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

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

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

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

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

But this the more provoked his raſhneſs, to lay him⯑ſelf open to the advantage of his adverſary—Who, af⯑ter a ſlight wound in the arm, took away his ſword.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER II. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I congratulated her upon her proſpects. She re⯑ceived my compliments with a great deal of ſelf-com⯑placency.

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

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

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

But now ſhe began to be diſſatisfied with him: She compared his general character, with This his par⯑ticular behaviour to her; and, having never been courted before, own'd herſelf puzzled, how to deal with ſo odd a lover. ‘'What did the man mean!—Had not her uncle brought him declaredly as a ſuiter to her?—It could not be baſhfulneſs (now ſhe thought of it), ſince he might have open'd his mind to her uncle, if he wanted courage to ſpeak directly to her.—Not that ſhe cared much for the man nei⯑ther: But it was right, ſurely, that a woman ſhould be put out of doubt, early, as to a man's intentions, in ſuch a caſe as This, from his own mouth.—But, truly, ſhe had begun to think, that he was more ſolicitous to cultivate her mamma's good opinion, than hers!—Every-body, ſhe own'd, admired her mamma's converſation.—But he was miſtaken, if he thought that would do with her. And then, for his own ſake, ſurely, he ſhould put it into her power to be complaiſant to him, if he gave her cauſe of approbation. This diſtant behaviour, ſhe muſt take upon her to ſay, was the more extraordinary, as he continued his viſits, and declared himſelf extremely deſirous to cultivate a friendſhip with the whole family; and as he could have no doubt about her ſenſe, if ſhe might take upon her to join her own with the general opinion; he having taken great notice of, and admired many of her good things, as they fell from her lips.—Reſerves were painful, ſhe [10] muſt needs ſay, to open and free ſpirits, like hers: And yet ſhe muſt tell my aunt'’ (to whom all this was directed) ‘'that ſhe ſhould never forget what ſhe ow'd to her ſex, and to herſelf, were Mr. Lovelace as unexceptionable in his morals, as in his figure, and were he to urge his ſuit ever ſo warmly.'’

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER III. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER IV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER V. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER VI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

But this is very far from being his intention: For he has already begun to hint again, that he ſhall ne⯑ver be eaſy or ſatisfy'd, till I am marry'd; and, find⯑ing neither Mr. Symmes nor Mr. Mullins will be ac⯑cepted, has propoſed Mr. Wyerley once more, on the ſcore of his great paſſion for me. This I have again rejected; and but yeſterday he mention'd one who has apply'd to him by letter, making high offers. This is Mr. Solmes; rich Solmes, you know they call him. But this has not met with the attention of one ſingle ſoul.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No-body ſpoke.

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

Every-one ſtill remained ſilent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And hence, Sir, retorted I, your unbrotherly re⯑flections upon me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With what ap-pa-rent indifference, drolled my bro⯑ther—

Son James! ſaid my father, ſternly—

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

Thus ended this conference.

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

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

Mean time, I am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My brother heard me out with ſuch a kind of im⯑patience, as ſhew'd he was reſolved to be diſſatisfy'd with me, ſay what I would, The reſt, as the event has proved, behav'd as if they would have been ſatiſ⯑fy'd, had they not further points to carry, by intimi⯑dating me. All this made it evident, as I mention'd above, that they themſelves expected not my volun⯑tary compliance; and was a tacit confeſſion of the diſ⯑agreeableneſs of the perſon they had to propoſe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER VIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER IX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER X. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgive me this digreſſion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the formidable appearance which the ad⯑dreſs of this diſagreeable man wears at preſent!

My BROTHER and my SISTER triumph.—They have got me down, is their expreſſion, as Hannah, over-hearing [83] them, tells me. And ſo they have (yet I ne⯑ver knew that I was inſolently up); for now my bro⯑ther will either lay me under an obligation to comply, to my own unhappineſs, and ſo make me an inſtru⯑ment of his revenge upon Lovelace; or, if I refuſe, throw me into diſgrace with my whole family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XV. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I HAVE both your letters at once. It is very un⯑happy, my dear, ſince your friends will have you marry, that ſuch a merit as yours ſhould be addreſſed by a ſucceſſion of worthleſs creatures, who have no⯑thing but their preſumption for their excuſe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ſoon returned, having recover'd more ſteadi⯑neſs.

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

Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe. No ſullen⯑neſs, I hope!

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

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

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

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

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

Within that time, my mamma came up to me.

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

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

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

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

O Madam—

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

[98]No vices, Madam!—

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

O Madam, muſt I not now ſpeak!—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again! Clary Harlowe!—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No-body denies him theſe qualities.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XVII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

I wept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[106]Madam, I would rather die, than—

She put her hand to my mouth.—No peremptori⯑neſs, Clary Harlowe! Once you declare yourſelf in⯑flexible, I have done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clary Harlowe—

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

Whither, whither, Clary—

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

How now, Clary!—O girl!—

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

Girl, girl!—

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

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

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

Now, Clary, I ſuppoſe you will allow me to ſpeak. I think I have had patience indeed with you.—Could I have thought—But I will put all upon a ſhort iſſue. Your mamma, Clariſſa, ſhall ſhew you an example of that patience, you ſo boldly claim from her, with⯑out having any yourſelf.

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

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

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

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

But this ſilence availed me ſtill leſs.—

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

I wept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I ſigh'd. I wept. I was ſilent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Law will protect us, child!—Offended magi⯑ſtracy will aſſert itſelf—

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

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

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

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

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

No conditions with your mamma—Surely my pru⯑dence may be truſted to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sit down when I bid you.

I ſat down.

You look very ſullen, Clary.

I hope not, Madam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I courteſy'd with reverence.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

You commanded me, Madam, to go to my cham⯑ber.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now for the moſt concerning part of your letter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

I was ſilent.

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

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

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

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

May I, Madam, be permitted to expoſtulate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ſeverely chid me for this.

I received her rebukes in ſilence.

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

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

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

I was ſtill ſpeechleſs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What could I do but weep?

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

LETTER XXIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Betty enviouſly whiſper'd Shorey upon it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

LETTER XXV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

LETTER XXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXVII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could make ſome other obſervations upon the con⯑tents of your laſt two letters; but my mind is not free enough at preſent. The occaſions for the above ſtuck with me; and I could not help taking the earlieſt no⯑tice of them.

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

LETTER XXIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is my brother's anſwer.

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

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

LETTER XXX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now am I in-deed in love. I can think of no⯑thing, of no-body elſe, but the divine Clariſſa Har⯑lowe.—Harlowe!—How that hated word ſticks in my throat—But I ſhall give her for it, the name of Love ^(a).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Cowley thus addreſſes Beauty as a mere ima⯑ginary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXXII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

LETTER XXXIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXXVI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be ſure, my dear, there is a great deal in what the man ſaid:—I may be allow'd to ſay This, with⯑out an imputed glow or throb.—But I told him, nevertheleſs, that altho' I had great honour for the Ladies he was related to (for his two aunts in parti⯑cular), yet I ſhould not chooſe to receive a letter on a ſubject, that had a tendency to promote an end I was far from intending to promote: That it became me, ill as I was treated at preſent, to hope every⯑thing, to bear every-thing, and to try every-thing: When my father ſaw my ſteadfaſtneſs, and that I would die rather than have Mr. Solmes, he would perhaps recede.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

He repreſented to me, that my preſent diſgraceful confinement was known to all the world: That nei⯑ther my ſiſter nor brother ſcrupled to repreſent me as an obliged and favoured child, in a ſtate of actual rebellion:—That, nevertheleſs, every-body who knew me was ready to juſtify me for an averſion to a man, whom every-body thought utterly unworthy of me, and more fit for my ſiſter: That unhappy as he was, in not having been able to make any greater impreſſion upon me in his favour, all the world gave me to him:—Nor was there but one objection made to him, by his very enemies (his birth, his fortunes, his proſpects all unexceptionable, and the latter ſplendid); and that, he thank'd God, and my example, was in a fair way of being removed for ever: Since he had ſeen his error, and was heartily ſick of the courſes he had fol⯑low'd; which, however, were far leſs enormous than [243] malice and envy had repreſented them to be. But of This he ſhould ſay the leſs, as it were much better to juſtify himſelf by his actions, than by the moſt ſo⯑lemn aſſeverations, and promiſes: And then compli⯑menting my perſon, he aſſured me (for that he always loved virtue, altho' he had not follow'd its rules, as he ought), that he was ſtill more captivated with the graces of my mind: And would frankly own, that till he had the honour to know me, he had never met with an inducement ſufficient to enable him to over⯑come an unhappy kind of prejudice to matrimony; which had made him before impenetrable to the wiſhes and recommendations of all his relations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I bid him forbear raſhneſs or reſentment to any of my family, and I would, for ſome time at leaſt, till I ſaw what iſſue my preſent trials were likely to have, proceed with a correſpondence, which, never⯑theleſs, my heart condemned.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXXVII. Miſs HOWE, To Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, to be ſure! How can your Anna Howe have ſuch a thought?—Love, tho' ſo ſhort a word, has a broad ſound with it. What then ſhall we call it? You have help'd me to a phraſe that has a narrower ſound with it; but a pretty broad meaning, never⯑theleſs: A conditional kind of liking!—that's it.—O my friend! Did I not know how much you deſpiſe Prudery; and that you are too young, and too lovely to be a Prude—

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

Let me add, That if you would clearly and ex⯑plicitly [253] tell me, how far Lovelace has, or has not, a hold in your affections, I could better adviſe you what to do, than at preſent I can. You, who are ſo famed for preſcience, as I may call it, and than whom no young Lady ever had ſtronger pretenſions to a ſhare of it; have had, no doubt, reaſonings in your heart about him, ſuppoſing you were to be one day his (No doubt but you have had the ſame in Solmes's caſe:—Whence the ground for the hatred of the one; and of the conditional liking of the other): Will you tell me, my dear, what you have thought of his beſt and of his worſt?—How far eligible for the firſt; how far rejectible for the laſt?—Then weighing both parts in oppoſite ſcales, we ſhall ſee which is likely to pre⯑ponderate; or rather which does preponderate. No⯑thing leſs than the knowlege of the inmoſt receſſes of your heart, can ſatisfy my love and my friendſhip. Surely, you are not afraid to truſt yourſelf with a ſecret of this nature: If you are, then you may the more allowably doubt me. But I dare ſay, you will not own either: Nor is there, I hope, cauſe for either.

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

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

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

You muſt know, that this ſubject was warmly de⯑bated among us in our laſt converſation, and Miſs Lloyd wiſhed me to write to you upon it for your opinion; to which, in every debated caſe, we always defered. I hope you will not be ſo much ingroſs'd by your more weighty cares, as not to have freedom of ſpirits enough to enter upon the taſk.—You know how much we all admire your opinion on ſuch topics; which ever produces ſomething new and inſtructive, as you handle the ſubjects. And pray tell us, to what you think it owing, that your man ſeems ſo careful to adorn that ſelf-adorned perſon of his; yet ſo manages, that one cannot for one's heart think him a coxcomb?—Let this queſtion, and the above taſks, [255] divert, and not diſpleaſe you, my dear.—One ſubject, tho' ever ſo important, could never yet ingroſs your capacious mind. If they ſhould diſpleaſe you, you muſt recollect the many inſtances of my impertinence, which you have forgiven, and then ſay, This is a mad girl:—But yet I love her!—And ſhe is my own

LETTER XXXVIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

YOUR laſt ſo ſenſibly affects me, that I muſt poſt⯑pone every other conſideration, however weighty, to reply to it: And this I will do very diſtinctly, and with all the openneſs of heart, which our mutual friendſhip demands.

