# Clarissa

### Or, the History of a Young Lady

### by

# Samuel Richardson

### Part 2 of 2

### Vol. 5

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### Vol. 6

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### Vol. 7

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##### POSTSCRIPT.

### Vol. 5

### v5 LETTER I.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;.
Upper-Flask, Hamstead, Friday (June 9) morn. 7 o'clock.
I am now here, and here have been this hour and half. What an industrious spirit have I! Nobody can say, that I eat the bread of idleness. I take true pains for all the pleasure I enjoy. I cannot choose but to admire myself strangely; for, certainly, with this active soul, I should have made a very great figure in whatever station I had filled. But had I been a prince! -To be sure I should have made a most noble prince! I should have led up a military dance equal to that of the great Macedonian. I should have added kingdom to kingdom, and robbed all my neighbour-sovereigns, in order to have obtained the name of Robert the Great. And I would have gone to war with the Great Turk, and the Persian, and the Mogholl, for their Seraglios; for not one of those Eastern Monarchs should have had a pretty woman to bless himself with, till I had done with her.
And now I have so much leisure upon my hands, that, after having informed myself of all necessary particulars, I am set to my short-hand writing, in order to keep up with time as well as I can: For the subject is now become worthy of me; and it is yet too soon, I doubt, to pay my compliments to my charmer, after all her fatigues for two or three days past: And, moreover, I have abundance of matters preparative to my future proceedings, to recount, in order to connect, and render all intelligible.
I parted with the captain at the foot of the hill, trebly instructed; that is to say, as to the Fact, to the Probable, and to the Possible. If my beloved and I can meet and make up, without the mediation of this worthy gentleman, it will be so much the better. As little foreign aid, as possible, in my amorous conflicts, has always been a rule with me; tho' here I have been obliged to call in so much. And who knows but it may be the better for her, the less she makes necessary? I cannot bear, that she should sit so indifferent to me, as to be in earnest to part with me for ever, upon so slight, or even upon any occasion. If I find she is-But no more threatenings till she is in my power-Thou knowest what I have vowed.
All Will's account, from the lady's flight to his finding her again, all the accounts of the people of the house, the coachman's information to Will, and so forth, collected together, stand thus.
'The Hamstead coach, when the lady came to it, had but two passengers in it. But she made the fellow go off directly, paying for the vacant places.
'The two passengers directing the coachman to set them down at the Upper-Flask, she bid him set her down there also.
'They took leave of her (very respectfully no doubt), and she went into the house, and asked, If she could not have a dish of tea, and a room to herself for half an hour?
'They shewed her up to the very room where I now am. She sat at the very table I now write upon; and, I believe, the chair I sit in was hers.' O Belford, if thou knowest what Love is, thou wilt be able to account for these minutiae.
'She seemed spiritless and fatigued. The gentlewoman herself chose to attend to genteel and lovely a guest. She asked her, If she would have bread and butter to her tea? No. She could not eat. They had very good biscakes. As she pleased. The gentlewoman stept out for some; and returning on a sudden, she observed the sweet fugitive endeavouring to restrain a violent burst of grief, which she had given way to, in that little interval.
'However, when the tea came, she made her sit down with her, and asked her abundance of questions about the villages and roads in that neighbourhood.
'The gentlewoman took notice to her, that she seemed to be troubled in mind.
'Tender Spirits, she replied, could not part with dear friends without concern.' She meant me, no doubt.
'She made no inquiry about a lodging, tho' by the sequel, thou'lt observe, that she seemed to intend to go no farther that night than Hamstead. But after she had drank two dishes, and put a Biscake in her pocket-[Sweet soul, to serve for her supper perhaps-] she laid down half-a-crown; and refusing change, sighing, took leave, saying, she would proceed towards Hendon; the distance to which had been one of her questions.
'They offered to send to know, if a Hamstead coach were not to go to Hendon that evening. No matter, she said-Perhaps she might meet the chariot.' Another of her feints, I suppose; for how, or with whom, could any thing of this sort have been concerted since yesterday morning?
'She had, as the people took notice to one another, something so uncommonly noble in her air, and in her person and behaviour, that they were sure she was of quality. And having no servant with her of either sex, her eyes [her fine eyes, the gentlewoman called them, stranger as she was, and a woman!] being swelled and red, they were sure there was an elopement in the case, either from parents or guardians; for they supposed her too young and too maidenly to be a married lady: And were she married, no husband would let such a fine young creature be unattended and alone; nor give her cause for so much grief, as seemed to be settled in her countenance. Then, at times, she seemed to be so bewildred, they said, that they were afraid she had it in her head to make away with herself.
'All these things put together, excited their curiosity; and they engaged a peery servant, as they called a footman who was drinking with Kit the hostler at the tap-house, to watch all her motions. This fellow reported the following particulars, as they were re-reported to me.
'She indeed went towards Hendon, passing by the sign of the Castle on the heath; then, stopping, looked about her, and down into the valley before her. Then, turning her face towards London, she seemed, by the motion of her handkerchief to her eyes, to weep; repenting (who knows?) the rash step she had taken, and wishing herself back again'-
Better for her, if she do, Jack, once more I say! -Woe be to the girl who could think of marrying me, yet be able to run away from me, and renounce me for ever!
'Then, continuing on a few paces, she stopt again; and, as if disliking her road, again seeming to weep, directed her course back towards Hamstead.'
I am glad she wept so much, because no heart bursts (be the occasion for the sorrow what it will) which has that kindly relief. Hence I hardly ever am moved at the sight of these pellucid fugitives in a fine woman. How often, in the past twelve hours, have I wished, that I could cry most confoundedly!
'She then saw a coach and four driving towards her empty. She crossed the path she was in, as if to meet it; and seemed to intend to speak to the coachman, had he stopt, or spoke first. He, as earnestly, looked at her. Every one did so, who passed her (so the man who dogg'd her was the less suspected)'-Happy rogue of a coachman, hadst thou known whose notice thou didst engage, and whom thou mightest have obliged! -It was the divine Clarissa Harlowe at whom thou gazedst! -My own Clarissa Harlowe! -But it was well for me that thou wert as undistinguishing as the beasts thou drovest; otherwise, what a wild-goose chace had I been led?
'The lady, as well as the coachman, in short, seemed to want resolution; the horses kept on; the fellow's head and eyes, no doubt, turned behind him; and the distance soon lengthened beyond recall. With a wistful eye she looked after him; sighed and wept again; as the servant, who then slily passed her, observed.
'By this time she had reached the houses. She looked up at every one, as she passed; now-and-then breathing upon her bared hand, and applying it to her swelled eyes, to abate the redness, and dry the tears. At last, seeing a bill up for letting lodgings, she walked backwards and forwards half a dozen times, as if unable to determine what to do. And then went farther into the town; and there the fellow being spoken to by one of his familiars, he lost her for a few minutes: But soon saw her come out of a linen-drapery shop, attended with a servant-maid, having, as he believed, bought some little matters, and, as it proved, got that maid-servant to go with her to the house she is now at.
'The fellow, after waiting about an hour, and not seeing her come out, returned, concluding that she had taken lodgings there.'
And here, supposing my narrative of the dramatic kind, ends Act the First. And now begins,
ACT II.
Scene, Hamstead Heath continued.
Enter my Rascal.
Will. having got at all these particulars, by exchanging others as frankly against them, which I had formerly prepared him with, both verbally and in writing; I found the people already of my party, and full of good wishes for my success, repeating to me all they told him.
But he had first acquainted me with the accounts he had given them of his lady and me. It is necessary that I give thee the particulars of his tale-And I have a little time upon my hands; for the maid of the house, who had been out of an errand, tells us, that she saw Mrs. Moore (with whom must be my first business) go into the house of a young gentleman, within a few doors of her, who has a maiden sister, Miss Rawlins by name, so notify'd for prudence, that none of her acquaintance undertake any thing of consequence, without consulting her.
Mean while my honest coachman is walking about Miss Rawlins's door, in order to bring me notice of Mrs. Moore's return to her own house. I hope her gossips-tale will be as soon told as mine. Which take as follows.
Will told them, before I came, 'That his lady was but lately married to one of the finest gentlemen in the world. But that, he being very gay and lively, she was mortal jealous of him; and in a fit of that sort, had eloped from him. For altho' she loved him dearly, and he doated upon her (as well he might, since, as they had seen, she was the finest creature that ever the sun shone upon), yet she was apt to be very wilful and sullen, if he might take the liberty to say so-but truth was truth;-and if she could not have her own way in every thing, would be for leaving him. That she had three or four times played his master such tricks; but with all the virtue and innocence in the world; running away to an intimate friend of hers, who, tho' a young lady of honour, was but too indulgent to her in this her only failing: for which reason his master had brought her to London lodgings; their usual residence being in the country: And that, on his refusing to satisfy her about a lady he had been seen with in the park, she had, for the first time since she came to town, served his master thus: Whom he had left half-distracted on that account.'
And truly well he might, poor gentleman! cried the honest folks, pitying me before they saw me.
'He told them how he came by his intelligence of her; and made himself such an interest with them, that they helped him to a change of cloaths for himself; and the landlord, at his request, privately inquired, if the lady actually remained at Mrs. Moore's; and for how long she had taken the lodgings: Which he found only to be for a week certain: But she had said, that she believed she should hardly stay so long. And then it was that he wrote his letter, and sent it by honest Peter Partrick, as thou hast heard.'
When I came, my person and dress having answered Will's description, the people were ready to worship me. I now-and-then sighed, now-and-then put on a lighter air; which, however, I designed should shew more of vexation ill-disguised, than of real chearfulness: And they told Will, It was a thousand pities so fine a lady should have such skittish tricks; adding, that she might expose herself to great dangers by them; for that there were Rakes every-where [ Lovelace's in every corner, Jack!], and many about that town, who would leave nothing unattempted to get into her company: And altho' they might not prevail upon her, yet might they nevertheless hurt her reputation; and, in time, estrange the affections of so fine a gentleman from her.
Good sensible people, these! -Hay, Jack!
Here, landlord; one word with you. My servant, I find, has acquainted you with the reason of my coming this way. An unhappy affair, landlord! A very unhappy affair! But never was there a more virtuous woman.
So, Sir, she seems to be. A thousand pities her ladyship has such ways-And to so good-humoured a gentleman as you seem to be, Sir.
Mother-spoilt, landlord! -Mother-spoilt! that's the thing! -But, sighing, I must make the best of it. What I want you to do for me, is to lend me a great coat. I care not what it is. If my spouse should see me at a distance, she would make it very difficult for me to get at her speech. A great coat with a cape, if you have one. I must come upon her before she is aware.
I am afraid, Sir, I have none fit for such a gentleman as you.
O, any thing will do! -The worse the better.
Exit landlord. Re-enter with two great coats.
Ay, landlord, This will be best; for I can button the cape over the lower part of my face. Don't I look devilishly down and concern'd, landlord?
I never saw a gentleman with a better-natured look. 'Tis pity you should have such tryals, Sir.
I must be very unhappy, no doubt of it, landlord. And yet I am a little pleas'd, you must needs think, that I have found her out before any great inconvenience has arisen to her. However, if I cannot break her of these freaks, she'll break my heart; for I do love her with all her failings.
The good woman, who was within hearing of all this, pitied me much.
Pray, your honour, said she, if I may be so bold, was madam ever a mamma?
No!-and I sighed-We have been but a little while married; and, as I may say to you, it is her own fault that she is not in that way [Not a word of a lye in this, Jack]. But to tell you truth, madam, she may be compared to the dog in the manger-
I understand you, Sir, (simpering)-She is but young, Sir. I have heard of one or two such skittish young ladies in my time, Sir. -But when madam is in that way, I dare say, as she loves you (and it would be strange if she did not!), all this will be over, and she may make the best of wives.
That's all my hope.
She is as fine a lady as I ever beheld. I hope, Sir, you won't be too severe. She'll get over all these freaks, if once she be a mamma, I warrant.
I can't be severe to her; she knows that. The moment I see her, all resentment is over with me, if she give me but one kind look.
All this time, I was adjusting my horseman's coat, and Will was putting in the ties of my wig, and buttoning the cape over my chin.
I ask'd the gentlewoman for a little powder. She brought me a powder-box, and I lightly shook the puff over my hat, and flapt one side of it, tho' the lace look'd a little too gay for my covering; and slouching it over my eyes, Shall I be known, think you, Madam?
Your honour is so expert, Sir! -I wish, if I may be so bold, your lady has not some cause to be jealous. But it will be impossible, if you keep your laced cloaths covered, that any-body should know you in that dress to be the same gentleman-Except they find you out by your clocked stockens.
Well observ'd-Can't you, landlord, lend or sell me a pair of stockens, that will draw over these? I can cut off the feet, if they won't go into my shoes.
He could let me have a pair of coarse, but clean, stirrup-stockens, if I pleased.
The best in the world for the purpose.
He fetch'd them. Will. drew them on; and my legs then made a good gouty appearance.
The good woman, smiling, wished me success; and so did the landlord: And as thou knowest that I am not a bad mimic, I took a cane, which I borrowed of the landlord, and stooped in the shoulders to a quarter of a foot of less height, and stump'd away cross to the Bowling-green, to practise a little the hobbling gaite of a gouty man. The landlady whisper'd her husband, as Will. tells me, He's a good one, I warrant him! -I dare say the fault lies not all of one side. While mine host replied, that I was so lively and so good-natur'd a gentleman, that he did not know who could be angry with me, do what I would. A sensible fellow! -I wish my charmer were of the same opinion.
And now I am going to try, if I can't agree with goody Moore for lodgings and other conveniencies for my sick wife.
Wife, Lovelace! methinks thou interrogatest.
Yes, wife; for who knows what cautions the dear fugitive may have given in apprehension of me?
But has goody Moore any other lodgings to let?
Yes, yes; I have taken care of that; and find, that she has just such conveniencies as I want. And I know that my wife will like them. For, altho' married, I can do every thing I please; and that's a bold word, you know. But had she only a garret to let, I would have liked it; and been a poor author afraid of arrests, and made that my place of refuge; yet would have made shift to pay beforehand for what I had. I can suit myself to any condition, that's my comfort.
The widow Moore return'd! say you-Down, down, flutterer! -This impertinent heart is more troublesome to me than my conscience, I think. - I shall be obliged to hoarsen my voice, and roughen my character, to keep up with its puppily dancings.
But, let me see,-Shall I be angry or pleased, when I am admitted to my beloved's presence?
Angry, to be sure. -Has she not broken her word with me? -At a time, too, when I was meditating to do her grateful justice? -And is not breach of word a dreadful crime in good folks? I have ever been for forming my judgment of the nature of things and actions, not so much from what they are in themselves, as from the character of the actors. Thus it would be as odd a thing in such as we to keep our words with a lady, as it would be wicked in her to break hers to us.
Seest thou not, that this unseasonable gravity is admitted to quell the palpitations of this unmanageable heart? But still it will go on with its boundings. I'll try, as I ride in my chariot, to tranquillize.
Ride, Bob! so little a way?
Yes, ride, Jack; for am I not lame? And will it not look well to have a lodger who keeps his chariot? What widow, what servant, asks questions of a man with an equipage?
My coachman, as well as my other servant, is under Will's tuition.
Never was there such a hideous rascal as he has made himself. The devil only, and his other master, can know him. They both have set their marks upon him. As to my Honour's mark, it will never be out of his damn'd wide mothe, as he calls it. For the dog will be hang'd before he can lose the rest of his teeth by age.
I am gone.

### v5 LETTER II.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Hamstead, Friday Night, June 9.
Now, Belford, for the narrative of narratives. I will continue it, as I have opportunity; and that so dextrously, that if I break off twenty times, thou shalt not discern where I piece my thread.
Although grievously afflicted with the gout, I alighted out of my chariot (leaning very hard on my cane with one hand, and on my new servant's shoulder with the other) the same instant almost that he had knock'd at the door, that I might be sure of admission into the house.
I took care to button my great coat about me, and to cover with it even the pommel of my sword; it being a little too gay for my years. I knew not what occasion I might have for my sword. I stoop'd forward; blink'd with my eyes to conceal their lustre [No vanity in saying that, Jack!]; my chin wrapt up for the tooth-ach; my slouch'd, laced hat, and so much of my wig as was visible, giving me, all together, the appearance of an antiquated beau.
My wife, I resolved beforehand, should have a complication of disorders.
The maid came to the door. I ask'd for her mistress. She shew'd me into one of the parlours; and I sat down, with a gouty Oh!-
Enter goody Moore.
Your servant, Madam-but you must excuse me; I cannot well stand. -I find by the bill at the door, that you have lodgings to let [Mumbling my words as if, like my man Will, I had lost some of my foreteeth]: Be pleased to inform me what they are; for I like your situation: -And I will tell you my family -I have a wife, a good old woman-Older than myself, by the way, a pretty deal. She is in a bad state of health, and is advised into the Hamstead air. She will have two maid-servants and a footman. The coach or chariot (I shall not have them up both together), we can put up any-where, and the coachman will be with his horses.
When, Sir, shall you want to come in?
I will take them from this very day; and, if convenient, will bring my wife in the afternoon.
Perhaps, Sir, you would board, as well as lodge?
That as you please. It will save me the trouble of bringing my cook, if we do. And I suppose you have servants who know how to dress a couple of dishes. My wife must eat plain food, and I don't love kickshaws.
We have a single lady, who will be gone in two or three days. She has one of the best apartments: That will then be at liberty.
You have one or two good ones mean time, I presume, Madam, just to receive my wife; for we have lost time-These damn'd physicians-Excuse me, Madam, I am not used to curse; but it is owing to the love I have for my wife-They have kept her in hand, till they are asham'd to take more fees, and now advise her to the air. I wish we had sent her hither at first. But we must now make the best of it.
Excuse me, Madam (for she looked hard at me), that I am muffled up thus in this warm weather. I am but too sensible, that I have left my chamber sooner than I ought, and perhaps shall have a return of my gout for it. I came out thus muffled up, with a dreadful pain in my jaws; an ague in them, I believe. But my poor dear will not be satisfied with any body's care but mine. And, as I told you, we have lost time.
You shall see what accommodations I have, if you please, Sir. But I doubt, you are too lame to walk up stairs.
I can make shift to hobble up, now I have rested a little. I'll just look upon the apartment my wife is to have. Any thing may do for the servants: And as you seem to be a good sort of gentlewoman, I shan't stand for a price, and will pay well, besides, for the trouble I shall give.
She led the way; and I, leaning upon the banisters, made shift to get up with less fatigue than I expected from ancles so weak. But oh! Jack, What was Sixtus the Vth's artful depression of his natural powers to mine, when, as the half-dead Montalto, he gaped for the pretendedly unsought Pontificate, and, the moment he was chosen, leapt upon the prancing beast, which it was thought, by the amazed conclave, he was not able to mount without help of chairs and men? Never was there a more joyous heart and lighter heels than mine, joined together, yet both denied their functions; the one fluttering in secret, ready to burst its bars for relief-ful expression, the others obliged to an hobbling motion; when, unrestrained, they would, in their master's imagination, have mounted him to the lunar world, without the help of a ladder.
There were three rooms on a floor; two of them handsome; and the third, she said, still handsomer; but the lady was in it.
I saw! -I saw, she was! for as I hobbled up, crying out upon my weak ancles, in the hoarse mumbling voice I had assumed, I beheld a little piece of her, just casting an eye, with the door a-jar, as they call it, to observe who was coming up; and, seeing such an old clumsy fellow great-coated in weather so warm, slouched, and muffled up, she withdrew, shutting the door without any emotion. But it was not so with me; for thou canst not imagine how my heart danced to my mouth, at the very glimpse of her; so that I was afraid the thump, thump, thumping villain, which had so lately thumped as much to no purpose, would have choak'd me.
I liked the lodgings well; and the more, as she said the third room was still handsomer. I must sit down, Madam (and chose the darkest part of the room): Won't you take a seat yourself? No price shall part us. But I will leave the terms to you and my wife, if you please: And also whether for board or not. Only please to take This for earnest, putting a guinea into her hand. -And one thing I will say; My poor wife loves money; but is not an ill-natured woman. She was a great fortune to me: But, as the real estate goes away at her death, I would fain preserve her for that reason, as well as for the love I bear her, as an honest man. But if she makes too close a bargain with you, tell me; and, unknown to her, I will make it up. This is my constant way: She loves to have her pen'worths; and I would not have her vexed or made uneasy on any account.
She said, I was a very considerate gentleman; and, upon the condition I had mentioned, she was content to leave the terms to my lady.
But, Madam, cannot a-body just peep into the other apartment, that I may be more particular to my wife in the furniture of it?
The lady desires to be private, Sir-But-And was going to ask her leave.
I caught hold of her hand-However, stay, stay, Madam: It mayn't be proper, if the lady loves to be private. Don't let me intrude upon the lady-
No intrusion, Sir, I dare say: The lady is good-humoured. She will be so kind as to step down into the parlour, I dare say. As she stays so little a while, I am sure she will not wish to stand in my way.
No, Madam, that's true, if she be good-humoured, as you say-Has she been with you long, Madam?
But yesterday, Sir-
I believe I just now saw the glimpse of her. She seems to be an elderly lady.
No, Sir; you're mistaken. She's a young lady; and one of the handsomest I ever saw.
Cot so, I beg her pardon! Not but that I should have liked her the better, were she to stay longer, if she had been elderly. I have a strange taste, Madam, you'll say, but I really, for my wife's sake, love every elderly woman: Indeed I ever thought age was to be reverenced, which made me (taking the fortune into the scale too, that I own) make my addresses to my present dear.
Very good of you, Sir, to respect age: We all hope to live to be old.
Right, Madam. But you say the lady is beautiful. Now you must know, that tho' I chuse to converse with the elderly, yet I love to see a beautiful young woman, just as I love to see fine flowers in a garden. There's no casting an eye upon her, is there, without her notice? For in this dress, and thus muffled up about my jaws, I should not care to be seen, any more than she, let her love privacy as much as she will.
I will go ask, if I may shew a gentleman the apartment, Sir; and, as you are a married gentleman, and not over-young, she'll perhaps make the less scruple.
Then, like me, she loves elderly folks best, perhaps. But it may be she has suffered by young ones?
I fancy she has, Sir, or is afraid she shall. She desired to be very private, and if by description inquired after, to be denied.
Thou art true woman, goody Moore, thought I!
Good lack! -Good lack! -What may be her story then, I pray?
She is pretty reserv'd in her story; but, to tell you my thoughts, I believe Love is in the case: She is always in tears, and does not much care for company.
Nay, Madam, it becomes not me to dive into ladies secrets; I want not to pry into other peoples affairs. But, pray, how does she employ herself? -Yet she came but yesterday; so you can't tell.
Writing continually, Sir.
These women, Jack, when you ask them questions by way of information, don't care to be ignorant of any thing.
Nay, excuse me, Madam, I am very far from being an inquisitive man. But if her case be difficult, and not merely Love, as she is a friend of yours, I would give her my advice.
Then you are a lawyer, Sir-
Why, indeed, Madam, I was some time at the Bar; but I have long left practice; yet am much consulted by my friends in difficult points. In a pauper case I frequently give money; but never take any from the richest.
You are a very good gentleman, then, Sir.
Ay, Madam, we cannot live always here; and we ought to do what good we can-But I hate to appear officious. If the lady stays any time, and thinks fit, upon better acquaintance, to let me in to her case, it may be a happy day for her, if I find it a just one; for, you must know, that when I was at the Bar, I never was such a sad fellow as to undertake, for the sake of a paltry fee, to make white black, and black white; for what would that have been, but to endeavour to establish iniquity by quirks, while I robbed the innocent?
You are an excellent gentleman, Sir: I wish (and then she sighed) I had had the happiness to know there was such a lawyer in the world; and to have been acquainted with him.
Come, come, Mrs. Moore, I think your name is, it may not be too late-When you and I are better acquainted, I may help you perhaps. -But mention nothing of this to the lady; for, as I said, I hate to appear officious.
This prohibition, I knew, if goody Moore answer'd the specimen she had given of her womanhood, would make her take the first opportunity to tell, were it to be necessary to my purpose that she should.
I appeared, upon the whole, so indifferent about seeing the room, or the lady, that the good woman was the more eager I should see both. And the rather, as I, to stimulate her, declared, that there was more required in my eye to merit the character of a handsome woman, than most people thought necessary; and that I had never seen six truly lovely ladies in my life.
To be brief, she went in; and after a little while came out again. The lady, Sir, is retired to her closet, so you may go in and look at the room.
Then how my heart began again to play its pug's tricks!
I hobbled in, and stump'd about, and liked it very much; and was sure my wife would. I begg'd excuse for sitting down, and ask'd, Who was the minister of the place? If he were a good preacher? Who preached at the chapel? And if he were a good preacher, and good liver too, Madam-I must inquire after That: For I love, I must needs say, that the Clergy should practise what they preach.
Very right, Sir; but that is not so often the case, as were to be wished.
More's the pity, Madam. But I have a great veneration for the Clergy in general. It is more a satire upon Human nature, than upon the Cloth, if we suppose those who have the best opportunities to be good, less perfect than other people. For my part, I don't love professional any more than national reflections. -But I keep the lady in her closet. My gout makes me rude.
Then up from my seat stumped I-What do you call these window-curtains, Madam?
Stuff-damask, Sir.
It looks mighty well, truly. I like it better than silk. It is warmer to be sure, and much fitter for lodgings in the country; especially for people in years. The bed is in a pretty taste.
It is neat and clean, Sir: That's all we pretend to.
Ay, mighty well-Very well-A silk camlet, I think-Very well, truly! -I am sure my wife will like it. But we would not turn the lady out of her lodging for the world. The other two apartments will do for us at the present.
Then stumping towards the closet, over the door of which hung a picture-What picture is that? - Oh! I see: A St. Caecilia!
A common print, Sir-
Pretty well, pretty well! It is after an Italian master. -I would not for the world turn the lady out of her apartment. We can make shift with the other two, repeated I, louder still: But yet mumblingly hoarse; for I had as great regard to uniformity in accent, as to my words.
O Belford! to be so near my angel, think what a painful constraint I was under!-
I was resolved to fetch her out, if possible: And pretending to be going-You can't agree as to any time, Mrs. Moore, when we can have this third room, can you? -Not that (whisper'd I, loud enough to be heard in the next room; Not that) I would incommode the lady: But I would tell my wife where abouts -And women, you know, Mrs. Moore, love to have every thing before them of this nature.
Mrs. Moore, says my charmer [and never did her voice sound to harmonious to me: Oh how my heart bounded again! It even talked to me, in a manner; for I thought I heard, as well as felt, its unruly flutters; and every vein about me seemed a pulse: Mrs. Moore], you may acquaint the gentleman, that I shall stay here only for two or three days, at most, till I receive an answer to a letter I have written into the country; and rather than be your hindrance, I will take up with any apartment a pair of stairs higher.
Not for the world! Not for the world, young lady, cried I! -My wife, well as I love her, should lie in a garret, rather than put such a considerate lady, as you seem to be, to the least inconvenien-cy.
She opened not the door yet; and I said, But since you have so much goodness, Madam, if I could but just look into the closet, as I stand, I could tell my wife, whether it is large enough to hold a cabinet she much values, and will have with her where-ever she goes.
Then my charmer opened the door, and blazed upon me, as it were, in a flood of light, like what one might imagine would strike a man, who, born blind, had by some propitious power been blessed with his sight, all at once, in a meridian sun.
Upon my soul, I never was so strangely affected before. I had much ado to forbear discovering myself that instant: But, hesitatingly, and in great disorder, I said, looking into the closet, and around it, There is room, I see, for my wife's cabinet; and it has many jewels in it of high price; but, upon my soul (for I could not forbear swearing, like a puppy: -Habit is a cursed thing, Jack-) Nothing so valuable as the lady I see, can be brought into it!-
She started, and looked at me with terror. The truth of the compliment, as far as I know, had taken dissimulation from my accent.
I saw it was impossible to conceal myself longer from her, any more than (from the violent impulses of my passion) to forbear manifesting myself. I unbuttoned therefore my cape, I pulled off my flapt, slouched hat; I threw open my great coat, and, like the devil in Milton (an odd comparison tho'!),
I started up in my own form divine,
Touch'd by the beam of her celestial eye,
More potent than Ithuriel's spear!-
Now, Belford, for a similitude-Now for a likeness to illustrate the surprising scene, and the effect it had upon my charmer, and the gentlewoman! -But nothing was like it, or equal to it. The plain fact can only describe it, and set it off. Thus then take it.
She no sooner saw who it was, than she gave three violent screams; and, before I could catch her in my arms (as I was about to do the moment I discover'd myself), down she sunk at my feet, in a fit; which made me curse my indiscretion for so suddenly, and with so much emotion, revealing myself.
The gentlewoman, seeing so strange an alteration in my person, and features, and voice, and dress, cried out, Murder, help! Murder, help! by turns, for half a dozen times running. This alarmed the house, and up ran two servant maids, and my servant after them. I cried out for water and hartshorn, and every one flew a different way, one of the maids as fast down as she came up; while the gentlewoman ran out of one room into another, and by turns up and down the apartment we were in, without meaning or end, wringing her foolish hands, and not knowing what she did.
Up then came running a gentleman and his sister, fetched, and brought in by the maid who had run down; and who having let in a cursed crabbed old wretch, hobbling with his gout, and mumbling with his hoarse broken-toothed voice, was metamorphosed all at once into a lively gay young fellow, with a clear accent, and all his teeth; and she would have it, that I was neither more nor less than the devil, and could not keep her eye from my foot; expecting, no doubt, every minute to see it discover itself to be cloven.
For my part, I was so intent upon restoring my angel, that I regarded nobody else. And at last, she slowly recovering motion, with bitter sighs and sobs (only the whites of her eyes however appearing for some moments), I called upon her in the tenderest accent, as I kneeled by her, my arm supporting her head; My angel! My charmer! My Clarissa! look upon me, my dearest life! -I am not angry with you! -I will forgive you, my best beloved!-
The gentleman and his sister knew not what to make of all this: And the less, when my fair one, recovering her sight, snatched another look at me; and then again groaned, and fainted away.
I threw up the closet-sash for air, and then left her to the care of the young gentlewoman, the same notable Miss Rawlins, whom I had heard of at the Flask; and to that of Mrs. Moore; who by this time had recover'd herself; and then retiring to one corner of the room, I made my servant pull off my gouty stockens, brush my hat, and loop it up into the usual smart cock.
I then stept to the closet to Mr. Rawlins, whom, in the general confusion, I had not much minded before. -Sir, said I, you have an uncommon scene before you. The lady is my wife, and no gentleman's presence is necessary here but my own.
I beg pardon, Sir: If the lady is your wife, I have no business here. But, Sir, by her concern at seeing you-
Pray, Sir, none of your if's, and but's, I beseech you: Nor your concern about the lady's concern. You are a very unqualified judge in this cause; and I beg of you, Sir, to oblige me with your absence. The ladies only are proper to be present on this occasion, added I; and I think myself obliged to them for their care and kind assistance.
'Tis well he made not another word: For I found my choler begin to rise. I could not bear, that the finest neck, and arms, and foot, in the world, should be exposed to the eyes of any man living but mine.
I withdrew once more from the closet, finding her beginning to recover, lest the sight of me too soon, should throw her back again.
The first words she said, looking round her with great emotion, were, O hide me! Hide me! Is he gone! -O hide me! Is he gone!
Sir, said Miss Rawlins, coming to me with an air somewhat peremptory and assured, This is some surprising case. The lady cannot bear the sight of you. What you have done, is best known to yourself. But another such fit will probably be her last. It would be but kind, therefore, for you to retire.
It behov'd me to have so notable a person of my party; and the rather, as I had disobliged her impertinent brother.
The dear creature, said I, may well be concerned to see me. If you, Madam, had a husband who loved you, as I love her, you would not, I am confident, fly from him, and expose yourself to hazards, as she does whenever she has not all her way-And yet with a mind not capable of intentional evil-But, mother-spoilt! This is her fault, and All her fault: And the more inexcusable it is, as I am the man of her choice, and have reason to think she loves me above all the men in the world.
Here, Jack, was a story to support to the lady; face to face too!
You speak like a gentleman; you look like a gentleman, said Miss Rawlins-But, Sir, this is a strange case; the lady seems to dread the sight of you.
No wonder, Madam; taking her a little on one side, nearer to Mrs. Moore. I have three times already forgiven the dear creature. -But this jealousy -There is a spice of that in it-and of phrensy too (whispered I, that it might have the face of a secret, and, of consequence, the more engage their attention) -But our story is too long-
I then made a motion to go to the lady. But they desired, that I would walk into the next room; and they would endeavour to prevail upon her to lie down.
I begg'd that they would not suffer her to talk; for that she was accustomed to fits, and would, when in this way, talk of any thing that came uppermost; and the more she was suffered to run on, the worse she was; and if not kept quiet, would fall into raveings; which might possibly hold her a week.
They promised to keep her quiet; and I withdrew into the next room; ordering every one down but Mrs. Moore and Miss Rawlins.
She was full of exclamations. Unhappy creature! miserable! ruined! and undone! she called herself; wrung her hands, and begged they would assist her to escape from the terrible evils she should otherwise be made to suffer.
They preached patience and quietness to her; and would have had her to lie down; but she refused; sinking, however, into an easy chair; for she trembled so, she could not stand.
By this time, I hoped that she was enough recover'd to bear a presence, that it behoved me to make her bear; and fearing she would throw out something in her exclamations, that would still more disconcert me, I went into the room again.
O! there he is! said she, and threw her apron over her face-I cannot see him! -I cannot look upon him! -Begone! begone! touch me not!-
For I took her struggling hand, beseeching her to be pacified; and assuring her, that I would make all up with her, upon her own terms and wishes.
Base man! said the violent lady, I have no wishes, but never to behold you more! Why must I be thus pursued and haunted? Have you not made me miserable enough already? Despoiled of all succour and help, and of every friend, I am contented to be poor low, and miserable, so I may be free from your persecutions!-
Miss Rawlins stared at me [A confident slut this Miss Rawlins, thought I!] So did Mrs. Moore-I told you so! whisperingly said I, turning to the women; shaking my head with a face of great concern and pity; and then to my charmer, My dear creature, how you rave! -You will not easily recover from the effects of this violence! Have patience, my love! Be pacified! and we will coolly talk this matter over: For you expose yourself, as well as me: These ladies will certainly think, you have fallen among robbers; and that I am the chief of them.
So you are! so you are! stamping, her face still covered [She thought of Wednesday night, no doubt]; and, sighing as if her heart were breaking, she put her hand to her forehead-I shall be quite distracted!
I will not, my dearest love, uncover your face. You shall not look upon me, since I am so odious to you. But this is a violence I never thought you capable of.-
And I would have pressed her hand, as I held it, with my lips; but she drew it from me with indignation.
Unhand me, Sir, said she. I will not be touched by you. Leave me to my fate. What right, what title, have you to persecute me thus?
What right, what title, my dear! -But this is not a time-I have a letter from Captain Tomlinson- Here it is-offering it to her-
I will receive nothing from your hands-Tell me not of Captain Tomlinson-Tell me not of anybody -You have no right to invade me thus-Once more, leave me to my fate-Have you not made me miserable enough?-
I touched a delicate string, on purpose to set her in such a passion before the women, as might confirm the intimation I had given of a phrensical disorder.
What a turn is here! -Lately so happy! -Nothing wanting but a reconciliation between you and your friends! -That reconciliation in such a happy train! - Shall so slight, so accidental an occasion be suffered to overturn all our happiness?
She started up with a trembling impatience, her apron falling from her indignant face-Now, said she, that thou darest to call the occasion slight and accidental, and that I am happily out of thy vile hands, and out of a house I have reason to believe as vile, traitor and wretch that thou art, I will venture to cast an eye upon thee-And O that it were in my power, in mercy to my sex, to look thee first into shame and remorse, and then into death!
This violent tragedy-speech, and the high manner in which she uttered it, had its desired effect. I looked upon the women, and upon her, by turns, with a pitying eye; and they shook their wise heads, and besought me to retire, and her to lie down to compose herself.
This hurricane, like other hurricanes, was presently allayed by a shower. She threw herself once more into her armed chair-And begg'd pardon of the women for her passionate excess; but not of me: Yet I was in hopes, that when compliments were stirring, I should have come in for a share.
Indeed, ladies, said I (with assurance enough, thou'lt say), this violence is not natural to my beloved's temper-Misapprehension-
Misapprehension, wretch! -And want I excuses from thee!
What a scorn was every lovely feature agitated by!
Then turning her face from me, I have not patience, O thou guileful betrayer, to look upon thee! -Begone! Begone! With a face so unblushing, how darest thou my presence?
I thought then, that the character of a husband obliged me to be angry.
You may one day, Madam, repent this treatment: -By my soul you may. -You know I have not deserved it of you-You know I have not.
Do I know you have not? -Wretch! Do I know-
You do, Madam! -And never did man of my figure and consideration [I thought it was proper to throw that in] meet with such treatment. [She lifted up her hands: Indignation kept her silent.] -But all is of a piece with the charge you bring against me of despoiling you of all succour and help, of making you poor and low, and with other unprecedented language. I will only say, before these two gentlewomen, that since it must be so, and since your former esteem for me is turned into so riveted an aversion, I will soon, very soon, make you intirely easy. I will be gone: -I will leave you to your own fate, as you call it; and may That be happy! -Only, that I may not appear to be a spoiler, a robber indeed, let me know whither I shall send your apparel, and every thing that belongs to you, and I will send it.
Send it to this place; and assure me, that you will never molest me more; never more come near me; and that is all I ask of you.
I will do so, Madam, said I, with a dejected air. But did I ever think I should be so indifferent to you? -However, you must permit me to insist on your reading this letter; and on your seeing Captain Tomlinson, and hearing what he has to say from your uncle. He will be here by-and-by.
Don't trifle with me, said she, in an imperious tone-Do as you offer. I will not receive any letter from your hands. If I see Captain Tomlinson, it shall be on his own account; not on yours. You tell me you will send me my apparel: If you would have me believe any thing you say, let This be the test of your sincerity-Leave me now, and send my things.
The women stared. They did nothing but stare; and appeared to be more and more at a loss what to make of the matter between us.
I pretended to be going from her in a pet: But when I had got to the door, I turned back; and, as if I had recollected myself, One word more, my dearest creature! -Charming even in your anger! -O my fond soul! said I, turning half round, and pulling out my handkerchief.
I believe, Jack, my eyes did glisten a little-I have no doubt but they did. -The women pitied me. Honest souls! -They shew'd, that they had each of them a handkerchief as well as I. So, hast thou not observed (to give a familiar illustration) every man in a company of a dozen, or more, obligingly pull out his watch, when some one has asked, What's o'clock?
One word only, Madam, repeated I, as soon as my voice had recovered its tone-I have represented to Captain Tomlinson in the most favourable light the cause of our present misunderstanding. You know what your uncle insists upon; and which you have acquiesced with. The letter in my hand [and again I offered it to her] will acquaint you with what you have to apprehend from your brother's active malice.
She was going to speak in a high accent, putting the letter from her, with an open palm-Nay, hear me out, Madam-The Captain, you know, has reported our marriage to two different persons. It is come to your brother's ears. My own relations have also heard of it. Letters were brought me from town this morning, from Lady Betty Lawrance and Miss Montague. Here they are [I pulled them out of my pocket, and offered them to her, with That of the Captain; but she held back her still open palm, that she might not receive them]: Reflect, Madam, I beseech you reflect, upon the fatal consequences which this your high resentment may be attended with.
Ever since I knew you, said she, I have been in a wilderness of doubt and error. I bless God that I am out of your hands. I will transact for myself what relates to myself. I dismiss all your solicitude for me. Am I not my own mistress! -Am I not-
The women stared [The devil stare ye, thought I, can ye do nothing but stare?]. It was high time to stop her here. I raised my voice to drown hers- You used, my dearest creature, to have a tender and apprehensive heart-You never had so much reason for such a one as now.
Let me judge for myself, upon what I shall see, not upon what I shall hear-Do you think I shall ever-
I dreaded her going on-I must be heard, Madam, raising my voice still higher. You must let me read one paragraph or two of This letter to you, if you will not read it yourself-
Begone from me, Man! -Begone from me with thy Letters! What pretence hast thou for tormenting me thus-
Dearest creature, what questions you ask! Questions that you can as well answer yourself-
I can, I will-And thus I answer them-
Still louder raised I my voice. She was overborne. Sweet soul! It would be hard, thought I [and yet I was very angry with her], if such a spirit as thine cannot be brought to yield to such a one as mine!
I lowered my voice on her silence. All gentle, all intreative, my accent: My head bowed; one hand held out; the other on my honest heart: -For heaven's sake, my dearest creature, resolve to see Captain Tomlinson with temper. He would have come along with me: But I was willing to try to soften your mind first, on this fatal misapprehension; and This for the sake of your own wishes: For what is it otherwise to me, whether your friends, are, or are not, reconciled to us? Do I want any favour from them? -For your own mind's sake therefore, frustrate not Captain Tomlinson's negotiation. That worthy gentleman will be here in the afternoon-Lady Betty will be in town with my cousin Montague, in a day or two. They will be your visiters. I beseech you do not carry this misunderstanding so far, as that Lord M. and Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, may know it [How considerable this made me look to the women!]. Lady Betty will not let you rest till you consent to accompany her to her own seat-And to that lady may you safely intrust your cause.
Again, upon my pausing a moment, she was going to break out. I liked not the turn of her countenance, nor the tone of her voice-"And thinkest thou, base wretch," were the words she did utter. I again raised my voice, and drowned hers-Base wretch, Madam! -You know, that I have not deserved the violent names you have called me. Words so opprobrious, from a mind so gentle-But this treatment is from you, Madam! -From you, whom I love more than my own soul-By that soul, I swear that I do-[The women looked upon each other. They seemed pleased with my ardor. Women, whether wives, maids, or widows, love ardors. Even Miss Howe, thou knowest, speaks up for ardors] -Nevertheless, I must say, that you have carried matters too far for the occasion. I see you hate me-
She was just going to speak-If we are to seperate for ever, in a strong and solemn voice, proceeded I, this island shall not long be troubled with me. -Mean time, only be pleased to give these letters a perusal, and consider what is to be said to your uncle's friend; and what he is to say to your uncle. -Any thing will I come into (renounce me if you will), that shall make for your peace, and for the reconciliation your heart was so lately set upon. But I humbly conceive, that it is necessary, that you should come into better temper with me, were it but to give a favourable appearance to what has passed, and weight to any future application to your friends, in whatever way you shall think proper to make it.
I then put the letters into her lap, and retired into the next apartment with a low bow, and a very solemn air.
I was soon followed by the two women. Mrs. Moore withdrew to give the fair Perverse time to read them: Miss Rawlins for the same reason; and because she was sent for home.
The widow besought her speedy return. I joined in the same request; and she was ready enough to promise to oblige us.
I excused myself to Mrs. Moore for the disguise I had appeared in at first, and for the story I had invented. I told her, that I held myself obliged to satisfy her for the whole floor we were upon; and for an upper room for my servant; and that for a month certain.
She made many scruples, and begg'd she might not be urged on this head, till she had consulted Miss Rawlins.
I consented; but told her, that she had taken my earnest; and I hoped there was no room for dispute.
Just then Miss Rawlins return'd, with an air of eager curiosity; and having been told, what had passed between Mrs. Moore and me, she gave herself airs of office immediately: Which I humoured, plainly perceiving, that if I had her with me, I had the other.
She wished, if there were time for it, and if it were not quite impertinent in her to desire it, that I would give Mrs. Moore and her a brief history of an affair, which, as she said, bore the face of novelty, mystery, and surprize: For sometimes it looked to her as if we were married; at other times, that point appeared doubtful; and yet the lady did not absolutely deny it; but, upon the whole, thought herself highly injured.
I said, That ours was a very particular case: That were I to acquaint them with it, some part of it would hardly appear credible. But, however, I would give them, as they seemed to be persons of discretion, a brief account of the whole; and this in so plain and sincere a manner, that it should clear up to their satisfaction every thing that had passed, or might hereafter pass between us.
They sat down by me, and threw every feature of their faces into attention. I was resolved to go as near the truth as possible, lest any thing should drop from my spouse to impeach my veracity; and yet keep in view what passed at the Flask.
It is necessary, altho' thou knowest my whole story, and a good deal of my views, that thou shouldst be apprized of the substance of what I told them.
'I gave them, in as concise a manner as I was able, the history of our families, fortunes, alliances, antipathies (her brother's, and mine, particularly). I averred the truth of our private marriage.' The Captain's letter, which I will inclose, will give thee my reasons for that: And besides, the women might also, perhaps, have proposed a parson to me by way of compromise. 'I told them the condition my spouse had made me swear to; and which she held me to, in order, I said, to induce me the sooner to be reconciled to her relations.'
'I owned, that this restraint made me sometimes ready to fly out.' And Mrs. Moore was so good as to declare, that she did not much wonder at it.
Thou art a very good sort of woman, Mrs. Moore, thought I.
As Miss Howe has actually detected our mother; and might possibly find some way still to acquaint her friend with her discoveries; I thought it proper to prepossess them in Mrs. Sinclair's favour; and in that of her two nieces.
I said, 'They were gentlewomen born; had not bad hearts; that indeed my spouse did not love them; they having once jointly taken the liberty to blame her for her over-niceness with regard to me. People, I said, even good people, who knew themselves to be guilty of a fault they had no inclination to mend, were too often least patient, when told of it; as they could less bear than others, to be thought indifferently of.'
Too often the case, they owned.
'Mrs. Sinclair's house was a very handsome house, and fit to receive the first quality [True enough, Jack!]: Mrs. Sinclair was a woman very easy in her circumstances: A widow-gentlewoman-as you, Mrs. Moore, are. Lets lodgings-as you, Mrs. Moore, do. Once had better prospects-as you, Mrs. Moore, may have had: The relict of Colonel Sinclair: You, Mrs. Moore, might know Colonel Sinclair-He had lodgings at Hamstead.'
She had heard of the name.
'O, he was related to the best families in Scotland: And his widow is not to be reflected upon, because she lets lodgings, you know Mrs. Moore; -You know, Miss Rawlins.'
Very true, and, Very true: And they must needs say, it did not look quite so pretty in such a lady as my spouse, to be so censorious.
A foundation here, thought I, to procure these womens help to get back the fugitive, or their connivance at least at my doing so; as well as for anticipating any future information from Miss Howe.
I gave them a character of that virago: And intimated, 'that for a head to contrive mischief, and a heart to execute it, she had hardly her equal in her sex.'
To this Miss Howe it was, Mrs. Moore said, she supposed, that my spouse was so desirous to dispatch a man and horse, by day-dawn, with a letter she wrote before she went to bed last night; proposing to stay no longer than till she had received an answer to it.
The very same, said I. I knew she would have immediate recourse to her. I should have been but too happy, could I have prevented such a letter from passing, or so to have managed, as to have it given into Mrs. Howe's hands, instead of her daughter's. Women who had lived some time in the world, knew better, than to encourage such skittish pranks in young wives.
Let me just stop to tell thee, while it is in my head, that I have since given Will. his cue to find out where the man lives who is gone with the fair fugitive's letter; and, if possible, to see him on his return, before he sees her.
I told the women, 'That I despaired it would ever be better with us, while Miss Howe had so strange a predominance over my spouse, and remained herself unmarried; and until the reconciliation with her friends could be effected; or a still happier event,-as I should think it, who am the last male of my family; and which my foolish vow, and her rigour, had hitherto'-
Here I stopt, and looked modest, turning my diamond ring round my finger: While goody Moore looked mighty significant, calling it a very particular case; and the maiden lady fann'd away, and primm'd and purs'd, to shew, that what I said needed no farther explanation.
'I told them the occasion of our present difference: Avowed the reality of the fire: But owned, that I would have made no scruple of breaking the unnatural oath she had bound me in (having an husband's right of my side), when she was so accidentally frighted into my arms: And I blamed myself excessively, that I did not; since she thought fit to carry her resentment so high, and had the injustice to suppose the fire to be a contrivance of mine.'
Nay, for that matter, Mrs. Moore said-as we were married, and Madam was so odd-Every gentleman would not-And there stopt Mrs. Moore.
'To suppose I should have recourse to such a poor contrivance, said I, when I saw the dear creature every hour -' Was not this a bold put, Jack?
A most extraordinary case, truly! the maiden lady: Fanning, yet coming in with her Well-buts, and her sifting Pray Sir's! -And her restraining Enough-Sir's!-flying from the question to the question; her seat now-and-then uneasy, for fear my want of delicacy should hurt her abundant modesty; and yet it was difficult to satisfy her super abundant curiosity.
'My beloved's jealousy; which of itself, to female minds, accounts for a thousand unaccountablenesses; and the imputation of her half-phrensy brought upon her by her father's wicked curse, and by the previous persecutions she had undergone from all her family; were what I dwelt upon, in order to provide against what might happen.'
In short, 'I owned against myself most of the offences which I did not doubt but she would charge me with in their hearing: And as every cause has a black and a white side, I gave the worst parts of our story the gentlest turn. And when I had done, gave them some partial hints of the contents of Captain Tomlinson's letter, which I had left with her: With a caution, to be guarded against the inquiries of James Harlowe, and of Captain Singleton, or of any sailor-looking men.' This thou wilt see from the letter itself was necessary to be done. Here therefore thou mayest read it. And a charming letter to my purpose, if thou givest the least attention to its contents, wilt thou find it to be.
To Robert Lovelace, Esq;.
Wedn. June 7.
Dear Sir,
Altho' I am obliged to be in town to-morrow, or next day at farthest, yet I would not dispense with writing to you, by one of my servants, (whom I send up before me upon a particular occasion) in order to advertise you, that it is probable you will hear from some of your own relations on your [supposed] nuptials. One of the persons (Mr. Lilburne by name) to whom I hinted my belief of your marriage, happens to be acquainted with Mr. Spurrier, Lady Betty Lawrance's steward; and (not being under any restriction) mentioned it to Mr. Spurrier, and he to Lady Betty, as a thing certain: And this (tho' I have not the honour to be personally known to her ladyship) brought on an inquiry from her ladyship to me by her gentleman; who coming to me in company with Mr. Lilburne, I had no way but to confirm the report. And I understand, that Lady Betty takes it amiss, that she was not acquainted with so desirable a piece of news from yourself.
Her ladyship, it seems, has business that calls her to town; [and you will possibly choose to put her right. If you do, it will, I presume, be in confidence; that nothing may perspire from your own family to contradict what I have given out.]
[I have ever been of opinion, That truth ought to be strictly adhered to on all occasions: And am concerned that I have departed (tho' with so good a view) from my old maxim. But my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe would have it so. Yet I never knew a departure of this kind a single departure. But, to make the best of it now, allow me, Sir, once more to beg the lady, as soon as possible, to authenticate the report given out.] When you both join in the acknowlegement, it will be impertinent in any one to be inquisitive as to the day or week: [And, if as privately celebrated as you intend (while the gentlewomen with whom you lodge are properly instructed, as you say they are, and who actually believe you were married long ago), who shall be able to give a contradiction to my report?]
And yet it is very probable, that minute inquiries will be made; and this is what renders precaution necessary. For Mr. James Harlowe will not believe that you are married; and is sure, he says, that you both lived together when Mr. Hickman's application was made to Mr. John Harlowe: And if you lived together any time unmarried, he infers from your character, Mr. Lovelace, that it is not probable, that you would ever marry. And he leaves it to his two uncles to decide, if you even should be married, whether there be not room to believe, that his sister was first dishonoured; and if so, to judge of the title she will have to their favour, or to the forgiveness of any of her family. I believe, Sir, this part of my letter had best to be kept from the lady.
What makes young Mr. Harlowe the more earnest to find this out (and find it out he is resolved, and to come at his sister's speech too; and for that purpose sets out to-morrow, as I am well-informed, with a large attendance, armed, and Mr. Solmes is to be of the party) is this: -Mr. John Harlowe has told the whole family, that he will alter and new-settle his will. Mr. Antony Harlowe is resolved to do the same by his; for, it seems, he has now given over all thoughts of changing his condition; having lately been disappointed in a view he had of that sort with Mrs. Howe. These two brothers generally act in concert; and Mr. James Harlowe dreads (and let me tell you, that he has reason for it, on my Mr. Harlowe's account), that his younger sister will be, at last, more benefited than he wishes for, by the alteration intended. He has already been endeavouring to sound his uncle Harlowe on this subject; and wanted to know whether any new application had been made to him on his sister's part. Mr. Harlowe avoided a direct answer, and expressed his wishes for a general reconciliation, and his hopes that his niece was married. This offended the furious young man, and he reminded his uncle of engagements they had all entered into at his sister's going away, not to be reconciled but by general consent.
Mr. John Harlowe complains to me often, of the uncontroulableness of his nephew; and says, that now, that the young man has not any-body of whose superior sense he stands in awe, he observes not decency in his behaviour to any of them. And this makes my Mr. Harlowe still more desirous than ever of bringing his younger niece into favour again. I will not say all I might of this young man's extraordinary rapaciousness: -But one would think, that these grasping men expect to live for ever!
'I took the liberty but within these two hours, to propose to set on foot (and offer'd my cover) to a correspondence between my friend, and his daughter-niece, as he still sometimes fondly calls her. She was mistress of so much prudence, I said, that I was sure she could better direct every thing to its desirable end, than any-body else could. But he said, he did not think himself intirely at liberty to take such a step at present; and that it was best that he should have it in his power to say, occasionally, that he had not any correspondence with her, or letter from her.
'You will see, Sir, from all this, the necessity of keeping our treaty an absolute secret; and if the lady has mentioned it to her worthy friend Miss Howe, I hope it is in confidence.'
[And now, Sir, a few lines in answer to yours of Monday last.]
[Mr. Harlowe was very well pleased with your readiness to come into his proposal. But as to what you both desire, that he will be present at the ceremony, he said, that his nephew watched all his steps so narrowly, that he thought it was not practicable (if he were inclinable) to oblige you: But that he consented with all his heart, that I should be the person privately present at the ceremony, on his part.]
[However, I think, I have an expedient for this, if your lady continues to be very desirous of her uncle's presence (except he should be more determined than his answer seemed to import); of which I shall acquaint you, and perhaps of what he says to it, when I have the pleasure to see you in town. But, indeed, I think you have no time to lose. Mr. Harlowe is impatient to hear, that you are actually one; and I hope I may carry him down word, when I leave you next, that I saw the ceremony performed.]
[If any obstacle arises from the lady (from you it cannot), I shall be tempted to think a little hardly of her punctilio.]
Mr. Harlowe hopes, Sir, that you will rather take pains to avoid, than to meet, this violent young man. He has the better opinion of you, let me tell you, Sir, from the account I gave him of your moderation and politeness; neither of which are qualities with his nephew. But we have all of us something to amend.
You cannot imagine how dearly my friend still loves this excellent niece of his-I will give you an instance of it, which affected me a good deal-'If once more (said he, the last time but one we were together) I can but see this sweet child gracing the upper-end of my table, as mistress of my house, in my allotted month; all the rest of the family present but as her guests; for so I would have it; and had her mother's consent for it'-There he stopt; for he was forced to turn his reverend face from me. Tears ran down his cheeks. Fain would he have hid them: But he could not-'Yet,-yet, said he-how -how-' (poor gentleman, he perfectly sobbed)- 'how shall I be able to bear the first meeting!'
I bless God I am no hard-hearted man, Mr. Lovelace: My eyes shewed to my worthy friend, that he had no reason to be ashamed of his humanity before me.
I will put an end to this long epistle. Be pleased to make my compliments acceptable to the most excellent of women; as well as believe me to be,
Dear Sir,
Your faithful friend, and humble servant,
Antony Tomlinson.
During the above conversation I had planted myself at the further end of the apartment we were in, over-against the door; which was open; and opposite to the lady's chamber-door; which was shut. I spoke so low, that it was impossible, at that distance, that she should hear what we said; and in this situation I could see if her door opened.
I told the women, that what I had mentioned of Lady Betty's and her niece's coming to town, and of their intention to visit my spouse, whom they had never seen, nor she them, was real; and that I expected news of their arrival every hour. I then shewed them copies of the other two letters, which I had left with her; the one from lady Betty, the other from my cousin Montague. -And here thou mayest read them if thou wilt.
Eternally reproaching, eternally upbraiding me, are my impertinent relations. But they are fond of occasions to find fault with me. Their love, their love Jack, and their dependence on my known good humour, their inducement!
To Robert Lovelace, Esq;.
Wedn. Morn. June 7.
Dear Nephew,
I understand, that at length all our wishes are answered in your happy marriage. But I think, we might as well have heard of it directly from you, as from the round-about way by which we have been made acquainted with it. Methinks, Sir, the power and the will we have to oblige you, should not expose us the more to your slights and negligence. My brother had set his heart upon giving to you the wife we have all so long wished you to have. But if you were actually married at the time you made him that request (supposing, perhaps, that his gout, would not let him attend you), it is but like you. -If your lady had her reasons to wish it to be private while the differences between her family and self continue, you might nevertheless have communicated it to us, with that restriction; and we should have forborn the public manifestations of our joy, upon an event we have so long desired.
The distant way we have come to know it, is by my steward; who is acquainted with a friend of Captain Tomlinson, to whom that gentleman revealed it: And he, it seems, had it from yourself and lady, with such circumstances as leave it not to be doubted.
I am, indeed, very much disobliged with you: So is my sister Sadleir. But I shall have a very speedy opportunity to tell you so in person; being obliged to go to town on my old Chancery-affair. My cousin Leeson, who is, it seems, removed to Albemarle-street, has notice of it. I shall be at her house, where I bespeak your attendance on Sunday night. I have written to my cousin Charlotte for either her, or her sister, to meet me at Reading, and accompany me to town. I shall stay but a few days; my business being matter of form only: On my return I shall pop upon my brother, at M. Hall, to see in what way his last fit has left him.
Mean time, having told you my mind on your negligence, I cannot help congratulating you both upon the occasion: Your fair lady particularly, upon her entrance into a family, which is prepared to admire and love her.
My principal intention of writing to you (dispensing with the necessary punctilio) is, that you may acquaint my dear new niece, that I will not be denied the honour of her company down with me into Oxfordshire. I understand, that your proposed house and equipages cannot be soon ready. She shall be with me till they are. I insist upon it. This shall make all up. My house shall be her own: My servants and equipages hers.
Lady Sarah, who has not been out of her own house for months, will oblige me with her company for a week, in honour of a niece so dearly beloved, as I am sure she will be of us all.
Being but in lodgings in town, neither you nor your lady can require much preparation.
Some time on Monday I hope to attend the dear young lady, to make her my compliments; and to receive her apology for your negligence: Which, and her going down with me, as I said before, shall be full satisfaction. Mean time, God bless her for her courage (Tell her I say so): And bless you both in each other; and that will be happiness to us all- particularly, to
Your truly affectionate Aunt,
Eliz. Lawrance.
To Robert Lovelace, Esq;.
Dear Cousin,
At last, as we understand, there is some hope of you. Now does my good Lord run over his bead-roll of proverbs; of Black oxen, Wild oats, Long lanes, and so forth.
Now, cousin, say I, is your time come; and you will be no longer, I hope, an infidel either to the power or excellence of the sex you have pretended hitherto so much to undervalue; nor a ridiculer or scoffer at an institution which all sober people reverence, and all rakes, sooner or later, are brought to reverence, or to wish they had.
I want to see how you become your silken fetters: Whether the charming yoke fits light upon your shoulders. If, with such a sweet yoke-fellow it does not, my Lord, and my sister, as well as I, think, that you will deserve a closer tie about your neck.
His Lordship frets like gum'd taffaty, that you have not written him word of the day, the hour, the manner, and every thing. But I ask him, How he can already expect any mark of deference or politeness from you? He must stay, I tell him, till that sign of reformation, among others, must appear from the influence and example of your lady: But that, if ever you will be good for any thing, it will be quickly seen. And Oh cousin, what a vast, vast, journey have you to take from the dreary land of Libertinism, thro' the bright province of Reformation, into the serene kingdom of Happiness! -You had need to lose no time. You have many a weary step to tread, before you can overtake those travellers, who set out for it from a less remote quarter. But you have a charming pole-star to guide you, that's your advantage. I wish you joy of it: And as I have never yet expected any highly complaisant thing from you, I make no scruple to begin first; but it is purely, I must tell you, in respect to my new cousin; whose accession into our family we most heartily congratulate and rejoice in.
I have a letter from Lady Betty. She commands my attendance, or my sister's, at Reading, to proceed with her to the great beastly town, to cousin Leeson's. She puts Lord M. in hopes, that she shall certainly bring down with her our lovely new relation; for she says, she will not be denied. His Lordship is the willinger to let me be the person, as I am in a manner wild to see her; my sister having two years ago had that honour at Sir Robert Biddulph's. So get ready to accompany us in our return; except your lady has objections strong enough to satisfy us all. Lady Sarah longs to see her; and says, This accession to the family will supply to it the loss of her beloved daughter.
I shall soon, I hope, pay my compliments to the dear lady in person: So have nothing to add, but that, I am
Your old man Playfellow and Cousin,
Charlotte Montague.
The women having read the copies of these two letters, I thought that I might then threaten and swagger-'But very little heart have I, said I, to encourage such a visit from Lady Betty and Miss Montague to my spouse. For after all, I am tired out with her strange ways. She is not what she was, and (as I told her in your hearing, ladies) I will leave this plaguy island, tho' the place of my birth, and tho' the stake I have in it is very considerable; and go and reside in France or Italy, and never think of myself as a married man, nor live like one.'
O dear! said one.
That would be a sad thing! said the other.
Nay, Madam, turning to Mrs. Moore-Indeed, Madam, to Miss Rawlins-I am quite desperate. I can no longer bear such usage. I have had the good fortune to be favoured by the smiles of very fine ladies, tho' I say it (and I looked modest), both abroad and at home-[Thou knowest this to be true, Jack]. With regard to my spouse here, I had but one hope left (for as to the reconciliation with her friends, I scorn them all too much to value that, but for her sake); and that was, that if it pleased God to bless us with children, she might intirely recover her usual serenity; and we might then be happy. But the reconciliation her heart was so much set upon, is now, as I hinted before, intirely hopeless-Made so, by this rash step of hers, and by the rasher temper she is in; since (as you will believe) her brother and sister, when they come to know it, will make a fine handle of it against us both;-affecting, as they do at present, to disbelieve our marriage-and the dear creature herself too ready to countenance such a disbelief,-as nothing more than the ceremony-
Here I was bashful; for Miss Rawlins by her preparatory primness, put me in mind, that it was proper to be so-
I turned half round; then facing the fan-player, and the matron-You yourselves, ladies, knew not what to believe till Now, that I have told you our story: And I do assure you, that I shall not give myself the same trouble to convince people I hate: People from whom I neither expect nor desire any favour; and who are determined not to be convinced. And what, pray, must be the issue, when her uncle's friend comes, altho' he seems to be a truly worthy man? Is it not natural for him to say, 'To what purpose, Mr. Lovelace, should I endeavour to bring about a reconciliation between Mrs. Lovelace and her friends, by means of her elder uncle, when a good understanding is wanting between yourselves?' -A fair inference, Mrs. Moore! -A fair inference, Miss Rawlins! -And here is the unhappiness-Till she is reconciled to them, this cursed oath, in her notion, is binding!
The women seem'd moved; for I spoke with great earnestness, tho' low-And besides, they love to have their sex, and its favours, appear of importance to us. They shook their deep heads at each other, and looked sorrowful: And this moved my tender heart too.
'Tis an unheard-of case, ladies-Had she not preferred me to all mankind-There I stopped-And that, resumed I, feeling for my handkerchief, is, what staggered Captain Tomlinson, when he heard of her flight; who, the last time he saw us together, saw the most affectionate couple on earth! -The most affectionate couple on earth!-in the accent-grievous, repeated I.
Out then I pulled my handkerchief, and, putting it to my eyes, arose, and walked to the window-It makes me weaker than a woman! -Did I not love her, as never man loved his wife [I have no doubt but I do, Jack]-
There again I stopt; and resuming-Charming creature, as you see she is, I wish I had never beheld her face! -Excuse me, ladies; traversing the room. And having rubbed my eyes till I supposed them red, I turned to the women; and, pulling out my letter-case, I will shew you one letter-Here it is-Read it, Miss Rawlins, if you please-It will confirm to you, how much all my family are prepared to admire her. I am freely treated in it;-so I am in the two others: But after what I have told you, nothing need be a secret to you two.
She took it, with an air of eager curiosity, and looked at the seal, ostentatiously coronetted; and at the superscription, reading out, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;-Ay, Madam-Ay, Miss-that's my name (giving myself an air, tho' I had told it to them before) I am not ashamed of it. My wife's maiden name-Unmarried name, I should rather say,-fool that I am!-and I rubbed my cheek for vexation [Fool enough in conscience, Jack!] was Harlowe- Clarissa Harlowe-You heard me call her My Clarissa.-
I did-but thought it to be a feigned or love-name, said Miss Rawlins.
I wonder what is Miss Rawlins's love-name, Jack. Most of the fair Romancers have in their early womanhood chosen Love-names. No parson ever gave more real names, than I have given fictitious ones. And to very good purpose: Many a sweet dear has answered me a letter for the sake of owning a name which her godmother never gave her.
No-It was her real name, I said.
I bid her read out the whole letter. If the spelling be not exact, Miss Rawlins, said I, you will excuse it; the writer is a Lord. But, perhaps, I may not shew it to my spouse; for if those I have left with her have no effect upon her, neither will this: And I shall not care to expose my Lord M. to her scorn. Indeed I begin to be quite careless of consequences.
Miss Rawlins, who could not but be pleased with this mark of my confidence, looked as if she pitied me.
And here thou mayest read the letter, No. III.
To Robert Lovelace, Esq;.
M. Hall, Wedn. June 7.
Cousin Lovelace,
I think you might have found time to let us know of your nuptials being actually solempnized. I might have expected this piece of civility from you. But perhaps the ceremony was performed at the very time that you asked me to be your lady's father-But I shall be angry if I proceed in my guesses-And little said is soon amended.
But I can tell you, that Lady Betty Lawrance, whatever Lady Sarah does, will not so soon forgive you, as I have done. Women resent slights longer than men. You that know so much of the sex (I speak it not however to your praise) might have known That. But never was you before acquainted with a lady of such an amiable character. I hope there will be but one soul between you. I have before now said, that I will disinherit you, and settle all I can upon her, if you prove not a good husband to her.
May this marriage be crowned with a great many fine boys (I desire no girls) to build up again a family so antient! The first boy shall take my surname by act of parliament. That is in my will.
Lady Betty and niece Charlotte will be in town about business before you know where you are. They long to pay their compliments to your fair bride. I suppose you will hardly be at the Lawn when they get to town; because Greme informs me, you have sent no orders there for your lady's accommodation.
Pritchard has all things in readiness for signing. I will take no advantage of your slights. Indeed I am too much used to them-More praise to my patience, than to your complaisance, however.
One reason for Lady Betty's going up, as I may tell you under the rose, is, to buy some suitable presents for Lady Sarah and all of us to make on this agreeable occasion.
We would have blazed it away, could we have had timely notice, and thought it would have been agreeable to all round. The like occasions don't happen every day.
My most affectionate compliments and congratulations to my new niece, conclude me, for the present, in violent pains, that with all your heroicalness would make you mad,
Your truly affectionate Uncle,
M.
This letter clench'd the nail. Not but that, Miss Rawlins said, she saw I had been a wild gentleman; and, truly, she thought so, the moment she beheld me.
They began to intercede for my spouse (so nicely had I turn'd the tables), and that I would not go abroad, and disappoint a reconciliation so much wished for on one side, and such desirable prospects on the other in my own family.
Who knows, thought I to myself, but more may come of this plot, than I had even promised myself? What a happy man shall I be, if these women can be brought to join to carry my marriage into consummation?
Ladies, you are exceeding good to us both. I should have some hopes, if my unhappily-nice spouse could be brought to dispense with the unnatural oath she has laid me under. You see what my case is. Do you think I may not insist upon her absolving me from this abominable oath? Will you be so good, as to give your advice, that one apartment may serve for a man and his wife at the hour of retirement? -Modestly put, Belford! -And let me here observe, that few rakes, besides me, would find a language so decent, as to engage modest women to talk with him in, upon such subjects.
They both simper'd, and look'd upon one another.
These subjects always make women simper, at least. No need but of the most delicate hints to them. A man who is gross in a woman's company, ought to be knock'd down with a club: For, like so many musical instruments, touch but a single wire, and the dear souls are sensible all over.
To be sure, Miss Rawlins learnedly said, playing with her fan, a casuist would give it, that the matrimonial vow ought to supersede any other obligation.
Mrs. Moore, for her part, was of opinion, that, if the lady owned herself to be a wife, she ought to behave like one.
Whatever be my luck, thought I, with this all-eyed fair one, any other woman in the world, from fifteen to five-and-twenty, would be mine upon my own terms before the morning.
And now, that I may be at hand to take all advantages, I will endeavour, said I to myself, to make sure of good quarters.
I am your lodger, Mrs. Moore, in virtue of the earnest I have given you, for these apartments, and for any one you can spare above for my servants; Indeed for all you have to spare-for who knows what my spouse's brother may attempt? I will pay you your own demand: and that for a month or two certain (board included), as I shall or shall not be your hindrance. Take that as a pledge; or in part of payment. -Offering her a thirty pound bank note.
She declined taking it; desiring she might consult the lady first; adding, that she doubted not my honour; and that she would not lett her apartments to any other person, whom she knew not something of, while I and the lady were here.
The lady, The lady! from both the womens mouths continually (which still implied a doubt in their hearts): And not Your spouse, and Your lady, Sir.
I never met with such women, thought I;-So thoroughly convinced but this moment, yet already doubting! I am afraid I have a couple of Sceptics to deal with.
I knew no reason, I said, for my wife to object to my lodging in the same house with her here, any more than in town, at Mrs. Sinclair's. But were she to make such objection, I would not quit possession; since it was not unlikely, that the same freakish disorder which brought her to Hamstead, might carry her absolutely out of my knowlege.
They both seemed embarrassed; and looked upon one another; yet with such an air, as if they thought there was reason in what I said. And I declared myself her boarder, as well as lodger; and, dinner-time approaching, was not denied to be the former.

