

But as for thine, were there murder committed in the ſtreet, and thou wert but paſſing by, the mur⯑derer even in ſight, the purſuers would quit him, and lay hold of thee: And thy very looks would hang, as well as apprehend, thee.

But one word to buſineſs, Jack. Whom dealteſt thou with for thy blacks?—Wert thou well uſed?— I ſhall want a plaguy parcel of them. For I intend to make every ſoul of the family mourn—Outſide, if not In.—

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

I Went out early this morning, on a deſign that I know not yet whether I ſhall or ſhall not purſue; and on my return found Simon Parſons, my Lord's Berkſhire Bailiff (juſt before arrived), waiting for me with a meſſage in form, ſent by all the family, to preſs me to go down, and that at my Lord's particu⯑lar deſire; who wants to ſee me before he dies.

Simon has brought my Lord's chariot-and-ſix (per⯑haps my own by this time), to carry me down. I have ordered it to be in readineſs by four to-morrow morning. The cattle ſhall ſmoke for the delay; and by the reſt they'll have in the interim, will be better able to bear it.

I am ſtill reſolved upon matrimony, if my fair Perverſe will accept of me. But, if ſhe will not— why then I muſt give an uninterrupted hearing, not to my conſcience, but to theſe women below.

Dorcas had acquainted her lady with Simon's ar⯑rival and errand. My Beloved had deſired to ſee him. But my coming in prevented his attendance on her, juſt as Dorcas was inſtructing him what queſtions he ſhould not anſwer to, that might be aſked of him.

I am to be admitted to her preſence immediately, at my repeated requeſt—Surely the acquiſition in view will help me to make all up with her—She is juſt gone up to the dining-room.

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

JUST come from the women.

‘Have I gone ſo far, and am I afraid to go farther?—Have I not already, as it is evident by her behaviour, ſinned beyond forgiveneſs?—A wo⯑man's tears uſed to be to me but as water ſprinkled on a glowing fire, which gives it a fiercer and brighter blaze: What defence has this lady, but her tears and her eloquence? She was before taken at no weak advantage. She was inſenſible in her mo⯑ments of trial. Had ſhe been ſenſible, ſhe muſt have been ſenſible. So they ſay. The methods taken with her have augmented her glory and her pride. She has now a tale to tell, that ſhe may tell, with honour to herſelf. No accomplice-inclination. She can look me into confuſion, without being conſcious of ſo much as a thought, which ſhe need to be aſhamed of.’

This, Jack, the ſubſtance of my conference with the women.

To which let me add, that the dear creature now ſees the neceſſity I am in to leave her. Detecting me [330] is in her head. My contrivances are of ſuch a na⯑ture, that I muſt appear to be the moſt odious of men, if I am detected on this ſide matrimony. And yet I have promiſed as thou ſeeſt, that ſhe ſhall ſet out to Hamſtead, as ſoon as ſhe pleaſes in the morning, and that without condition on her ſide.

Doſt thou aſk, What I meant by this promiſe?

No new cauſe ariſing, was the proviſo on my ſide, thou'lt remember. But there will be a new cauſe.

Suppoſe Dorcas ſhould drop the promiſory-note given her by her lady? Servants, eſpecially thoſe who cannot read or write, are the moſt careleſs peo⯑ple in the world of written papers. Suppoſe I take it up? — At a time, too, that I was determined that the dear creature ſhould be her own miſtreſs? — Will not this detection be a new cauſe?—A cauſe that will carry againſt her the appearance of ingratitude with it?

That ſhe deſigned it a ſecret from me, argues a fear of detection, and indirectly a ſenſe of guilt. I wanted a pretence. Can I have a better? If I am in a violent paſſion upon the detection, is not paſſion an univerſally allowed extenuator of violence? —Is not every man and woman obliged to excuſe that fault in another, which at times they find attended with ſuch ungovernable effects in themſelves?

The mother and ſiſterhood, ſuppoſe, brought to ſit in judgment upon the vile corrupted?—The leaſt benefit that muſt accrue from the accidental diſco⯑very, if not a pretence for perpetration (which, how⯑ever, may be the caſe), an excuſe for renewing my orders for her detention till my return from M. Hall (the fault her own); and for keeping a ſtricter watch over her than before; with direction to ſend me any letters that may be written by her or to her. — And when I return, the devil's in it if I find not a way to make her chooſe lodgings for herſelf (ſince theſe are ſo hateful to her), that ſhall anſwer all my purpoſes; [331] and yet no more appear to direct her choice, than I did before in theſe.

Thou wilt curſe me, when thou comeſt to this place. I know thou wilt. But thinkeſt thou, that, after ſuch a ſeries of contrivance, I will loſe this in⯑imitable woman, for want of a little more? A Rake's a Rake, Jack!—And what Rake is with-held by prin⯑ciple from the perpetration of any evil his heart is ſet upon, and in which he thinks he can ſucceed?— Beſides, am I not in earneſt as to marriage?—Will not the generality of the world acquit me, if I do marry? And what is that injury which a church-rite will at any time repair? Is not the cataſtrophe of every ſtory that ends in wedlock accounted happy, be the dif⯑ficulties in the progreſs to it ever ſo great?

But here, how am I ingroſſed by this lady, while poor Lord M. as Simon tells me, lies groaning in the dreadfuleſt agonies? —What muſt he ſuffer!—Hea⯑ven relieve him!—I have a too compaſſionate heart. And ſo would the dear creature have found, could I have thought the worſt of her ſufferings equal to the lighteſt of his. I mean as to fact; for, as to that part of hers, which ariſes from extreme ſenſi⯑bility, I know nothing of that; and cannot therefore be anſwerable for it.

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

JUST come from my charmer. She will not ſuf⯑fer me to ſay half the obliging, the tender things, which my honeſt heart is ready to overflow with. A confounded ſituation, that, when a man finds him⯑ſelf in humour to be eloquent, and pathetic at the ſame time, yet cannot engage the miſtreſs of his fate to lend an ear to his fine ſpeeches.

I can account now, how it comes about, that lovers, when their miſtreſſes are cruel, run into ſoli⯑tude, [332] and diſburthen their minds to ſtocks and ſtones: For am I not forced to make my complaints to thee?