But let me obſerve, in the firſt place, gratefully obſerve, That if I have in fifty paſſages of my letters given you ſuch undoubted proofs of my value for Mr. Lovelace, that you have ſpared me for the ſake of my explicitneſs, it is acting by me with a generoſity wor⯑thy of yourſelf.

But lives the man, think you, who is ſo very bad, that he does not give even a doubting mind reaſon at one time to be better pleaſed with him, than at an⯑other? And when that reaſon offers, is it not juſt to expreſs one's ſelf accordingly? I would do the man who addreſſes me as much juſtice, as if he did not addreſs me: It has ſuch a look of tyranny, it appears ſo ungenerous, methinks, to uſe a man worſe for his reſpect to one (no other cauſe for diſreſpect oc⯑curring), that I would not by any means be that per⯑ſon who ſhould do ſo.

But, altho' I may intend no more than juſtice, it will, perhaps, be difficult to hinder thoſe who know the man's views, from conſtruing it as a partial [256] favour: And eſpecially if the eager-ey'd obſerver has been formerly touch'd herſelf, and would triumph that her friend had been no more able to eſcape than ſhe!—Noble minds, emulative of perfection (and yet the paſſion, properly directed, I do not take to be an im-perfection neither), may be allow'd a little ge⯑nerous envy, I think!

If I meant by this a reflection, by way of revenge, it is but a revenge, my dear, in the ſoft ſenſe of the word!—I love, as I have told you, your pleaſantry—Altho' at the time, it may pain one a little; yet on recollection, when one feels in the reproof more of the cautioning friend, than of the ſatirizing obſerver, an ingenuous mind will be all gratitude upon it. All the buſineſs will be This, I ſhall be ſenſible of the pain in the preſent letter perhaps; but I ſhall thank you in the next, and ever after.

In this way, I hope, my dear, you will account for a little of that ſenſibility which you will find above, and perhaps ſtill more, as I proceed.—You frequently remind me, by the beſt example, that I muſt not ſpare you!

I am not conſcious, that I have written any thing of this man, that has not been more in his diſpraiſe than in his favour. Such is the man, that I think I muſt have been faulty, and ought to take myſelf to account, if I had not: But if you think otherwiſe, I will not put you upon labouring the proof, as you call it! My conduct muſt then have a faulty ap⯑pearance at leaſt, and I will endeavour to rectify it. But of this I aſſure you, That whatever interpretation my words were capable of, I intended not any reſerve to you. I wrote my heart, at the time:—If I had had thoughts of diſguiſing it, or been conſcious, that there was reaſon for doing ſo; perhaps I had not given you the opportunity of remarking upon my curioſity after his relations eſteem for me; nor upon my con⯑ditional liking, and ſuch-like. All I intended by the [257] firſt, I believe I honeſtly told you at the time: To that letter I therefore refer, whether it make for me, or againſt me: And by the other, that I might bear in mind, what it became a perſon of my ſex and cha⯑racter to be and to do, in ſuch an unhappy ſituation, where the imputed love is thought an undutiful, and therefore a criminal, paſſion; and where the ſup⯑poſed object of it is a man of faulty morals too. And I am ſure you will excuſe my deſire of appearing at thoſe times the perſon I ought to be; had I no other view in it, but to merit the continuance of your good opinion.

But that I may acquit myſelf of having reſerves—O, my dear, I muſt here break off!—

LETTER XXXIX. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

THIS letter will account to you, my dear, for my abrupt breaking off in the anſwer I was writing to yours of yeſterday; and which, poſſibly, I ſhall not be able to finiſh, and ſend you, till to-morrow or next day; having a great deal to ſay to the ſubjects you put to me in it. What I am now to give you are the particulars of another effort made by my friends, thro' the good Mrs. Norton.

It ſeems they had ſent to her yeſterday, to be here this day, to take their inſtructions, and to try what ſhe could do with me. It would, at leaſt, I ſuppoſe they thought, have this effect; To render me inex⯑cuſable with her; or to let her ſee, that there was no room for the expoſtulations ſhe had often wanted to make in my favour to my mamma.

The declaration, that my heart was free, afforded them an argument to prove obſtinacy and perverſe⯑neſs upon me; ſince it could be nothing elſe that go⯑vern'd [258] me in my oppoſition to their wills, if I had no particular eſteem for another man: And now, that I have given them reaſon (in order to obviate this argu⯑ment) to ſuppoſe that I have a preference to another, they are reſolved to carry their ſchemes into execution as ſoon as poſſible. And in order to this, they ſent for This good woman, for whom they know I have even a filial regard.

She found aſſembled my papa and mamma, my brother and ſiſter, my two uncles, and my aunt Hervey.

My brother acquainted her with all that had paſſed ſince ſhe was laſt permitted to ſee me; with my let⯑ters avowing my regard to Mr. Lovelace, as they all interpreted them; with the ſubſtance of their anſwers to them; and with their reſolutions.

My mamma ſpoke next; and delivered herſelf to this effect, as the good woman told me afterwards:

After reciting how many times I had been indulged in my refuſals of different gentlemen; and the pains ſhe had taken with me, to induce me to oblige my whole family, in one inſtance out of five or ſix; and my obſtinacy upon it; O my good Mrs. Norton, ſaid the dear Lady, could you have thought, that my Clariſſa and your Clariſſa was capable of ſo determin'd an oppoſition to the will of parents ſo indulgent to her? But ſee what you can do with her. The mat⯑ter is gone too far to be receded from, on our parts. Her papa had concluded every thing with Mr. Solmes, not doubting her compliance. Such noble ſettlements, Mrs. Norton, and ſuch advantages to the whole family!—In ſhort, ſhe has it in her power to lay an obligation upon us all. Mr. Solmes, knowing ſhe has good principles, and hoping, by his patience now, and good treatment hereafter, to engage her gratitude, and by degrees her love, is willing to over⯑look All!—

[259][Overlook all, my dear! Mr. Solmes to overlook all! There's a word!]

So, Mrs. Norton, if you are convinc'd, that it is a child's duty to ſubmit to her parents authority, in the moſt important point as well as in the leaſt, I beg you'll try your influence over her: I have none. Her papa has none: Her uncles neither. Altho' it is her apparent intereſt to oblige us All; for, on that con⯑dition, her grandfather's eſtate is not half of what, living and dying, is purpos'd to be done for her. If any body can prevail with her, it is you; and I hope you will heartily enter upon this taſk with her.

She aſk'd, Whether ſhe was permitted to expoſtu⯑late with them upon the occaſion, before ſhe came up to me?

My arrogant brother told her, ſhe was ſent for to expoſtulate with his ſiſter, and not with them. And This, Goody Norton [She is always Goody with him!], you may tell her, that matters are gone ſo far with Mr. Solmes, that there is no going back!—Of con⯑ſequence, no room for your expoſtulation, or hers either.

Be aſſured of This, Mrs. Norton, ſaid my papa, in an angry tone, that we will not be baffled by her. We will not appear like fools in This matter, and as if we had no authority over our own daughter. We will not, in ſhort, be bully'd out of our child by a curſed rake, who had like to have killed our only ſon!—And ſo ſhe had better make a merit of her obe⯑dience: For comply ſhe ſhall, if I live; independent as ſhe thinks my father's indiſcreet bounty hath made her of me, her father. Indeed ſince That, ſhe has ne⯑ver been what ſhe was before. An unjuſt bequeſt!—And it is likely to proſper accordingly!—But if ſhe marry that vile Lovelace, I will litigate every ſhilling with her: Tell her ſo; and that the Will may be ſet aſide, and ſhall.

My uncles join'd, with equal heat.

[260]My brother was violent in his declarations.

My ſiſter put in with vehemence, on the ſame ſide.

My aunt Hervey was pleaſed to ſay, There was no article ſo proper for parents to govern in, as This of marriage: And it was very fit, mine ſhould be ob⯑liged.

Thus inſtructed, the good woman came up to me. She told me all that had paſſed; and was very earneſt with me to comply; and ſo much juſtice did ſhe to the taſk impoſed upon her, that I more than once thought, that her own opinion went with theirs. But when ſhe ſaw what an immoveable averſion I had to the man, ſhe lamented with me their determin'd re⯑ſolution: And then examin'd into the ſincerity of my profeſſion, that I would gladly compound with them by living ſingle: Of this being ſatisfy'd, ſhe was ſo convinc'd, that this offer (which would exclude Love⯑lace effectually) ought to be accepted, that ſhe would go down, altho' I told her, it was what I had tender'd over-and-over to no purpoſe, and undertake to be guaranty for me on that ſcore.

She went accordingly; but ſoon return'd in tears; being uſed harſhly for urging this alternative:—They had a right to my obedience upon their own terms, they ſaid: My propoſal was an artifice, only to gain time: Nothing but marrying Mr. Solmes ſhould do: They had told me ſo before: They ſhould not be at reſt till it was done; for they knew what an intereſt Lovelace had in my heart: I had as good as own'd it in my letters to my uncles, and brother, and ſiſter, altho' I had moſt diſingenuouſly declared otherwiſe to my mamma. I depended, they ſaid, upon their in⯑dulgence, and my own power over them: They had not baniſh'd me their preſence, if they did not know that their conſideration for me was greater than mine for them. And they would be obey'd, or I never ſhould be reſtor'd to their favour, let the conſequence be what it would.

[261]My brother thought fit to tell the good woman, that her whining nonſenſe did but harden me. There was a perverſeneſs, he ſaid, in female minds, a Tra⯑gedy-pride, that would make a romantic young crea⯑ture, ſuch a one as me, riſque any thing to obtain pity. I was of an age, and a turn (the inſolent ſaid), to be fond of a lover-like diſtreſs: And my grief (which ſhe pleaded) would never break my heart; it would ſooner break That of the beſt and moſt indulgent of mothers. He added, That ſhe might once more go up to me: But that, if ſhe prevailed not, he ſhould ſuſpect, that the man they all hated had found a way to attach her to his intereſt.

Every-body blam'd him for this unworthy reflec⯑tion; which greatly affected the good woman. But nevertheleſs he ſaid, and no-body contradicted him, that if ſhe could not prevail upon her ſweet child (as it ſeems ſhe had fondly called me), ſhe had beſt withdraw to her own home, and there tarry till ſhe was ſent for; and ſo leave her ſweet child to her father's ma⯑nagement.

Sure no-body ever had ſo inſolent, ſo hard-hearted a brother, as I have! So much reſignation to be ex⯑pected from me! So much arrogance, and to ſo good a woman, and of ſo fine an underſtanding, to be al⯑lowed in him!

She nevertheleſs told him, that however ſhe might be ridiculed for ſpeaking of the ſweetneſs of my diſpo⯑ſition, ſhe muſt take upon her to ſay, that there never was a ſweeter in the ſex: And that ſhe had ever found, that by mild methods, and gentleneſs, I might at any time be prevailed upon, even in points againſt my own judgment and opinion.

My aunt Hervey hereupon ſaid, it was worth while to reflect upon what Mrs. Norton ſaid: And that ſhe had ſometimes allowed herſelf to doubt, whether I had been begun with by ſuch methods as generous tempers are only to be influenced by, in caſes where [262] their hearts are ſuppoſed to be oppoſite to the will of their friends.

She had both my brother and ſiſter upon her for This: Who referr'd to my mamma, whether ſhe had not treated me with an indulgence that had hardly any example?

My mamma ſaid, She muſt own, that no indul⯑gence had been wanting from her: But ſhe muſt needs ſay, and had often ſaid it, that the reception I met with on my return from Miſs Howe, and the manner in which the propoſal of Mr. Solmes was made to me (which was ſuch as left nothing to my choice), and before I had had an opportunity to con⯑verſe with him, were not what ſhe had by any means approved of.