### v5 LETTER III.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
I thought it was now high time to turn my whole mind to my beloved; who had had full leisure to weigh the contents of the letters I had left with her.
I therefore requested Mrs. Moore to step in, and desire to know, whether she would be pleased to admit me to attend her in her apartment, on occasion of the letters I had left with her; or whether she would favour me with her company in the dining-room?
Mrs. Moore desired Miss Rawlins to accompany her in to the lady. They tapp'd at her door, and were both admitted.
I cannot but stop here for one minute, to remark, tho' against myself, upon that security which innocence gives, that nevertheless had better have in it a greater mixture of the Serpent with the Dove. For here, heedless of all I could say behind her back, because she was satisfied with her own worthiness, she permitted me to go on with my own story, without interruption, to persons as great strangers to her as to me; and who, as strangers to both, might be supposed to lean to the side most injured: And that, as I managed it, was to mine. A dear silly soul! thought I, at the time, to depend upon the goodness of her own heart, when the heart cannot be seen into but by its actions; and she, to appearance, a runaway, an eloper, from a tender, a most indulgent husband! -To neglect to cultivate the opinion of individuals, when the whole world is governed by appearance!
Yet, what can be expected of an angel under twenty? -She has a world of knowlege; knowlege speculative, as I may say; but no experience! How should she? -Knowlege by theory only is a vague uncertain light: A Will o' the Wisp, which as often misleads the doubting mind, as puts it right.
There are many things in the world, could a moralizer say, that would afford inexpressible pleasure to a reflecting mind, were it not for the mixture they come to us with. To be graver still; I have seen parents (perhaps my own did so) who delighted in those very qualities in their children, while young, the natural consequences of which (too much indulged and encouraged) made them, as they grew up, the plague of their hearts. -To bring this home to my present purpose, I must tell thee, that I adore this charming creature for her vigilant prudence; but yet, I would not, methinks, wish her, by virtue of that prudence, which is, however, necessary to carry her above the devices of all the rest of the world, to be too wise for mine.
My revenge, my sworn revenge, is nevertheless (adore her as I will) uppermost in my heart! -Miss Howe says, that my Love is an Herodian Love: By my soul, that girl's a witch! -I am half sorry to say, that I find a pleasure in playing the tyrant over what I love. Call it an ungenerous pleasure, if thou wilt: Softer hearts than mine know it. The women to a woman know it, and shew it too, whenever they are trusted with power. And why should it be thought strange, that I, who love them so dearly, and study them so much, should catch the infection of them?

### v5 LETTER IV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
I will now give thee the substance of the dialogue that passed between the two women and the lady.
Wonder not, that a perverse wife makes a listening husband. The event, however, as thou wilt find, justified the old observation, That listeners seldom hear good of themselves. Conscious of their own demerits (if I may guess by myself: There's ingenuity, Jack!), and fearful of censure, they seldom find themselves disappointed. There is something of sense, after all, in these proverbs, in these phrases, in this wisdom of nations.
Mrs. Moore was to be the messenger; but Miss Rawlins began the dialogue.
Your Spouse, Madam-[Devil! -Only to fish for a negative or affirmative declaration.]
Cl. My spouse, Madam-
Miss R. Mr. Lovelace, Madam, averrs, that you are married to him; and begs admittance, or your company in the dining-room, to talk upon the subject of the letters he left with you.
Cl. He is a poor wicked wretch. Let me beg of you, Madam, to favour me with your company as often as possible while he is hereabouts, and I remain here.
Miss R. I shall with pleasure attend you, Madam. But, methinks, I could wish you would see the gentleman, and hear what he has to say, on the subject of the letters.
Cl. My case is a hard, a very hard one-I am quite bewilder'd! -I know not what to do! -I have not a friend in the world, that can or will help me! -Yet had none but friends till I knew that man!
Miss R. The gentleman neither looks nor talks like a bad man. -Not a very bad man; as men go.
As men go! -Poor Miss Rawlins, thought I! - And dost thou know, how men go?
Cl. O Madam, you know him not! -He can put on the appearance of an angel of light; but has a black, a very black heart!-
Poor I!-
Miss R. I could not have thought it, truly! -But men are very deceitful now-a-days!
Now-a-days!-a fool! -Have not her history-books told her, that they were always so?
Mrs. Moore, sighing. I have found it so, I am sure, to my cost!-
Who knows but in her time, poor goody Moore may have met with a Lovelace, or a Belford, or some such vile fellow? -My little hare-um-scare-um Beauty knows not what strange histories every woman living, who has had the least independence of will, could tell her, were such to be as communicative as she is. -But here's the thing;-I have given her cause enough of offence; but not enough to make her hold her tongue.
Cl. As to the letters he has left with me, I know not what to say to them: -But am resolved never to have any thing to say to him.
Miss R. If, Madam, I may be allowed to say so, I think you carry matters very far.
Cl. Has he been making a bad cause a good one with you, Madam? -That he can do, with those who know him not. Indeed I heard him talking, tho' not what he said, and am indifferent about it. But what account does he give of himself?
I was pleased to hear this. To arrest, to stop her passion, thought I, in the height of its career, is a charming presage.
Then the busy Miss Rawlins fish'd on, to find out from her either a confirmation or disavowal of my story. Was Lord M. my uncle? -Did I court her at first with the allowance of her friends, her brother excepted? Had I a rencounter with that brother? Was she so persecuted in favour of a very disagreeable man, one Solmes, as to induce her to throw herself into my protection?
None of these were denied. All the objections she could have made, were stifled, or kept in, by the consideration (as she mentioned) that she should stay there but a little while; and that her story was too long. But Miss Rawlins would not be thus easily answered.
Miss R. He says, Madam, that he could not prevail for marriage, till he had consented, under a solemn oath, to separate beds, while your family remain'd unreconciled.
Cl. O the wretch! -What can be still in his head, to endeavour to pass these stories upon strangers!
So no direct denial, thought I! -Admirable! - All will do by-and-by!
Miss R. He has owned, that an accidental fire had frighten'd you very much on Wednesday night- And that-And that-And that-an accidental fire had frighten'd you-Very much frighten'd you-last Wednesday night!-
Then, after a short pause-In short, He owned, That he had taken some innocent liberties, which might have led to a breach of the oath you had imposed upon him: And that This was the cause of your displeasure.
I would have been glad to see how my charmer then look'd. -To be sure she was at a loss in her own mind, to justify herself for resenting so highly an offence so trifling. She hesitated-Did not presently speak-When she did, she wish'd, That she, Miss Rawlins, might never meet with any man who would take such innocent liberties with her.
Miss Rawlins push'd further.
Your case, to be sure, Madam, is very particular. But if the hope of a reconciliation with your own friends is made more distant by your leaving him, give me leave to say, That 'tis pity-'tis pity-[I suppose the maiden then primm'd, fann'd, and blush'd; -'tis pity] the oath cannot be dispensed with; especially as he owns, he has not been so strict a liver.-
I could have gone in, and kiss'd the girl.
Cl. You have heard his story. Mine, as I told you before, is too long, and too melancholy; my disorder on seeing the wretch is too great; and my time here is too short, for me to enter upon it. And if he has any end to serve by his own vindication, in which I shall not be a personal sufferer, let him make himself appear as white as an angel; with all my heart.
My love for her, and the excellent character I gave her, were then pleaded.
Cl. Specious seducer! -Only tell me, if I cannot get away from him by some backway?
How my heart then went pit-a-pat!
Cl. Let me look out-[I heard the sash lifted up] Whither does that path lead to? Is there no possibility of getting to a coach? -Surely, he must deal with some fiend, or how could he have found me out? - Cannot I steal to some neighbouring house, where I may be concealed till I can get quite away? -You are good people! -I have not been always among such! -O help me, help me, ladies (with a voice of impatience), or I am ruined!
Then pausing, Is that the way to Hendon? [pointing, I suppose] -Is Hendon a private place? -The Hamstead coach, I am told, will carry passengers thither.
Mrs. Moore. I have an honest friend at Mill-hill [Devil fetch her, thought I]; where, if such be your determination, Madam, and if you think yourself in danger, you may be safe, I believe.
Cl. Any-whither, if I can but escape from this man! -Whither does that path lead to, out yonder? -What is that town on the right-hand called?
Mrs. M. Highgate, Madam.
Miss R. On the side of the heath is a little village called North-end. A kinswoman of mine lives there. But her house is small. I am not sure she could accommodate such a lady.
Devil take her too, thought I! -I imagined, that I had made myself a better interest in these women. But the whole Sex love plotting; and plot-ters, too, Jack.
Cl. A barn, an outhouse, a garret, will be a palace to me, if it will but a afford me a refuge from this man!-
Her senses, thought I, are much livelier than mine. What a devil have I done, that she should be so very implacable! -I told thee, Belford, All I did: Was there any thing in it so very much amiss! -Such prospects of family-reconciliation before her too! - To be sure she is a very sensible lady!-
She then espied my new servant walking under the window, and asked, If he were not one of mine?-
Will. was on the look-out for old Grimes [So is the fellow called whom my beloved has dispatch'd to Miss Howe]. And being told, that the man she saw was my servant; I see, said she, that there is no escaping, unless you, Madam [To Miss Rawlins, I suppose], can befriend me till I can get farther. I have no doubt that that fellow is planted about the house to watch my steps. But the wicked wretch his master has no right to controul me. He shall not hinder me from going whither I please. I will raise the town upon him, if he molests me. Dear ladies, is there no back-door for me to get out at while you hold him in talk?
Miss R. Give me leave to ask you, Madam; Is there no room to hope for accommodation? Had you not better see him? He certainly loves you dearly: He is a fine gentleman: You may exasperate him, and make matters more unhappy for yourself.
Cl. O Mrs. Moore, O Miss Rawlins! you know not the man! -I wish not to see his face, nor to exchange another word with him as long as I live.
Mrs. Moore. I don't find, Miss Rawlins, that the gentleman has misrepresented any-thing. You see, Madam [To my Clarissa], how respectful he is; not to come in till permitted. He certainly loves you dearly. Pray, Madam, let him talk to you, as he wishes to do, on the subject of the letters.
Very kind of Mrs. Moore. Mrs. Moore, thought I, is a very good woman. -I did not curse her then.
Miss Rawlins said something; but so low, that I could not hear what it was. Thus it was answer'd.
Cl. I am greatly distressed! I know not what to do! -But, Mrs. Moore, be so good as to give his letters to him-Here they are. -Be pleased to tell him, That I wish him and his aunt and cousin a happy meeting. He never can want excuses to them for what has happened, any more than pretences to those he would delude. Tell him, That he has ruined me in the opinion of my own friends. I am for that reason the less solicitous how I appear to his.
Mrs. Moore then came to me; and being afraid, that something would pass mean time between the other two, which I should not like, I took the letters, and entered the room, and found them retired into the closet; my beloved whispering with an air of earnestness to Miss Rawlins, who was all attention.
Her back was towards me; and Miss Rawlins, by pulling her sleeve, giving intimation of my being there, Can I have no retirement uninvaded, Sir, said she, with indignation, as if she was interrupted in some talk her heart was in? -What business have you here, or with me? -You have your letters, han't you?
Lovel. I have, my dear; and let me beg of you to consider what you are about. I every moment expect Capt. Tomlinson here. Upon my soul, I do. He has promised to keep from your uncle what has happened. -But what will he think, if he finds you hold in this strange humour?
Cl. I will endeavour, Sir, to have patience with you for a moment or two, while I ask you a few questions before this lady and Mrs. Moore [who just then came in], both whom you have prejudiced in your favour by your specious stories: -Will you say, Sir, that we are married together? Lay your hand upon your heart, and answer me, Am I your wedded wife?
I am gone too far, thought I, to give up for such a push as this-home-one as it is.
My dearest soul! how can you put such a question? -Is it either for your honour or my own, that it should be doubted? -Surely, surely, Madam, you cannot have attended to the contents of Capt. Tomlinson's letter.
She complained often of want of spirits throughout our whole contention, and of weakness of person and mind, from the fits she had been thrown into: But little reason had she for this complaint, as I thought, who was able to hold me to it, as she did. I own that I was excessively concern'd for her several times.
You and I! Vilest of men-
My name is Lovelace, Madam-
Therefore it is, that I call you the vilest of men. [Was this pardonable, Jack?] You and I know the truth, the whole truth-I want not to clear up my reputation with these gentlewomen: -That is already lost with every one I had most reason to value: But let me have this new specimen of what you are capable of- Say, wretch (say, Lovelace, if thou hadst rather), Art thou really and truly my wedded husband? -Say! answer without hesitation!-
She trembled with impatient indignation; but had a wildness in her manner, which I took some advantage of, in order to parry this cursed thrust-And a cursed thrust it was; since, had I positively averr'd it, she never would have believed any-thing I had said: And had I owned that I was not married, I had destroyed my own plot, as well with the women as with her; and could have had no pretence for pursuing her, or hindering her from going whithersoever she pleased. Not that I was asham'd to averr it, had it been consistent with policy. I would not have thee think me such a milksop neither.
Lovel. My dearest Love, how wildly you talk! What would you have me answer? Is it necessary that I should answer? May I not re-appeal this to your own breast, as well as to Captain Tomlinson's treaty and letter? You know yourself how matters stand between us. -And Captain Tomlinson-
Cl. O wretch! Is this an answer to my question? Say, Are we married, or are we not?
Lovel. What makes a marriage, we all know. If it be the union of two hearts, [There was a turn, Jack!] to my utmost grief, I must say we are not; since now I see you hate me. If it be the completion of marriage, to my confusion and regret, I must own we are not. But, my dear, will you be pleased to consider what answer half a dozen people whence you came, could give to your question? And do not now, in the disorder of your mind, and in the height of passion, bring into question before these gentlewomen a point you have acknowleged before those who know us better.
I would have whisper'd her about the treaty with her uncle, and the contents of the Captain's letter; But, retreating, and with a rejecting hand, Keep thy distance, man, cry'd the dear insolent-To thy own heart I appeal, since thou evadest me thus pitifully! -I own no marriage with thee! Bear witness, ladies, I do not. And cease to torment me, cease to follow me. Surely, surely, faulty as I have been, I have not deserved to be thus persecuted! -I resume, therefore, my former language: You have no right to pursue me: You know you have not: Begone, then; and leave me to make the best of my hard lot. O my dear cruel papa! said she, in a violent fit of grief (falling upon her knees, and clasping her uplifted hands together), thy heavy curse is completed upon thy devoted daughter! I am punished, dreadfully punished, by the very wretch in whom I had placed my wicked confidence!
By my soul, Belford, the little witch with her words, but more by her manner, moved me! Wonder not then, that her action, her grief, her tears, set the women into the like compassionate manifestations.
Had not I a cursed task of it?
The two women withdrew to the further end of the room, and whisper'd, A strange case! There is no frenzy here-I just heard said.
The charming creature threw her handkerchief over her head and neck, continuing kneeling, her back towards me, and her face hid upon a chair, and repeatedly sobb'd with grief and passion.
I took this opportunity to step to the women, to keep them steady.
You see, ladies (whispering), what an unhappy man I am! You see what a spirit this dear creature has! -All, all owing to her implacable relations, and to her father's curse. -A curse upon them all; they have turn'd the head of the most charming woman in the world.
Ah! Sir, Sir, replied Miss Rawlins, whatever be the fault of her relations, all is not as it should be between you and her. 'Tis plain she does not think herself married: 'Tis plain she does not: And if you have any value for the poor lady, and would not totally deprive her of her senses, you had better withdraw, and leave to time and cooler consideration the event in your favour.
She will compel me to this at last, I fear, Miss Rawlins; I fear she will; and then we are both undone: For I cannot live without her; she knows it too well: -And she has not a friend will look upon her: This also she knows. Our marriage, when her uncle's friend comes, will be proved incontestably. But I am ashamed to think I have given her room to believe it no marriage: That's what she harps upon!
Well, 'tis a strange case, a very strange one, said Miss Rawlins; and was going to say further, when the angry Beauty, coming towards the door, said, Mrs. Moore, I beg a word with you. And they both stepped into the dining-room.
I saw her, just before, put a parcel into her pocket, and followed them out, for fear she should slip away; and stepping to the stairs, that she might not go by me, Will. cry'd I, aloud (tho' I knew he was not hear)-Pray, child, to a maid, who answered, call either of my servants to me.
She then came up to me, with a wrathful countenance: Do you call your servant, Sir, to hinder me, between you, from going whither I please?
Don't, my dearest life, misinterpret every thing I do. Can you think me so mean and so unworthy, as to employ a servant to constrain you? -I call him to send to the public houses, or inns in this town, to inquire after Captain Tomlinson, who may have alighted at some one of them, and be now, perhaps, needlesly adjusting his dress; and I would have him come, were he to be without cloaths, God forgive me! for I am stabb'd to the heart by your cruelty.
Answer was returned, that neither of my servants was in the way.
Not in the way, said I! -Whither can the dogs be gone?
O Sir! with a scornful air; Not far, I'll warrant. One of them was under the window just now; according to order, I suppose, to watch my steps-But I will do what I please, and go whither I please; and that to your face.
God forbid, that I should hinder you in any thing that you may do with safety to yourself!
Now I verily believe, that her design was, to slip out in pursuance of the closet-whispering between her and Miss Rawlins; perhaps to Miss Rawlins's house.
She then stept back to Mrs. Moore, and gave her something, which proved to be a diamond ring, and desired her, not whisperingly, but with an air of defiance to me, that That might be a pledge for her, till she defray'd her demands; which she should soon find means to do; having no more money about her, than she might have occasion for, before she came to an acquaintance's.
Mrs. Moore would have declined taking it; but she would not be deny'd; and then, wiping her eyes, she put on her gloves-Nobody has a right to stop me, said she! -I will go! -Who should I be afraid of? -Her very question, charming creature! testifying her fear.
I beg pardon, Madam (turning to Mrs. Moore, and courtesying), for the trouble I have given you. -I beg pardon, Madam, to Miss Rawlins (courtesying likewise to her)-You may both hear of me in a happier hour, if such a one falls to my lot-And God bless you both!-struggling with her tears till she sobb'd-and away was tripping.
I stepped to the door: I put it to; and setting my back against it, took her struggling hand-My dearest life! My angel! said I, why will you thus distress me? -Is this the forgiveness which you so solemnly promised?-
Unhand me, Sir! -You have no business with me! You have no right over me! You know you have not.
But whither, whither, my dearest love, would you go? -Think you not that I will follow you, were it to the world's end? -Whither would you go?
Well do you ask me, Whither I would go, who have been the occasion, that I have not a friend left! -But God, who knows my innocence, and my upright intentions, will not wholly abandon me, when I am out of your power-But while in it, I cannot expect a gleam of the divine grace or favour to reach me.
How severe is this! -How shockingly severe! - Out of your presence, my angry fair one! I can neither hope for the one nor the other. As my cousin Montague, in the letter you have read, observes, You are my pole-star, and my guide; and if ever I am to be happy, either here or hereafter, it must be in and by you.
She would then have urged me from the door. But respectfully opposing her, Begone, man! Begone, Mr. Lovelace, said she. -Stop not my way. -If you would not that I should attempt the window, give me passage by the door; for, once more, you have no right to detain me!
Your resentments, my dearest life, I will own to be well-grounded-I will acknowlege, that I have been all in fault. On my knee (and down I dropt) I ask your pardon. And can you refuse to ratify your own promise? -Look forward to the happy prospect before us. See you not my Lord M. and Lady Sarah longing to bless you, for blessing me, and their whole family? Can you take no pleasure in the promised visit of Lady Betty and my cousin Montague? And in the protection they offer you, if you are dissatisfied with mine? -Have you no wish to see your uncle's friend? -Stay only till Captain Tomlinson comes. -Receive from him the news of your uncle's compliance with the wishes of both.
She seem'd altogether distressed; was ready to sink; and forced to lean against the wainscot, as I kneeled at her feet. A stream of tears at last burst from her less indignant eyes-Good heaven, said she, lifting up her lovely face, and clasped hands, what is at last to be my destiny! -Deliver me from this dangerous man; and direct me! -I know not what I do; what I can do; nor what I ought to do!-
The women, as I had owned our marriage to be but half completed, heard nothing in this whole scene to contradict (not flagrantly to contradict) what I had asserted: They believed they saw in her returning temper, and stagger'd resolution, a love for me, which her indignation had before suppressed; and they joined to persuade her to tarry till the Captain came, and to hear his proposals; representing the dangers to which she would be exposed; the fatigues she might endure; a lady of her appearance, unguarded, unprotected. On the other hand, they dwelt upon my declared contrition, and on my promises: For the performance of which they offered to be bound. -So much had my kneeling humility affected them.
Women, Jack, tacitly acknowlege the inferiority of their own sex, in the pride they take to behold a kneeling lover at their feet.
She turned from me, and threw herself into a chair.
I arose, and approached her with reverence-My dearest creature, said I-and was proceeding-But, with a face glowing with conscious dignity, she interrupted me-Ungenerous, ungrateful Lovelace! - You know not the value of the heart you have insulted! Nor can you conceive how much my soul despises your meanness. But meanness must ever be the portion of the man, who can act vilely!-
The women believing we were likely to be on better terms, retired. The dear perverse opposed their going; but they saw I was desirous of their absence. And when they had withdrawn, I once more threw myself at her feet, and acknowleged my offences; implored her forgiveness for this one time, and promised the exactest circumspection for the future.
It was impossible for her, she said, to keep her memory, and forgive me. What hadst thou seen in the conduct of Clarissa Harlowe, that should encourage such an insult upon her, as thou didst dare to make? How meanly must thou think of her, that thou couldst presume to be so guilty, and expect her to be so weak, as to forgive thee?-
I besought her to let me go over with her Captain Tomlinson's letter. I was sure it was impossible she could have given it the requisite attention.
I have given it the requisite attention, said she; and the other letters too. So that what I say, is upon deliberation. And what have I to fear from my brother and sister? -They can but complete the ruin of my fortunes with my father and uncles. Let them, and welcome. You, Sir, I thank you, have lowered my fortunes: But, I bless God, that my mind is not sunk with my fortunes. It is, on the contrary, raised above Fortune, and above You; and for half a word, they shall have the estate they have envied me for, and an acquittal of all expectations from my family, that may make them uneasy.
I lifted up my hands and eyes in silent admiration of her!
My brother, Sir, may think me ruined. To the praise of your character, by whom I have been seduced from them, he may think it it impossible to be with you, and be innocent. You have but too well justified their harshest censures in every part of your conduct. But I will, now that I have escaped from you, and that I am out of the reach of your mysterious devices, wrap myself up in my own innocence (and then she passionately folded her arms about herself), and leave to time, and to my future circumspection, the re-establishment of my character. - Leave me then, Sir-Pursue me not!-
Good God! interrupting her-And all this, for what? -Had I not yielded to your intreaties (Forgive me, Madam), you could not have carried farther your resentments-
Wretch! -What it not crime enough to give occasion for those intreaties? Wouldst thou make a merit to me, that thou didst not utterly ruin her whom thou oughtest to have protected? -Begone, man! turning from me, her face crimson'd over with passion: -See me no more! -I cannot bear thee in my sight!-
Dearest, dearest creature!-
If I forgive thee, Lovelace-And there she stopp'd. To endeavour, proceeded she, to endeavour, to terrify a poor creature by premeditation, by low contrivance, by cries of fire -A poor creature who had consented to take a wretched chance with thee for life!
For Heaven's sake-offering to take her repulsing hand, as she was flying from me towards the closet-
What hast thou to do, to plead the sake of Heaven in thy favour, O darkest of human minds!
Then turning from me, wiping her eyes, and again turning towards me, but her sweet face half-aside, What difficulties hast thou involved me in! -Thou that hadst a plain path before thee, after thou hadst betray'd me into thy power-At once my mind takes in the whole of thy crooked behaviour; and if thou thinkest of Clarissa Harlowe as her proud heart tells her thou oughtest to think of her, thou wilt seek thy fortunes elsewhere. How often hast thou provoked me to tell thee, that my soul is above thee?
For God's sake, Madam, for a soul's sake, which it is in your power to save from perdition, forgive me the past offence. I am the greatest villain on earth, if it was a premeditated one. Yet I presume not to excuse myself. On your mercy I throw myself. I will not offer at any plea, but that of penitence. See but Captain Tomlinson. See but my aunt and cousin; let them plead for me; let them be guaranties for my honour.
If Captain Tomlinson come while I stay here, I may see him. But as for you, Sir-
Dearest creature! let me beg of you not to aggravate my offence to the Captain, when he comes. Let me beg of you-
What askest you? -Is it not, that I shall be of party against myself? -That I shall palliate-
Do not charge me, Madam, interrupted I, with villainous premeditation! -Do not give such a construction to my offence, as may weaken your uncle's opinion-as may strengthen your brother's-
She flung from me to the further end of the room; She could go no further-And just then Mrs. Moore came up, and told her, that dinner was ready; and that she had prevailed upon Miss Rawlins to give her her company.
You must excuse me, Mrs. Moore, said she. Miss Rawlins I hope also will-But I cannot eat. I cannot go down. As for you, Sir, I suppose you will think it right to depart hence; at least till the gentleman comes whom you expect.
I respectfully withdrew into the next room, that Mrs. Moore might acquaint her [I durst not myself], that I was her lodger and boarder, as (whisperingly) I desired she would: And meeting Miss Rawlins in the passage, Dearest Miss Rawlins, said I, stand my friend: Join with Mrs. Moore to pacify my spouse, if she has any new flights upon my having taken lodgings, and intending to board here. I hope she will have more generosity than to think of hindering a gentlewoman from letting her lodgings.
I suppose Mrs. Moore (whom I left with my fair one) had apprised her of this before Miss Rawlins went in; for I heard her say, while I with-held Miss Rawlins-'No, indeed: He is much mistaken- Surely he does not think I will.'
They both expostulated with her, as I could gather from bits and scraps of what they said; for they spoke so low, that I could not hear any distinct sentence, but from the fair perverse, whose anger made her louder. And to this purpose I heard her deliver herself in answer to different parts of their talk to her: -'Good Mrs. Moore, dear Miss Rawlins, press me no further-I cannot sit down at table with him!'
They said something, as I suppose in my behalf- 'O the insinuating wretch! -What defence have I against a man, who, go where I will, can turn every one, even of the virtuous of my sex, in his favour?'
After something else said, which I heard not distinctly, -'This is execrable cunning! -Were you to know his wicked heart, he is not without hope of engaging you two good persons to second him in the vilest of his machinations.'
How came she (thought I at the instant) by all this penetration? My devil surely does not play me booty. If I thought he did, I would marry, and live honest, to be even with him.
I suppose then, they urged the plea which I hinted to Miss Rawlins at going in, that she would not be Mrs. Moore's hindrance; for thus she expressed herself -'He will no doubt pay you your own price. You need not question his liberality. But one house cannot hold us. Why, if it would, did I fly from him, to seek refuge among strangers?'
Then, in answer to somewhat else they pleaded- ''Tis a mistake, Madam; I am not reconciled to him. I will believe nothing he says. Has he not given you a flagrant specimen of what a man he is, and of what he is capable, by the disguises you saw him in? My story is too long, and my stay here will be but short; or I could convince you, that my resentments against him are but too well founded.'
I suppose then, that they pleaded for her leave, for my dining with them: For she said; 'I have nothing to say to that-It is your own house, Mrs. Moore- It is your own table-You may admit whom you please to it-Only leave me at my liberty to choose my company.'
Then in answer, as I suppose, to their offer of sending her up a plate-'A bit of bread, if you please, and a glass of water: That's all I can swallow at present. I am really very much discomposed. Saw you not how bad I was? -Indignation only could have supported my spirits!'-
'I have no objection to his dining with you, Madam;' added she, in reply, I suppose, to a farther question of the same nature-'But I will not stay a night in the house, where he lodges, if I can help it.'
I presume Miss Rawlins had told her, that she would not stay dinner-for she said, 'Let me not deprive Mrs. Moore of your company, Miss Rawlins. You will not be displeased with his talk. He can have no design upon you.'
Then I suppose they pleaded what I might say behind her back, to make my own story good;-'I care not what he says, or what he thinks of me. Repentance and amendment are all the harm I wish him, whatever becomes of me!'
By her accent, she wept when she spoke these last words.
They came out both of them wiping their eyes; and would have persuaded me to relinquish the lodgings, and to depart till her uncle's friend came. But I knew better. I did not care to trust the devil, well as she and Miss Howe suppose me to be acquainted with him, for finding her out again, if once more she escaped me.
What I am most afraid of, is, that she will throw herself among her own relations; and if she does, I am confident they will not be able to withstand her affecting eloquence. But yet, as thou'lt see, the Captain's letter to me is admirably calculated to obviate my apprehensions on this score; particularly in that passage, where it is said, that her uncle thinks not himself at liberty to correspond directly with her, or to receive applications from her-But thro' Captain Tomlinson, as is strongly imply'd.
I must own (notwithstanding the revenge I have so solemnly vowed) that I would very fain have made for her a merit with myself in her returning favour, and owed as little as possible to the mediation of Captain Tomlinson. My pride was concerned in this. And this was one of my reasons for not bringing him with me. Another was; That, if I were obliged to have recourse to his assistance, I should be better able (by visiting her without him) to direct him what to say or to do, as I should find out the turn of her humour.
I was, however, glad at my heart, that Mrs. Moore came up so seasonably with notice, that dinner was ready. The fair fugitive was all in Alt. She had the game in her own hands; and by giving me so good an excuse for withdrawing, I had time to strengthen myself; the Captain had time to come; and the Lady to cool. Shakespeare advises well.
Oppose not rage, while rage is in its force;
But give it way awhile, and let it waste.
The rising deluge is not stopt with dams;
Those it o'erbears, and drowns the hope of harvest.
But, wisely manag'd, its divided strength
Is sluic'd in channels, and securely drain'd:
And when its force is spent, and unsupply'd,
The residue with mounds may be restrain'd,
And dry-shod we may pass the naked ford.
I went down with the women to dinner. Mrs. Moore sent her fair boarder up a plate; but she only eat a little bit of bread, and drank a glass of water. I doubted not but she would keep her word, when it was once gone out. Is not she an Harlowe? -She seems to be inuring herself to hardships, which, at the worst, she can never know; since, tho' she should ultimately refuse to be obliged to me, or, to express myself more suitably to my own heart, to oblige me, every one who sees her must befriend her.
But let me ask thee, Belford, Art thou not solicitous for me, in relation to the contents of the letter which the angry beauty has written and dispatch'd away by man and horse; and for what may be Miss Howe's answer to it?. Art thou not ready to inquire, Whether it be not likely that Miss Howe, when she knows of her saucy friend's flight, will be concern'd about her letter, which she must know could not be at Wilson's till after that flight; and so, probably, would fall into my hands?-
All these things, as thou'lt see in the sequel, are provided for with as much contrivance as human foresight can admit.
I have already told thee, that Will. is upon the look-out for old Grimes. -Old Grimes is, it seems, a gossiping, sottish rascal; and if Will. can but light of him, I'll answer for the consequence: For has not Will. been my servant upwards of seven years?

### v5 LETTER V.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
We had at dinner, besides Miss Rawlins, a young widow-niece of Mrs. Moore, who is come to stay a month with her aunt-Bevis her name; very forward, very lively, and a great admirer of me, I assure you;-hanging smirkingly upon all I said; and prepared to approve of every word before I spoke: And who, by the time we had half-dined (by the help of what she had collected before), was as much acquainted with our story, as either of the other two.
As it behoved me to prepare them in my favour against whatever might come from Miss Howe, I improved upon the hint I had thrown out above-stairs against that mischief-making Lady. I represented her to be an arrogant creature, revengeful, artful, enterprising, and one who, had she been a man, would have sworn and curs'd, and committed rapes, and play'd the devil, as far as I knew [and I have no doubt of it, Jack]: but who, nevertheless, by advantage of a female education, and pride, and insolence, I believed was personally virtuous.
Mrs. Bevis allowed, that there was a vast deal in education-and in pride too, she said. While Miss Rawlins came with a prudish God forbid, that virtue should be owing to education only! However, I declared, that Miss Howe was a subtle contriver of mischief; one who had always been my enemy: her motives I knew not: but, despising the man whom her mother was desirous she should have, one Hickman; altho' I did not directly averr, that she would rather have had me; yet they all immediately imagined, that that was the ground of her animosity to me, and of her envy to my beloved; and it was pity, they said, that so fine a young Lady did not see thro' such a pretended friend.
And yet nobody (added I) has more reason than she to know by experience the force of a hatred founded in envy; as I hinted to you above, Mrs. Moore, and to you, Miss Rawlins, in the case of her sister Arabella.
I had compliments made to my person and talents on this occasion; which gave me a singular opportunity of displaying my modesty, by disclaiming the merit of them, with a No, indeed! -I should be very vain, Ladies, if I thought so. While thus abasing myself, and exalting Miss Howe, I got their opinion both for modesty and generosity; and had all the graces which I disclaimed, thrown in upon me, besides.
In short, they even oppressed that modesty, which (to speak modesty of myself) their praises created, by disbelieving all I said against myself.
And, truly, I must needs say, they have almost persuaded even me myself, that Miss Howe is actually in love with me. I have often been willing to hope this. And who knows but she may? The Captain and I have agreed, that it shall be so insinuated occasionally-And what's thy opinion, Jack? She certainly hates Hickman: And girls who are disengaged seldom hate, tho' they may not love: And if she had rather have another, why not that other ME? For am I not a smart fellow, and a rake? And do not your sprightly Ladies love your smart fellows, and your rakes? And where is the wonder, that the man who could engage the affections of Miss Harlowe, should engage those of a Lady (with her Alas's) who would be honoured in being deemed her second?
Nor accuse thou me of SINGULAR vanity in this presumption, Belford. Wert thou to know the secret vanity that lurks in the hearts of those who disguise or cloak it best, thou wouldst find great reason to acquit, at least to allow for, me: since it is generally the conscious over-fulness of conceit, that makes the hypocrite most upon his guard to conceal it. - Yet with these fellows, proudly-humble as they are, it will break out sometimes in spite of thier cloaks, tho' but in self-denying, compliment-begging self-degradation.
But now I have appealed this matter to thee, let me use another argument in favour of my observation, that the Ladies generally prefer a rake to a sober man; and of my presumption upon it, that Miss Howe is in love with me: It is this: -Common fame says, That Hickman is a very virtuous, a very innocent fellow-a male-virgin, I warrant! -An odd dog I always thought him. -Now women, Jack, like not novices. They are pleased with a Love of the Sex that is founded in the knowlege of it. Reason good. Novices expect more than they can possibly find in the commerce with them. The man who knows them, yet has ardors for them, to borrow a word from Miss Howe, tho' those ardors are generally owing more to the devil within him, than to the witch without him, is the man who makes them the highest and most grateful compliment. He knows what to expect, and with what to be satisfied.
Then the merit of a woman, in some cases, must be ignorance, whether real or pretended. The Man, in these cases, must be an adept. Will it then be wondered at, that a woman prefers a libertine to a novice? -While she expects in the one the confidence she wants; she considers the other and herself as two parallel lines; which, tho' they run side by side, can never meet.
Yet in this the Sex is generally mistaken too; for these sheepish fellows are sly. -I myself was modest once; and this, as I have elsewhere hinted to thee (b), has better enabled me to judge of both. -But to proceed with my narrative:
Having thus prepared every-one against any letter should come from Miss Howe, and against my beloved's messenger returns, I thought it proper to conclude that subject with a hint, that my spouse could not bear to have any-thing said that reflected upon Miss Howe; and, with a deep sigh, added, that I had been made very unhappy more than once by the ill-will of Ladies, whom I had never offended.
The widow Bevis believed, that might very easily be.
These hints within-doors, joined with others to Will. both without and within (for I intend he shall fall in love with widow Moore's maid, and have saved one hundred pounds in my service, at least), will be great helps, as things may happen.

### v5 LETTER VI.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
We had hardly dined, when my coachman, who kept a look-out for Captain Tomlinson, as Will. did for old Grimes, conducted hither that worthy gentleman, attended by one servant, both on horseback. He alighted. I went out to meet him at the door.
Thou knowest his solemn appearance, and unblushing freedom; and yet canst not imagine what a dignity the rascal assumed, nor how respectful to him I was.
I led him into the parlour, and presented him to the women, and them to him. -I thought it highly imported me (as they might still have some diffidences about our marriage, from my fair-one's home-push'd questions on that head) to convince them intirely of the truth of all I had asserted. And how could I do this better, than by dialoguing with him before them a little?
Dear Captain, I thought you long; for I have had a terrible conflict with my spouse.
Capt. I am sorry that I am later than my intention -My account with my banker-[There's a dog, Jack!] took me up longer time to adjust than I had foreseen (all the time pulling down and stroking his ruffles): for there was a small difference between us- only twenty pounds, indeed, which I had taken no account of. The rascal has not seen twenty pounds of his own these ten years.
Then had we between us the characters of the Harlowe family: I railing against them all; the Captain taking his dear friend Mr. John Harlowe's part; with a Not so fast! -Not so fast, young gentleman!- and the like free assumptions.
He accounted for their animosity by my defiances: No good family, having such a charming daughter, would care to be defied, instead of courted: He must speak his mind: Never was a double-tongu'd man. - He appealed to the Ladies, if he were not right.
He got them of his side.
The correction I had given the brother, he told me, must have aggravated matters.
How valiant this made me look to the women! - The Sex love us mettled fellows at their hearts.
Be that as it would, I should never love any of the family but my spouse; and, wanting nothing from them, would not, but for her sake, have gone so far as I had gone towards a reconciliation.
This was very good of me; Mrs. Moore said.
Very good indeed; Miss Rawlins.
Good! -It is more than good; it is very generous; said the widow.
Capt. Why, so it is, I must needs say: For I am sensible, that Mr. Lovelace has been rudely treated by them all-More rudely, than it could have been imagined a man of his quality and spirit would have put up with. But then, Sir (turning to me), I think you are amply rewarded in such a Lady; and that you ought to forgive the father for the daughter's sake.
Mrs. M. Indeed so I think.
Miss R. So must every-one think, who has seen the Lady.
Widow B. A fine Lady! to be sure! But she has a violent spirit; and some very odd humours too, by what I have heard. The value of good husbands is not known till they are lost!
Her conscience then drew a sigh from her.
Lovel. Nobody must reflect upon my angel. -An angel she is. -Some little blemishes, indeed, as to her over-hasty spirit, and as to her unforgiving temper. But this she has from the Harlowes; instigated too by that Miss Howe. -But her innumerable excellencies are all her own.
Capt. Ay, talk of spirit, There's a spirit, now you have named Miss Howe! [And so I led him to confirm all I had said of that vixen.] Yet she was to be pitied too, looking with meaning at me.
As I have already hinted, I had before agreed with him to impute secret love occasionally to Miss Howe, as the best means to invalidate all that might come from her in my disfavour.
Capt. Mr. Lovelace, but that I know your modesty, or you could give a reason-
Lovel. looking down, and very modest-I can't think so, Captain-But let us call another cause.
Every woman present could look me in the face, so bashful was I.
Capt. Well, but, as to our present situation-Only it mayn't be proper-looking upon me, and round upon the women.
Lovel. O Captain, you may say any-thing before this company-Only, Andrew, to my new servant, who attended us at table, do you withdraw: This good girl (looking at the maid-servant) will help us to all we want.
Away went Andrew: He wanted not his cue; and the maid seemed highly pleased at my honour's preference of her.
Capt. As to our present situation, I say, Mr. Lovelace -Why, Sir, we shall be all untwisted, let me tell you, if my friend Mr. John Harlowe were to know what that is: He would as much question the truth of your being married, as the rest of the family do.
Here the women perked up their ears; and were all silent attention.
Capt. I asked you before for particulars, Mr. Lovelace: but you declined giving them. -Indeed it may not be proper for me to be acquainted with them. - But I must own, that it is past my comprehension, that a wife can resent any-thing a husband can do (that is not a breach of the peace), so far as to think herself justified for eloping from him.
Lovel. Captain Tomlinson-Sir-I do assure you, that I shall be offended-I shall be extremely concerned -if I hear that word mention'd again-
Capt. Your nicety, and your love, Sir, may make you take offence-But it is my way to call everything by its proper name, let who will be offended-
Thou canst not imagine, Belford, how brave, and how independent, the rascal look'd.
Capt. When, young Gentleman, you shall think proper to give us particulars, we will find a word that shall please you better, for this rash act in so admirable a Lady-You see, Sir, that, being the representative of my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe, I speak as freely as I suppose he would do, if present. But you blush, Sir-I beg your pardon, Mr. Lovelace: It becomes not a modest man to pry into those secrets, which a modest man cannot reveal.
I did not blush, Jack; but denied not the compliment, and looked down: the women seem'd delighted with my modesty: but the widow Bevis was more inclined to laugh at me, than praise me for it.
Capt. Whatever be the cause of this step (I will not again, Sir, call it elopement, since that harsh word wounds your tenderness), I cannot but express my surprize upon it, when I recollect the affectionate behaviour, which I was witness to between you, when I attended you last. Over-love, Sir, I think you once mentioned-but Over-love (smiling), give me leave to say, Sir, is an odd cause of quarrel. - Few Ladies-
Lovel. Dear Captain! And I tried to blush.
The women also tried; and, being more used to it, succeeded better. -Mrs. Bevis, indeed, has a red-hot countenance, and always blushes.
Miss R. It signifies nothing to mince the matter: but the Lady above as good as denies her marriage. You know, Sir, that she does; turning to me.
Capt. Denies her marriage! Heavens! how then have I imposed upon my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe!
Lovel. Poor dear! -But let not her veracity be called in question. She would not be guilty of a wilful untruth for the world.
Then I had all their praises again.
Lovel. Dear creature!-she thinks she has reason for her denial. You know, Mrs. Moore; you know, Miss Rawlins; what I owned to you above, as to my vow-
I look'd down, and, as once before, turned round my diamond ring.
Mrs. Moore looked awry; and with a leer at Miss Rawlins, as to her partner in the hinted-at reference.
Miss Rawlins look'd down as well as I; her eyelids half-closed, as if mumbling a Pater-noster, meditating her snuff-box, the distance between her nose and chin lengthened by a close-shut mouth.
She put me in mind of the pious Mrs. Fetherstone at Oxford, whom I pointed out to thee once, among other grotesque figures, at St. Mary's church, where we went to take a view of her two sisters: Her eyes shut, not daring to trust her heart with them open; and but just half-rearing the lids, to see who the next-comer was; and falling them again, when her curiosity was satisfied.
The widow Bevis gazed, as if on the hunt for a secret.
The Captain looked archly, as if half in possession of one.
Mrs. Moore at last broke the bashful silence. Mrs. Lovelace's behaviour, she said, could be no otherwise so well accounted-for, as by the ill-offices of that Miss Howe; and by the severity of her relations; which might but too probably have affected her head a little at times: Adding, that it was very generous in me to give way to the storm, when it was up, rather than to exasperate at such a time.
But let me tell you, Sirs, said the widow Bevis, that is not what one husband in a thousand would have done.
I desired, that no part of this conversation might be hinted to my spouse; and looked still more bashfully. Her great fault, I must own, was over-delicacy.
The Captain leered round him; and said, He believed he could guess from the hints I had given him in town (of my over-love), and from what had now passed, that we had not consummated our marriage.
O Jack! how sheepishly then looked, or endeavoured to look, thy friend! how primly Goody Moore! how affectedly Miss Rawlins!-while the honest widow Bevis gazed around her fearless; and tho' only simpering with her mouth, her eyes laugh'd out-right, and seem'd to challenge a laugh from every eye in the company.
He observ'd, that I was a phoenix of a man, if so; and he could not but hope, that all matters would be happily accommodated in a day or two; and that then he should have the pleasure to averr to her uncle, that he was present, as he might say, on our wedding-day.
The women seem'd all to join in the same hope.
Ah, Captain! ah, Ladies!-how happy should I be, if I could bring my dear spouse to be of the same mind!
It would be a very happy conclusion of a very knotty affair, said widow Bevis; and I see not why we may not make this very night a merry one.
The Captain superciliously smiled at me. He saw plainly enough, he said, that we had been at childrens play hitherto. A man of my character must have a prodigious value for his Lady, who could give way to such a caprice as This. But one thing he would venture to tell me; and that was This-That, however desirous young skittish Ladies might be to have their way in this particular, it was a very bad setting-out for the man; as it gave his bride a very high proof of the power she had over him: And he would engage, that no woman, thus humoured, ever valued the man the more for it; but very much the contrary-And there were reasons to be given why she should not.
Well, well, Captain, no more of this subject before the Ladies. - One feels (in a bashful try-to-blush manner, shrugging my shoulders), that one is so ridiculous -I have been punish'd enough for my tender folly.
Miss Rawlins had taken her fan, and would needs hide her face behind it: I suppose because her blush was not quite ready.
Mrs. Moore hemm'd, and look'd down, and by that, gave hers over.
While the jolly widow, laughing out, praised the Captain, as one of Hudibras's metaphysicians, repeating,
He knew what's what, and that's as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.
This made Miss Rawlins blush indeed: -Fie, fie, Mrs. Bevis! cry'd she, unwilling I suppose, to be thought absolutely ignorant.
Upon the whole, I began to think, that I had not made a bad exchange of our professing mother, for the un-professing Mrs. Moore. And indeed the women and I, and my Beloved too, all mean the same thing: We only differ about the manner of coming at the proposed end.

### v5 LETTER VII.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
It was now high time to acquaint my spouse, that Captain Tomlinson was come. And the rather, as the maid told us, that the lady had asked her, If such a gentleman (describing him) was not in the parlour?
Mrs. Moore went up, and requested, in my name, that she would give us audience.
But she return'd, with a desire, that Captain Tomlinson would excuse her for the present. She was very ill. Her spirits were too weak to enter into conversation with him; and she must lie down.
I was vexed, and, at first, extremely disconcerted. The Captain was vexed too. And my concern, thou mayst believe, was the greater on his account.
She had been very much fatigued, I own. Her fits in the morning must have weaken'd her: And she had carried her resentment so high, that it was the less wonder she should find herself low, when her raised spirits had subsided. Very low, I may say; if sinkings are proportioned to risings; for she had been lifted up above the standard of a common mortal.
The Captain, however, sent up in his own name, that if he could be admitted to drink one dish of tea with her, he should take it for a favour; and would go to town, and dispatch some necessary business, if possible, to leave his morning free to attend her.
But she pleaded a violent head-ach; and Mrs. Moore confirm'd the plea to be just.
I would have had the Captain lodge there that night, as well in compliment to him, as introductory to my intention of entering my self upon my new-taken apartment. But his hours were of too much importance to him to stay the evening.
It was indeed very inconvenient for him, he said, to return in the morning; but he was willing to do all in his power to heal this breach, and that as well for the sakes of me and my lady, as for that of his dear friend Mr. John Harlowe; who must not know how far this misunderstanding had gone. He would therefore only drink one dish of tea with the ladies and me.
And accordingly, after he had done so, and I had had a little private conversation with him, he hurried away.
His fellow had given him, in the interim, a high character to Mrs. Moore's servants: And this reported by the Widow Bevis (who, being no proud woman, is hail fellow, well met, as the saying is, with all her aunt's servants), he was a fine gentleman, a discreet gentleman, a man of sense and breeding, with them all: And it was pity, that, with such great business upon his hands, he should be obliged to come again.
My life for yours, audibly whisper'd the Widow Bevis, There is humour as well as head-ach in Somebody's declining to see this worthy gentleman. -Ah, Lord! how happy might some people be, if they would!-
No perfect happiness in this world, said I, very gravely, and with a sigh; for the widow must know that I heard her. If we have not real unhappiness, we can make it, even from the overflowings of our own good fortune.
Very true, and, Very true, the two widows: A charming observation, Mrs. Bevis. Miss Rawlins smil'd her assent to it; and I thought she call'd me in her heart, Charming man! For she professes to be a great admirer of moral observations.
I had hardly taken leave of the Captain, and sat down again with the women, when Will. came; and calling me out, 'Sir, Sir,' said he, grinning with a familiarity in his looks, as if what he had to say intitled him to take liberties; 'I have got the fellow down! -I have got old Grimes-Hah, hah, hah, hah-He is at the Lower-Flask-Almost in the condition of David's sow, and please your Honour -[The dog himself not much better] Here is his letter-from-from Miss Howe-Ha, ha, ha, ha,' laugh'd the varlet; holding it fast, as if to make conditions with me, and to excite my praises, as well as my impatience.
I could have knock'd him down; but he would have his say out-'Old Grimes knows not that I have the letter-I must get back to him before he misses it-I only made a pretence to go out for a few minutes-But-but'-and then the dog laugh'd again-'He must stay-Old Grimes must stay-till I go back to pay the reckoning.'
D-n the prater! -Grinning rascal! -The letter -The letter!-
He gather'd in his wide mothe, as he calls it, and gave me the letter; but with a strut, rather than a bow; and then sidled off like one of Widow Sorlings's dunghill cocks, exulting after a great feat performed. And all the time that I was holding up the billet to the light, to try to get at its contents, without breaking the seal (for, dispatch'd in a hurry, it had no cover), there stood he laughing, shrugging, playing off his legs; now stroking his shining chin; now turning his hat upon his thumb; then leering in my face, flourishing with his head-O Christ! now-and-then cry'd the rascal-
What joy has this dog in mischief! -More than I can have in the completion of my most favourite purposes! -These fellows are ever happier than their masters.
I was once thinking to rumple up this billet till I had broken the seal. Young families (Miss Howe's is not an antient one) love ostentatious sealings: And it might have been supposed to have been squeez'd in pieces, in old Grimes's breeches pocket. But I was glad to be saved the guilt as well as suspicion of having a hand in so dirty a trick; for thus much of the contents (enough for my purpose) I was enabled to scratch out in character, without it; the folds depriving me only of a few connecting words; which I have supply'd between hooks.
My Miss Harlowe, thou knowest, had before changed her name to Miss Laetitia Beaumont. Another alias now, Jack: I have learn'd her to be half a rogue in this instance; for this billet was directed to her by the name of Mrs. Harriot Lucas.
'I congratulate you, my dear, with all my heart and soul, upon [your escape] from the villain. [I long] for the particulars of all. [My mamma] is out: But expecting her return every minute, I dispatch'd [your] messenger instantly. [I will endeavour to come at] Mrs. Townsend without loss of time; and will write at large in a day or two, if in that time I can see her. [Mean time I] am excessively uneasy for a letter I sent you yesterday by Collins, [who must have left it at] Wilson's after you got away. [It is of very] great importance. [I hope the] villain has it not. I would not for the world [that he should.] Immediately send for it, if by so doing, the place you are at [will not be] discover'd. If he has it, let me know it by some way [out of] hand. If not, you need not send.'
Ever, ever yours,
A. H.
June 9.
O Jack, what heart's-ease does this interception give me! -I sent the rascal back with the letter to old Grimes, and charg'd him to drink no deeper. He own'd, that he was half seas over, as he phrased it.
Dog! said I, are you not to court one of Mrs. Moore's maids to-night?-
Cry your mercy, Sir! -I will be sober. -I had forgot that-But old Grimes is plaguy tough-I thought I should never have got him down.
Away, villain! -Let old Grimes come; and on horseback, too, to the door-
He shall, and please your Honour, if I can get him on the saddle, and if he can sit-
And charge him not to have alighted, nor to have seen any -body-
Enough, Sir! familiarly nodding his head, to shew he took me. And away went the villain: Into the parlour, among the women, I.
In a quarter of an hour came old Grimes on horseback, waving to his saddle-bow, now on this side, now on that; his head, at others, joining to that of his more sober beast.
It look'd very well to the women, that I made no effort to speak to old Grimes (tho' I wish'd before them, that I knew the contents of what he brought); but, on the contrary, desired that they would instantly let my spouse know, that her messenger was return'd. Down she flew, violently as she had the head-ach!
O how I pray'd for an opportunity to be reveng'd of her, for the ingrateful trouble she had given to her uncle's friend!
She took the letter from old Grimes with her own hands, and retired to an inner parlour to read it.
She presently came out again to the fellow, who had much ado to sit his horse-Here is your money, friend. I thought you long. But what shall I do to get somebody to go to town immediately for me? I see you cannot.
Old Grimes took his money; let fall his hat in d'offing it; had it given him; and rode away; his eyes ising-glass, and set in his head, as I saw thro' the window; and in a manner speechless; all his language hiccoughs. My dog need not have gone so deep with this tough old Grimes. -But the rascal was in his kingdom with him.
The lady apply'd to Mrs. Moore: She matter'd not the price. Could a man and horse be engaged for her? -Only to go for a letter left for her, at one Mr. Wilson's in Pall-mall.
A poor neighbour was hired. A horse procured for him. He had his directions.
In vain did I endeavour to engage my Beloved, when she was below. Her head-ach, I suppose, return'd. She, like the rest of her sex, can be ill or well when she pleases-
I see her drift, thought I: It is to have all her lights from Miss Howe before she resolves; and to take her measures accordingly.
Up she went, expressing great impatience about the letter she had sent for; and desired Mrs. Moore to let her know, if I offer'd to send any of my servants to town-To get at the letter, I suppose, was her fear. But she might have been quite easy on that head; and yet perhaps would not, had she known, that the worthy Captain Tomlinson (who will be in town before her messenger) will leave there the important letter: Which I hope will help to pacify her, and to reconcile her to me.
O Jack! Jack! thinkest thou that I will take all this roguish pains, and be so often called villain, for nothing?
But yet, is it not taking pains to come at the finest creature in the world, not for a transitory moment only, but for one of our lives? -The struggle, Whether I am to have her in my own way, or in hers?
But now I know thou wilt be frighten'd out of thy wits for me-What, Lovelace! wouldst thou let her have a letter that will inevitably blow thee up; and blow up the mother, and all her nymphs!-yet not intend to reform, to marry?
Patience, puppy! Canst thou not trust thy master?

### v5 LETTER VIII.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
I went up to my new-taken apartment, and fell to writing in character, as usual. I thought I had made good my quarters. But the cruel creature, understanding that I intended to take up my lodgings there, declared with so much violence against it, that I was obliged to submit, and to accept of another lodging, about twelve doors off, which Mrs. Moore recommended. And all the advantage I could obtain, was, that Will. unknown to my spouse, and for fear of a freak, should lie in the house.
Mrs. Moore, indeed, was unwilling to disoblige either of us. But Miss Rawlins was of opinion, that nothing more ought to be allow'd me: And yet Mrs. Moore owned, that the refusal was a strange piece of tyranny to an husband, if I were an husband.
I had a good mind to make Miss Rawlins smart for it. Come and see Miss Rawlins, Jack-If thou likest her, I'll get her for thee with a wet finger, as the saying is!
The Widow Bevis indeed stickled hard for me [An innocent or injur'd man will have friends everywhere]. She said, That to bear much with some wives, was to be obliged to bear more: And I reflected, with a sigh, that tame spirits must always be imposed upon. And then, in my heart, I renew'd my vows of revenge upon this haughty and perverse beauty.
The second fellow came back from town about nine o'clock, with Miss Howe's letter of Wednesday last. 'Collins, it seems, when he left it, had desired, that it might be safely and speedily delivered into Miss Laetitia Beaumont's own hands. But Wilson, understanding that neither she nor I were in town [He could not know of our difference, thou must think], resolved to take care of it till our return, in order to give it into one of our own hands; and now deliver'd it to her messenger.'
This was told her. Wilson, I doubt not, is in her favour upon it.
She took the letter with great eagerness, open'd it in a hurry [I am glad she did: Yet, I believe, all was right] before Mrs. Moore, and Mrs. Bevis (Miss Rawlins was gone home); and said, She would not for the world, that I should have had that letter; for the sake of her dear friend the writer; who had written to her very uneasily about it.
Her dear friend! repeated Mrs. Bevis, when she told me this;-Such mischief-makers are always deem'd dear friends till they are found out!
The widow says, that I am the finest gentleman she ever beheld.
I have found a warm kiss now-and-then very kindly taken.
I might be a very wicked fellow, Jack, if I were to do all the mischief in my power. But I am evermore for quitting a too-easy prey to reptile-rakes. What but difficulty (tho' the lady is an angel), engages me to so much perseverance here? And here, Conquer or die, is now the determination!
I have just now parted with this honest widow. She called upon me at my new lodgings. I told her that I saw, I must be further oblig'd to her in the course of this difficult affair: She must allow me to make her a handsome present when all was happily over. But I desired, that she would take no notice of what should pass between us, not even to her aunt; for that she, as I saw, was in the power of Miss Rawlins: Who, being a maiden gentlewoman, knew not the right and the fit in matrimonial matters, as she, my dear widow, did.
Very true: How should she? said Mrs. Bevis, proud of knowing-nothing! But, for her part, she desired no present. It was enough if she could contribute to reconcile man and wife, and disappoint mischief-makers. She doubted not, that such an envious creature as Miss Howe was glad that Mrs. Lovelace had eloped-Jealousy and Love was old Nick!
See, Belford, how charmingly things work between me and my new acquaintance, the widow! - Who knows, but that she may, after a little farther intimacy (tho' I am banished the house on nights), contrive a midnight visit for me to my spouse, when all is still and fast asleep?
Where can a woman be safe, who has once enter'd the lists with a contriving and intrepid lover?
But as to this letter, methinks thou sayest, of Miss Howe?
I knew thou wouldest be uneasy for me: But did not I tell thee, that I had provided for every thing? That I always took care to keep seals intire, and to preserve covers? Was it not easy then, thinkest thou, to contrive a shorter letter out of a longer; and to copy the very words?
I can tell thee, it was so well ordered, that, not being suspected to have been in my hands, it was not easy to find me out. Had it been my Beloved's hand, there would have been no imitating it, for such a length. Her delicate and even mind is seen in the very cut of her letters. Miss Howe's hand is no bad one; but is not so equal and regular. That little devil's natural impatience hurrying on her fingers, gave, I suppose, from the beginning, her handwriting, as well as the rest of her, its fits and starts, and those peculiarities, which, like strong muscular lines in a face, neither the pen nor the pencil can miss.
Hast thou a mind to see what it was I permitted Miss Howe to write to her lovely friend? Why then read it here, as if by way of marginal observation, as extracted from hers of Wednesday last; with a few additions of my own. -The additions underscored ().
My dearest Friend,
You will perhaps think, that I have been too long silent. But I had begun two letters at different times since my last, and written a great deal each time; and with spirit enough, I assure you; incensed as I was against the abominable wretch you are with, particularly on reading yours of the 21st of the past month.
The FIRST I intended to keep open till I could give you some accounts of my proceedings with Mrs. Townsend. It was some days before I saw her: And this intervenient space giving me time to reperuse what I had written, I thought it proper to lay that aside, and to write in a style a little less fervent; for you would have blamed me, I knew, for the freedom of some of my expressions (execrations, if you please). And when I had gone a good way in the SECOND, the change in your prospects, on his communicating to you Miss Montague's letter, and his better behaviour, occasioning a change in your mind, I laid that aside also: And in this uncertainty thought I would wait to see the issue of affairs between you, before I wrote again; believing that all would soon be decided one way or other.-
Here I was forced to break off. I am too little my own mistress. - My mother always up and down; and watching as if I were writing to a fellow. What need I (she asks me) lock myself in, if I am only reading past correspondencies? For that is my pretence, when she comes poking in with her face sharpen'd to an edge, as I may say, by a curiosity, that gives her more pain than pleasure-The Lord forgive me; but I believe I shall huff her, next time she comes in.
Do you forgive me too, my dear. My mother ought; because she says, I am my father's girl; and because I am sure I am hers.
Upon my life, my dear, I am sometimes of opinion, that this vile man was capable of meaning you dishonour. When I look back upon his past conduct, I cannot help thinking so: What a villain, if so! -But now I hope, and verily believe, that he has laid aside such thoughts. My reasons for both opinions I will give you.
For the first, to wit, that he had it once in his head to take you at advantage if he could; I consider, that pride, revenge, and a delight to tread in unbeaten paths, are principal ingredients in the character of this finish'd libertine. He hates all your family, yourself excepted. -Yet is a savage in love. His pride, and the credit which a few plausible qualities sprinkled among his odious ones, have given him, have secured him too good a reception from our eye-judging, our undistinguishing, our self-flattering, our too-confiding sex, to make assiduity and obsequiousness, and a conquest of his unruly passions, any part of his study.
He has some reason for his animosity to all the men, and to one woman, of your family. He has always shewn you and his own family too, that he prefers his pride to his interest. He is a declared marriage-hater; a notorious intriguer; full of his inventions, and glorying in them. As his vanity had made him imagine, that no woman could be proof against his love, no wonder that he struggled like a lion held in toils, against a passion that he thought not returned. Hence, perhaps, it is not difficult to believe, that it became possible for such a wretch as this to give way to his old prejudices against marriage; and to that revenge which had always been a first passion with him.
And hence may we account for his delays; his teazing ways; his bringing you to bear with his lodging in the same house; his making you pass to the people of it as his wife; his bringing you into the company of his libertine companions; the attempt of imposing upon you that Miss Partington for a bedfellow, &c.
My reasons for the contrary opinion; to wit, that he is now resolved to do you all the justice in his power to do you; are these: That he sees that all his own family have warmly engaged themselves in your cause; that the horrid wretch loves you-With such a Love, however, as Herod loved his Mariamne: That, on inquiry, I find it to be true, that counsellor Williams (whom Mr. Hickman knows to be a man of eminence in his profession) has actually as good as finished the settlements: That two draughts of them have been made; one avowedly to be sent to this very Captain Tomlinson: And I find, that a licence has actually been more than once endeavoured to be obtained, and that difficulties have hitherto been made equally to Lovelace's vexation and disappointment. My mother's proctor, who is very intimate with the proctor apply'd to by the wretch, has come at this information, in confidence; and hints, that as Mr. Lovelace is a man of high fortunes, these difficulties will probably be got over.
I had once resolved to make strict inquiry about Tomlinson; and still, if you will, your uncle's favourite housekeeper may be sounded, at distance.
I know that the matter is so laid, that Mrs. Hodges is supposed to know nothing of the treaty set on foot by means of Capt. Tomlinson. But your uncle is an old man, and old men imagine themselves to be under obligation to their paramours, if younger than themselves, and seldom keep any thing from their knowlege. -Yet, methinks, there can be no need; since Tomlinson, as you describe him, is so good a man, and so much of a gentleman; the end to be answered by his being an impostor so much more than necessary, if Lovelace has villainy in his head. -And thus what he communicated to you of Mr. Hickman's application to your uncle, and of Mrs. Norton's to your mother (some of which particulars I am satisfied his vile agent Joseph Leman could not reveal to his viler employer); his pushing on the marriage-day, in the name of your uncle; which it could not answer any wicked purpose for him to do; and what he writes of your uncle's proposal, to have it thought that you were married from the time that you had lived in one house together; and that to be made to agree with the time of Mr. Hickman's visit to your uncle; the insisting on a trusty person's being present at the ceremony, at that uncle's nomination -These things make me assured that he now at last means honourably.
But if any unexpected delays should happen on his side, acquaint me, my dear, of the very street where Mrs. Sinclair lives; and where Mrs. Fretchville's house is situated (which I cannot find that you have ever mentioned in your former letters-which is a little odd); and I will make strict inquiries of them, and of Tomlinson too; and I will (if your heart will let you take my advice) soon procure you a refuge from him with Mrs. Townsend.
But why do I now, when you seem to be in so good a train, puzzle and perplex you with my retrospections? And yet they may be of use to you, if any delay happen on his part.
But that I think cannot well be. What you have therefore now to do, is, so to behave to this proud-spirited wretch, as may banish from his mind all remembrance of past disobligations, and to receive his addresses, as those of a betrothed lover. You will incur the censure of prudery and affectation, if you keep him at that distance, which you have hitherto kept him at. His sudden (and as suddenly recover'd) illness has given him an opportunity to find out that you love him [Alas, my dear, I knew you loved him!]: He has seemed to change his nature, and is all love and gentleness: And no more quarrels now, I beseech you.
I am very angry with him, nevertheless, for the freedoms which he took with your person; and I think some guard is necessary, as he is certainly an incroacher. But indeed all men are so; and you are such a charming creature, and have kept him at such a distance! -But no more of this subject. Only, my dear, be not over-nice, now you are so near the state. You see what difficulties you laid yourself under, when Tomlinson's letter called you again into the wretch's company.
If you meet with no impediments, no new causes of doubt, your reputation in the eye of the world is concerned, that you should be his, and, as your uncle rightly judges, be thought to have been his, before now. And yet, let me tell you, I can hardly bear to think, that these libertines should be rewarded for their villainy with the best of the sex, when the worst of it are too good for them.
I shall send this long letter by Collins, who changes his day to oblige me. As none of our letters by Wilson's conveyance have miscarried, when you have been in more apparently disagreeable situations than you are in at present, I have no doubt that this will go safe.
Miss Lardner (whom you have seen at her cousin Biddulph's) saw you at St. James's Church on Sunday was fortnight. She kept you in her eye during the whole time; but could not once obtain the notice of yours, tho' she courtesied to you twice. She thought to pay her compliments to you when the service was over; for she doubted not but you were married-and for an odd reason-because you came to church by yourself. -Every eye, as usual, she said was upon you; and this seeming to give you hurry, and you being nearer the door than she, you slid out before she could go to you. But she order'd her servant to follow you till you were housed. This servant saw you step into a chair which waited for you; and you ordered the men to carry you to the place where they took you up. She describes the house as a very genteel house, and sit to receive people of fashion: And what makes me mention this, is, that perhaps you will have a visit from her; or message, at least.
So that you have Mr. Doleman's testimony to the credit of the house and people you are with; and he is a man of fortune, and some reputation; formerly a rake indeed; but married to a woman of family; and, having had a palsy-blow, one would think, a penitent. You have also Mr. Mennell's at least passive testimony; Mr. Tomlinson's; and now, lastly, Miss Lardner's; so that there will be the less need for inquiry: But you know my busy and inquisitive temper, as well as my affection for you, and my concern for your honour. But all doubt will soon be lost in certainty.
Nevertheless I must add, that I would have you command me up, if I can be of the least service or pleasure to you. I value not fame; I value not censure; nor even life itself, I verily think, as I do your honour, and your friendship. -For is not your honour my honour? And is not your friendship the pride of my life?
May heaven preserve you, my dearest creature, in honour and safety, is the prayer, the hourly prayer, of
Your ever faithful and affectionate
Anna Howe.
Thursday Morn. 5.
I have written all night. Excuse indifferent writing. My crow-quills are worn to the stumps, and I must get a new supply.
These Ladies always write with crow-quills, Jack.
If thou art capable of taking in all my precautionaries in this letter, thou wilt admire my sagacity and contrivance, almost as much as I do myself. Thou seest, that Miss Lardner, Mrs. Sinclair, Tomlinson, Mrs. Fretchville, Mennell, are all mentioned in it. My first liberties with her person also [Modesty, modesty, Belford, I doubt, is more confined to time, place, and occasion, even by the most delicate minds, than those minds would have it believed to be]. And why all these taken notice of by me from the genuine letter, but for fear some future letter from the vixen should escape my hands, in which she might refer to these names? And if none of them were to have been found in this that is to pass for hers, I might be routed horse and foot, as Lord M. would phrase it, in a like case.
Devilish hard (and yet I may thank myself) to be put to all this plague and trouble! -And for what, dost thou ask? O Jack, for a triumph of more value to me beforehand than an imperial crown! -Don't ask me the value of it a month hence. But what indeed is an imperial crown itself, when a man is used to it?
Miss Howe might well be anxious about the letter she wrote. Her sweet friend, from what I have let pass of hers, has reason to rejoice in the thought, that it fell not into my hands.
And now must all my contrivances be set at work, to intercept the expected letter from Miss Howe; which is, as I suppose, to direct her to a place of safety, and out of my knowlege. Mrs. Townsend is, no doubt, in this case, to smuggle her off. I hope the villain, as I am so frequently called between these two girls, will be able to manage this point.
But what, perhaps, thou askest, if the lady should take it into her head, by the connivance of Miss Rawlins, to quit this house privately in the night?
I have thought of this, Jack. Does not Will. lie in the house? And is not the Widow Bevis my fast friend?