She claimed the performance of my promiſe, the moment ſhe ſaw me, of permitting her (haughtily ſhe ſpoke the word) to go to Hamſtead, as ſoon as I were gone to Berks.

Moſt chearfully I renewed it.

She deſired me to give orders in her hearing.

I ſent for Dorcas, and Will. They came.—Do you both take notice (But, perhaps, Sir, I may take you with me), that your lady is to be obeyed in all her commands. She purpoſes to return to Hamſtead as ſoon as I am gone—My dear, will you not have a ſervant to attend you?

I ſhall want no ſervant there.

Will you take Dorcas?

If I ſhould want Dorcas, I can ſend for her.

Dorcas could not but ſay, She ſhould be very proud—

Well, well, that may be at my return, if your lady permit—Shall I, my dear, call up Mrs. Sinclair, and give her orders to the ſame effect, in your hear⯑ing?

I deſire not to ſee Mrs. Sinclair; nor any that be⯑long to her.

As you pleaſe, Madam.

And then (the ſervants being withdrawn) I urged her again for the aſſurance, that ſhe would meet me at the altar on Thurſday next. But to no purpoſe. May ſhe not thank herſelf for all that may follow?

One favour, however, I would not be denied; to be admitted to paſs the evening with her.

All ſweetneſs and obſequiouſneſs will I be on this occaſion. My whole ſoul ſhall be poured out to move her to forgive me. If ſhe will not, and if the promiſory-note ſhould fall in my way, my re⯑venge will, doubtleſs, take total poſſeſſion of me.

All the houſe in my intereſt, and every one in it [333] not only engaging to intimidate, and aſſiſt, as occa⯑ſion ſhall offer, but ſtaking all their experience upon my ſucceſs, if it be not my own fault, what muſt be the conſequence?

This, Jack, however, ſhall be her laſt trial; and if ſhe behave as nobly in and after this ſecond attempt (all her ſenſes about her), as ſhe has done after the firſt, ſhe will come out an angel upon full proof, in ſpite of man, woman, and devil: Then ſhall there be an end of all her ſufferings. I will then renounce that vanquiſhed devil, and reform. And if any vile machination ſtart up, preſuming to miſlead me, I will ſooner ſtab it in my heart, as it riſes, than give way to it.

A few hours will now decide all. But whatever be the event, I ſhall be too buſy to write again, till I get to M. Hall.

Mean time I am in ſtrange agitations. I muſt ſup⯑preſs them, if poſſible, before I venture into her pre⯑ſence—My heart bounces my boſom from the table. I will lay down my pen, and wholly reſign to its impulſes.

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

I Thought I ſhould not have had either time or in⯑clination to write another line before I got to M. Hall. But have the firſt; muſt find the laſt; ſince I can neither ſleep, nor do any thing but write, if I can do that. I am moſt confoundedly out of humour. The reaſon let it follow; if it will follow — No pre⯑paration for it, from me.

I tried by gentleneſs and love to ſoften—What?— Marble. A heart incapable either of love, or gentle⯑neſs. Her paſt injuries for ever in her head. Ready to receive a favour; the permiſſion to go to Ham⯑ſtead; [334] but neither to deſerve it, nor return any. So my ſcheme of the gentle kind, was ſoon given over.

I then wanted her to provoke me: Like a coward boy, who waits for the firſt blow, before he can perſuade himſelf to fight, I half challeng'd her to challenge or defy me: She ſeemed aware of her danger; and would not directly brave my reſentment: But kept ſuch a middle courſe, that I neither could find a pretence to offend, nor reaſon to hope; yet ſhe believed my tale, that her uncle would come to Kentiſh Town; and ſeemed not to apprehend, that Tomlinſon was an impoſtor.

She was very uneaſy, upon the whole, in my company: Wanted often to break from me: Yet ſo held me to my promiſe of permitting her to go to Hamſtead, that I knew not how to get off of it; altho' it was impoſſible, in my precarious ſituation with her, to think of performing it.

In this ſituation; the women ready to aſſiſt; and, if I proceeded not, as ready to ridicule me; what had I left me, but to purſue the concerted ſcheme, and ſeek a pretence to quarrel with her, in order to revoke my promiſed permiſſion; and to convince her, that I would not be upbraided as the moſt brutal of raviſhers for nothing?

I had agreed with the women, that if I could not find a pretence in her preſence to begin my opera⯑tions, the note ſhould lie in my way, and I was to pick it up, ſoon after her retiring from me. But I began to doubt at near ten o'clock (ſo earneſt was ſhe to leave me, ſuſpecting my over-warm behaviour to her, and eager graſping of her hand two or three times, with eye-ſtrings, as I felt, on the ſtrain, while her eyes ſhewed uneaſineſs and apprehenſion), that if ſhe actually retired for the night, it might be a chance, whether it would be eaſy to come at her again. Loth therefore to run ſuch a riſque, I ſtept [335] out at a little after ten, with intent to alter the pre⯑concerted diſpoſition a little; ſaying I would attend her again inſtantly. But as I returned, I met her at the door, intending to withdraw for the night. I could not perſuade her to go back: Nor had I pre⯑ſence of mind (ſo full of complaiſancy as I was to her juſt before) to ſtay her by force: So ſhe ſlid thro' my hands into her own apartment. I had no⯑thing to do, therefore, but to let my former concert take place.

I ſhould have premiſed (but care not for order of time, connexion, or any thing elſe) that, between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, another ſervant of Lord M.'s, on horſeback, came, to deſire me to carry down with me Dr. S. my uncle having been once (in extremis, as they judge he is now) relieved and reprieved by him. I ſent, and engaged the Doctor to accompany me down; and am to call upon him by four this morning: Or the devil ſhould have uncle and doctor, if I'd ſtir, till I got all made up.

Poke thy damn'd noſe forward into the event, if thou wilt— Curſe me, if thou ſhalt have it, till its proper time and place—And too ſoon then.

She had hardly got into her chamber, but I found a little paper, as I was going into mine; which I took up; and, opening it (for it was carefully pinn'd in another paper), what ſhould it be, but a pro⯑miſory note, given as a bribe, with a further pro⯑miſe of a diamond ring, to induce Dorcas to favour her miſtreſs's eſcape?