She was ſilenc'd, you will gueſs by whom,—with, My dear! my dear!—You have ever ſomething to ſay, ſomething to palliate, for this rebel of a girl!—Re⯑member her treatment of you, of me!—Remember, that the wretch, whom we ſo juſtly hate, would not dare to perſiſt in his purpoſes, but for her encourage⯑ment of him, and obſtinacy to us.—Mrs. Norton (angrily to her), go up to her once more—and if you think gentleneſs will do—you have a commiſſion to be gentle.—If it won't, never make uſe of that plea again.

Ay, my good woman, ſaid my mamma, try your force with her. My ſiſter Hervey and I will go up to her, and bring her down in our hands, to receive her father's bleſſing, and aſſurances of every-body's love, if ſhe will be prevailed upon: And, in that caſe, we will all love you the better for your good offices.

She came up to me, and repeated all theſe paſſages with tears:—But, after what had paſſed between us, I told her, that ſhe could not hope to prevail upon me to comply with meaſures ſo wholly my brother's; and ſo much to my averſion.—And then folding me to her maternal boſom, I leave you, my deareſt Miſs, ſaid [263] ſhe!—I leave you, becauſe I muſt!—But let me be⯑ſeech you to do nothing raſhly; nothing unbecoming your character. If all be true that is ſaid, Mr. Love⯑lace cannot deſerve you. If you can comply, re⯑member it is your duty to comply. They take not, I own, the right method with ſo generous a ſpirit. But remember, that there would not be any merit in your compliance, if it were not to be againſt your own will. Remember alſo, what is expected from a character ſo extraordinary as yours: Remember, it is in your power to unite or diſunite your whole fa⯑mily for ever. Altho' it ſhould at preſent be diſagree⯑able to you to be thus compelled, your prudence, I dare ſay, when you conſider the matter ſeriouſly, will enable you to get over all prejudices againſt the one, and all prepoſſeſſions in favour of the other: And then the obligation you will lay all your family un⯑der, will be not only meritorious in you, with regard to them, but in a few months, very probably, highly ſatisfactory, as well as reputable, to yourſelf.

Conſider, my dear mamma Norton, ſaid I, only conſider, that it is not a ſmall thing that is inſiſted upon; nor for a ſhort duration: It is for my Life.—Conſider too, that all This is owing to an overbear⯑ing brother, who governs every-body. Conſider how deſirous I am to oblige them, if a ſingle [...]ife, and breaking all correſpondence with the man they hate becauſe my brother hates him, would do it.

I conſider every-thing, my deareſt Miſs: And, add⯑ed to what I have ſaid, do you only conſider, that if, by purſuing your own will, and rejecting theirs, you ſhould be unhappy, you will be deprived of all that conſolation which thoſe have, who have been directed by their parents, altho' the event prove not anſwer⯑able to their wiſhes.

I muſt go, repeated ſhe;—your brother will ſay (and ſhe wept), that I harden you by my whining non⯑ſenſe. 'Tis indeed hard, that ſo much regard ſhould [264] be paid to the humours of one child; and ſo little to the inclination of another. But let me repeat, that it is your duty to acquieſce, if you can acquieſce: Your father has given your brother's ſchemes his ſanction; and they are now his. Mr. Lovelace, I doubt, is not a man that will juſtify your choice, ſo much as he will their diſlike. It is too eaſy to ſee that your brother has a view in diſcrediting you with all your friends, with your uncles in particular: But for that very reaſon, you ſhould comply, if poſſible, in order to diſconcert his ungenerous meaſures. I will pray for you; and that is all I can do for you. I muſt now go down, and make a report, that you are re⯑ſolved never to have Mr. Solmes:—Muſt I?—Con⯑ſider, Miſs,—Muſt I?

Indeed you muſt!—But of This I do aſſure you, that I will do nothing to diſgrace the part you have had in my education. I will bear every-thing, that ſhall be ſhort of forcing my hand into his, who never can have any ſhare in my heart. I will try, by pa⯑tient duty, by humility, to overcome them. But death will I chooſe, in any ſhape, rather than That man.

I dread to go down, ſaid ſhe, with ſo determin'd an anſwer: They will have no patience with me.—But let me leave you with one obſervation, which I beg of you always to bear in mind:—

‘'That perſons of prudence, and diſtinguiſhed ta⯑lents, like yours, ſeem to be ſprinkled thro' the world, to give credit, by their example, to Religion and Virtue. When ſuch perſons wilfully err, how great muſt be the fault! How ungrateful to that God, who bleſſed them with ſuch talents! What a loſs likewiſe to the world! What a wound to Virtue! But this, I hope, will never be to be ſaid of Miſs Clariſſa Harlowe!'’

I could give her no anſwer, but by my tears. And I thought, when ſhe went away, the better half of my heart went with her.

[265]I liſtened to hear what reception ſhe would meet with below; and found it was juſt ſuch a one as ſhe apprehended.

Will ſhe, or will ſhe not, be Mrs. Solmes? None of your whining circumlocutions, Mrs. Norton!—(You may gueſs who ſaid this.)—Will ſhe, or will ſhe not, comply with her parents will?

This cut ſhort all ſhe was going to ſay.

If I muſt ſpeak ſo briefly, Miſs will ſooner die, than have—

Any-body but Lovelace! interrupted my brother—This, Madam, This, Sir, is your meek daughter! This is Mrs. Norton's ſweet child!—Well, Goody, you may return to your own habitation. I am im⯑powered to forbid you to have any correſpondence with this perverſe girl, for a month to come, as you value the favour of our whole family, or of any indi⯑vidual of it.

And ſaying this, uncontradicted by any-body, he him⯑ſelf ſhewed her to the door—No doubt, with all that air of cruel inſult, which the haughty Rich can put on to the unhappy Low, who have not pleaſed them.

So here, Miſs, am I deprived of the advice of one of the moſt prudent and conſcientious women in the world, were I to have ever ſo much occaſion for it.

I might, indeed, write, as I preſume, under your cover, and receive her anſwers to what I ſhould write. But ſhould ſuch a correſpondence be charged upon her, I know ſhe would not be guilty of a falſhood for the world; nor even of an equivocation: And ſhould ſhe own it, after this prohibition, ſhe would forfeit my mamma's favour for ever. And in my dangerous fever, ſome time ago, I engaged my mamma to pro⯑miſe me, that, if I died before I could do any-thing for the good woman, ſhe would ſet her above want for the reſt of her life, ſhould her eyes fail her, or ſickneſs befal her, and ſhe could not provide for herſelf, as ſhe now ſo prettily does by her fine needleworks, &c.

[266]What meaſures will they fall upon next?—Will they not recede, when they find, that it muſt be a rooted antipathy, and nothing elſe, that could make a temper, not naturally inflexible, ſo ſturdy?

Adieu, my dear. Be you happy!—To know that it is in your power to be ſo, is all that ſeems wanting to make you ſo.

LETTER XL. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE. [In continuation of the ſubject in Letter XXXVIII.]

I WILL now, tho' midnight (for I have no ſleep in my eyes), reſume the ſubject I was forced ſo abruptly to quit; and will obey yours, Miſs Lloyd's, Miſs Campion's, and Miſs Biddulph's call, with as much temper as my divided thoughts will admit. The dead ſtillneſs of this ſolemn hour will, I hope, contribute to calm my diſturbed mind.

In order to acquit myſelf of ſo heavy a charge as that of having reſerves to ſo dear a friend, I will ac⯑knowlege (and I thought I had over and over), that it is owing to my particular ſituation, if Mr. Love⯑lace appears to me in a tolerable light: And I take upon me to ſay, that had they oppoſed to him a man of ſenſe, of virtue, of generoſity; one who enjoy'd his fortune with credit; who had a tenderneſs in his na⯑ture for the calamities of others, which would have given a moral aſſurance, that he would have been ſtill leſs wanting in grateful returns to an obliging ſpirit:—Had they oppoſed ſuch a man as this to Mr. Lovelace, and been as earneſt to have me marry'd, as now they are, I do not know myſelf, if they would have had rea⯑ſon to tax me with that invincible obſtinacy which they lay to my charge: And this, whatever had been the Figure of the man: Since the Heart is what we women ſhould judge by in the choice we make, as the beſt [267] ſecurity for the party's good behaviour in every relation of life.

But, ſituated as I am, thus perſecuted, and driven; I own to you, that I have now and then had a little more difficulty than I wiſh'd for, in paſſing by Mr. Lovelace's tolerable qualities, to keep up my diſlike to him for his others.

You ſay, I muſt have argued with myſelf in his favour, and in his disfavour, on a ſuppoſition, that I might poſſibly be one day his. I own, that I have: And thus called upon by my deareſt friend, I will ſet before you both parts of the argument.

And firſt, what occurred to me in his favour.

At his introduction into our family, his negative virtues were inſiſted upon:—He was no gameſter; no horſe-racer; no fox-hunter; no drinker: My poor aunt Hervey had, in confidence, given us to apprehend much diſagreeable evil, eſpecially to a wife of the leaſt delicacy, from a wine-lover: And com⯑mon ſenſe inſtructed us, that Sobriety in a man, is no ſmall point to be ſecured, when ſo many miſchiefs happen daily from exceſs. I remember, that my ſiſter made the moſt of this favourable circumſtance in his character, while ſhe had any hopes of him.

He was never thought to be a niggard: Not even ungenerous: Nor, when his conduct came to be in⯑quired into, an extravagant, or ſquanderer: His pride (ſo far was it a laudable pride) ſecured him from that. Then he was ever ready to own his errors: He was no jeſter upon ſacred things: Poor Mr. Wyerley's fault; who ſeemed to think, that there was wit in ſaying bold things, which would ſhock a ſerious mind. His con⯑verſation with us was always unexceptionable; even chaſtly ſo; which, be his actions what they would, ſhew'd him capable of being influenc'd by decent com⯑pany; and that he might probably therefore be a led man, rather than a leader, in other. And one late inſtance, ſo late as laſt Saturday evening, has raiſed [268] him not a little in my opinion, with regard to this point of good (and, at the ſame time, of manly) be⯑haviour.

As to the advantage of birth, that is of his ſide, above any man who has been found out for me: If we may judge by that expreſſion of his, which you was pleaſed with at the time; ‘'That upon true qua⯑lity, and hereditary diſtinction, if good ſenſe were not wanting, honour ſat as eaſy as his glove:'’ That, with as familiar an air, was his familiar expreſſion; ‘'while none but the proſperous upſtart, MUSHROOM'D into rank (another of his peculiars) was arrogantly proud of it.'’ If, I ſay, we may judge of him by this, we ſhall conclude in his favour, that he knows what ſort of behaviour is to be expected from perſons of Birth, whether he act up to it or not. Conviction is half way to amendment.

His fortunes in poſſeſſion are handſome; in expecta⯑tion, ſplendid: So nothing need be ſaid on that ſubject.

But it is impoſſible, ſay ſome, that he ſhould make a tender or kind huſband. Thoſe who are for im⯑poſing upon me ſuch a man as Mr. Solmes, and by methods ſo violent, are not intitled to make this ob⯑jection: But now, on this ſubject, let me tell you how I have argued with myſelf—For ſtill you muſt remember, that I am upon the extenuating part of his character.