### v5 LETTER IX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Saturday, 6 o'clock, June 10.
The lady gave Will's sweetheart a letter last night to be carried to the post-house as this morning, directed for Miss Howe, under cover to Hickman. I dare say neither cover nor letter will be seen to have been open'd. The contents but eight lines-To own-'The receipt of her double-dated letter in safety: and referring to a longer letter, which she intends to write, when she shall have a quieter heart, and less trembling fingers. But mentions something to have happen'd [My detecting her, she means], which has given her very great flutters, confusions, and apprehensions: But which she will await the issue of [Some hopes for me hence, Jack!] before she gives her fresh perturbation or concern on her account. -She tells her how impatient she shall be for her next, &c.'
Now, Belford, I thought it would be but kind in me to save Miss Howe's concern on these alarming hints; since the curiosity of such a spirit must have been prodigiously excited by them. Having therefore so good a copy to imitate, I wrote; and, taking out that of my Beloved, put under the same cover the following short billet; inscriptive and conclusive parts of it in her own words.
Hamstead, Tuesday evening.
My ever-dear Miss Howe,
A few lines only, till calmer spirits and quieter fingers be granted me, and till I can get over the shock which your intelligence has given me-To acquaint you-that your kind long letter of Wednesday, and, as I may say, of Thursday morning, is come safe to my hands. On receipt of yours by my messenger to you, I sent for it from Wilson's. There, thank heaven! it lay. May that heaven reward you for all your past, and for all your intended goodness to
Your for-ever obliged,
Cl. Harlowe.
I took great pains in writing this. It cannot, I hope, be suspected. Her hand is so very delicate. Yet hers is written less beautifully than she usually writes: And I hope Miss Howe will allow somewhat for hurry of spirits, and unsteady fingers.
My consideration for Miss Howe's ease of mind extended still farther than to the instance I have mentioned.
That this billet might be with her as soon as possible (and before it could have reach'd Hickman by the post), I dispatch'd it away by a servant of Mowbray's. Miss Howe, had there been any failure or delay, might, as thou wilt think, have communicated her anxieties to her fugitive friend; and she to me, perhaps, in a way I should not have been pleased with.
Once more wilt thou wonderingly question-All this pains for a single girl?
Yes, Jack! -But is not this girl a Clarissa? - And who knows, but kind Fortune, as a reward for my perseverance, may toss me in her charming friend? Less likely things have come to pass, Belford! -And to be sure I shall have her, if I resolve upon it.

### v5 LETTER X.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Eight o'clock, Sat. Morn. June 10.
I am come back from Mrs. Moore's, whither I went in order to attend my charmer's commands. But no admittance. A very bad night.
Doubtless she must be as much concern'd, that she has carried her resentments so very far, as I have reason to be, that I made such a poor use of the opportunity I had on Wednesday night.
But now, Jack, for a brief review of my present situation; and a slight hint or two of my precautions.
I have seen the women this morning, and find them half-right, half-doubting.
Miss Rawlins's brother tells her, that she lives at Mrs. Moore's.
Mrs. Moore can do nothing without Miss Rawlins.
People who keep lodgings at public places expect to get by every one who comes into their purlieus. Tho' not permitted to lodge there myself, I have engag'd all the rooms she has to spare, to the very garrets; and that, as I have told thee before, for a month certain, and at her own price, board included; my spouse's and all: But she must not, at present, know it. So I hope I have Mrs. Moore fast by the interest.
This; devil-like, is suiting temptations to inclinations.
I have always observed, and, I believe, I have hinted as much formerly, that all dealers, tho' but for pins, may be taken in by customers for pins, sooner than by a direct bribe of ten times the value; especially if pretenders to conscience: For the offer of a bribe, would not only give room for suspicion; but would startle and alarm their scrupulousness; while a high price paid for what you buy, is but submitting to be cheated in the method the person makes a profession to get by. Have I not said, that human nature is a rogue? -And do not I know it?
To give a higher instance, How many proud senators, in the year 1720, were induced, by presents or subscriptions of South Sea stock, to contribute to a scheme big with national ruin; who yet would have spurn'd the man who should have presumed to offer them even twice the sum certain, that they had a chance to gain by the stock? -But to return to my review, and my precautions.
Miss Rawlins fluctuates as she hears the lady's story, or as she hears mine. Somewhat of an infidel, I doubt, is this Miss Rawlins. I have not yet consider'd her foible. The next time I see her, I will take particular notice of all the moles and freckles in her mind; and then infer and apply.
The Widow Bevis, as I have told thee, is all my own.
My man Will. lies in the house. My other new fellow attends upon me; and cannot therefore be quite stupid.
Already is Will. over head and ears in love with one of Mrs. Moore's maids. He was struck with her the moment he set his eyes upon her. A raw country wench too. But all women, from the countess to the cookmaid, are put into high good humour with themselves, when a man is taken with them at first sight. Be they ever so plain [No woman can be ugly, Jack!], they'll find twenty good reasons, besides the great one, for Sake's sake, by the help of the glass without (and perhaps in spite of it), and conceit within, to justify the honest fellow's caption.
"The rogue has saved 150 l. in my service"- More by 50 than I bid him save. No doubt he thinks he might have done so; tho', I believe, not worth a groat. "The best of masters I-Passionate, indeed: But soon appeased."
The wench is extremely kind to him already. The other maid is also very civil to him. He has a husband for her in his eye. She cannot but say, that Mr. Andrew, my other servant [The girl is for fixing the person] is a very well-spoken civil young man.
"We common folks have our joys, and please your Honour, says honest Joseph Leman, like as our betters have." And true says honest Joseph -Did I prefer ease to difficulty, I should envy these low-degree sinners some of their joys.
But if Will. had not made amorous pretensions to the wenches, we all know, that servants, united in one common compare-note cause, are intimate the moment they see one another-Great genealogists too; they know immediately the whole kin and kin's kin of each other, tho' dispersed over the three kingdoms, as well as the genealogies and kin's kin of those they serve.
But my precautions end not here.
O Jack, with such an invention, what occasion had I to carry my Beloved to Mrs. Sinclair's?
My spouse may have further occasion for the messengers whom she dispatch'd, one to Miss Howe, the other to Wilson's. With one of these Will. is already well-acquainted, as thou hast heard-To mingle liquor is to mingle souls with these fellows: With the other he will soon be acquainted, if he be not already.
The Captain's servant has his uses and instructions assign'd him. I have hinted at some of them already (a). He also serves a most humane and considerate master. I love to make every-body respected to my power.
The post, general and peny, will be strictly watch'd likewise.
Miss Howe's Collins is remember'd to be described. Miss Howe's and Hickman's liveries also.
James Harlowe and Singleton are warned against. I am to be acquainted with any inquiry that shall happen to be made after my spouse, whether by her married or maiden name, before she shall be told of it-And this that I may have it in my power to prevent mischief.
I have order'd Mowbray and Tourville (and Belton, if his health permit) to take their quarters at Hamstead for a week, with their fellows to attend them. I spare thee for the present, because of thy private concerns. But hold thyself in chearful readiness however, as a mark of thy allegiance.
As to my spouse herself, has she not reason to be pleased with me, for having permitted her to receive Miss Howe's letter from Wilson's? A plain case, either that I am no deep plotter, or that I have no further views but to make my peace with her, for an offence so slight, and so accidental.
Miss Howe says, tho' prefaced with an alas! that her charming friend loves me: She must therefore yearn after this reconciliation-Prospects so fair-If she used me with less rigor, and more politeness; if she shewed me any compassion; seemed inclinable to spare me, and to make the most favourable constructions; I cannot but say, that it would be impossible not to shew her some. But to be insulted and defied by a rebel in one's power, what prince can bear that?
But I return to the scene of action. I must keep the women steady. I had no opportunity to talk to my worthy Mrs. Bevis in private.
Tomlinson, a dog, not come yet!

### v5 LETTER XI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
From my apartments at Mrs. Moore's.
Miss Rawlins at her brother's; Mrs. Moore engaged in houshold matters; Widow Bevis dressing; I have nothing to do but write. This cursed Tomlinson not yet arrived! Nothing to be done without him.
I think he shall complain in pretty high language of the treatment he met with yesterday. 'What are our affairs to him? He can have no view but to serve us. Cruel, to send back to town, unaudienced, unseen, a man of his business and importance. He never stirs a foot, but something of consequence depends upon his movements. A confounded thing to trifle thus humoursomely with such a gentleman's moments! -These women think, that all the business of the world must stand still for their figaries [A good female word, Jack!]: The greatest triflers in the creation, to fancy themselves the most important beings in it-Marry come up! as I have heard Goody Sorlings say to her servants, when she has rated at them, with mingled anger and disdain.'
After all, methinks I want these tostications [Thou seest how women, and womens words, fill my mind] to be over, happily over, that I may sit down quietly, and reflect upon the dangers I have passed thro', and the troubles I have undergone. I have a reflecting mind, as thou knowest; but the very word implies, All got over.
What bryars and thorns does the wretch rush into (a scratch'd face and tatter'd garments the unavoidable consequence), who will needs be for striking out a new path thro' overgrown underwood; quitting that beaten out for him by those who have travelled the same road before him!
A visit from the Widow Bevis, in my own apartment. She tells me, that my spouse had thoughts last night, after I was gone to my lodgings, of removing from Mrs. Moore's. I almost wish she had attempted to do so.
Miss Rawlins, it seems, who was apply'd to upon it, dissuaded her from it.
Mrs. Moore also, tho' she did not own that Will. lay in the house (or rather sat up in it, courting), set before her the difficulties, which, in her opinion, she would have to get clear off, without my knowlege; assuring her, that she could be no-where safer than with her, till she had fixed whither to go. And the lady herself recollected, that if she went, she might miss the expected letter from her dear friend Miss Howe; which, as she owned, was to direct her future steps.
She must also surely have some curiosity to know what her uncle's friend had to say to her from her uncle, contemptuously as she yesterday treated a man of his importance. Nor could she, I should think, be absolutely determin'd to put herself out of the way of receiving the visits of two of the principal ladies of my family, and to break intirely with me in the face of them all. -Besides, whither could she have gone? -Moreover, Miss Howe's letter coming, after her elopement, so safely to her hands, must surely put her into a more confiding temper with me, and with every one else, tho' she would not immediately own it.
But these good folks have so little charity! -Are such severe censurers! -Yet who is absolutely perfect? -It were to be wished, however, that they would be so modest as to doubt themselves sometimes: Then would they allow for others, as others (excellent as they imagine themselves to be) must for them.
Saturday, one o'clock.
Tomlinson at last is come. Forced to ride five miles about (tho' I shall impute his delay to great and important business) to avoid the sight of two or three impertinent rascals, who, little thinking whose affairs he was employ'd in, wanted to obtrude themselves upon him. I think I will make this fellow easy, if he behave to my liking in this affair.
I sent up the moment he came.
She desired to be excused receiving his visit till four this afternoon.
Intolerable! -No consideration! -None at all in this sex, when their cursed humours are in the way! -Pay-day, pay-hour, rather, will come! -O that it were to be the next!
The Captain is in a pet. Who can blame him? Even the women think a man of his consequence, and generously coming to serve us, hardly used. Would to heaven she had attempted to get off last night: The women not my enemies, who knows but the husband's exerted authority might have met with such connivance, as might have concluded either in carrying her back to her former lodgings, or in consummation at Mrs. Moore's, in spite of exclamations, fits, and the rest of the female obsecrations?
My beloved has not appeared to any-body this day, except to Mrs. Moore. Is, it seems, extremely low: Unfit for the interesting conversation that is to be held in the afternoon. Longs to hear from her dear friend Miss Howe-Yet cannot expect a letter for a day or two. Has a bad opinion of all mankind. -No wonder! -Excellent creature as she is! with such a father, such uncles, such a brother, as she has!
How does she look?
Better than could be expected from yesterday's fatigue, and last night's ill rest.
These tender doves know not, till put to it, what they can bear; especially when engaged in love-affairs; and their attention wholly engrossed. But the sex love busy scenes. Still-life is their aversion. A woman will create a storm, rather than be without one. So as they can preside in the whirlwind, and direct it, they are happy. -But my beloved's misfortune is, that she must live in tumults; yet neither raise them herself, nor be able to controul them.

### v5 LETTER XII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Sat. Night, June 10.
What will be the issue of all my plots and contrivances, devil take me if I am able to divine! But I will not, as Lord M. would say forestall my own market.
At four, the appointed hour, I sent up, to desire admittance in the Captain's name and my own.
She would wait upon the Captain presently [Not upon me!]; and in the parlour, if it were not engaged.
The dining-room being mine, perhaps that was the reason of her naming the parlour-Mighty nice again, if so! -No good sign for me, thought I, this stiffness.
In the parlour, with me and the Captain, were Mrs. Moore, Miss Rawlins, and Mrs. Bevis.
The women said, they would withdraw, when the Lady came down.
Lovel. Not, except she chooses you should, Ladies. -People who are so much above-board as I am, need not make secrets of any of their affairs. Besides, you three Ladies are now acquainted with all our concerns.
Capt. I have some things to say to your Lady, that perhaps she would not herself choose that any-body should hear; not even you, Mr. Lovelace, as you and her family are not upon such a good foot of understanding as were to be wished.
Lovel. Well, well, Captain, I must submit. Give us a sign to withdraw; and we will withdraw.
It was better that the exclusion of the women should come from him, than from me.
Capt. I will bow, and wave my hand, thus- when I wish to be alone with the lady. Her uncle dotes upon her: I hope, Mr. Lovelace, you will not make a reconciliation more difficult, for the earnestness which my dear friend shews to bring it to bear: But indeed I must tell you, as I told you more than once before, that I am afraid you have made lighter of the occasion of this misunderstanding to me, than it ought to have been made.
Lovel. I hope, Captain Tomlinson, you do not question my veracity!
Capt. I beg your pardon, Mr. Lovelace-But those things which we men may think lightly of, may not be so to a lady of delicacy. -And then, if you have bound yourself by a vow, you ought-
Miss Rawlins bridling, her lips closed (but her mouth stretched to a smile of approbation, the longer for not buttoning), tacitly shewed herself pleased with the Captain for his delicacy.
Mrs. Moore could speak-Very true, however, was all she said, with a motion of her head that expressed the bow-approbatory.
For my part, said the jolly widow, staring with eyes as big as eggs, I know what I know-But Man and Wife are Man and Wife; or they are not Man and Wife. -I have no notion of standing upon such niceties.
But here she comes! cried one-hearing her chamber door open-Here she comes! another-hearing it shut after her-And down dropt the angel among us.
We all stood up, bowing and courtesying; and could not help it. For she entered with such an air as commanded all our reverence. Yet the Captain look'd plaguy grave.
Cl. Pray keep your seats, Ladies-Pray do not go [For they made offers to withdraw; yet Miss Rawlins would have burst, had she been suffer'd to retire]. Before this time you have heard all my story, I make no doubt-Pray keep your seats-At least all Mr. Lovelace's.
A very saucy and whimsical beginning, thought I.
Capt. Tomlinson, your servant, addressing herself to him with inimitable dignity. I hope you did not take amiss my declining your visit yesterday. I was really incapable of talking upon any subject that required attention.
Capt. I am glad I see you better now, Madam. I hope I do.
Cl. Indeed I am not well. I would not have excused myself from attending you some hours ago, but in hopes I should have been better. I beg your pardon, Sir, for the trouble I have given you; and shall the rather expect it, as this day will, I hope, conclude it all.
Thus set! thus determin'd! thought I-Yet to have slept upon it! -But, as what she said was capable of a good, as well as a bad construction, I would not put an unfavourable one upon it.
Lovel. The Captain was sorry, my dear, he did not offer his attendance the moment he arrived yesterday. He was afraid that you took it amiss, that he did not.
Cl. Perhaps I thought that my uncle's friend might have wished to see me as soon as he came [How we stared!] -But, Sir (to me), it might be convenient to you to detain him.
The devil, thought I! -So there really was resentment, as well as head-ach, as my good friend Mrs. Bevis observed, in her refusing to see the honest gentleman.
Capt. You would detain me, Mr. Lovelace-I was for paying my respects to the lady the moment I came-
Cl. Well, Sir [interrupting him], to wave this; for I would not be thought captious-If you have not suffer'd inconveniency, in being obliged to come again, I shall be easy.
Capt. [half-disconcerted] A little, I can't say but I have. I have, indeed, too many affairs upon my hands. But the desire I have to serve you and Mr. Lovelace, as well as to oblige my dear friend your uncle Harlowe, make great inconveniencies but small ones.
Cl. You are very obliging, Sir. -Here is a great alteration since you parted with us last.
Capt. A great one indeed, Madam! I was very much surprised at it, on Thursday evening, when Mr. Lovelace conducted me to your lodgings, where we hoped to find you.
Cl. Have you any thing to say to me, Sir, from my uncle himself, that requires my private ear? Don't go, Ladies [for the women stood up, and offer'd to withdraw]: -If Mr. Lovelace stays, I am sure you may.
I frown'd. I bit my lip. I looked at the women; and shook my head.
Capt. I have nothing to offer, but what Mr. Lovelace is a party to, and may hear, except one private word or two, which may be postponed to the last.
Cl. Pray, Ladies, keep your seats. -Things are altered, Sir, since I saw you. You can mention nothing that relates to me now, to which that gentleman can be a party.
Capt. You surprise me, Madam! I am sorry to hear this! -Sorry for your uncle's sake! -Sorry for your sake! -Sorry for Mr. Lovelace's sake-And yet I am sure he must have given greater occasion than he has mentioned to me, or-
Lovel. Indeed, Captain, Indeed, Ladies, I have told you great part of my story! -And what I told you of my offence was the truth: -What I concealed of my story was only what I apprehended would, if known, cause this dear creature to be thought more censorious than charitable.
Cl. Well, well, Sir, say what you please. Make me as black as you please. Make yourself as white as you can. I am not now in your power: That will comfort me for all.
Capt. God forbid that I should offer to plead in behalf of a crime, that a lady of virtue and honour cannot forgive. But surely, surely, Madam, this is going too far.
Cl. Do not blame me, Capt. Tomlinson. I have a good opinion of you, as my uncle's friend. But if you are Mr. Lovelace's friend, that is another thing; for my interests and Mr. Lovelace's must now be for ever separated.
Capt. One word with you, Madam, if you please -offering to retire.
Cl. You may say all that you please to say before these gentlewomen. Mr. Lovelace may have secrets. I have none. You seem to think me faulty: I should be glad, that all the world knew my heart. Let my enemies sit in judgment upon my actions: Fairly scanned, I fear not the result. Let them even ask me my most secret thoughts, and, whether they make for me, or against me, I will reveal them.
Capt. Noble Lady! who can say as you say?
The women held up their hands and eyes; each, as if she had said, Not I.
No disorder here, said Miss Rawlins! But (judging by her own heart) A confounded deal of improbability, I believe she thought.
Finely said, to be sure, said the widow Bevis, shrugging her shoulders.
Mrs. Moore sighed.
Jack Belford, thought I, knows all mine: And in this I am more ingenuous than any of the three, and a fit match for this paragon.
Cl. How Mr. Lovelace has found me out here, I cannot tell. But such mean devices, such artful, such worse than Waltham disguises put on, to obtrude himself into my company; such bold, such shocking untruths-
Capt. The favour of but one word, Madam, in private-
Cl. In order to support a right which he has not over me! -O Sir, O Capt. Tomlinson! -I think I have reason to say, that the man is capable of any vileness!-
The women looked upon one another, and upon me, by turns, to see how I bore it. I had such dartings in my head at the instant, that I thought I should have gone distracted. My brain seemed on fire. What would I have given to have had her alone with me! -I traversed the room; my clenched fist to my forehead. O that I had any-body here, thought I, that, Hercules-like, when flaming in the tortures of Deianira's poison'd shirt, I could tear in pieces?
Capt. Dear Lady! see you not how the poor gentleman -Lord, how have I imposed upon your uncle, at this rate! How happy, did I tell him, I saw you! How happy I was sure you would be in each other!
Cl. Oh, Sir, you don't know how many premeditated offences I had forgiven when I saw you last, before I could appear to you, what I hoped then I might for the future be! -But now you may tell my uncle, if you please, that I cannot hope for his mediation. Tell him, that my guilt, in giving this man an opportunity to spirit me away from my try'd, my experienced, my natural friends, harshly as they treated me, stares me every day more and more in the face; and still the more, as my fate seems to be drawing to a crisis, according to the malediction of my offended father!
And then she burst into tears, which even affected that dog, who, brought to abet me, was himself all Belforded over.
The women, so used to cry without grief, as they are to laugh without reason, by mere force of example [confound their promptitudes!], must needs pull out their handkerchiefs. The less wonder, however, as I myself, between confusion, surprize, and concern, could hardly stand it.
What's a tender heart good for! -Who can be happy, that has a feeling heart? -And yet thou'lt say, that he who has it not, must be a tyger, and no man.
Capt. Let me beg the favour of one word with you, Madam, in private; and that on my own account.
The women hereupon offered to retire. She insisted, that if they went, I should not stay.
Capt. Sir, bowing to me, shall I beg-
I hope, thought I, that I may trust this solemn dog, instructed as he is. She does not doubt him. I'll stay out no longer than to give her time to spend her first fire.
I then passively withdrew, with the women-But with such a bow to my goddess, that it won for me every heart but that I wanted most to win; for the haughty maid bent not her knee in return.
The conversation between the Captain and the Lady, when we were retired, was to the following effect: They both talked loud enough for me to hear them. The Lady from anger, the Captain with design; and, thou mayst be sure, there was no listener but myself. What I was imperfect in was supply'd afterwards; for I had my vellom-leav'd book, to note all down. -If she had known this, perhaps she would have been more sparing of her invectives- and but perhaps neither.
He told her, that as her brother was absolutely resolved to see her; and as he himself, in compliance with her uncle's expedient, had reported her marriage; and as that report had reached the ears of Lord M. Lady Betty, and the rest of my relations; and as he had been obliged, in consequence of his first report, to vouch it; and as her brother might find out where she was, and apply to the women here, for a confirmation or refutation of the marriage; he had thought himself obliged to countenance the report before the women: That this had embarassed him not a little, as he would not for the world that she should have cause to think him capable of prevarication, contrivance, or double-dealing: And that this made him desirous of a private conversation with her.
It was true, she said, she had given her consent to such an expedient, believing it was her uncle's; and little thinking, that it would lead to so many errors. Yet she might have known, that one error is frequently the parent of many. Mr. Lovelace had made her sensible of the truth of that observation, on more occasions than one; and it was an observation that he the Captain had made, in one of the letters that was shewn her yesterday.
He hoped, that she had no mistrust of him. That she had no doubts of his honour. If, Madam, you suspect me-If you think me capable-What a man- The Lord be merciful to me! -What a man must you think me!
I hope, Sir, there cannot be a man in the world, who could deserve to be suspected in such as a case as this. I do not suspect you. If it were possible there could be one such man, I am sure, Capt. Tomlinson, a father of children, a man in years, of sense and experience, cannot be that man.
He told me, that just then, he thought he felt a sudden flash from her eye, an eye-beam, as he called it, dart thro' his shivering reins; and he could not help trembling.
The dog's conscience, Jack! Nothing else! -I have felt half a dozen such flashes, such eye-beams, in as many different conversations with this soul-piercing beauty.
Her uncle, she must own, was not accustom'd to think of such expedients: But she had reconciled this to herself, as the case was unhappily uncommon; and by the regard he had for her honour.
This set the puppy's heart at ease, and gave him more courage.
She asked him, If he thought Lady Betty and Miss Montague intended her a visit?
He had no doubt but they did.
And does he imagine, said she, that I could be brought to countenance to them the report you have given out?
[I had hoped to bring her to this, Jack, or she had not seen their letters. But I had told the Captain, that I believe I must give up this expectation.]
No. He believed, that I had not such a thought. He was pretty sure, that I intended, when I saw them, to tell them (as in confidence) the naked truth.
He then told her, that her uncle had already made some steps towards a general reconciliation. The moment, Madam, that he knows you are really married, he will enter into conference with your father upon it; having actually expressed his desire to be reconciled to you, to your mother.
And what, Sir, said my mother? What said my dear mother? [with great emotion; holding out her sweet face, as the Captain described her, with the most earnest attention, as if she would shorten the way which his words were to have to her heart.]
Your mother, Madam, burst into tears upon it: And your uncle was so penetrated by her tenderness, that he could not proceed with the subject. But he intends to enter upon it with her in form, as soon as he hears that the ceremony is over.
By the tone of her voice she wept. The dear creature, thought I, begins to relent! -And I grudg'd the dog his eloquence. I could hardly bear the thought, that any man breathing should have the power, which I had lost, of persuading this high-soul'd lady, tho' in my own favour. And, wouldst thou think it? this reflection gave me more uneasiness at the moment, than I felt from her reproaches, violent as they were; or than I had pleasure in her supposed relenting. For there is beauty in every-thing she says and does: Beauty in her passion: Beauty in her tears! -Had the Captain been a young fellow, and of rank and fortune, his throat would have been in danger; and I should have thought very hardly of her!
O Capt. Tomlinson, said she, you know not what I have suffer'd by this man's strange ways. He had, as I was not ashamed to tell him yesterday, a plain path before him. He at first betray'd me into his power: But when I was in it-There she stopt. Then resuming-O, Sir, you know not what a strange man he has been! -An unpolite, a rough-manner'd man! -In disgrace of his birth, and education, and knowlege, an unpolite man! -And so acting, as if his worldly and personal advantages set him above those graces which distinguish a gentleman.
The first woman that ever said or that ever thought so of me, that's my comfort, thought I! - But this (spoken to her uncle's friend behind my back) helps to heap up thy already too-full measure, dearest! -It is down in my vellom-book.
Cl. When I look back on his whole behaviour to a poor young creature (for I am but a very young creature), I cannot acquit him either of great folly, or of deep design. -And, last Wednesday-[There she stopt; and I suppose turn'd away her face. I wonder she was not asham'd to hint at what she thought so shameful; and that to a man, and alone with him.]
Capt. Far be it from me, Madam, to offer to enter too closely into so tender a subject. He owns, that you have reason to be displeased with him. But he so solemnly clears himself to me, of premeditated offence-
Cl. He cannot clear himself, Mr. Tomlinson. The people of the house must be very vile, as well as he. I am convinced, that there was a wicked confederacy -But no more upon such a subject.
Capt. Only one word more, Madam: He tells me, that he gave you such an instance of your power over him, as never man gave: And that you promised to pardon him.
Cl. He knew, that he deserved not pardon, or he had not extorted that promise from me. Nor had I given it to him, but to shield myself from the vilest outrage-
Capt. I could wish, Madam, inexcusable as his behaviour has been, since he has something to plead in the reliance he made upon your promise; that, for the sake of appearances to the world, and to avoid the mischiefs that may follow, if you absolutely break with him, you could prevail upon your naturally generous mind, to lay an obligation upon him by your forgiveness.
She was silent.
Capt. Your father and mother, Madam, deplore a daughter lost to them, whom your generosity to Mr. Lovelace may restore: Do not put it to the possible chance, that they may have cause to deplore a double loss; the losing of a son, as well as a daughter, who, by his own violence, which you may perhaps prevent, may be for ever lost to them, and to the whole family.
She paused. She wept. She owned, that she felt the force of this argument.
I will be the making of this fellow, thought I!
Capt. Permit me, Madam, to tell you, that I do not think it would be difficult to prevail upon your uncle, if you insist upon it, to come up privately to town, and to give you with his own hand to Mr. Lovelace-Except, indeed, your present misunderstanding were to come to his ears.
Cl. But why, Sir, should I be so much afraid of my brother? My brother has injured me, not I him. Shall I seek protection from my brother of Mr. Lovelace? And who shall protect me from Mr. Lovelace? -Will the one offer to me, what the other has offer'd! -Wicked, ungrateful man! to insult a friendless, unprotected creature, made friendless by himself-I cannot, cannot think of him in the light I once thought of him. He has no business with me. Let him leave me. Let my brother find me. I am not such a poor creature, as to be afraid to face the brother who has injured me.
Capt. Were you and your brother to meet only to confer together, to expostulate, to clear up difficulties, it were another thing. But what, Madam, can you think will be the issue of an interview (Mr. Solmes with him), when he finds you unmarried, and resolved never to have Mr. Lovelace; supposing Mr. Lovelace were not to interfere; which cannot be supposed?
Cl. Well, Sir, I can only say, I am a very unhappy creature! -I must resign to the will of Providence, and be patient under evils, which that will not permit me to shun. But I have taken my measures. Mr. Lovelace can never make me happy, nor I him. I wait here only for a letter from Miss Howe. That must determine me-
Determine you as to Mr. Lovelace, Madam? interrupted the Captain.
Cl. I am already determin'd as to him.
Capt. If it be not in his favour, I have done. I cannot use stronger arguments than I have used, and it would be impertinent to repeat them. -If you cannot forgive his offence, I am sure it must have been much greater than he has owned to me. -If you are absolutely determined, be pleased to let me know what I shall say to your uncle? You was pleased to tell me, that this day would put an end to what you called my trouble: I should not have thought it any, could I have been an humble means of reconciling persons of worth and honour to each other.
Here I enter'd with a solemn air.
Lovel. Mr. Tomlinson, I have heard a great part of what has passed between you and this unforgiving, however otherwise excellent lady. I am cut to the heart to find the dear creature so determined. I could not have believed it possible, with such prospects, that I had so little a share in her esteem. Nevertheless I must do myself justice with regard to the offence I was so unhappy as to give, since I find you are ready to think it much greater than it really was.
Cl. I hear not, Sir, your recapitulations. I am, and ought to be, the sole judge of insults offered to my person. I enter not into discussion with you, nor hear you on the shocking subject. And was going.
I put myself between her and the door-You may hear all I have to say, Madam. My fault is not of such a nature, but that you may. I will be a just accuser of myself; and will not wound your ears.
I then protested that the fire was a real fire [So it was]. I disclaimed [less truly indeed] premeditation. I owned that I was hurried on by the violence of a youthful passion, and by a sudden impulse, which few other persons, in the like situation, would have been able to check: That I withdrew, at her command and intreaty, on the promise of pardon, without having offered the least indecency, or any freedom, that would not have been forgiven by persons of delicacy, surprised in an attitude so charming -Her terror, on the alarm of fire, calling for a soothing behaviour, and personal tenderness, she being ready to fall into fits: My hoped-for happy day so near, that I might be presumed to be looked upon as a betrothed lover-And that this excuse might be pleaded even for the women of the house, that they, thinking us actually married, might suppose themselves to be the less concerned to interfere on so tender an occasion-There, Jack, was a bold insinuation in behalf of the women!
High indignation filled her disdainful eye, eye-beam after eye-beam flashing at me. Every feature of her sweet face had soul in it. Yet she spoke not. Perhaps, Jack, she had a thought, that this plea for the women accounted for my contrivance to have her pass to them as married, when I first carried her thither.
Capt. Indeed, Sir, I must say, that you did not well to add to the apprehensions of a lady so much terrified before.
She offer'd to go by me. I set my back against the door, and besought her to stay a few moments. I had not said thus much, my dearest creature, but for your sake, as well as for my own, that Captain Tomlinson should not think I had been viler than I was. Nor will I say one word more on the subject, after I have appealed to your own heart, whether it was not necessary, that I should say so much; and to the Captain, whether otherwise he would not have gone away with a much worse opinion of me, if he had judged of my offence by the violence of your resentment.
Capt. Indeed I should. I own I should. And I am very glad, Mr. Lovelace, that you are able to defend yourself thus far.
Cl. That cause must be well tried, where the offender takes his seat upon the same bench with the judge. -I submit not mine to men-Nor, give me leave to say, to You, Captain Tomlinson, tho' I am willing to have a good opinion of you. Had not the man been assured, that he had influenced you in his favour, he would not have brought you up to Hamstead.
Capt. That I am influenced, as you call it, Madam, is for the sake of your uncle, and for your own sake, more (I will say to Mr. Lovelace's face) than for his. What can I have in view, but peace and reconciliation? I have, from the first, blamed, and I now, again, blame, Mr. Lovelace, for adding distress to distress, and terror to terror; the lady, as you acknowlege, Sir [looking valiantly], ready before to fall into fits.
Lovel. Let me own to you, Captain Tomlinson, that I have been a very faulty, a very foolish man; and, if this dear creature ever honoured me with her love, an ingrateful one. But I have had too much reason to doubt it. And this is now a flagrant proof that she never had the value for me which my proud heart wished for, that, with such prospects before us; a day so near; settlements approved and drawn; her uncle mediating a reconciliation, which, for her sake, not my own, I was desirous to give into; she can, for an offence so really slight, on an occasion so truly accidental, renounce me for ever; and, with me, all hopes of that reconciliation in the way her uncle had put it in, and she had acquiesced with; and risque all consequences, fatal ones as they may too possibly be. -By my soul, Captain Tomlinson, the dear creature must have hated me all the time she was intending to honour me with her hand. And now she must resolve to abandon me, as far as I know, with a preference in her heart of the most odious of men-in favour of that Solmes, who, as you tell me, accompanies her brother: And with what hopes, with what view, accompanies him? -How can I bear to think of this?-
Cl. It is fit, Sir, that you should judge of my regard for you, by your own conscious demerits. Yet you know, or you would not have dared to behave to me as sometimes you did, that you had more of it than you deserved.
She walked from us; and then returning, Captain Tomlinson, said she, I will own to you, that I was not capable of resolving to give my hand, and-nothing but my hand. -Have I not give a flagrant proof of this to the once most indulgent of parents? which has brought me into a distress, which this man has heightened, when he ought, in gratitude and honour, to have endeavoured to render it supportable. I had even a byas, Sir, in his favour, I scruple not to own it. Long, too long! bore I with his unaccountable ways, attributing his errors to unmeaning gaiety, and to a want of knowing what true delicacy, and true generosity, required from a heart susceptible of grateful impressions to one involved by his means in unhappy circumstances. It is now wickedness in him (a wickedness which discredits all his professions) to say, that his last cruel and ingrateful insult was not a premeditated one. -But what need I say more of this insult, when it was of such a nature, that it has changed that byas in his favour, and made me choose to forego all the inviting prospects he talks of, and to run all hazards, to free myself from his power?
O my dearest creature! how happy for us both, had I been able to discover that byas, as you condescend to call it, thro' such reserves as man never encountered with!-
He did discover it, Captain Tomlinson. He brought me, more than once, to own it; the more needlesly brought me to own it, as I dare say his own vanity gave him no cause to doubt it; and as I had no other motive in not being forward to own it, than my too just apprehensions of his want of generosity. In a word, Captain Tomlinson (and now, that I am determined upon my measures, I the less scruple to say it), I should have despised myself, had I found myself capable of affectation or tyranny to the man I intended to marry. I have always blamed the dearest friend I have in the world for a fault of this nature. In a word-
Lovel. And had my angel really and indeed the favour for me she is pleased to own? -Dearest creature, forgive me. Restore me to your good opinion. Surely I have not sinned beyond forgiveness. You say, that I extorted from you the promise you made me. But I could not have presumed to make that promise the condition of my obedience, had I not thought there was room to expect forgiveness. Permit, I beseech you, the prospects to take place, that were opening so agreeably before us. I will go to town, and bring the licence. All difficulties to the obtaining of it are surmounted. Captain Tomlinson shall be witness to the deeds. He will be present at the ceremony on the part of your uncle. Indeed he gave me hope, that your uncle himself-
Capt. I did, Mr. Lovelace: And I will tell you my grounds for the hope I gave. I proposed to my dear friend (Your uncle, Madam), that he should give out, that he would take a turn with me to my little farm-house, as I call it, near Northampton, for a week or so. -Poor gentleman! he has of late been very little abroad! Too visibly indeed declineing! -Change of air, it might be given out, was good for him. -But I see, Madam, that this is too tender a subject-
The dear creature wept. She knew how to apply, as meant, the Captain's hint to the occasion of her uncle's declining state of health.
Capt. We might indeed, I told him, set out in that road, but turn short to town in my chariot; and he might see the ceremony performed with his own eyes, and be the desired father, as well as the beloved uncle.
She turned from us, and wiped her eyes.
Capt. And, really, there seem now to be but two objections to this; as Mr. Harlowe discouraged not the proposal-The one, the unhappy misunderstanding between you; which I would not by any means he should know; since then he might be apt to give weight to Mr. James Harlowe's unjust surmizes. - The other, that it would necessarily occasion some delay to the ceremony; which I cannot see, but may be performed in a day or two-If-
And then he reverently bowed to my goddess. - Charming fellow! -But often did I curse my stars, for making me so much obliged to his adroitness.
She was going to speak; but, not liking the turn of her countenance (altho', as I thought, its severity and indignation seemed a little abated), I said, and had like to have blown myself up by it-One expedient I have just thought of-
Cl. None of your expedients, Mr. Lovelace! I abhor your expedients, your inventions-I have had too many of them.
Lovel. See, Capt. Tomlinson! -See, Sir-O how we expose ourselves to you! -Little did you think, I dare say, that we have lived in such a continued misunderstanding together! But you will make the best of it all. We may yet be happy. O that I could have been assured, that this dear lady loved me with the hundredth part of the love I have for her! -Our diffidences have been mutual. This dear creature has too much punctilio: I am afraid, that I have too little. Hence our difficulties. But I have a heart, Capt. Tomlinson, a heart, that bids me hope for her love, because it is resolved to deserve it, as much as man can deserve it.
Capt. I am indeed surprised at what I have seen and heard. I defend not Mr. Lovelace, Madam, in the offence he has given you-As a father of daughters myself, I cannot defend him, tho' his fault seems to be lighter than I had apprehended-But in my conscience I think, that you, Madam, carry your resentment too high.
Cl. Too high, Sir! -Too high, to the man that might have been happy if he would! -Too high to the man that has held my soul in suspense an hundred times, since (by artifice and deceit) he obtained a power over me! -Say, Lovelace, thyself say, Art thou not the very Lovelace, that, by insulting me, hast wrong'd thy own hopes? -The wretch that appeared in vile disguises, personating an old lame creature, seeking for lodgings for thy sick wife? -Telling the gentlewomen here, stories all of thy own invention; and asserting to them an husband's right over me, which thou hadst not? -And is it (turning to the Captain) to be expected, that I should give credit to the protestations of such a man?
Lovel. Treat me, dearest creature, as you please, I will bear it: And yet your scorn and your violence have fixed daggers in my heart-But was it possible, without those disguises, to come at your speech? - And could I lose you, if study, if invention, would put it in my power to arrest your anger, and give me hope to engage you to confirm to me the promised pardon? -The address I made to you before the women, as if the marriage-ceremony had passed, was in consequence of what your uncle had advised, and what you had acquiesced with; and the rather made, as your brother, and Singleton, and Solmes, were resolved to find out whether what was reported of your marriage were true or not, that they might take their measures accordingly; and in hopes to prevent that mischief, which I have been but too studious to prevent, since this tameness has but invited insolence from your brother and his confederates.
Cl. O thou strange wretch, how thou talkest! - But, Captain Tomlinson, give me leave to say, that, were I inclin'd to talk any farther upon this subject, I would appeal to Miss Rawlins's judgment (Who else have I to appeal to?); she seems to be a person of prudence and honour; but not to any man's judgment, whether I carry my resentment beyond fit bounds, when I resolve-
Capt. Forgive, Madam, the interruption-But I think there can be no reason for this. You ought, as you said, to be the sole judge of indignities offered you. The gentlewomen here are strangers to you. You will perhaps stay but a little while among them. If you lay the state of your case before any of them, and your brother come to inquire of them, your uncle's intended mediation will be discover'd, and rendered abortive-I shall appear in a light that I never appeared in, in my life-for these women may not think themselves obliged to keep the secret.
Cl. O what difficulties has one fatal step involved me in! -But there is no necessity for such an appeal. I am resolved on my measures.
Capt. Absolutely resolved, Madam?
Cl. I am.
Capt. What shall I say to your uncle Harlowe, Madam? -Poor gentleman! how will he be surprised! -You see, Mr. Lovelace-You see, Sir- turning to me, with a flourishing hand-But you may thank yourself-and admirably stalk'd he from us.
True, by my soul, thought I. I traversed the room, and bit my unpersuasive lips, now upper, now under, for vexation.
He made a profound reverence to her-And went to the window, where lay his hat and whip; and, taking them up, open'd the door. Child, said he, to somebody he saw, pray, order my servant to bring my horse to the door-
Lovel. You won't go, Sir-I hope you won't! - I am the unhappiest man in the world! -You won't go-Yet, alas! -But you won't go, Sir! -There may be yet hopes, that Lady Betty may have some weight-
Capt. Dear Mr. Lovelace; and may not my worthy friend, an affectionate uncle, hope for some influence upon his daughter-niece? -But I beg pardon -A letter will always find me disposed to serve the lady, and that as well for her sake, as for the sake of my dear friend.
She had thrown herself into a chair; her eyes cast down: He was motionless, as in a profound study.
The Captain bowed to her again: But met with no return to his bow. Mr. Lovelace, said he (with an air of equality and independence), I am Yours.
Still the dear unaccountable sat as immoveable as a statue; stirring neither hand, foot, head, nor eye- I never before saw any one in so profound a resverie, in so waking a dream.
He passed by her to go out at the door she sat near, tho' the other door was his direct way; and bowed again. She moved not. I will not disturb the lady in her meditations, Sir. -Adieu, Mr. Lovelace - No farther, I beseech you.
She started, sighing-Are you going, Sir?
Capt. I am, Madam. I could have been glad to do you service: But I see it is not in my power.
She stood up, holding out one hand, with inimitable dignity and sweetness-I am sorry you are going, Sir-I can't help it-I have no friend to advise with-Mr. Lovelace has the art (or good-fortune, perhaps, I should call it) to make himself many. - Well, Sir-If you will go, I can't help it.
Capt. I will not go, Madam, his eyes twinkling [Again seized with a fit of humanity!]. I will not go, if my longer stay can do you either service or pleasure. What, Sir (turning to me), what, Mr. Lovelace, was your expedient? -Perhaps something may be offer'd, Madam-
She sighed, and was silent.
Revenge, invoked I to myself, keep thy throne in my heart-If the usurper Love once more drive thee from it, thou wilt never regain possession!
Lovel. What I had thought of, what I had intended to propose, and I sigh'd-was this, That the dear creature, if she will not forgive me, as she promised, would suspend the displeasure she has conceived against me, till Lady Betty arrives. -That lady may be the mediatrix between us. This dear creature may put herself into her protection, and accompany her down to her seat in Oxfordshire. It is one of her Ladyship's purposes to prevail on her supposed new niece to go down with her. It may pass to every one but to Lady Betty, and to you, Capt. Tomlinson, and to your friend Mr. Harlowe (as he desires), that we have been some time married: And her being with my relations, will amount to a proof to James Harlowe, that we are; and our nuptials may be privately, and at this beloved creature's pleasure, solemnized; and your report, Captain, authenticated.
Capt. Upon my honour, Madam, clapping his hand upon his breast, a charming expedient! This will answer every end.
She mused-She was greatly perplexed-At last, God direct me, said she! I know not what to do- A young unfriended creature, whom have I to advise with? -Let me retire, if I can retire.
She withdrew with slow and trembling feet, and went up to her chamber.
For Heaven's sake, said the penetrated varlet, his hands lifted up, for Heaven's sake, take compassion upon this admirable lady! -I cannot proceed-I cannot proceed-She deserves all things-
Softly!-damn the fellow! -The women are coming in.
He sobb'd up his grief-turn'd about-hemm'd up a more manly accent-Wipe thy cursed eyes-He did. The sunshine took place on one cheek, and spread slowly to the other, and the fellow had his whole face again.
The women all three came in, led by that ever-curious Miss Rawlins. I told them, that the lady was gone up to consider of every-thing: That we had hopes of her. And such a representation we made of all that had passed, as brought either tacit or declared blame upon the fair perverse, for hardness of heart, and over-delicacy.
The widow Bevis, in particular, put out one lip, tossed up her head, wrinkled her forehead, and made such motions with her now-lifted-up, now cast-down eyes, as shew'd, that she thought there was a great deal of perverseness and affectation in the lady. Now-and-then she changed her censuring looks to looks of pity of me-But (as she said) She loved not to aggravate! -A poor business, God help's! shrugging up her shoulders, to make such a rout about! and then her eyes laugh'd heartily-Indulgence was a good thing! Love was a good thing! -But too much was too much!
Miss Rawlins, however, declared, after she had called the Widow Bevis, with a prudish simper, a comical gentlewoman! That there must be something in our story, which she could not fathom; and went from us into a corner, and sat down, seemingly vexed that she could not.

### v5 LETTER XIII.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
The lady staying longer above than we wished; and hoping that (lady-like) she only waited for an invitation to return to us; I desired the Widow Bevis, in the Captain's name (who wanted to go to town), to request the favour of her company.
I cared not to send up either Miss Rawlins or Mrs. Moore on the errand, lest my beloved should be in a communicative disposition; especially as she had hinted at an appeal to Miss Rawlins; who, besides, has such an unbounded curiosity.
Mrs. Bevis presently return'd with an answer (winking and pinking at me), that the lady would follow her down. Miss Rawlins could not but offer to retire, as the others did. Her eyes, however, intimated that she had rather stay. But they not being answer'd as she seemed to wish, she went with the rest, but with slower feet; and had hardly left the parlour, when the lady enter'd it by the other door; a melancholy dignity in her person and air.
She sat down. Pray, Mr. Tomlinson, be seated. He took his chair over against her. I stood behind hers, that I might give him agreed-upon signals, should there be occasion for them.
As thus-A wink of the left-eye was to signify, Push that point, Captain.
A wink of the right, and a nod, was to indicate Approbation of what he had said.
My fore-finger held up, and biting my lip, Get off of that, as fast as possible.
A right-forward nod, and a frown-Swear to it, Captain.
My whole spread hand, To take care not to say too much on that particular subject.
And these motions I could make, even those with my hand, without holding up my arm, or moving my wrist, had the women been there; as, when they were agreed upon, I knew not but they would.
A scouling brow, and a positive nod, was to bid him rise in his temper.
She hemm'd-I was going to speak, to spare her supposed confusion: But this lady never wants presence of mind, when presence of mind is necessary either to her honour, or to that conscious dignity which distinguishes her from all the women I ever knew.
I have been considering, said she, as well as I was able, of every thing that has passed; and of all that has been said; and of my unhappy situation. I mean no ill; I wish no ill, to any creature living, Mr. Tomlinson. I have always delighted to draw favourable rather than unfavourable conclusions, sometimes, as it has proved, for very bad hearts. Censoriousness, whatever faults I have, is not naturally my fault. -But, circumstanced as I am; treated as I have been, unworthily treated by a man who is full of contrivances, and glories in them-
Lovel. My dearest life! -But I will not interrupt you.
Cl. Thus treated, it becomes me to doubt-It concerns my honour to doubt, to fear, to apprehend- Your intervention, Sir, is so seasonable, so kind, for this man-My uncle's expedient, the first of the kind he ever, I believe, thought of; a plain, honest, good-minded man, as he is, not affecting such expedients -Your report in conformity to it-The consequences of that report; The alarm taken by my brother; His rash resolution upon it-The alarm taken by Lady Betty, and the rest of Mr. Lovelace's relations-The sudden letters written to him, upon it, which, with yours, he shew'd me-All ceremony, among persons born observers of ceremony, and intitled to value themselves upon their distinction- All these things have happen'd so quick, and some of them so seasonable-
Lovel. Lady Betty, you see, Madam, in her letter, dispenses with punctilio, avowedly in compliment to you. Charlotte, in hers, professes to do the same for the same reason. Good Heaven, that the respect intended you by my relations, who, in every other case, are really punctilious, should be thus construed! They were glad, Madam, to have an opportunity to compliment you at my expence. Every one of my family takes delight in raillying me. But their joy on the supposed occasion-
Cl. Do I doubt, Sir, that you have not something to say, for any-thing you think fit to do? -I am speaking to Captain Tomlinson, Sir. -I wish you would be pleased to withdraw-At least to come from behind my chair.
And she looked at the Captain, observing, no doubt, that his eyes seemed to take lessons from mine.
A fair match, by Jupiter!
The Captain was disconcerted. The dog had not had such a blush upon his face for ten years before. I bit my lip for vexation: Walk'd about the room; but nevertheless took my post again; and blink'd with my eyes to the Captain, as a caution for him to take more care of his: And then scouling with my brows, and giving the nod positive, I as good as said, Resent that, Captain.
Capt. I hope, Madam, you have no suspicion, that I am capable-
Cl. Be not displeased with me, Captain Tomlinson. I have told you, that I am not of a suspicious temper. Excuse me for the sake of my sincerity. There is not, I will be bold to say, a sincerer heart in the world, than hers before you.
She took out her handkerchief, and put it to her eyes.
I was going at the instant, after her example, to vouch for the honesty of my heart; but my conscience Mennell'd upon me; and would not suffer the meditated vow to pass my lips. -A devilish thing, thought I, for a man to be so little himself, when he has most occasion for himself!
The villain Tomlinson look'd at me with a rueful face, as if he begg'd leave to cry for company. It might have been as well, if he had cried. A feeling heart, or the tokens of it, given by a sensible eye, are very reputable things, when kept in countenance by the occasion.
And here let me fairly own to thee, that twenty times in this trying conversation I said to myself, that could I have thought, that I should have all this trouble, and incurr'd all this guilt, I would have been honest at first. But why, question'd I, is this dear creature so lovely? -Yet so invincible? -Ever heardst thou before, that the sweets of May blossom'd in December?
Capt. Be pleased-be pleased, Madam-if you have doubts of my honour-
A whining varlet! He should have been quite angry -For what gave I him the nod positive? He should have stalk'd to the window, as for his whip and hat.
Cl. I am only making such observations as my youth, my inexperience, and my present unhappy circumstances, suggest to me-A worthy heart (such, I hope, is Captain Tomlinson's) need not fear an examination-need not fear being looked into- Whatever doubt that man, who has been the cause of my errors, and, as my severe father imprecated, the punisher of the errors he has caused, might have had of me, or of my honour, I would have forgiven him for them, if he had fairly proposed them to me: For he might, perhaps, have had some doubt of the future conduct of a creature, whom he could induce to correspond with him against parental prohibition, and against the lights which her own judgment threw in upon her: And if he had propounded them to me like a man and a gentleman, I would have been glad of the opportunity given me to clear my intentions, and to have shewn myself intitled to his good opinion -And I hope you, Sir-
Capt. I am ready to hear all your doubts, Madam, and to clear them up-
Cl. I can only put it, Sir, to your conscience and honour-
The dog sat uneasy: He shifted his feet: Her eye was upon him; he was therefore, after the rebuff he had met with, afraid to look at me for my motions; and now turn'd his eyes towards me, then from me, as if he would unlook his own looks; his head turning about like a weathercock in a hurricane.
Cl.-That all is true, that you have written, and that you have told me.
I gave him a right-forward nod, and a frown-as much as to say, Swear to it, Captain. But the varlet did not round it off as I would have had him. However, he averr'd that it was.
He had hoped, he said, that the circumstances with which his commission was attended, and what he had communicated to her, which he could not know but from his dear friend her uncle, might have shielded him even from the shadow of suspicion-But I am contented, said he, stammering, to be thought-to be thought-what-what you please to think me- till, till, you are satisfied-
A whore's-bird!
Cl. The circumstances you refer to, I must own, ought to shield you, Sir, from suspicion-But the man before you is a man that would make an angel suspected, should that angel plead for him.
I came forward. Travers'd the room-Was indeed in a bloody passion-I have no patience, Madam! -And again I bit my unpersuasive lip-
Cl. No man ought to be impatient at imputations he is not asham'd to deserve. An innocent man will not be outrageous upon such imputations. A guilty man ought not. [Most excellently would this charming creature cap sentences with Lord M.!] But I am not now trying you, Sir, on the foot of your merits. I am only sorry, that I am constrained to put questions to this worthier gentleman, which perhaps I ought not to put, so far as they regard himself. -And I hope, Captain Tomlinson, that you, who know not Mr. Lovelace so well, as, to my unhappiness, I do, and who have children of your own, will excuse a poor young creature, who is deprived of all worthy protection, and who has been insulted and endangered, by the most designing man in the world, and perhaps by a confederacy of his creatures.
There she stopt; and stood up, and looked at me; fear, nevertheless, apparently mingled with her anger. And so it ought. I was glad, however, of this poor sign of love-No one fears whom they value not.
Womens tongues were licensed, I was going to say-But my conscience would not let me call her a woman; nor use to her so vulgar a phrase. I could only rave by my motions; lift up my eyes, spread my hands, rub my face, pull my wig, and look like a fool. Indeed, I had a great mind to run mad. Had I been alone with her, I would; and she should have taken consequences.
The Captain interposed in my behalf; gently, however, and as a man not quite sure that he was himself acquitted. Some of the pleas we had both insisted on, he again inforced-And, speaking low- Poor gentleman! said he, who can but pity him! -Indeed, Madam, it is easy to see, with all his sailings, the power you have over him!
Cl. I have no pleasure, Sir, in distressing any one. - Not even him, who has so much distressed me. -But, Sir, when I THINK, and when I see him before me, I cannot command my temper! -Indeed, indeed, Captain Tomlinson, Mr. Lovelace has not acted by me either as a grateful, a generous, or a prudent man! -He knows not, as I told him yesterday, the value of the heart he has insulted!
There the angel stopt; her handkerchief at her eyes!
O Belford, Belford! that she should so greatly excel, as to make me, at times, a villain in my own eyes!
I besought her pardon. I promised, that it should be the study of my whole life to deserve it. My faults, I said, whatever they had been, were rather faults in her apprehension, than in fact. I besought her to give way to the expedient I had hit upon-I repeated it. The Captain inforced it, for her uncle's sake. I, once more, for the sake of the general reconciliation; for the sake of all my family; for the sake of preventing future mischief-
She wept-She seemed stagger'd in her resolution- She turned from me. I mention'd the letter of Lord M. I besought her to resign to Lady Betty's mediation all our differences, if she would not forgive me before she saw her.
She turned towards me-She was going to speak; but her heart was full-And again she turned away her face-Then, half turning it to me, her handkerchief at her eyes-And do you really and indeed expect Lady Betty and Miss Montague? -And do you -Again she stopt-
I answer'd in a solemn manner.
She turned from me her whole face, and paused, and seemed to consider. But, in a passionate accent, again turning towards me [O how difficult, Jack, for a Harlowe spirit to forgive!] -Let her Ladyship come, if she pleases, said she-I cannot, cannot wish to see her-And if she plead for you, I cannot wish to hear her! -The more I think, the less can I forgive an attempt, that I am convinced was intended to destroy me. [A plaguy strong word for the occasion, supposing she was right!] What has my conduct been, that an insult of such a nature should be offer'd to me, as it would be a weakness to forgive? I am sunk in my own eyes! -And how can I receive a visit that must depress me more?
The Captain urged her in my favour with greater earnestness than before. We both even clamour'd, as I may say, for mercy and forgiveness. [Didst thou never hear the good folks talk of taking heaven by storm?] -Contrition repeatedly avowed-A total reformation promised-The happy expedient again pleaded-
Cl. I have taken my measures. I have gone too far to recede, or to wish to recede. My mind is prepared for adversity. That I have not deserved the evils I have met with, is my consolation! -I have written to Miss Howe what my intentions are. My heart is not with you-It is against you, Mr. Lovelace. I had not written to you, as I did, in the letter I left behind me, had I not resolved, whatever became of me, to renounce you for ever.
I was full of hope now. Severe as her expressions were, I saw she was afraid, that I should think of what she had written. And indeed, her letter is violence itself. Angry people, Jack, should never write while their passion holds.
Lovel. The severity you have shewn me, Madam, whether by pen or by speech, shall never have place in my remembrance, but for your honour. In the light you have taken things, all is deserved, and but the natural result of virtuous resentment; and I adore you, even for the pangs you have given me.
She was silent. She had employment enough with her handkerchief at her eyes.
Lovel. You lament sometimes, that you have no friends of your own sex to consult with. Miss Rawlins, I must confess, is too inquisitive to be confided in [I lik'd not, thou mayest think, her appeal to Miss Rawlins]. She may mean well. But I never in my life knew a person who was fond of prying into the secrets of others, that was fit to be trusted. The curiosity of such is govern'd by pride, which is not gratified but by whispering about a secret till it becomes public, in order to shew either their consequence, or their sagacity. It is so in every case. What man or woman, who is covetous of power, or of wealth, is covetous of either, for the sake of making a right use of it? -But in the ladies of my family you may confide. It is their ambition to think of you, as one of themselves. Renew but your consent to pass to the world, for the sake of your uncle's expedient, and for the prevention of mischief, as a lady some time married. Lady Betty may be acquainted with the naked truth; and you may (as she hopes you will) accompany her to her seat; and, if it must be so, consider me as in a state of penitence or probation, to be accepted or rejected, as I may appear to deserve.
The Captain again clapt his hand on his breast, and declared upon his honour, that this was a proposal, that, were the case that of his own daughter, and she were not resolved upon immediate marriage (which yet he thought by far the more eligible choice), he should be very much concerned, were she to refuse it.
Cl. Were I with Mr. Lovelace's relations, and to pass as his wife to the world, I could not have any choice. And how could he be then in a state of probation? O Mr. Tomlinson, you are too much his friend to see into his drift.
Capt. His friend, Madam, as I said before, as I am yours and your uncle's, for the sake of a general reconciliation, which must begin with a better understanding between yourselves.
Lovel. Only, my dearest life, resolve to attend the arrival and visit of Lady Betty: And permit her to arbitrate between us.
Capt. There can be no harm in that, Madam- You can suffer no inconvenience from that. If Mr. Lovelace's offence be such, that a lady of that lady's character judges it to be unpardonable, why then-
Cl. (interrupting; and to me) If am not invaded by you, Sir-If I am (as I ought to be) my own mistress, I think to stay here, in this honest house [And then had I an eye-beam, as the Captain calls it, flash'd at me], till I receive a letter from Miss Howe. That, I hope, will be in a day or two. If in that time the ladies come whom you expect, and if they are desirous to see the creature whom you have made unhappy, I shall know whether I can, or cannot, receive their visit.
She turn'd short to the door, and retiring, went up stairs to her chamber.
O Sir, said the Captain, as soon as she was gone, what an angel of a woman is this! -I have been, and I am, a very wicked man. -But if any thing should happen amiss to this admirable lady, thro' my means, I shall have more cause for self-reproach, than for all the bad actions of my life put together.
And his eyes glisten'd.
Nothing can happen amiss, thou sorrowful dog! -What can happen amiss? -Are we to form our opinion of things by the romantic notions of a girl, who supposes that to be the greatest which is the slightest of evils? Have I not told thee our whole story? Has she not broken her promise? Did I not generously spare her, when in my power? I was decent, tho' I had her at such advantage. Greater liberties have I taken with girls of character at a common romping-bout, and all has been laugh'd off, and handkerchief and headcloaths adjusted, and petticoats shaken to rights, in my presence. Never man, in the like circumstances, and resolved as I was resolved, goaded on as I was goaded on, as well by her own sex, as by the impulses of a violent passion, was ever so decent. Yet what mercy does she shew me?
Now, Jack, this pitiful dog was such another unfortunate one as thyself-His arguments serving to confirm me in the very purpose, he brought them to prevail upon me to give up. Had he left me to myself, to the tenderness of my own nature, moved as I was when the lady withdrew, and had sat down, and made odious faces, and said nothing; it is very possible, that I should have taken the chair over-against him, which she had quitted; and have cry'd and blubber'd with him for half an hour together. But the varlet to argue with me! To pretend to convince a man, who knows in his heart that he is doing a wrong thing! -He must needs think, that this would put me upon trying what I could say for myself; and when the excited compunction can be carried from the heart to the lips, it must evaporate in words.
Thou perhaps, in this place, wouldst have urged the same pleas that he urged. What I answer'd to him therefore may do for thee, and spare thee the trouble of writing, and me of reading, a good deal of nonsense.
Capt. You was pleased to tell me, Sir, that you only proposed to try her virtue; and that you believed you should actually marry her.
Lovel. So I shall, and cannot help it. I have no doubt but I shall. And as to trying her, is she not now in the height of her trial? Have I not reason to think, that she is coming about? Is she not now yielding up her resentment for an attempt which she thinks she ought not to forgive? -And if she do, may she not forgive the last attempt? -Can she, in a word, resent that more than she does this? -Women often, for their own sakes, will keep the last secret; but will ostentatiously din the ears of gods and men with their clamours upon a successless offer. It was my folly, my weakness, that I gave her not more cause for this her unsparing violence!
Capt. O Sir, you never will be able to subdue this lady without force.
Lovel. Well, then, puppy, must I not endeavour to find a proper time and place-
Capt. Forgive me, Sir! But can you think of force to such a fine creature?
Lovel. Force, indeed, I abhor the thought of; and for what, thinkest thou, have I taken all the pains I have taken, and engaged so many persons in my cause, but to avoid the necessity of violent compulsion? But yet, imaginest thou that I expect direct consent from such a lover of forms, as this lady is known to be? Let me tell thee, Mc Donald, that thy master Belford has urged on thy side of the question, all that thou canst urge. Must I have every puppy's conscience to pacify, as well as my own? -By my soul, Patrick, she has a friend here (clapping my hand on my breast) that pleads for her with greater and more irresistable eloquence, than all the men in the world can plead for her. And had she not escaped me? -And yet how have I answer'd my first design of trying her, and in her the virtue of the most virtuous of the sex? -Thou puppy! Wouldst thou have me decline a trial that may make for the honour of a sex we all so dearly love?
Then, Sir, you have no thoughts-no thoughts- (looking still more sorrowfully) of marrying this wonderful lady?
Yes, puppy, but I have. But let me, first, to gratify my pride, bring down hers. Let me see, that she loves me well enough to forgive me for my own sake. Has she not heretofore lamented, that she staid not in her father's house, tho' the consequence must have been, if she had, that she would have been the wife of the odious Solmes? If now she be brought to consent to be mine, seest thou not, that the reconciliation with her detested relations is the inducement, as it always was, and not love of me? - Neither her virtue nor her love can be established but upon full trial; the last trial-But if her resistance and resentment be such as hitherto I have reason to expect they will be, and if I find in that resentment less of hatred of me, than of the fact, then shall she be mine in her own way. Then, hateful as is the life of shackles to me, will I marry her.
Well, Sir, I can only say, that I am dough in your hands, to be moulded into what shape you please. But if, as I said before-
None of your saids-before. I remember all thou saidst-And I know all thou canst further say- Thou art only, Pontius Pilate like, washing thine own hands (don't I know thee?), that thou mayst have something to silence thy conscience with by loading me. But we have gone too far to recede. Are not all our engines in readiness? -Dry up thy sorrowful eyes. Let unconcern and heart's-ease once more take possession of thy solemn features. Thou hast hitherto performed extremely well. Shame not thy past, by thy future behaviour; and a rich reward awaits thee. If thou art dough, be dough; and I slapt him on the shoulder-Resume but thy former shape-And I'll be answerable for the event.
He bow'd assent and compliance: Went to the glass; and began to untwist and unsadden his features: Pull'd his wig right, as if that, as well as his head and heart, had been discomposed by his compunction; and once more became old Mulciber's and mine.
But didst thou think, Jack, that there was so much-What-shall-I-call it?-in this Tomlinson? Didst thou imagine, that such a fellow as that, had bowels? That nature, so long dead and buried in him, as to all humane effects, should thus revive and exert itself? -Yet why do I ask this question of thee, who, to my equal surprize, hast shewn, on the same occasion, the like compassionate sensibilities?
As to Tomlinson, it looks as if poverty had made him the wicked fellow he is; as plenty and wantonness have made us what we are. Necessity, after all, is the test of principle. But what is there in this dull word, or thing, called Honesty, that even I, who cannot in my present views be served by it, cannot help thinking even the accidental emanations of it amiable in Tomlinson, tho' demonstrated in a female case; and judging better of him for being capable of such?