How my temper chang'd in a moment!—Ring, ring, ring, ring, my bell, with a violence enough to break the ſtring, and as if the houſe were on fire.

Every devil frighted into active life: The whole houſe in an uproar: Up runs Will.—Sir—Sir—Sir! —Eyes goggling, mouth diſtended—Bid the damn'd [336] toad Dorcas come hither (as I ſtood at the ſtair-head), in a horrible rage, and out of breath, cry'd I.

In ſight came the trembling devil—but ſtanding aloof, from the report made her by Will. of the paſſion I was in, as well as from what ſhe heard.

Flaſh came out my ſword immediately; for I had it ready on—Curs'd, confounded, villainous, bribery and corruption!—

Up runs ſhe to her lady's door, ſcreaming out for ſafety and protection.

Good your honour, interpoſed Will. for God's ſake—O Lord, O Lord!—receiving a good cuff.—

Take that, varlet, for ſaving the ingrateful wretch from my vengeance!—

Wretch! I intended to ſay; but if it were ſome other word of like ending, paſſion muſt be my excuſe.

Up ran two or three of the ſiſterhood, What's the matter! What's the matter!

The matter! (for ſtill my beloved opened not her door; on the contrary, drew another bolt) This abominable Dorcas!—(Call her aunt up!—Let her ſee what a traitreſs ſhe has placed about me!—And let her bring the toad to anſwer for herſelf)— has taken a bribe, a proviſion for life, to betray her truſt; by that means to perpetuate a quarrel between a man and his wife, and fruſtrate for ever all hopes of re⯑conciliation between us!

Let me periſh, Belford, if I have patience to pro⯑ceed with the farce!

Near 5, Sat. Morn.

LETTER LI. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

IF you do not impute to love, and to terror raiſed by love, the poor figure I made before you laſt night, you will not do me juſtice. I thought I would try to the very laſt moment, if, by complying with you in every-thing, I could prevail upon you to pro⯑miſe to be mine on Thurſday next, ſince you refuſed me an earlier day. Could I have been ſo happy, you had not been hindered going to Hamſtead, or where⯑ever elſe you pleaſed. But when I could not prevail upon you to give me this aſſurance, what room had I (my demerit ſo great) to ſuppoſe, that your going thither wou [...]d not be to loſe you for ever?

I will own to you, Madam, that yeſterday after⯑noon [348] I picked up the paper dropt by Dorcas; who has confeſſed, that ſhe would have aſſiſted you in getting away, if ſhe had had an opportunity ſo to do; and undoubtedly dropped it by accident.—And could I have prevailed upon you as to the Thurſday next, I would have made no uſe of it; ſecure as I ſhould then have been, in your word given, to be mine. But when I found you inflexible, I was reſolved to try, if, by reſenting Dorcas's treachery, I could not make your pardon of me the condition of mine to her: And if not, to make a handle of it to revoke my conſent to your going away from Mrs. Sinclair's; ſince the conſequence of that muſt have been ſo fatal to me.

So far, indeed, was my proceeding low and art⯑ful: And when I was challenged with it, as ſuch, in ſo high and noble a manner, I could not avoid taking ſhame to myſelf upon it.

But you muſt permit me, Madam, to hope, that you will not puniſh me too heavily for ſo poor a con⯑trivance, ſince no diſhonour was meant you; and ſince, in the moment of its execution, you had as great an inſtance of my incapacity to defend a wrong, a low meaſure, and, at the ſame time, of your power over me, as mortal man could give: In a word, ſince you muſt have ſeen, that I was abſolutely under the controul both of Conſcience, and of Love.

I will not offer to defend myſelf, for wiſhing you to remain where you are, till either you give me your word to meet me at the altar, on Thurſday; or till I have the honour of attending you, preparative to the ſolemnity which will make that day the happieſt of my life.

I am but too ſenſible, that this kind of treatment may appear to you with the face of an arbitrary and illegal impoſition: But as the conſequences, not only to ourſelves, but to both our families, may be fatal, if you cannot be moved in my favour; let me beſeech you to forgive this act of compulſion, on the ſcore of the [349] neceſſity you your dear ſelf have laid me under to be guilty of it; and to permit the ſolemnity of next Thurſday to include an act of oblivion of all paſt offences.

The orders I have given to the people of the houſe are: ‘That you ſhall be obeyed in every particular that is conſiſtent with my expectations of finding you there on my return to town on Wedneſday next: That Mrs. Sinclair, and her nieces, having incurred your juſt diſpleaſure, ſhall not, without your orders, come into your preſence: That nei⯑ther ſhall Dorcas, till ſhe has fully cleared her con⯑duct to your ſatisfaction, be permitted to attend you: But Mabell, in her place; of whom, you ſeemed, ſome time ago, to expreſs ſome liking. Will. I have left behind me to attend your com⯑mands. If he be either negligent or impertinent, your diſmiſſion ſhall be a diſmiſſion of him from my ſervice for ever. But, as to letters which may be ſent you, or any which you may have to ſend, I muſt humbly intreat, that none ſuch paſs from or to you, for the few days that I ſhall be abſent.’ But I do aſſure you, Madam, that the ſeals of both ſorts ſhall be ſacred: And the letters, if ſuch be ſent, ſhall be given into your own hands, the mo⯑ment the ceremony is performed, or before, if you require it.

Mean time I will inquire, and ſend you word, how Miſs Howe does; and to what, if I can be in⯑formed, her long ſilence is owing.

Dr. Perkins I found here, attending my Lord, when I arrived with Dr. S. He acquaints me, that your father, mother, uncles, and the ſtill leſs wor⯑thy perſons of your family, are well; and intend to be all at your uncle Harlowe's next week; I pre⯑ſume to keep his anniverſary. This can make no alteration, but a happy one, as to perſons, on Thurſ⯑day; becauſe Mr. Tomlinſon aſſured me, that, if [350] any-thing fell out to hinder your uncle's coming up in perſon (which, however, he did not then expect), he would be ſatisfied if his friend the Captain were proxy for him. I ſhall ſend a man and horſe to⯑morrow to the Captain, to be at greater certainty.