A great deal of the treatment a wife may expect from him, will, poſſibly, depend upon herſelf. Per⯑haps ſhe muſt practiſe, as well as promiſe, obedience to a man ſo little uſed to controul; and muſt be care⯑ful to oblige. And what huſband expects not this?—The more, perhaps, if he has not reaſon to aſſure himſelf of the preferable love of his wife, before ſhe became ſuch. And how much eaſier and pleaſanter to obey the man of her choice, if he ſhould be even unreaſonable ſometimes, than one ſhe would not have had, could ſhe have avoided it? Then, I think, as [269] the men were the framers of the matrimonial office, and made obedience a part of the woman's vow, ſhe ought not, even in policy, to ſhew him, that ſhe can break thro' her part of the contract, however lightly ſhe may think of the inſtance; leſt he ſhould take it into his head (himſelf is judge) to think as lightly of other points, which ſhe may hold more important. But indeed no point, ſo ſolemnly vow'd, can be ſlight.

Thus principled, and acting accordingly, what a wretch muſt that huſband be, who could treat ſuch a wife brutally!—Will Lovelace's wife be the only perſon, to whom he will not pay the grateful debt of civility and good-manners? He is allow'd to be brave: Who ever knew a brave man, if a man of ſenſe, an univerſally baſe man? And how much the gentle⯑neſs of ſex, and the manner of our training-up and education, make us need the protection of the brave, and the countenance of the generous, let the general approbation which we are all ſo naturally inclin'd to give to men of that character, teſtify.

At worſt, will he confine me priſoner to my cham⯑ber? Will he deny me the viſits of my deareſt friend, and forbid me to correſpond with her? Will he take from me the Miſtreſly management, which I had not faultily diſcharged? Will he ſet a ſervant over me, with licence to inſult me? Will he, as he has not a ſiſter, permit his couſins Montague, or would either of thoſe Ladies accept of a permiſſion, to inſult and tyrannize over me?—It cannot be.—Why then, think I often, do you tempt me, O my cruel friends, to try the difference?

And then has the ſecret pleaſure intruded itſelf, to be able to reclaim ſuch a man to the paths of virtue and honour: To be a ſecondary means, if I were to be his, of ſaving him, and preventing the miſchiefs ſo enterpriſing a creature might otherwiſe be guilty of, if he be ſuch a one.

In theſe lights when I have thought of him (and that as a man of ſenſe he will ſooner ſee his errors, than an⯑other), [270] I own to you, that I have had ſome difficulty to avoid taking the path they ſo violently endeavour to make me ſhun: And all that command of my paſſions, which has been attributed to me, as my greateſt praiſe, and, in ſo young a creature, as my diſtinction, has hardly been ſufficient for me.

And let me add, that the favour of his relations (all but himſelf unexceptionable) has made a good deal of additional weight, thrown into the ſame ſcale.

But now, in his disfavour. When I have reflected upon the prohibition of my parents: The giddy ap⯑pearance, diſgraceful to ſex, that ſuch a preference would have: That there is no manner of likelihood, inflam'd by the rencounter, and upheld by art and ambition on my brother's ſide, that ever the animoſity will be got over: That I muſt therefore be at per⯑petual variance with all my own family: Muſt go to him, and to his, as an obliged, and half-fortun'd perſon: That his averſion to them all, is as ſtrong, as theirs to him; That his whole family are hated for his ſake; they hating ours in return: That he has a very im⯑moral character as to our ſex: That knowing this, it is a high degree of impurity, to think of joining in wedlock with ſuch a man: That he is young, un⯑broken, his paſſions unſubdued: That he is violent in his temper; yet artful: I am afraid vindictive too: That ſuch an huſband might unſettle me in all my own principles, and hazard my future hopes: That his own relations, two excellent aunts, and an uncle, from whom he has ſuch large expectations, have no influence upon him: That what tolerable qualities he has, are ſounded more in pride than in virtue: That allowing, as he does, the excellency of Moral Precepts, and believing the doctrine of future Rewards and Puniſhments, he can live as if he deſpis'd the one, and defy'd the other: The probability that the taint ariſing from ſuch free principles, may go down into the manners of po⯑ſterity: [271] That I knowing theſe things, and the im⯑portance of them, ſhould be more inexcuſable than one who knows them not; ſince an error againſt judgment, is worſe, infinitely worſe, than an error in judgment:—Reflecting upon theſe things, I cannot help conjuring you, my dear, to pray with me, and to pray for me, that I may not be puſh'd upon ſuch indiſcreet meaſures, as will render me inexcuſable to myſelf: For that is the teſt, after all; the world's opi⯑nion ought to be but a ſecondary conſideration.

I have ſaid, in his praiſe, that he is extremely ready to own his errors: But I have ſometimes made a great drawback upon this article, in his disfavour; having been ready to apprehend, that this ingenuity may poſ⯑ſibly be attributable to two cauſes, neither of them, by any means, creditable to him. The one, that his vices are ſo much his maſters, that he attempts not to con⯑quer them; the other, that he may think it policy, to give up one half of his character, to ſave the other, when the whole may be blameable: By this means, ſilencing by acknowlegement the objections he can⯑not anſwer; which may give him the praiſe of in⯑genuouſneſs, when he can obtain no other; and when the challeng'd proof might bring out, upon diſ⯑cuſſion, other evils. Theſe, you'll allow, are ſevere conſtructions; but every-thing his enemies ſay of him cannot be falſe.

I will proceed by and by.

SOMETIMES we have both thought him one of the moſt undeſigning merely witty men we ever knew; at other times one of the deepeſt creatures we ever convers'd with. So that, when in one viſit, we have imagin'd we fathom'd him, in the next, he has made us ready to give him up as impenetrable. This, my dear, is to be put among the ſhades in his character.—Yet, upon the whole, you have been ſo far of his [272] party, that you have conteſted, that his principal fault is over-frankneſs, and too much regardleſneſs of ap⯑pearances, and that he is too giddy to be very artful: You would have it, that at the time he ſays any thing good, he means what he ſpeaks; That his variableneſs and levity are conſtitutional, owing to ſound health, and to a ſoul and body, that was your obſervation, fitted for, and pleaſed with, each other. And hence you concluded, that could this conſentaneouſneſs, as you call'd it, of corporal and animal faculties, be pointed by diſcretion; that is to ſay, could his vivacity be confined within the pale of but moral obligations; he would be far from being rejectible as a companion for life.

But I uſed then to ſay, and I ſtill am of opinion, that he wants a heart: And if he does, he wants every-thing. A wrong head may be convinc'd, may have a right turn given it: But who is able to give a heart, if a heart be wanting? Divine Grace, work⯑ing a miracle, or next to a miracle, can only change a bad heart. Should not one fly the man who is but ſuſpected of ſuch a one?—What, O what, do parents do, when they precipitate a child, and make her think better than ſhe would otherwiſe think of a man of an indifferent character, in order to avoid another that is odious to her!

I have ſaid, that I think him vindictive: Upon my word, I have ſometimes doubted, whether his per⯑ſeverance in his addreſſes to me, has not been the more obſtinate, ſince he has found himſelf ſo diſ⯑agreeable to my friends. From that time, I verily think he has been more fervent in them; yet courts them not; but ſets them at defiance. For this, in⯑deed, he pleads diſintereſtedneſs (I am ſure he cannot politeneſs) and the more plauſibly, as he is apprized of the ability they have to make it worth his while to court them. 'Tis true, he has declared, and with too much reaſon, or there would be no enduring [273] him, that the loweſt ſubmiſſions on his part, would not be accepted; and to oblige me, has offered to ſeek a reconciliation with them, if I would give him hope of ſucceſs. As to his behaviour at church, the Sunday before laſt, I lay no ſtreſs upon that, becauſe I doubt there was too much outward pride in his in⯑tentional humility, or Shorey, who is not his enemy, could not have miſtaken it.

I do not think him ſo deeply learn'd in human Na⯑ture, or in Ethics, as ſome have thought him. Don't you remember how he ſtared, at the following trite obſervations, which every moraliſt could have furniſh'd him with? Complaining, as he did, in a half-menacing ſtrain, of the obloquies raiſed againſt him— ‘'That if he were innocent, he ſhould deſpiſe the obloquy: If not, revenge would not wipe off his guilt.'’ ‘'That nobody ever thought of turning a ſword into a ſponge!'’ ‘'That it was in his own power, by reformation of an error laid to his charge by an enemy, to make that enemy one of his beſt friends; and (which was the nobleſt revenge in the world) againſt his will; ſince an enemy would not wiſh him to be without the faults he taxed him with.'’

But the intention, he ſaid, was the wound.

How ſo, I aſk'd him, when That cannot wound without the application? ‘'That the adverſary only held the ſword: He himſelf pointed it to his breaſt?—And why ſhould he reſent mortally that malice, which he might be the better for, as long as he lived?'’ —What could be the reading he has been ſaid to be maſter of, to wonder, as he did, at theſe obſervations?

But, indeed, he muſt take pleaſure in revenge; and yet holds others to be inexcuſable for the ſame fault.—He is not, however, the only one who can ſee how truly blameable thoſe errors are in another, which they hardly think ſuch in themſelves.

From theſe conſiderations; From theſe over-ba⯑lances; [274] it was, that I ſaid, in a former, that I would not be in Love with this man for the world: And it was going further than prudence would warrant, when I was for compounding with you, by the words conditional liking; which you ſo humorouſly railly.

Well but, methinks you ſay, what is all this to the purpoſe? This is ſtill but reaſoning: But, if you are in Love, you are: And Love, like the vapours, is the deeper rooted for having no ſufficient cauſe aſſign⯑able for its hold. And ſo you call upon me again, to have no reſerves, and ſo-forth.

Why then, my dear, if you will have it, I think, that, with all his preponderating faults, I like him bet⯑ter than I ever thought I ſhould like him; and, thoſe faults conſider'd, better perhaps than I ought to like him. And, I believe, it is poſſible for the perſecution I labour under, to induce me to like him ſtill more:—Eſpecially while I can recollect to his advantage our laſt interview, and as every day produces ſtronger in⯑ſtances of tyranny, I will call it, on the other ſide.—In a word, I will frankly own (ſince you cannot think any thing I ſay too explicite), that were he now but a moral man, I would prefer him to all the men I ever ſaw.

So that This is but conditional liking ſtill, you'll ſay.—Nor, I hope, is it more. I never was in Love; and whether This be it, or not, I muſt ſubmit to you:—But will venture to think it, if it be, no ſuch mighty monarch, no ſuch unconquerable power, as I have heard it repreſented; and it muſt have met with greater encouragements than I think I have given it, to be ſo irreſiſtible.—Since I am perſuaded, that I could yet, without a throb, moſt willingly give up the one man to get rid of the other.

But now to be a little more ſerious with you: If, my dear, my particularly unhappy ſituation had driven (or led me, if you pleaſe,) into a liking of the man; and if that liking had, in your opinion, inclined me [275] to the other L, ſhould you, whoſe mind is ſuſceptible of the moſt friendly impreſſions; who have ſuch high notions of the delicacy of ſex; and who actually do en⯑ter ſo deeply into the diſtreſſes of one you love; ſhould you have puſhed ſo far that unhappy friend on ſo very nice a ſubject?—Eſpecially, when I aimed not (as you could prove by fifty inſtances, it ſeems), to guard againſt being found out. Had you raillied me by word of mouth in the manner you do, it might have been more in character; eſpecially, if your friend's diſtreſſes had been ſurmounted; and if ſhe had af⯑fected Prudiſh airs in revolving the ſubject: But to ſit down to write it, as methinks I ſee you, with a gladden'd eye, and with all the archneſs of exultation—Indeed my dear (and I take notice of it, rather for the ſake of your own generoſity, than for my ſake; for, as I have ſaid, I love your raillery) it is not ſo very pretty; the delicacy of the ſubject, and the delicacy of your own mind, conſider'd.

I lay down my pen, here, that you may conſider of it a little, if you pleaſe.