### v5 LETTER XIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
This debate between the Captain and me, was hardly over, when the three women, led by Miss Rawlins, enter'd, hoping, No intrusion-But very desirous, the maiden said, to know if we were likely to accommodate.
O yes, I hope so. You know, ladies, that your Sex must, in these cases, preserve their forms. They must be courted to comply with their own happiness. A lucky expedient, we have hit upon. The uncle has his doubts of our marriage. He cannot believe, nor will any-body, that it is possible that a man so much in love, the lady so desirable-
They all took the hint-It was a very extraordinary case, the two widows allowed. Women, Jack, as I believe I have observed elsewhere, have a high opinion of what they can do for us. -Miss Rawlins desired, if I pleased, to let them know the expedient; and look'd as if there was no need to proceed in the rest of my speech.
I begg'd, that they would not let the lady know that I had told them what this expedient was.
They promised.
It was this: That to oblige and satisfy Mr. Harlowe, the ceremony was to be again performed. He was to be privately present, and to give his niece to me with his own hands-And she was retired to consider of it.
Thou seest, Jack, that I have provided an excuse, to save my veracity to the women here, in case I should incline to marriage, and she should choose to have Miss Rawlins's assistance at the ceremony. Nor doubted I to bring my Fair-one to save my credit on this occasion, if I could get her to consent to be mine.
A charming expedient! cried the widow. They were all three ready to clap their hands for joy upon it. Women love to be married twice at least, Jack; tho' not indeed to the same man; and all bless'd the reconciliatory scheme, and the proposer of it; and, supposing it came from the Captain, they look'd at him with pleasure, while his face shined with the applause implied. He should think himself very happy, if he could bring about a general reconciliation; and he flourish'd with his head like my man Will. on his victory over old Grimes; bridling by turns, like Miss Rawlins in the height of a prudish fit.
But now it was time for the Captain to think of returning to town, having a great deal of business to dispatch before morning: Nor was he certain that he should again be able to attend us at Hamstead before he went home.
And yet I did not intend that he should leave Hampstead this night: Every thing drawing on to a crisis.
A message to the above effect was carried up, at my desire, by Mrs. Moore; with the Captain's compliments, and to know if she had any commands for him to her uncle?
But I hinted to the women, that it would be proper for them to withdraw, if the lady did come down; lest she should not care to be so free before them, on a proposal so particular, as she would be to us, who had offer'd it to her consideration.
Mrs. Moore brought down word, that the lady was following her. They all three withdrew; and she enter'd at one door, as they went out at the other.
The Captain accosted her, repeating the contents of the message sent up; and desired, that she would give him her commands in relation to the report he was to make to her uncle Harlowe.
I know not what to say, Sir, nor what I would have you to say, to my uncle. Perhaps you may have business in town-Perhaps you need not see my uncle, till I have heard from Miss Howe; till after Lady Betty-I don't know what to say.
I implored the return of that value, which she had so generously acknowleged once to have had for me. I presumed, I said, to flatter myself that Lady Betty, in her own person, and in the name of all my family, would be able, on my promised reformation and contrition, to prevail in my favour; especially as our prospects in other respects, with regard to the general reconciliation wished for, were so happy. But let me owe to your own generosity, my dearest creature, said I, rather than to the mediation of any person on earth, the forgiveness I am an humble suitor for. How much more agreeable to yourself, O best beloved of my soul, must it be, as well as obliging to me, that your first personal knowlege of my relations, and theirs of you (for they will not be denied attending you), should not be begun in recriminations and appeals! As Lady Betty will be here so soon, it will not perhaps be possible for you to receive her visit with a brow absolutely serene. But, dearest, dearest creature, I beseech you, let the misunderstanding pass as a slight one-As a misunderstanding clear'd up. Appeals give pride and superiority to the persons appealed to, and are apt to lessen the appellant, not only in their eye, but in her own. Exalt not into judges those who are prepared to take lessons and instructions from you. The individuals of my family are as proud as I am said to be. But they will chearfully resign to your superiority-You will be the first woman of the family in every one's eyes.
This might have done with any other woman in the world but this; and yet she is the only woman in the world of whom it may with truth be said- But thus, angrily, did she disclaim the compliment.
Yes, indeed!-(and there she stopt a moment, her sweet bosom heaving with a noble disdain)-Trick'd out of myself, from the very first-A fugitive from my own family! Renounced by my relations! Insulted by you! -Laying humble claim to the protection of yours! -Is not this the light in which I must appear not only to the ladies of your family, but to all the world? -Think you, Sir, that in these circumstances, or even had I been in the happiest, that I could be affected by this plea of undeserved superiority? -You are a stranger to the mind of Clarissa Harlowe, if you think her capable of so poor and so undue a pride!
She went from us to the farther end of the room.
The Captain was again affected-Excellent creature! I called her; and, reverently approaching her, urged further the plea I had last made.
It is but lately, said I, that the opinions of my relations have been more than indifferent to me, whether good or bad; and it is for your sake, more than for my own, that I now wish to stand well with my whole family. The principal motive of Lady Betty's coming up, is, to purchase presents for the whole family to make on the happy occasion.
This consideration, turning to the Captain, with so noble-minded a dear creature, I know, can have no weight; only as it will shew their value and respect. But what a damp would their worthy hearts receive, were they to find their admired new niece, as they now think her, not only not their niece, but capable of renouncing me for ever! They love me. They all love me. I have been guilty of carelessness and levity to them, indeed; but of carelessness and levity only; and that owing to a pride that has set me above meanness, tho' it has not done every thing for me.
My whole family will be guaranties for my good behaviour to this dear creature, their niece, their daughter, their cousin, their friend, their chosen companion and directress, all in one. -Upon my soul, Captain, we may, we must be happy.
But, dearest, dearest creature, let me on my knees (and down I dropt, her face all the time turn'd half from me, as she stood at the window, her handkerchief often at her eyes) plead your promised forgiveness; and let us not appear to them, on their visit, thus unhappy with each other. Lady Betty, the next hour that she sees you, will write her opinion of you, and of the likelihood of our future happiness, to Lady Sarah, her sister, a weak-spirited woman, who now hopes to supply to herself, in my bride, the lost daughter she still mourns for!
The Captain then joined in, re-urging her uncle's hopes and expectations; and his resolution effectually to set about the general reconciliation: The mischief that might be prevented: The certainty he was in, that her uncle might be prevailed upon to give her to me with his own hand, if she made it her choice to wait for his coming up. But, for his own part, he humbly advised, and fervently pressed her, to make the very next day, or Monday at farthest, my happy day.
Permit me, dearest Lady, said he, and I could kneel to you myself (bending his knee); tho' I have no interest in my earnestness, but the pleasure I should have to be able to serve you all; to beseech you to give me an opportunity to assure your uncle, that I myself saw with my own eyes the happy knot ty'd! -All misunderstandings, all doubts, all diffidences, will then be at an end.
And what, Madam, rejoined I, still kneeling, can there be in your new measures, be they what they will, that can so happily, so reputably, I will presume to say, for all round, obviate the present difficulties?
Miss Howe herself, if she loves you, and loves your fame, Madam, urged the Captain, his knee still bent, must congratulate you on such a happy conclusion.
Then turning her face, she saw the Captain half-kneeling -O Sir! O Capt. Tomlinson! -Why this undue condescension? extending her hand to his elbow, to raise him. -I cannot bear this! -Then casting her eye to me, Rise, Mr. Lovelace. Kneel not to the poor creature whom you have insulted! -How cruel the occasion for it! -And how mean the submission!
Not mean to such an angel! -Nor can I rise, but to be forgiven!-
The Captain then re-urged once more the day- He was amazed, he said, if she ever valued me-
O Captain Tomlinson, interrupted she, how much are you the friend of this man! -If I had never valued him, he never would have had it in his power to insult me; nor could I have taken to heart as I do, the insult (execrable as it was) so undeservedly, so ungratefully given-But let him retire-For a moment let him retire.
I was more than half afraid to trust the Captain by himself with her-He gave me a sign that I might depend upon him-And then I took out of my pocket his letter to me, and Lady Betty's, and Miss Montague's, and Lord M.'s (which last she had not then seen), and giving them to him: Procure for me, in the first place, Mr. Tomlinson, a re-perusal of these three letters; and of This, from Lord M. And I beseech you, my dearest life, give them due consideration: And let me on my return find the happy effects of it.
I then withdrew; with slow feet, however, and a misgiving heart.
The Captain insisted upon this re-perusal previously to what she had to say to him, as he tells me. She comply'd, but with some difficulty; as if she was afraid of being soften'd in my favour!
She lamented her unhappy situation; destitute of friends, and not knowing whither to go, or what to do. -She asked questions, sifting questions, about her uncle, about her family, and after what he knew of Mr. Hickman's fruitless application in her favour.
He was well prepared in this particular; for I had shewn him the letters, and extracts of letters, of Miss Howe, which I had so happily come at. Might she be assured, she asked him, that her brother, with Singleton, and Solmes, were actually in quest of her?
He averr'd that they were.
She asked, If he thought I had hopes of prevailing on her to go back to town?
He was sure I had not.
Was he really of opinion, that Lady Betty would pay her a visit?
He had no doubt of it.
But, Sir; but, Captain Tomlinson-Then impatiently turning from him, and again to him, I know not what to do-But were I your daughter, Sir- Were you my own father-Alas, Sir, I have neither father nor mother!
He turned from her, and wiped his eyes.
O Sir! you have humanity! [She wept too] There are some men in the world, thank Heaven, that can be moved. O Sir, I have met with hard-hearted men; and in my own family too-or I could not have been so unhappy as I am-But I make everybody unhappy!
I suppose his eyes run over.
Dearest Madam! Heavenly Lady! -Who can- who can-hesitated and blubber'd the dog, as he owned. And indeed I heard some part of what passed, tho' they both talked lower than I wished; for, from the nature of their conversation, there was no room for altitudes.
Them, and BOTH, and THEY! -How it goes against me to include this angel of a creature, and any man on earth, but myself, in one word!
Capt. Who can forbear being affected? -But, Madam, you can be no other man's.
Cl. Nor would I be. But he is so sunk with me! - To fire the house! -An artifice so vile!-contrived for the worst of purposes! -Would you have a daughter of yours-But what would I say? -Yet you see, that I have nobody in whom I can confide! -Mr. Lovelace is a vindictive man! -He could not love the creature whom he could insult as he has insulted me! Then pausing-In short, I never, never can forgive him, nor he me. -Do you think, Sir, I would have gone so far, as I have gone, if I had intended ever to draw with him in one yoke? -I left behind me such a letter-
You know, Madam, he has acknowleged the justice of your resentment-
O Sir, he can acknowlege, and he can retract, fifty times a day-But do not think I am trifling with myself and you, and want to be persuaded to forgive him, and to be his. -There is not a creature of my sex, who would have been more explicit, and more frank, than I would have been, from the moment I intended to be his, had I had a heart like my own to deal with. I was always above reserve, Sir, I will presume to say, where I had no cause of doubt. Mr. Lovelace's conduct has made me appear, perhaps, over-nice, when my heart wanted to be encouraged and assured; and when, if it had been so, my whole behaviour would have been governed by it.
She stopt, her handkerchief at her eyes. I inquired after the minutest part of her behaviour, as well as after her words. I love, thou knowest, to trace human nature, and more particularly female nature, thro' its most secret recesses.
The pitiful fellow was lost in silent admiration of her-And thus the noble creature proceeded.
It is the fate of unequal unions, that tolerable creatures, thro' them, frequently incurr censure, when, more happily yoked, they might be intitled to praise. And shall I not shun an union with a man, that might lead into errors a creature who flatters herself that she, is blest with an inclination to be good; and who wishes to make every-one happy with whom she has any connexion, even to her very servants?
She paused, taking a turn about the room-the fellow, devil fetch him, a mummy all the time: Then proceeded.
Formerly, indeed, I hoped to be an humble means of reforming him. But, when I have no such hope, is it right (You are a serious man, Sir) to make a venture that shall endanger my own morals!
Still silent was the varlet. If my advocate had nothing to say for me, what hope of carrying my cause?
And now, Sir, what is the result of all? -It is this-That you will endeavour, if you have that influence over him which a man of your sense and experience ought to have, to prevail upon him, and that for his own sake, as well as mine, to leave me free to pursue my own destiny. And of this you may assure him, that I never will be any other man's.
Impossible, Madam! -I know that Mr. Lovelace would not hear me with patience on such a topic. And I do assure you, that I have some spirit, and should not care to take an indignity from him, or from any man living.
She paused-Then resuming-And think you, Sir, that my uncle will refuse to receive a letter from me? -How averse, Jack, to concede a tittle in my favour!
I know, Madam, as matters are circumstanced, that he would not answer it. If you please I will carry one down from you.
And will he not pursue his intentions in my favour, nor be himself reconciled to me, except I am married?
From what your brother gives out, and affects to believe, on Mr. Lovelace's living with you in the same-
No more, Sir-I am an unhappy creature!
He then re-urged, that it would be in her power instantly, or on the morrow, to put an end to all her difficulties.
How can that be, said she? The licence still to be obtained? The settlements still to be signed? Miss Howe's answer to my last unreceived? -And shall I, Sir, be in such a HURRY, as if I thought my honour in danger if I delay'd? Yet marry the man from whom only it can be endanger'd? -Unhappy, thrice unhappy, Clarissa Harlowe! -In how many difficulties has one rash step involved thee? -And she turn'd from him, and wept.
The varlet, by way of comfort, wept too: Yet her tears, as he might have observed, were tears that indicated rather a yielding than a perverse temper.
There is a sort of stone, thou knowest, so soft in the quarry, that it may, in a manner, be cut with a knife; but if the opportunity be not taken, and it is exposed to the air for any time, it will become as hard as marble, and then with difficulty it yields to the chizel. So this lady, not taken at the moment, after a turn or two cross the room, gained more resolution; and then she declared, as she had done once before, that she would wait the issue of Miss Howe's answer to the letter she had sent her from hence, and take her measures accordingly; leaving it to him, mean time, to make what report he thought fit, to her uncle; the kindest that truth could bear, she doubted not from Captain Tomlinson: And she should be glad of a few lines from him, to hear what that was.
She wished him a good journey. She complained of her head; and was about to withdraw: But I stept round to the door next the stairs, as if I had but just come in from the garden; which, as I entered, I called a very pretty one; and took her reluctant hand, as she was going out: My dearest life, you are not going? -What hopes, Captain? -Have you not some hopes to give me of pardon and reconciliation?
She said, She would not be detained. But I would not let her go, till she had promised to return, when the Captain had reported to me what her resolution was.
And when he had, I claimed her promise; and she came down again, and repeated it, as what she was determined upon.
I expostulated with her upon it, in the most submissive and earnest manner. She made it necessary for me to repeat many of the pleas I had before urged. The Captain seconded me with equal earnestness. At last, each fell down on his knees before her.
She was distressed. I was afraid at one time she would have fainted. Yet neither of us would rise without some concessions. I pleaded my own sake; the Captain, his dear friend her uncle's; and both, the prevention of future mischief; and the peace and happiness of the two families.
She own'd herself unequal to the conflict. She sigh'd, she sobb'd, she wept, she wrung her hands.
I was perfectly eloquent in my vows and protestations. Her tearful eyes were cast down upon me; a glow upon each charming cheek; a visible anguish in every lovely feature-At last, her trembling knees seeming to fail her, she dropt into the next chair; her charming face, as if seeking for a hiding-place (which a mother's bosom would have best supply'd), sinking upon her own shoulder.
I forgot at the instant all my vows of revenge. I threw myself at her feet as she sat; and, snatching her hand, pressed it with my lips. I besought Heaven to forgive my past offences, and prosper my future hopes, as I designed honourably and justly by the charmer of my heart, if once more she would restore me to her favour. And I thought I felt drops of scalding water (Could they be tears?) trickle down upon my cheeks; while my cheeks, glowing like fire, seemed to scorch up the unwelcome strangers.
I then arose, not doubting of an imply'd pardon in this silent distress. I raised the Captain. I whisper'd him-By my soul, man, I am in earnest. -Now talk of reconciliation, of her uncle, of the licence, of settlements-And raising my voice, If now at last, Captain Tomlinson, my angel will give me leave to call so great a blessing mine, it will be impossible that you should say too much to her uncle in praise of my gratitude, my affection, and fidelity to his charming niece; and he may begin as soon as he pleases, his kind schemes for effecting the desirable reconciliation! -Nor shall he prescribe any terms to me, that I will not comply with.
The Captain bless'd me with his eyes and hands- Thank God, whisper'd he. We approached the lady together.
What hinders, dearest Madam, said he, what now hinders, but that Lady Betty Lawrance, when she comes, may be acquainted with the truth of everything? And assist privately at your nuptials? -I will stay till they are celebrated; and then shall I go down with the happy tidings to my dear Mr. Harlowe. -And all will, all must, soon be happy.
I must have an answer from Miss Howe, reply'd the still trembling Fair-one. I cannot change my new measures, but with her advice. I will forfeit all my hopes of happiness in this world, rather than her good opinion, and that she should think me giddy, unsteady, or precipitate. All I will further say on the present subject is this, That, when I have her answer to what I have written, I will write to her the whole state of the matter, as I shall then be enabled to do.
Lovel. Then must I despair for ever-O Captain Tomlinson, Miss Howe hates me! -Miss Howe-
Capt. Not so, perhaps-When Miss Howe knows your concern for having offended, she will never advise, that, with such prospects of general reconciliation, the hopes of so many considerable persons in both families, should be frustrated. Some little time, as that excellent lady has foreseen and hinted, will necessarily be taken up, in actually procuring the licence, and in perusing and signing the settlements. In that time Miss Howe's answer may be received; and Lady Betty may arrive; and she, no doubt, will have weight to dissipate the lady's doubts, and to accelerate the day. It shall be my part, mean time, to make Mr. Harlowe easy. All I fear from delay is, from Mr. James Harlowe's quarter; and therefore all must be conducted with prudence and privacy; -As your uncle, Madam, has proposed.
She was silent: I rejoiced in her silence: The dear creature, thought I, has actually forgiven me in her heart! -But why will she not lay me under obligation to her, by the generosity of an explicit declaration? -And yet, as that would not accelerate any-thing, while the licence is not in my hands, she is the less to be blamed (if I do her justice), that she took more time to descend.
I proposed, as on the morrow night, to go to town; and doubted not to bring the licence up with me on Monday morning. Would she be pleased to assure me, that she would not depart from Mrs. Moore's?
She should stay at Mrs. Moore's, till she had an answer from Miss Howe.
I told her, that I hop'd I might have her tacit consent, at least, to the obtaining of the licence.
I saw by the turn of her countenance, that I should not have asked this question. She was so far from tacitly consenting, that she declared to the contrary.
As I never intended, I said, to ask her to enter again into a house, with the people of which she was so much offended, would she be pleased to give orders for her cloaths to be brought up hither? Or should Dorcas attend her for any of her commands on that head?
She desired not ever more to see any-body belonging to that house. She might perhaps get Mrs. Moore or Mrs. Bevis to go thither for her, and take her keys with them.
I doubted not, I said, that Lady Betty would arrive by that time. I hoped she had no objection to my bringing that lady and my cousin Montague up with me?
She was silent.
To be sure, Mr. Lovelace, said the Captain, the lady can have no objection to this.
She was still silent. So silence in this case was assent.
Would she be pleased to write to Miss Howe?-
Sir! Sir! peevishly interrupting-No more questions: No prescribing to me. -You will do as you think fit. So will I, as I please. I own no obligation to you. Captain Tomlinson, your servant. Recommend me to my uncle Harlowe's favour: And was going.
I took her reluctant hand, and besought her only to promise to meet me early in the morning.
To what purpose meet you? Have you more to say, than has been said? -I have had enough of vows and protestations, Mr. Lovelace. To what purpose should I meet you to-morrow morning?
I repeated my request, and that in the most fervent manner, naming six in the morning.
"You know, that I am always stirring before that hour, at this season of the year," was the half-expressed consent.
She then again recommended herself to her uncle's favour; and withdrew.
And thus, Belford, has she mended her markets, as Lord M. would say, and I worsted mine. Miss Howe's next letter is now the hinge, on which the fate of both must turn. I shall be absolutely ruin'd and undone, if I cannot intercept it.

### v5 LETTER XV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Sat. Midnight.
No rest, says a text that I once heard preached upon, to the wicked-And I cannot close my eyes; yet wanted only to compound for half an hour in an elbow-chair. So must scribble on.
I parted with the Captain, after another strong debate with him in relation to what is to be the fate of this lady. As the fellow has an excellent head, and would have made an eminent figure in any station of life, had not his early days been tainted with a deep crime, and he detected in it; and as he had the right side of the argument; I had a good deal of difficulty with him; and at last brought myself to promise, that if I could prevail upon her generously to forgive me, and to reinstate me in her favour, I would make it my whole endeavour to get off of my contrivances, as happily as I could (only that Lady Betty and Charlotte must come); and then, substituting him for her uncle's proxy, take shame to myself, and marry.
But if I should, Jack (with the strongest antipathy to the state that ever man had), what a figure shall I make in rakish annals? And can I have taken all this pains for nothing? Or for a wife only, that, however excellent (and any woman, do I think, I could make good, because I could make any woman fear as well as love me), might have been obtained without the plague I have been at, and much more reputably than with it? And hast thou not seen, that this haughty lady knows not how to forgive with graciousness? Indeed has not at all forgiven me? But holds my soul in a suspense, which has been so grievous to her own.
At this silent moment I think, that if I were to pursue my former scheme, and resolve to try whether I cannot make a greater fault serve as a sponge to wipe out a less; and then be forgiven for that; I can justify myself to myself; and that, as the fair Implacable would say, is all in all.
It is my intention, in all my reflections, to avoid repeating, at least dwelling upon, what I have before written to thee, tho' the state of the case may not have varied; so I would have thee reconsider the old reasonings (particularly those contained in my answer to thy last expostulatory nonsense; and add the new, as they fall from my pen; and then I shall think myself invincible;-at least, as arguing rake to rake.
I take the gaining of this lady to be essential to my happiness: And is it not natural for all men to aim at obtaining whatever they think will make them happy, be the object more or less considerable in the eyes of others?
As to the manner of endeavouring to obtain her, by falsification of oaths, vows, and the like-Do not the poets of two thousand years and upwards tell us, that Jupiter laughs at the perjuries of lovers? And let me add, to what I have heretofore mentioned on that head, a question or two.
Do not the mothers, the aunts, the grandmothers, the governesses of the pretty innocents, always, from their very cradles to riper years, preach to them the deceitfulness of men? -That they are not to regard their oaths, vows, promises? -What a parcel of fibbers would all these reverend matrons be, if there were not now-and-then a pretty credulous rogue taken in for a justification of their preachments, and to serve as a beacon lighted up for the benefit of the rest?
Do we not then see, that an honest prowling fellow is a necessary evil on many accounts? Do we not see, that it is highly requisite that a sweet girl should be now-and-then drawn aside by him? -And the more eminent the lady, in the graces of person, mind, and fortune, is not the example likely to be the more efficacious?
If these postulata be granted me, who, I pray, can equal my charmer in all these? Who therefore so fit for an example to the rest of the Sex? -At worst, I am intirely within my worthy friend Mandeville's rule, That private vices are public benefits.
Well then, if this sweet creature must fall, as it is called, for the benefit of all the pretty fools of the Sex, she must; and there's an end of the matter. And what would there have been in it of uncommon or rare, had I not been so long about it? -And so I dismiss all further argumentation and debate upon the question: And I impose upon thee, when thou writest to me, an eternal silence on this head.
Wafer'd on, as an after-written introduction to the paragraphs which follow.
Lord, Jack, what shall I do now! -How one evil brings on another! -Dreadful news to tell thee! -While I was meditating a simple robbery, here have I (in my own defence indeed) been guilty of murder! A bloody murder! -So I believe it will prove. -At her last gasp! -Poor impertinent opposer! Eternally resisting! -Eternally contradicting! There she lies, weltering in her blood! Her death's wound have I given her! -But she was a thief, an impostor, as well as a tormentor. She had stolen my pen. - While I was sullenly meditating, doubting, as to my future measures, she stole it; and thus she wrote with it, in a hand exactly like my own; and would have faced me down, that it was really my own hand-writing.
"But let me reflect, before it be too late. On the manifold perfections of this ever-admirable creature, let me reflect. The hand yet is only held up. The blow is not struck. Miss Howe's next letter may blow thee up. In policy thou shouldest be now at least honest. Thou canst not live without her. Thou wouldest rather marry her than lose her absolutely. Thou mayest undoubtedly prevail upon her, inflexible as she seems to be, for marriage. But if now she find thee a villain, thou mayest never more engage her attention, and she, perhaps, will refuse and abhor thee.
"Yet already have I not gone too far? Like a repentant thief, afraid of his gang, and obliged to go on, in fear of hanging till he comes to be hang'd, I am afraid of the gang of my cursed contrivances.
"As I hope to live, I am sorry, at the present writing, that I have been such a foolish plotter, as to put it, as I fear I have done, out of my own power to be honest. I hate compulsion in all forms; and cannot bear, even to be compelled to be the wretch my choice has made me! -So now, Belford, as thou hast said, I am a machine at last, and no free agent.
"Upon my soul, Jack, it is a very foolish thing for a man of spirit to have brought himself to such a height of iniquity, that he must proceed, and cannot help himself; and yet to be next-to certain, that his very victory will undo him.
"Why was such a woman as This thrown in my way, whose very fall will be her glory, and, perhaps, not only my shame, but my destruction?
"What a happiness must that man know, who moves regularly to some laudable end, and has nothing to reproach himself with in his progress to it! When, by honest means, he attains this end, how great and unmixed must be his enjoyments! What a happy man, in this particular case, had I been, had it been given me to be only what I wished to appear to be!"
Thus far had my Conscience written with my pen; and see what a recreant she had made me! -I seized her by the throat-There! -There, said I, thou vile impertinent! -Take that, and that! -How often have I given thee warning! -And now, I hope, thou intruding varletess, have I done thy business!
Puling, and in-voiced, rearing up thy detested head, in vain implorest thou my mercy, who, in thy day hast shewed me so little! -Take that, for a rising-blow! -And now will thy pain, and my pain from thee, soon be over! -Lie there! -Welter on! - Had I not given thee thy death's wound, thou wouldest have robbed me of all my joys. Thou couldest not have mended me, 'tis plain. Thou couldest only have thrown me into despair. Didst thou not see, that I had gone too far to recede? -Welter on, once more I bid thee! -Gasp on! -That thy last gasp, surely! -How hard diest thou! -Adieu! - 'Tis kind in thee, however, to bid me Adieu! - Adieu, Adieu, Adieu, to thee, O thou inflexible, and, till now, unconquerable bosom-intruder- Adieu to thee for ever!

### v5 LETTER XVI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Sunday Morn. (June 11.) 4 o' Clock.
A few words to the information thou sentest me last night concerning thy poor old man; and then I rise from my seat, shake myself, refresh, new-dress, and so to my charmer, whom, notwithstanding her reserves, I hope to prevail upon to walk out with me on the heath, this warm and fine morning.
The birds must have awaken'd her before now. They are in full song. She always gloried in accustoming herself to behold the sun-rise; one of God's natural wonders, as once she called it.
Her window salutes the East. The valleys must be gilded by his rays, by the time I am with her; for already have they made the up-lands smile, and the face of nature chearful.
How unsuitable wilt thou find this gay preface to a subject so gloomy, as that I am now turning to!
I am glad to hear thy tedious expectations are at last answered.
Thy servant tells me, that thou art plaguily grieved at the old fellow's departure.
I can't say, but thou mayst look as if thou wert; harassed as thou hast been for a number of days and nights with a close attendance upon a dying man, beholding his drawing-on hour-Pretending, for decency's sake, to whine over his excruciating pangs- To be in the way to answer a thousand impertinent inquiries after the health of a man thou wishedst to die- To pray by him-for so once thou wrotest to me! - To read by him-To be forced to join in consultations with a parcel of solemn wou'd-seem-wise doctors, and their officious Zanies the apothecaries, joined with the butcherly tribe of scarificators; all combined to carry on the physical farce, and to cut out thongs both from his flesh and his estate-To have the super-added apprehension of dividing thy interest in what he shall leave with a crew of eager-hoping, never-to-be-satisfied relations, legatees, and the devil knows who, of private gratificators of passions laudable and illaudable -In these circumstances, I wonder not that thou lookest to servants (as little grieved at heart as thyself, and who are gaping after legacies, as thou after heirship) as if thou indeed wert grieved; and as if the most wry-facing woe had befallen thee.
Then, as I have often thought, the reflection that must naturally arise from such mortifying objects, as the death of one with whom we have been familiar, must afford, when we are obliged to attend it in its slow approaches, and in its face-twisting pangs, that it will one day be our own case, goes a great way to credit the appearance of grief.
And This it is that, seriously reflected upon, may temporarily give a fine air of sincerity to the wailings of lively widows, heart-exulting heirs, and residuary legatees of all denominations; since, by keeping down the inward joy, those interesting reflections must sadden the aspect, and add an appearance of real concern to the assumed sables.
Well, but, now thou art come to the reward of all thy watchings, anxieties, and close attendances, tell me what it is; tell me if it compensate thy trouble, and answer thy hope?
As to myself, thou seest, by the gravity of my style, how the subject has help'd to mortify me. But the necessity I am under of committing either speedy matrimony, or a rape, has sadden'd over my gayer prospects, and, more than the case itself, contributed to make me sympathize with thy present joyful-sorrow.
Adieu, Jack. I must be soon out of my pain; and my Clarissa shall be soon out of hers-For so does the arduousness of the case require.

### v5 LETTER XVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Sunday Morning.
I have had the honour of my charmer's company for two complete hours. We met before six in Mrs. Moore's garden: A walk on the heath refused me.
The sedateness of her aspect, and her kind compliance in this meeting, gave me hopes. And all that either the Captain or I had urged yesterday to obtain a full and free pardon, that re-urged I; and I told her, besides, that Capt. Tomlinson was gone down with hopes to prevail upon her uncle Harlowe to come up in person, in order to present me with the greatest blessing that man ever received.
But the utmost I could obtain was, That she would take no resolution in my favour, till she received Miss Howe's next letter.
I will not repeat the arguments used by me: But I will give thee the substance of what she said in answer to them.
She had considered of every thing, she told me. My whole conduct was before her. The house I carried her to, must be a vile house. The people early shewed what they were capable of, in the earnest attempt made to fasten Miss Partington upon her; as she doubted not, with my approbation. - [Surely, thought I, she has not received a duplicate of Miss Howe's letter of detection!] They heard her cries. My insult was undoubtedly premeditated. By my whole recollected behaviour to her, previous to it, it must be so. I had the vilest of views, no question. And my treatment of her put it out of all doubt.
Soul all over, Belford! she seems sensible of liberties, that my passion made me insensible of having taken.
She besought me to give over all thoughts of her. Sometimes, she said, she thought herself cruelly treated by her nearest and dearest relations: At such times, a spirit of repining, and even of resentment, took place, and the reconciliation, at other times so desirable, was not then so much the favourite wish of her heart, as was the scheme she had formerly planned -of taking her good Norton for her directress and guide, and living upon her own estate in the manner her grandfather had intended she should live.
This scheme, she doubted not, that her cousin Morden, who was one of her trustees for that estate, would enable her (and that as she hoped, without litigation) to pursue. And if he can, and does, what, Sir, let me ask you, said she, have I seen in your conduct, that should make me prefer to it an union of interests, where there is such a disunion in minds?
So thou seest, Jack, there is reason, as well as resentment, in the preference she makes against me! - Thou seest, that she presumes to think, that she can be happy without me; and that she must be unhappy with me!
I had besought her, in the conclusion of my re-urged arguments, to write to Miss Howe before Miss Howe's answer could come, in order to lay before her the present state of things; and if she would defere to her judgment, to let her have an opportunity to give it, on the full knowlege of the case-
So I would, Mr. Lovelace, was the answer, if I were in doubt myself, which I would prefer; marriage, or the scheme I have mentioned. You cannot think, Sir, but the latter must be my choice. I wish to part with you with temper-Don't put me upon repeating-
Part with me, Madam, interrupted I! -I cannot bear those words! -But let me beseech you, however, to write to Miss Howe. I hope, if Miss Howe is not my enemy-
She is not the enemy of your person, Sir;-as you would be convinced, if you saw her last letter to me (a). But were she not an enemy to your actions, she would not be my friend, nor the friend of virtue. Why will you provoke from me, Mr. Lovelace, the harshness of expression, which, however deserved by you, I am unwilling just now to use; having suffered enough in the two past days from my own vehemence?
I bit my lip for vexation. I was silent.
Miss Howe, proceeded she, knows the full state of matters already, Sir. The answer I expect from her respects myself, not you. Her heart is too warm in the cause of friendship, to leave me in suspense one moment longer than is necessary, as to what I want to know. Nor does her answer depend absolutely upon herself. She must see a person first; and that person perhaps must see others.
The cursed smuggler-woman, Jack! -Miss Howe's Townsend, I doubt not! -Plot, contrivance, intrigue, stratagem! -Underground moles these ladies- But let the earth cover me! let me be a mole too, thought I, if they carry their point! -And if this lady escape me now.
She frankly owned, that she had once thought of embarking out of all our ways for some one of our American colonies. But now that she had been compelled to see me (which had been her greatest dread, and which she would have given her life to avoid), she thought she might be happiest in the resumption of her former favourite scheme, if Miss Howe could find her a reputable and private asylum, till her cousin Morden could come. But if he came not soon, and if she had a difficulty to get to a place of refuge, whether from her brother or from any-body else (meaning me, I suppose), she might yet perhaps go abroad: For, to say the truth, she could not think of returning to her father's house; since her brother's rage, her sister's upbraidings, her father's anger, her mother's still more-affecting sorrowings, and her own consciousness under them all, would be insupportable to her.
O Jack! I am sick to death, I pine, I die, for Miss Howe's next letter! I would bind, gag, strip, rob, and do any thing but murder, to intercept it.
But, determined as she seems to be, it was evident to me, nevertheless, that she had still some tenderness for me.
She often wept as she talk'd, and much oftener sigh'd. She looked at me twice with an eye of undoubted gentleness, and three times with an eye tending to compassion and softness: But its benign rays were as often snatch'd back, as I may say, and her face averted, as if her sweet eye were not to be trusted, and could not stand against my eager eyes; seeking, as they did, for a lost heart in hers, and endeavouring to penetrate to her very soul.
More than once I took her hand. She struggled not much against the freedom. I pressed it once with my lips. She was not very angry. A frown indeed; but a frown that had more distress in it than indignation.
How came the dear soul (cloathed as it is with such a silken vesture) by all its steadiness? -Was it necessary, that the active gloom of such a tyrant of a father, should commix with such a passive sweetness of a will-less mother, to produce a constancy, an equanimity, a steadiness, in the daughter, which never woman before could boast of? -If so, she is more obliged to that despotic father than I could have imagined a creature to be, who gave distinction to every one related to her, beyond what the crown itself can confer.
I hoped, I said, that she would admit of the intended visit of the two ladies, which I had so often mentioned.
She was here. She had seen me. She could not help herself at present. She ever had the highest regard for the ladies of my family, because of their worthy characters. There she turned away her sweet face, and vanquished a half-risen sigh.
I kneeled to her then. It was upon a verdant cushion; for we were upon the grass-walk. I caught her hand. I besought her with an earnestness that called up, as I could feel, my heart to my eyes, to make me, by her forgiveness and example, more worthy of them, and of her own kind and generous wishes. By my soul, Madam, said I, you stab me with your goodness, your undeserved goodness! and I cannot bear it!
Why, why, thought I, as I did several times in this conversation, will she not generously forgive me? Why will she make it necessary for me to bring my aunt and my cousin to my assistance? Can the fortress expect the same advantageous capitulation, which yields not to the summons of a resistless conqueror, as if it gave not the trouble of bringing up, and raising its heavy artillery against it?
What sensibilities, said the divine creature, withdrawing her hand, must thou have suppressed! - What a dreadful, what a judicial hardness of heart must thine be; who canst be capable of such emotions as sometimes thou hast shewn; and of such sentiments, as sometimes have flowed from thy lips; yet canst have so far overcome them all, as to be able to act as thou hast acted, and that, from settled purpose and premeditation; and this, as it is said, throughout the whole of thy life, from infancy to this time!
I told her, that I had hoped, from the generous concern she had expressed for me, when I was so suddenly and dangerously taken ill-[The Ipecacuanha experiment, Jack!].
She interrupted me. -Well have you rewarded me for the concern you speak of! -However, I will frankly own, now that I am determined to think no more of you, that you might (unsatisfied as I nevertheless was with you) have made an interest-
She paused. I besought her to proceed.
Do you suppose, Sir, and turned away her sweet face as we walked; do you suppose, that I had not thought of laying down a plan to govern myself by, when I found myself so unhappily over-reached, and cheated, as I may say, out of myself? -When I found, that I could not be, and do, what I wished to be, and to do, do you imagine, that I had not cast about, what was the next proper course to take? - And do you believe, that this next course has not cost me some pain, to be obliged to-
There again she stopt.
But let us break off discourse, resumed she. The subject grows too-She sigh'd-Let us break off discourse -I will go in-I will prepare for church- [The devil! thought I.] Well, as I can appear in these every-day worn cloaths-looking upon herself- I will go to church.
She then turned from me to go into the house.
Bless me, my beloved creature, bless me with the continuance of this affecting conversation-Remorse has seized my heart! -I have been excessively wrong- Give me further cause to curse my heedless folly, by the continuance of this calm, but soul-penetrating conversation.
No, no, Mr. Lovelace. I have said too much. Impatience begins to break in upon me. If you can excuse me to the ladies, it will be better for my mind's sake, and for your credit's sake, that I do not see them. Call me to them over-nice, petulant, prudish; what you please, call me to them. Nobody but Miss Howe, to whom, next to the Almighty, and my own mother, I wish to stand acquitted of wilful error, shall know the whole of what has passed. Be happy, as you may! -Deserve to be happy, and happy you will be, in your own reflection at least, were you to be ever so unhappy in other respects. For myself, if I shall be enabled, on due reflection, to look back upon my own conduct, without the great reproach of having wilfully, and against the light of my own judgment, erred, I shall be more happy, than if I had all that the world accounts desirable.
The noble creature proceeded; for I could not speak.
This self-acquittal, when spirits are lent me to dispel the darkness which at present too often over-clouds my mind, will, I hope, make me superior to all the calamities that can befall me.
Her whole person was informed by her sentiments. She seemed to be taller than before. How the God within her exalted her, not only above me, but above herself.
Divine creature! (as I thought her) I called her. I acknowleged the superiority of her mind; and was proceeding-But she interrupted me-All human excellence, said she, is comparative only. My mind, I believe, is indeed superior to yours, debased as yours is by evil habits. But I had not known it to be so, if you had not taken pains to convince me of the inferiority of yours.
How great, how sublimely great, this creature! - By my soul, I cannot forgive her for her virtues! - There is no bearing the consciousness of the infinite inferiority she charged me with. -But why will she break from me, when good resolutions are taking place? -The red-hot iron she refuses to strike-O why will she suffer the yielding wax to harden?
We had gone but a few paces towards the house, when we were met by the impertinent women, with notice, that breakfast was ready. I could only, with up-lifted hands, beseech her to give me hope of a renewed conversation after breakfast.
No; she would go to church.
And into the house she went, and up-stairs directly. Nor would she oblige me with her company at the tea-table.
I offered by Mrs. Moore to quit both the table and the parlour, rather than she should exclude herself, or deprive the two widows of the favour of her company.
That was not all the matter, she told Mrs. Moore. She had been struggling to keep down her temper. It had cost her some pains to do it. She was desirous to compose herself, in hopes to receive benefit by the divine worship she was going to join in.
Mrs. Moore hoped for her presence at dinner.
She had rather be excused. Yet, if she could obtain the frame of mind she hoped for, she might not be averse to shew, that she had got above those sensibilities, which gave consideration to a man who deserved not to be to her what he had been.
This said, no doubt, to let Mrs. Moore know, that the garden-conversation had not been a reconciling one.
Mrs. Moore seemed to wonder, that we were not upon a better foot of understanding, after so long a conference; and the more, as she believed, that the lady had given in to the proposal for the repetition of the ceremony, which I had told them was insisted upon by her uncle Harlowe. But I accounted for this, by telling both widows, that she was resolved to keep on the reserve, till she heard from Capt. Tomlinson, whether her uncle would be present in person at the solemnity, or would name that worthy gentleman for his proxy.
Again I injoined strict secrecy, as to this particular; which was promised by the widows, as well for themselves, as for Miss Rawlins; of whose taciturnity they gave me such an account, as shewed me, that she was secret-keeper-general to all the women of fashion at Hamstead.
The Lord, Jack! What a world of mischief, at this rate, must Miss Rawlins know! -What a Pandora's box must her bosom be! -Yet, had I nothing that was more worthy of my attention to regard, I would engage to open it, and make my uses of the discovery.
And now, Belford, thou perceivest, that all my reliance is upon the mediation of Lady Betty, and Miss Montague; and upon the hope of intercepting Miss Howe's next letter.
The fair inexorable is actually gone to church, with Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Bevis. But Will. closely attends her motions; and I am in the way to receive any occasional intelligence from him.
She did not choose [A mighty word with the sex! as if they were always to have their own wills!] that I should wait upon her. I did not much press it, that she might not apprehend, that I thought I had reason to doubt her voluntary return.
I once had it in my head, to have found the widow Bevis other employment. And I believe she would have been as well pleased with my company as to go to church; for she seemed irresolute when I told her, that two out of a family were enough to go to church for one day. But having her things on, as the women call every-thing, and her aunt Moore expecting her company, she thought it best to go- Lest it should look oddly, you know, whisper'd she, to one, who was above regarding how it look'd.

### v5 LETTER XIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Sunday afternoon.
O Belford! what a hair's-breadth escape have I had! -Such a one, that I tremble between terror and joy, at the thoughts of what might have happen'd, and did not.
What a perverse girl is this, to contend with her fate, yet has reason to think, that her very stars fight against her! I am the luckiest of men! -But my breath almost fails me, when I reflect upon what a slender thread my destiny hung.
But not to keep thee in suspense; I have, within this half-hour, obtained possession of the expected letter from Miss Howe-And by such an accident! But here, with the former, I dispatch this; thy messenger waiting.

### v5 LETTER XX.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
Thus it was-My charmer accompanied Mrs. Moore again to church this afternoon. I had been very earnest, in the first place, to obtain her company at dinner: But in vain. According to what she had said to Mrs. Moore, I was too considerable to her to be allowed that favour. In the next place, I besought her to favour me, after dinner, with another garden-walk. But she would again go to church. And what reason have I to rejoice that she did!
My worthy friend Mrs. Bevis thought one sermon a day, well -observed, enough; so stay'd at home to bear me company.
The Lady and Mrs. Moore had not been gone a quarter of an hour, when a young country-fellow on horseback came to the door, and inquired for Mrs. Harriot Lucas. The widow and I (undetermined how we were to entertain each other) were in the parlour next the door; and hearing the fellow's inquiry, O my dear Mrs. Bevis, said I, I am undone, undone for ever, if you don't help me out! -Since here, in all probability, is a messenger from that implacable Miss Howe with a letter; which, if delivered to Mrs. Lovelace, may undo all we have been doing.
What, said she, would you have me do?
Call the maid in this moment, that I may give her her lesson; and if it be as I imagine, I'll tell you what you shall do.
Widow. Margaret!-Margaret! come in this minute.
Lovel. What answer, Mrs. Margaret, did you give the man, upon his asking for Mrs. Harriot Lucas?
Peggy. I only asked, What was his business, and who he came from? (For, Sir, your Honour's servant had told me how things stood): And I came at your call, Madam, before he answer'd me.
Lovel. Well, child, if ever you wish to be happy in wedlock yourself, and would have people disappointed, who want to make mischief between you and your husband, get out of him his message, or letter, if he has one, and bring it to me, and say nothing to Mrs. Lovelace, when she comes in; and here is a guinea for you.
Peggy. I will do all I can to serve your Honour's Worship for nothing [Nevertheless, with a ready hand, taking the guinea]. For Mr. William tells me, what a good gentleman you be.
Away went Peggy to the fellow at the door.
Peggy. What is your business, friend, with Mrs. Harry Lucas?
Fellow. I must speak to her, her own self.
Lovel. My dearest widow, do you personate Mrs. Lovelace-For Heaven's sake do you personate Mrs. Lovelace!
Wid. I personate Mrs. Lovelace, Sir! How can I do that? -She is fair: I am a brown woman. She is slender: I am plump-
Lovel. No matter, no matter-The fellow may be a new-come servant: He is not in livery, I see. He may not know her person. You can but be bloated, and in a dropsy.
Wid. Dropsical people look not so fresh and ruddy as I do-
Lovel. True-But the clown may not know That -'Tis but for a present deception.
Peggy, Peggy, call'd I, in a female tone, softly at the door. Madam, answer'd Peggy; and came up to me to the parlour-door.
Lovel. Tell him the Lady is ill, and has lain down upon the couch. And get his business from him, whatever you do.
Away went Peggy.
Lovel. Now, my dear widow, lie along on the settee, and put your handkerchief over your face, that, if he will speak to you himself, he may not see your eyes and your hair. -So-that's right. I'll step into the closet by you.
I did so.
Peggy. (returning) He won't deliver his business to me. He will speak to Mrs. Harry Lucas her own self.
Lovel. (holding the door in my hand) Tell him, that This is Mrs. Harriot Lucas; and let him come in. Whisper him, if he doubts, that she is bloated, dropsical, and not the woman she was.
Away went Margery.
Lovel. And now, my dear widow, let me see what a charming Mrs. Lovelace you'll make! -Ask, If he comes from Miss Howe. Ask, If he live with her. Ask, How she does. Call her, at every word, your dear Miss Howe. Offer him money-Take this half-guinea-Complain of your head, to have a pretence to hold it down; and cover your forehead and eyes with your hand, where your handkerchief hides not your face. -That's right-And dismiss the rascal-(Here he comes)-as soon as you can.
In came the fellow, bowing and scraping, his hat poked out before him with both his hands.
Fellow. I am sorry, Madam, and please you, to find you be'n't well.
Widow. What is your business with me, friend?
Fellow. You are Mrs. Harriot Lucas, I suppose, Madam?
Widow. Yes. Do you come from Miss Howe?
Fellow. I do, Madam.
Widow. Dost thou know my right name, friend?
Fellow. I can give a shrewd guess. But that is none of my business.
Widow. What is thy business? I hope Miss Howe is well.
Fellow. Yes, Madam; pure well, I thank God. I wish you were so too.
Widow. I am too full of grief to be well.
Fellow. So belike I have hard say.
Widow. My head akes so dreadfully, I cannot hold it up. I must beg of you to let me know your business?
Fellow. Nay, and that be all, my business is soon known. It is but to give this letter into your own partiklar hands-Here it is.
Widow. [Taking it.] From my dear friend Miss Howe? -Ah, my head!
Fellow. Yes, Madam: But I am sorry you are so bad.
Widow. Do you live with Miss Howe?
Fellow. No, Madam: I am one of her tenant's sons. Her lady-mother must not know as how I came of this errand. But the letter, I suppose, will tell you all.
Widow. How shall I satisfy you for this kind trouble?
Fellow. Na how at all. What I do is for love of Miss Howe. She will satisfy me more than enough. But, may-hap, you can send no answer, you are so ill.
Widow. Was you order'd to wait for an answer?
Fellow. No. I can't say I was. But I was bidden to observe how you looked, and how you was; and if you did write a line or so, to take care of it, and give it only to our young landlady, in secret.
Widow. You see I look strangely. Not so well as I used to do.
Fellow. Nay, I don't know that I ever saw you but once before; and that was at a stile, where I met you and my young landlady; but knew better than to stare a gentlewoman in the face; especially at a stile.
Widow. Will you eat, or drink, friend?
Fellow. A cup of finall ale, I don't care if I do.
Widow. Margaret, take the young man down, and treat him with what the house affords.
Fellow. Your servant, Madam. But I staid to eat as I came along, just upon the Heath yonder, or else, to say the truth, I had been here sooner [Thank my stars, thought I, thou didst]. A piece of powder'd beef was upon the table, at the sign of the Castle, where I stopt to inquire for this house: And so, thoff I only intended to whet my whistle, I could not help eating. So shall only taste of your ale; for the beef was woundily corn'd.
He withdrew, bowing and scraping.
Pox on thee, thought I: Get thee gone for a prating dog!
Margaret, whisper'd I, in a female voice, whipping out of the closet, and holding the parlour-door in my hand, Get him out of the house as fast as you can, lest they come from church, and catch him here.
Peggy. Never fear, Sir.
The fellow went down, and, it seems, drank a large draught of ale; and Margaret finding him very talkative, told him, she begg'd his pardon; but she had a sweetheart just come from sea, whom she was forced to hide in the pantry; so was sure he would excuse her from staying with him.
Ay, ay, to be sure, the clown said: For if he could not make sport, he would spoil none. But he whisper'd her, that one 'Squire Lovelace was a damnation rogue, if the truth might be told.
For what, said Margaret? And could have given him, she said, a good dowse of the chaps.
For kissing all the women he came near.
At the same time, the dog wrapp'd himself round Margery, and gave her a smack, that, she told Mrs. Bevis afterwards, she might have heard into the parlour.
Such, Jack, is human nature: Thus does it operate in all degrees; and so does the clown, as well as his betters, practise what he censures; and censure what he practises! Yet this sly dog knew not but the wench had a sweetheart lock'd up in the pantry. If the truth were known, some of the ruddy-faced dairy wenches might perhaps call him a damnation rogue, as justly as their betters of the same sex, might 'Squire Lovelace.
The fellow told the maid, that, by what he discern'd of the young lady's face, it look'd very rosy to what he took it to be; and he thought her a good deal fatter, as she lay, and not so tall.
All women are born to intrigue, Jack; and practise it more or less, as fathers, guardians, governesses, from dear experience can tell; and in love-affairs are naturally expert, and quicker in their wits by half than men. This ready, tho' raw, wench gave an instance of this, and improved on the dropsical hint I had given her. The lady's seeming plumpness was owing to a dropsical disorder, and to the round posture she lay in-Very likely, truly. Her appearing to him to be shorter, he might have observed was owing to her drawing her feet up, from pain, and because the couch was too short, she suppos'd-Ad-so, he did not think of that. Her rosy colour was owing to her grief and head-ach-Ay, that might very well be. -But he was highly pleas'd he had given the letter into Mrs. Harriot's own hand, as he should tell Miss Howe.
He desir'd once more to see the lady, at his going away, and would not be denied. The widow therefore sat up, with her handkerchief over her face, leaning her head against the wainscot.
He asked, If she had any partiklar message.
No: She was so ill she could not write, which was a great grief to her.
Should he call next day? for he was going to London, now he was so near; and should stay at a cousin's that night, who lived in a street call'd Fetter-lane.
No: She would write as soon as able, and send by the post.
Well then, if she had nothing to send by him, may-hap he might stay in town a day or two; for he had never seen the Lions in the Tower, nor Bedlam, nor the Tombs; and he would make a holiday or two, as he had leave to do, if she had no business or message that required his posting down next day.
She had not.
She offered him the half-guinea I had given her for him; but he refused it, with great professions of disinterestedness, and love, as he called it, to Miss Howe; to serve whom, he would ride to the world's end, or even to Jericho.
And so the shocking rascal went away: And glad at my heart was I when he was gone; for I feared nothing so much as that he would have staid till they came from church.
Thus, Jack, got I my heart's-ease, the letter of Miss Howe; and thro' such a train of accidents, as makes me say, that the Lady's stars fight against her: But yet I must attribute a good deal to my own precaution, in having taken right measures: For had I not secured the widow by my stories, and the maid by my servant, all would have signified nothing. And so heartily were they secured, the one by a single guinea, the other by half a dozen warm kisses, and the aversion they both had to such wicked creatures as delighted in making mischief between man and wife, that they promised, that neither Mrs. Moore, Miss Rawlins, Mrs. Lovelace, nor anybody living, till a week at least were past, and till I gave leave, should know any thing of the matter.
The widow rejoiced that I had got the mischief-maker's letter. I excused myself to her, and instantly withdrew with it; and, after I had read it, fell to my short-hand, to acquaint thee with my good luck: And they not returning so soon as church was done (stepping, as it proved, in to Miss Rawlins's, and tarrying there a while, to bring that busy girl with them to drink tea); I wrote thus far to thee, that thou mightest, when thou camest to this place, rejoice with me upon the occasion.
They are all three just come in-I hasten to them.

### v5 LETTER XXI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
I have begun another letter to thee, in continuation of my narrative: But I believe I shall send thee this before I shall finish that. By the inclosed thou wilt see, that neither of the correspondents deserve mercy from me: And I am resolved to make the ending with one, the beginning with the other.
If thou sayest, That the provocations I have given to one of them, will justify her freedoms; I answer, So they will to any other person but myself. But he that is capable of giving those provocations, and has the power to punish those who abuse him for giving them, will shew his resentment; and the more vindictively, perhaps, as he has deserved the freedoms?
If thou sayest, It is, however, wrong to do so; I reply, that it is nevertheless human nature: -And would'st not have me be a man, Jack?
Here read the letter, if thou wilt. But thou art not my friend, if thou offerest to plead for either of the saucy creatures, after thou hast read it.
To Mrs. Harriot Lucas, at Mrs. Moore's at Hamstead.
After the discoveries I had made of the villainous machinations of the most abandoned of men, particularized in my long letter of Wednesday last, you will believe, my dearest friend, that my surprize upon perusing yours of Thursday evening from Hamstead was not so great as my indignation. Had the villain attempted to fire a city instead of a house, I should not have wondered at it. All that I am amazed at, is, that he (whose boast, as I am told, it is, that no woman shall keep him out of her bedchamber, when he has made a resolution to be in it) did not discover his foot before. And it is as strange to me, that, having got you at such a shocking advantage, and in such an horrid house, you could, at the time, escape dishonour, and afterwards get from such a set of infernals.
I gave you, in my long letter of Wednesday and Thursday last, reasons why you ought to mistrust that specious Tomlinson. That man, my dear, must be a solemn villain. May lightning from Heaven blast the wretch, who has set him, and the rest of his REMORSELESS GANG, at work, to endeavour to destroy the most consummate virtue! Heaven be praised! you have escaped from all their snares, and now are out of danger. -So I will not trouble you at present with the particulars that I have further collected relating to this abominable imposture.
For the same reason, I forbear to communicate to you some new stories of the abhorred wretch himself, which have come to my ears. One in particular, of so shocking a nature! -Indeed, my dear, the man is a devil.
The whole story of Mrs. Fretchville, and her house, I have no doubt to pronounce, likewise, an absolute fiction. -Fellow!-How my soul spurns the villain!
Your thought of going abroad, and your reasons for so doing, most sensibly affect me. But, be comforted, my dear; I hope you will not be under a necessity of quitting your native country. Were I sure, that That must be the cruel case, I would abandon all my own better prospects, and soon be with you. And I would accompany you whithersoever you went, and share fortunes with you: For it is impossible that I should be happy, if I knew that you were exposed not only to the perils of the sea, but to the attempts of other vile men; your personal graces attracting every eye, and exposing you to those hourly dangers, which others, less distinguished by the gifts of nature, might avoid. -All that I know, that Beauty (so greatly coveted, and so greatly admired) is good for!
O, my dear, were I ever to marry, and to be the mother of a Clarissa (Clarissa must be the name, if promisingly lovely!) how often would my heart ake for the dear creature, as she grew up, when I reflected, that a prudence avqund discretion unexampled in woman, had not, in you, been a sufficient protection to that beauty, which had drawn after it as many admirers as beholders! -How little should I regret the attacks of that cruel distemper, as it is called, which frequently makes the greatest ravages in the finest faces!
Sat. Afternoon.
I have just parted with Mrs. Townsend. I thought you had once seen her with me: But, she says, she never had the honour to be personally known to you. She has a manlike spirit. She knows the world. And her two brothers being in town, she is sure she can engage them, in so good a cause, and (if there should be occasion) both their ships crews, in your service.
Give your consent, my dear; and the horrid villain shall be repaid with broken bones, at least, for all his vileness!
The misfortune is, Mrs. Townsend cannot be with you till Thursday next, or Wednesday, at soonest. Are you sure you can be safe where you are, till then? I think you are too near London; and perhaps you had better be in it. If you remove, let me know whither, the very moment.
How my heart is torn, to think of the necessity so dear a creature is driven to, of hiding herself! Devilish fellow! He must have been sportive and wanton in his inventions-Yet that cruel, that savage sportiveness has saved you from the sudden violence which he has had recourse to in the violation of others, of names and families not contemptible. For such the villain always gloried to spread his snares.
The vileness of this specious monster has done more, than any other consideration could do, to bring Mr. Hickman into credit with me. Mr. Hickman alone knows, for me, of your flight, and the reason of it. Had I not given him the reason, he might have thought still worse of the vile attempt. I communicated it to him by shewing him your letter from Hamstead. When he had read it (and he trembled and reddened, as he read), he threw himself at my feet, and besought me to permit him to attend you, and to give you the protection of his house. The good-natured man had tears in his eyes, and was repeatedly earnest on this subject; proposing to take his chariot-and-four, or a set, and in person, in the face of all the world, give himself the glory of protecting such an oppressed innocent.
I could not but be pleased with him. And I let him know that I was. I hardly expected so much spirit from him. But a man's passiveness to a beloved object of our sex may not, perhaps, argue want of courage on proper occasions.
I thought I ought, in return, to have some consideration for his safety, as such an open step would draw upon him the vengeance of the most villainous enterprizer in the world, who has always a gang of fellows, such as himself, at his call, ready to support one another in the vilest outrages. But yet, as Mr. Hickman might have strengthened his hands by legal recourses, I should not have stood upon it, had I not known your delicacies (since such a step must have made a great noise, and given occasion for scandal, as if some advantage had been gained over you), and were there not the greatest probability, that all might be more silently, and more effectually, managed by Mrs. Townsend's means.
Mrs. Townsend will in person attend you-She hopes, on Wednesday. -Her brothers, and some of their people, will scatteringly, and as if they knew nothing of you (so we have contrived), see you safe not only to London, but to her house at Deptford.
She has a kinswoman, who will take your commands there, if she herself be obliged to leave you. And there you may stay, till the wretch's fury on losing you, and his search, are over.
He will very soon, 'tis likely, enter upon some new villainy, which may engross him: And it may be given out, that you are gone to lay claim to the protection of your cousin Morden at Florence.
Possibly, if he can be made to believe it, he will go over in hopes to find you there.
After a while, I can procure you a lodging in one of the neighbouring villages; where I may have the happiness to be your daily visiter. And if this Hickman be not silly, and apish, and if my mother do not do unaccountable things, I may the sooner think of marrying, that I may, without controul, receive and entertain the darling of my heart.
Many, very many, happy days, do I hope we shall yet see together: And as this is my hope, I expect, that it will be your consolation.
As to your estate, since you are resolved not to litigate for it, we will be patient, either till Col. Morden arrives, or till shame compels some people to be just.
Upon the whole, I cannot but think your prospects now much happier, than they could have been, had you been actually married to such a man as this. I must therefore congratulate you upon your escape, not only from a horrid libertine, but from so vile a husband, as he must have made to any woman; but more especially to a person of your virtue and delicacy.
You hate him, heartily hate him, I hope, my dear- I am sure you do. It would be strange, if so much purity of life and manners were not to abhor what is so repugnant to itself.
In your letter before me, you mention one written to me for a feint. I have not received any such. Depend upon it therefore, that he must have it. And if he has, it is a wonder, that he did not likewise get my long one of the 7th. Heaven be praised that he did not; and that it came safe to your hands!
I send this by a young fellow, whose father is one of our tenants, with command to deliver it to no other hands but yours. He is to return directly, if you give him any letter. If not, he will proceed to London upon his own pleasures. He is a simple fellow; but very honest. So you may say any thing to him. If you write not by him, I desire a line or two, as soon as possible.
My mother knows nothing of his going to you. Nor yet of your abandoning the fellow! Forgive me! -But he's not intitled to good manners.
I shall long to hear how you and Mrs. Townsend order matters. I wish she could have been with you sooner. But I have lost no time in engaging her, as you will suppose. I refer to her, what I have further to say and advise. So shall conclude with my prayers, that Heaven will direct, and protect, my dearest creature, and make your future days happy!
Anna Howe.
And now, Jack, I will suppose, that thou hast read this cursed letter. Allow me to make a few observations upon some of its contents, which I will do in my crow-quill short-hand, that they may have the appearance of notes upon the vixen's text.
It is strange to Miss Howe, that having got her friend at such a shocking advantage, &c.] And it is strange to me, too. If ever I have such another opportunity given me, the cause of both our wonder, I believe, will cease.
So thou seest Tomlinson is further detected. No such person as Mrs. Fretchville. May lightning from heaven-O Lord, O Lord, O Lord! -What a horrid vixen is this! -My gang, my remorseless gang, too, is brought in-And thou wilt plead for these girls again; wilt thou? -Heaven be praised, she says, that her friend is out of danger-Miss Howe should be sure of that: And that she herself is safe. -But for this termagant (as I have often said), I must surely have made a better hand of it-
New stories of me, Jack! -What can they be? -I have not found, that my generosity to my Rosebud ever did me due credit with this pair of friends. Very hard, Belford, that Credits cannot be set against Debits, and a balance struck in a Rake's favour, as well as in that of every common man! -But he, from whom no good is expected, is not allowed the merit of the good he does.
I ought to have been a little more attentive to character, than I have been. For, notwithstanding that the measures of Right and Wrong are said to be so manifest, let me tell thee, that character byasses and runs away with all mankind. Let a man or woman once establish themselves in the world's opinion, and all that either of them do will be sanctified. Nay, in the very courts of justice, does not character acquit or condemn as often as facts, and sometimes even in spite of facts? -Yet, (impolitic that I have been, and am!) to be so careless of mine! -And now, I doubt, it is irretrievable. -But to leave moralizing.
Thou, Jack, knowest almost all my enterprizes worth remembring. Can this particular story, which this girl hints at, be that of Lucy Villars? -Or can she have heard of my intrigue with the pretty Gypsey, who met me in Norwood, and of the trap I caught her cruel husband in (a fellow, as gloomy and tyrannical as old Harlowe), when he pursued a wife, who would not have deserved ill of him, if he had deserved well of her? -But he was not quite drowned. The man is alive at this day: And Miss Howe mentions the story as a very shocking one. Besides, both these are a twelvemonth old, or more.
But evil fame and scandal are always new. When the offender has forgot a vile fact, it is often told to one and to another, who, having never heard of it before, trumpet it about, as a novelty to others. But well said the honest corregidor at Madrid, a saying with which I inriched Lord M.'s collection-Good actions are remembered but for a day: Bad ones for many years after the life of the guilty. - Such is the relish that the world has for scandal. In other words, Such is the desire which every-one has to exculpate himself by blackening his neighbour. You and I, Belford, have been very kind to the world, in furnishing it with many opportunities to gratify its devil.
Miss Howe will abandon her own better prospects, and share fortunes with her, were she to go abroad.] -Charming Romancer! -I must set about this girl, Jack. I have always had hopes of a woman whose passions carry her into such altitudes! -Had I attacked Miss Howe first, her passions (inflamed and guided, as I could have managed them) would have brought her to my lure in a fortnight.
But thinkest thou (and yet I think thou dost), that there is any thing in these high flights among the sex? Verily, Jack, these vehement friendships are nothing but chaff and stubble, liable to be blown away by the very wind that raises them. Apes! mere apes of us! they think the word friendship has a pretty sound with it; and it is much talked of; a fashionable word: And so, truly, a single woman, who thinks she has a Soul, and knows, that she wants something, would be thought to have found a fellow-soul for it in her own Sex. But I repeat, that the word is a mere word, the thing a mere name with them; a cork-bottomed shuttlecock, which they are fond of striking to and fro, to make one another glow in the frosty weather of a single state; but which, when a man comes in between the pretended inseparables, is given up, like their Music, and other maidenly amusements; which, nevertheless, may be necessary to keep the pretty rogues out of more active mischief. They then, in short, having caught the fish, lay aside the net.
Thou hast a mind, perhaps, to make an exception for these two ladies. With all my heart. My Clarissa has, if woman has, a soul capable of friendship. Her flame is bright and steady. But Miss Howe's, were it not kept up by her mother's opposition, is too vehement to endure. How often have I known opposition not only cement Friendship, but create Love? I doubt not but poor Hickman would fare the better with this vixen, if her mother were as heartily against him, as she is for him.
Thus much indeed, as to these two ladies, I will grant thee; that the active spirit of the one, and the meek disposition of the other, may make their friendship more durable than it would otherwise be; for this is certain, that in every friendship, whether male or female, there must be a man and a woman spirit (that is to say, one of them, a forbearing one) to make it permanent.
But this I pronounce, as a truth, which all experience confirms; that friendship between women never holds to the sacrifice of capital gratifications, or to the endangering of life, limb, or estate, as it often does in our nobler sex.
Well, but next comes an indictment against poor Beauty! -What has Beauty done, that Miss Howe should be offended at it? -Miss Howe, Jack, is a charming girl. She has no reason to quarrel with Beauty! -Didst ever see her? -Too much fire and spirit in her eye indeed, for a girl! -But that's no fault with a man, that can lower that fire and spirit at pleasure; and I know I am the man that can.
A sweet auburn Beauty, is Miss Howe. A first Beauty among beauties, when her sweeter friend (with such a commixture of serene gracefulness, of natural elegance, of native sweetness, yet conscious, tho' not arrogant, dignity, every feature glowing with intelligence) is not in company.
The difference between the two, when together, I have sometimes delighted to read, in the addresses of a stranger entering into the presence of both, when standing side by side. There never was an instance, on such an occasion, where the stranger paid not his first devoirs to my Clarissa.
A respectful solemn awe sat upon every feature of the addresser's face. His eye seemed to ask leave to approach her; and lower than common, whether man or woman, was the bow or courtesy. And altho' this awe was immediately diminished by her condescending sweetness, yet went it not so intirely off, but that you might see the reverence remain, as if the person saw more of the goddess, than the woman in her.
But the moment the same stranger turns to Miss Howe (tho' proud and saucy, and erect and bridling, she) you will observe by the turn of his countenance, and the air of his address, a kind of equality assumed. He appears to have discovered the woman in her, charming as that woman is. He smiles. He seems to expect repartee and smartness, and is never disappointed. But then visibly he prepares himself to give as well as take. He dares, after he has been a while in her company, to dispute a point with her-Every point yielded up to the other, tho' no assuming or dogmatical air compels it.
In short, with Miss Howe a bold man sees (No doubt but Sir George Colmar did), that he and she may either very soon be familiar together (I mean with innocence), or he may so far incur her displeasure, as to be forbid her presence for ever.
For my own part, when I was first introduced to this lady, which was by my goddess, when she herself was a visiter at Mrs. Howe's; I had not been half an hour with her, but I even hungred and thirsted after a romping-bout with the lively rogue; and in the second or third visit, was more deterred by the delicacy of her friend, than by what I apprehended from her own. This charming creature's presence, thought I, awes us both. And I wished her absence, tho' any other lady were present, that I might try the difference in Miss Howe's behaviour before her friend's face, or behind her back.
Delicate ladies make delicate ladies, as well as decent men. With all Miss Howe's fire and spirit, it was easy to see, by her very eye, that she watched for lessons, and feared reproof from the penetrating eye of her milder-disposition'd friend: And yet it was as easy to observe, in the candor and sweet manners of the other, that the fear which Miss Howe stood in of her, was more owing to her own generous apprehension, that she fell short of her excellencies, than to Miss Harlowe's consciousness of excellence over her. I have often, since I came at Miss Howe's letters, revolved this just and fine praise contained in one of them. 'Every one saw, that the preference each gave you to herself, exalted you not into any visible triumph over her; for you had always something to say, on every point you carried, that raised the yielding heart, and left every one pleased and satisfied with herself, tho' she carried not off the palm.'
As I propose in my more advanced life, to endeavour to atone for my youthful freedoms with individuals of the sex, by giving caution and instructions to the whole, I have made a memorandum to inlarge upon this doctrine;-to wit, That it is full as necessary to direct daughters in the choice of their female companions, as it is to guard them against the designs of men.
I say not this, however, to the disparagement of Miss Howe. She has from pride, what her friend has from principle. [The Lord help the sex, if they had not pride!] -But yet I am confident, that Miss Howe is indebted to the conversation and correspondence of Miss Harlowe for her highest improvements. But, both these ladies out of the question, I make no scruple to averr [And I, Jack, should know something of the matter], that there have been more girls ruined, at least prepared for ruin, by their own sex (taking in servants, as well as companions), than directly by the attempts and delusions of men.
But it is time enough, when I am old and joyless, to enlarge upon this topic.
As to the comparison between the two ladies, I will expatiate more on that subject (for I like it) when I have had them both -Which this letter of the vixen girl's, I hope thou wilt allow, warrants me to try for.
I return to the consideration of a few more of its contents, to justify my vengeance, so nearly now in view.
As to Mrs. Townsend; her manlike spirit; her two brothers; and their ships crews-I say nothing but this to the insolent threatening- Let 'em come!-
But as to her sordid menace-To repay the horrid villain, as she calls me, for all my vileness, by BROKEN BONES! -Broken bones, Belford! -Who can bear this porterly threatning! -Broken bones, Jack! -Damn the little vulgar-Give me a name for her-But I banish all furious resentment. If I get these two girls into my power, Heaven forbid that I should be a second Phalaris, and turn his bull upon the artist! No bones of theirs will I break! -They shall come off with me upon much lighter terms!-
But these fellows are smugglers, it seems. And am not I a smuggler too? -I have not the least doubt, that I shall have secured my goods before Thursday or Wednesday either.
But did I want a plot, what a charming new one does this letter of Miss Howe strike me out? I am almost sorry, that I have fixed upon one. -For here, how easy would it be for me, to assemble a crew of swabbers, and to create a Mrs. Townsend (whose person, thou seest, my Beloved knows not) to come on Tuesday, at Miss Howe's renewed urgency, in order to carry my Beloved to a warehouse of my own providing?
This, however, is my triumphant hope, that at the very time, that these ragamuffins will be at Hamstead (looking for us), my dear Miss Harlowe and I (so the fates, I imagine, have ordained) shall be fast asleep in each other's arms in town. -Lie still, villain, till the time comes. -My heart, Jack; my heart! -It is always thumping away on the remotest prospects of this nature.
But, it seems, that the vileness of this specious monster (meaning me Jack!) has brought Hickman into credit with her. So I have done some good! -But to whom, I cannot tell: For this poor fellow, should I permit him to have this termagant, will be punished, as many times we all are, by the enjoyment of his own wishes. -Nor can she be happy, as I take it, with him, were he to govern himself by her will, and have none of his own; since never was there a directing wife, who knew where to stop: Power makes such a one wanton- She despises the man she can govern. Like Alexander, who wept, that he had no more worlds to conquer, she will be looking out for new exercises for her power, till she grow uneasy to herself, a discredit to her husband, and a plague to all about her.
But this honest fellow, it seems, with tears in his eyes, and with humble prostration, besought the vixen to permit him to set out in his chariot and four, in order to give himself the glory of protecting such an oppressed innocent, in the face of the whole world. -Nay, he rodden'd, it seems; and trembled too! as he read the fair complainant's letter. -How valiant is all this! -Women love brave men; and no wonder, that his tears, his trembling, and his prostration, gave him high reputation with the meek Miss Howe.
But dost think, Jack, that I, in the like case (and equally affected with the distress) should have acted thus? -Dost think, that I should not first have rescued the lady, and then, if needful, have asked excuse for it, the lady in my hand? -Wouldest not thou have done thus, as well as I?
But 'tis best as it is. Honest Hickman may now sleep in a whole skin. And yet that is more perhaps than he would have done (the lady's deliverance unattempted), had I come at this requested permission of his any other way, than by a letter, that it must not be known I have intercepted.
She thinks I may be diverted from pursuing my charmer, by some new-started villainy. Villainy is a word that she is extremely fond of. But I can tell her, that it is impossible I should, till the end of this villainy be obtained. Difficulty is a stimulus with such a spirit as mine. I thought Miss Howe knew me better. Were she to offer herself, person for person, in the romancing zeal of her friendship, to save her friend, it should not do, while the dear creature is on this side the moon.
She thanks Heaven, that her friend has received her letter of the 7th. We are all glad of it. She ought to thank me too. But I will not at present claim her thanks.
But when she rejoices, that that letter went safe, does she not, in effect, call out for vengeance, and expect it? -All in good time, Miss Howe. When settest thou out for the Isle of Wight, Love?
I will close at this time with desiring thee to make a list of the virulent terms with which the inclosed letter abounds: And then, if thou supposest, that I have made such another, and have added to it all the flowers of the same blow, in the former letters of the same saucy creature, and those in that of Miss Harlowe, left for me on her elopement, thou wilt certainly think, that I have provocations sufficient to justify me in all I shall do to either.
Return the inclosed the moment thou hast perused it.