I ſend this by a ſpecial meſſenger, who will wait your pleaſure: Which I humbly hope will be ſigni⯑fied in a line, in relation to the impatiently-wiſhed-for Thurſday.

My Lord, tho' hardly ſenſible, and unmindful of every-thing but of our felicity, deſires his moſt affec⯑tionate compliments to you. He has in readineſs to preſent you ſeveral valuables; which he hopes will be acceptable, whether he lives to ſee you adorn them, or not.

Lady Sarah and Lady Betty have alſo their tokens of reſpect ready to court your acceptance: But may heaven incline you to give the opportunity of receiving their perſonal compliments, and thoſe of my couſins Montague, before the next week be out!

His Lordſhip is exceeding ill. Dr. S. has no hopes of him: The only conſolation I can have for the death of a relation who loves me ſo well, if he do die, muſt ariſe from the additional power it will put into my hands of ſhewing how much I am,

LETTER LII. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

I Cannot find words to expreſs how much I am mor⯑tified at the return of my meſſenger, without a line from you.

[351]Thurſday is ſo near, that I will ſend meſſenger af⯑ter meſſenger every four hours, till I have a favour⯑able anſwer; the one to meet the other, till its eve arrives, to know if I may venture to appear in your preſence, with the hope of having my wiſhes an⯑ſwered on that day.

Your love, Madam, I neither expect, nor aſk for; nor will, till my future behaviour gives you cauſe to think I deſerve it. All I at preſent preſume to wiſh, is, To have it in my power to do you all the juſtice I can now do you: And to your generoſity will I leave it, to reward me, as I ſhall merit, with your affection.

At preſent, revolving my poor behaviour of Fri⯑day night before you, I think I ſhould ſooner chooſe to go to my laſt audit, unprepared for it as I am, than to appear in your preſence, unleſs you give me ſome hope, that I ſhall be received as your elected huſband, rather than (however deſerved) as a deteſted criminal.

Let me therefore propoſe an expedient, in order to ſpare my own confuſion; and to ſpare you the neceſſity for that ſoul-harrowing recrimination, which I cannot ſtand, and which muſt be diſagreeable to yourſelf — To name the church; and I will have every thing in readineſs; ſo that our next interview will be, in a manner, at the very altar; and then you will have the kind huſband to forgive for the faults of the ingrateful lover. If your reſentment be ſtill too high to write more, let it only be, in your own dear hand, theſe words, St. Martin's church, Thurſday—or theſe, St. Giles's church, Thurſday; nor will I inſiſt upon any inſcription, or ſubſcription, or ſo much as the initials of your name. This ſhall be all the favour I will expect, till the dear hand ſelf is given to mine, in preſence of that Being whom I invoke as a witneſs of the inviolable faith and honour of

LETTER LIII. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

ONCE more, my deareſt love, do I conjure you to ſend me the four requeſted words. There is no time to be loſt. And I would not have next Thurſday go over, without being intitled to call you mine, for the world; and that as well for your ſake as my own. Hitherto all that has paſſed is between you and me only; but, after Thurſday, if my wiſhes are unanſwered, the whole will be before the world.

My Lord is extremely ill, and endures not to have me out of his ſight for one half-hour. But this ſhall not weigh with me one iota, if you be pleaſed to hold out the olive-branch to me, in the four requeſted words.

I have the following intelligence from Captain Tomlinſon.

All your family are at your uncle Harlowe's. Your uncle finds he cannot go up; and names Captain Tomlinſon for his proxy. He propoſes to keep all your family with him, till the Captain aſſures him, that the ceremony is over.

Already he has begun, with hope of ſucceſs, to try to reconcile your mother to you.

My Lord M. but juſt now has told me, how happy he ſhould think himſelf to have an opportunity, before he dies, to ſalute you as his niece. I have put him in hopes, that he ſhall ſee you; and have told him, that I will go to town on Wedneſday, in order to prevail upon you to accompany me down on Thurſday or Friday. I have ordered a Set to be in readineſs to carry me up; and, were not my Lord ſo very ill, [353] my couſin Montague tells me, ſhe would offer her attendance on you. If you pleaſe, therefore, we can ſet out for this place the moment the ſolem⯑nity is performed.

Do not, deareſt creature, diſſipate all theſe pro⯑miſing appearances, and, by refuſing to ſave your own and your family's reputation in the eye of the world, uſe yourſelf worſe than the ingratefulleſt wretch on earth has uſed you. For, if we are mar⯑ried, all the diſgrace you imagine you have ſuffered while a ſingle lady, will be my own; and only known to ourſelves.

Once more then, conſider well the ſituation we are both in; and remember, my deareſt life, that Thurſday will be ſoon here; and that you have no time to loſe.

In a letter ſent by the meſſenger whom I diſpatch with this, I have deſired, that my friend Mr. Bel⯑ford, who is your very great admirer, and who knows all the ſecrets of my heart, will wait upon you, to know what I am to depend upon, as to the choſen day.

Surely, my dear, you never could, at any time, ſuffer half ſo much from cruel ſuſpenſe, as I do.

If I have not an anſwer to this, either from your own goodneſs, or thro' Mr. Belford's interceſſion, it will be too late for me to ſet out: And Captain Tom⯑linſon will be diſappointed, who goes to town on purpoſe to attend your pleaſure.

One motive for the gentle reſtraint I have pre⯑ſumed to lay you under, is to prevent the miſchiefs that might enſue (as probably to the more innocent, as to the leſs), were you to write to any-body, while your paſſions were ſo much raiſed and inflamed againſt me. Having appriſed you of my direction on this head, I wonder you ſhould have endeavoured to ſend a letter to Miſs Howe, altho' in a cover di⯑rected [354] to that young lady's ^(a) ſervant; as you muſt think it would be likely to fall into my hands.

The juſt ſenſe of what I have deſerved the contents ſhould be, leaves me no room to doubt what they are. Nevertheleſs, I return it you incloſed, with the ſeal, as you will ſee, unbroken.

Relieve, I beſeech you, deareſt Madam, by the four requeſted words, or by Mr. Belford, the an⯑xiety of

Remember, there will not, there cannot be time for further writing, and for my coming-up by Thurſday, your uncle's birth-day.