LETTER XLI. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

HOW willingly would my dear mamma ſhew kindneſs to me, were ſhe permitted! None of this perſecution ſhould I labour under, I am ſure, if that regard were paid to her prudence and fine under⯑ſtanding, which they ſo well deſerve. Whether owe⯑ing to her, or to my aunt, or to both, that a new trial was to be made upon me, I cannot tell; but this morning her Shorey deliver'd into my hand the fol⯑lowing condeſcending letter.

Think for me, my deareſt friend, how I muſt be affected by this letter; the contents of it ſo ſurpri⯑ſingly terrifying, yet ſo ſweetly urged!—O why, cry'd I to myſelf, am I obliged to undergo this ſevere conflict between a command that I cannot obey, and language ſo condeſcendingly moving!—Could I have been ſure of being ſtruck dead at the altar before the ceremony had given the man I hate a title to my vows, I think I could have ſubmitted to have been led to it. But to think of living with, and living for, a man one cannot abide, what a ſad thing is that!—

And then, how could the glare of habit and orna⯑ment be ſuppoſed any inducement to one, who has always held, that the principal view of a good wife in the adorning of her perſon, ought to be, to preſerve the affection of her huſband, and to do credit to his choice; and that ſhe ſhould be even fearful of attract⯑ing the eyes of others?—In this view, muſt not the very richneſs of the patterns add to my diſguſts?—Great encouragement indeed, to think of adorning one's-ſelf to be the wife of Mr. Solmes!—

Upon the whole, it was not poſſible for me to go down upon the preſcrib'd condition. Do you think it was?—And to write, if my letter would have been read, what could I write that would be admitted, and after what I had written and ſaid to ſo little effect? I walked backward and forward: I threw down with diſdain the patterns: Now to my cloſet retir'd I; then, quitting it, now threw I myſelf upon the Settee; now [283] upon this chair; now upon that; and then into one window, then into another—I knew not what to do!—And while I was in this ſuſpenſe, having again taken up the letter to re-peruſe it, Betty came in, reminding me, by order, That my papa and mamma waited for me in my papa's ſtudy.

Tell my mamma, ſaid I, that I beg the favour of ſeeing her here for one moment; or to permit me to attend her any where by herſelf.

I liſten'd at the ſtair's-head—You ſee, my dear, how it is, cry'd my father, very angrily: All your condeſcenſion (as your indulgence heretofore) is thrown away. You blame your ſon's violence, as you call it, [I had ſome pleaſure in hearing this] but nothing elſe will do with her. You ſhall not ſee her alone. Is my preſence an exception to the bold creature?

Tell her, ſaid my mamma to Betty, ſhe knows up⯑on what terms ſhe may come down to us. Nor will I ſee her upon any other.

The maid brought me this anſwer. I had recourſe to my pen and ink; but I trembled ſo, that I could not write, nor knew I what to ſay had I had ſteadier fingers. At laſt Betty brought me theſe lines from my papa.

If this reſolution be adhered to, then will my papa never ſee me more!—For I will never be That Solmes's wife—I will die firſt!—

LETTER XLII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

AN angry dialogue, a ſcolding-bout rather, has paſſed between my ſiſter and me. Did you think I could ſcold, my dear?

She was ſent up to me, upon my refuſal to ſee Mr. Solmes—Let looſe upon me, I think!—No intention, on their parts, to conciliate! I am to be given up to my brother and her I ſuppoſe, by general conſent.

Every thing ſhe ſaid againſt me, which carried force with it, I will do juſtice to. As I aſk for your approbation or diſapprobation of my conduct, upon the facts I lay before you, I ſhould think it the ſign of a very bad cauſe, if I endeavoured to miſlead my judge.

She began with repreſenting to me the danger I had been in, had my father come up, as he would have done, had he not been hindered, by Mr. Solmes, among the reſt. She reflected upon my good Mrs. Norton, as if ſhe encouraged me in my perverſeneſs. She ridiculed me for my ſuppoſed eſteem for Love⯑lace. Was ſurpriſed that the witty, the prudent, nay, the dutiful and pi-ous (ſo ſhe ſneeringly pronounced the word) Clariſſa Harlowe, ſhould be ſo ſtrangely fond of a profligate man, that her parents were forced to lock her up, to keep her from running into his arms. Let me aſk you, my dear, ſaid ſhe, how you now keep your account of the diſpoſition of your time? How many hours in the twenty-four do you devote to your Needle? How many to your Prayers? How many to Letter-writing? And how many to Love?—I doubt, I doubt, my little dear, was her arch expreſſion, The latter article is like Aaron's rod, and ſwallows up all the reſt!—Tell me; is it not ſo?

To theſe I anſwered, That it was a double mor⯑tification to me to owe my ſafety from my papa's in⯑dignation [287] to a man I could never thank for any thing.—I vindicated the good Mrs. Norton with a warmth that her merit required from me.—With equal warmth I reſented her unſiſterly reflections upon me on Mr. Lovelace's account. As to the diſpoſition of my time, in the twenty-four hours, I told her it would better have become her to pity a ſiſter in di⯑ſtreſs, than to exult over her—Eſpecially, when I could too juſtly attribute to the diſpoſition of ſome of her wakeful hours no ſmall part of that diſtreſs.

She raved extremely at this laſt hint: But reminded me of the gentle treatment of all my friends, my mamma's particularly, before it came to This: She ſaid, that I had diſcovered a ſpirit they never had ex⯑pected: That, if they had thought me ſuch a cham⯑pioneſs, they would hardly have ventured to engage with me: But that now, the ſhort and the long was, that the matter had gone too far to be given up: That now it was a contention between duty and wil⯑fulneſs; Whether a parent's authority was to yield to a daughter's obſtinacy, or the contrary: That I muſt therefore bend or break, that was all, child.

I told her, that I wiſhed the ſubject were of ſuch a nature, that I could return her pleaſantry with equal lightneſs of heart: But that, if Mr. Solmes had ſuch merit in every-body's eye, in hers particularly, why might he not be a brother to me, rather than a huſband?

O child, ſhe thought I was as pleaſant to the full as ſhe was: She began to have ſome hopes of me now. But did I think ſhe would rob her ſiſter of her humble ſervant? Had he firſt addreſſed himſelf to me, ſaid ſhe, ſomething might have been ſaid: But to take my younger ſiſter's refuſal! No, no, child; it is not come to that neither! Beſides, That would be to leave the door open in your heart for you know who, child; and we would fain bar him out, if poſſible. In ſhort (and then ſhe changed both her tone, and her looks), had I been as forward as ſomebody, to throw myſelf [288] into the arms of one of the greateſt profligates in Eng⯑land, who had endeavoured to ſupport his claim to me thro' the blood of my brother, then might all my family join together to ſave me from ſuch a wretch, and to marry me as faſt as they could, to ſome wor⯑thy gentleman, who might oppor-tune-ly offer him⯑ſelf. And now, Clary, all's out, and make the moſt of it.

Did not this deſerve a ſevere return? Do, ſay it did, to juſtify my reply.—Alas! for my poor ſiſter! ſaid I.—The man was not always ſo great a profligate. How true is the obſervation, That unrequited love turns to deepeſt hate!

I thought ſhe would have beat me.—But I pro⯑ceeded—I have heard often of my brother's danger, and my brother's murderer. When ſo little ceremony is made with me, why ſhould I not ſpeak out?—Did he not ſeek to kill the other, if he could have done it? Would he have given him his life, had it been in his power?—The aggreſſor ſhould not complain.—And, as to oppor-tune offers, would to heaven ſome one had offer'd oppor-tune-ly to ſomebody. It is not my fault, Bella, the oppor-tune gentleman don't come!

Could you, my dear, have ſhewn more ſpirit? I expected to feel the weight of her hand. She did come up to me, with it held up: Then, ſpeechleſs with paſſion, ran down half way of the ſtairs, and then up again.

When ſhe could ſpeak—God give her patience with me!

Amen, ſaid I: But you ſee, Bella, how ill you bear the retort you provoke. Will you forgive me; and let me find a ſiſter in you, as I am ſorry, if you have reaſon to think me unſiſterly in what I have ſaid?

Then did ſhe pour upon me, with greater violence; conſidering my gentleneſs as a triumph of temper over [289] her. She was reſolved, ſhe ſaid, to let every-body know how I took the wicked Lovelace's part againſt my brother.

I wiſh'd, I told her, I could make the plea for my-ſelf, which ſhe might for her-ſelf: That my anger was more inexcuſable than my judgment. But I pre⯑ſumed ſhe had ſome other view in coming to me, than ſhe had hitherto acquainted me with. Let me, ſaid I, but know (after all that has paſſed) if you have anything to propoſe that I can comply with; any thing that can make my only ſiſter once more my friend?

I had before, upon her ridiculing me on my ſup⯑poſed character of meekneſs, ſaid, that, altho' I wiſhed to be thought meek, I would not be abject; altho' humble, not mean: And here, in a ſneering way, ſhe cautioned me on that head.

I replied, that her pleaſantry was much more agree⯑able than her anger: But I wiſhed ſhe would let me know the end of a viſit that had hitherto (between us) been ſo unſiſterly?

She deſired to be informed, in the name of every⯑body, was her word, what I was determined upon: And whether to comply or not?—One word for all: My friends were not to have patience with ſo perverſe a creature, for ever.

This then I told her I would do: Abſolutely break with the man they were all ſo determined againſt: Upon condition, however, that neither Mr. Solmes, nor any other, were urged to me with the force of a command.

And what was this, more than I had offered be⯑fore? What, but ringing my changes upon the ſame bells, and neither receding nor advancing one tittle?

If I knew what other propoſals I could make, that would be acceptable to them all, and free me from the addreſs of a man ſo diſagreeable to me, I would make them. I had indeed before offered, never to marry without my father's conſent—

[290]She interrupted me, That was becauſe I depended upon my whining tricks to bring my father and mo⯑ther to what I pleaſed.

A poor dependence! I ſaid:—She knew thoſe who would make that dependence vain—

And I ſhould have brought them to my own beck, very probably, and my uncle Harlowe too, as alſo my aunt Hervey, had I not been forbidden their ſight, and thereby hindered from playing my pug's tricks before them.

At leaſt, Bella, ſaid I, you have hinted to me to whom I am obliged, that my father and mother, and every-body elſe, treat me thus harſhly. But ſurely you make them all very weak. Indifferent perſons, judging of us two, from what you ſay, would either think me a very artful creature, or you a very ſpiteful one.

You are indeed a very artful one, for that matter, interrupted ſhe in a paſſion: One of the artfulleſt I every knew! And then followed an accuſation ſo low! ſo unſiſterly!—That I next-to-bewitch'd people, by my inſinuating addreſs: That no-body could be va⯑lued or reſpected, but muſt ſtand like cyphers where⯑ever I came. How often, ſaid ſhe, have I and my brother been talking upon a ſubject, and had every⯑body's attention, till you came in, with your bewitch⯑ing meek pride, and humble ſignificance; and then have we either been ſtopped by references to Miſs Clariſſa's opinion, forſooth; or been forced to ſtop ourſelves, or muſt have talked on unattended to by every-body.

She pauſed. Dear Bella, proceed!—She indeed ſeemed only gathering breath.