### v5 LETTER XXII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;.
Sunday Night-Monday Morning.
I went down with revenge in my heart; the contents of Miss Howe's letter almost engrossing me, the moment that Miss Harlowe and Mrs. Moore, accompanied by Miss Rawlins, came in: But in my countenance all the gentle, the placid, the serene, that the glass could teach; and in my behaviour all the polite, that such an unpolite creature, as she has often told me I am, could put on.
Miss Rawlins was sent for home, almost as soon as she came in, to entertain an unexpected visiter; to her great regret, as well as to the disappointment of my fair one, as I could perceive from the looks of both: For they had agreed, it seems, if I went to town, as I said I intended to do, to take a walk upon the heath; at least in Mrs. Moore's garden; and who knows, what might have been the issue, had the spirit of curiosity in the one met with the spirit of communication in the other?
Miss Rawlins promised to return, if possible: But sent to excuse herself; her visiter intending to stay with her all night.
I rejoiced in my heart, at her message; and after much supplication obtained the favour of my Beloved's company for another walk in the garden, having, as I told her, abundance of things to say, to propose, and to be informed of, in order ultimately to govern myself in my future steps.
She had vouchsafed, I should tell thee, with eyes turned from me, and in an half-aside attitude, to sip two dishes of tea in my company-Dear soul! -How anger unpolishes the most polite! for I never saw Miss Harlowe behave so aukwardly. I imagined she knew not how to be aukward.
When we were in the garden, I poured my whole soul into her attentive ear; and besought her returning favour.
She told me, that she had formed her scheme for her future life: That, vile as the treatment was which she had received from me, that was not all the reason she had for rejecting my suit: But that, on the maturest deliberation, she was convinced, that she could neither be happy with me, nor make me happy; and she injoined me, for both our sakes, to think no more of her.
The Captain, I told her, was rid down post in a manner, to forward my wishes with her uncle.
Lady Betty and Miss Montague were undoubtedly arrived in town by this time.
I would set out early in the morning to attend them.
They adored her. They longed to see her. They would see her. -They would not be denied her company into Oxfordshire.
Where could she better go, to be free from her brother's insults? -Where, to be absolutely made unapprehensive of any-body else? -Might I have any hopes of her returning favour, if Miss Howe could be prevailed upon to intercede for me?
Miss Howe prevailed upon to intercede for you! repeated she, with a scornful bridle, but a very pretty one. -And there she stopt.
I repeated the concern it would be to me, to be under a necessity of mentioning the misunderstanding to Lady Betty and my cousin, as a misunderstanding still to be made up; and as if I were of very little consequence to a dear creature, who was of so much to me; urging, that it would extremely lower me, not only in my own opinion, but in that of my relations.
But still she referred to Miss Howe's next letter; and all the concession I could bring her to in this whole conference, was, that she would wait the arrival and visit of the two ladies, if they came in a day or two, or before she received the expected letter from Miss Howe.
Thank Heaven for this! thought I. And now may I go to town with hopes at my return to find thee, dearest, where I shall leave thee.
But yet I shall not intirely trust to this, as she may find reasons to change her mind in my absence. My fellow, therefore, who is in the house, and who, by Mrs. Bevis's kind intelligence, will know every step she can take, shall have Andrew and a horse ready, to give me immediate notice of her motions; and moreover, go where she will, he shall be one of her retinue, tho' unknown to herself, if possible.
This was all I could make of the fair Inexorable. Should I be glad of it, or sorry for it?-
Glad, I believe: And yet my pride is confoundedly abated to think, that I had so little hold in the affections of this daughter of the Harlowes.
Don't tell me, that virtue and principle are her guides on this occasion! -'Tis pride, a greater pride than my own, that governs her. Love, she has none, thou seest; nor ever had; at least not in a superior degree. -Love never was under the dominion of prudence, or of any reasoning power. -She cannot bear to be thought a woman, I warrant! -And if, in the last attempt, I find her not one, what will she be the worse for the tryal? -No one is to blame for suffering an evil he cannot shun or avoid.
Were a general to be overpower'd, and robb'd by a highwayman, would he be less fit for the command of an army on that account? -If indeed the general, pretending great valour, and having boasted, that he never would be robb'd, were to make but faint resistance, when he was brought to the test, and to yield his purse when he was master of his own sword, then indeed will the highwayman, who robs him, be thought the braver man.
But from these last conferences am I furnished with an argument in defence of my favourite purpose, which I never yet pleaded.
O Jack! what a difficulty must a man be allowed to have, to conquer a predominant passion, be it what it will, when the gratifying of it is in his power, however wrong he knows it to be to resolve to gratify it! Reflect upon this; and then wilt thou be able to account for, if not to excuse, a projected crime, which has habit to plead for it, in a breast as stormy, as uncontroulable!-
This my new argument-
Should she fail in the trial; should I succeed; and should she refuse to go on with me; and even to marry me; which I can have no notion of-And should she disdain to be obliged to me for the handsome provision I should be proud to make for her, even to the half of my estate; yet cannot she be altogether unhappy-Is she not intitled to an independent fortune? Will not Col. Morden, as her trustee, put her in possession of it? And did she not, in our former conference, point out the way of life, that she always preferred to the married life? -"'To take her good Norton for her directress and guide, and to live upon her own estate in the manner her grandfather desired she should live?"
It is moreover to be considered, that she cannot, according to her own notions, recover above one half of her fame, were we now to intermarry; so much does she think she has suffered by her going off with me. And will she not be always repining and mourning for the loss of the other half? -And if she must live a life of such uneasiness and regret for half, may she not as well repine and mourn for the whole?
Nor, let me tell thee, will her own scheme of penitence, in this case, be half so perfect, if she do not fall, as if she does: For what a foolish penitent will she make, who has nothing to repent of? - She piques herself, thou knowest, and makes it matter of reproach to me, that she went not off with me by her own consent; but was tricked out of herself.
Nor upbraid thou me upon the meditated breach of vows so repeatedly made. She will not, thou seest, permit me to fulfil them. And if she would, this I have to say, that at the time I made the most solemn of them, I was fully determined to keep them. But what prince thinks himself obliged any longer to observe the articles of the most sacredly sworn-to treaties, than suits with his interest or inclination; altho' the consequence of the infraction must be, as he knows, the destruction of thousands?
Is not this then the result of all, that Miss Clarissa Harlowe, if it be not her own fault, may be as virtuous after she has lost her honour, as it is called, as she was before? She may be a more eminent example to her sex; and if she yield (a little yield) in the tryal, may be a completer penitent. Nor can she, but by her own wilfulness, be reduced to low fortunes.
And thus may her old nurse and she; an old coachman; and a pair of old coach-horses; and two or three old maid-servants, and perhaps a very old footman or two (for every thing will be old and penitential about her), live very comfortably together; reading old sermons, and old prayer-books; and relieving old men, and old women; and giving old lessons, and old warnings, upon new subjects, as well as old ones, to the young ladies of her neighbourhood; and so pass on to a good old age, doing a great deal of good, both by precept and example, in her generation.
And is a lady, who can live thus prettily, without controul; who ever did prefer, and who still prefers, the Single to the Married life; and who will be enabled to do every thing, that the plan she had formed will direct her to do; be said to be ruined, undone, and such sort of stuff? -I have no patience with the pretty fools, who use those strong words, to describe the most transitory evil; and which a mere church-form makes none?
At this rate of romancing, how many flourishing ruins dost thou, as well as I, know? Let us but look about us, and we shall see some of the haughtiest and most censorious spirits among our acquaintance of that sex, now passing for chaste wives, of whom strange stories might be told; and others, whose husband's hearts have been made to ake for their gaieties, both before and after marriage; and yet know not half so much of them, as some of us honest fellows could tell them.
But, having thus satisfied myself in relation to the worst that can happen to this charming creature; and that it will be her own fault, if she be unhappy; I have not at all reflected upon what is likely to be my own lot.
This has always been my notion, tho' Miss Howe grudges us the best of the sex, and says, that the worst is too good for us; That the wife of a libertine ought to be pure, spotless, uncontaminated. To what purpose has such a one lived a free life, but to know the world, and to make his advantages of it? -And, to be very serious, it would be a misfortune to the public, for two persons, heads of a family, to be both bad; since, between two such, a race of varlets might be propagated, Lovelaces and Belfords, if thou wilt, who might do great mischief in the world.
Thou seest at bottom, that I am not an abandoned fellow; and that there is a mixture of gravity in me. This, as I grow older, may increase; and when my active capacity begins to abate, I may sit down with the Preacher, and resolve all my past life into vanity and vexation of spirit.
This is certain, that I shall never find a woman so well suited to my taste, as Miss Clarissa Harlowe. I only wish (if I live to see that day), that I may have such a lady as her to comfort and adorn my setting-sun. I have often thought it very unhappy for us both, that so excellent a creature sprung up a little too late for my setting-out, and a little too early in my progress, before I can think of returning. And yet, as I have pick'd up the sweet traveller in my way, I cannot help wishing, that she would bear me company in the rest of my journey, altho' she were to step out of her own path to oblige me. And then, perhaps, we could put up in the evening at the same inn; and be very happy in each other's conversation; recounting the difficulties and dangers we had passed in our way to it.
I imagine, that thou wilt be apt to suspect, that some passages in this letter were written in town. Why, Jack, I cannot but say, that the Westminster air is a little grosser than that at Hamstead; and the conversation of Mrs. Sinclair, and the Nymphs, less innocent than Mrs. Moore's and Miss Rawlins's. And I think in my heart, that I can say and write those things at one place, which I cannot at the other; nor indeed any-where else.
I came to town about seven this morning. -All necessary directions and precautions remember'd to be given.
I besought the favour of an audience before I set out. I was desirous to see which of her lovely faces she was pleased to put on, after another night had passed. But she was resolved, I found, to leave our quarrel open. She would not give me an opportunity so much as to intreat her again to close it, before the arrival of Lady Betty and my cousin.
I had notice from my proctor, by a few lines brought by man and horse, just before I set out, that all difficulties had been for two days past surmounted; and that I might have the licence for fetching.
I sent up the letter to my Beloved, by Mrs. Bevis. It procured me not admittance, tho' my request for that, was sent with it.
And now, Belford, I set out upon business.

### v5 LETTER XXIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Monday, June 12.
Didst ever see a Licence, Jack?
N. N. by divine permission, Lord Bishop of London, To our well-beloved in Christ Robert Lovelace [Your servant, my good Lord! What have I done to merit so much goodness, who never saw your Lordship in my life?], of the parish of St. Martin's in the Fields, Batchelor, and Clarissa Harlowe of the same parish, Spinster, sendeth greeting. -WHEREAS ye are, as is alleged, determined to enter into the holy state of matrimony [This is only alleged, thou observest], by and with the consent of, &c. &c. &c. and are very desirous of obtaining your marriage to be solemnized in the face of the church: We are willing, that such your honest desires [Honest desires, Jack!] may more speedily have their due effect: And therefore, that ye may be able to procure such marriage to be freely and lawfully solemnized in the parish-church of St. Martin in the Fields, or St. Giles's in the Fields, in the county of Middlesex, by the rector, vicar, or curate thereof, at any time of the year [At any time of the year, Jack!], without publication of banes: Provided, that by reason of any precontract [I verily think, that I have had three or four precontracts in my time; but the good girls have not claimed upon them of a long time], consanguinity, affinity, or any other lawful cause whatsoever, there be no lawful impediment in this behalf; and that there be not at this time any action, suit, plaint, quarrel, or demand, moved or depending before any judge ecclesiastical or temporal, for or concerning any marriage contracted by or with either of you; and that the said marriage be openly solemnized in the church above-mentioned, between the hours of eight and twelve in the forenoon; and without prejudice to the minister of the place where the said woman is a parishioner: We do hereby, for good causes [It cost me-Let me see, Jack-What did it cost me?], give and grant our licence, or faculty, as well to you the parties contracting, as to the rector, vicar, or curate of the said church, where the said marriage is intended to be solemnized, to solemnize the same in manner and form above-specified, according to the rites and ceremonies prescribed in the Book of Common-prayer in that behalf published by authority of parliament. Provided always, That if hereafter any fraud shall appear to have been committed, at the time of granting this licence, either by false suggestions, or concealment of the truth [Now this, Belford, is a little hard upon us: For I cannot say, that every one of our suggestions is literally true: -So, in good conscience, I ought not to marry under this licence], the licence shall be void to all intents and purposes, as if the same had not been granted. And in that case, we do inhibit all ministers whatsoever, if any thing of the premises shall come to their knowlege, from proceeding to the celebration of the said marriage, without first consulting Us, or our Vicar-general. Given, &c.
Then follow the register's name, and a large pendent seal, with these words round it-Seal of the Vicar-general and Official-principal of the diocese of London.
A good whimsical instrument, take it all together! -But what, thinkest thou, are the arms to this matrimonial harbinger? -Why, in the first place, Two crossed swords; to shew, that marriage is a state of offence as well as defence: Three lions; to denote, that those who enter into the state, ought to have a triple proportion of courage. And (couldst thou have imagined, that these priestly fellows, in so solemn a case, would cut their jokes upon poor souls, who come to have their honest desires put in a way to be gratified?) there are three crooked horns, smartly top-knotted with ribbands; which being the Ladies wear, seem to indicate, that they may very probably adorn, as well as bestow, the bull's feather.
To describe it according to heraldry-art, if I am not mistaken-Gules, two swords, saltire-wise, Or; second coat, a chevron sable between three buglehorns, Or [So it ought to be]: On a chief of the second, three lions rampant of the first-But the devil take them for their hieroglyphics, should I say, if I were determined in good earnest to marry!
And determined to marry I would be, were it not for this consideration; That once married, and I am married for life.
That's the plague of it! -Could a man do as the birds do, change every Valentine's day [A natural appointment! for birds have not the sense, forsooth, to fetter themselves, as we wiseacre men take great and solemn pains to do]; there would be nothing at all in it. And what a glorious time would the Lawyers have, on the one hand, with their Noverint universi's, and suits commenceable on restitution of goods and chattels; and the Parsons, on the other, with their indulgencies (renewable annually, as other licences) to the honest desires of their clients?
Then, were a stated mulct, according to rank or fortune, to be paid on every change, towards the exigencies of the State [But none on renewals with the old loves, for the sake of encouraging constancy, especially among the minores], the change would be made sufficiently difficult, and the whole Public would be the better for it; while those children, which the parents could not agree about maintaining, might be considered as the children of the Public, and provided for like the children of the antient Spartans; who were (as ours would in this case be) a nation of heroes. How, Jack, could I have improved upon Lycurgus's institutions, had I been a lawgiver?

### v5 LETTER XXIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Well, but now my plots thicken; and my employment of writing to thee on this subject will soon come to a conclusion. For now, having got the licence; and Mrs. Townsend, with her tars, being to come to Hamstead next Wednesday or Thursday; and another letter possibly, or message, from Miss Howe, to inquire how Miss Harlowe does, upon the rustic's report of her ill health, and to express her wonder, that she has not heard from her, in answer to hers on her escape;-I must soon blow up the lady, or be blown up myself. And so I am preparing, with Lady Betty and my cousin Montague, to wait upon my Beloved with a coach and four, or a set; for Lady Betty will not stir out with a pair, for the world; tho' but for two or three miles. And this is a well-known part of her character.
But as to her arms and crest upon the coach and trappings?
Dost thou not know, that a Blunt's must supply her, while her own is new-lining and repairing? An opportunity she is willing to take now she is in town. Nothing of this kind can be done to her mind in the country. Liveries nearly Lady Betty's.
Thou hast seen Lady Betty Lawrance several times-Hast thou not, Belford?
No, never in my life.
But thou hast; and lain with her too; or fame does thee more credit than thou deservest-Why, Jack, knowest thou not Lady Betty's other name?
Other name! -Has she two?
She has. And what thinkest thou of Lady Bab. Wallis?
O the devil!
Now thou hast it. Lady Barbara, thou knowest, lifted up in circumstances, and by pride, never appears, or produces herself, but on occasions special- To pass to men of quality or price, for a duchess, or countess, at least. She has always been admired for a grandeur in her air, that few women of quality can come up to: And never was supposed to be other than what she passed for; tho' often and often a paramour for Lords.
And who, thinkest thou, is my cousin Montague?
Nay, how should I know?
How indeed! Why, my little Johanetta Golding, a lively, yet modest-looking girl, is my cousin Montague.
There, Belford, is an aunt! -There's a cousin! Both have wit at will. Both are accustomed to ape quality. Both are genteelly descended. Mistresses of themselves; and well educated-Yet past pity. True Spartan dames; ashamed of nothing but detection- Always, therefore, upon their guard against that. And in their own conceit, when assuming top parts, the very quality they ape.
And how dost think I dress them out? -I'll tell thee.
Lady Betty in a rich gold tissue, adorned with jewels of high price.
My cousin Montague in a pale pink, standing an end with silver flowers of her own working. Charlotte, as well as my Beloved, is admirable at her needle. Not quite so richly jewel'd out as Lady Betty; but ear-rings and solitaire very valuable, and infinitely becoming.
Johanetta, thou knowest, has a good complexion, a fine neck, and ears remarkably fine. -So has Charlotte. She is nearly of Charlotte's stature too.
Laces both, the richest that could be procured.
Thou canst not imagine what a sum the loan of the jewels cost me; tho' but for three days.
This sweet girl will half ruin me. But seest thou not by this time, that her reign is short? -It must be so. And Mrs. Sinclair has already prepared everything for her reception once more.
Here come the ladies-Attended by Susan Morrison, a tenant-farmer's daughter, as Lady Betty's woman; with her hands before her, and thoroughly instructed.
How dress advantages women!-especially those, who have naturally a genteel air and turn, and have had education!
Hadst thou seen how they paraded it-Cousin, and Cousin, and Nephew, at every word; Lady Betty bridling and looking haughtily-condescending: Charlotte galanting her fan, and swimming over the floor without touching it.
How I long to see my niece-elect! cries one-For they are told, that we are not married; and are pleased, that I have not put the slight upon them, that they had apprehended from me.
How I long to see my dear cousin that is to be, the other!
Your La'ship, and your La'ship, and an aukward courtesy at every address, prim Susan Morrison.
Top your parts, ye villains! -You know how nicely I distinguish. There will be no passion in this case to blind the judgment, and to help on meditated delusion, as when you engage with titled sinners. My charmer is as cool and as distinguishing, tho' not quite so learned in her own sex, as I am. Your commonly-assumed dignity won't do for me now. Airs of superiority, as if born to rank. -But no over-do! -Doubting nothing. Let not your faces arraign your hearts.
Easy and unaffected! -Your very dresses will give you pride enough.
A little graver, Lady Betty. More significance, less bridling, in your dignity.
That's the air! Charmingly hit-Again-You have it.
Devil take you! -Less arrogance. You are got into airs of young quality. Be less sensible of your new condition. People born to dignity command respect without needing to require it.
Now for your part, cousin Charlotte!-
Pretty well. But a little too frolicky that air- Yet have I prepared my Beloved to expect in you both, great vivacity and quality-freedom.
Curse those eyes! -Those glancings will never do. A down-cast bashful turn, if you can command it- Look upon me. Suppose me now to be my Beloved.
Devil take that leer. Too significantly arch! - Once I knew you the girl I would now have you to be.
Sprightly, but not confident, cousin Charlotte! - Be sure forget not to look down, or aside, when looked at. When eyes meet eyes, be yours the retreating ones. Your face will bear examination.
O Lord! O Lord! that so young a creature can so soon forget the innocent appearance she first charmed by; and which I thought born with you all! -Five years to ruin what Twenty had been building up! How natural the latter lesson! How difficult to regain the former!
A stranger, as I hope to be saved, to the principal arts of your sex! -Once more, what-a-devil has your heart to do in your eyes?
Have I not told you, that my Beloved is a great observer of the eyes? She once quoted upon me a text, which shewed me how she came by her knowlege. -Dorcas's were found guilty of treason the first moment she saw her.
Once more, suppose me to be my charmer. - Now you are to encounter my examining eye, and my doubting heart-
That's my dear!
Study that air in the pier-glass!-
Charming! -Perfectly right!
Your honours, now, devils!-
Pretty well, cousin Charlotte, for a young country lady! -Till form yields to familiarity, you may courtesy low. You must not be supposed to have forgot your boarding-school airs.
But too low, too low, Lady Betty, for your years and your quality. The common fault of your sex will be your danger: Aiming to be young too long! -The devil's in you all, when you judge of yourselves by your wishes, and by your vanity! Fifty will then never be more than Fifteen.
Graceful ease, conscious dignity, like that of my charmer, O how hard to hit!
Both together now-
Charming! -That's the air, Lady Betty! -That's the cue, cousin Charlotte, suited to the character of each! -But, once more, be sure to have a guard upon your eyes.
Never fear, nephew!-
Never fear, cousin.
A dram of Barbados each-
And now we are gone-

### v5 LETTER XXV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
At Mrs. Sinclair's, Monday Afternoon.
All's right, as heart can wish! -In spite of all objection-in spite of a reluctance next to fainting -In spite of all her foresight, vigilance, suspicion, once more is the charmer of my soul in her new lodgings!
Now throbs away every pulse! Now thump, thump, thumps my bounding heart for something!
But I have not time for the particulars of our management.
My Beloved is now directing some of her cloaths to be packed up-Never more to enter this house! Nor ever more will she, I dare say, when once again out of it!
Yet not so much as a condition of forgiveness! - The Harlowe-spirited Fair-one will not deserve my mercy! -She will wait for Miss Howe's next letter; and then, if she find a difficulty in her new schemes [Thank her for nothing]-will-Will what? - Why Even then will take time to consider, whether I am to be forgiven, or for ever rejected. An indifference that revives in my heart the remembrance of a thousand of the like nature. -And yet Lady Betty and Miss Montague [One would be tempted to think, Jack, that they wish her to provoke my vengeance] declare, that I ought to be satisfied with such a proud suspension!
They are intirely attached to her. Whatever she says is, must be, gospel! -They are guarantees for her return to Hamstead this night. They are to go back with her. A supper bespoke by Lady Betty at Mrs. Moore's. All the vacant apartments there, by my permission (for I had engaged them for a month certain), to be filled with them and their attendants, for a week at least, or till they can prevail upon the dear Perverse, as they hope they shall, to restore me to her favour, and to accompany Lady Betty to Oxfordshire.
The dear creature has thus far condescended- That she will write to Miss Howe, and acquaint her with the present situation of things.
If she write, I shall see what she writes. But I believe she will have other employment soon.
Lady Betty is sure, she tells her, that she shall prevail upon her to forgive me; tho' she dares say, that I deserve not forgiveness. Lady Betty is too delicate to inquire strictly into the nature of my offence. But it must be an offence against herself, against Miss Montague, against the virtuous of the whole Sex, or it could not be so highly resented. Yet she will not leave her till she forgive me, and till she see our nuptials privately celebrated. Mean time, as she approves of her uncle's expedient, she will address her as already my wife, before strangers.
Stedman her solicitor may attend her for orders, in relation to her Chancery-affair, at Hamstead. Not one hour they can be favoured with, will they lose from the company and conversation of so dear, so charming a new relation.
Hard then if she had not obliged them with her company, in their coach-and-four, to and from their cousin Leeson's, who longed (as they themselves had done) to see a lady so justly celebrated!
'How will Lord M. be raptured when he sees her, and can salute her as his niece!
'How will Lady Sarah bless herself! -She will now think her loss of the dear daughter she mourns for, happily supplied!'
Miss Montague dwells upon every word that falls from her lips. She perfectly adores her new cousin: 'For her cousin she must be. And her cousin will she call her! She answers for equal admiration in her sister Patty.'
'Ay, cry I (whispering loud enough for her to hear), how will my cousin Patty's dove's eyes glisten, and run over, on the very first interview! -So gracious, so noble, so unaffected a dear creature!'
"What a happy family," chorus we all, "will ours be!"
These, and such-like congratulatory admirations, every hour repeated: Her modesty hurt by the ecstatic praises: -'Her graces are too natural to herself, for her to be proud of them: -But she must be content to be punished for excellencies that cast a shade upon the most excellent!'
In short, we are here, as at Hamstead, all joy and rapture: All of us, except my beloved, in whose sweet face [her almost fainting reluctance to re-enter these doors not overcome] reigns a kind of anxious serenity! -But how will even that be changed in a few hours!
Methinks I begin to pity the half-apprehensive Beauty! -But avaunt, thou unseasonably-intruding pity! Thou hast more than once, already, well nigh undone me! -And, Adieu reflection! Begone consideration! and commiseration! I dismiss ye all, for, at least, a week to come! -Be remembred her broken word! Her flight, when my fond soul was meditating mercy to her! -Be remembred her treatment of me, in her letter on her escape to Hamstead! - Her Hamstead virulence! -What is it she ought not to expect from an unchained Beelzebub, and a plotting villain?
Be her preference of the single life to me, also remembred! -That she despises me! -That she even refuses to be my WIFE! -A proud Lovelace to be denied a Wife! -To be more proudly rejected by a daughter of the Harlowes! -The ladies of my own family [She thinks them the ladies of my family] supplicating in vain for her returning favour to their despised kinsman, and taking laws from her still prouder punctilio!
Be the execrations of her vixen friend likewise remembred, poured out upon me from her representations, and thereby made her own execrations!
Be remembred still more particularly, the Townsend plot, set on foot between them, and now, in a day or two, ready to break out; and the sordid threatenings thrown out against me by that little fury.
Is not this the crisis for which I have been long waiting? Shall Tomlinson, shall these women, be engaged; shall so many engines be set at work, at an immense expence, with infinite contrivance; and all to no purpose?
Is not this the hour of her trial-And in her, of the trial of the virtue of her whole Sex, so long premeditated, so long threatened? -Whether her frost is frost indeed? Whether her virtue is principle? Whether, if once subdued, she will not be always subdued? And will she not want the very crown of her glory, the proof of her till now all-surpassing excellence, if I stop short of the ultimate trial?
Now is the end of purposes long over-awed, often suspended, at hand. And need I to throw the sins of her cursed family into the too weighty scale?
Abhorred be force! -Be the thoughts of force! There's no triumph over the will in force! This I know I have said. But would I not have avoided it, if I could? -Have I not try'd every other method? And have I any other recourse left me? Can she resent the last outrage more than she has resented a fainter effort? -And if her resentments run ever so high, cannot I repair by matrimony? -She will not refuse me, I know, Jack; the haughty Beauty will not refuse me, when her pride of being corporally inviolate is brought down; when she can tell no tales, but when (be her resistance what it will) even her own sex will suspect a yielding in resistance; and when that modesty, which may fill her bosom with resentment, will lock up her speech.
But how know I, that I have not made my own difficulties? -Is she not a woman? -What redress lies for a perpetrated evil? -Must she not live? - Her piety will secure her life. -And will not time be my friend? -What, in a word, will be her behaviour afterwards? -She cannot fly me! -She must forgive me-And, as I have often said, once forgiven, will be for ever forgiven.
Why then should this enervating pity unsteel my foolish heart?-
It shall not. All these things will I remember; and think of nothing else, in order to keep up a resolution, which the women about me will have it I shall be still unable to hold.
I'll teach the dear charming creature to emulate me in contrivance! -I'll teach her to weave webs and plots against her conqueror! -I'll shew her, that in her smuggling schemes she is but a spider compared to me, and that she has all this time been spinning only a cobweb!
What shall we do now! -We are immersed in the depth of grief and apprehension! -How ill do women bear disappointment! -Set upon going to Hamstead, and upon quitting for ever a house she re-enter'd with infinite reluctance; what things she intended to take with her, ready pack'd up; herself on tip-toe to be gone; and I prepared to attend her thither; she begins to be afraid, that she shall not go this night; and, in grief and despair, has flung herself into her old apartment; lock'd herself in; and, thro' the key-hole, Dorcas sees her on her knees- praying, I suppose, for a safe deliverance.
And from what? -And wherefore these agonizing apprehensions?
Why, here, this unkind Lady Betty, with the dear creature's knowlege, tho' to her concern, and this mad-headed cousin Montague without it, while she was employ'd in directing her package, have hurried away in the coach to their own lodgings-Only, indeed, to put up some night-cloaths, and so forth, in order to attend their sweet cousin to Hamstead; and, no less to my surprize than hers, are not yet returned.
I have sent to know the meaning of it.
In a great hurry of spirits, she would have had me gone myself. Hardly any pacifying her! -The girl! God bless her! is wild with her own idle apprehensions! -What is she afraid of?
I curse them both for their delay-My tardy villain, how he stays! -Devil fetch them! Let them send their coach, and we'll go without them. In her hearing, I bid the fellow tell them so. -Perhaps he stays to bring the coach, if any thing happens to hinder the ladies from attending my Beloved this night.
Devil take them, again say I! -They promised too, they would not stay, because it was but two nights ago, that a chariot was robb'd at the foot of Hamstead hill; which alarmed my fair-one, when told of it!
Oh! here's my aunt's servant, with a billet.
To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday Night.
Excuse us, dear nephew, I beseech you, to my dearest kinswoman. One night cannot break squares. For here Miss Montague has been taken violently ill with three fainting fits, one after another. The hurry of her joy, I believe, to find your dear lady so much surpass all expectation (Never did family-love, you know, reign so strong, as among us), and the too eager desire she had to attend her, have occasioned it: For she has but weak spirits, poor girl! well as she looks.
If she be better, we will certainly go with you tomorrow morning, after we have breakfasted with her, at your lodgings. But, whether she be, or not, I will do myself the pleasure to attend your lady to Hamstead; and will be with you, for that purpose, about nine in the morning. With due compliments to your most worthily beloved, I am
Yours affectionately,
Elizab. Lawrance.
Faith and troth, Jack, I know not what to do with myself: For here, just now, having sent in the above note by Dorcas, out came my beloved with it in her hand: In a fit of phrensy! -True, by my soul!
She had indeed complained of her head all the evening.
Dorcas ran to me, out of breath, to tell me, that her lady was coming in some strange way: But she followed her so quick, that the frighted wench had not time to say in what way.
It seems, when she read the billet-Now indeed, said she, am I a lost creature! O the poor Clarissa Harlowe!
She tore off her head-cloaths; inquired where I was: And in she came, her shining tresses flowing about her neck; her ruffles torn, and hanging in tatters about her snowy hands; with her arms spread out; her eyes wildly turned, as if starting from their orbits-Down sunk she at my feet, as soon as she approached me; her charming bosom heaving to her uplifted face; and, clasping her arms about my knees, Dear Lovelace, said she, if ever-if ever-if ever-And, unable to speak another word, quitting her clasping hold, down prostrate on the floor sunk she, neither in a fit nor out of one.
I was quite astonished. -All my purposes suspended for a few moments, I knew neither what to say, nor what to do. But, recollecting myself, Am I again, thought I, in a way to be overcome, and made a fool of! -If I now recede, I am gone for ever.
I raised her: But down she sunk, as if quite disjointed; her limbs failing her-yet not in a fit neither. I never heard of, or saw, such a dear unaccountable: Almost lifeless, and speechless too for a few moments! -What must her apprehensions be at that moment! And for what? -An high-notioned dear soul! -Pretty ignorance! thought I.
Never having met with a repugnance so greatly repugnant, I was stagger'd-I was confounded- Yet how should I know that it would be so till I try'd? -And how, having proceeded thus far, could I stop, were I not to have had the women to goad me on, and to make light of circumstances, which they pretended to be better judges of than me.
I lifted her, however, into a chair; and, in words of disordered passion, told her, All her fears were needless: Wondered at them: Begg'd of her to be pacified: Besought her reliance on my faith and honour: And re-vowed all my old vows, and poured forth new ones.
At last, with an heart-breaking sob, I see, I see, Mr. Lovelace, in broken sentences she spoke-I see, I see-that at last-at last-I am ruined! -Ruined- If your pity-Let me implore your pity! -And down on her bosom, like a half-broken-stalk'd lily, top-heavy with the overcharging dews of the morning, sunk her head, with a sigh that went to my heart.
All I could think of to re-assure her, when a little recovered, I said.
Why did I not send for their coach, as I had intimated? It might return in the morning for the ladies.
I had actually done so, I told her, on seeing her strange uneasiness. But it was then gone to fetch a doctor for Miss Montague, lest his chariot should not be so ready.
Ah! Lovelace! said she, with a doubting face; anguish in her imploring eye.
Lady Betty would think it very strange, I told her, if she were to know it was so disagreeable to her to stay one night, for her company, in a house where she had passed so many!
She called me names upon this. -She had called me names before. -I was patient.
Let her go to Lady Betty's lodgings, then; directly go; if the person I called Lady Betty was really Lady Betty.
If! my dear! Good Heaven! What a villain does that IF shew you believe me to be!
I cannot help it-I beseech you once more, Let me go to Mrs. Leeson's, if that IF ought not to be said.
Then assuming a more resolute spirit-I will go! I will inquire my way! -I will go by myself! -And would have rushed by me.
I folded my arms about her to detain her; pleading the bad way I heard poor Charlotte was in; and what a farther concern her impatience, if she went, would give her.
She would believe nothing I said, unless I would instantly order a coach (since she was not to have Lady Betty's, nor was permitted to go to Mrs. Leeson's), and let her go in it to Hamstead, late as it was; and all alone; so much the better: For in the house of people, of whom Lady Betty, upon inquiry, had heard a bad character [Dropt foolishly This, by my prating new relation, in order to do credit to herself, by depreciating others]; every thing, and every face, looking with so much meaning vileness, as well as my own [Thou art still too sensible, thought I, my charmer!], she was resolved not to stay another night.
Dreading what might happen as to her intellects, and being very apprehensive, that she might possibly go thro' a great deal before morning (tho' more violent she could not well be with the worst she dreaded), I humoured her, and ordered Will. to go and endeavour to get a coach directly, to carry us to Hamstead; I cared not at what price.
Robbers, whom I would have terrify'd her with, she feared not-I was all her fear, I found; and this house her terror: For I saw plainly, that she now believed, that Lady Betty and Miss Montague were both impostors.
But her mistrust is a little of the latest to do her service.
And, O Jack, the rage of Love, the rage of Revenge is upon me! By turns they tear me! -The progress already made! -The womens instigations! - The power I shall have to try her to the utmost, and still to marry her, if she be not to be brought to cohabitation! -Let me perish, Belford, if she escape me now!
Will. is not yet come back. -Near eleven.-
Will. is this moment returned. -No coach to be got, for love or money.
Once more, she urges-To Mrs. Leeson's let me go! -Lovelace! Good Lovelace! Let me go to Mrs. Leeson's! -What is Miss Montague's illness to my terror? -For the Almighty's sake, Mr. Lovelace!- her hands clasped-
O my angel! What a wildness is this! -Do you know, do you see, my dearest life, what an appearance your causeless apprehensions have given you? - Do you know it is past eleven o'clock?
Twelve, one, two, three, four-any hour-I care not-If you mean me honourably, let me go out of this hated house!
Thou'lt observe, Belford, that tho' this was written afterwards, yet (as in other places) I write it as it was spoken, and happened; as if I had retired to put down every sentence as spoken. I know thou likest this lively present-tense manner, as it is one of my peculiars.
Just as she had repeated the last words, If you mean me honourably, let me go out of this hated house, in came Mrs. Sinclair, in a great ferment. -And what, pray, Madam, has this house done to you? -Mr. Lovelace, you have known me some time; and, if I have not the niceness of this lady, I hope I do not deserve to be treated thus!
She set her huge arms a-kembo: Hoh! Madam, let me tell you, I am amazed at your freedoms with my character! And, Mr. Lovelace (holding up, and violently shaking, her head), if you are a gentleman, and a man of honour-
Having never before seen any thing but obsequiousness in this woman, little as she liked her, she was frighted at her masculine air, and fierce look-God help me! cry'd she. What will become of me now! Then, turning her head hither and thither, in a wild kind of amaze, Whom have I for a protector! What will become of me now!
I will be your protector, my dearest love! -But indeed you are uncharitably severe upon poor Mrs. Sinclair! Indeed you are! -She is a gentlewoman born, and the relict of a man of honour; and tho' left in such circumstances as oblige her to let lodgings, yet would she scorn to be guilty of a wilful baseness.
I hope so-it may be so-I may be mistaken- But-But there is no crime, I presume, no treason, to say I don't like her house.
The old dragon straddled up to her, with her arms kembo'd again-Her eye-brows erect, like the bristles upon a hog's back, and, scouling over her shortened nose, more than half-hid her ferret eyes. Her mouth was distorted. She pouted out her blubber-lips, as if to bellows up wind and sputter into her horse-nostrils; and her chin was curdled, and more than usually prominent with passion.
With two Hoh-Madams she accosted the frighted fair-one; who, terrified, caught hold of my sleeve.
I feared she would fall into fits; and, with a look of indignation, told Mrs. Sinclair, that these apartments were mine; and I could not imagine what she meant, either by listening to what passed between me and my spouse, or to come in, uninvited; much less to give herself these violent airs.
I may be to blame, Jack, for suffering this wretch to give herself these airs: but her coming in was without my orders.
The old Beldam, throwing herself into a chair, fell a blubbering and exclaiming. And the pacifying of her, and endeavouring to reconcile the lady to her, took up till near one a clock.
And thus, between terror, and the late hour, and what followed, she was diverted from the thoughts of getting out of the house to Mrs. Leeson's, or anywhere else.

### v5 LETTER XXVI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday Morn. June 13.
And now, Belford, I can go no farther. The affair is over. Clarissa lives. And I am
Your humble servant,
R. Lovelace.
The whole of this black transaction is given by the injured lady, to Miss Howe, in her subsequent letters, dated Thursday July 6. To which the reader is referred.

### v5 LETTER XXVII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq.
Watford, Wedn. June 14.
O thou savage-hearted monster! What work hast thou made in one guilty hour, for a whole age of repentance!
I am inexpressibly concerned at the fate of this matchless lady! She could not have fallen into the hands of any other man breathing, and suffered as she has done with thee.
I had written a great part of another long letter, to try to soften thy flinty heart in her favour; for I thought it but too likely, that thou shouldest succeed in getting her back again to the accursed woman's. But I find it would have been too late, had I finished it, and sent it away. Yet cannot I forbear writing, to urge thee to make the only amends thou now canst make her, by a proper use of the License thou hast obtained.
Poor, poor lady! It is a pain to me, that I ever saw her. Such an adorer of virtue to be sacrificed to the vilest of her sex; and thou their implement in the devil's hands, for a purpose so base, so ungenerous, so inhumane! -Pride thyself, O cruellest of men, in this reflection; and that thy triumph over a lady, who for thy sake was abandoned of every friend she had in the world, was effected, not by advantages taken of her weakness and credulity; but by the blackest artifice; after a long course of studied deceits had been tried to no purpose.
I can tell thee, it is well either for thee or for me, that I am not the brother of the lady. Had I been her brother, her violation must have been followed by the blood of one of us.
Excuse me, Lovelace; and let not the lady fare the worse for my concern for her. And yet I have but one other motive to ask thy excuse; and that is, because I owe to thy own communicative pen the knowlege I have of thy barbarous villainy; since thou might'st, if thou would'st, have passed it upon me for a common seduction.
Clarissa lives, thou say'st. That she does, is my wonder; and these words shew, that thou thyself (tho' thou couldst, nevertheless, proceed) hardly expectedst she would have survived the outrage. What must have been the poor lady's distress (watchful as she had been over her honour), when dreadful certainty took place of cruel apprehension! -And yet a man may guess what it must have been, by that which thou paintest, when she suspected herself trick'd, deserted, and betrayed, by thy pretended aunt and cousin.
That thou couldst behold her phrensy on this occasion, and her half-speechless, half-fainting prostration at thy feet, and yet retain thy evil purposes, will hardly be thought credible, even by those who know thee, if they have seen her.
Poor, poor Lady! With such noble qualities as would have adorned the most exalted married life, to fall into the hands of the only man in the world, who could have treated her as thou hast treated her! - And to let loose the old dragon, as thou properly callest her, upon the before-affrighted innocent, what a barbarity was that! What a poor piece of barbarity! in order to obtain by terror, what thou despairedst to do by love, tho' supported by stratagems the most insidious!
O Lovelace! Lovelace! had I doubted it before, I should now be convinced, that there must be a World after this, to do justice to injured merit, and to punish such a barbarous perfidy! Could the divine Socrates, and the divine Clarissa, otherwise have suffered?
But let me, if possible, for one moment, try to forget this villainous outrage on the most excellent of women.
I have business here, which will hold me yet a few days; and then perhaps I shall quit this house for ever.
I have had a solemn and tedious time of it. I should never have known, that I had half the respect I really find I had for the old gentleman, had I not so closely, at his earnest desire, attended him, and been a witness of the tortures he underwent.
This melancholy occasion may possibly have contributed to humanize me: But surely I never could have been so remorseless a caitiff as thou hast been, to a woman of half this lady's excellence.
But pr'ythee, dear Lovelace, if thou'rt a man, and not a devil, resolve, out of hand, to repair thy sin of ingratitude, by conferring upon thyself the highest honour thou canst receive, in making her lawfully thine.
But if thou canst not prevail upon thyself to do her this justice, I think I should not scruple a tilt with thee (An everlasting rupture at least must follow), if thou sacrificest her to the accursed women.
Thou art desirous to know what advantage I reap by my uncle's demise. I do not certainly know; for I have not been so greedily sollicitous on this subject, as some of the kindred have been, who ought to have shewn more decency, as I have told them, and suffered the corpse to have been cold before they had begun their hungry inquiries. But, by what I gathered from the poor man's talk to me, who, oftener than I wished, touched upon the subject, I deem it will be upwards of 5000l. in cash, and in the funds, after all legacies paid, besides the real estate, which is a clear 500l. a year.
I wish from my heart, thou wert a money-lover! Were the estate to be of double the value, thou shouldst have it every shilling; only upon one condition (for my circumstances before were as easy as I wish them to be while I am single)-That thou wouldst permit me the honour of being this fatherless lady's Father, as it is called, at the altar.
Think of this, my dear Lovelace: Be honest: And let me present thee with the brightest jewel that man ever possessed; and then, body and soul, wilt thou bind to thee for ever, thy
Belford.

### v5 LETTER XXVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Thursday, June 15.
Let me alone, you great dog, you! -Let me alone!-have I heard a lesser boy, his coward arms held over his head and face, say to a bigger, who was pummeling him, for having run away with his apple, his orange, or his ginger-bread.
So say I to thee, on occasion of thy severity to thy poor friend, who, as thou ownest, has furnished thee (ungenerous as thou art!) with the weapons thou brandishest so fearfully against him. -And to what purpose, when the mischief is done; when, of consequence, the affair is irretrievable? and when a Clarissa could not move me?
Well, but, after all, I must own, that there is something very singular in this lady's case: And, at times, I cannot help regretting, that I ever attempted her; since not one power either of body or soul could be moved in my favour; and since, to use the expression of the philosopher, on a much graver occasion, There is no difference to be found between the skull of king Philip, and that of another man.
But peoples extravagant notions of things alter not facts, Belford: And, when all's done, Miss Clarissa Harlowe has but run the fate of a thousand others of her Sex-Only that they did not set such a romantic value upon what they call their honour; that's all.
And yet I will allow thee this-That if a person sets a high value upon any thing, be it ever such a trifle in itself, or in the eye of others, the robbing of that person of it is not a trifle to him. Take the matter in this light, I own I have done wrong, great wrong, to this admirable creature.
But have I not known twenty and twenty of the sex, who have seemed to carry their notions of virtue high; yet, when brought to the test, have abated of their severity? And how should we be convinced that any of them are proof, till they are try'd?
A thousand times have I said, that I never yet met with such a woman as this. If I had, I hardly ever should have attempted Miss Clarissa Harlowe. Hitherto she is all angel: And was not that the point which at setting out I proposed to try? And was not cohabitation ever my darling view? And am I not now, at last, in the high-road to it? -It is true, that I have nothing to boast of as to her will. The very contrary. But now are we come to the test, whether she cannot be brought to make the best of an irreparable evil? -If she exclaim (she has reason to exclaim, and I will sit down with patience, by the hour together, to hear her exclamations, till she is tired of them), she will then descend to expostulation perhaps: Expostulation will give me hope: Expostulation will shew, that she hates me not. And if she hate me not, she will forgive: And if she now forgive; then will all be over; and she will be mine upon my own terms: And it shall then be the whole study of my future life to make her happy.
So, Belford, thou seest; that I have journeyed on to this stage (indeed, thro' infinite mazes, and as infinite remorses), with one determined point in view, from the first. To thy urgent supplication then, that I will do her grateful justice by marriage, let me answer in Matt. Prior's two lines on his hoped-for Auditorship; as put into the mouths of his St. John and Harley;
-Let that be done, which Matt. doth say.
Yea, quoth the Earl-BUT NOT TO-DAY.
Thou seest, Jack, that I make no resolutions, however, against doing her, one time or other, the wish'd-for justice, even were I to succeed in my principal view, cohabitation. And of this I do assure thee, that, if I ever marry, it must, it shall, be Miss Clarissa Harlowe. -Nor is her honour at all impaired with me, by what she has so far suffered: But the contrary. She must only take care, that, if she be at last brought to forgive me, she shew me, that her Lovelace is the only man on earth, whom she could have forgiven on the like occasion.
But, ah, Jack! what, in the mean time, shall I do with this admirable creature? At present-I am loth to say it-But, at present, she is quite stupefied.
I had rather, methinks, she should have retained all her active powers, tho' I had suffered by her nails and her teeth, than that she should be sunk into such a state of absolute-insensibility (shall I call it), as she has been in ever since Tuesday morning. Yet, as she begins a little to revive, and now-and-then to call names, and to exclaim, I dread almost to engage with the anguish of a spirit that owes its extraordinary agitations to a niceness that has no example either in antient or modern story. For, after all, what is there in her case, that should stupefy such a glowing, such a blooming charmer? -Excess of grief, excess of terror, has made a person's hair stand on end, and even (as we have read) changed the colour of it. But that it should so stupefy, as to make a person, at times, insensible to those imaginary wrongs, which would raise others from stupefaction, is very surprising!
But I will leave this subject, lest it should make me too grave.
I was yesterday at Hamstead, and discharged all obligations there, with no small applause. I told them, that the lady was now as happy as myself: And that is no great untruth; for I am not altogether so, when I allow myself to think.
Mrs. Townsend, with her tars, had not been then there. I told them what I would have them say to her, if she come.
Well, but, after all (How many after-all's have I?), I could be very grave, were I to give way to it. -The devil take me for a fool! What's the matter with me, I wonder! -I must breathe a fresher air for a few days.
But what shall I do with this admirable creature the while? -Hang me, if I know! -For, if I stir, the venomous spider of this habitation will want to set upon the charming fly, whose silken wings are already so intangled in my enormous web, that she cannot move hand or foot: For so much has grief stupefied her, that she is at present as destitute of will, as she always seemed of desire. I must not therefore think of leaving her yet for two days together.

### v5 LETTER XXIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
I have just now had a specimen of what this dear creature's resentment will be, when quite recover'd: An affecting one! -For, entering her apartment after Dorcas; and endeavouring to soothe and pacify her disordered mind; in the midst of my blandishments, she held up to Heaven, in a speechless agony, the innocent Licence (which she has in her own power); as the poor distressed Catalans held up their English treaty, on an occasion that keeps the worst of my actions in countenance.
She seemed about to call down vengeance upon me; when, happily, the Leaden God, in pity to her trembling Lovelace, waved over her half-drowned eyes his somniferous wand, and laid asleep the fair exclaimer, before she could go half thro' with her intended imprecation.
Thou wilt guess, by what I have written, that some little art has been made use of: But it was with a generous design (if thou'lt allow me the word on such an occasion) in order to lessen the too quick sense she was likely to have of what she was to suffer. A contrivance I never had occasion for before, and had not thought of now, if Mrs. Sinclair had not proposed it to me: To whom I left the management of it: And I have done nothing but curse her ever since, lest the quantity should have for ever damped her charming intellects.
Hence my concern-For I think the poor lady ought not to have been so treated. Poor lady, did I say? -What have I to do with thy creeping style? - But have not I the worst of it; since her insensibility has made me but a thief to my own joys?
I did not intend to tell thee of this little innocent trick; for such I designed it to be; but that I hate disingenuity: To thee, especially: And as I cannot help writing in a more serious vein than usual, thou wouldst, perhaps, had I not hinted the true cause, have imagined, that I was sorry for the fact itself: And this would have given thee a good deal of trouble in scribbling dull persuasives to repair by matrimony; and me, in reading thy crude nonsense. Besides, one day or other, thou mightest, had I not confessed it, have heard of it in an aggravated manner; and I know thou hast such an high opinion of this lady's virtue, that thou wouldst be disappointed, if thou hadst reason to think, that she was subdued by her own consent, or any the least yielding in her will. And so is she beholden to me, in some measure, that, at the expence of my honour, she may so justly form a plea, which will intirely salve hers?
And now is the whole secret out.
Thou wilt say I am a horrid fellow! -As the lady does, that I am the unchained Beelzebub, and a plotting villain: And as this is what you both said beforehand, and nothing worse can be said, I desire, if thou wouldst not have me quite serious with thee, and that I should think thou meanest more by thy tilting-hint, than I am willing to believe thou dost, that thou wilt forbear thy invectives: For is not the thing done? -Can it be help'd? -And must I not now try to make the best of it? -And the rather do I injoin thee this, and inviolable secrecy; because I begin to think, that my punishment will be greater than the fault, were it to be only from my own reflection.