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

THOU wilt ſee the ſituation I am in with Miſs Harlowe by the incloſed copies of three letters; to two of which I am too much ſcorned to have one word given me in anſwer; and of the third (now ſent by the meſſenger who brings thee this) I am afraid as little notice will be taken — And if ſo, her day of grace is abſolutely over.

One would imagine (ſo long uſed to conſtraint too as ſhe has been), that ſhe might have been ſatisfied with the triumph ſhe had over us all on Friday night: A triumph that to this hour has ſunk my pride and my vanity ſo much, that I almoſt hate the words Plot, Contrivance, Scheme, and ſhall miſtruſt my ſelf in future, for every one that riſes to my inventive head.

But ſeeſt thou not, that I am under a neceſſity to continue her at Sinclair's, and to prohibit all her cor⯑reſpondences?

[355]Now, Belford, as I really, in my preſent mood, think of nothing leſs than marrying her, if ſhe let not Thurſday ſlip; I would have thee, in purſuance of the intimation I have given her in my letter of this date, to attend her; and vow for me, ſwear for me, bind thy ſoul to her for my honour, and uſe what arguments thy friendly heart can ſuggeſt, in order to procure me an anſwer from her; which, as thou wilt ſee, ſhe may give in four words only. And then I purpoſe to leave Lord M. (dangerouſly ill as he is) and meet her at her appointed church, in order to ſolem⯑nize: If ſhe will ſign but Cl. H. to thy writing the four words, that ſhall do; for I would not come up to be made a fool of in the face of all my family and friends.

If ſhe ſhould let the day go off;—I ſhall be deſpe⯑rate!—I am intangled in my own devices, and can⯑not bear that ſhe ſhould detect me.

O that I had been honeſt!—What a devil are all my plots come to! What do they end in, but one grand plot upon myſelf, and a title to eternal infamy and diſgrace! But, depending on thy friendly offices, I will ſay no more of this.—Let her ſend me but one line!—But one line!—Not treat me as unworthy of her notice; yet be altogether in my power—I can⯑not—I will not bear that.

My Lord, as I ſaid, is extremely ill: The doctors give him over. He gives himſelf over. Thoſe who would not have him die, are afraid he will. But as to myſelf, I am doubtful: For theſe long and violent ſtruggles between the conſtitution and the diſeaſe, tho' the latter has three phyſicians and an apothecary to help it forward (and all three, as to their preſcrip⯑tions, of different opinions too), indicate a plaguy tough habit, and favour more of recovery than death: And the more ſo, as he has no ſharp or acute animal organs to whet out his bodily ones, and to raiſe his fever above the ſymptomatic helpful one.

[356]Thou wilt ſee in the incloſed, what pains I am at to diſpatch meſſengers; who are conſtantly on the road to meet each other, and one of them to link in the chain with a fourth, whoſe ſtation is in London, and five miles onward, or till met. But, in truth, I have ſome other matters for them to perform at the ſame time, with my Lord's banker and his lawyer; which will enable me, if his Lordſhip is ſo good as to die this bout, to be an over-match for ſome of my other relations. I don't mean Charlotte and Patty; for they are noble girls; but others, who have been ſcratching and clawing under-ground like ſo many moles in my abſence; and whoſe work⯑ings I have diſcovered ſince I have been down, by the little heaps of dirt they have thrown up.

A ſpeedy account of thy commiſſion, dear Jack! The letter travels all night.

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

YOU muſt excuſe me, Lovelace, from engaging in the office you would have me undertake, till I can be better aſſured you really intend honourably at laſt by this much-injured lady.

I believe you know your friend Belford too well, to think he would be eaſy with you, or with any man alive, who ſhould ſeek to make him promiſe for him what he never intended to perform. And let me tell thee, that I have not much confidence in the honour of a man, who, by imitation of hands (I will only call it), has ſhewn ſo little regard to the honour of his own relations.

Only that thou haſt ſuch jeſuitical qualifyings, or I ſhould think thee at laſt touched with remorſe, and brought within view of being aſhamed of thy curſed [357] inventions by the ill ſucceſs of thy laſt: Which I heartily congratulate thee upon.

O the divine lady!—But I will not aggravate!

Yet when thou writeſt, that, in thy preſent mood, thou thinkeſt of marrying; and yet canſt ſo eaſily change thy mood: When I know thy heart is againſt the ſtate:—That the four words thou courteſt from the lady are as much to thy purpoſe, as if ſhe wrote forty; ſince it will ſhew ſhe can forgive the higheſt injury that can be offered to woman: And when I recollect, how eaſily thou canſt find excuſes to poſt⯑pone; thou muſt be more explicit a good deal, as to thy real intentions, and future honour, than thou art; for I cannot truſt to a temporary remorſe; which is brought on by diſappointment too, and not by prin⯑ciple; and the like of which thou haſt ſo often got over!

If thou canſt convince me time enough for the day, that thou meaneſt to do honourably by her, in her own ſenſe of the word; or, if not time enough, wilt fix ſome other day (which thou oughteſt to leave to her option, and not bind her down for the Thurſ⯑day; and the rather, as thy pretence for ſo doing is founded on an abſolute fiction); I will then moſt chearfully undertake thy cauſe; by perſon, if ſhe will admit me to her preſence; if not, by pen. But, in this caſe, thou muſt allow me to be guarantee for thy faith. And, if ſo, as much as I value thee, and reſpect thy ſkill in all the qualifications of a gentle⯑man, thou may'ſt depend upon it, that I will act up to the character of a guarantee, with more honour than the princes of our day uſually do—to their ſhame be it ſpoken.

Mean time, let me tell thee, that my heart bleeds for the wrongs this angelic lady has received: And if thou doſt not marry her, if ſhe will have thee; and, when married, make her the beſt and tendereſt of [358] huſbands; I would rather be a dog, a monkey, a bear, a viper, or a toad, than thee.

Command me with honour, and thou ſhalt find none readier to oblige thee, than

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

YOURS reached me this moment, by an extra⯑ordinary puſh in the meſſengers.

What a man of honour, thou, of a ſudden!

And ſo, in the imaginary ſhape of a guarantee, thou threateneſt me!