And ſo I will, ſaid ſhe. Did you not bewitch my grandfather? Could any thing be pleaſing to him, that you did not ſay or do? How did he uſe to hang, till he ſlabber'd again, poor doting old man! on your ſilver tongue! Yet what did you ſay, that we could not have ſaid? What did you do, that we did not endeavour to do?—And what was all this for? His [291] Laſt Will ſhewed what effect your ſmooth obligingneſs had upon him!—To leave the acquired part of his eſtate from the next heirs, his own ſons, to a grand⯑child; to his youngeſt grandchild! a daughter too!—To leave the family-pictures from his ſons to you, becauſe you could tiddle about them, and, tho' you now neglect their examples, could wipe and clean them with your dainty hands! The family-plate too, in ſuch quantities, of two or three generations ſtand⯑ing, muſt not be changed, becauſe his precious child ^(a), humouring his old fal-lal taſte, admired it, to make it all her own.

This was too low too move me: O my poor ſiſter! ſaid I: Not to be able, or at leaſt willing, to diſtin⯑guiſh between art and nature! If I did oblige, I was happy in it: I looked for no further reward: My mind is above art, from the dirty motives you men⯑tion. I wiſh with all my heart my grandfather had not thus diſtinguiſhed me: He ſaw my brother likely to be amply provided for out of the family, as well as in it: He deſired that you might have the greater ſhare of my papa's favour for it; and no doubt but you both will. You know, Bella, that the eſtate my grandfather bequeathed me was not half the real eſtate he left.

What's all that to an eſtate in poſſeſſion, and left you with ſuch diſtinctions, as gave you a reputation of greater value than the eſtate itſelf?

Hence my misfortune, Bella, in your Envy, I doubt! But have I not given up that poſſeſſion in the beſt manner I could—

Yes, interrupting me, ſhe hated me for that beſt manner. Specious little witch! ſhe called me: Your beſt manner, ſo full of art and deſign, had never been ſeen thro', if you, with your blandiſhing ways, had not been put out of ſight, and reduced to poſitive decla⯑rations!—Hindered from playing your little, whining [292] tricks; curling, like a ſerpent, about your mamma; and making her cry to deny you any thing your little obſtinate heart was ſet upon!

Obſtinate heart, Bella!

Yes, obſtinate heart! For did you ever give up any thing? Had you not the art to make them think all was right you aſked, tho' my brother and I were fre⯑quently refuſed favours of no greater import?

I knew not, Bella, that I ever aſked any thing un⯑fit to be granted. I ſeldom aſked favours for myſelf, but for others.

I was a reflecting creature for this!

All you ſpeak of, Bella, was a long time ago. I cannot go ſo far back into our childiſh follies. Little did I think of how long ſtanding this your late-ſhewn antipathy is.

I was a reflecter again! Such a ſaucy meekneſs; ſuch a beſt manner; and ſuch venom in words!—O Clary! Clary! Thou wert always a two-faced girl!

No-body thought I had two faces, when I gave up All into my papa's management; taking from his bounty, as before, all my little pocket-money, with⯑out a ſhilling addition to my ſtipend, or deſiring it—

Yes, cunning creature!—And that was another of your fetches!—For did it not engage my fond papa (as no doubt you thought it would) to tell you, that, ſince you had done ſo grateful and dutiful a thing, he would keep intire, for your uſe, all the produce of the eſtate left you, and be but your ſteward in it; and that you ſhould be intitled to the ſame allowances as before: Another of your hook-in's, Clary!—So that all your extravagancies have been ſupported gratis.

My extravagancies, Bella!—But did my papa ever give me any-thing he did not give you?

Yes, indeed; I got more by that means, than I ſhould have had the conſcience to aſk. But I have ſtill the greater part to ſhew! But you! What have you to ſhew?—I dare to ſay, not fifty pieces in the world!

[293]Indeed I have not!

I believe you!—Your mamma Norton, I ſuppoſe—But mum for that!

Unworthy Bella!—The good woman, altho' low in circumſtance, is great in mind! Much greater than thoſe who would impute meanneſs to a ſoul incapable of it.

What then have you done with the ſums given you from infancy to ſquander?—Let me aſk you (affect⯑ing archneſs), Has, has, has, Lovelace, has your Rake, put it out at intereſt for you?

O that my ſiſter would not make me bluſh for her! It is, however, out at intereſt!—And I hope it will bring me intereſt upon intereſt!—Better than to lie ruſting in my cabinet, as yours does.

She underſtood me, ſhe ſaid. Were I a man, ſhe ſhould ſuppoſe I was aiming to carry the County. Popularity! A croud to follow me with their bleſſings, when I went to and from church, and no-body elſe to be regarded, were agreeable things! Houſe-top proclamations! I hid not my light under a buſhel, ſhe would ſay that for me. But was it not a little hard upon me, to be kept from blazing on a Sunday?—And to be hindered from my charitable oſtentations?

This, indeed, Bella, is cruel in you, who have ſo largely contributed to my confinement.—But go on. You'll be out of breath by-and-by. I cannot wiſh to be able to return this uſage.—Poor Bella! And I believe I ſmiled a little too contemptuouſly for a ſiſter.

None of my ſaucy contempts (riſing in her voice): None of my poor Bella's, with that air of ſuperiority in a younger ſiſter!

Well then, rich Bella! courteſying—that will pleaſe you better—And it is due likewiſe to the hoards you boaſt of.

Look-ye, Clary, holding up her hand, if you are not a little more abject in your meekneſs, a little more mean in your humility, and tre [...]t me with the reſpect due to an elder ſiſter—you ſhall find—

[294]Not that you will treat me worſe than you have done, Bella!—That cannot be; unleſs you were to let fall your uplifted hand upon me—And that would leſs become you to do, than me to bear.

Good, meek creature!—But you were upon your overtures juſt now!—I ſhall ſurprize every-body by tarrying ſo long. They will think ſome good may be done with you—And ſupper will be ready.

A tear would ſtray down my cheek—How happy have I been, ſaid I, ſighing, in the ſupper-time conver⯑ſations, with all my dear friends in my eye, round the hoſpitable board!

I met only with inſult for this—Bella has not a feeling heart: The higheſt joy in this life ſhe is not capable of: But then ſhe ſaves herſelf many griefs, by her impenetrableneſs.—Yet, for ten times the pain that ſuch a ſenſibility is attended with, would I not part with the pleaſure it brings with it.

She aſked me, upon my turning from her, If ſhe ſhould ſay any thing below of my compliances?

You may ſay, That I will do every-thing they would have me do, if they will free me from Mr. Solmes's addreſs.

This is all you deſire at preſent, creeper-on! (What words ſhe has!) But will not t'other man flame out, and roar moſt horribly, upon a prey's being ſnatch'd from his paws, that he thought himſelf ſure of?

I muſt let you talk in your own way, or we ſhall never come to a point. I ſhall not matter his roar⯑ing, as you call it: I will promiſe him, that, if I ever marry any other man, it ſhall not be till he is mar⯑ried. And if he be not ſatisfied with ſuch a conde⯑ſcenſion as this, I ſhall think he ought: And I will give any aſſurances, that I will neither correſpond with him, nor ſee him. Surely this will do.

But I ſuppoſe then you will have no objection to ſee and converſe, on a civil foot, with Mr. Solmes—as your papa's friend, or ſo?

[295]No! I muſt be permitted to retire to my apartment whenever he comes: I would no more converſe with the one, than correſpond with the other: That would be to make Mr. Lovelace guilty of ſome raſhneſs, on a belief, that I broke with him, to have Mr. Solmes.

And ſo, that wicked wretch is to be allowed ſuch a controul over you, that you are not to be civil to your papa's friends, at his own houſe, for fear of in⯑cenſing him!—When this comes to be repreſented, be ſo good as to tell me, what it is you expect from it?

Every-thing, I ſaid, or nothing, as ſhe was pleaſed to repreſent it.—Be ſo good as to give it your intereſt, Bella: And ſay farther, That I will by any means I can, in the Law, or otherwiſe, make over to my papa, to my uncles, or even to my brother, all I am in⯑titled to by my grandfather's will, as a ſecurity for the performance of my promiſes. And as I ſhall have no reaſon to expect any favour from my papa, if I break them, I ſhall not be worth any-body's having. And further ſtill, unkindly as my brother has uſed me, I will go down to Scotland privately, as his houſe⯑keeper (I now ſee I may be ſpared here), if he will promiſe to treat me no worſe than he would do an hired one.—Or I will go to Florence, to my couſin Morden, if his ſtay in Italy will admit of it: And, in either caſe, it may be given out, that I am gone to the other; or to the world's end: I care not whither it is ſaid I am gone, or do go.

Let me aſk you, child, if you will give your pretty propoſal in writing?

Yes, with all my heart. And I ſtept to my clo⯑ſet, and wrote to the purpoſe I have mentioned; and, moreover, a few lines to my brother with it; ex⯑preſſing ‘'my concern for having offended him; be⯑ſeeching him to ſupport with his intereſt the accom⯑panying propoſal; diſdaining ſubterfuge and art; re⯑ferring to him to draw up a writing to bind me to the obſervance of my promiſes; declaring, that what [296] the law would not eſtabliſh, my reſolution ſhould.—I told him, That he could do more than any-body to reconcile my father and mother to me: And I ſhould be infinitely obliged to him, if he would let me owe this favour to his brotherly mediation.'’

And how do you think Bella employed herſelf while I was writing?—Why, playing gently upon my harpſichord: And humming to it, to ſhew her uncon⯑cernedneſs.

When I approached her with what I had written, the cruel creature aroſe with an air of levity—Why, love, you have not written already!—You have, I proteſt!—O what a ready penwoman!—And may I read it?

If you pleaſe, Bella.

She read it; and burſt into an affected laugh: How wiſe-ones may be taken in!—Then you did not know, that I was jeſting with you all this time!—And ſo you would have me carry down this pretty piece of non⯑ſenſe?

Don't let me be ſurprized at your ſeeming unſiſterli⯑neſs, Bella. I hope it is but ſeeming. There can be no wit in ſuch jeſting as this.

The folly of the creature! How natural it is for people, when they ſet their hearts upon any-thing, to think every-body muſt ſee with their eyes!—Pray, dear child, what becomes of your papa's authority here?—Who ſtoops here, the parent, or the child?—How does this ſquare with the engagements actually agreed upon between your Papa and Mr. Solmes? What ſecurity, that your Rake will not follow you to the world's-end?—Pr'ythee, pr'ythee, take it back; and put it to thy love-ſick heart, and never think I will be laughed at for being taken-in by thy whining nonſenſe. I know thee better, my dear.—And, with another ſpiteful laugh, ſhe flung it on my toilette; and away ſhe went.—Contempts for contempts, as ſhe paſſed!—That's for your poor Bella's!

[297]Nevertheleſs, I incloſed what I had written, in a few lines directed to my brother: As modeſtly as I could, accounting, from my ſiſter's behaviour, for ſending it down to him; leſt ſhe, having, in her paſ⯑ſion, miſtaken me, as I ſaid, ſhould ſet what I had written in a worſe light than, as I apprehended, it deſerved to appear in. The following is the anſwer I received to it, delivered to me juſt as I was going to bed. His paſſion would not let him ſtay till morning.

There's a brother!—There's flaming duty to a fa⯑ther, and mother, and uncles!—But he ſees himſelf valued, and made of conſequence; and he gives him⯑ſelf airs accordingly!—

LETTER XLIII. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MY aunt Hervey lay here laſt night, and is but juſt gone from me. She came up to me with my ſiſter. They would not truſt my aunt without this ill-natur'd witneſs. When ſhe enter'd my cham⯑ber, I told her, That this viſit was a high favour to a poor priſoner, in her hard confinement. I kiſs'd her hand. She, kindly ſaluting me, ſaid, Why this diſtance to your aunt, my dear, who loves you ſo well?