### v5 LETTER XXX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;.
Friday, June 16.
I am sorry to hear of thy misfortune; but hope thou wilt not long lie by it. Thy servant tells me, what a narrow escape thou hadst with thy neck. I wish it may not be ominous: But I think thou seemest not to be in so enterprising a way as formerly; and yet, merry or sad, thou seest a rake's neck is always in danger, if not from the hangman, from his own horse. But 'tis a vicious toad, it seems; and I think thou shouldst never venture upon his back again; for 'tis a plaguy thing for rider and horse both to be vicious.
Thy fellow tells me, thou desirest me to continue to write to thee, to divert thy chagrin on thy forced confinement: But how I can think it in my power to divert, when my subject is not pleasing to myself?
Caesar never knew what it was to be hyp'd, I will call it, till he came to be what Pompey was; that is to say, till he arrived at the height of his ambition: Nor did thy Lovelace know what it was to be gloomy, till he had completed his wishes upon the charming'st creature in the world, as the other did his upon the most potent republic that ever existed.
And yet why say I, completed? when the will, the consent, is wanting-And I have still views before me of obtaining that?
Yet I could almost join with thee in the wish, which thou sendest me up by thy servant, unfriendly as it is, that I had had thy misfortune before Monday night last: For here, the poor lady has run into a contrary extreme to that I told thee of in my last: For now is she as much too lively, as before she was too stupid; and, 'bating that she has pretty frequent lucid intervals, would be deem'd raving mad, and I should be obliged to confine her.
I am most confoundedly disturb'd about it: For I begin to fear, that her intellects are irreparably hurt.
Who the devil could have expected such strange effects from a cause so common, and so slight?
But these high soul'd and high-sens'd girls, who had set up for shining lights and examples to the rest of the sex, [I now see, that such there are!] are with such difficulty brought down to the common standard, that a wise man, who prefers his peace of mind to his glory in subduing one of that exalted class, would have nothing to say to them.
I do all in my power to quiet her spirits, when I force myself into her presence.
I go on, begging pardon one minute; and vowing truth and honour another.
I would at first have persuaded her, and offer'd to call witnesses to the truth of it, that we were actually married. Tho' the licence was in her hands, I thought the assertion might go down in her disorder; and charming consequences I hoped would follow. But this would not do.-
I therefore gave up that hope: And now I declare to her, that it is my resolution to marry her, the moment her uncle Harlowe informs me, that he will grace the ceremony with his presence.
But she believes nothing I say; nor (whether in her senses, or not) bears me with patience in her sight.
I pity her with all my soul; and I curse myself, when she is in her wailing fits, and when I apprehend, that intellects, so charming as hers, are for ever damp'd-But more I curse these women, who put me upon such an expedient! -Lord! Lord! what a hand have I made of it! -And all for what?
Last night, for the first time since Monday last, she got to her pen and ink: But she pursues her writing with such eagerness and hurry, as shew too evidently her discomposure.
I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her spirits.
Just now Dorcas tells me, that what she writes she tears, and throws the paper in fragments under the table, either as not knowing what she does, or disliking it: Then gets up, wrings her hands, weeps, and shifts her seat all round the room: Then returns to her table, sits down, and writes again.
One odd letter, as I may call it, Dorcas has this moment given me from her-Carry this, said she, to the vilest of men. Dorcas, a toad! brought it, without any further direction, to me. -I sat down, intending (tho' 'tis pretty long) to give thee a copy of it: But, for my life, I cannot; 'tis so extravagant. And the original is too much an original to let it go out of my hands.
But some of the scraps and fragments, as either torn thro', or flung aside, I will copy, for the novelty of the thing, and to shew thee how her mind works, now she is in this whimsical way. Yet I know I am still furnishing thee with new weapons against myself. But spare thy comments. My own reflections render them needless. Dorcas thinks her lady will ask for them: So wishes to have them to lay again under her table.
By the first thou'lt guess, that I have told her, that Miss Howe is very ill, and can't write; that she may account the better for not having received the letter designed for her.
PAPER I.
(Torn in two pieces.)
My dearest Miss Howe!
O! what dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you! But yet I cannot tell you neither But say, Are you really ill, as a vile, vile creature informs me you are?
But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: And yet, if it were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now! -But what have I to do, to upbraid? -You may well be tired of me! -And if you are, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myself: And all my own relations were tired of me long before you were.
How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe! -But how I ramble!
I sat down to say a great deal-My heart was full-I did not know what to say first-And thought, and grief, and confusion, and (O my poor head!) I cannot tell what-And thought, and grief, and confusion, came crouding so thick upon me; one would be first, another would be first, all would be first; so I can write nothing at all. -Only that, whatever they have done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was in any one thing. -In any one thing did I say? Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I ever will be,
Your true-
Plague on it! I can write no more of this eloquent nonsense myself; which rather shews a raised, than a quenched, imagination: But Dorcas shall transcribe the others in separate papers, as written by the whimsical charmer: And some time hence, when all is over, and I can better bear to read them, I may ask thee for a sight of them. Preserve them therefore; for we often look back with pleasure even upon the heaviest griefs, when the cause of them is removed.
PAPER II.
(Scratch'd thro', and thrown under the Table.)
And can you, my dear honoured papa, resolve for ever to reprobate your poor child? -But I am sure you would not, if you knew what she has suffered since her unhappy-And will nobody plead for your poor suffering girl? -No one good body? -Why, then, dearest Sir, let it be an act of your own innate goodness, which I have so much experienced, and so much abused. -I don't presume to think you should receive me-No, indeed- my name is-I don't know what my name is! -I never dare to wish to come into your family again! -But your heavy curse, my papa-Yes, I will call you papa, and help yourself as you can-for you are my own dear papa, whether you will or not-And tho' I am an unworthy child-yet I am your child-
PAPER III.
A lady took a great fancy to a young Lion, or a Bear, I forget which-but a Bear, or a Tyger, I believe, it was. It was made her a present of, when a whelp. She fed it with her own hand: She nursed up the wicked cub with great tenderness; and would play with it, without fear or apprehension of danger: And it was obedient to all her commands: And its tameness, as she used to boast, increased with its growth; so that, like a lapdog, it would follow her all over the house. But mind what followed: At last, some-how, neglecting to satisfy its hungry maw, or having other-wise disobliged it on some occasion, it resumed its nature; and on a sudden fell upon her, and tore her in pieces. -And who was most to blame, I pray? The brute, or the lady? The lady, surely! -For what she did, was out of nature, out of character, at least: What it did, was in its own nature.
PAPER IV.
How art thou now humbled in the dust, thou proud Clarissa Harlowe! Thou that never steppedst out of thy father's house, but to be admired! Who wert wont to turn thine eye, sparkling with healthful life, and self-assurance, to different objects at once, as thou passedst, as if (for so thy penetrating sister used to say) to plume thyself upon the expected applauses of all that beheld thee! Thou that usedst to go to rest satisfied with the adulations paid thee in the past day, and couldst put off every thing but thy vanity!-
PAPER V.
Rejoice not now, my Bella, my sister, my friend; but pity the humbled creature, whose foolish heart you used to say you beheld thro' the thin veil of humility, which cover'd it.
It must have been so! My fall had not else been permitted-
You penetrated my proud heart with the jealousy of an elder sister's searching eye.
You knew me better than I knew myself.
Hence your upbraidings, and your chidings, when I began to totter.
But forgive now those vain triumphs of my heart.
I thought, poor proud wretch that I was, that what you said was owing to your envy.
I thought I could acquit my intention of any such vanity.
I was too secure in the knowlege I thought I had of my own heart.
My supposed advantages became a snare to me.
And what now is the end of all?-
PAPER VI.
What now is become of the prospects of a happy life, which once I thought opening before me? - Who now shall assist in the solemn preparations? Who now shall provide the nuptial ornaments, which soften and divert the apprehensions of the fearful virgin? No court now to be paid to my smiles! No encouraging compliments to inspire thee with hope of laying a mind not unworthy of thee under obligation! No elevation now for conscious merit, and applauded purity, to look down from on a prostrate adorer, and an admiring world, and up to pleased and rejoicing parents and relations!
PAPER VII.
Thou pernicious caterpillar, that preyest upon the fair leaf of virgin fame, and poisonest those leaves which thou canst not devour!
Thou fell blight, thou eastern blast, thou overspreading mildew, that destroyest the early promises of the shining year! that mockest the laborious toil, and blastest the joyful hopes, of the painful husbandman!
Thou fretting moth, that corruptest the fairest garment!
Thou eating canker-worm, that preyest upon the opening bud, and turnest the damask rose into livid yellowness!
If, as Religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great measure, by our benevolent or evil actions to one another -O wretch! bethink thee, in time bethink thee, how great must be thy condemnation!
PAPER VIII.
At first, I saw something in your air and person that displeased me not. Your birth and fortunes were no small advantages to you. -You acted not ignobly by my passionate brother. Every-body said you were brave: Every-body said you were generous. A brave man, I thought, could not be a base man: A generous man, could not, I believed, be ungenerous, where he acknowleged obligation. Thus prepossessed, all the rest, that my soul loved, and wished for, in your reformation, I hoped! -I knew not, but by report, any flagrant instances of your vileness. You seemed frank, as well as generous: Frankness and generosity ever attracted me: Whoever kept up those appearances, I judged of their hearts by my own; and whatever qualities I wished to find in them, I was ready to find; and, when found, I believed them to be natives of the soil.
My Fortunes, my Rank, my Character, I thought a further security. I was in none of those respects unworthy of being the niece of Lord M. and of his two noble sisters. -Your vows, your imprecations-But, Oh! you have barbarously and basely conspired against that honour, which you ought to have protected: And now you have made me-What is it of vile, that you have not made me?-
Yet, God knows my heart, I had no culpable inclinations! -I honoured virtue! -I hated vice! -But I knew not, that you were vice itself!
PAPER IX.
Had the happiness of any the poorest outcast in the world, whom I had never seen, never known, never before heard of, lain as much in my power, as my happiness did in yours, my benevolent heart would have made me fly to the succour of such a poor distressed-With what pleasure would I have raised the dejected head, and comforted the desponding heart! -But who now shall pity the poor wretch, who has increased, instead of diminished, the number of the miserable!
PAPER X.
Lead me, where my own Thoughts themselves may lose me,
Where I may doze out what I've left of Life,
Forget myself; and that day's guilt!-
Cruel remembrance!-how shall I appease thee?
-Oh! you have done an act
That blots the face and blush of modesty;
Takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And makes a blister there!-
Then down I laid my head,
Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead;
And my freed Soul to a strange somewhere fled!
Ah! sottish soul! said I,
When back to its cage again I saw it fly,
Fool! to resume her broken chain,
And row the galley here again!
Fool! to that body to return,
Where it condemn'd and destin'd is to mourn.
O my Miss Howe! if thou hast friendship, help me,
And speak the words of peace to my divided soul,
That wars within me,
And raises ev'ry sense to my confusion.
I'm tott'ring on the brink
Of peace; and thou art all the hold I've left!
Assist me in the pangs of my affliction!
When honour's lost, 'tis a relief to die:
Death's but sure retreat from infamy.
Then farewel, youth,
And all the joys that dwell
With youth and life!
And life itself, farewel!
For life can never be sincerely blest.
Heaven punishes the Bad, and proves the Best.
After all, Belford, I have just skimm'd over these transcriptions of Dorcas; and I see there is method and good sense in some of them, wild as others of them are; and that her memory, which serves her so well for these poetical flights, is far from being impair'd. And this gives me hope, that she will soon recover her charming intellects-Tho' I shall be the sufferer by their restoration, I make no doubt.
But, in the letter she wrote to me, there are yet greater extravagancies; and tho' I said, It was too affecting to give thee a copy of it, yet, after I have let thee see the loose papers inclosed, I think I may throw in a transcription of that. Dorcas, therefore, shall here transcribe it: I cannot. The reading of it affected me ten times more, than the severest reproaches of a regular mind.
To Mr. Lovelace.
I never intended to write another line to you. I would not see you, If I could help it. O that I never had!
But tell me of a truth, Is Miss Howe really and truly ill? -Very ill? -And is not her illness poison? And don't you know who gave it her?
What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or somebody, I cannot tell who, have done to my poor head, you best know: But I shall never be what I was. My head is gone. I have wept away all my brain, I believe; for I can weep no more. Indeed I have had my full share; so it is no matter.
But, good now, Lovelace, don't set Mrs. Sinclair upon me again! I never did her any Harm. She so affrights me, when I see her! -Ever since-When was it? I cannot tell. You can, I suppose. She may be a good woman, as far as I know. She was the wife of a man of honour-Very likely! -Tho' forced to let lodgings for her livelihood. Poor gentlewoman! Let her know I pity her: But don't let her come near me again-Pray don't!
Yet she may be a very good woman-
What would I say! -I forget what I was going to say.
O Lovelace, you are Satan himself; or he helps you out in every thing; and that's as bad!
But have you really and truly sold yourself to him? And for how long? What duration is your reign to have?
Poor man! The contract will be out; and then what will be your fate!
Oh! Lovelace! if you could be sorry for yourself, I would be sorry too-But when all my doors are fast, and nothing but the key-hole open, and the key of late put into that, to be where you are, in a manner without opening any of them-O wretched, wretched Clarissa Harlowe!
For I never will be Lovelace-let my uncle take it as he pleases.
Well, but now I remember what I was going to say- It is for your good-not mine-For nothing can do me good now! -O thou villainous man! thou hated Lovelace!.
But Mrs. Sinclair may be a good woman-If you love me-But that you don't-But don't let her bluster up with her worse than mannish airs to me again! O she is a frightful woman! If she be a woman! -She needed not to put on that fearful mask to scare me out of my poor wits. But don't tell her what I say-I have no hatred to her- It is only fright, and foolish fear, that's all. -She may not be a bad woman-But neither are all men, any more than all women, alike-God forbid they should be like you!
Alas! you have killed my head among you-I don't say who did it-God forgive you all! -But had it not been better to have put me out of all your ways at once? You might safely have done it! For nobody would require me at your hands-No, not a soul-Except, indeed, Miss Howe would have said, when she should see you, What, Lovelace, have you done with Clarissa Harlowe? -And then you could have given any slight gay answer-Sent her beyond sea; or, she has run away from me, as she did from her parents. And this would have been easily credited; for you know, Lovelace, she that could run away from them, might very well run away from you.
But this is nothing to what I wanted to say. Now I have it!
I have lost it again-This foolish wench comes teazing me-For what purpose should I eat? For what end should I wish to live? -I tell thee, Dorcas, I will neither eat nor drink. I cannot be worse than I am.
I will do as you'd have me-Good Dorcas, look not upon me so fiercely-But thou canst not look so bad as I have seen somebody look.
Mr. Lovelace, now that I remember what I took pen in hand to say, let me hurry off my thoughts, lest I lose them again. -Here I am sensible-And yet I am hardly sensible neither-But I know my head is not as it should be, for all that-Therefore let me propose one thing to you: It is for your good-not mine: And this is it:
I must needs be both a trouble, and an expence, to you. And here my uncle Harlowe, when he knows how I am, will never wish any man to have me: No, not even you, who have been the occasion of it-Barbarous and ungrateful! -A less complicated villainy cost a Tarquin-But I forget what I would say again-.
Then this is it: I never shall be myself again: I have been a very wicked creature-a vain, proud, poor creature -full of secret pride-which I carried off under an humble guise, and deceived every-body-My sister says so-And now I am punished-so let me be carried out of this house, and out of your sight; and let me be put into that Bedlam privately, which once I saw: But it was a sad sight to me then! Little as I thought what I should come to myself! -That is all I would say: This is all I have to wish for-Then I shall be out of all your ways; and I shall be taken care of; and bread and water, without your tormentings, will be dainties; and my straw bed the easiest I have lain in-for-I cannot tell how long!-
My cloaths will sell for what will keep me there, perhaps, as long as I shall live. But, Lovelace, dear Lovelace I will call you; for you have cost me enough, I'm sure!-don't let me be made a shew of, for my family's sake; nay, for your own sake, don't do that- For when I know all I have suffer'd, which yet I do not and no matter if I never do-I may be apt to rave against you by name, and tell of all your baseness to a poor humbled creature, that once was as proud as any-body- But of what I can't tell-Except of my own folly and vanity-But let that pass-since I am punished enough for it-
So, suppose, instead of Bedlam, it were a private madhouse, where nobody comes! -That will be better a great deal.
But, another thing, Lovelace: Don't let them use me cruelly when I am there-You have used me cruelly enough, you know! Don't let them use me cruelly; for I will be very tractable; and do as any-body would have me do- Except what you would have me do-for that I never will. -Another thing, Lovelace: Don't let this good woman; I was going to say vile woman; but don't tell her that, -Because she won't let you send me to this happy refuge perhaps, if she were to know it-
Another thing, Lovelace: And let me have pen, and ink, and paper, allowed me-It will be all my amusement -But they need not send to any-body I shall write to, what I write, because it will but trouble them: And somebody may do you a mischief, may-be. -I wish not that any-body do any-body a mischief upon my account.
You tell me, that Lady Betty Lawrance, and your cousin Montague, were here to take leave of me; but that I was asleep, and could not be waked. So you told me at first, I was married, you know; and that you were my husband-Ah! Lovelace! look to what you say -But let not them (for they will sport with my misery), let not that Lady Betty, let not that Miss Montague, whatever the real ones may do; nor Mrs. Sinclair neither, nor any of her lodgers, nor her nieces, come to see me in my place-Real ones, I say; for, Lovelace, I shall find out all your villainies in time-Indeed I shall-So put me there as soon as you can-It is for your good- Then all will pass for ravings that I can say, as, I doubt not, many poor creatures exclamations do pass, tho' there may be too much truth in them for all that-And you know I began to be mad at Hamstead-So you said. -Ah! villainous man! what have you not to answer for!
A little interval seems to be lent me. I had begun to look over what I have written. It is not fit for any one to see, so far as I have been able to re-peruse it: But my head will not hold, I doubt, to go through it all. If therefore I have not already mentioned my earnest desire, let me tell you, it is this: That I be sent out of this abominable house without delay, and lock'd up in some private madhouse about this town; for such, it seems, there are; never more to be seen, or to be produced to any-body, except in your own vindication, if you should be charged with the murder of my person; a much lighter crime, than that of my honour, which the greatest villain on earth has robbed me of. And deny me not this my last request, I beseech you; and one other, and that is, Never to let me see you more! This surely may be granted to
The miserably abused
Clarissa Harlowe.
I will not hear thy heavy preachments upon this plaguy letter. So, not a word of that sort! The paper, thou'lt see, is blister'd with the tears even of the harden'd transcriber; which has made her ink run here-and-there.
Mrs. Sinclair is a true heroine, and, I think, shames us all. And she is a woman too! Thou'lt say, The best things corrupted become the worst. But this is certain, that whatever the sex set their hearts upon, they make thorough work of it. And hence it is, that a mischief, which would end in simple robbery among men-rogues, becomes murder, if a woman be in it.
I know thou wilt blame me for having had recourse to art. But do not physicians prescribe opiates in acute cases, where the violence of the disorder would be apt to throw the patient into a fever or delirium? I averr, that my motive for this expedient was mercy; nor could it be any thing else. For a Rape, thou knowest, to us Rakes, is far from being an undesirable thing. Nothing but the Law stands in our way, upon that account; and the opinion of what a modest woman will suffer, rather than become a viva voce accuser, lessens much an honest fellow's apprehensions on that score. Then, if these somnivolences [I hate the word opiates on this occasion] have turned her head, that is an effect they frequently have upon some constitutions; and in this case was rather the fault of the dose, than the design of the giver.
But is not wine itself an opiate in degree? -How many women have been taken advantage of by wine, and other still more intoxicating viands? -Let me tell thee, Jack, that the experience of many of the passive sex, and the consciences of many more of the active, appealed to, will testify that thy Lovelace is not the worst of villains. Nor would I have thee put me upon clearing myself, by comparisons.
If she escape a settled delirium when my plots unravel, I think it is all I ought to be concerned about. What therefore I desire of thee, is, That, if two constructions may be made of my actions, thou wilt afford me the most favourable. For this, not only friendship, but my own ingenuity, which has furnished thee with the knowlege of the facts, against which thou art so ready to inveigh, require of thee.
Will is just returned from an errand to Hamstead; and acquaints me, that Mrs. Townsend was yesterday at Mrs. Moore's, accompanied by three or four rough fellows. She was strangely surprised at the news, that my spouse and I are intirely reconciled; and that two fine ladies, my relations, came to visit her, and went to town with her: Where she is very happy with me. She was sure we were not married, she said, unless it was while we were at Hamstead: And they were sure the ceremony was not performed there. But that the Lady is happy and easy, is unquestionable: And a fling was thrown out by Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Bevis at mischief-makers, as they knew Mrs. Townsend to be acquainted with Miss Howe.
Now, since my Fair-one can neither receive, nor send away letters, I am pretty easy, as to this Mrs. Townsend, and her employer. And I fancy Miss Howe will be puzzled to know what to think of the matter, and afraid of sending by Wilson's conveyance; and perhaps suppose, that her friend slights her; or has changed her mind in my favour, and is ashamed to own it; as she has not had an answer to what she wrote; and will believe, that the rustic delivered her last letter into her own hand.
Mean time, I have a little project come into my head, of a new kind; just for amusement-sake, that's all: Variety has irresistible charms. I cannot live without intrigue. My charmer has no passions; that is to say, none of the passions that I want her to have. She engages all my reverence. I am at present more inclined to regret what I have done, than to proceed to new offences: And shall regret it till I see how she takes it, when recovered.
Shall I tell thee my project? 'Tis not a high one. -'Tis this-To get hither Mrs. Moore, Miss Rawlins, and my Widow Bevis; for they are desirous to make a visit to my spouse, now we are so happy together. And, if I can order it right, Belton, Mowbray, Tourville, and I, will shew them a little more of the ways of this wicked town, than they at present know. Why should they be acquainted with a man of my character, and not be the better and wiser for it? -I would have every-body rail against rakes with judgment aud knowlege, if they will rail. Two of these women gave me a great deal of trouble: And the third, I am confident, will forgive a merry evening.
I am really sick at heart for a frolick, and have no doubt but this will be an agreeable one. These women already think me a wild fellow; nor do they like me the less for it, as I can perceive; and I shall take care, that they shall be treated with so much freedom before one another's faces, that in policy they shall keep each other's counsel. And won't this be doing a kind thing by them? since it will knit an indissoluble band of union and friendship between three women who are neighbours, and at present have only common obligations to one another: For thou wantest not to be told, that secrets of love, and secrets of this nature, are generally the strongest cement of female friendships.
But, after all, if my Beloved should be happily restored to her intellects, we may have scenes arise between us, that will be sufficiently busy to employ all the faculties of thy friend, without looking out for new occasions. Already, as I have often observed, has she been the means of saving scores; yet without her own knowlege.
Sat. Night.
By Dorcas's account of her Lady's behaviour, the dear creature seems to be recovering. I shall give the earliest notice of this to the worthy Captain Tomlinson, that he may apprise uncle John of it. I must be properly enabled, from that quarter to pacify her, or, at least, to rebate her first violence.

### v5 LETTER XXXI.

Mr. Lovelace, to John Belford, Esq;.
Sunday Afternoon, 6 o'Clock (June 18.)
I went out early this morning, and returned not till just now; when I was informed, that my Beloved, in my absence, had taken it into her head to attempt to get away.
She tripp'd down, with a parcel tied up in a handkerchief, her hood on; and was actually in the entry, when Mrs. Sinclair saw her.
Pray, Madam, whipping between her and the street-door, be pleased to let me know whither you are going?
Who has a right to controul me? was the word.
I have, Madam, by order of your spouse: And, kemboing her arms, as she owned, I desire you will be pleased to walk up again.
She would have spoken; but could not: And, bursting into tears, turned back, and went up to her chamber: And Dorcas was taken to task for suffering her to be in the passage before she was seen.
This shews, as we hoped last night, that she is recovering her charming intellects.
Dorcas says, she was visible to her, but once before, the whole day; and then seemed very solemn and sedate.
I will endeavour to see her. It must be in her own chamber, I suppose; for she will hardly meet me in the dining-room. What advantage will the confidence of our sex give me over the modesty of hers, if she be recover'd! -I, the most confident of men: She, the most delicate of women. Sweet soul! methinks, I have have her before me: Her face averted: Speech lost in sighs-Abash'd-Conscious -What a triumphant aspect will this give me, when I gaze in her downcast countenance!
This moment Dorcas tells me, she believes she is coming to find me out. She asked her after me: And Dorcas left her, drying her red-swoln eyes at her glass; [No design of moving me by her tears!] sighing too sensibly for my courage. But to what purpose have I gone thus far, if I pursue not my principal end? -Niceness must be a little abated. She knows the worst. That she cannot fly me; that she must see me; and that I can look her into a sweet confusion; are circumstances greatly in my favour. What can she do, but rave and exclaim? I am used to raving and exclaiming-But, if recovered, I shall see how she behaves upon this our first sensible interview, after what she has suffered.
Here she comes!-

### v5 LETTER XXXII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Sunday Night.
Never blame me for giving way to have Art used with this admirable creature. All the princes of the air, or beneath it, joining with me, could never have subdued her while she had her senses.
I will not anticipate-Only to tell thee, that I am too much awaken'd by her to think of sleep, were I to go to bed; and so shall have nothing to do, but to write an account of our odd conversation, while it is so strong upon my mind that I can think of nothing else.
She was dress'd in a white damask night-gown, with less negligence than for some days past. I was sitting, with my pen in my fingers; and stood up when I first saw her, with great complaisance, as if the day were still her own. And so indeed it is.
She entered with such dignity in her manner, as struck me with great awe, and prepared me for the poor figure I made in the subsequent conversation. A poor figure indeed! -But I will do her justice.
She came up with quick steps, pretty close to me; a white handkerchief in her hand; her eyes neither fierce nor mild, but very earnest; and a fix'd sedateness in her whole aspect, which seemed to be the effect of deep contemplation: And thus she accosted me, with an air and action that I never saw equal'd.
You see before you, Sir, the wretch, whose preference of you to all your Sex you have rewarded-as it indeed deserved to be rewarded. My father's dreadful curse has already operated upon me in the very letter of it, as to This life; and it seems to me too evident, that it will not be your fault, that it is not intirely completed in the loss of my soul, as well as of my honour-Which you, villainous man! have robbed me of, with a baseness so unnatural, so inhuman, that, it seems, you, even you, had not the heart to attempt it, till my senses were made the previous sacrifice.
Here I made an hesitating effort to speak, laying down my pen-But she proceeded: -Hear me out, guilty wretch!-abandon'd man! -Man did I say? - Yet what name else can I? since the mortal worryings of the fiercest beast would have been more natural, and infinitely more welcome, than what you have acted by me; and that with a premeditation and contrivance worthy only of that single heart, which now, base as well as ingrateful as thou art, seems to quake within thee. -And well may'st thou quake; well may'st thou tremble and falter; and hesitate, as thou dost, when thou reflectest upon what I have suffer'd for thy sake, and the returns thou hast made me!
By my soul, Belford, my whole frame was shaken: For not only her looks, and her action, but her voice, so solemn, was inexpressibly affecting: And then my cursed guilt, and her innocence, and merit, and rank, and superiority of talents, all stared me at that instant in the face so formidably, that my present account, to which she unexpectedly called me, seemed, as I then thought, to resemble that general one, to which we are told we shall be summoned, when our conscience shall be our accuser.
But she had had time to collect all the powers of her eloquence. The whole day probably in her intellects. And then I was the more disappointed, as I had thought I could have gazed the dear creature into confusion-But it is plain, that the sense she has of her wrongs sets this matchless woman above all lesser, all weaker considerations.
My dear-My love-I-I-I never-No never- Lips trembling, limbs quaking, voice inward, hesitating, broken-Never surely did miscreant look so like a miscreant! While thus she proceeded, waving her snowy hand, with all the graces of moving oratory.
I have no pride in the confusion visible in thy whole person. I have been all the day praying for a composure, if I could not escape from this vile house, that should once more enable me to look up to my destroyer with the consciousness of an innocent sufferer. -Thou seest me, since my wrongs are beyond the power of words to express, thou seest me, calm enough to wish, that thou mayst continue harassed by the workings of thy own conscience, till effectual repentance take hold of thee, that so thou mayst not forfeit all title to that mercy, which thou hast not shewn to the poor creature now before thee, who had so well deserved to meet with a faithful friend, where she met with the worst of enemies.
But tell me (for no doubt thou hast some scheme to pursue), Tell me, since I am a prisoner, as I find, in the vilest of houses, and have not a friend to protect or save me, what thou intendest shall become of the remnant of a life not worth the keeping? Tell me, if yet there are more evils reserved for me; and whether thou hast enter'd into a compact with the grand deceiver, in the person of his horrid agent in this house; and if the ruin of my soul, that my father's curse may be fulfilled, is to complete the triumphs of so vile a confederacy? -Answer me! - Say, if thou hast courage to speak out to her whom thou hast ruined, tell me, what further I am to suffer from thy barbarity?
She stopp'd here; and, sighing, turn'd her sweet face from me, drying up with her handkerchief those tears which she endeavour'd to restrain; and, when she could not, to conceal from my sight.
As I told thee, I had prepared myself for high passions, raving, flying, tearing, execration: These transient violences, the workings of sudden grief, and shame, and vengeance, would have set us upon a par with each other, and quitted scores. These have I been accustomed to; and, as nothing violent is lasting, with these I could have wished to encounter. But such a majestic composure-Seeking me- whom yet, it is plain by her attempt to get away, she would have avoided seeing-No Lucretia-like vengeance upon herself in her thought-Yet swallow'd up, her whole mind swallow'd up, as I may say, by a grief so heavy, as, in her own words, to be beyond the power of speech to express-and to be able, discomposed as she was to the very morning, to put such a home-question to me, as if she had penetrated my future view-How could I avoid looking like a fool, and answering, as before, in broken sentences, and confusion?
What-What-a-What-has been done-I, I, I -cannot but say-Must own-Must confess-Hem -Hem-Is not right-Is not what should have been -But-a-But-But-I am truly-truly-sorry for it-Upon my soul I am-And-And-will do all- do every thing-Do what-What-ever is incumbent upon me-all that you-that you-that you shall require, to make you amends!-
O Belford! Belford! Whose the triumph now! -Hers, or MINE?
Amends! O thou truly despicable wretch! -Then, lifting up her eyes-Good Heaven! Who shall pity the creature, who could fall by so base a mind! - Yet-and then she looked indignantly upon me- Yet, I hate thee not, base and low-soul'd as thou art! half so much as I hate myself, that I saw thee not sooner in thy proper colours! -That I hoped either morality, gratitude, or humanity from a libertine, who, to be a libertine, must have got over and defied all moral sanctions.
She then called upon her cousin Morden's name, as if he had warned her against a man of free principles; and walked towards the window; her handkerchief at her eyes: But, turning short towards me, with an air of mingled scorn and majesty-[What, at the moment, would I have given never to have injured her!] What amends hast thou to propose! - What amends can such a one as Thou make to a person of spirit, or common sense, for the evils thou hast so inhumanly made me suffer?
As soon, Madam-As soon-as-As soon as your uncle-or-not waiting-
Thou wouldst tell me, I suppose-I know what thou wouldst tell me-But thinkest thou, that marriage will satisfy for a guilt like thine? Destitute as thou hast made me both of friends and fortune, I too much despise the wretch, who could rob himself of his wife's virtue, to endure the thoughts of thee, in the light thou seemest to hope I will accept thee in!-
I hesitated an interruption: But my meaning dy'd away upon my trembling lips. I could only pronounce the word marriage-And thus she proceeded:
Let me therefore know, whether I am to be controuled in the future disposal of myself? Whether, in a country of liberty, as this, where the Sovereign of it must not be guilty of your wickedness; and where you neither durst have attempted it, had I one friend or relation to look upon me, I am to be kept here a prisoner, to sustain fresh injuries? Whether, in a word, you intend to hinder me from going whither my destiny shall lead me?
After a pause; for I was still silent;
Can you not answer me this plain question? -I quit all claim, all expectation upon you-What right have you to detain me here?
I could not speak. What could I say to such a question?
O wretch! wringing her uplifted hands, had I not been robbed of my senses, and that in the basest manner-You best know how-Had I been able to account for myself, and your proceedings, or to have known but how the days passed; a whole week should not have gone over my head, as I find it has done, before I had told you, what I now tell you-That the man, who has been the villain to me you have been, shall never make me his wife. -I will write to my uncle, to lay aside his kind intentions in my favour-All my prospects are shut in-I give myself up for a lost creature as to this world-Hinder me not from entering upon a life of severe penitence, for corresponding, after prohibition, with a wretch, who has too well justified all their warnings and inveteracy; and for throwing myself into the power of your vile artifices. -Let me try to secure the only hope I have left. -This is all the amends I ask of you. I repeat therefore, Am I now at liberty to dispose of myself as I please?
Now comes the fool, the miscreant again, hesitating his broken answer: My dearest love, I am confounded, quite confounded, at the thought of what-of what has been done; and at the thought of-To whom. I see, I see, there is no withstanding your eloquence! -Such irresistable proofs of the love of virtue for its own sake-did I never hear of nor meet with, in all my reading. And if you can forgive a repentant villain, that thus on his knees implores your forgiveness [Then down I dropt, absolutely in earnest in all I said], I vow by all that's Sacred and Just (and a may a thunderbolt strike me dead at your feet, if I am not sincere!), that I will by marriage, before to-morrow-noon, without waiting for your uncle, or any-body, do you all the justice I now can do you. And you shall ever after controul and direct me as you please, till you have made me more worthy of your angelic purity, than now I am: Nor will I presume so much as to touch your garment, till I have the honour to call so great a blessing lawfully mine.
O thou guileful betrayer! There is a just God, whom thou invokest: Yet the thunderbolt descends not; and thou livest to imprecate and deceive!
My dearest life! rising; for I hoped she was resenting-
Hadst thou not sinned beyond the possibility of forgiveness, interrupted she; and had this been the first time that thus thou solemnly promisest and invokest the vengeance thou hast as often defied; the desperateness of my condition might have induced me to think of taking a wretched chance with a man so profligate. But, after what I have suffered by thee, it would be criminal in me to wish to bind my soul in covenant to a man so nearly ally'd to perdition.
Good God!-how uncharitable! -I offer not to defend-Would to Heaven that I could recall-So early ally'd to perdition, Madam! -So profligate a man, Madam!-
O how short is expression of thy crimes, and my sufferings! -Such premeditation in thy baseness! - To prostitute the characters of persons of honour of thy own family! -And all to delude a poor creature, whom thou oughtest-But why talk I to thee? -Be thy crimes upon thy head! -Once more I ask thee, am I, or am I not, at my own liberty now?
I offer'd to speak in defence of the women, declaring that they really were the very persons-
Presume not, interrupted she, base as thou art, to say one word in thine own vindication on this head. I have been contemplating their behaviour, their conversation, their over-ready acquiescencies to my declarations in thy disfavour; their free, yet affectedly reserved light manners: And now, that the sad event has open'd my eyes, and I have compared facts and passages together, in the little interval that has been lent me, I wonder I could not distinguish the behaviour of the unmatron-like jilt whom thou broughtest to betray me, from the worthy lady whom thou hast the honour to call thy aunt: And that I could not detect the superficial creature, whom thou passedst upon me for the virtuous Miss Montague.
Amazing uncharitableness in a lady so good herself! -That the high spirits those ladies were in to see you, should subject them to such censures! -I do most solemnly vow, Madam-
That they were, interrupting me, verily and indeed Lady Betty Lawrance, and thy cousin Montague! -O wretch! I see by thy solemn averrment [I had not yet averr'd it] what credit ought to be given to all the rest. Had I no other proof-
Interrupting her, I besought her patient ear. 'I had found myself,' I told her, 'almost avowedly despised and hated. I had no hope of gaining her love, or her confidence. The letter she had left behind her, on her removal to Hamstead, sufficiently convinced me, that she was intirely under Miss Howe's influence, and waited but the return of a letter from her, to enter upon measures that would deprive me of her for ever: Miss Howe had ever been my enemy: More so then, no doubt, from the contents of the letter she had written to her on her first coming to Hamstead: That I dared not to stand the event of such a letter; and was glad of an opportunity, by Lady Betty's and my cousin's means (tho' they knew not my motive), to get her back to town; far, at the time, from intending the outrage which my despair, and her want of confidence in me, put me so vilely upon'-
I would have proceeded; and particularly would have said something of Captain Tomlinson and her Uncle; but she would not hear me further. And indeed it was with visible indignation, and not without several angry interruptions, that she heard me say so much.
Would I dare, she asked me, to offer at a palliation of my baseness? -The two women, she was convinced, were impostors-She knew not but Captain Tomlinson, and Mr. Mennell were so too. But, whether they were so or not, I was. And she insisted upon being at her own disposal for the remainder of her short life-For indeed she abhorred me in every light; and more particularly in that, in which I offer'd myself to her acceptance.
And, saying this, she flung from me; leaving me absolutely shock'd and confounded at her part of a conversation, which she began with such uncommon, however severe composure, and concluded with so much sincere and unaffected indignation.
And now, Jack, I must address one serious paragraph particularly to thee.
I have not yet touched upon cohabitation-Her uncle's mediation she does not absolutely discredit, as I had the pleasure to find by one hint in this conversation -Yet she suspects my future views, and has doubts about Mennell and Tomlinson.
I do say, If she come fairly at her lights, at her clues, or what shall I call them? her penetration is wonderful.
But if she do not come at them fairly, then is her incredulity, then is her antipathy to me, evidently accounted for.
I will speak out-Thou couldst not, surely, play me booty, Jack? -Surely thou couldst not let thy weak pity for her lead thee to an unpardonable breach of trust to thy friend, who has been so unreserved in his communications to thee?
I cannot believe thee capable of such a baseness. Satisfy me, however, upon this head. I must make a cursed figure in her eye, vowing and protesting, as I shall not scruple occasionally to vow and protest, if all the time she has had unquestionable informations of my perfidy! -I know thou as little fearest me, as I do thee, in any point of manhood; and wilt scorn to deny it, if thou hast done it, when thus home pressed.
And here I have a good mind to stop, and write no farther, till I have thy answer.
And so I will.
Monday morn. past three.

### v5 LETTER XXXIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Monday morn. 5 o' clock (June 19)
I must write on. Nothing else can divert me. And I think thou canst not have been a dog to me, I would fain have closed my eyes: But sleep flies me. Well says Horace, as translated by Cowley.
The halcyon Sleep will never build his nest
In any stormy breast.
'Tis not enough, that he does find
Clouds and Darkness in the mind:
Darkness but half his work will do.
'Tis not enough: He must find Quiet too.
Now indeed do I from my heart wish, that I had never known this lady. But who would have thought there had been such a woman in the world? Of all the sex I have hitherto known, or heard, or read of, it was once subdued, and always subdued. The first struggle was generally the last; or, at least, the subsequent struggles were so much fainter and fainter, that a man would rather have them, than be without them. But how know I yet-
It is now near six-The sun has been illuminating, for several hours, every thing about me: For that impartial orb shines upon mother Sinclair's house, as well as upon any other: But nothing within me can it illuminate.
At day-dawn I looked thro' the key-hole of my Beloved's door. She had declared she would not put off her cloaths any more in this house. There I beheld her in a sweet slumber, which I hope will prove refreshing to her disturbed senses; sitting in her elbow-chair, her apron over her head, and that supported by one sweet hand, the other hanging down upon her side, in a sleepy lifelessness; half of one pretty foot only visible.
See the difference in our cases, thought I! She, the charming injured, can sweetly sleep, while the varlet injurer cannot close his eyes; and has been trying to no purpose, the whole night, to divert his melancholy, and to fly from himself!
As every vice generally brings on its own punishment, even in this life, if any thing were to tempt me to doubt of future punishment, it would be, that there can hardly be a greater, than that which I at this instant experience in my own remorse.
I hope it will go off. -If not, well will the dear creature be avenged; for I shall be the most miserable of men.
Six o' clock.
Just now Dorcas tells me, that her lady is preparing openly, and without disguise, to be gone. Very probable. The humour she flew away from me in last night, has given me expectation of such an enterprize.
Now, Jack, to be thus hated, and despised! - And if I have sinned beyond forgiveness-
But she has sent me a message by Dorcas, that she will meet me in the dining-room; and desires [Odd enough!] that the wench may be present at the conversation that shall pass between us. This message gives me hope.
Nine o' clock.
Confounded art, cunning, villainy! -By my soul, she had like to have slipt thro' my fingers. She meant nothing by her message, but to get Dorcas out of the way, and a clear coast. Is a fancied distress sufficient to justify this lady for dispensing with her principles? Does she not shew me, that she can wilfully deceive, as well as I?
Had she been in the fore-house, and no passage to go thro' to get at the street-door, she had certainly been gone. But her haste betray'd her: For Sally Martin happening to be in the fore-parlour, and hearing a swifter motion than usual, and a rustling of silks, as if from somebody in a hurry, looked out and seeing who it was, stept between her and the door, and set her back against it.
You must not go, Madam. Indeed you must not.
By what right? -And how dare you? -And such like imperious airs the dear creature gave herself. - While Sally called out for her aunt; and half a dozen voices joined instantly in the cry, for me to hasten down, to hasten down, in a moment.
I was gravely instructing Dorcas above-stairs, and wondering what would be the subject of the conversation which she was to be a witness to, when the outcries reached my ears. And down I flew. -And there was the charming creature, the sweet deceiver panting for breath, her back against the partition, parcel in her hand [Women make no excursions without their parcels] Sally, Polly (but Polly obligingly pleading for her) the Mother, Mabell, and Peter (the footman of the house), about her; all, however, keeping their distance; the Mother and Sally between her and the door-In her soft rage the dear soul, repeating, I will go! -Nobody has a right-I will go! -If you kill me, women, I won't go up again!
As soon as she saw me, she stept a pace or two towards me; Mr. Lovelace, I will go! said she-Do you authorize these women-What right have they, or you either, to stop me?
Is this, my dear, preparative to the conversation you led me to expect in the dining-room? And do you think I can part with you thus? -Do you think I will?
And am I, Sir, to be thus beset! -Surrounded thus? -What have these women to do with me?
I desired them to leave us, all but Dorcas, who was down as soon as I. I then thought it right to assume an air of resolution, having found my tameness so greatly triumphed over. And now, my dear, said I (urging her reluctant feet), be pleased to walk to the fore-parlour. Here, since you will not go up stairs-Here we may hold our parley: and Dorcas be witness to it. -And now, Madam, seating her, and sticking my hands in my sides, your pleasure!
Insolent villain! said the furious lady. And, rising, ran to the window, and threw up the sash [She knew not, I suppose, that there were iron rails before the windows]. And, when she found she could not get out into the street, clasping her uplifted hands together -having dropt her parcel-For the love of God, good honest man! -For the love of God, mistress- to two passers-by-a poor, poor creature, said she, ruin'd!-
I clasp'd her in my arms, people beginning to gather about the window: And then she cried out, Murder! Help! help! -And carried her up to the dining-room, in spight of her little plotting heart (as I may now call it), altho' she violently struggled, catching hold of the banisters here and there, as she could. I would have seated her there, but she sunk down half-motionless, pale as ashes. And a violent burst of tears happly reliev'd her.
Dorcas wept over her. The wench was actually moved for her!
Violent hysterics succeeded. I left her to Mabell, Dorcas, and Polly; the latter the most supportable to her of the sisterhood.
This attempt, so resolutely made, alarmed me not a little.
Mrs. Sinclair, and her nymphs, are much more concerned; because of the reputation of their house, as they call it, having receiv'd some insults (broken windows threaten'd), to make them produce the young creature who cried out.
While the mobbish inquisitors were in the height of their office, the women came running up to me to know what they should do; a constable being actually fetch'd.
Get the constable into the parlour, said I, with three or four of the forwardest of the mob, and produce one of the nymphs, onion-ey'd, in a moment with disorder'd head-dress and neck-kerchief, and let her own herself the person: The occasion, a female skirmish; but satisfied with the justice done her. Then give a dram or two to each fellow, and all will be well
Eleven o' clock.
All done, as I advised; and all is well.
Mrs. Sinclair wishes she never had seen the face of so skittish a lady; and she and Sally are extremely pressing with me, to leave the perverse beauty to their breaking, as they call it, for four or five days. But I cursed them into silence; only ordering double precaution for the future.
Polly, tho' she consoled the dear perverse-one all she could, when with her, insists upon it to me, that nothing but terror will procure me tolerable usage.
Dorcas was challenged by the women upon her tears. She own'd them real. Said, She was asham'd of herself; but could not help it. So sincere, so unyielding a grief, in so sweet a lady!-
The women laugh'd at her: But I bid her make no apologies for her tears, nor mind their laughing. I was glad to see them so ready. Good use might be made of such strangers. In short, I would have her indulge them often, and try if it were not possible to gain her lady's confidence by her concern for her.
She said, That her lady did take kind notice of them to her; and was glad to see such tokens of humanity in her.
Well then, said I, your part, whether any thing come of it or not, is to be tender-hearted. It can do no harm, if no good. But take care you are not too suddenly, or too officiously compassionate.
So Dorcas will be a humane good sort of creature, I believe, very quickly with her lady. And as it becomes women to be so, and as my Beloved is willing to think highly of her own sex; it will the more readily pass with her.
I thought to have had one trial (having gone so far) for cohabitation. But what hope can there be of succeeding? -She is invincible! -Against all my notions, against all my conceptions (thinking of her as a woman, and in the very bloom of her charms), she is absolutely invincible! -My whole view, at the present, is to do her legal justice! if I can but once more get her out of her altitudes!
The consent of such a lady, must make her ever new, ever charming. But, astonishing! Can the want of a church ceremony make such a difference!
She owes me her consent; for hitherto I have had nothing to boast of. All, of my side, has been deep remorse, anguish of mind, and love increased rather than abated.
How her proud rejection stings me! -And yet I hope still to get her to listen to my stories of the family-reconciliation, and of her Uncle and Capt. Tomlinson. -And as she has given me a pretence to detain her, against her will, she must see me, whether in temper, or not-She cannot help it. And if Love will not do, Terror, as the women advise, must be tried.
A nice part, after all, has my Beloved to act. If she forgive me easily, I resume, perhaps, my projects: -If she carry her rejection into violence, that violence may make me desperate, and occasion fresh violence-She ought, since she thinks she has found the women out, to consider where she is.
I am confoundedly out of conceit with myself. If I give up my contrivances, my joy in stratagem, and plot, and invention, I shall be but a common man: Such another dull heavy creature as thyself. Yet what does even my success in my machinations bring me, but disgrace, repentance, regret? But I am overmatched, egregiously overmatched, by this lady. What to do with her, or without her, I know not.

### v5 LETTER XXXIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
I have this moment intelligence from Simon Parsons, one of Lord M.'s stewards, that his Lordship is very ill. Simon, who is my obsequious servant, in virtue of my presumptive heirship, gives me a hint in his letter, that my presence at M.-Hall will not be amiss. So, I must accelerate, whatever be the course I shall be allowed or compelled to take.
No bad prospects for this charming creature, if the old peer would be so kind as to surrender; and many a summons has his gout given him. A good 8000l. a year; and perhaps the title reversionary, would help me up with her.
Proudly as this lady pretends to be above all pride, grandeur will have its charms with her; for grandeur always makes a man's face shine in a woman's eye. I have a pretty good, because a clear, estate, as it is: But what a noble variety of mischief will 8000l. a year enable a man to do?
Perhaps thou'lt say, I do already all that comes into my head: But that's a mistake-Not one half, I will assure thee. And even good folks, as I have heard, love to have the power of doing mischief, whether they make use of it, or not. The late Queen Anne, who was a very good woman, was always fond of prerogative. And her ministers, in her name, in more instances than one, made a ministerial use of this her foible.
But now, at last, am I to be admitted to the presence of my angry Fair-one: After three denials, nevertheless; and a peremptory from me, by Dorcas, that I must see her in her chamber, if I cannot see her in the dining-room.
Dorcas, however, tells me, that she says, if she were at her own liberty, she would never see me more; and that she has been asking after the characters and conditions of the neighbours. I suppose, now she has found her voice, to call out for help from them, if there were any to hear her.
She will have it now, it seems, that I had the wickedness, from the very beginning, to contrive for her ruin, a house so convenient for dreadful mischief.
Dorcas begs of her to be pacified-Intreats her to see me with patience-Tells her, that I am one of the most determin'd of men, as she has heard say- That gentleness may do with me; but that nothing else will, she believes. And what, as her ladyship (as she always stiles her) is married, if I had broke my oath, or intended to break it!-
She hinted plain enough to the honest wench, that she was not married. -But Dorcas would not understand her.
This shews, that she is resolv'd to keep no measures. And now is to be a trial of skill, whether she shall or not.
Dorcas has hinted to her my Lord's illness, as a piece of intelligence that dropped in conversation from me.
But here I stop. My Beloved, pursuant to my peremptory message, is just gone up into the dining-room.

### v5 LETTER XXXV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Monday afternoon, June 19.
Pity me, Jack, for pity's sake; since, if thou dost not, no-body else will: And yet never was there a man of my genius, and lively temper, that wanted it more. We are apt to attribute to the devil every-thing that happens to us, which we would not have happen: But here, being (as perhaps thou'lt say) the devil, myself, my plagues arise from an angel. I suppose all mankind is to be plagu'd by its contrary.
She began with me like a true woman (She in the fault, I to be blamed) the moment I enter'd the dining-room: -Not the least apology, not the least excuse, for the uproar she had made, and the trouble she had given me.
I come, said she, into thy detested presence, because I cannot help it. But why am I to be imprison'd here? -Altho' to no purpose, I cannot help-
Dearest Madam, interrupted I, give not way to so much violence. You must know, that your detention is intirely owing to the desire I have to make you all the amends that is in my power to make you. And This, as well for your sake as my own. -Surely, there is still one way left to repair the wrongs you have suffer'd-
Canst thou blot out the past week? Several weeks past, I should say; ever since I have been with thee? Canst thou call back time? -If thou canst-
Surely, Madam, again interrupting her, If I may be permitted to call you legally mine, I might have but anticip-
Wretch, that thou art! Say not another word upon this subject. When thou vowedst, when thou promisedst at Hamstead, I had begun to think, that I must be thine. If I had consented, at the request of those I thought thy relations, this would have been a principal inducement, That I could then have brought thee, what was most wanted, an unsullied honour in dowry, to a wretch destitute of all honour; and could have met the gratulations of a family, to which thy life has been one continued disgrace, with a consciousness of deserving their gratulations. But thinkest thou, that I will give a harlot-niece to thy honourable uncle, and to thy real aunts; and a cousin to thy cousins from a brothel? For such, in my opinion, is this detested house! -Then, lifting up her clasped hands, 'Great and good God of Heaven, said she, give me patience to support myself under the weight of those afflictions, which Thou, for wise and good ends, tho' at present impenetrable by me, hast permitted!'
Then, turning towards me, who knew neither what to say to her, nor for myself, I renounce thee for ever, Lovelace! -Abhorred of my soul! for ever I renounce thee! -Seek thy fortunes wheresoever thou wilt! -Only now, that thou hast already ruin'd me-
Ruin'd you, Madam-The world need not-I knew not what to say-
Ruin'd me in my own eyes, and that is the same to me, as if all the world knew it-Hinder me not from going whither my mysterious destiny shall lead me-
Why hesitate you, Sir? What right have you to stop me, as you lately did; and to bring me up by force, my hands and arms bruised with your violence? What right have you to detain me here?
I am cut to the heart, Madam, with invectives so violent. I am but too sensible of the wrong I have done you, or I could not bear your reproaches. The man who perpetrates a villainy, and resolves to go on with it, shews not the compunction I shew. Yet, if you think yourself in my power, I would caution you, Madam, not to make me desperate. For you shall be mine, or my life shall be the forfeit! Nor is life worth having without you!-
Be thine! -I be thine!-said the passionate Beauty. O how lovely in her violence!-
Yes, Madam, Be mine! -I repeat, You shall be mine! -My very crime is your glory. My love, my admiration of you is increased by what has passed: And so it ought. I am willing, Madam, to court your returning favour: But let me tell you, were the house beset by a thousand armed men, resolved to take you from me, they should not effect their purpose, while I had life.
I never, never will be yours, said she, clasping her hands together, and lifting up her eyes! -I never will be yours!
We may yet see many happy years, Madam. All your friends may be reconciled to you. The treaty for that purpose is in greater forwardness than you imagine. You know better than to think the worse of yourself for suffering what you could not help. Injoin but the terms I can make my peace with you upon, and I will instantly comply.
Never, never, repeated she, will I be yours!-
Only forgive me, my dearest life, this one time! - A virtue so invincible! what further view can I have against you? -Have I attempted any further outrage? -If you will be mine, your injuries will be injuries done to myself. You have too well guessed at the unnatural arts that have been used? -But can a greater testimony be given of your virtue? -And now I have only to hope, that altho' I cannot make you complete amends, yet that you will permit me to make you all the amends that can possibly be made.
Hear me out, I beseech you, Madam; for she was going to speak with an aspect unpacifiedly angry: The God, whom you serve, requires but repentance and amendment. Imitate Him, my dearest love, and bless me with the means of reforming a course of life, that begins to be hateful to me. That was once your favourite point. Resume it, dearest creature: In charity to a soul as well as body, which once, as I flatter'd myself, was more than indifferent to you, resume it. And let to-morrow's sun witness to our espousals.
I cannot judge thee, said she; but the God to whom thou so boldly referrest, can; and assure thyself He will. But, if compunction has really taken hold of thee; if indeed thou art touched for thy ingrateful baseness, and meanest any thing by pleading the holy example thou recommendest to my imitation; in this thy pretended repentant moment, let me sift thee thoroughly; and, by thy answer, I shall judge of the sincerity of thy pretended declarations.
Tell me then, Is there any reality in the treaty thou hast pretended to be on foot between my Uncle and Captain Tomlinson, and thyself? -Say, and hesitate not, is there any truth in that story? -But, remember, if there be not, and thou avowest that there is, what further condemnation attends thy averrment, if it be as solemn, as I require it to be!
This was a cursed thrust. What could I say? - Surely, this merciless lady is resolved to damn me, thought I, and yet accuses me of a design against her soul! -But was I not obliged to proceed as I had begun?
In short, I solemnly averr'd, that there was! - How one crime, as the good folks say, brings on another?
I added, That the Captain had been in town, and would have waited on her, had she not been indisposed: That he went down much afflicted, as well on her account, as on that of her uncle; tho' I had not acquainted him either with the nature of her disorder, or the ever-to-be-regretted occasion of it; having told him, that it was a violent fever: That he had twice since, by her uncle's desire, sent up to inquire after her health: And that I had already dispatched a man and horse with a letter, to acquaint him (and her uncle thro' him) with her recovery; making it my earnest request, that he would renew his application to her uncle for the favour of his presence at the private celebration of our nuptials; and that I expected an answer, if not this night, as to-morrow.
Let me ask thee next, said she, Thou knowest the opinion I have of the women thou broughtest to me at Hamstead; and who have seduced me hither to my ruin; Let me ask thee, If really and truly, they were Lady Betty Lawrance and thy cousin Montague? -What sayest thou-Hesitate not-What sayest thou to this question?
Astonishing, my dear, that you should suspect them! -But, knowing your strange opinion of them, what can I say to be believed?
And is this the answer thou returnest me? Dost thou thus evade my question? But let me know, for I am trying thy sincerity now, and shall judge of thy new professions by thy answer to this question; Let me know, I repeat, whether those women be really Lady Betty Lawrance and thy cousin Montague?
Let me, my dearest love, be enabled to-morrow to call you lawfully mine, and we will set out the next day, if you please, to Berkshire, to my Lord M.'s, where they both are at this time, and you shall convince yourself by your own eyes, and by your own ears; which you will believe sooner than all I can say or swear.
Now, Belford, I had really some apprehension of treachery from thee; which made me so miserably evade; for else, I could as safely have sworn to the truth of this, as to that of the former: But she pressing me still for a categorical answer, I ventur'd plumb; and swore to it [Lovers oaths, Jack] that they were really and truly Lady Betty Lawrance and my cousin Montague.
She lifted up her hands, and eyes-What can I think! -What can I think!-
You think me a devil, Madam; a very devil! or you could not, after you have put these questions to me, seem to doubt the truth of answers so solemnly sworn to.
And if I do think thee so, have I not cause? Is there another man in the world (I hope, for the sake of human nature, there is not) who could act by any poor friendless creature as thou hast acted by me, whom thou hast made friendless-And who, before I knew thee, had for a friend every one who knew me?
I told you, Madam, before, that my aunt and cousin were actually here, in order to take leave of you, before they set out for Berkshire. But the effects of my ingrateful crime (such, with shame and remorse, I own it to be!) were the reason you could not see them. Nor could I be fond, that they should see you: Since they never would have forgiven me, had they known what had passed-And what reason had I to expect your silence on the subject, had you been recover'd?
It signifies nothing now, that the cause of their appearance has been answer'd in my ruin, who or what they are: But, if thou hast averr'd thus solemnly to two falshoods, what a wretch do I see before me!-
I thought she had now reason to be satisfied; and I begg'd her to allow me to talk to her of to-morrow, as of the happiest day of my life. We have the Licence, Madam-And you must excuse me, that I cannot let you go hence, till I have try'd every way I can try, to obtain your forgiveness.
And am I then (with a kind of frantic wildness) to be detained a prisoner in this horrid house? -Am I, Sir? -Take care! -Take care! holding up her hand, menacing, how you make me desperate! -If I fall, tho' by my own hand, inquisition will be made for my blood: And be not out in thy plot, Lovelace, if it should be so-Make sure work, I charge thee: Dig a hole deep enough to cram in and conceal this unhappy body: For, depend upon it, that some of those, who will not stir to protect me living, will move heaven and earth, to avenge me dead!
A horrid dear creature! -By my soul, she made me shudder! She had need, indeed, to talk of her unhappiness, in falling into the hands of the only man in the world, who could have used her, as I have used her! She is the only woman in the world, who could have shock'd and disturb'd me, as she has done. -So we are upon a foot in that respect. And I think I have the worst of it by much. Since very little has been my joy; very much my trouble: And her punishment, as she calls it, is over: But when mine will, or what it may be, who can tell?
Here, only recapitulating [think, then, how I must be affected at the time], I was forced to leave off, and sing a song to myself. I aimed at a lively air; but I croaked rather than sung: And fell into the old dismal thirtieth of January strain. I hemm'd up for a sprightlier note; but it would not do: And at last I ended, like a malefactor, in a dead psalm-melody.
High-ho!-I gape like an unfledg'd kite in its nest, wanting to swallow a chicken, bobb'd at its mouth, by its marauding dam!-
What a devil ails me! -I can neither think nor write!-
Lie down, pen, for a moment!-

### v5 LETTER XXXVI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;.
There is certainly a good deal in the observation, That it costs a man ten times more pains to be wicked, than it would cost him to be good. What a confounded number of contrivances have I had recourse to, in order to carry my point with this charming creature; and, after all, how have I puzzled myself by it; and yet am near tumbling into the pit, which it was the end of all my plots to shun! What a happy man had I been, with such an excellence, could I have brought my mind to marry when I first prevailed upon her to quit her father's house! But then, as I have often reflected, how had I known, that a but blossoming beauty, who could carry on a private correspondence, and run such risques with a notorious wild fellow, was not prompted by inclination, which one day might give such a free liver as myself, as much pain to reflect upon, as, at the time, it gave me pleasure? Thou remembrest the Host's tale in Ariosto. And thy experience, as well as mine, can furnish out twenty Fiametta's in proof of the imbecility of the sex.
But to proceed with my narrative.
The dear creature resumed the topic her heart was so firmly fixed upon; and insisted upon quitting the odious house, and that in very high terms.
I urged her to meet me the next day at the altar, in either of the two churches mentioned in the Licence. And I besought her, whatever were her resolution, to let me debate this matter calmly with her.
If, she said, I would have her give what I desired, the least moment's consideration, I must not hinder her from being her own mistress. To what purpose did I ask her consent, if she had not a power over either her own person or actions?
Will you give me your honour, Madam, if I consent to your quitting a house so disagreeable to you?-
My honour, Sir! said the dear creature-Alas! - And turned weeping from me with inimitable grace- As if she had said-Alas! -You have robb'd me of my honour!
I hoped then, that her angry passions were subsiding! -But I was mistaken! -For, urging her warmly for the day; and that for the sake of our mutual honour, and the honour of both our families, in this high-flown, and high-soul'd strain, she answer'd me:
And canst thou, Lovelace, be so mean-as to wish to make a wife of the creature thou hast insulted, dishonoured, and abused, as thou hast me? Was it necessary to humble Clarissa Harlowe down to the low level of thy baseness, before she could be a wife meet for thee? Thou hadst a father, who was a man of honour: A mother, who deserved a better son-Thou hast an uncle, who is no dishonour to the peerage of a kingdom, whose peers are more respectable than the nobility of any other country. Thou hast other relations also, who may be thy boast, tho' thou canst not be theirs. And canst thou not imagine, that thou hearest them calling upon thee; the dead from their monuments; the living from their laudable pride; not to dishonour thy antient and splendid house, by entering into wedlock, with a creature whom thou hast levelled with the dirt of the street, and classed with the vilest of her sex?
I extoll'd her greatness of soul, and her virtue. I execrated myself for my guilt: And told her, how grateful to the manes of my ancestors, as well as to the wishes of the living, the honour I supplicated for, would be.
But still she insisted upon being a free agent; of seeing herself in other lodgings before she would give what I urged the least consideration. Nor would she promise me favour even then, or to permit my visits. How then, as I asked her, could I comply, without resolving to lose her for ever?
She put her hand to her forehead often as she talked; and at last, pleading disorder in her head, retired; neither of us satisfied with the other. But she ten times more dissatisfied with me, than I with her.
Dorcas seems to be coming into favour with her-
What now! -What now!-
Monday Night.
How determin'd is this lady! -Again had she like to have escaped us! -What a fixed resentment! - She only, I find, assumed a little calm, in order to quiet suspicion. She was got down, and actually had unbolted the street-door, before I could get to her; alarmed as I was by Mrs. Sinclair's cookmaid, who was the only one that saw her fly thro' the passage: Yet lightning was not quicker than I.
Again I brought her back to the dining-room, with infinite reluctance on her part. And before her face, ordered a servant to be placed constantly at the bottom of the stairs for the future.
She seem'd even choak'd with grief and disappointment.
Dorcas was exceedingly assiduous about her; and confidently gave it as her own opinion, that her dear lady should be permitted to go to another lodging, since this was so disagreeable to her: Were she to be killed for saying so, she would say it. And was good Dorcas for this afterwards.
But for some time the dear creature was all passion and violence-
I see, I see, said she, when I had brought her up, what I am to expect from your new professions, O vilest of men!-
Have I offered to you, my beloved creature, any thing that can justify this impatience, after a more hopeful calm?
She wrung her hands. She disorder'd her head-dress. She tore her ruffles. She was in a perfect phrensy.
I dreaded her returning malady: But intreaty rather exasperating, I affected an angry air-I bid her expect the worst she had to fear-And was menacing on, in hopes to intimidate her, when, dropping down at my feet,
'Twill be a mercy, said she, the highest act of mercy you can do, to kill me outright upon this spot-This happy spot, as I will, in my last moments, call it! -Then, baring, with a still more frantic violence, part of her inchanting neck-Here, here, said the soul-harrowing beauty, let thy pointed mercy enter! And I will thank thee, and forgive thee for all the dreadful past! -With my latest gasp will I forgive and thank thee! -Or help me to the means, and I will myself put out of thy way so miserable a wretch! And bless thee for those means!
Why all this extravagant passion, why all these exclamations? Have I offered any new injury to you, my dearest life! What a phrensy is this! Am I not ready to make you all the reparation that I can make you? Had I not reason to hope-
No, no, no, no-half a dozen times, as fast as she could speak.
Had I not reason to hope, that you were meditating upon the means of making me happy, and yourself not miserable, rather than upon a flight so causeless and so precipitate?-
No, no, no, no, as before, shaking her head with wild impatience, as resolved not to attend to what I said.
My resolutions are so honourable, if you will permit them to take effect, that I need not be solicitous whither you go, if you will but permit my visits, and receive my vows. And, God is my witness, that I bring you not back from the door with any view to your dishonour, but the contrary: And this moment I will send for a minister to put an end to all your doubts and fears.
Say this, and say a thousand times more, and bind every word with a solemn appeal to that God, whom thou art accustomed to invoke to the truth of the vilest falshoods, and all will still be short of what thou hast vowed and promised to me. And, were not my heart to abhor thee, and to rise against thee, for thy perjuries, as it does, I would not, I tell thee once more, I would not, bind my soul in covenant with such a man, for a thousand worlds!
Compose yourself, however, Madam; for your own sake, compose yourself. Permit me to raise you up; abhorred as I am of your soul!-
Nay, if I must not touch you; for she wildly flaps my hands; but with such a sweet passionate air, her bosom heaving and throbbing as she looked up to me, that altho' I was most sincerely enraged, I could with transport have press'd her to mine-
If I must not touch you, I will not. -But depend upon it (and I assumed the sternest air I could assume, to try what that would do), depend upon it, Madam, that this is not the way to avoid the evils you dread. Let me do what I will, I cannot be used worse! -Dorcas, be gone!
She arose, Dorcas being about to withdraw, and wildly caught hold of her arm: O Dorcas! If thou art of mine own sex, leave me not, I charge thee! - Then quitting Dorcas, down she threw herself upon her knees, in the furthermost corner of the room, clasping a chair with her face laid upon the bottom of it! -O where can I be safe? -Where, where can I be safe, from this man of violence?-
This gave Dorcas an opportunity to confirm herself in her lady's confidence: The wench threw herself at my feet, while I seemed in violent wrath; and, embracing my knees, Kill me, Sir, kill me, Sir, if you please! -I must throw myself in your way, to save my lady. I beg your pardon, Sir-But you must be set on! -God forgive the mischief-makers! -But your own heart, if left to itself, would not permit these things! -Spare, however, Sir! spare my lady, I beseech you! bustling on her knees about me, as if I were intending to approach her lady, had I not been restrained by her.
This, humour'd by me, Begone, devil! -Officious devil, begone!-startled the dear creature; who, snatching up hastily her head from the chair, and as hastily popping it down again in terror, hit her nose, I suppose, against the edge of the chair; and it gush'd out with blood, running in a stream down her bosom; she herself too much affrighted to heed it!-
Never was mortal man in such terror and agitation as I; for I instantly concluded, that she had stabb'd herself with some concealed instrument.
I ran to her in a wild agony-For Dorcas was frighted out of all her mock interposition-
What have you done! -O what have you done! -Look up to me, my dearest life! -Sweet injur'd innocence, look up to me! What have you done! -Long will I not survive you! -And I was upon the point of drawing my sword to dispatch myself, when I discover'd-[What an unmanly blockhead does this charming creature make me at her pleasure!] that all I apprehended was but a bloody nose, which, as far as I know (for it could not be stopp'd in a quarter of an hour), may have saved her head, and her intellects.
But I see by this scene, that the sweet creature is but a pretty coward at bottom; and that I can terrify her out of her virulence against me, whenever I put on sternness and anger: But then, as a qualifier to the advantage this gives me over her, I find myself to be a coward too, which I had not before suspected, since I was capable of being so easily terrified by the apprehensions of her offering violence to herself.

### v5 LETTER XXXVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
But, with all this dear creature's resentment against me, I cannot, for my heart, think but she will get all over, and consent to enter the pale with me. Were she even to die to-morrow, and to know she should, would not a woman of her sense, of her punctilio, and in her situation, and of so proud a family, rather die married, than otherwise? -No doubt but she would; altho' she were to hate the man ever so heartily. If so, there is now but one man in the world whom she can have-And that is Me.
Now I talk [familiar writing is but talking, Jack] thus glibly of entering the pale, thou wilt be ready to question me, I know, as to my intentions on this head.
As much of my heart, as I know of it myself, will I tell thee. -When I am from her, I cannot still help hesitating about marriage, and I even frequently resolve against it; and am resolved to press my favourite scheme for cohabitation. But when I am with her, I am ready to say, to swear, and to do, whatever I think will be most acceptable to her: And were a parson at hand, I should plunge at once, no doubt of it, into the state.
I have frequently thought, in common cases, that it is happy for many giddy fellows [There are giddy fellows, as well as giddy girls, Jack; and perhaps those are as often drawn in, as these], that ceremony and parade are necessary to the irrevocable solemnity; and that there is generally time for a man to recollect himself in the space between the heated overnight, and the cooler next morning; or I know not who could escape the sweet gypsies, whose fascinating powers are so much aided by our own raised imaginations.
A wife at any time, I used to say. I had ever confidence and vanity enough, to think, that no woman breathing could deny her hand, when I held out mine. I am confoundedly mortified to find, that this lady is able to hold me at bay, and to refuse all my honest vows.
What force [allow me a serious reflection, Jack: It will be put down!] What force have evil habits upon the human mind! When we enter upon a devious course, we think we shall have it in our power, when we will, to return to the right path. But it is not so, I plainly see: For, who can acknowlege with more justice this dear creature's merits, and his own errors, than I? Whose regret, at times, can be deeper than mine, for the injuries I have done her? Whose resolutions to repair those injuries stronger? -Yet how transitory is my penitence! -How am I hurried away-Canst thou tell by what? -O devil of Youth, and devil of Intrigue, how do ye mislead me! -How often do we end in occasions for the deepest remorse, what we begin in wantonness!-
At the present writing, however, the turn of the scale is in favour of matrimony-For I despair of carrying with her my favourite point.
The lady tells Dorcas, that her heart is broken; and that she shall live but a little while. I think nothing of that, if we marry. In the first place, she knows not what a mind unapprehensive will do for her, in a state to which all the sex look forward with high satisfaction. How often have the whole sacred conclave been thus deceived in their choice of a pope; not considering, that the new dignity is of itself sufficient to give new life! -A few months heart's-ease will give my charmer a quite different notion of things: And I dare say, as I have heretofore said, once married, and I am married for life.
I will allow, that her pride, in one sense, has suffered abasement: But her triumph is the greater in every other. And while I can think, that all her trials are but additions to her honour, and that I have laid the foundations of her glory in my own shame, can I be called cruel, if I am not affected with her grief, as some men would be?-
And for what should her heart be broken? Her will is unviolated: -At present, however, her will is unviolated. The destroying of good habits, and the introducing of bad, to the corrupting of the whole heart, is the violation. That her will is not to be corrupted, that her mind is not to be debased, she has hitherto unquestionably proved. And if she give cause for further trials, and hold fast her integrity; what ideas will she have to dwell upon, that will be able to corrupt her morals? -What vestigia, what remembrances, but such as will inspire abhorrence of the attempter?
What nonsense then to suppose, that such a mere notional violation, as she has suffered, should be able to cut asunder the strings of life?
Her religion, married, or not married, will set her above making such a trifling accident, such an involuntary suffering, fatal to her.
Such considerations as these, they are, that support me against all apprehension of bugbear consequences: And I would have them have weight with thee; who art such a doughty advocate for her. And yet I allow thee this; That she really makes too much of it: Takes it too much to heart. To be sure she ought to have forgot it by this time, except the charming, charming consequence happen, that still I am in hopes will happen, were I to proceed no further. And, if she apprehend this herself, then has the dear over-nice soul some reason for taking it so much to heart: And yet would not, I think, refuse to legitimate.
O Jack! had I an imperial diadem, I swear to thee, that I would give it up, even to my enemy, to have one charming boy by this lady. And should she escape me, and no such effect follow, my revenge on her family, and, in such a case, on herself, would be incomplete, and I should reproach myself as long as I lived.
Were I to be sure, that this foundation is laid [And why may I not hope it is?], I should not doubt to have her still (should she withstand her day of grace) on my own conditions: Nor should I, if it were so, question that revived affection in her, which a woman seldom fails to have for the father of her first child, whether born in wedlock, or out of it.
And pr'ythee, Jack, see in this aspiration, let me call it, a distinction in my favour from other rakes; who almost to a man follow their inclinations, without troubling themselves about consequences. In imitation, as one would think, of the strutting villain of a bird, which from feather'd lady to feather'd lady pursues his imperial pleasures, leaving it to his sleek paramours to hatch the genial product, in holes and corners of their own finding out.

### v5 LETTER XXXVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday Morn. June 20.
Well, Jack, now are we upon another foot together. This dear creature will not let me be good. She is now authorizing all my plots by her own example.
Thou must be partial in the highest degree, if now thou blamest me for resuming my former schemes, since in that case I shall but follow her clue. No forced construction of her actions do I make on this occasion, in order to justify a bad cause, or a worse intention. A little pretence, indeed, served the wolf, when he had a mind to quarrel with the lamb; but this is not now my case.
For here (Wouldst thou have thought it?), taking advantage of Dorcas's compassionate temper, and of some warm expressions, which the tender-hearted wench let fall against the cruelty of men; and wishing to have it in her power to serve her; has she given her the following Note, signed by her maiden name: For she has thought sit, in positive and plain words, to own to the pitying Dorcas, that she is not married.
Monday, June 19...
I the underwritten do hereby promise, that, on my coming into possession of my own estate, I will provide for Dorcas Martindale in a gentlewoman-like manner, in my own house: Or, if I do not soon obtain that possession, or should first die, I do hereby bind myself, my executors, and administrators, to pay to her, or her order, during the term of her natural life, the sum of five pounds on each of the four usual quarterly days in the year; that is to say, twenty pounds by the year; on condition that she faithfully assist me in my escape from an illegal confinement, which I now labour under. The first quarterly payment to commence, and be payable, at the end of three months immediately following the day of my deliverance. And I do also promise to give her, as a testimony of my honour in the rest, a diamond ring, which I have shewed her. Witness my hand, this nineteenth day of June, in the year above-written.
Clarissa Harlowe.
Now, Jack, what terms wouldst thou have me to keep with such a sweet corruptress? -Seest thou not how she hates me? -Seest thou not, that she is resolved never to forgive me? -Seest thou not, however, that she must disgrace herself in the eye of the world, if she actually should escape? -That she must be subjected to infinite distress and hazard? -For whom has she to receive and protect her? -Yet to determine to risque all these evils! -And furthermore to stoop to artifice, to be guilty of the reigning vice of the times, of bribery and corruption! O Jack, Jack! say not, write not, another word in her favour!-
Thou hast blamed me for bringing her to this house: But had I carried her to any other in England, where there would have been one servant or inmate capable either of compassion or corruption, what must have been the consequence?
But seest thou not, however, that, in this flimsy contrivance, the dear implacable, like a drowning man, catches at a straw to save herself! -A straw shall she find to be the refuge she has resorted to.