Had I not been in earneſt as to the lady, I ſhould not have offered to employ thee in the affair. But, let me tell thee, that hadſt thou undertaken the taſk, and I had afterwards thought fit to change my mind, I ſhould have contented myſelf to tell thee, that That was my mind, when thou engagedſt for me; and to have given thee the reaſons for the change; and then left thee to thy own direction. For never knew I what fear of man was,—nor fear of woman neither, till I became acquainted with Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe; nay, what is moſt ſurpriſing, till I came to have her in my power.

And ſo thou wilt not wait upon the charmer of my heart, but upon terms and conditions!—Let it alone, and be curs'd; I care not. — But ſo much credit did I give to the value thou expreſſedſt for her, that I thought the office would have been as accept⯑able to thee, as ſerviceable to me; for what was it, but to endeavour to perſuade her to conſent to the reparation of her own honour? For what have I done [359] but diſgraced myſelf, and been a thief to my own joys? — And if there be an union of hearts, and an intention to ſolemnize, what is there wanting but the fooliſh ceremony?—And that I ſtill offer. But if ſhe will keep back her hand; if ſhe will make me hold out mine in vain—How can I help it?

I write her one more letter, and if, after ſhe has received that, ſhe keep ſullen ſilence, ſhe muſt thank herſelf for what is to follow.

But, after all, my heart is wholly hers. I love her beyond expreſſion; and cannot help it. I hope therefore ſhe will receive this laſt tender, as I wiſh. I hope ſhe intends not, like a true woman, to plague, and vex, and teaze me, now ſhe has found her power. If ſhe will take me to mercy now theſe remorſes are upon me; tho' I ſcorn to condition with thee for my ſincerity; all her trials, as I have heretofore declared, ſhall be over; and ſhe ſhall be as happy as I can make her: For, ruminating upon all that has paſſed be⯑tween us, from the firſt hour of our acquaintance till the preſent, I muſt pronounce, That ſhe is Virtue itſelf, and, once more I ſay, has no equal.

As to what you hint of leaving to her choice an⯑other day, do you conſider, that it will be impoſſi⯑ble, that my contrivances and ſtratagems ſhould be much longer concealed?—This makes me preſs that day, tho' ſo near; and the more, as I have made ſo much ado about her uncle's anniverſary. If ſhe ſend me the four words, I will ſpare no fatigue to be in time, if not for the canonical hour at church, for ſome other hour of the day in her own apartment, or any other; for money will do every thing: And that I have never ſpared in this affair.

To ſhew thee, that I am not at enmity with thee, I incloſe the copies of two letters: One to her: It is the fourth, and muſt be the laſt on the ſubject: The other to Captain Tomlinſon; calculated, as thou wilt ſee, for him to ſhew her.

[360]And now, Jack, interfere in this caſe, or not, thou knoweſt the mind of

LETTER LVII. Mr. LOVELACE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE. Superſcribed, To Mrs. LOVELACE.

NOT one line, my deareſt life, not one word, in anſwer to three letters I have written! The time is now ſo ſhort, that this muſt be the laſt letter that can reach you on this ſide of the important hour that might make us legally one.

My friend Mr. Belford is apprehenſive, that he cannot wait upon you in time, by reaſon of ſome ur⯑gent affairs of his own.

I the leſs regret the diſappointment, becauſe I have procured a more acceptable perſon, as I hope, to attend you; Captain Tomlinſon I mean: To whom I had applied for this purpoſe, before I had Mr. Belford's anſwer.

I was the more ſolicitous to obtain this favour from him, becauſe of the office he is to take upon him, as I humbly preſume to hope, to-morrow. That office obliged him to be in town as this day: And I acquainted him with my unhappy ſituation with you; and deſired, that he would ſhew me, on this occaſion, that I had as much of his favour and friendſhip, as your uncle had; ſince the whole treaty muſt be broken off, if he could not prevail upon you in my behalf.

He will diſpatch the meſſenger directly; whom I propoſe to meet in perſon at Slough; either to pro⯑ceed onward to London with a joyful heart, or to return back to M. Hall, with a broken one.

I ought not (but cannot help it) to anticipate the pleaſure Mr. Tomlinſon propoſes to himſelf, in ac⯑quainting [361] you with the likelihood there is of your mo⯑ther's ſeconding your uncle's views. For, it ſeems, he has privately communicated to her his laudable intentions: And her reſolution depends, as well as his, upon what to-morrow will produce.

Diſappoint not then, I beſeech you, for an hun⯑dred perſons ſakes, as well as for mine, that uncle, and that mother, whoſe diſpleaſure I have heard you ſo often deplore.

You may think it impoſſible for me to reach Lon⯑don by the canonical hour. If it ſhould, the cere⯑mony may be performed in your own apartment, at any time in the day, or at night: So that Captain Tomlinſon may have it to aver to your uncle, that it was performed on his anniverſary.

Tell but the Captain, that you forbid me not to attend you: And that ſhall be ſufficient for bringing [...] you, on the wings of Love,

LETTER LVIII. To Mr. PATRICK M'DONALD, at his Lodgings, at Mr. Brown's, Perukemaker, in St. Martin's-lane, Weſtminſter.

THE bearer of this has a letter to carry to the lady ^(a). I have been at the trouble of writing a copy of it; which I incloſe, that you may not miſ⯑take your cue.

You will judge of my reaſons for ante-dating the incloſed ſealed one ^(b), directed to you by the name of Tomlinſon, which you are to ſhew the lady, as in confidence. You will open it of courſe.

[362]I doubt not your dexterity and management, dear M'Donald; nor your zeal, eſpecially as the hope of cohabitation muſt now be given up. Impoſſible to be carried is that ſcheme. I might break her heart, but not incline her will. Am in earneſt therefore to marry her, if ſhe let not the day ſlip.

Improve upon the hint of her mother: That muſt touch her. But John Harlowe, remember, has pri⯑vately engaged that Lady—Privately, I ſay; elſe (not to mention the reaſon for her uncle Harlowe's former expedient) you know, ſhe might find means to get a letter away to the one or the other, to know the truth; or to Miſs Howe, to engage her to inquire into it: And if ſhe ſhould, the word privately will ac⯑count for the uncle's and mother's denying it.