She own'd, That ſhe came to expoſtulate with me, for the peace ſake of the family: For that ſhe could not believe it poſſible, if I did not conceive myſelf un⯑kindly treated, that I, who had ever ſhewn ſuch a ſweetneſs of temper, as well as manners, ſhould be thus reſolute, in a point ſo very near to my father, and all my friends. My mamma and ſhe were both willing to impute my reſolution to the manner I had been begun with; and to my ſuppoſing, that my bro⯑ther had originally more of a hand in the propoſals made by Mr. Solmes, than my father, or other friends. And fain would ſhe have furniſh'd me with an excuſe to come off of my oppoſition; Bella all the while humming a tune, and opening this book and that, without meaning; but ſaying nothing. After having ſhewed me, that my oppoſition could not be of ſigni⯑fication, [299] my father's honour being engaged, ſhe con⯑cluded with inforcing upon me my duty, in ſtronger terms than I believe ſhe would have done, the circum⯑ſtances of the caſe conſider'd, had not my ſiſter been preſent. It would but be repeating what I have ſo often mentioned, to give you the arguments that paſſed on both ſides. So I will only recite what ſhe was pleaſed to ſay, that carried with it the face of newneſs.

When ſhe found me inflexible, as ſhe was pleaſed to call it, ſhe ſaid—For her part, ſhe could not but ſay, that if I were not to have either Mr. Solmes or Mr. Lovelace, and yet, to make my friends eaſy, muſt marry, ſhe ſhould not think amiſs of Mr. Wyerley. What did I think of Mr. Wyerley?

Ay, Clary, put in my ſiſter, what ſay you to Mr. Wyerley?

I ſaw thro' this immediately. It was ſaid on pur⯑poſe, I doubted not, to have an argument againſt me of abſolute prepoſſeſſion in Lovelace's favour: Since Mr. Wyerley every-where proclaims his value, even to veneration, for me; and is far leſs exception⯑able, both in perſon and mind, than Mr. Solmes: And I was willing to turn the tables, by trying how far Solme's terms might be diſpens'd with; ſince the ſame terms could not be expected from Mr. Wyerley?

I therefore deſired to know, Whether my anſwer, if it ſhould be in favour of Mr. Wyerley, would re⯑leaſe me from Mr. Solmes?—For I own'd, that I had not the averſion to him, that I had to the other.

Nay, ſhe had no commiſſion to propoſe ſuch a thing—She only knew, that my papa and mamma would not be eaſy till Mr. Lovelace's hopes were in⯑tirely defeated.

Cunning creature! ſaid my ſiſter.—And this, and her joining in the queſtion-before, confirm'd me, that it was a deſigned ſnare for me.

Don't YOU, dear Madam, ſaid I, put queſtions that can anſwer no end, but to ſupport my brother's [300] ſchemes againſt me.—But are there any hopes of an end to my ſufferings and diſgrace, without having this hated man impoſed upon me? Will not what I have offer'd be accepted? I am ſure it ought: I will ven⯑ture to ſay That.

Why, niece, if there be not any ſuch hopes, I pre⯑ſume you don't think yourſelf abſolv'd from the duty due from a child to her parents?

Yes, ſaid my ſiſter, I do not doubt but it is Miſs Clary's aim, if ſhe does not fly to her Lovelace, to get her eſtate into her own hands, and go to live at The Grove, in that independence upon which ſhe builds all her perverſeneſs. And, dear heart! my little love, how will you then blaze away! Your mamma Norton your oracle, with your Poor at your gates, mingling ſo proudly and ſo meanly with the rag⯑ged herd! Reflecting, by your oſtentation, upon all the Ladies in the county, who do not as you do. This is known to be your ſcheme! And the Poor without-doors, and Lovelace within, with one hand building up a name, pulling it down with the other!—O what a charming ſcheme is this!—But let me tell you, my pretty little frighty one, that my papa's living Will ſhall controul my grandfather's dead one; and That eſtate will be diſpoſed of as my fond grandfather would have diſpoſed of it, had he lived to ſee ſuch a change in his favourite. In a word, Miſs, it will be kept out of your hands, till my papa ſees you diſcreet enough to have the management of it, or till you can dutifully, by Law, tear it from him.

Fie, Miſs Harlowe, ſaid my aunt, this is not pretty to your ſiſter.

O Madam, let her go on. This is nothing to what I have borne from Miſs Harlowe. She is either commiſſioned to treat me ill by her envy, or by an higher authority, to which I muſt ſubmit.—As to revoking the eſtate, what hinders, if I pleaſed? I know my power; but have not the leaſt thought of [301] exerting it. Be pleaſed to let my papa know, that, whatever be the conſequences to myſelf, were he to turn me out of doors (which I ſhould rather he would, than to be confined and inſulted as I am), and were I to be reduced to indigence and want, I would ſeek no reſources, that ſhould be contrary to his will.

For that matter, child, ſaid my aunt, were you to marry, you muſt do as your huſband will have you. If that huſband be Mr. Lovelace, he will be glad of any opportunity of embroiling the families more. And let me tell you, niece, if he had the reſpect for you he pretends to have, he would not be upon ſuch de⯑fiances as he is. He is known to be a very revenge⯑ful man; and were I you, Miſs Clary, I ſhould be afraid he would wreak upon me that vengeance, tho' I had not offended him, which he is continually threaten⯑ing to pour upon the family.

Mr. Lovelace's threaten'd vengeance is in return for threaten'd vengeance. It is not every-body will bear inſult, as, of late, I have been forced to bear it.

O how my ſiſter's face ſhone with paſſion!

But Mr. Lovelace, proceeded I, as I have ſaid twenty and twenty times, would be quite out of the queſtion, were I to be generouſly treated!

My ſiſter ſaid ſomething with great vehemence: But only raiſing my voice, to be heard, without minding her, Pray, Madam, provokingly interrogated I, was he not known to have been as wild a man, when he was at firſt introduced into our family, as he now is ſaid to be? Yet then, the common phraſes of wild oats, and black oxen, and ſuch-like, were qualifiers; and marriage, and the wiſe's diſcretion, were to perform wonders—But (turning to my ſiſter) I find I have ſai [...] too much.

O thou wicked reflecter!—And what made me ab⯑hor him, think you, but the proof of thoſe villainous freedoms that ought to have had the ſame effect upon you, were you but half ſo good a creature as you pretend to be?

[302] Proof, did you ſay, Bella! I thought you had not proof?—But you know beſt. [Was not this very ſpite⯑ful, my dear?]

Now, Clary, would I give a thouſand pounds to know all that is in thy little rancorous and reflecting heart, at this moment.

I might let you know for a much leſs ſum, and not be afraid of being worſe treated than I have been.

Well, young Ladies, I am ſorry to ſee things run ſo high between you. You know, niece (to me), you had not been confined thus to your apartment, could your mamma by condeſcenſions, or your papa by authority, have been able to have done any thing with you. But how can you expect, when there muſt be a conceſſion on one ſide, that it ſhould be on theirs? If my Dolly, who has not the hundredth part of your underſtanding, were thus to ſet herſelf up in abſolute contradiction to my will, in a point ſo material, I ſhould not take it well of her—Indeed I ſhould not.

I believe not, Madam: And if Miſs Hervey had juſt ſuch a brother, and juſt ſuch a ſiſter (you may look, Bella!)—and if both were to aggravate her parents, as my brother and ſiſter do mine—Then, perhaps, you might uſe her as I am uſed: And if ſhe hated the man you propoſed to her, and with as much reaſon as I do Mr. Solmes—

[And loved a Rake and Libertine, Miſs, as you do Lovelace, ſaid my ſiſter—]

Then might ſhe (continued I, not minding her) beg to be excuſed from obeying. But yet if ſhe did, and would give you the moſt ſolemn aſſurances, and ſecurity beſides, that ſhe never would have the man you diſliked, againſt your conſent—I dare ſay, Miſs Hervey's father and mother would ſit down ſatisfy'd, and not endeavour to force her inclinations.

So!—ſaid my ſiſter, with uplifted hands, father and mother now come in for their ſhare!

But if, child, reply'd my aunt, I knew ſhe loved [303] a Rake, and ſuſpected, that ſhe ſought only to gain time, in order to wire-draw me into a conſent—

I beg pardon, Madam, for interrupting you; but if Miſs Hervey could obtain your conſent, what fur⯑ther would be to be ſaid?

True, child; but ſhe never ſhould.

Then, Madam, it never would be.

That I doubt, niece.

If you do, Madam, can you think confinement and ill uſage is the way to prevent the apprehended raſhneſs?

My dear, this ſort of intimation would make one but too apprehenſive, that there is no truſting to yourſelf, when one knows your inclination.

That apprehenſion, Madam, ſeems to have been conceived before this intimation was made, or the leaſt cauſe for it given. Why elſe the diſgraceful confine⯑ment I have been laid under?—Let me venture to ſay, that my ſufferings are rather owing to deſigned terror, knowing there were too good grounds for my oppoſition, than doubt of my conduct; for, when they were inflicted upon me firſt, I had given no cauſe of doubt; nor ſhould there now be room for any, if my diſcretion might be truſted to.

My aunt, after a little heſitation, ſaid, But, con⯑ſider, my dear, what confuſion will be perpetuated in your family, if you marry this hated Lovelace?

And, let it be conſidered, what miſery to me, Ma⯑dam, if I marry that hated Solmes?

Many a young creature has thought ſhe could not love a man, with whom ſhe has afterwards been very happy. Few women, child, marry their firſt loves.

That may be the reaſon there are ſo few happy marriages.

But there are few firſt-impreſſions fit to be encou⯑raged.

I am afraid ſo too, Madam. I have a very indif⯑ferent opinion of light and firſt impreſſions. But, as I have often ſaid, all I wiſh for is, to have leave to live ſingle.

[304]Indeed you muſt not, Miſs. Your father and mo⯑ther will be unhappy till they ſee you marry'd, and out of Lovelace's reach.—I am told, that you propoſe to condition with him (ſo far are matters gone between you), never to have any man, if you have not him.

I know no better way to prevent miſchief on all ſides, I freely own it—And there is not, if he be out of the queſtion, another man in the world, I can think favourably of.—Nevertheleſs, I would give all I have in the world, that he were marry'd to ſome other perſon—Indeed I would, Bella, for all you put on that ſmile of incredulity.

May be ſo, Clary: But I will ſmile for all that.

If he be out of the queſtion! repeated my aunt—So, Miſs Clary, I ſee how it is.—I will go down.—(Miſs Harlowe, ſhall I follow you?)—And I will endeavour to perſuade your papa to let my ſiſter her⯑ſelf come up: And a happier event may then reſult.—

Depend upon it, Madam, ſaid my ſiſter, This will be the caſe: My mamma and ſhe will be both in tears; but with this different effect; My mamma will come down ſoften'd, and cut to the heart; but will leave her favourite harden'd, from the advantages ſhe will think ſhe has over my mamma's tenderneſs.—Why, Madam, it was for this very reaſon the girl is not admitted into her preſence.

Thus ſhe run on, as ſhe went down-ſtairs.

LETTER XLIV. Miſs CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miſs HOWE.

MY heart fluttered with the hope and the fear of ſeeing my mamma, and with the ſhame and the grief of having given her ſo much uneaſineſs. But it needed not: She was not permitted to come. But my aunt was ſo good as to return; yet not without my ſiſter: And, taking my hand, made me ſit down by her.

[305]She came, ſhe muſt own, officiouſly, ſhe ſaid, this once more; tho' againſt the opinion of my father: But knowing, and dreading, the conſequence of my oppoſition, ſhe could not but come.