### v5 LETTER XXXIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;.
Tuesday Morn. 10 o'Clock.
Very ill! -Exceeding ill!-as Dorcas tells me, in order to avoid seeing me-And yet the dear soul may be so in her mind-But is not that equivocation? -Some one passion predominating, in every human breast, breaks thro' principle, and controuls us all. Mine is love and revenge taking turns. Hers is hatred. -But this is my consolation, that hatred appeased, is love begun; or love renew'd, I may rather say, if love ever had footing here.
But reflectioning apart, thou seest, Jack, that her plot is beginning to work. To-morrow it is to break out.
I have been abroad, to set on foot a plot of circumvention. All fair now, Belford!-
I insisted upon visiting my indisposed fair one. Dorcas made officious excuses for her. I cursed the wench in her hearing for her impertinence; and stamp'd, and made a clutter;-which was improved into an apprehension to the lady, that I would have flung her faithful confidante from the top of the stairs to the bottom.
He is a violent wretch! -But, Dorcas (dear Dorcas now it is), thou shalt have a friend in me to the last day of my life.
And what now dost think, the name of her good angel is? -Why Dorcas Martindale, Christian and Super (no more Wykes) as in the promisory note in my former-And the dear creature has bound her to her by the most solemn obligations, besides the tie of interest.
Whither, Madam, do you design to go when you get out of this house?
I will throw myself into the first open house I can find; and beg protection till I can get a coach, or a lodging in some honest family.
What will you do for cloaths, Madam? -I doubt you'll not be able to take any away with you, but what you'll have on.
O no matter for cloaths, if I can but get out of this house.
What will you do for money, Madam? I have heard his Honour express his concern, that he could not prevail upon you to be obliged to him, tho' he apprehended, that you must be short of money.
O, I have rings, and other valuables. Indeed I have but four guineas, and two of them, I found lately wrapt up in a bit of lace, designed for a charitable use: But now, alas! Charity begins at home! But I have one dear friend left, if she be living, as I hope in God she is! to whom I can be obliged, if I want. O Dorcas! I must ere now have heard from her, if I had had fair play.
Well, Madam, yours is a hard lot. I pity you at my heart!
Thank you, Dorcas! -I am unhappy, that I did not think before, that I might have confided in thy pity, and in thy sex!
I pitied you, Madam, often and often: But you were always, as I thought, diffident of me. And then I doubted not but you were married; and I thought his Honour was unkindly used by you. So that I thought it my duty to wish well to his Honour, rather than to what I thought to be your humours, Madam. Would to heaven, that I had known before, that you were not married! -Such a lady! -Such a fortune! -To be so sadly betrayed!-
Ah, Dorcas! I was basely drawn in! My youth! My ignorance of the world! -And I have some things to reproach myself with, when I look back!
Lord, Madam, what deceitful creatures are these men! -Neither oaths, nor vows! -I am sure! I am sure! -And then with her apron she gave her eyes half a dozen hearty rubs-I may curse the time that I came into this house!-
Here was accounting for her bold eyes! And was it not better to give up a house, which her lady could not think worse of than she did, in order to gain the reputation of sincerity, than by offering to vindicate it, to make her proffered services suspected?
Poor Dorcas! -Bless me! how little do we, who have lived all our time in the country, know of this wicked town!-
Had I been able to write, cried the veteran wench, I should certainly have given some other near relations I have in Wales, a little inkling of matters; and they would have saved me from-from-from-
Her sobs were enough. The apprehensions of women on such subjects are ever aforehand with speech.
And then, sobbing on, she lifted her apron to her face again. She shewed me how.
Poor Dorcas! -Again wiping her own charming eyes.
All love, all compassion, is this dear creature to every one in affliction, but me.
And would not an aunt protect her kinswoman?
Abominable wretch!
I can't-I can't-I can't-say, my aunt was privy to it. She gave me good advice. She knew not for a great while, that I was-that I was-that I was- ugh!-ugh!-ugh!-
No more, no more, good Dorcas! -What a world we live in! -What a house am I in! But come, don't weep (tho' she herself could not forbear): My being betrayed into it, tho' to my own ruin, may be a happy event for thee: And, if I live, it shall.
I thank you, my good lady, blubbering. I am sorry, very sorry, you have had so hard a lot. But it may be the saving of my soul, if I can get to your ladyship's house. -Had I but known that your ladyship was not married, I would have eat my own flesh, before, before, before-
Dorcas sobb'd and wept. The lady sighed and wept also.
But now, Jack, for a serious reflection upon the premises.
How will the good folks account for it, that Satan has such faithful instruments, and that the bond of wickedness is a stronger bond, than the ties of virtue? -As if it were the nature of the human mind to be villainous. For here, had Dorcas been good, and tempted, as she was tempted, to any thing evil, I make no doubt, but she would have yielded to the temptation.
And cannot our fraternity, in an hundred instances, give proof of the like predominance of vice over virtue? And that we have risqued more to serve and promote the interests of the former, than ever a good man did to serve a good man, or a good cause? For have we not been prodigal of life and fortune? Have we not defied the civil magistrate upon occasion; and have we not attempted rescues, and dared all things, only to extricate a pounded profligate?-
Whence, Jack, can this be?
O I have it, I believe. The vicious are as bad as they can be; and do the devil's work without looking after; while he is continually spreading snares for the others; and, like a skilful angler, suiting his baits to the fish he angles for.
Nor let even honest people, so called, blame poor Dorcas for her fidelity in a bad cause. For does not the General, who implicitly serves an ambitious prince in his unjust designs upon his neighbours, or upon his own oppressed subjects; and even the Lawyer who, for the sake of a paltry fee, undertakes to whiten a black cause, and to defend it against one he knows to be good, do the very same thing as Dorcas? And are they not both every whit as culpable? Yet the one shall be dubbed a hero, the other a charming fellow, and be contended for by every client; and his double-paced abilities shall carry him thro' all the high preferments of the Law with reputation and applause.
Well but, what shall be done, since the lady is so much determined on removing? -Is there no way to oblige her, and yet to make the very act subservient to my own views? -I fancy such a way may be found out.
I will study for it-
Suppose I suffer her to make an escape? Her heart is in it. If she effect it, the triumph she will have over me upon it will be a counterbalance for all she has suffered.
I will oblige her if I can.

### v5 LETTER XL.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tired with a succession of fatiguing days and sleepless nights, and with contemplating the precarious situation I stand in with my Beloved, I fell into a profound resverie; which brought on sleep; and that produced a dream; a fortunate dream; which, as I imagine, will afford my working mind the means to effect the obliging double purpose my heart is now once more set upon.
What, as I have often contemplated, is the enjoyment of the finest woman in the world, to the contrivance, the bustle, the surprizes, and at last the happy conclusion of a well-laid plot? -The charming roundabouts, to come the nearest way home;- the doubts; the apprehensions; the heart-akings, the meditated triumphs. -These are the joys that make the blessing dear. -For all the rest, what is it? - What but to find an angel in imagination dwindled down to a woman in fact? -But to my dream-
Methought it was about nine on Wednesday morning, that a chariot, with a dowager's arms upon the doors, and in it a grave matronly lady [not unlike Mother H. in the face; but in her heart O how unlike!], stopp'd at a grocer's shop, about ten doors on the other side of the way, in order to buy some groceries: And methought Dorcas, having been out to see if the coast were clear for her lady's flight, and if a coach were to be got near the place, espied this chariot with the dowager's arms, and this matronly lady: And what, methought, did Dorcas, that subtle traitress, do, but whip up to the old matronly lady, and, lifting up her voice, say, Good my Lady, permit me one word with your Ladyship.
What thou hast to say to me, say on, quoth the old lady; the grocer retiring, and standing aloof, to give Dorcas leave to speak; who, methought, in words like these, accosted the lady.
'You seem, Madam, to be a very good lady; and here in this neighbourhood, at a house of no high repute, is an innocent lady of rank and fortune, beautiful as a May morning, and youthful as a rose-bud, and full as sweet and lovely; who has been trick'd thither by a wicked gentleman, practised in the ways of the town; and this very night will she be ruined, if she get not out of his hands. Now, O Lady! if you will extend your compassionate goodness to this fair young lady, in whom, the moment you behold her, you will see cause to believe all I say; and let her but have a place in your chariot, and remain in your protection for one day only, till she can send a man and a horse to her rich and powerful friends; you may save from ruin a lady, who has no equal for virtue as well as beauty.'
Methought the old lady, moved with Dorcas's story, answered and said, 'Hasten, O damsel, who in a happy moment art come to put it in my power to serve the innocent and the virtuous, which it has always been my delight to do: Hasten to this young lady, and bid her hie hither to me with all speed; and tell her, that my chariot shall be her asylum: And if I find all that thou sayest true, my house shall be her sanctuary, and I will protect her from all her oppressors.'
Hereupon, methought, this traitress Dorcas hied back to the lady, and made report of what she had done. And, methought, the lady highly approved of Dorcas's proceeding, and blessed her for her good thought.
And I lifted up mine eyes, and behold the lady issued out of the house, and without looking back, ran to the chariot with the dowager's coat upon it, and was received by the matronly lady with open arms, and 'Welcome, welcome, welcome, fair young lady, who so well answer the description of the faithful damsel: And I will carry you instantly to my house, where you shall meet with all the good usage your heart can wish for, till you can apprise your rich and powerful friends of your past dangers, and present escape.'
'Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, worthy, thrice worthy lady, who afford so kindly your protection to a most unhappy young creature, who has been basely seduced and betrayed, and brought to the very brink of destruction.'
Methought then, the matronly lady, who had by the time the young lady came to her, bought and paid for the goods she wanted, ordered her coachman to drive home with all speed; who stopped not till he had arrived in a certain street, not far from Lincolns-inn-fields, where the matronly lady lived in a sumptuous dwelling, replete with damsels who wrought curiously in muslins, cambricks, and fine linen, and in every good work that industrious damsels love to be imployed about, except the loom and the spinning-wheel.
And methought, all the way the young lady and the old lady rode, and after they came in, till dinner was ready, the young lady filled up the time with the dismal account of her wrongs and her sufferings, the like of which was never heard by mortal ear; and this in so moving a manner, that the good old lady did nothing but weep, and sigh, and sob, and inveigh against the arts of wicked men, and against that abominable 'Squire Lovelace, who was a plotting villain, methought she said; and, more than that, an unchained Beelzebub.
Methought I was in a dreadful agony, when I found the lady had escaped; and in my wrath had like to have slain Dorcas, and our mother, and every one I met. But, by some quick transition, and strange metamorphosis, which dreams do not usually account for, methought, all of a sudden, this matronly lady was turned into the famous Mother H. herself; and, being an old acquaintance of Mother Sinclair, was prevailed upon to assist in my plot upon the young lady.
Then, methought, followed a strange scene; for, Mother H. longing to hear more of the young lady's story, and night being come, besought her to accept of a place in her own bed, in order to have all the talk to themselves. For, methought, two young nieces of hers had broken in upon them in the middle of the dismal tale.
Accordingly going early to bed, and the sad story being resumed, with as great earnestness on one side, as attention on the other, before the young lady had gone far in it, Mother H. methought was taken with a fit of the colic; and her tortures increasing, was obliged to rise, to get a cordial she used to find specific in this disorder, to which she was unhappily subject.
Having thus risen, and stept to her closet, methought she let fall the wax taper in her return, and then [O metamorphosis still stranger than the former! What unaccountable things are dreams!], coming to bed again in the dark, the young lady, to her infinite astonishment, grief, and surprize, found Mother H. turned into a young person of the other sex: And altho' Lovelace was the abhorred of her soul, yet, fearing it was some other person, it was matter of some consolation to her, when she found it was no other than himself, and that she had been still the bedfellow of but one and the same man.
A strange promiscuous huddle of adventures followed; scenes perpetually shifting; now nothing heard from the lady, but sighs, groans, exclamations, faintings, dyings. -From the gentleman, but vows, promises, protestations, disclaimers of purposes pursued; and all the gentle and ungentle pressures of the lover's warfare.
Then, as quick as thought [for dreams, thou knowest, confine not themselves to the rules of the drama], ensued recoveries, lyings-in, christenings, the smiling boy, amply, even in her own opinion, rewarding the suffering mother.
Then the grandfather's estate yielded up, possession taken of it-Living very happily upon it: - Her beloved Norton her companion; Miss Howe her visitor; and (admirable! thrice admirable!) enabled to compare notes with her; a charming girl, by the same father, to her friend's charming boy; who, as they grow up, in order to consolidate their mammas friendships [for neither have dreams regard to consanguinity], intermarry; change names by act of parliament, to enjoy my estate;-and I know not what of the like incongruous stuff.
I awoke, as thou mayest believe, in great disorder, and rejoiced to find my charmer in the next room, and Dorcas honest.
Now thou wilt say, this was a very odd dream. And yet (for I am a strange dreamer) it is not altogether improbable, that something like it may happen; as the pretty simpleton has the weakness to confide in Dorcas, whom, till now, she disliked.
But I forgot to tell thee one part of my dream; and that was, That, the next morning, the lady gave way to such transports of grief and resentment, that she was with difficulty diverted from making an attempt upon her own life. But, however, at last, was prevailed upon to resolve to live, and to make the best of the matter. A letter, methought, from Capt. Tomlinson helping to pacify her, written to apprise me, that her uncle Harlowe would certainly be at Kentish-town on Wednesday night June 28. the following day, the 29th, being his anniversary birth-day; and he doubly desirous, on that account, that our nuptials should be then privately solemnized in his presence.
But is Thursday the 29th her uncle's anniversary, methinks thou askest? -It is; or else the day of celebration should have been earlier still. Three weeks ago I heard her say it was; and I have down the birth-day of every one of her family, and the wedding-day of her father and mother. The minutest circumstances are often of great service, in matters of the last importance.
And what sayest thou now to my dream?
Who says, that, sleeping and waking, I have not fine helps from some body, some spirit rather, as thou'lt be apt to say? -But no wonder that a Beelzebub has his devilkins to attend his call.
I can have no manner of doubt of succeeding in Mother H.'s part of the scheme; for will the lady (who resolves to throw herself into the first house she can enter, or to bespeak the protection of the first person she meets; and who thinks there can be no danger out of this house, equal to what she apprehends from Me in it) scruple to accept of the chariot of a dowager, accidentally offering? And the lady's protection engaged by her faithful Dorcas, so highly bribed to promote her escape? -And then Mrs. H. has the air and appearance of a venerable matron, and is not such a forbidding devil as Mrs. Sinclair.
The pretty simpleton knows nothing of the world; nor that people who have money never want assistants in their views, be they what they will. How else could the princes of the earth be so implicitly served as they are, change they hands ever so often, and be their purposes ever so wicked?
If I can but get her to go on with me till Wednesday next week, we shall be settled together pretty quietly by that time. And indeed if she has any gratitude, and has in her the least of her sex's foibles, she must think I deserve her favour, by the pains she has cost me. For dearly do they all love, that men should take pains about them, and for them.
And here, for the present, I will lay down my pen, and congratulate myself upon my happy invention (since her obstinacy puts me once more upon exercising it)-But with this resolution, I think, That, if the present contrivance fail me, I will exert all the faculties of my mind, all my talents, to procure for myself a legal right to her favour, and that in defiance of all my antipathies to the married state; and of the suggestions of the great devil out of the house, and of his secret agents in it. -Since, if now she is not to be prevailed upon, or drawn in, it will be in vain to attempt her further.

### v5 LETTER XLI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday night, June 20.
No admittance yet to my charmer! She is very ill-in a violent fever, Dorcas thinks. Yet will have no advice.
Dorcas tells her how much I am concerned at it.
But again let me ask, Does this lady do right to make herself ill, when she is not ill? For my own part, libertine as people think me, when I had occasion to be sick, I took a dose of ipecacuanha, that I might not be guilty of a falshood; and most heartily sick was I; as she, who then pitied me, full well knew. But here to pretend to be very ill, only to get an opportunity to run away, in order to avoid forgiving a man who has offended her, how unchristian! -If good folks allow themselves in these breaches of a known duty, and in these presumptuous contrivances to deceive, who, Belford, shall blame us?
I have a strange notion, that the matronly lady will be certainly at the grocer's shop at the hour of nine to-morrow morning: For Dorcas heard me tell Mrs. Sinclair, that I shall go out at eight precisely; and then she is to try for a coach: And if the dowager's chariot should happen to be there, how lucky will it be for my charmer! How strangely will my dream be made out!
I have just received a letter from Captain Tomlinson. Is it not wonderful! For that was part of my dream!
I shall always have a prodigious regard to dreams henceforward. I know not but I may write a book upon that subject; for my own experience will furnish out a great part of it. Glanville of Witches, and Baxter's History of Spirits and Apparitions, and the Royal Insignificant's Demonology, will be nothing at all to Lovelace's Resveries.
The letter is just what I dream'd it to be. I am only concerned, that uncle John's anniversary did not happen three or four days sooner; for should any new misfortune befal my charmer, she may not be able to support her spirits so long, as till Thursday in the next week. Yet it will give me the more time for new expedients, should my present contrivance fail; which I cannot, however, suppose.
To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday, June 19.
Dear Sir,
I can now return you joy, for the joy you have given me, as well as my dear friend Mr. Harlowe, in the news of his beloved niece's happy recovery; for he is determined to comply with her wishes, and yours, and to give her to you with his own hand.
As the ceremony has been necessarily delayed by reason of her illness, and as Mr. Harlowe's Birthday is on Thursday the 29th of this instant June, when he enters into the seventy-fourth year of his age; and as time may be wanted to complete the dear lady's recovery; he is very desirous, that the marriage shall be solemnized upon it; that he may afterwards have double joy on that day, to the end of his life.
For this purpose, he intends to set out privately, so as to be at Kentish-town on Wednesday se'nnight in the evening.
All the family used, he says, to meet to celebrate it with him; but as they are at present in too unhappy a situation for that, he will give out, that, not being able to bear the day at home, he has resolved to be absent for two or three days.
He will set out on horseback, attended only with one trusty servant, for the greater privacy. He will be at the most creditable-looking public house there, expecting you both next morning, if he hear nothing from me to prevent him. And he will go to town with you after the ceremony is performed, in the coach he supposes you will come in.
He is very desirous, that I should be present on the occasion. But this I have promised him, at his request, that I will be up before the day, in order to see the settlements executed, and every thing properly prepared.
He is very glad that you have the licence ready.
He speaks very kindly of you, Mr. Lovelace; and says, that, if any of the family stand out after he has seen the ceremony performed, he will separate from them, and unite himself to his dear niece and her interests.
I owned to you, when in town, that I took slight notice to my dear friend of the misunderstanding between you and his niece; and that I did this, for fear the lady should have shewn any little discontent in his presence, were I to have been able to prevail upon him to go up in person, as then was doubtful. But I hope nothing of that discontent remains now.
My absence, when your messenger came, must excuse me for not writing by him.
Be pleased to make my most respectful compliments acceptable to the admirable lady, and believe me to be
Your most faithful and obedient servant,
Antony Tomlinson.
This letter I sealed, and broke open. It was brought, thou mayst suppose, by a particular messenger; the seal such a one as the writer need not be ashamed of. I took care to inquire after the Captain's health, in my Beloved's hearing; and it is now ready to be produced, as a pacifier, according as she shall take on, or resent, if the two metamorphoses happen pursuant to my wonderful dream; as, having great faith in dreams, I dare say they will. -I think it will not be amiss in changing my cloaths, to have this letter of the worthy Captain lie in my Beloved's way.

### v5 LETTER XLII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wedn. Noon, June 21.
What shall I say now! -I who but a few hours ago had such faith in dreams, and had proposed out of hand to begin my treatise of Dreams-sleeping and Dreams-waking, and was pleasing myself with the dialoguings between the old matronly lady, and the young lady; and with the two metamorphoses (absolutely assured that every thing would happen as my dream chalked it out); shall never more depend upon those flying follies, those illusions of a fancy depraved, and run mad.
Thus confoundedly have matters happened.
I went out at eight o'clock in high good humour with myself, in order to give the sought-for opportunity to the plotting mistress and corrupted maid; only ordering Will. to keep a good look-out, for fear his lady should mistrust my plot, or mistake a hackney-coach for the dowager-lady's chariot. But first I sent to know how she did; and received for answer, Very ill: -Had a very bad night: Which latter was but too probable: Since This I know, that people who have plots in their heads as seldom have as deserve good ones.
I desired a physician might be called in; but was refused.
I took a walk in St. James's park, congratulating myself all the way on my rare inventions: Then, impatient, I took coach, with one of the windows quite up, the other almost up, playing at bo-peep at every chariot I saw pass in my way to Lincolns-inn-fields: And, when arrived there, I sent the coachman to desire any one of Mother H.'s family to come to me to the coach-side, not doubting but I should have intelligence of my fair fugitive there; it being then half an hour after ten.
A servant came to me, who gave me to understand, that the matronly lady was just returned by herself in the chariot.
Frighted out of my wits, I alighted, and heard from the Mother's own mouth, that Dorcas had ingaged her to protect the lady; but came to tell her afterwards, that she had changed her mind, and would not quit the house.
Quite astonish'd, not knowing what might have happen'd, I order'd the coachman to lash away to our mother's.
Arriving here in an instant, the first word I ask'd, was, If the lady were safe?

### v5 LETTER XLIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wednesday afternoon.
Disappointed in her meditated escape;-obliged, against her will, to meet me in the dining-room; -and perhaps apprehensive of being upbraided for her art in feigning herself ill; I expected that the dear perverse would begin with me with spirit and indignation. But I was in hopes, from the gentleness of her natural disposition, from the consideration which I expected from her, on her situation on the letter of Captain Tomlinson, which Dorcas told me she had seen, and from the time she had had to cool and reflect, since she last admitted me to her presence, that she would not have carried it so strongly thro', as she did.
As I enter'd the dining-room, I congratulated her and myself upon her sudden recovery. And would have taken her hand, with an air of respectful tenderness. But she was resolved to begin where she left off.
She returned from me, drawing in her hand, with a repulsing and indignant aspect-I meet you once more, said she, because I cannot help it. What have you to say to me? Why am I to be thus detained against my will?
With the utmost solemnity of speech and behaviour, I urged the ceremony. I saw I had nothing else for it. -I had a letter in my pocket, I said (feeling for it, altho' I had not taken it from the table where I left it, and which we were then near), the contents of which, if attended to, would make us both happy. I had been loth to shew it to her before, because I hoped to prevail upon her to be mine sooner than the day mentioned in it.
I felt for it in all my pockets, watching her eye mean time, which I saw glance towards the table where it lay.
I was uneasy that I could not find it-At last, directed again by her sly eye, I spied it on the table at the further end of the room.
With joy I fetch'd it. Be pleased to read that letter, Madam, with an air of satisfied assurance.
She took it, and cast her eye over it, in such a careless way, as made it evident, that she had read it before: And then unthankfully toss'd it into the window-seat before her.
I urged her to bless me to-morrow, or Friday morning: At least, that she would not render vain her uncle's journey, and kind endeavours to bring about a reconciliation among us all.
Among us all, repeated she, with an air equally disdainful and incredulous. O Lovelace, thou art surely nearly allied to the grand deceiver, in thy endeavour to suit temptations to inclinations! -But what honour, what faith, what veracity, were it possible that I could enter into parley with thee on this subject, which it is not, may I expect from such a man as thou hast shewn thyself to be?
I was touch'd to the quick. A lady of your perfect character, Madam, who has feign'd herself sick, on purpose to avoid seeing the man who adored her, should-
I know what thou wouldst say, interrupted she! - Twenty and twenty low things, that my soul would have been above being guilty of, and which I have despised myself for, have I been brought into by the infection of thy company, and by the necessity thou hast laid me under, of appearing mean. But I thank God, destitute as I am, that I am not, however, sunk so low, as to wish to be thine.
I, Madam, as the injurer, ought to have patience. It is for the injured to reproach. But your uncle is not in a plot against you, it is to be hoped. There are circumstances in the letter you have cast your eyes over-
Again she interrupted me, Why, once more I ask thee, am I detained in this house? -Do I not see myself surrounded by wretches, who, tho' they wear the habit of my sex, may yet, as far as I know, lie in wait for my perdition?
She would be very loth, I said, that Mrs. Sinclair and her nieces should be called up to vindicate themselves, and their house.
Would but they kill me, let them come, and welcome. I will bless the hand that will strike the blow; indeed I will.
'Tis idle, very idle, to talk of dying. Mere young-lady talk, when controuled by those they hate. -But let me beseech you, dearest creature-
Beseech me nothing. Let me not be detained thus against my will! -Unhappy creature, that I am, said she, in a kind of phrensy, wringing her hands at the same time, and turning from me, her eyes lifted up! Thy curse, O my cruel father, seems to be now in the height of its operation! -I am in the way of being a lost creature as to both worlds! Blessed, blessed God, said she, falling on her knees, save me, O save me from myself, and from this man!
I sunk down on my knees by her, excessively affected. -O that I could recall yesterday! -Forgive me! my dearest creature, forgive what is past, as it cannot now but by one way be retrieved. Forgive me only on this condition-That my future faith and honour-
She interrupted me, rising-If you mean to beg of me, Never to seek to avenge myself by Law, or by an appeal to my relations, to my cousin Morden in particular, when he comes to England-
D-n the Law, rising also [She started], and all those to whom you talk of appealing! -I defy both the one and the other-All I beg, is YOUR forgiveness; and that you will, on my unfeigned contrition, re-establish me in your favour-
O no, no, no! lifting up her clasped hands, I never, never will, never, never can forgive you! - And it is a punishment worse than death to me, that I am obliged to meet you, or to see you!
This is the last time, my dearest life, that you will ever see me in this posture, on this occasion: And again I kneeled to her. -Let me hope, that you will be mine next Thursday, your uncle's birth-day, if not before. Would to Heaven I had never been a villain! Your indignation is not, cannot be, greater than my remorse-and I took hold of her gown; for she was going from me.
Be remorse thy portion! -For thy own sake, be remorse thy portion! -I never, never will forgive thee! -I never, never will be thine! -Let me retire! -Why kneelest thou to the wretch whom thou hast so vilely humbled?
Say but, dearest creature, you will consider-Say but you will take time to reflect upon what the honour of both our families require of you. I will not rise. I will not permit you to withdraw (still holding her gown), till you tell me you will consider. - Take this letter. Weigh well your situation, and mine. Say you will withdraw to consider; and then I will not presume to with-hold you.
Compulsion shall do nothing with me. Tho' a slave, a prisoner, in circumstance, I am no slave in my will! -Nothing will I promise thee-With-held, compell'd-Nothing will I promise thee-
Noble creature! -But not implacable, I hope! - Promise me but to return in an hour!-
Nothing will I promise thee!-
Say but you will see me again this evening!
O that I could say-that it were in my power to say-I never will see thee more! -Would to Heaven I never were to see thee more!
Passionate beauty-still holding her-
I speak, tho' with vehemence, the deliberate wish of my heart. -O that I could avoid looking down upon thee, mean groveler, and abject as insulting-Let me withdraw! My soul is in tumults! Let me withdraw!
I quitted my hold to clasp my hands together- Withdraw, O sovereigness of my fate! -Withdraw, if you will withdraw! -My destiny is in your power! -It depends upon your breath! -Your scorn but augments my love! -Your resentment is but too well founded! -But, dearest creature, return, return, with a resolution to bless with pardon and peace your faithful adorer!
She flew from me. As soon as she found her wings, the angel flew from me. I, the reptile kneeler, the despicable slave, no more the proud victor, arose, and, retiring, tried to comfort myself, that, circumstanced as she is, destitute of friends and fortune, her uncle moreover, who is to reconcile all so soon (as, I thank my stars, she still believes), expected.-
O that she would forgive me! -Would she but generously forgive me, and receive my vows at the altar, at the instant of her forgiving me, that I might not have time to relapse into my old prejudices! -By my soul, Belford, this dear girl gives the lye to all our rakish maxims. There must be something more than a name in virtue! -I now see that there is! - Once subdued, always subdued -'Tis an egregious falshood! -But Oh, Jack, she never was subdued. What have I obtained, but an increase of shame and confusion! -While her glory has been established by her sufferings!
This one merit is, however, left me, that I have laid all her sex under obligations to me, by putting this noble creature to trials, which, so gloriously supported, have done honour to them all.
But yet-But no more will I add-What a force have evil habits-I will take an airing, and try to fly from myself-Do not thou upbraid me on my weak fits-On my contradictory purposes-On my irresolution -And all will be well.

### v5 LETTER XLIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wednesday night.
A man is just now arrived from M. Hall, who tells me, that my Lord is in a very dangerous way. The gout in his stomach to an extreme degree, occasion'd by drinking a great quantity of limonade.
A man of 8000l. a year to prefer his appetite to his health! -He deserves to die! -But we have all of us our inordinate passions to gratify! -And they generally bring their punishment along with them. - So witnesses the nephew, as well as the uncle.
The fellow was sent up on other business; but stretched his orders a little, to make his court to a successor.
I am glad I was not at M. Hall, at the time my Lord took the grateful dose [It was certainly grateful to him at the time]: There are people in the world, who would have had the wickedness to say, that I had persuaded him to drink it.
The man says, that his Lordship was so bad when he came away, that the family began to talk of sending for me, in post-haste. As I know the old peer has a good deal of cash by him, of which he seldom keeps account, it behoves me to go down as soon as I can. But what shall I do with this dear creature the while? -To-morrow over, I shall, perhaps, be able to answer my own question. -I am afraid she will make me desperate.
For here have I sent to implore her company, and am denied with scorn.
I have been so happy as to receive, this moment, a third letter from my dear correspondent Miss Howe. A little severe devil! -It would have broke the heart of my Beloved, had it fallen into her hands. I will inclose a copy of it. Read it here.
Tuesday, June 20
My dearest Miss Harlowe,
Again I venture to write to you (almost against inclination); and that by your former conveyance, little as I like it.
I know not how it is with you. It may be bad; and then it would be hard to upbraid you, for a silence you may not be able to help. But if not, what shall I say severe enough, that you have not answered either of my last letters? The first of which (and I think it imported you too much to be silent upon it) you owned the receipt of. The other, which was delivered into your own hands, was so pressing for the favour of a line from you, that I am amazed I could not be obliged. -And still more, that I have not heard from you since.
The fellow made so strange a story of the condition he saw you in, and of your speech to him, that I know not what to conclude from it: Only, that he is a simple, blundering, and yet conceited fellow, who aiming at description, and the rustic wonderful, gives an air of bumkin romance to all he tells. That this is his character, you will believe, when you are informed, that he described you in grief excessive, yet so improved in your person and features, and so rosy, that was his word, in your face, and so flush-colour'd, and so plump in your arms, that one would conclude you were labouring under the operation of some malignant poison; and so much the rather, as he was introduced to you, when you were upon a couch, from which you offer'd not to rise, or sit up.
Upon my word, Miss Harlowe, I am greatly distressed upon your account; for I must be so free as to say, that, in your ready return with your deceiver, you have not at all answer'd my expectations, nor acted up to your own character: For Mrs. Townsend tells me, from the women at Hamstead, how chearfully you put yourself into his hands again: Yet, at the time, it was impossible you should be married!
Lord, my dear, what pity it is, that you took so much pains to get from the man! But you know best! -Sometimes I think it could not be you to whom the rustic deliver'd my letter. But it must too: Yet it is strange I could not have one line by him: -Not one: -And you so soon well enough to go with him back again!
I am not sure, that the letter I am now writing will come to your hands: So shall not say half that I have upon my mind to say. But if you think it worth your while to write to me, pray let me know, what fine ladies, his relations, those were, who visited you at Hamstead, and carried you back again so joyfully, to a place that I had so fully warn'd you-But I will say no more: At least till I know more: For I can do nothing but wonder, and stand amazed!
Notwithstanding all the man's baseness, 'tis plain, there was more than a lurking love-Good God! -But I have done! -Yet I know not how to have done, neither! - Yet I must-I will.
Only account to me, my dear, for what I cannot at all account for: And inform me, whether you are really married, or not. -And then I shall know, Whether there must, or must not, be a period shorter than that of one of our lives, to a friendship which has hitherto been the pride and boast of
Your Anna Howe.
Dorcas tells me, that she has just now had a searching conversation, as she calls it, with her lady. She is willing, she tells the wench, still to place a confidence in her. Dorcas hopes she has re-assured her; but wishes me not to depend upon it. Yet Captain Tomlinson's letter must assuredly weigh with her. I sent it in just now by Dorcas, desiring her to re-peruse it. And it was not returned me, as I feared it would be. And that's a good sign, I think.
I say, I think, and I think; for this charming creature, intangled as I am in my own inventions, puzzles me ten thousand times more than I her.

### v5 LETTER XLV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Thursday noon, June 22.
Let me perish, if I know what to make either of myself, or of this surprising creature-Now calm, now tempestuous-But I know thou lovest not anticipation any more than me.
At my repeated requests, she met me at six this morning. She was ready dressed; for she has not had her cloaths off ever since she declared, that they never more should be off in this house. And charmingly she looked, with all the disadvantages of a three hours violent stomach-ach (for Dorcas told me, that she had been really ill), no rest, and eyes red, and swell'd with weeping. Strange to me, that those charming fountains have not been long ago exhausted. But she is a woman. And I believe anatomists allow, that women have more watry heads than men.
Well, my dearest creature, I hope you have now thoroughly consider'd of the contents of Captain Tomlinson's letter. But as we are thus early met, let me beseech you to make this my happy day.
She looked not favourably upon me. A cloud hung upon her brow at her entrance: But as she was going to answer me, a still greater solemnity took possession of her charming features.
Your air, and your countenance, my beloved creature, are not propitious to me. Let me beg of you, before you speak, to forbear all further recriminations. For already I have such a sense of my vileness to you, that I know not how to bear the reproaches of my own mind.
I have been endeavouring, said she, since I am not permitted to avoid you, after a composure which I never more expected to see you in. How long I may enjoy it, I cannot tell. But I hope I shall be enabled to speak to you without that vehemence which I expressed yesterday, and could not help it.
After a pause (for I was all attention) thus she proceeded.
It easy for me, Mr. Lovelace, to see, that further violences are intended me, if I comply not with your purposes, whatever they are. I will suppose them to be what you so solemnly profess they are. But I have told you as solemnly my mind, that I never will, that I never can, be yours; nor, if so, any man's upon earth. All vengeance, nevertheless, for the wrongs you have done me, I disclaim. I want but to slide into some obscure corner, to hide myself from you, and from every one, who once loved me. The desire lately so near my heart, of a reconciliation with my friends, is much abated. They shall not receive me now, if they would. Sunk in my own eyes, I now think myself unworthy of their favour. In the anguish of my soul, therefore, I conjure you, Lovelace (tears in her eyes), to leave me to my fate. In doing so, you will give me a pleasure, the highest I now can know.
Whither, my dearest life-
No matter whither. I will leave to Providence, when I am out of this house, the direction of my future steps. I am sensible enough of my destitute condition. I know, that I have not now a friend in the world. Even Miss Howe has given me up-or you are-But I would fain keep my temper! -By your means I have lost them all-And you have been a barbarous enemy to me. You know you have.
She paused.
I could not speak.
The evils I have suffered, proceeded she (turning from me), however irreparable, are but temporary evils -Leave me to my hopes of being enabled to obtain the Divine forgiveness, for the offence I have been drawn in to give to my parents, and to virtue; that so I may avoid the evils that are more than temporary. This is in now all I have to wish for. And what is it that I demand, that I have not a right to, and from which it is an illegal violence to with-hold me?
It was impossible for me, I told her plainly, to comply. I besought her to give me her hand as this very day. I could not live without her. I communicated to her my Lord's illness, as a reason why I wish'd not to stay for her uncle's anniversary. I besought her to bless me with her consent; and, after the ceremony was passed, to accompany me down to Berks. And thus, my dearest life, said I, will you be freed from a house, to which you have conceived so great an antipathy.
This, thou wilt own, was a princely offer. And I was resolved to be as good as my word. I thought I had kill'd my Conscience, as I told thee, Belford some time ago. But Conscience, I find, tho' it may be temporarily stifled, cannot die; and when it dare not speak aloud, will whisper. And at this instant I thought I felt the revived varletess (on but a slight retrograde motion), writhing round my pericardium like a serpent; and, in the action of a dying one (collecting all its force into its head), fix its plaguy fangs into my heart.
She hesitated, and looked down, as if irresolute. And this set my heart up at my mouth. And, believe me, I had instantly popt in upon me, in imagination, an old spectacled parson, with a white surplice thrown over a black habit (A fit emblem of the halcyon office, which, under a benign appearance, often introduces a life of storms and tempests), whining and snuffling thro' his nose the irrevocable ceremony.
I hope now, my dear life, said I, snatching her hand, and pressing it to my lips, that your silence bodes me good. Let me, my beloved creature, have but your tacit consent this moment, to step out, and engage a minister-And then I promised how much my whole future life should be devoted to her commands, and that I would make her the best and tenderest of husbands.
At last, turning to me, I have told you my mind, Mr. Lovelace, said she. Think you, that I could thus solemnly-There she stopt-I am too much in your power, proceeded she; Your prisoner, rather than a person free to choose for myself, or to say what I will do or be. -But, as a testimony that you mean me well, let me instantly quit this house; and I will then give you such an answer in writing, as best befits my unhappy circumstances.
And imaginest thou, fairest, thought I, that this will go down with a Lovelace? Thou oughtest to have known, that free-livers, like ministers of state, never part with a power put into their hands, without an equivalent of twice the value.
I pleaded, that if we joined hands this morning (if not, to-morrow; if not, on Thursday, her uncle's birth-day, and in his presence); and afterwards, as I had proposed, set out for Berks; we should, of course, quit this house; and, on our return to town, should have in readiness the house I was in treaty for.
She answer'd me not, but with tears and sighs: Fond of believing what I hoped, I imputed her silence to the modesty of her sex. The dear creature, thought I, solemnly as she began with me, is ruminating, in a sweet suspense, how to put into fit words the gentle purposes of her condescending heart. But, looking in her averted face with a soothing gentleness, I plainly perceived, that it was resentment, and not bashfulness, that was struggling in her bosom.
At last, she broke silence-I have no patience, said she, to find myself a slave, a prisoner, in a vile house -Tell me, Sir, in so many words tell me, Whether it be, or be not, your intention to permit me to quit it? -To permit me the freedom which is my birthright as an English subject?
Will not the consequence of your departure hence be, that I shall lose you for ever, Madam? -And can I bear the thoughts of that?
She flung from me-My soul disdains to hold parley with thee, were her violent words-But I threw myself at her feet, and took hold of her reluctant hand, and began to imprecate, to vow, to promise-But thus the passionate Beauty, interrupting me, went on:
I am sick of thee, Man! -One continued string of vows, oaths, and protestations, varied only by time and place, fill thy mouth! -Why detainest thou me? My heart rises against thee, O thou cruel implement of my brother's causeless vengeance-All I beg of thee is, that thou wilt remit me the future part of my father's dreadful curse! The temporary part, base and ingrateful as thou art! thou hast completed!
I was speechless! -Well I might! -Her brother's implement! -James Harlowe's implement! -Zounds, Jack! what words were these!
I let go her struggling hand. She took two or three turns cross the room, her whole haughty soul in her air-Then approaching me, but in silence, turning from me, and again to me, in a milder voice-I see thy confusion, Lovelace. Or is it thy remorse? - I have but one request to make thee. -The request so often repeated-That thou wilt this moment permit me to quit this house. Adieu then, let me say, for ever adieu! And may'st thou enjoy that happiness in this world, which thou hast robbed me of; as thou hast of every friend I have in it!
And saying this, away she flung, leaving me in a confusion so great, that I knew not what to think, say, or do.
But Dorcas soon roused me-Do you know, Sir, running in hastily, that my lady is gone down stairs!
No, sure! -And down I flew, and found her once more at the street-door, contending with Polly Horton to get out.
She rushed by me into the fore-parlour, and flew to the window, and attempted once more to throw up the sash-Good people! Good people! cried she.
I caught her in my arms, and lifted her from the window. But being afraid of hurting the charming creature (charming in her very rage), she slid thro' my arms on the floor;-Let me die here! Let me die here! were her words; remaining jointless and immoveable till Sally and Mrs. Sinclair hurried in.
She was visibly terrified at the sight of the old wretch; while I, sincerely affected, appealed, Bear witness, Mrs. Sinclair! -Bear witness, Miss Martin! -Miss Horton!-Every one bear witness, that I offer not violence to this beloved creature!
She then found her feet-O house (looking towards the windows, and all round her, O house) contrived on purpose for my ruin! said she-But let not that woman come into my presence-Nor that Miss Horton neither, who would not have dared to controul me, had she not been a base one!
Hoh, Sir! Hoh, Madam! vociferated the old creature, her arms kemboed, and flourishing with one foot to the extent of her petticoats-What ado's here about nothing! -I never knew such work in my life, betwen a chicken of a gentleman, and a tyger of a lady!-
She was visibly affrighted: And up stairs she hasten'd. A bad woman is certainly, Jack, more terrible to her own sex, than even a bad man.
I follow'd her up. She rushed by her own apartment into the dining-room: No terror can make her forget her punctilio.
To recite what passed there of invective, exclamations, threatenings, even of her own life, on one side; of expostulations, supplications, and sometimes menaces, on the other, would be too affecting; and, after my particularity in like scenes, these things may as well be imagined as expressed.
I will therefore only mention, that, at length, I extorted a concession from her. She had reason to think it would have been worse for her on the spot, if she had not made it. It was, That she would endeavour to make herself easy, till she saw what next Thursday, her uncle's birth-day, would produce. But O that it were not a sin, she passionately exclaimed, on making this poor concession, to put an end to her own life, rather than yield to give me but that assurance!
This, however, shews me, that she is aware, that the reluctantly-given assurance may be fairly construed into a matrimonial expectation on my side. And if she will now, even now, look forward, I think, from my heart, that I will put on her livery, and wear it for life.
What a situation am I in, with all my cursed inventions? I am puzzled, confounded, and ashamed of myself, upon the whole. To take such pains to be a villain! -But (for the fiftieth time) let me ask thee, Who would have thought, that there had been such a woman in the world? -Nevertheless, she had best take care, that she carries not her obstinacy much further. She knows not what revenge for slighted love will make me do.
The busy scenes I have just passed thro', have given emotions to my heart, which will not be quieted one while. My heart, I see (on reperusing what I have written), has communicated its tremors to my fingers; and in some places the characters are so indistinct and unformed, that thou'lt hardly be able to make them out. But if one half of them only are intelligible, that will be enough to expose me to thy contempt, for the wretched hand I have made of my plots and contrivances. -But surely, Jack, I have gained some ground by this promise.
And now, one word to the assurances thou sendest me, that thou hast not betrayed my secrets in relation to this charming creature. Thou mightest have spared them, Belford. My suspicions held no longer than while I wrote about them. For well I knew, when I allowed myself time to think, that thou hadst no principles, no virtue, to be misled by. A great deal of strong envy, and a little of weak pity, I knew to be thy motives. Thou couldst not provoke my anger, and my compassion thou ever hadst; and art now more especially intitled to it; beause thou art a pityful fellow.
All thy new expostulations in my Beloved's behalf, I will answer when I see thee.

### v5 LETTER XLVI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;.
Thursday night.
Confoundedly out of humour with this perverse lady. Nor wilt thou blame me, if thou art my friend. She regards the concession she made, as a concession extorted from her: And we are but just where we were before she made it.
With great difficulty I prevailed upon her to favour me with her company for one half-hour this evening. The necessity I was under to go down to M. Hall, was the subject I wanted to talk to her upon.
I told her, that as she had been so good as to promise, that she would endeavour to make herself easy till she saw the Thursday in next week over,-I hoped, that she would not scruple to oblige me with her word, that I should find her here, at my return from M. Hall.
Indeed she would make me no such promise. Nothing of this house was mentioned to me, said she: You know it was not. And do you think that I would have given my consent to my imprisonment in it?
I was plaguily nettled, and disappointed too. If I go not down to M. Hall, Madam, you'll have no scruple to stay here, I suppose, till Thursday is over?
If I cannot help myself, I must. -But I insist upon being permitted to go out of this house, whether you leave it, or not.
Well, Madam, then I will comply with your commands. And I will go out this very evening, in quest of lodgings that you shall have no objection to.
I will have no lodgings of your providing, Sir-I will go to Mrs. Moore's at Hamstead.
Mrs. Moore's, Madam? -I have no objection to Mrs. Moore's. -But will you give me your promise, to admit me there to your presence?
As I do here-When I cannot help it.
Very well, Madam-Will you be so good, as to let me know, what you intended by your promise to make yourself easy-
To endeavour, Sir, to make myself easy-were the words-
-Till you saw what next Thursday would produce?
Ask me no questions that may insnare me. I am too sincere for the company I am in.
Let me ask you, Madam, What meant you, when you said, "that, were it not a sin, you would die before you gave me that assurance?"
She was indignantly silent.
You thought, Madam, you had given me room to hope your pardon by it?
When I think I ought to answer you with patience, I will speak.
Do you think yourself in my power, Madam?
If I were not-And there she stopt-
Dearest creature, speak out-I beseech you, dearest creature, speak out.-
She was silent; her charming face all in a glow.
Have you, Madam, any reliance upon my honour?
Still silent.
You hate me, Madam. You despise me more than you do the most odious of God's creatures.
You ought to despise me, if I did not.
You say, Madam, you are in a bad house. You have no reliance upon my honour-You believe you cannot avoid me-
She arose. I beseech you, let me withdraw.
I snatch'd her hand, rising, and press'd it first to my lips, and then to my heart, in wild disorder. She might have felt the bounding mischief ready to burst its bars-You shall go-To your own apartment, if you please-But, by the great God of Heaven, I will accompany you thither.
She trembled-Pray, pray, Mr. Lovelace, don't terrify me so!
Be seated, Madam! I beseech you be seated!-
I will sit down-
Do then, Madam-Do then-All my soul in my eyes, and my heart's blood throbbing at my fingers ends.
I will-I will-You hurt me-Pray, Mr. Lovelace, don't-don't frighten me so-And down she sat, trembling; my hand still grasping hers.
I hung over her throbbing bosom, and putting my other arm round her waist-And you say, you hate me, Madam-And you say, you despise me! -And you say, you promised me nothing-
Yes, yes, I did promise you-Let me not be held down thus-You see I sat down when you bid me- Why (struggling) need you hold me down thus? - I did promise to endeavour to be easy till Thursday was over! But you won't let me! -How can I be easy? - Pray, let me not be thus terrified.
And what, Madam, meant you by your promise? Did you mean any-thing in my favour? -You designed, that I should, at the time, think you did. Did you mean any thing in my favour, Madam? - Did you intend, that I should think you did?
Let go my hand, Sir-Take away your arm from about me, struggling, yet trembling-Why do you gaze upon me so?
Answer me, Madam-Did you mean any thing in my favour by your promise?
Let me not be thus constrained to answer.
Then pausing, and gaining more spirit, Let me go, said she: I am but a woman-but a weak woman- But my life is in my own power, tho' my person is not-I will not be thus constrained.
You shall not, Madam, quitting her hand, bowing, but my heart at my mouth, and hoping farther provocation.
She arose, and was hurrying away.
I pursue you not, Madam-I will try your generosity -Stop-Return. -This moment stop, return, if, Madam, you would not make me desperate.
She stopt at the door; burst into tears-O Lovelace! -How, how, have I deserved-
Be pleased, dearest angel, to return.
She came back-But with declared reluctance; and imputing her compliance to terror.
Terror, Jack, as I have heretofore found out, tho' I have so little benefited by the discovery, must be my resort, if she make it necessary-Nothing else will do with the inflexible charmer.
She seated herself over-against me; extremely discomposed. -But indignation had a visible predominance in her features.
I was going towards her, with a countenance intendedly changed to love and softness: Sweetest, dearest angel, were my words, in the tenderest accent: -But, rising up, she insisted upon my being seated at distance from her.
I obeyed-and begged her hand over the table, to my extended hand; to see, as I said, if in any thing she would oblige me-But nothing gentle, soft, or affectionate would do. She refused me her hand! - Was she wise, Jack, to confirm to me, that nothing but terror would do?
Let me only know, Madam, if your promise to endeavour to wait with patience the event of next Thursday, meant me favour?
Do you expect any voluntary favour from one to whom you give not a free choice?
Do you intend, Madam, to honour me with your hand, in your uncle's presence, or do you not?
My heart and my hand shall never be separated. Why, think you, did I stand in opposition to the will of my best my natural friends?
I know what you mean, Madam-Am I then as hateful to you as the vile Solmes?
Ask me not such a question, Mr. Lovelace.
I must be answered. Am I as hateful to you, as the vile Solmes?
Why do you call Mr. Solmes vile?
Don't you think him so, Madam?
Why should I? Did Mr. Solmes ever do vilely by me?
Dearest creature! don't distract me by hateful comparisons! And perhaps by a more hateful preference.
Don't you, Sir, put questions to me, that you know I will answer truly, tho' my answer were ever so much to enrage you.
My heart, Madam, my soul is all yours at present. But you must give me hope, that your promise, in your own construction, binds you, no new cause to the contrary, to be mine on Thursday. How else can I leave you?
Let me go to Hamstead; and trust to my favour.
May I trust to it? -Say, only, May I trust to it?
How will you trust to it, if you extort an answer to this question?
Say only, dearest creature, say only, may I trust to your favour, if you go to Hamstead?
How dare you, Sir, if I must speak out, expect a promise of favour from me? -What a mean creature must you think me, after your ingrateful baseness to me, were I to give you such a promise?
Then standing up, Thou hast made me, O vilest of men! (her hands clasped, and a face crimsoned over with indignation) an inmate of the vilest of houses-Nevertheless, while I am in it, I shall have a heart incapable of any thing but abhorrence of that and of thee!
And round her looked the angel, and upon me, with fear in her sweet aspect of the consequence of her free declaration. -But what a devil must I have been, I, who love bravery in a man, had I not been more struck with admiration of her fortitude at the instant, than stimulated by revenge?
Noblest of creatures! -And do you think I can leave you, and my interest in such an excellence, precarious? No promise! -No hope! -If you make me not desperate, may lightning blast me, if I do you not all the justice 'tis in my power to do you!
If you have any intention to oblige me, leave me at my own liberty, and let me not be detained in this abominable house. To be constrained as I have been constrained! To be stopt by your vile agents! To be brought up by force, and to be bruised, in my own defence against such illegal violence! -I dare to die, Lovelace-And the person that fears not death is not to be intimidated into a meanness unworthy of her heart and principles!
Wonderful creature! But why, Madam, did you lead me to hope for something favourable for next Thursday? -Once more, make me not desperate- With all your magnanimity, glorious creature! [I was more than half frantic, Belford] You may, you may-But do not, do not make me brutally threaten you! -Do not, do not make me desperate!
My aspect, I believe, threatened still more than my words. I was rising-She arose-Mr. Lovelace, be pacified-You are even more dreadful than the Lovelace I have long dreaded-Let me retire-I ask your leave to retire-You really frighten me-Yet I give you no hope-From my heart I ab-
Say not, Madam, you abhor me-You must, for your own sake, conceal your hatred-At least not avow it. -I seized her hand.
Let me retire-Let me retire, said she-in a manner out of breath.
I will only say, Madam, that I refer myself to your generosity. My heart is not to be trusted at this instant. As a mark of my submission to your will, you shall, if you please, withdraw. -But I will not go to M. Hall-Live or die my uncle, I will not go to M. Hall. -But will attend the effect of your promise. Remember, Madam, you have promised to endeavour to make yourself easy, till you see the event of next Thursday-Next Thursday, remember, your uncle comes up, to see us married. -That's the event- You think ill of your Lovelace-Do not, Madam, suffer your own morals to be degraded by the infection, as you called it, of his example.
Away flew the charmer, with this half-permission -And no doubt thought, that she had an escape- nor without reason.
I knew not for half an hour what to do with myself. Vexed at the heart, nevertheless, now she was from me, when I reflected upon her hatred of me, and her defiances, that I suffered myself to be so over-awed, checked, restrained-
And now I have written thus far (having of course recollected the whole of our conversation), I am more and more incensed against myself.
But I will go down to these women-and perhaps suffer myself to be laugh'd at by them.
Devil fetch them, they pretend to know their own sex. Sally was a woman well educated-Polly also- Both have read-Both have sense-Of parentage not contemptible-Once modest both-Still they say had been modest, but for me-Not intirely indelicate now; tho' too little nice for my personal intimacy, loth as they both are to have me think so. -The old one, too, a woman of family, tho' thus (from bad inclination, as well as at first from low circumstances) miserably sunk: -And hence they all pretend to remember what once they were; and vouch for the inclinations and hypocrisy of the whole sex; and wish for nothing so ardently, as that I will leave the perverse lady to their management, while I am gone to Berkshire; undertaking absolutely for her humility and passiveness on my return; and continually boasting of the many perverse creatures whom they have obliged to draw in their traces.
They often upbraidingly tell me, that they are sure I shall marry at last: -And Sally, the last time I was with her, had the confidence to hint, that, when a wife, some other person would not find half the difficulty, that I had found. -Confidence, indeed! But yet I must say, That this dear creature is the only woman in the world, of whom I should not be jealous. And yet, if a man gives himself up to the company of these devils, they never let him rest, till he either suspect or hate his wife.
But a word or two of other matters, if possible.
Methinks, I long to know how causes go at M. Hall. I have another private intimation, that the old. Peer is in the greatest danger.
I must go down. Yet what to do with this lady the mean while! -These cursed women are full of cruelty and enterprize. She will never be easy with them in my absence. They will have provocation and pretence therefore. But woe be to them, if-
Yet what will vengeance do, after an insult committed? The two nymphs will have jealous rage to goad them on-And what will with-hold a jealous and already-ruined woman?
To let her go elsewhere; that cannot be done. I am still resolved to be honest, if she'll give me hope: If yet she'll let me be honest-But I'll see how she'll be, after the contention she will certainly have between her resentment, and the terror she had reason for, from our last conversation. -So let this subject rest till the morning. And to the old Peer once more.
I shall have a good deal of trouble, I reckon, tho' no sordid man, to be decent on the expected occasion. Then how to act (I who am no hypocrite) in the days of condolement! What farces have I to go through; and to be a principal actor in them-I'll try to think of my own latter end; a grey beard, and a graceless heir; in order to make me serious.
Thou, Belford, knowest a good deal of this sort of grimace; and canst help a gay heart to a little of the dismal. But then every feature of thy face is cut out for it. My heart may be touched, perhaps, sooner than thine; for, believe me, or not, I have a very tender one: -But then, no man looking in my face, be the occasion for grief ever so great, will believe that heart to be deeply distressed.
All is placid, easy, serene, in my countenance. Sorrow cannot sit half an hour together upon it. Nay, I believe, that Lord M.'s recovery, should it happen, would not affect me above a quarter of an hour. Only the new scenery (and the pleasure of aping an Heraclitus to the family, while I am a Democritus among my private friends), or I want nothing that the old Peer can leave me. Wherefore then should grief sadden and distort such blythe, such jocund features as mine?
But as for thine, were there murder committed in the street, and thou wert but passing by, the murderer even in sight, the pursuers would quit him, and lay hold of thee: And thy very looks would hang, as well as apprehend, thee.
But one word to business, Jack. Whom dealtest thou with for thy blacks? -Wert thou well used? - I shall want a plaguy parcel of them. For I intend to make every soul of the family mourn-Outside, if not In.-

### v5 LETTER XLVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
June 23. Friday morning.
I went out early this morning, on a design that I know not yet whether I shall or shall not pursue; and on my return found Simon Parsons, my Lord's Berkshire Bailiff (just before arrived), waiting for me with a message in form, sent by all the family, to press me to go down, and that at my Lord's particular desire; who wants to see me before he dies.
Simon has brought my Lord's chariot-and-six (perhaps my own by this time), to carry me down. I have ordered it to be in readiness by four to-morrow morning. The cattle shall smoke for the delay; and by the rest they'll have in the interim, will be better able to bear it.
I am still resolved upon matrimony, if my fair Perverse will accept of me. But, if she will not- why then I must give an uninterrupted hearing, not to my conscience, but to these women below.
Dorcas had acquainted her lady with Simon's arrival and errand. My Beloved had desired to see him. But my coming in prevented his attendance on her, just as Dorcas was instructing him what questions he should not answer to, that might be asked of him.
I am to be admitted to her presence immediately, at my repeated request-Surely the acquisition in view will help me to make all up with her-She is just gone up to the dining-room.
Nothing will do, Jack! -I can procure no favour from her, tho' she has obtained from me the point which she had set her heart upon.
I will give thee a brief account of what passed between us.
I first proposed instant marriage; and this in the most fervent manner: But was denied as fervently.
Would she be pleased to assure me, that she would stay here only till Tuesday morning? I would but just go down, and see how my Lord was-To know whether he had any thing particular to say, or injoin me, while yet he was sensible, as he was very earnest to see me-Perhaps I might be up on Sunday- Concede in something! -I beseech you, Madam, shew me some little consideration.
Why, Mr. Lovelace, must I be determined by your motions? -Think you, that I will voluntarily give a sanction to the imprisonment of my person? Of what importance to me ought to be your stay or your return?
Give a sanction to the imprisonment of your person! Do you think, Madam, that I fear the Law?-
I might have spared this foolish question of defiance -But my pride would not let me. I thought she threatened me, Jack.
I don't think so, Sir-You are too brave to have any regard either to moral or divine sanctions.
'Tis well, Madam! -But ask me any thing I can do to oblige you; and I will oblige you, tho' in nothing will you oblige me.
Then I ask you, then I request of you, to let me go to Hamstead.
I paused-and at last-By my soul you shall- This very moment I will wait upon you, and see you fixed there, if you'll promise me your hand on Thursday, in presence of your uncle.
I want not you to see me fixed-I will promise nothing.
Take care, Madam, that you don't let me see, that I can have no reliance upon your future favour.
I have been used to be threatened by you, Sir- But I will accept of your company to Hamstead- I will be ready to go in a quarter of an hour-My cloaths may be sent after me.
You know the condition, Madam-Next Thursday.
You dare not trust-
My infinite demerits tell me, that I ought not- Nevertheless I will confide in your generosity-Tomorrow morning (no new cause arising to give reason to the contrary), as early as you please, you may go to Hamstead.
This seemed to oblige her. But yet she looked with a face of doubt.
I will go down to the women. And having no better judges at hand, will hear what they say upon my critical situation with this proud beauty, who has so insolently rejected a Lovelace kneeling at her feet, tho' making an earnest tender of himself for a husband, in spite of all his prejudices to the state of shackles.

### v5 LETTER XLVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Just come from the women.
'Have I gone so far, and am I afraid to go farther? -Have I not already, as it is evident by her behaviour, sinned beyond forgiveness? -A woman's tears used to be to me but as water sprinkled on a glowing fire, which gives it a fiercer and brighter blaze: What defence has this lady, but her tears and her eloquence? She was before taken at no weak advantage. She was insensible in her moments of trial. Had she been sensible, she must have been sensible. So they say. The methods taken with her have augmented her glory and her pride. She has now a tale to tell, that she may tell, with honour to herself. No accomplice-inclination. She can look me into confusion, without being conscious of so much as a thought, which she need to be ashamed of.'
This, Jack, the substance of my conference with the women.
To which let me add, that the dear creature now sees the necessity I am in to leave her. Detecting me is in her head. My contrivances are of such a nature, that I must appear to be the most odious of men, if I am detected on this side matrimony. And yet I have promised as thou seest, that she shall set out to Hamstead, as soon as she pleases in the morning, and that without condition on her side.
Dost thou ask, What I meant by this promise?
No new cause arising, was the proviso on my side, thou'lt remember. But there will be a new cause.
Suppose Dorcas should drop the promisory-note given her by her lady? Servants, especially those who cannot read or write, are the most careless people in the world of written papers. Suppose I take it up? -At a time, too, that I was determined that the dear creature should be her own mistress? -Will not this detection be a new cause? -A cause that will carry against her the appearance of ingratitude with it?
That she designed it a secret from me, argues a fear of detection, and indirectly a sense of guilt. I wanted a pretence. Can I have a better? If I am in a violent passion upon the detection, is not passion an universally allowed extenuator of violence? -Is not every man and woman obliged to excuse that fault in another, which at times they find attended with such ungovernable effects in themselves?
The mother and sisterhood, suppose, brought to sit in judgment upon the vile corrupted? -The least benefit that must accrue from the accidental discovery, if not a pretence for perpetration (which, however, may be the case), an excuse for renewing my orders for her detention till my return from M. Hall (the fault her own); and for keeping a stricter watch over her than before; with direction to send me any letters that may be written by her or to her. -And when I return, the devil's in it if I find not a way to make her choose lodgings for herself (since these are so hateful to her), that shall answer all my purposes; and yet no more appear to direct her choice, than I did before in these.
Thou wilt curse me, when thou comest to this place. I know thou wilt. But thinkest thou, that, after such a series of contrivance, I will lose this inimitable woman, for want of a little more? A Rake's a Rake, Jack! -And what Rake is with-held by principle from the perpetration of any evil his heart is set upon, and in which he thinks he can succeed? - Besides, am I not in earnest as to marriage? -Will not the generality of the world acquit me, if I do marry? And what is that injury which a church-rite will at any time repair? Is not the catastrophe of every story that ends in wedlock accounted happy, be the difficulties in the progress to it ever so great?
But here, how am I ingrossed by this lady, while poor Lord M. as Simon tells me, lies groaning in the dreadfulest agonies? -What must he suffer! -Heaven relieve him! -I have a too compassionate heart. And so would the dear creature have found, could I have thought the worst of her sufferings equal to the lightest of his. I mean as to fact; for, as to that part of hers, which arises from extreme sensibility, I know nothing of that; and cannot therefore be answerable for it.

### v5 LETTER XLIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Just come from my charmer. She will not suffer me to say half the obliging, the tender things, which my honest heart is ready to overflow with. A confounded situation, that, when a man finds himself in humour to be eloquent, and pathetic at the same time, yet cannot engage the mistress of his fate to lend an ear to his fine speeches.
I can account now, how it comes about, that lovers, when their mistresses are cruel, run into solitude, and disburthen their minds to stocks and stones: For am I not forced to make my complaints to thee?
She claimed the performance of my promise, the moment she saw me, of permitting her (haughtily she spoke the word) to go to Hamstead, as soon as I were gone to Berks.
Most chearfully I renewed it.
She desired me to give orders in her hearing.
I sent for Dorcas, and Will. They came. -Do you both take notice (But, perhaps, Sir, I may take you with me), that your lady is to be obeyed in all her commands. She purposes to return to Hamstead as soon as I am gone-My dear, will you not have a servant to attend you?
I shall want no servant there.
Will you take Dorcas?
If I should want Dorcas, I can send for her.
Dorcas could not but say, She should be very proud-
Well, well, that may be at my return, if your lady permit-Shall I, my dear, call up Mrs. Sinclair, and give her orders to the same effect, in your hearing?
I desire not to see Mrs. Sinclair; nor any that belong to her.
As you please, Madam.
And then (the servants being withdrawn) I urged her again for the assurance, that she would meet me at the altar on Thursday next. But to no purpose. May she not thank herself for all that may follow?
One favour, however, I would not be denied; to be admitted to pass the evening with her.
All sweetness and obsequiousness will I be on this occasion. My whole soul shall be poured out to move her to forgive me. If she will not, and if the promisory-note should fall in my way, my revenge will, doubtless, take total possession of me.
All the house in my interest, and every one in it not only engaging to intimidate, and assist, as occasion shall offer, but staking all their experience upon my success, if it be not my own fault, what must be the consequence?
This, Jack, however, shall be her last trial; and if she behave as nobly in and after this second attempt (all her senses about her), as she has done after the first, she will come out an angel upon full proof, in spite of man, woman, and devil: Then shall there be an end of all her sufferings. I will then renounce that vanquished devil, and reform. And if any vile machination start up, presuming to mislead me, I will sooner stab it in my heart, as it rises, than give way to it.
A few hours will now decide all. But whatever be the event, I shall be too busy to write again, till I get to M. Hall.
Mean time I am in strange agitations. I must suppress them, if possible, before I venture into her presence -My heart bounces my bosom from the table. I will lay down my pen, and wholly resign to its impulses.