However, fail not, as from me, to charge our mother and her nymphs, to redouble their vigilance both as to her perſon and letters. All's upon a cri⯑ſis now. But ſhe muſt not be treated ill neither.

Thurſday over, I ſhall know what to reſolve upon.

If neceſſary, you muſt aſſume authority. The de⯑vil's in't, if ſuch a girl as this ſhall awe a man of your years and experience. Fly out, if ſhe doubt your honour. Spirits naturally ſoft may be beat out of their play and borne down (tho' ever ſo much raiſed) by higher anger. All women are cowards at bottom: Only violent when they may. I have often ſtormed a girl out of her miſtruſts, and made her yield before ſhe knew where ſhe was to the point indig⯑nantly miſtruſted; and that to make up with me, tho' I was the aggreſſor.

If this matter ſucceed as I'd have it (or if not, and do not fail by your fault) I will take you off of the neceſſity of purſuing your curſed Smuggling; which otherwiſe may one day end fatally for you.

We are none of us perfect, M^cDonald. This ſweet lady makes me ſerious ſometimes in ſpite of my [363] heart. But as private vices are leſs blameable than public; and as I think Smuggling (as it is called) a National evil; I have no doubt to pronounce you a much worſe man than myſelf, and as ſuch ſhall take pleaſure in reforming you.

I ſend you incloſed ten guineas, as a ſmall earneſt of further favours. Hitherto you have been a very clever fellow.

As to cloaths for Thurſday, Monmouth-ſtreet will afford a ready ſupply. Cloaths quite new would make your condition ſuſpected. But you may defer that care, till you ſee if ſhe can be prevailed upon. Your riding-dreſs will do for the firſt viſit. Nor let your boots be over clean: I have always told you the conſequence of attending to the minutiae, where art (or impoſture, as the ill-manner'd would call it) is deſigned—Your linen rumpled and ſoily, when you wait upon her — Eaſy terms theſe! — Juſt come to town — Remem⯑ber (as formerly) to loll, to throw out your legs, to ſtroke and graſp down your ruffles, as if of ſignifi⯑cance enough to be careleſs. What tho' the preſence of a fine lady would require a different behaviour, are you not of years to diſpenſe with politeneſs? You have no deſign upon her, you know. Are a father yourſelf of daughters as old as ſhe. Evermore is parade and obſequiouſneſs ſuſpectable: It muſt ſhew either a fooliſh head, or a knaviſh heart. Make your⯑ſelf of conſequence therefore; and you will be treated as a man of conſequence. I have often more than half ruined myſelf by my complaiſance, and, being afraid of controul, have brought controul upon my⯑ſelf.

I think I have no more to ſay at preſent. I intend to be at Slough, or on the way to it, as by mine to the lady. Adieu, honeſt M^cDonald.

LETTER LIX. To Captain ANTONY TOMLINSON. [Incloſed in the preceding; To be ſhewn to the Lady as in confidence.]

AN unhappy miſunderſtanding having ariſen be⯑tween the deareſt lady in the world and me (the particulars of which ſhe perhaps may give you, but I will not, becauſe I might be thought partial to my⯑ſelf); and the refuſing to anſwer my moſt preſſing and reſpectful letters; I am at a moſt perplexing un⯑certainty, whether ſhe will meet us, or not, next Thurſday, to ſolemnize.

My Lord is ſo extremely ill, that if I thought ſhe would not oblige me, I would defer going up to town for two or three days. He cares not to have me out of his ſight: Yet is impatient to ſalute my Beloved as his niece before he dies. This I have promiſed to give him an opportunity to do; intending, if the dear creature will make me happy, to ſet out with her for this place directly from church.

With regret I ſpeak it of the charmer of my ſoul; but irreconcileableneſs is her family-fault: The leſs ex⯑cuſeable indeed in her, as ſhe herſelf ſuffers by it in ſo high a degree from her own relations.

Now, Sir, as you intended to be in town ſome time before Thurſday, if it be not too great an inconvenience to you, I could be glad you would go up as ſoon as poſſible, for my ſake: And this I the more boldly requeſt, as I preſume that a man who has ſo many great affairs of his own in hand as you have, would be glad to be at a certainty himſelf as to the day.

You, Sir, can ſo pathetically and juſtly ſet before er the unhappy conſequences that will follow if the [365] day be poſtponed, as well with regard to her uncle's diſappointment, as to the part you have aſſured me her mother is willing to take in the wiſhed-for re⯑conciliation, that I have great hopes ſhe will ſuffer herſelf to be prevailed upon. And a man and horſe ſhall be in waiting to take your diſpatches, and bring them to me.

But if you cannot prevail in my favour, you will be pleaſed to ſatisfy your friend Mr. John Harlowe, that it is not my fault that he is not obliged. I am, dear Sir,

LETTER LX. To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I Received yours, as your ſervant deſired me to ac⯑quaint you, by ten this morning. Horſe and man were in a foam.

I inſtantly equipp'd myſelf, as if come off from a journey, and poſted away to the lady, intending to plead great affairs, that I came not before, in order to favour your ante-date; and likewiſe to be in a hurry, to have a pretence to hurry her Ladyſhip, and to take no denial for her giving a ſatisfactory return to your meſſenger: But, upon my entering Mrs. Sin⯑clair's houſe, I found all in the greateſt conſternation.

You muſt not, Sir, be ſurpriſed. It is a trouble to me to be the relater of the bad news: But ſo it is, the lady is gone off. She was miſſed but half an hour before I came.

Her waiting-maid is run away, or hitherto is not to be found: So that they conclude it was by her connivance.

[366]They had ſent before I came to my honoured maſters Mr. Belton, Mr. Mowbray, and Mr. Bel⯑ford. Mr. Tourville is out of town.

High words are paſſing between Madam Sinclair, and Madam Horton, and Madam Martin; as alſo with Dorcas. And your ſervant William threatens to hang or drown himſelf.

They have ſent to know if they can hear of Ma⯑bell the waiting-maid at her mother's, who it ſeems lives in Chick-lane, Weſt-Smithfield; and to an uncle of her's alſo, who keeps an alehouſe at Cow⯑croſs, hard-by, and with whom ſhe lived laſt.