She then ſet forth to me, my friends expectations from me; Mr. Solmes's riches (three times as rich he came out to be as any-body had thought him); the ſet⯑tlements propoſed; Mr. Lovelace's bad character; their averſion to him; all in a very ſtrong light; but not a ſtronger, than my mamma had before placed them in. My mamma, ſurely, could not have given the particulars of what had paſſed between herſelf and me: If ſhe had, my aunt would not have repeated many of the ſame ſentiments, as you will find ſhe did, that had been ſtill more ſtrongly urged, without ef⯑fect, by her venerable ſiſter.

She ſaid, it would break the heart of my father to have it imagin'd, that he had not a power over his child; and that, as he thought, for my own good: A child too, whom they always had doated upon!—Deareſt, deareſt Miſs, concluded ſhe, claſping her fingers, with the moſt condeſcending earneſtneſs, let me beg of you for my ſake, for your own ſake, for a hundred ſakes, to get over this averſeneſs, and give up your prejudices, and make every-one happy and eaſy once more.—I would kneel to you, my deareſt niece—Nay, I will kneel to you!—

And down ſhe dropp'd, and I with her, kneeling to her, and beſeeching her not to kneel; claſping my arms about her, and bathing her worthy boſom with my tears!

Oh riſe! riſe! my beloved aunt, ſaid I: You cut me to the heart with this condeſcending goodneſs.

Say then, my deareſt niece, ſay then, that you will oblige all your friends! If you love us, I beſeech you do!

How can I promiſe what I can ſooner chooſe to die than to perform!—

[306]Say then, my dear, you'll conſider of it. Say you will but reaſon with yourſelf. Give us but hopes. Don't let me intreat, and thus intreat, in vain. For ſtill ſhe kneeled, and I by her.

What a hard caſe is mine!—Could I but doubt, I know I could conquer.—That which is an inducement to my friends, is none at all to me!—How often, my deareſt aunt, muſt I repeat the ſame thing!—Let me but be ſingle—Cannot I live ſingle? Let me be ſent, as I have propoſed, to Scotland, to Florence; any-whither: Let me be ſent a ſlave to the Indies; any-whither: Any of theſe I will conſent to. But I cannot, cannot think of giving my vows to a man I cannot endure!—

Well then riſing; (Bella ſilently, with uplifted hands, reproaching my ſuppoſed perverſeneſs) I ſee nothing can prevail with you to oblige us.

What can I do, my deareſt aunt Hervey? What can I do? Were I capable of giving a hope I meant not to inlarge, then could I ſay, I would conſider of your kind advice. But I would rather be thought per⯑verſe than inſincere. Is there, however, no medium? Can nothing be thought of? Will nothing do, but to have a man who is the more diſguſtful to me, becauſe he is unjuſt in the very articles he offers?

Who now, Clary, ſaid my ſiſter, do you reflect upon? Conſider That.

Make not invidious applications of what I ſay, Bella. It may not be look'd upon in the ſame light by every one. The giver and the accepter are prin⯑cipally anſwerable, in an unjuſt donation. While I think of it in this light, I ſhould be inexcuſable to be the latter. But why do I enter upon a ſup⯑poſition of this nature? My heart, as I have often, often ſaid, recoils at the thoughts of the man, in every light.—Whoſe father, but mine, agrees upon articles, where there is no proſpect of a liking? Where the direct contrary is avow'd, all along avow'd, with⯑out [307] the leaſt variation, or ſhadow of a change of ſen⯑timent?—But it is not my father's doing originally. O my cruel, cruel brother, to cauſe a meaſure to be forced upon me, which he would not behave tolerably under, were the like to be offer'd to him!

The girl is got into her altitudes, aunt Hervey, ſaid my ſiſter. You ſee, Madam, ſhe ſpares no-body. Be pleaſed to let her know what ſhe has to truſt to. Nothing is to be done with her. Pray, Madam, pronounce her doom.

My aunt retir'd to the window, weeping, with my ſiſter in her hand: I cannot, indeed I cannot, Miſs Harlowe, ſaid ſhe, ſoftly (but yet I heard every word ſhe ſaid): There is great hardſhip in her caſe. She is a noble child, after all. What pity things are gone ſo far! But Mr. Solmes ought to be told to deſiſt.

O Madam, ſaid my ſiſter, in a kind of loud whiſ⯑per, are you caught too by the little Syren?—My mamma did well not to come up!—I queſtion whe⯑ther my papa himſelf, after his firſt indignation, would not be turn'd round by her. Nobody but my bro⯑ther can do any-thing with her, I am ſure.

Don't think of your brother's coming up, ſaid my aunt, ſtill in a low voice—He is too furious by much. I ſee no obſtinacy, no perverſeneſs in her manner! If your brother comes, I will not be anſwerable for the conſequences: For I thought twice or thrice ſhe would have gone into fits.

O Madam, ſhe has a ſtrong heart!—And you ſee there is no prevailing upon her, tho' you were upon your knees to her.

My ſiſter left my aunt muſing at the window, with her back towards us; and took that oppor⯑tunity to inſult me ſtill more barbarouſly: For, ſtep⯑ping to my cloſet, ſhe took up the patterns which my mamma had ſent me up, and bringing them to me, ſhe ſpread them upon the chair by me; and, of⯑fering one, and then another, upon her ſleeve and [308] ſhoulder, Thus ſhe ran on, with great ſeeming tran⯑quillity, but whiſperingly, that my aunt might not hear her. This, Clary, is a pretty pattern enough: But This is quite charming! I would adviſe you to make your appearance in it. And This, were I you, ſhould be my wedding night-gown—and This my ſecond dreſs'd ſuit! Won't you give orders, love, to have your grandmother's jewels new ſet?—Or will you think to ſhew away in the new ones that Mr. Solmes intends to preſent to you? He talks of laying out two or three thouſand pounds in preſents, child! Dear heart!—How gorgeouſly will you be array'd!—What! ſilent, my dear, mamma Norton's ſweet dear! What! ſilent ſtill?—But, Clary, won't you have a Velvet ſuit? It would cut a great figure in a country church, you know: And the weather may bear it for a month yet to come. Crimſon Velvet, ſuppoſe! Such a fine complection as yours, how would it be ſet off by it! What an agreeable bluſh would it give you!—High-ho! (mocking me; for I ſighed to be thus fooled with): And do you ſigh, love?—Well then, as it will be a ſolemn wedding, what think you of black Velvet, child?—Silent ſtill, Clary!—Black Velvet, ſo fair as you are, with thoſe charming eyes, gleaming thro' a wintry cloud, like an April Sun!—Does not Lovelace tell you they are charming eyes!—How lovely will you appear to every one!—What! ſilent ſtill, love!—But about your laces, Clary!—

She would have gone on ſtill further, had not my aunt advanced towards us, wiping her eyes—What! whiſpering, Ladies! You ſeem ſo eaſy and ſo pleas'd, Miſs Harlowe, with your private conference, that I hope I ſhall carry down good news.

I am only giving her my opinion of her patterns, here.—Unaſk'd indeed.—But ſhe ſeems, by her ſilence, to approve of my judgment.

O Bella! ſaid I, that Mr. Lovelace had not taken you at your word!—You had before now been exer⯑ciſing [309] your judgment on your own account: And I had been happy, as well as you!—Was it my fault, I pray you, that it was not ſo?—O how ſhe rav'd!

To be ſo ready to give, Bella, and ſo loth to take, is not very fair in you.

The poor Bella deſcended to call names.

Why, ſiſter, ſaid I, you are as angry, as if there were more in the hint, than poſſibly might be de⯑ſigned. My wiſh is ſincere, for both our ſakes!—for the whole family's ſake!—And what (good now) is there in it?—Do not, do not, dear Bella, give me cauſe to ſuſpect, that I have found a reaſon for your unſiſterly behaviour to me; and which till now was wholly unaccountable from ſiſter to ſiſter—

Fie, fie, Miſs Clary! ſaid my aunt.

My ſiſter was more and more outrageous.

O how much fitter, ſaid I, to be a jeſt, than a jeſter!—But now, Bella, turn the glaſs to you, and ſee how poorly ſits the robe upon your own ſhoulders, which you have been ſo unmercifully fixing upon mine!

Fie, fie, Miſs Clary! repeated my aunt.

And fie, fie, likewiſe, good Madam, to Miſs Har⯑lowe, you would ſay, were you to have heard her barbarous inſults upon me!

Let us go, Madam, ſaid my ſiſter, with great violence; let us leave the creature to ſwell till ſhe burſts with her own poiſon.—The laſt time I will ever come near her, in the mind I am in!

It is ſo eaſy a thing, return'd I, were I to be mean enough to follow an example that is ſo cen⯑ſureable in the ſetter of it, to vanquiſh ſuch a teazing ſpirit as yours, with its own blunt weapons, that I am amaz'd you will provoke me!—Yet, Bella, ſince you will go (for ſhe had hurry'd to the door), for⯑give me: I do you. And you have a double reaſon to do ſo, both from elderſhip, and the offence ſo ſtu⯑diouſly given to one in affliction.—But may you be happy, tho' I never ſhall!—May you never have half [310] the trials I have had! Be this your comfort, that you cannot have a ſiſter to treat you, as you have treated me! And ſo God bleſs you!

O thou art a—And down ſhe flung without ſay⯑ing what.

Permit me, Madam, ſaid I to my aunt, ſinking down, and claſping her knees with my arms, to de⯑tain you one moment—Not to ſay any thing about my poor ſiſter—She is her own puniſher—Only to thank you for all your condeſcending goodneſs to me. I only beg of you, not to impute to obſtinacy the immoveableneſs I have ſhewn to ſo tender a friend; and to forgive me every thing I have ſaid or done amiſs in your preſence: For it has not proceeded from inward rancour to the poor Bella. But I will be bold to ſay, that neither She, nor my Brother, nor even my Father himſelf, knows what a heart they have ſet a bleeding.

I ſaw, to my comfort, what effect my ſiſter's ab⯑ſence wrought for me.—Riſe, my noble-minded niece!—charming creature!—[Thoſe were her kind words] kneel not to me!—Keep to yourſelf what I now ſay to you: I admire you more than I can ex⯑preſs—And if you can forbear claiming your eſtate, and can reſolve to avoid Lovelace, you will continue to be the greateſt miracle I ever knew at your years.—But I muſt haſten down after your ſiſter.—Theſe are my laſt words to you: Conform to your father's will, if you poſſibly can. How meritorious will it be in you to do ſo! Pray to God to enable you to con⯑form. You don't know what may be done.

Only, my dear aunt, one word, one word more (for ſhe was going)—Speak up all you can for my dear Mrs. Norton. She is but low in the world: Should ill health overtake her, ſhe may not know how to live without my mamma's favour. I ſhall have no means to help her; for I will want neceſſaries before I will aſſert my right: And I do aſſure you, [311] ſhe has ſaid ſo many things to me in behalf of my re⯑ſigning to my father's will, that her arguments have not a little contributed to make me reſolve to avoid the extremities, which nevertheleſs I pray to God they do not at laſt force me upon. And yet they deprive me of her advice, and think unjuſtly of one of the moſt excellent of women.

I am glad to hear you ſay This: And take This, and This, and This, my charming niece (for ſo ſhe call'd me at every word almoſt); kiſſing me earneſtly, and claſping her arms about my neck: And God protect you, and direct you! But you muſt ſubmit: Indeed you muſt. Some one day in a month from This, is all the choice that is left you.

And this, I ſuppoſe, was the doom my ſiſter call'd for; yet not worſe than what had been pronounced upon me before.

She repeated theſe laſt ſentences louder than the former. And remember, Miſs, added ſhe, it is your duty to comply—And down ſhe went, leaving me with my heart full, and my eyes runing over.

The very repetition of this, fills me with almoſt equal concern, to that which I felt at the time. I can write no more; miſtineſſes of all the colours in the rainbow twinkling upon my deluged eye.