Your meſſenger, having juſt changed his horſe, is come back: So I will not detain him longer than to add, that I am, with great concern for this miſ⯑fortune, and thanks for your ſeaſonable favour and kind intentions towards me [I am ſure this was not my fault] honoured Sir,

LETTER LXI. Mr. MOWBRAY, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Eſq

I Have plaguy news to acquaint thee with. Miſs Harlowe is gon off!—Quite gon, by my ſoul!— I have not time for particulars, your ſervant being going off. But iff I had, we are not yet come to the bottom of the matter. The ladies here are all blub⯑bering like devils, accuſing one another moſt con⯑foundedly: Whilſt Belton and I damn them all to⯑gether in thy name.

If thou ſhouldſt hear that thy fellow Will. is taken dead out of ſome horſe-pond, and Dorcas cutt down from her bed's teaſter, from dangling in her own garters, be not ſurpriz'd. Here's the devill to pay. No-body ſerene but Jack Belford, who is taking [367] minutes of examminations, accuſations, and con⯑feſſions, with the ſignifficant air of a Middleſex Ju⯑ſtice; and intends to write at large all particulars, I ſuppoſe.

I heartily condole with thee: So does Belton. But it may turn out for the beſt: For ſhe is gone away with thy marks, I underſtand. A fooliſh little devill! Where will ſhe mend herſelf? For no-body will look upon her. And they tell me, that thou wouldſt cer⯑tainly have married her had ſhe ſtaid.—But I know thee better.

Dear Bobby, adieu. If thy uncle will die now, to comfort thee for this Ioſs, what a ſeaſonable exit would he make! Let's have a letter from thee: Pr'ythee do. Thou canſt write devil-like to Belford, who ſhews us nothing at all.

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

THOU haſt heard from M^cDonald and Mowbray the news. Bad or good, I know not which thou'lt deem it. I only wiſh I could have given thee joy upon the ſame account, before the unhappy lady was ſeduced from Hamſtead: For then of what an ingrateful villainy hadſt thou been ſpared the perpe⯑tration, which now thou haſt to anſwer for!

I came to town purely to ſerve thee with her, ex⯑pecting that thy next would ſatisfy me that I might endeavour it without diſhonour: And at firſt when I found her gone, I half pitied thee; for now wilt thou be inevitably blown up: And in what an exe⯑crable light wilt thou appear to all the world! Poor Lovelace! Caught in thy own ſnares! Thy puniſh⯑ment is but beginning!

[368]But to my narrative; for I ſuppoſe thou expecteſt all particulars from me, ſince Mowbray has informed thee that I have been collecting them.

What a noble, what a right ſpirit has this charm⯑ing creature, in caſes that will juſtify an exertion of ſpirit!—

Theſe are the particulars of Miſs Harlowe's flight. Thou'lt hardly think me too minute.—How I long to triumph over thy impatience and fury on the oc⯑caſion!

Let me beſeech thee, my dear Lovelace, in thy next letter, to rave moſt gloriouſly!—I ſhall be griev⯑ouſly diſappointed, if thou doſt not.

Where, Lovelace, can the poor lady be gone? And who can deſcribe the diſtreſs ſhe muſt be in?

By your former letters, it may be ſuppoſed, that ſhe can have very little money: Nor, by the ſudden⯑neſs of her flight, more cloaths than thoſe ſhe has on. And thou knoweſt who once ſaid ^(a), ‘Her Parents will not receive her: Her Uncles will not entertain her: Her Norton is in their direction, and cannot: Miſs Howe dare not: She has not one friend or intimate in town; intirely a ſtranger to it.’ And, let me add, has been deſpoiled of her honour by the man for whom ſhe made all theſe [377] ſacrifices; and who ſtood bound to her by a thouſand oaths and vows, to be her huſband, her protector, and friend!

How ſtrong muſt be her reſentment of the bar⯑barous treatment ſhe has received! How worthy of herſelf, that it has made her hate the man ſhe once loved! And, rather than marry him, chooſe to ex⯑poſe her diſgrace to the whole world; to forego the reconciliation with her friends which her heart was ſo ſet upon; and to hazard a thouſand evils to which her youth and her ſex may too probably expoſe an indigent and friendleſs beauty.

Remembereſt thou not that home puſh upon thee, in one of the papers written in her delirium; of which however it favours not?—

I will aſſure thee, that I have very often ſince moſt ſeriouſly reflected upon it: And as thy intended ſe⯑cond outrage convinces me, that it made no impreſ⯑ſion upon thee then, and perhaps thou haſt never thought of it ſince, I will tranſcribe the ſentence.

‘If, as Religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great meaſure, by our benevolent or evil actions to one another—O wretch, bethink thee, in time bethink thee, how great muſt be thy con⯑demnation ^(a)!’

And is this amiable doctrine the Sum of Religion? Upon my faith I believe it is. For, to indulge a ſerious thought, ſince we are not atheiſts, except in practice, Does God, the BEING of beings, want any thing of us for HIMSELF? And does he not in⯑join us works of mercy to one another, as the means to obtain His mercy? A ſublime principle, and worthy of the SUPREME SUPERINTENDENT and FATHER of all things!—But, if we are to be judged by this noble principle, what, indeed, muſt be thy con⯑demnation on the ſcore of this lady only! And what mine, and what all our confraternity's, on the ſcore [378] of other women; tho' we are none of us half ſo bad as thou art, as well for want of inclination, I hope, as of opportunity!

I muſt add, that, as well for thy own ſake, as for the lady's, I wiſh ye were yet to be married to each other. It is the only medium that can be hit upon, to ſalve the honour of both. All that's paſt may yet be concealed from the world, and from her relations; and thou mayſt make amends for all her ſufferings, if thou reſolveſt to be a tender and kind huſband to her.

And if this really be thy intention, I will accept, with pleaſure, of a commiſſion from thee, that ſhall tend to promote ſo good an end, whenever ſhe can be found; that is to ſay, if ſhe will admit to her pre⯑ſence a man who profeſſes friendſhip to thee. Nor can I give a greater demonſtration, that I am

P.S. Mabell's cloaths were thrown into the paſſage this morning: No-body knows by whom.