### v5 LETTER L.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Frid. Night, or rather Sat. Morn. 1 o'Clock.
I thought I should not have had either time or inclination to write another line before I got to M. Hall. But have the first; must find the last; since I can neither sleep, nor do any thing but write, if I can do that. I am most confoundedly out of humour. The reason let it follow; if it will follow-No preparation for it, from me.
I tried by gentleness and love to soften-What?- Marble. A heart incapable either of love or gentleness. Her past injuries for ever in her head. Ready to receive a favour; the permission to go to Hamstead; but neither to deserve it, nor return any. So my scheme of the gentle kind, was soon given over.
I then wanted her to provoke me: Like a coward boy, who waits for the first blow, before he can persuade himself to fight, I half challeng'd her to challenge or defy me: She seemed aware of her danger; and would not directly brave my resentment: But kept such a middle course, that I neither could find a pretence to offend, nor reason to hope; yet she believed my tale, that her uncle would come to Kentish Town; and seemed not to apprehend, that Tomlinson was an impostor.
She was very uneasy, upon the whole, in my company: Wanted often to break from me: Yet so held me to my promise of permitting her to go to Hamstead, that I knew not how to get off of it; altho' it was impossible, in my precarious situation with her, to think of performing it.
In this situation; the women ready to assist; and, if I proceeded not, as ready to ridicule me; what had I left me, but to pursue the concerted scheme, and seek a pretence to quarrel with her, in order to revoke my promised permission; and to convince her, that I would not be upbraided as the most brutal of ravishers for nothing?
I had agreed with the women, that if I could not find a pretence in her presence to begin my operations, the note should lie in my way, and I was to pick it up, soon after her retiring from me. But I began to doubt at near ten o'clock (so earnest was she to leave me, suspecting my over-warm behaviour to her, and eager grasping of her hand two or three times, with eye-strings, as I felt, on the strain, while her eyes shewed uneasiness and apprehension), that if she actually retired for the night, it might be a chance, whether it would be easy to come at her again. Loth therefore to run such a risque, I stept out at a little after ten, with intent to alter the pre-concerted disposition a little; saying I would attend her again instantly. But as I returned, I met her at the door, intending to withdraw for the night. I could not persuade her to go back: Nor had I presence of mind (so full of complaisancy as I was to her just before) to stay her by force: So she slid thro' my hands into her own apartment. I had nothing to do, therefore, but to let my former concert take place.
I should have premised (but care not for order of time, connexion, or any thing else) that, between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, another servant of Lord M.'s, on horseback, came, to desire me to carry down with me Dr. S. my uncle having been once (in extremis, as they judge he is now) relieved and reprieved by him. I sent, and engaged the Doctor to accompany me down; and am to call upon him by four this morning: Or the devil should have uncle and doctor, if I'd stir, till I got all made up.
Poke thy damn'd nose forward into the event, if thou wilt-Curse me, if thou shalt have it, till its proper time and place-And too soon then.
She had hardly got into her chamber, but I found a little paper, as I was going into mine; which I took up; and, opening it (for it was carefully pinn'd in another paper), what should it be, but a promisory note, given as a bribe, with a further promise of a diamond ring, to induce Dorcas to favour her mistress's escape?
How my temper chang'd in a moment! -Ring, ring, ring, ring, my bell, with a violence enough to break the string, and as if the house were on fire.
Every devil frighted into active life: The whole house in an uproar: Up runs Will.-Sir-Sir-Sir! -Eyes goggling, mouth distended-Bid the damn'd toad Dorcas come hither (as I stood at the stair-head), in a horrible rage, and out of breath, cry'd I.
In sight came the trembling devil-but standing aloof, from the report made her by Will. of the passion I was in, as well as from what she heard.
Flash came out my sword immediately; for I had it ready on-Curs'd, confounded, villainous, bribery and corruption!-
Up runs she to her lady's door, screaming out for safety and protection.
Good your honour, interposed Will. for God's sake-O Lord, O Lord!-receiving a good cuff.-
Take that, varlet, for saving the ingrateful wretch from my vengeance!-
Wretch! I intended to say; but if it were some other word of like ending, passion must be my excuse.
Up ran two or three of the sisterhood, What's the matter! What's the matter!
The matter! (for still my beloved opened not her door; on the contrary, drew another bolt) This abominable Dorcas! -(Call her aunt up! -Let her see what a traitress she has placed about me! -And let her bring the toad to answer for herself)-has taken a bribe, a provision for life, to betray her trust; by that means to perpetuate a quarrel between a man and his wife, and frustrate for ever all hopes of reconciliation between us!
Let me perish, Belford, if I have patience to proceed with the farce!
Up came the aunt puffing and blowing! -As she hoped for mercy, she was not privy to it! -She never knew such a plotting perverse lady in her life! -Well might servants be at the pass they were, when such ladies as Mrs. Lovelace made no conscience of corrupting them. For her part, she desired no mercy for the wretch: No niece of hers, if she were not faithful to her trust! -But what was the proof?-
She was shewn the paper-
But too evident! -Cursed, cursed Toad, Devil, Jade, passed from each mouth: -And the vileness of the corrupted, and the unworthiness of the corruptress, were inveighed against.
Up we all went, passing the lady's door into the dining-room, to proceed to tryal-
Stamp, stamp, stamp up, each on her heels; Rave, rave, rave, every tongue!-
Bring up the creature before us all, this instant!-
And would she have got out of the house, say you!-
These the noises, and the speeches, as we clatter'd by the door of the fair briberess.-
Up was brought Dorcas (whimpering) between two, both bawling out-You must go! You shall go! -'Tis fit you should answer for yourself! - You are a discredit to all worthy servants!-as they pulled and pushed her up stairs. -She whining, I cannot see his honour! -I cannot look so good and so generous a gentleman in the face! -O how shall I bear my aunt's ravings!-
Come up, and be d-n'd-Bring her forward, her imperial judge! -What a plague, it is the detection, not the crime, that confounds you. You could be quiet enough for days together, as I see by the date, under the villainy. Tell me, ingrateful devil, tell me, who made the first advances.
Ay, disgrace to my family and blood, cry'd the old one! -Tell his Honour! Tell the truth;-Who made the first advances!-
Ay, cursed creature, cry'd Sally, Who made the first advances?
I have betrayed one trust already! -O let me not betray another! -My lady is a good lady! -O let not her suffer!-
Tell all you know. Tell the whole truth, Dorcas, cry'd Polly Horton-His Honour loves his lady too well, to make her suffer much; little as she requites his love!-
Every-body sees that, cry'd Sally-Too well indeed, for his Honour, I was going to say.
Till now, I thought she deserved my love! But to bribe a servant thus, whom she supposed had orders to watch her steps, for fear of another elopement; and to impute that precaution to me as a crime! - Yet I must love her! -Ladies, forgive my weakness!-
Curse upon my grimaces! -If I have patience to repeat them! -But thou shalt have them all-Thou canst not despise me more than I despise myself!-
But suppose, Sir, said Sally, you have my lady and the wench face to face? You see she cares not to confess.
O my carelessness! cry'd Dorcas-Don't let my poor lady suffer! -Indeed if you all knew what I know, you would say, Her ladyship has been cruelly treated-
See! -See! -See! -See!-repeatedly, every one at once-Only sorry for the detection, as your Honour said-Not the fault -
Cursed creature, and devilish creature, from every mouth.
Your lady won't, she dare not come out to save you, cry'd Sally, tho' it is more his Honour's mercy, than your desert, if he does not cut your vile throat, this instant.
Say, repeated Polly, was it your lady, that made the first advances, or was it you, you creature?-
If the lady has so much honour, bawl'd the mother, excuse me, So -Excuse me, Sir-[Confound the old wretch! she had like to have said Son!] - If the lady has so much honour, as we have supposed, she will appear to vindicate a poor servant, misled, as she has been, by such large promises! - But I hope, Sir, you will do them both justice: I hope you will! -Good lack! Good lack! clapping her hands together, to grant her every thing she could ask: To indulge her in her unworthy hatred to my poor innocent house! To let her go to Hamstead, tho' your Honour told us, you could get no condescension from her; no, not the least! - O Sir-O Sir-I hope-I hope-If your lady will not come out-I hope, you will find a way to hear this cause in her presence. I value not my doors, on such an occasion as this. Justice I ever loved. I desire you will come at the bottom of it, in clearance to me! -I'll be sworn I had no privity in this black corruption.
Just then, we heard the lady's door unbar, unlock, unbolt-
Now, Sir!
Now, Mr. Lovelace.
Now, Sir! from every encouraging mouth!-
But, O Jack! Jack! Jack! I can write no more!
If you must have it all, you must!
Now, Belford, see us all sitting in judgment, resolved to punish the fair briberess-I, and the mother, the hitherto dreaded mother, the nieces Sally, Polly, the traitress Dorcas, and Mabell, a guard, as it were, over her, that she might not run away, and hide herself: -All pre-determined, and of necessity pre-determined, from the journey I was going to take, and my precarious situation with her: -And hear her unbolt, unlock, unbar, the door; then, as it proved afterwards, put the key into the lock on the outside, lock the door, and put it in her pocket; Will. I knew, below, who would give me notice, if, while we were all above, she should mistake her way, and go down stairs, instead of coming into the dining-room; the street-doors also doubly secured, and every shutter to the windows round the house fastened, that no noise or screaming should be heard [Such was the brutal preparation]-And then hear her step towards us, and instantly see her enter among us, confiding in her own innocence; and with a majesty in her person and manner, that is natural to her; but which then shone out in all its glory! -Every tongue silent, every eye awed, every heart quaking, mine, in a particular manner, sunk, throbless, and twice below its usual region, to once at my throat: -A shameful recreant! -She silent too, looking round her, first on me; then on the mother, as no longer fearing her; then on Sally, Polly; and the culprit Dorcas! -Such the glorious power of innocence exerted at that awful moment!
She would have spoken, but could not, looking down my guilt into confusion: A mouse might have been heard passing over the floor, her own light feet and rustling silks could not have prevented it; for she seemed to tread air, and to be all soul-She passed to the door, and back towards me, two or three times, before speech could get the better of indignation, and at last, after twice or thrice hemming, to recover her articulate voice-O thou contemptible and abandoned Lovelace, thinkest thou that I see not thro' this poor villainous plot of thine, and of these thy wicked accomplices?
Thou woman, looking at the mother, once my terror! always my dislike! but now my detestation! shouldest once more (for thine perhaps was the preparation) have provided for me intoxicating potions, to rob me of my senses-
And then, turning to me, Thou, wretch, mightest more securely have depended upon such a low contrivance as this!-
And ye, vile women, who perhaps have been the ruin, body and soul, of hundreds of innocents (you shew me how, in full assembly), know, that I am not married,-ruined as I am, by your helps, I bless God, I am not married, to this miscreant-And I have friends that will demand my honour at your hands! -And to whose authority I will apply; for none has this man over me. Look to it then, what further insults you offer me, or incite him to offer me. I am a person, tho' thus vilely betrayed, of rank and fortune. I never will be his; and, to your utter ruin, will find friends to pursue you: And now I have this full proof of your detestable wickedness, and have heard your base incitements, will have no mercy upon you!-
They could not laugh at the poor figure I made. -Lord! how every devil, conscience-shaken, trembled!-
What a dejection must ever fall to the lot of guilt, were it given to innocence always thus to exert itself!-
And as for thee, thou vile Dorcas! -Thou double deceiver!-whining out thy pretended love for me! -Begone, wretch! -Nobody will hurt thee! -Begone, I say! -Thou hast too well acted thy part to be blamed by any here but myself-Thou art safe: Thy guilt is thy security in such a house as this! -Thy shameful, thy poor part, thou hast as well acted, as the low farce could give thee to act! -As well as they each of them (thy superiors, tho' not thy betters), thou seest, can act theirs. -Steal away into darkness! No inquiry after this will be made, whose the first advances, thine or mine.
And, as I hope to live, the wench, confoundedly frightened, slunk away; so did her centinel Mabell; tho' I, endeavouring to rally, cried out for Dorcas to stay: But I believe the devil could not have stopt her, when an angel bid her begone.
Madam, said I, let me tell you; and was advancing towards her, with a fierce aspect, most cursedly vexed and ashamed too-
But she turned to me; Stop where thou art, O vilest and most abandoned of men! -Stop where thou art! -Nor, with that determined face, offer to touch me, if thou wouldest not that I should be a corpse at thy feet!
To my astonishment, she held forth a penknife in her hand, the point to her own bosom, grasping resolutely the whole handle, so, that there was no offering to take it from her.
I offer not mischief to any-body but myself. You, Sir, and ye women, are safe from every violence of mine. The Law shall be all my resource: The LAW, and she spoke the word with emphasis, that to such people carries natural terror with it, and now struck a panic into them.
No wonder, since those who will damn themselves to procure ease and plenty in this world, will tremble at every thing that seems to threaten their methods of obtaining that ease and plenty.-
The LAW only shall be my refuge!-
The infamous mother whispered me, that it were better to make terms with this strange lady, and let her go.
Sally, notwithstanding all her impudent bravery at other times, said, If Mr. Lovelace had told them what was not true of her being his wife-
And Polly Horton: That she must needs say, the lady, if she were not my wife, had been very much injured; that was all.
That is not now a matter to be disputed, cried I: You and I know. Madam-
We do so, said she; and I thank God, I am not thine: - Once more, I thank God for it! I have no doubt of the further baseness that thou hadst intended me, by this vile and low trick: But I have my Senses, Lovelace: And from my heart I despise thee, thou very poor Lovelace! How canst thou stand in my presence! -Thou, that-
Madam, Madam, Madam-These are insults not to be borne-And was approaching her. She withdrew to the door, and set her back against it, holding the pointed knife to her heaving bosom; while the women held me, beseeching me not to provoke the violent lady-For their house sake, and be curs'd to them, they besought me-and all three hung upon me-While the truly heroic lady braved me, at that distance:
Approach me, Lovelace, with resentment, if thou wilt. I dare die. It is in defence of my honour. God will be merciful to my poor soul! -I expect no mercy from thee! I have gained this distance, and two steps nearer me, and thou shalt see what I dare do!-
Leave me, women, to myself, and to my angel! -They retired at a distance-O my beloved creature, how you terrify me! -Holding out my arms, and kneeling on one knee-Not a step, not a step further, except to receive the death myself at that injured hand that threatens its own. -I am a villain! the blackest of villains! -Say you will sheath your knife in the injurer's, not the injured's, heart; and then will I indeed approach you, but not else.
The mother twang'd her damn'd nose; and Sally and Polly pulled out their handkerchiefs, and turned from us. They never in their lives, they told me afterwards, beheld such a scene-
Innocence so triumphant: Villainy so debased, they must mean!
Unawares to myself, I had moved onward to my angel-And dost thou, dost thou, still disclaiming, still advancing-Dost thou, dost thou, still insidiously move towards me; and her hand was extended -I dare-I dare-Not rashly neither-My heart from principle abhors the act, which thou makest necessary! -God, in thy mercy! -Lifting up her eyes, and hands-God, in thy mercy!-
I threw myself to the further end of the room. An ejaculation, a silent ejaculation, employing her thoughts that moment; Polly says the whites of her lovely eyes were only visible: And, in the instant that she extended her hand, assuredly to strike the fatal blow [How the very recital tumults me!], she cast her eye towards me, and saw me at the utmost distance the room would allow, and heard my broken voice [My voice was utterly broken; nor knew I what I said, or whether to the purpose or not]: And her charming cheeks, that were all in a glow before, turned pale, as if terrified at her own purpose; and lifting up her eyes-Thank God! -Thank God! said the angel-Deliver'd for the present; for the present deliver'd from myself. -Keep, Sir, keep that distance (looking down towards me, who was prostrate on the floor, my heart pierced, as with an hundred daggers!): That distance has saved a life; to what reserved, the Almighty only knows!-
To be happy, Madam; and to make happy! - And O let me but hope for your favour for to-morrow -I will put off my journey till then-And may God-
Swear not, Sir! -With an awful and piercing aspect-You have too-too often sworn! -God's eye is upon us! -His more immediate eye; and looked wildly. -But the women looked up to the ceiling, and trembled, as if afraid of God's eye. And well they might; and I too, who so very lately had each of us the devil in our hearts.
If not to-morrow, Madam, say but next Thursday, your uncle's birth-day; say but next Thursday!-
This I say, of This you may assure yourself, I never, never will be yours. -And let me hope, that I may be intitled to the performance of your promise, to permit me to leave this innocent house, as one called it (but long have my ears been accustomed to such inversions of words), as soon as the day breaks.
Did my perdition depend upon it, that you cannot, Madam, but upon terms. And I hope you will not terrify me-Still dreading the accursed knife.
Nothing less than an attempt upon my honour shall make me desperate. -I have no view, but to defend my honour: With such a view only I entered into treaty with your infamous agent below. The resolution you have seen, I trust, God will give me again upon the same occasion. But for a less, I wish not for it. Only take notice, women, that I am no wife of this man: Basely as he has used me, I am not his wife. He has no authority over me. If he go away by-and-by, and you act by his authority to detain me, look to it.
Then, taking one of the lights, she turned from us; and away she went, unmolested. -Not a soul was able to molest her.
Mabell saw her, tremblingly, and in a hurry, take the key of her chamber-door out of her pocket, and unlock it; and, as soon as she entered, heard her, double lock, bar, and bolt it.
By her taking out her key, when she came out of her chamber to us, she no doubt suspected my design: Which was, to have carried her in my arms thither, if she made such force necessary, after I had intimidated her, and to have been her companion for that night.
She was to have had several bedchamber-women to assist to undress her upon occasion: But, from the moment she entered the dining-room with so much intrepidity, it was absolutely impossible to think of prosecuting my villainous designs against her.
This, This, Belford, was the hand I made of a contrivance I expected so much from! -And now am I ten times worse off than before!
Thou never sawest people in thy life look so like fools upon one another, as the mother, her partners, and I, did for a few minutes. And at last, the two devilish nymphs broke out into insulting ridicule upon me; while the old wretch was concerned for her house, the reputation of her house. I cursed them all together; and, retiring to my chamber, locked myself in.
And now it is time to set out: All I have gained, detection, disgrace, fresh guilt by repeated perjuries, and to be despised by her I doat upon; and, what is still worse to a proud heart, by myself.
Success, success in projects, is every thing. What an admirable fellow did I think myself till now! Even for this scheme among the rest! But how pitifully foolish does it appear to me now! - Scratch out, erase, never to be read, every part of my preceding letters, where I have boastingly mentioned it. -And never presume to railly me upon the cursed subject: For I cannot bear it.
But for the lady, by my soul I love her, I admire her, more than ever! -I must have her. I will have her still. - With honour, or without, as I have often vowed. -My cursed fright at her accidental bloody nose, so lately, put her upon improving upon me thus: Had she threatened ME, I should soon have been mistress of one arm, and in both! -But for so sincere a virtue to threaten herself, and not offer to intimidate any other, and with so much presence of mind, as to distinguish, in the very passionate intention, the necessity of the act in defence of her honour, and so fairly to disavow lesser occasions; shewed such a deliberation, such a choice, such a principle; and then keeping me so watchfull at a distance, that I could not seize her hand, so soon as she could have given the fatal blow; how impossible not to be subdued by so true and so discreet a magnanimity!
But she is not gone; shall not go. I will press her with letters for the Thursday-She shall yet be mine, legally mine. For, as to cohabitation, there is now no such thing to be thought of.
The Captain shall give her away, as proxy for her uncle. My Lord will die. My fortune will help my will, and set me above every-thing and every-body.
But here is the curse: -She despises me, Jack! - What man, as I have heretofore said, can bear to be despised-especially by his wife? -O Lord! O Lord! What a hand, what a cursed hand, have I made of this plot! -And here ends
The history of the Lady and the Penknife!!! - The devil take the penknife! -It goes against me to say, God bless the Lady.
Near 5, Sat. Morn.

### v5 LETTER LI.

Mr. Lovelace, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Superscribed, To Mrs. Lovelace.
M. Hall, Sat. Night, June 24.
My dearest Life,
If you do not impute to love, and to terror raised by love, the poor figure I made before you last night, you will not do me justice. I thought I would try to the very last moment, if, by complying with you in every-thing, I could prevail upon you to promise to be mine on Thursday next, since you refused me an earlier day. Could I have been so happy, you had not been hindered going to Hamstead, or wherever else you pleased. But when I could not prevail upon you to give me this assurance, what room had I (my demerit so great) to suppose, that your going thither would not be to lose you for ever?
I will own to you, Madam, that yesterday afternoon I picked up the paper dropt by Dorcas; who has confessed, that she would have assisted you in getting away, if she had had an opportunity so to do; and undoubtedly dropped it by accident. -And could I have prevailed upon you as to the Thursday next, I would have made no use of it; secure as I should then have been, in your word given, to be mine. But when I found you inflexible, I was resolved to try, if, by resenting Dorcas's treachery, I could not make your pardon of me the condition of mine to her: And if not, to make a handle of it to revoke my consent to your going away from Mrs. Sinclair's; since the consequence of that must have been so fatal to me.
So far, indeed, was my proceeding low and artful: And when I was challenged with it, as such, in so high and noble a manner, I could not avoid taking shame to myself upon it.
But you must permit me, Madam, to hope, that you will not punish me too heavily for so poor a contrivance, since no dishonour was meant you; and since, in the moment of its execution, you had as great an instance of my incapacity to defend a wrong, a low measure, and, at the same time, of your power over me, as mortal man could give: In a word, since you must have seen, that I was absolutely under the controul both of Conscience, and of Love.
I will not offer to defend myself, for wishing you to remain where you are, till either you give me your word to meet me at the altar, on Thursday; or till I have the honour of attending you, preparative to the solemnity which will make that day the happiest of my life.
I am but too sensible, that this kind of treatment may appear to you with the face of an arbitrary and illegal imposition: But as the consequences, not only to ourselves, but to both our families, may be fatal, if you cannot be moved in my favour; let me beseech you to forgive this act of compulsion, on the score of the necessity you your dear self have laid me under to be guilty of it; and to permit the solemnity of next Thursday to include an act of oblivion of all past offences.
The orders I have given to the people of the house are: 'That you shall be obeyed in every particular that is consistent with my expectations of finding you there on my return to town on Wednesday next: That Mrs. Sinclair, and her nieces, having incurred your just displeasure, shall not, without your orders, come into your presence: That neither shall Dorcas, till she has fully cleared her conduct to your satisfaction, be permitted to attend you: But Mabell, in her place; of whom, you seemed, some time ago, to express some liking. Will. I have left behind me to attend your commands. If he be either negligent or impertinent, your dismission shall be a dismission of him from my service for ever. But, as to letters which may be sent you, or any which you may have to send, I must humbly intreat, that none such pass from or to you, for the few days that I shall be absent.' But I do assure you, Madam, that the seals of both sorts shall be sacred: And the letters, if such be sent, shall be given into your own hands, the moment the ceremony is performed, or before, if you require it.
Mean time I will inquire, and send you word, how Miss Howe does; and to what, if I can be informed, her long silence is owing.
Dr. Perkins I found here, attending my Lord, when I arrived with Dr. S. He acquaints me, that your father, mother, uncles, and the still less worthy persons of your family, are well; and intend to be all at your uncle Harlowe's next week; I presume to keep his anniversary. This can make no alteration, but a happy one, as to persons, on Thursday; because Mr. Tomlinson assured me, that, if any-thing fell out to hinder your uncle's coming up in person (which, however, he did not then expect), he would be satisfied if his friend the Captain were proxy for him. I shall send a man and horse tomorrow to the Captain, to be at greater certainty.
I send this by a special messenger, who will wait your pleasure: Which I humbly hope will be signified in a line, in relation to the impatiently-wished-for Thursday.
My Lord, tho' hardly sensible, and unmindful of every-thing but of our felicity, desires his most affectionate compliments to you. He has in readiness to present you several valuables; which he hopes will be acceptable, whether he lives to see you adorn them, or not.
Lady Sarah and Lady Betty have also their tokens of respect ready to court your acceptance: But may heaven incline you to give the opportunity of receiving their personal compliments, and those of my cousins Montague, before the next week be out!
His Lordship is exceeding ill. Dr. S. has no hopes of him: The only consolation I can have for the death of a relation who loves me so well, if he do die, must arise from the additional power it will put into my hands of shewing how much I am,
My dearest Life,
Your ever-affectionate and faithful
Lovelace.

### v5 LETTER LII.

Mr. Lovelace, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Superscribed, To Mrs. Lovelace.
M. Hall, Sunday Night, June 25.
My dearest Love,
I cannot find words to express how much I am mortified at the return of my messenger, without a line from you.
Thursday is so near, that I will send messenger after messenger every four hours, till I have a favourable answer; the one to meet the other, till its eve arrives, to know if I may venture to appear in your presence, with the hope of having my wishes answered on that day.
Your love, Madam, I neither expect, nor ask for; nor will, till my future behaviour gives you cause to think I deserve it. All I at present presume to wish, is, To have it in my power to do you all the justice I can now do you: And to your generosity will I leave it, to reward me, as I shall merit, with your affection.
At present, revolving my poor behaviour of Friday night before you, I think I should sooner choose to go to my last audit, unprepared for it as I am, than to appear in your presence, unless you give me some hope, that I shall be received as your elected husband, rather than (however deserved) as a detested criminal.
Let me therefore propose an expedient, in order to spare my own confusion; and to spare you the necessity for that soul-harrowing recrimination, which I cannot stand, and which must be disagreeable to yourself-To name the church; and I will have every thing in readiness; so that our next interview will be, in a manner, at the very altar; and then you will have the kind husband to forgive for the faults of the ingrateful lover. If your resentment be still too high to write more, let it only be, in your own dear hand, these words, St. Martin's church, Thursday-or these, St. Giles's church, Thursday; nor will I insist upon any inscription, or subscription, or so much as the initials of your name. This shall be all the favour I will expect, till the dear hand itself is given to mine, in presence of that Being whom I invoke as a witness of the inviolable faith and honour of
Your adoring
Lovelace.

### v5 LETTER LIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Superscribed, To Mrs. Lovelace.
M. Hall, Monday, June 26.
Once more, my dearest love, do I conjure you to send me the four requested words. There is no time to be lost. And I would not have next Thursday go over, without being intitled to call you mine, for the world; and that as well for your sake as my own. Hitherto all that has passed is between you and me only; but, after Thursday, if my wishes are unanswered, the whole will be before the world.
My Lord is extremely ill, and endures not to have me out of his sight for one half-hour. But this shall not weigh with me one iota, if you be pleased to hold out the olive-branch to me, in the four requested words.
I have the following intelligence from Captain Tomlinson.
All your family are at your uncle Harlowe's. Your uncle finds he cannot go up; and names Captain Tomlinson for his proxy. He proposes to keep all your family with him, till the Captain assures him, that the ceremony is over.
Already he has begun, with hope of success, to try to reconcile your mother to you.
My Lord M. but just now has told me, how happy he should think himself to have an opportunity, before he dies, to salute you as his niece. I have put him in hopes, that he shall see you; and have told him, that I will go to town on Wednesday, in order to prevail upon you to accompany me down on Thursday or Friday. I have ordered a Set to be in readiness to carry me up; and, were not my Lord so very ill, my cousin Montague tells me, she would offer her attendance on you. If you please, therefore, we can set out for this place the moment the solemnity is performed.
Do not, dearest creature, dissipate all these promising appearances, and, by refusing to save your own and your family's reputation in the eye of the world, use yourself worse than the ingratefullest wretch on earth has used you. For, if we are married, all the disgrace you imagine you have suffered while a single lady, will be my own; and only known to ourselves.
Once more then, consider well the situation we are both in; and remember, my dearest life, that Thursday will be soon here; and that you have no time to lose.
In a letter sent by the messenger whom I dispatch with this, I have desired, that my friend Mr. Belford, who is your very great admirer, and who knows all the secrets of my heart, will wait upon you, to know what I am to depend upon, as to the chosen day.
Surely, my dear, you never could, at any time, suffer half so much from cruel suspense, as I do.
If I have not an answer to this, either from your own goodness, or thro' Mr. Belford's intercession, it will be too late for me to set out: And Captain Tomlinson will be disappointed, who goes to town on purpose to attend your pleasure.
One motive for the gentle restraint I have presumed to lay you under, is to prevent the mischiefs that might ensue (as probably to the more innocent, as to the less), were you to write to any-body, while your passions were so much raised and inflamed against me. Having apprised you of my direction on this head, I wonder you should have endeavoured to send a letter to Miss Howe, altho' in a cover directed to that young lady's servant; as you must think it would be likely to fall into my hands.
The just sense of what I have deserved the contents should be, leaves me no room to doubt what they are. Nevertheless, I return it you inclosed, with the seal, as you will see, unbroken.
Relieve, I beseech you, dearest Madam, by the four requested words, or by Mr. Belford, the anxiety of
Your ever-affectionate and obliged
Lovelace.
Remember, there will not, there cannot be time for further writing, and for my coming-up by Thursday, your uncle's birth-day.

### v5 LETTER LIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Monday, June 26.
Thou wilt see the situation I am in with Miss Harlowe by the inclosed copies of three letters; to two of which I am too much scorned to have one word given me in answer; and of the third (now sent by the messenger who brings thee this) I am afraid as little notice will be taken-And if so, her day of grace is absolutely over.
One would imagine (so long used to constraint too as she has been), that she might have been satisfied with the triumph she had over us all on Friday night: A triumph that to this hour has sunk my pride and my vanity so much, that I almost hate the words Plot, Contrivance, Scheme, and shall mistrust myself in future, for every one that rises to my inventive head.
But seest thou not, that I am under a necessity to continue her at Sinclair's, and to prohibit all her correspondences?
Now, Belford, as I really, in my present mood, think of nothing less than marrying her, if she let not Thursday slip; I would have thee, in pursuance of the intimation I have given her in my letter of this date, to attend her; and vow for me, swear for me, bind thy soul to her for my honour, and use what arguments thy friendly heart can suggest, in order to procure me an answer from her; which, as thou wilt see, she may give in four words only. And then I purpose to leave Lord M. (dangerously ill as he is) and meet her at her appointed church, in order to solemnize: If she will sign but Cl. H. to thy writing the four words, that shall do; for I would not come up to be made a fool of in the face of all my family and friends.
If she should let the day go off;-I shall be desperate! -I am intangled in my own devices, and cannot bear that she should detect me.
O that I had been honest! -What a devil are all my plots come to! What do they end in, but one grand plot upon myself, and a title to eternal infamy and disgrace! But, depending on thy friendly offices, I will say no more of this. -Let her send me but one line! -But one line! -Not treat me as unworthy of her notice; yet be altogether in my power-I cannot -I will not bear that.
My Lord, as I said, is extremely ill: The doctors give him over. He gives himself over. Those who would not have him die, are afraid he will. But as to myself, I am doubtful: For these long and violent struggles between the constitution and the disease, tho' the latter has three physicians and an apothecary to help it forward (and all three, as to their prescriptions, of different opinions too), indicate a plaguy tough habit, and favour more of recovery than death: And the more so, as he has no sharp or acute animal organs to whet out his bodily ones, and to raise his sever above the symptomatic helpful one.
Thou wilt see in the inclosed, what pains I am at to dispatch messengers; who are constantly on the road to meet each other, and one of them to link in the chain with a fourth, whose station is in London, and five miles onward, or till met. But, in truth, I have some other matters for them to perform at the same time, with my Lord's banker and his lawyer; which will enable me, if his Lordship is so good as to die this bout, to be an over-match for some of my other relations. I don't mean Charlotte and Patty; for they are noble girls; but others, who have been scratching and clawing under-ground like so many moles in my absence; and whose workings I have discovered since I have been down, by the little heaps of dirt they have thrown up.
A speedy account of thy commission, dear Jack! The letter travels all night.

### v5 LETTER LV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
London, June 27. Tuesday.
You must excuse me, Lovelace, from engaging in the office you would have me undertake, till I can be better assured you really intend honourably at last by this much-injured lady.
I believe you know your friend Belford too well, to think he would be easy with you, or with any man alive, who should seek to make him promise for him what he never intended to perform. And let me tell thee, that I have not much confidence in the honour of a man, who, by imitation of hands (I will only call it), has shewn so little regard to the honour of his own relations.
Only that thou hast such jesuitical qualifyings, or I should think thee at last touched with remorse, and brought within view of being ashamed of thy cursed inventions by the ill success of thy last: Which I heartily congratulate thee upon.
O the divine lady! -But I will not aggravate!
Yet when thou writest, that, in thy present mood, thou thinkest of marrying; and yet canst so easily change thy mood: When I know thy heart is against the state: -That the four words thou courtest from the lady are as much to thy purpose, as if she wrote forty; since it will shew she can forgive the highest injury that can be offered to woman: And when I recollect, how easily thou canst find excuses to postpone; thou must be more explicit a good deal, as to thy real intentions, and future honour, than thou art; for I cannot trust to a temporary remorse; which is brought on by disappointment too, and not by principle; and the like of which thou hast so often got over!
If thou canst convince me time enough for the day, that thou meanest to do honourably by her, in her own sense of the word; or, if not time enough, wilt fix some other day (which thou oughtest to leave to her option, and not bind her down for the Thursday; and the rather, as thy pretence for so doing is founded on an absolute fiction); I will then most chearfully undertake thy cause; by person, if she will admit me to her presence; if not, by pen. But, in this case, thou must allow me to be guarantee for thy faith. And, if so, as much as I value thee, and respect thy skill in all the qualifications of a gentleman, thou may'st depend upon it, that I will act up to the character of a guarantee, with more honour than the princes of our day usually do-to their shame be it spoken.
Mean time, let me tell thee, that my heart bleeds for the wrongs this angelic lady has received: And if thou dost not marry her, if she will have thee; and, when married, make her the best and tenderest of husbands; I would rather be a dog, a monkey, a bear, a viper, or a toad, than thee.
Command me with honour, and thou shalt find none readier to oblige thee, than
Thy sincere Friend,
John Belford.

### v5 LETTER LVI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
M. Hall, June 27. Tuesday Night, near 12.
Yours reached me this moment, by an extraordinary push in the messengers.
What a man of honour, thou, of a sudden!
And so, in the imaginary shape of a guarantee, thou threatenest me!
Had I not been in earnest as to the lady, I should not have offered to employ thee in the affair. But, let me tell thee, that hadst thou undertaken the task, and I had afterwards thought fit to change my mind, I should have contented myself to tell thee, that That was my mind, when thou engagedst for me; and to have given thee the reasons for the change; and then left thee to thy own direction. For never knew I what fear of man was,-nor fear of woman neither, till I became acquainted with Miss Clarissa Harlowe; nay, what is most surprising, till I came to have her in my power.
And so thou wilt not wait upon the charmer of my heart, but upon terms and conditions! -Let it alone, and be curs'd; I care not. -But so much credit did I give to the value thou expressedst for her, that I thought the office would have been as acceptable to thee, as serviceable to me; for what was it, but to endeavour to persuade her to consent to the reparation of her own honour? For what have I done but disgraced myself, and been a thief to my own joys? -And if there be an union of hearts, and an intention to solemnize, what is there wanting but the foolish ceremony? -And that I still offer. But if she will keep back her hand; if she will make me hold out mine in vain-How can I help it?
I write her one more letter, and if, after she has received that, she keep sullen silence, she must thank herself for what is to follow.
But, after all, my heart is wholly hers. I love her beyond expression; and cannot help it. I hope therefore she will receive this last tender, as I wish. I hope she intends not, like a true woman, to plague, and vex, and teaze me, now she has found her power. If she will take me to mercy now these remorses are upon me; tho' I scorn to condition with thee for my sincerity; all her trials, as I have heretofore declared, shall be over; and she shall be as happy as I can make her: For, ruminating upon all that has passed between us, from the first hour of our acquaintance till the present, I must pronounce, That she is Virtue itself, and, once more I say, has no equal.
As to what you hint of leaving to her choice another day, do you consider, that it will be impossible, that my contrivances and stratagems should be much longer concealed? -This makes me press that day, tho' so near; and the more, as I have made so much ado about her uncle's anniversary. If she send me the four words, I will spare no fatigue to be in time, if not for the canonical hour at church, for some other hour of the day in her own apartment, or any other; for money will do every thing: And that I have never spared in this affair.
To shew thee, that I am not at enmity with thee, I inclose the copies of two letters: One to her: It is the fourth, and must be the last on the subject: The other to Captain Tomlinson; calculated, as thou wilt see, for him to shew her.
And now, Jack, interfere in this case, or not, thou knowest the mind of
R. Lovelace.

### v5 LETTER LVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Superscribed, To Mrs. Lovelace.
M. Hall, Wed. Morn. One o'Clock, June 28.
Not one line, my dearest life, not one word, in answer to three letters I have written! The time is now so short, that this must be the last letter that can reach you on this side of the important hour that might make us legally one.
My friend Mr. Belford is apprehensive, that he cannot wait upon you in time, by reason of some urgent affairs of his own.
I the less regret the disappointment, because I have procured a more acceptable person, as I hope, to attend you; Captain Tomlinson I mean: To whom I had applied for this purpose, before I had Mr. Belford's answer.
I was the more solicitous to obtain this favour from him, because of the office he is to take upon him, as I humbly presume to hope, to-morrow. That office obliged him to be in town as this day: And I acquainted him with my unhappy situation with you; and desired, that he would shew me, on this occasion, that I had as much of his favour and friendship, as your uncle had; since the whole treaty must be broken off, if he could not prevail upon you in my behalf.
He will dispatch the messenger directly; whom I propose to meet in person at Slough; either to proceed onward to London with a joyful heart, or to return back to M. Hall, with a broken one.
I ought not (but cannot help it) to anticipate the pleasure Mr. Tomlinson proposes to himself, in acquainting you with the likelihood there is of your mother's seconding your uncle's views. For, it seems, he has privately communicated to her his laudable intentions: And her resolution depends, as well as his, upon what to-morrow will produce.
Disappoint not then, I beseech you, for an hundred persons sakes, as well as for mine, that uncle, and that mother, whose displeasure I have heard you so often deplore.
You may think it impossible for me to reach London by the canonical hour. If it should, the ceremony may be performed in your own apartment, at any time in the day, or at night: So that Captain Tomlinson may have it to aver to your uncle, that it was performed on his anniversary.
Tell but the Captain, that you forbid me not to attend you: And that shall be sufficient for bringing to you, on the wings of Love,
Your ever-grateful and affectionate
Lovelace.

### v5 LETTER LVIII.

To Mr. Patrick McDonald, at his Lodgings, at Mr. Brown's, Perukemaker, in St. Martin's-lane, Westminster.
M. Hall, Wedn. morning, two o'clock, June 28.
Dear McDonald,
The bearer of this has a letter to carry to the lady. I have been at the trouble of writing a copy of it; which I inclose, that you may not mistake your cue.
You will judge of my reasons for ante-dating the inclosed sealed one, directed to you by the name of Tomlinson, which you are to shew the lady, as is confidence. You will open it of course.
I doubt not your dexterity and management, dear McDonald; nor your zeal, especially as the hope of cohabitation must now be given up. Impossible to be carried is that scheme. I might break her heart, but not incline her will. Am in earnest therefore to marry her, if she let not the day slip.
Improve upon the hint of her mother: That must touch her. But John Harlowe, remember, has privately engaged that Lady- Privately, I say; else (not to mention the reason for her uncle Harlowe's former expedient) you know, she might find means to get a letter away to the one or the other, to know the truth; or to Miss Howe, to engage her to inquire into it: And if she should, the word privately will account for the uncle's and mother's denying it.
However, fail not, as from me, to charge our mother and her nymphs, to redouble their vigilance both as to her person and letters. All's upon a crisis now. But she must not be treated ill neither.
Thursday over, I shall know what to resolve upon.
If necessary, you must assume authority. The devil's in't, if such a girl as this shall awe a man of your years and experience. Fly out, if she doubt your honour. Spirits naturally soft may be beat out of their play and borne down (tho' ever so much raised) by higher anger. All women are cowards at bottom: Only violent when they may. I have often stormed a girl out of her mistrusts, and made her yield before she knew where she was to the point indignantly mistrusted; and that to make up with me, tho' I was the aggressor.
If this matter succeed as I'd have it (or if not, and do not fail by your fault) I will take you off of the necessity of pursuing your cursed Smuggling; which otherwise may one day end fatally for you.
We are none of us perfect, McDonald. This sweet lady makes me serious sometimes in spite of my heart. But as private vices are less blameable than public; and as I think Smuggling (as it is called) a National evil; I have no doubt to pronounce you a much worse man than myself, and as such shall take pleasure in reforming you.
I send you inclosed ten guineas, as a small earnest of further favours. Hitherto you have been a very clever fellow.
As to cloaths for Thursday, Monmouth-street will afford a ready supply. Cloaths quite new would make your condition suspected. But you may defer that care, till you see if she can be prevailed upon. Your riding-dress will do for the first visit. Nor let your boots be over clean: I have always told you the consequence of attending to the minutiae, where art (or imposture, as the ill-manner'd would call it) is designed-Your linen rumpled and soily, when you wait upon her- Easy terms these! -Just come to town-Remember (as formerly) to loll, to throw out your legs, to stroke and grasp down your ruffles, as if of significance enough to be careless. What tho' the presence of a fine lady would require a different behaviour, are you not of years to dispense with politeness? You have no design upon her, you know. Are a father yourself of daughters as old as she. Evermore is parade and obsequiousness suspectable: It must shew either a foolish head, or a knavish heart. Make yourself of consequence therefore; and you will be treated as a man of consequence. I have often more than half ruined myself by my complaisance, and, being afraid of controul, have brought controul upon myself.
I think I have no more to say at present. I intend to be at Slough, or on the way to it, as by mine to the lady. Adieu, honest McDonald.
R. L.

### v5 LETTER LIX.

To Captain Antony Tomlinson.
[Inclosed in the preceding; To be shewn to the Lady as in confidence.]
M. Hall, Tuesday morn. June 27.
Dear Capt. Tomlinson,
An unhappy misunderstanding having arisen between the dearest lady in the world and me (the particulars of which she perhaps may give you, but I will not, because I might be thought partial to myself); and she refusing to answer my most pressing and respectful letters; I am at a most perplexing uncertainty, whether she will meet us, or not, next Thursday, to solemnize.
My Lord is so extremely ill, that if I thought she would not oblige me, I would defer going up to town for two or three days. He cares not to have me out of his sight: Yet is impatient to salute my Beloved as his niece before he dies. This I have promised to give him an opportunity to do; intending, if the dear creature will make me happy, to set out with her for this place directly from church.
With regret I speak it of the charmer of my soul; but irreconcileableness is her family-fault: The less excuseable indeed in her, as she herself suffers by it in so high a degree from her own relations.
Now, Sir, as you intended to be in town some time before Thursday, if it be not too great an inconvenience to you, I could be glad you would go up as soon as possible, for my sake: And this I the more boldly request, as I presume that a man who has so many great affairs of his own in hand as you have, would be glad to be at a certainty himself as to the day.
You, Sir, can so pathetically and justly set before her the unhappy consequences that will follow if the day be postponed, as well with regard to her uncle's disappointment, as to the part you have assured me her mother is willing to take in the wished-for reconciliation, that I have great hopes she will suffer herself to be prevailed upon. And a man and horse shall be in waiting to take your dispatches, and bring them to me.
But if you cannot prevail in my favour, you will be pleased to satisfy your friend Mr. John Harlowe, that it is not my fault that he is not obliged. I am, dear Sir,
Your extremely obliged
and faithful Servant,
R. Lovelace.

### v5 LETTER LX.

To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wedn. June 28. near 12 o' clock.
Honoured Sir,
I received yours, as your servant desired me to acquaint you, by ten this morning. Horse and man were in a foam.
I instantly equipp'd myself, as if come off from a journey, and posted away to the lady, intending to plead great affairs, that I came not before, in order to favour your ante-date; and likewise to be in a hurry, to have a pretence to hurry her Ladyship, and to take no denial for her giving a satisfactory return to your messenger: But, upon my entering Mrs. Sinclair's house, I found all in the greatest consternation.
You must not, Sir, be surprised. It is a trouble to me to be the relater of the bad news: But so it is, the lady is gone off. She was missed but half an hour before I came.
Her waiting-maid is run away, or hitherto is not to be found: So that they conclude it was by her connivance.
They had sent before I came to my honoured masters Mr. Belton, Mr. Mowbray, and Mr. Belford. Mr. Tourville is out of town.
High words are passing between Madam Sinclair, and Madam Horton, and Madam Martin; as also with Dorcas. And your servant William threatens to hang or drown himself.
They have sent to know if they can hear of Mabell the waiting-maid at her mother's, who it seems lives in Chick-lane, West-Smithfield; and to an uncle of her's also, who keeps an alehouse at Cowcross, hard-by, and with whom she lived last.
Your messenger, having just changed his horse, is come back: So I will not detain him longer than to add, that I am, with great concern for this misfortune, and thanks for your seasonable favour and kind intentions towards me [I am sure this was not my fault] honoured Sir,
Your most obliged humble Servant,
Patrick McDonald.

### v5 LETTER LXI.

Mr. Mowbray, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wednesday, 12 o' clock.
Dear Lovelace,
I have plaguy news to acquaint thee with. Miss Harlowe is gon off! -Quite gon, by my soul! - I have not time for particulars, your servant being going off. But iff I had, we are not yet come to the bottom of the matter. The ladies here are all blubbering like devils, accusing one another most confoundedly: Whilst Belton and I damn them all together in thy name.
If thou shouldst hear that thy fellow Will. is taken dead out of some horse-pond, and Dorcas cutt down from her bed's teaster, from dangling in her own garters, be not surpriz'd. Here's the devill to pay. No-body serene but Jack Belford, who is taking minnutes of examminations, accusations, and confessions, with the signifficant air of a Middlesex Justice; and intends to write at large all particulars, I suppose.
I heartily condole with thee: So does Belton. But it may turn out for the best: For she is gone away with thy marks, I understand. A foolish little devill! Where will she mend herself? For no-body will look upon her. And they tell me, that thou wouldst certainly have married her had she staid. -But I know thee better.
Dear Bobby, adieu. If thy uncle will die now, to comfort thee for this loss, what a seasonable exit would he make! Let's have a letter from thee: Pr'ythee do. Thou canst write devil-like to Belford, who shews us nothing at all.
Thine heartily,
Rd. Mowbray.

### v5 LETTER LXII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday, June 29.
Thou hast heard from McDonald and Mowbray the news. Bad or good, I know not which thou'lt deem it. I only wish I could have given thee joy upon the same account, before the unhappy lady was seduced from Hamstead: For then of what an ingrateful villainy hadst thou been spared the perpetration, which now thou hast to answer for!
I came to town purely to serve thee with her, expecting that thy next would satisfy me that I might endeavour it without dishonour: And at first when I found her gone, I half pitied thee; for now wilt thou be inevitably blown up: And in what an execrable light wilt thou appear to all the world! Poor Lovelace! Caught in thy own snares! Thy punishment is but beginning!
But to my narrative; for I suppose thou expectest all particulars from me, since Mowbray has informed thee that I have been collecting them.
'The noble exertion of spirit she had made on Friday night, had, it seems, greatly disordered her; insomuch that she was not visible till Saturday evening; when Mabell saw her, and she seemed to be very ill: But on Sunday morning, having dress'd herself, as if designing to go to church, she order'd Mabell to get her a coach to the door.
'The wench told her, She was to obey her in every thing but the calling of a coach or chair.
'She sent for Will. and gave him the same command.
'He pleaded his master's orders to the contrary, and desired to be excused.
'Upon this, down she went herself, and would have gone out without observation: But finding the street-door double-lock'd, and the key not in the lock, she stept into the street-parlour, and would have thrown up the sash to call out to the people passing by, as they doubted not: But that, since her last attempt of the same nature, had been fasten'd down.
'Hereupon she resolutely stept into Mrs. Sinclair's parlour in the back-house; where were the old devil and her two partners; and demanded the key of the street-door, or to have it opened for her.
'They were all surprised; but desired to be excused, pleading your orders.
'She asserted, that you had no authority over her; and never should have any: That their present refusal was their own act and deed: She saw the intent of their back-house, and the reason of putting her there: She pleaded her condition and fortune; and said, They had no way to avoid utter ruin, but by opening their doors to her, or by murdering her, and burying her in their garden or cellar, too deep for detection: That already what had been done to her was punishable by death: And bid them at their peril detain her.'
What a noble, what a right spirit has this charming creature, in cases that will justify an exertion of spirit!-
'They answer'd, That Mr. Lovelace could prove his marriage, and would indemnify them. And they all would have vindicated their behaviour on Friday night, and the reputation of their house: But refusing to hear them on that topic, she flung from them, threatening.
'She then went up half a dozen stairs in her way to her own apartment: But, as if she had bethought herself, down she stept again, and proceeded towards the street-parlour; saying, as she passed by the infamous Dorcas, I'll make myself protectors, tho' the windows suffer: But that wench, of her own head, on the lady's going out of that parlour to Mrs. Sinclair's, had lock'd the door, and taken out the key: So that finding herself disappointed, she burst into tears, and went menacing and sobbing up stairs again.
'She made no other attempt till the effectual one. Your letters and messages, they supposed, coming so fast upon one another (tho' she would not answer one of them) gave her some amusement, and an assurance to them, that she would at last forgive you; and that then all would end as you wish'd.
'The women, in pursuance of your orders, offer'd not to obtrude themselves upon her; and Dorcas also kept out of her sight all the rest of Sunday; also on Monday and Tuesday. But by the lady's condescension (even to familiarity) to Mabell, they imagined, that she must be working in her mind all that time to get away: They therefore redoubled their cautions to the wench: Who told them so faithfully all that passed between her lady and her, that they had no doubt of her fidelity to her wicked trust.
''Tis probable she might have been contriving something all this time; but saw no room for perfecting any scheme: The contrivance by which she effected her escape seems to me not to have been fallen upon till the very day; since it depended partly upon the weather, as it proved. But it is evident she hoped something from Mabell's simplicity, or gratitude, or compassion, by cultivating all the time her civility to her.
'Polly waited on her early on Wednesday morning; and met with a better reception than she had reason to expect. She complained however with warmth of her confinement. Polly said, There would be an happy end to it (if it were a confinement) next day, she presumed. She absolutely declared to the contrary, in the way Polly meant it; and said, That Mr. Lovelace, on his return [Which look'd as if she intended to wait for it], should have reason to repent the orders he had given, as they all should their observance of them: Let him send twenty letters, she would not answer one, be the consequence what it would; nor give him hope of the least favour, while she was in that house. She had given Mrs. Sinclair and themselves fair warning, she said: No orders of another ought to make them detain a free person: But having made an open attempt to go, and been detained by them, she was the calmer, she told Polly; Let them look to the consequence.
'But yet she spoke this with temper; and Polly gave it as her opinion, (with apprehension for their own safety) that, having so good a handle to punish them all, she would not go away, if she might. And what, inferred Polly, is the indemnity of a man who has committed the vilest of rapes on a person of condition; and must himself, if prosecuted for it, either fly, or be hang'd?
'Sinclair, so I will still call her, upon this representation of Polly, foresaw, she said, the ruin of her poor house in the issue of this strange business, as she call'd it; and Sally and Dorcas bore their parts in the apprehension: And this put them upon thinking it adviseable for the future, that the street-door should generally in the day-time be only left upon a bolt-latch, as they call'd it, which anybody might open on the inside; and that the key should be kept in the door; that their numerous comers and goers, as they called their guests, should be able to give evidence, that she might have gone out if she would: Not forgetting, however, to renew their orders to Will. to Dorcas, to Mabell, and the rest, to redouble their vigilance on this occasion, to prevent her escape: -None of them doubting, at the same time, that her love of a man so considerable in their eyes, and the prospect of what was to happen as she had reason to believe on Thursday, her uncle's birth-day, would (tho' perhaps not till the last hour, for her pride-sake, was their word) engage her to change her temper.
'They believe, that she discover'd the key to be left in the door; for she was down more than once to walk in the little garden, and seemed to cast her eye each time to the street-door.
'About eight yesterday morning, an hour after Polly had left her, she told Mabell, She was sure she should not live long; and having a good many suits of apparel, which after her death would be of no use to any-body she valued, she would give her a brown lustring gown, which, with some alterations, to make it more suitable to her degree, would a great while serve her for a Sunday wear; for that she (Mabell) was the only person in that house of whom she could think without terror or antipathy.
'Mabell expressing her gratitude upon the occasion, the lady said, She had nothing to employ herself about; and if she could get a workwoman directly, she would look over her things then, and give her what she intended for her.
'Her mistress's mantua-maker, the maid replied, lived but a little way off; and she doubted not that she could procure her, or one of her journeywomen, to alter the gown out of hand.
'I will give you also, said she, a quilted coat, which will require but little alteration, if any; for you are much about my stature: But the gown I will give directions about, because the sleeves and the robings and facings must be alter'd for your wear, being, I believe, above your station: And try, said she, if you can get the workwoman, and we'll advise about it. If she cannot come now, let her come in the afternoon; but I had rather now, because it will amuse me to give you a lift.
'Then stepping to the window, It rains, said she [and so it had done all the morning]: Slip on the hood and short cloak I have seen you wear, and come to me when you are ready to go out, because you shall bring me in something that I want.
'Mabell equipp'd herself accordingly, and received her commands to buy her some trifles, and then left her; but, in her way out, stept into the back parlour, where Dorcas was with Mrs. Sinclair, telling her where she was going, and on what account, bidding Dorcas look out till she came back. So faithful was the wench to the trust reposed in her, and so little had the lady's generosity wrought upon her.
'Mrs. Sinclair commended her; Dorcas envied her, and took her cue: And Mabell soon returned with the mantua-maker's journeywoman (She was resolved, she said, she would not come without her); and then Dorcas went off guard.
'The lady look'd out the gown and petticoat, and before the workwoman caused Mabell to try it on; and, that it might sit the better, made the willing wench pull off her upper petticoat, and put on that she gave her. Then she bid them go into Mr. Lovelace's apartment, and contrive about it before the pier-glass there, and stay till she came to them, to give them her opinion.
'Mabell would have taken her own cloaths, and hood, and short cloak with her: But her lady said, No matter; you may put them on again here, when we have consider'd about the alterations: There's no occasion to litter the other room.
'They went; and instantly, as it is supposed, she slipt on Mabell's gown and petticoat over her own, which was white damask, and put on the wench's hood, short cloak, and ordinary apron, and down she went.
'Hearing somebody tripping along the passage, both Will. and Dorcas whipt to the inner-hall door, and saw her; but, taking her for Mabell, Are you going far, Mabell, cried Will.?
'Without turning her face, or answering, she held out her hand, pointing to the stairs; which they construed as a caution for them to look out in her absence; and supposing she would not be long gone, as she had not formally repeated her caution to them, up went Will. tarrying at the stairs-head in expectation of the supposed Mabell's return.
'Mabell and the workwoman waited a good while, amusing themselves not disagreeably, the one with contriving in the way of her business, the other delighting herself with her fine gown and coat: But at last, wondering the lady did not come in to them, Mabell tiptoed it to her door, and tapping, and not being answer'd, stept into the chamber.
'Will. at that instant, from his station at the stairs-head, seeing Mabell in her lady's cloaths; for he had been told of the present [Gifts to servants fly from servant to servant in a minute] was very much surprised, having, as he thought, just seen her go out in her own; and, stepping up, met her at the door. How the devil can this be, said he? Just now you went out in your own dress! How came you here in This? And how could you pass me unseen? But nevertheless, kissing her, said, He would now brag he had kissed his lady, or one in her cloaths.
'I am glad, Mr. William, cried Mabell, to see you here so diligently. But know you where my lady is?
'In my master's apartment, i'n't she? interrogated Will. Was she not talking with you this moment?
'No, that's Mrs. Dolins's journeywoman.
'They both stood aghast, as they said; Will. again recollecting he had seen Mabell, as he thought, go out in her own cloaths. And while they were debating and wondering, up comes Dorcas with your fourth letter, just then brought for her lady; and seeing Mabell dress'd out (whom she had likewise beheld a little before, as she supposed, in her common cloaths), she joined in the wonder; till Mabell, re-entering the lady's apartment, missed her own cloaths; and then suspecting what had happen'd, and letting the others into the ground of her suspicion, they all agreed, that she had certainly escaped: And then followed such an uproar of mutual accusation, and You should have done this, and You should have done that, as alarmed the whole house; every apartment in both houses giving up its devil, to the number of fourteen or fifteen, including the mother and her partners.
'Will. told them his story; and then ran out, as on the like occasion formerly, to make inquiry whether the lady was seen by any of the coachmen, chairmen, or porters, plying in that neighbourhood: While Dorcas cleared herself immediately, and that at the poor Mabell's expence, who made a figure as guilty as aukward, having on the suspected price of her treachery; which Dorcas, out of envy, was ready to tear from her back.
'Hereupon all the pack open'd at the poor wench, while the mother, foaming at the mouth, bellow'd out her orders for seising the suspected offender; who could neither be heard in her own defence, nor, had she been heard, would have been believed.
'That such a perfidious wretch should ever disgrace her house, was the mother's cry! Good people might be corrupted; but it was a fine thing if such a house as hers could not be faithfully served by cursed creatures, who hired themselves upon character, and had no pretence to principle! -Damn her, the wretch proceeded! -She had no patience with her! Call the cook, and call the scullion!
'They were at hand.
'See that guilty pyeball devil, was her word [her lady's gown upon her back]-But I'll punish her for a warning to all betrayers of their trust. Put on the great gridiron this moment (an oath or a curse at every word): Make up a roaring fire: -The cleaver bring me this instant: -I'll cut her into quarters with my own hands; and carbonade and broil the traitress, for a feast to all the dogs and cats in the neighbourhood; and eat the first slice of the toad myself, without salt or pepper.
'The poor Mabell, frighten'd out of her wits, expected every moment to be torn in pieces, having half a score open-claw'd paws upon her all at once. She promised to confess all: But that All, when she had obtained a hearing, was nothing; for nothing had she to confess.
'Sally hereupon, with a curse of mercy, ordered her to retire; undertaking that she and Polly would examine her themselves, that they might be able to write all particulars to his Honour; and then, if she could not clear herself, or, if guilty, give some account of the lady (who had been so wicked as to give them all this trouble) so as they might get her again, then the cleaver and gridiron might go to work with all their hearts.
'The wench, glad of this reprieve, went up stairs; and while Sally was laying out the law, and prating away in her usual dictatorial manner, whipt on another gown, and sliding down stairs, escaped to her relations. And this flight, which was certainly more owing to terror than guilt, was, in the true Old Bailey construction, made a confirmation of the latter.'
These are the particulars of Miss Harlowe's flight. Thou'lt hardly think me too minute. -How I long to triumph over thy impatience and fury on the occasion!
Let me beseech thee, my dear Lovelace, in thy next letter, to rave most gloriously! -I shall be grievously disappointed, if thou dost not.
Where, Lovelace, can the poor lady be gone? And who can describe the distress she must be in?
By your former letters, it may be supposed, that she can have very little money: Nor, by the suddenness of her flight, more cloaths than those she has on. And thou knowest who once said, "Her Parents will not receive her: Her Uncles will not entertain her: Her Norton is in their direction, and cannot: Miss Howe dare not: She has not one friend or intimate in town; intirely a stranger to it." And, let me add, has been despoiled of her honour by the man for whom she made all these sacrifices; and who stood bound to her by a thousand oaths and vows, to be her husband, her protector, and friend!
How strong must be her resentment of the barbarous treatment she has received! How worthy of herself, that it has made her hate the man she once loved! And, rather than marry him, choose to expose her disgrace to the whole world; to forego the reconciliation with her friends which her heart was so set upon; and to hazard a thousand evils to which her youth and her sex may too probably expose an indigent and friendless beauty.
Rememberest thou not that home push upon thee, in one of the papers written in her delirium; of which however it savours not?-
I will assure thee, that I have very often since most seriously reflected upon it: And as thy intended second outrage convinces me, that it made no impression upon thee then, and perhaps thou hast never thought of it since, I will transcribe the sentence.
"If, as Religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great measure, by our benevolent or evil actions to one another-O wretch, bethink thee, in time bethink thee, how great must be thy condemnation (a)!"
And is this amiable doctrine the Sum of Religion? Upon my faith I believe it is. For, to indulge a serious thought, since we are not atheists, except in practice, Does God, the Being of beings, want any thing of us for Himself? And does he not injoin us works of mercy to one another, as the means to obtain His mercy? A sublime principle, and worthy of the Supreme Superintendent and Father of all things! -But, if we are to be judged by this noble principle, what, indeed, must be thy condemnation on the score of this lady only! And what mine, and what all our confraternity's, on the score of other women; tho' we are none of us half so bad as thou art, as well for want of inclination, I hope, as of opportunity!
I must add, that, as well for thy own sake, as for the lady's, I wish ye were yet to be married to each other. It is the only medium that can be hit upon, to salve the honour of both. All that's past may yet be concealed from the world, and from her relations; and thou mayst make amends for all her sufferings, if thou resolvest to be a tender and kind husband to her.
And if this really be thy intention, I will accept, with pleasure, of a commission from thee, that shall tend to promote so good an end, whenever she can be found; that is to say, if she will admit to her presence a man who professes friendship to thee. Nor can I give a greater demonstration, that I am
Thy sincere Friend,
J. Belford.
P. S. Mabell's cloaths were thrown into the passage this morning: No-body knows by whom.
END of Vol. 5.

### Vol. 6

### v6 LETTER I.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;.
Friday, June 30.
I am ruined, undone, blown-up, destroyed, and worse than annihilated, that's certain! -But was not the news shocking enough, dost thou think, without thy throwing into the too weighty scale, reproaches, which thou couldest have had no opportunity to make, but for my own voluntary communications? At a time too, when, as it falls out, I have another very sensible disappointment to struggle with?
I imagine, if there be such a thing as future punishment, it must be none of the smallest mortifications, that a new devil shall be punished by a worse old one. And, Take that! And, Take that! to have the old satyr cry to the screaming sufferer, laying on with a cat-o'-nine-tails, with a star of burning brass at the end of each: And, For what! For what! -Why, if the truth might be fairly told, for not being so bad a devil as myself!
Thou art, surely, casuist good enough to know (what I have insisted upon heretofore), that the sin of seducing a credulous and easy girl, is as great as that of bringing to your lure an incredulous and watchful one.
However ungenerous an appearance what I am going to say may have from my pen, let me tell thee, That if such a lady as Miss Harlowe chose to enter into the matrimonial state (I am resolved to disappoint thee in thy meditated triumph over my rage and despair!), and, according to the old patriarchal system, to go on contributing to get sons and daughters, with no other view, than to bring them up piously, and to be good and useful members of the commonwealth, what a devil had she to do, to let her fancy run a gadding after a Rake? One whom she knew to be a Rake?
O but truly, she hoped to have the merit of reclaiming him. She had formed pretty notions, how charmingly it would look to have a penitent of her own making, dangling at her side, to church, thro' an applauding neighbourhood: And, as their family increased, marching with her thither, at the head of their boys and girls, processionally, as it were, boasting of the fruits of their honest desires, as my good Lord Bishop has it in his Licence. And then, what a comely sight, all kneeling down together in one pew, according to eldership, as we have seen in effigie, a whole family upon some old monument, where the honest chevalier, in armour, is presented kneeling, with uplift hands, and half a dozen jolter-headed crop-eared boys behind him, ranged gradatim, or step-fashion, according to age and size, all in the same posture-Facing his pious dame, with a ruff about her neck, and as many whey-faced girls, all kneeling behind her: An altar between them, and an opened book upon it: Over their heads semilunary rays darting from gilded clouds, surrounding an atchievement-motto, In Coelo Salus-or Quies-perhaps, if they have happened to live the usual married life of brawl and contradiction.
It is certainly as much my misfortune to have fallen in with Miss Clarissa Harlowe, were I to have valued my reputation or ease, as it is that of Miss Harlowe to have been acquainted with me. And, after all, what have I done more than prosecute the maxims, by which thou and I, and every Rake are governed, and which, before I knew this lady, we have pursued from pretty girl to pretty girl, as fast as we had set one down, taking another up;-just as the fellows do, with their flying-coaches and flying-horses at a country-fair-With a Who rides next! Who rides next!
But here, in the present case, to carry on the volant metaphor (for I must either be merry, or mad), is a pretty little Miss, just come out of her hanging-sleeve coat, brought to buy a pretty little fairing; for the world, Jack, is but a great fair, thou knowest; and, to give thee serious reflection for serious, all its toys but tinselled hobby-horses, gilt gingerbread, squeaking trumpets, painted drums, and so forth.-
Now, behold, this pretty little Miss skimming from booth to booth, in a very pretty manner. One pretty little fellow called Wyerly, perhaps; another jiggeting rascal called Biron, a third simpering varlet of the name of Symmes, and a more hideous villain than any of the rest with a long bag under his arm, and parchment settlements tagg'd to his heels, yeleped Solmes; pursue her from raree-show to raree-show, shouldering upon one another at every turning, stopping when she stops, and set a spinning again when she moves. -And thus dangled after, but still in the eye of her watchful guardians, traverses the pretty little Miss thro' the whole fair, equally delighted and delighting: Till at last, taken with the invitation of the lac'd-hat orator, and seeing several pretty little bib-wearers stuck together in the flying-coaches, cutting safely the yielding air, in the One-go-up, the Other-go-down picture of-the-world vehicle, and all with as little fear as wit, is tempted to ride next.
In then suppose she slily pops, when none of her friends are near her: And if, after two or three ups and downs, her pretty head turns giddy, and she throws herself out of the coach, when at its elevation, and so dashes out her pretty little brains, who can help it! -And would you hang the poor fellow, whose professed trade it was to set the pretty little creatures a flying?
'Tis true, this pretty little Miss, being a very pretty little Miss, being a very much-admired little Miss, being a very good little Miss, who always minded her book, and had passed thro' her samplar-doctrine with high applause; had even stitched out in gaudy propriety of colours, an Abraham offering up Isaac, a Samson and the Philistines, and flowers, and knots, and trees, and the sun and the moon, and the seven stars, all hung up in frames with glasses before them, for the admiration of her future grandchildren: Who likewise was intitled to a very pretty little estate: Who was descended from a pretty little family upwards of one hundred years gentility; which lived in a very pretty little manner, respected a very little on their own accounts, a great deal on hers:-
For such a pretty little Miss as this to come to so very great a misfortune, must be a very sad thing: But, tell me, would not the losing of any ordinary child, of any other less considerable family, of less shining or amiable qualities, have been as great and as heavy a loss to that family, as the losing this pretty little Miss to hers?
To descend to a very low instance, and that only as to personality; hast thou any doubt, that thy strong-muscled bony face was as much admired by thy mother, as if it had been the face of a Lovelace, or any other handsome fellow; and had thy picture been drawn, would she have forgiven the painter, had he not expressed so exactly thy lineaments, as that every one should have discerned the likeness? The handsome likeness is all that is wished for. Ugliness made familiar to us, with the partiality natural to fond parents, will be beauty all the world over. -Do thou apply.
But, alas, Jack, all this is but a copy of my countenance, drawn to evade thy malice! -Tho' t answer thy unfriendly purpose to own it, I cannot forbear to own it, that I am stung to the very soul with this unhappy-Accident, must I call it? -Have I nobody, whose throat, either for carelessness or treachery, I ought to cut, in order to pacify my vengeance!-
When I reflect upon my last iniquitous intention, the first outrage so nobly resented, as well as, so far as she was able, so nobly resisted, I cannot but conclude, that I was under the power of fascination from these accursed Circes; who, pretending to know their own sex, would have it, that there is in every woman a yielding, or a weak-resisting moment to be met with: And that yet, and yet, and yet, I had not tried enough: -But that, if neither love nor terror should enable me to hit that lucky moment, when, by help of their cursed arts, she was once overcome, she would be for ever overcome: -Appealing to all my experience, to all my knowlege of the sex, for a justification of their assertion.
My appealed to experience, I own, was but too favourable to their argument: For dost thou think, I could have held my purpose against such an angel as this, had I ever before met with one so much in earnest to defend her honour against the unwearied artifices and perseverance of the man she loved? Why then were there not more examples of a virtue so immoveable? Or, why was this singular one to fall to my lot? Except indeed to double my guilt; and at the same time to convince all that should hear of her story, that there are angels as well as devils in the flesh?
So much for confession; and for the sake of humouring my conscience; with a view likewise to disarm thy malice by acknowlegement: Since no one shall say worse of me, than I will of myself on this occasion.
One thing I will nevertheless add, to shew the sincerity of my contrition: -'Tis this, that if thou canst by any means find her out within these three days, or any time before she has discovered the stories relating to Captain Tomlinson and her Uncle to be what they are; and if thou canst prevail upon her to consent; I will actually, in thy presence, and his (he to represent her uncle), marry her.
I am still in hopes it may be so -She cannot be long concealed-I have already set all engines at work to find her out; and if I do, what indifferent persons (and no one of her friends, as thou observest, will look upon her) will care to imbroil themselves with a man of my figure, fortune, and resolution? -Shew her this part then, or any other part of this letter, at thy own discretion, if thou canst find her: For, after all, methinks I would be glad, that this affair, which is bad enough in itself, should go off without worse personal consequences to any-body else; and yet it runs in my mind, I know not why, that sooner or later, it will draw a few drops of blood after it; except she and I can make it up between ourselves. And this may be another reason why she should not carry her resentment too far-Not that such an affair would give me much concern neither, were I to choose my man or men; for I heartily hate all her family but herself; and ever shall.
Let me add, that the lady's plot to escape appears to me no extraordinary one. There was much more luck than probability, that it should do: Since, to make it succeed, it was necessary, that Dorcas and Will. and Sinclair and her nymphs, should be all deceived, or off their guard. It belongs to me, when I see them, to give them my hearty thanks that they were; and that their selfish care to provide for their own future security, should induce them to leave their outward door upon their bolt-latch, and be curs'd to them!-
Mabell deserves a pitch-suit and a bonfire, rather than the lustring; and as her cloaths are returned, let the lady's be put to her others, to be sent to her, when it can be told whither. -But not till I give the word, neither; for we must get the dear fugitive back again, if possible.
I suppose that my stupid villain, who knew not such a goddess-shaped lady with a mien so noble, from the aukward and bent shouldered Mabell, has been at Hamstead to see after her: And yet I hardly think she would go thither. He ought to go thro' every street where bills for lodgings are up, to inquire after a new-comer. The houses of such as deal in womens matters, and tea, coffee, and suchlike, are those to be inquired at for her. If some tidings be not quickly heard of her, I would not have either Dorcas, Will. or Mabell, appear in my sight, whatever their superiors think fit to do.
This, tho' written in character, is a very long letter, considering it is not a narrative one, or a journal of proceedings, like some of my former; for such will unavoidably and naturally, as I may say, run into length. But I have so used myself to write a great deal of late, that I know not how to help it. Yet I must add to its length, in order to explain myself on a hint I gave at the beginning of it, which was, that I have another disappointment, besides this of Miss Harlowe's escape, to bemoan.
And what dost think it is? Why, the old peer pox of his tough constitution! (for that would have helped him on) has made shift by fire and brimstone, and the devil knows what, to force the gout to quit the counterscarp of his stomach, just as it had collected all its strength, in order to storm the citadel of his heart: In short they have, by the mere force of stink-pots, hand-granades, and pop-guns, drove the slow-working pioneer quite out of the trunk into the extremities; and there it lies nibbling, and gnawing, upon his great toe; when I had hoped a fair end both of the distemper, and the distempered.
But I, who could write to thee of laudanum, and the wet cloth formerly, yet let 8000l. a year slip thro' my fingers, when I had entered upon it, more than in imagination (for I had begun to ask the stewards questions, and to hear them talk of fines and renewals, and such sort of stuff), deserve to be mortified.
Thou canst not imagine, how differently the servants, and even my cousins, look upon me since yesterday, to what they did before. Neither the one nor the other bow and courtesy half so low. -Nor am I a quarter so often his honour, and your honour, as I was within these few hours, with the former: And as to the latter-It is cousin Bobby again, with the usual familiarity, instead of Sir, and Sir, and, If you please, Mr. Lovelace. And now they have the insolence to congratulate me on the recovery of the best of uncles, while I am forced to seem as much delighted as they, when, would it do me good, I could sit down and cry my eyes out.
I had bespoken my mourning in imagination, after the example of a certain foreign minister, who, before the death, or even last illness of Charles II. as honest White Kennet tells us, had half exhausted Black well-hall of its sables: An indication, as the historian would insinuate, that the monarch was to be poisoned, and the ambassador in the secret-And yet, fool that I was, I could not take the hint! - What a devil does a man read history for, if he cannot profit by the examples he finds in it?
But thus, Jack, is an observation of the old peer's verified, That one misfortune seldom comes alone: And so concludes
Thy doubly-mortified.
Lovelace.

### v6 LETTER II.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Wednesday Night, June 28.
O my dearest Miss Howe!
Once more have I escaped-But, alas! I, my best self, have not escaped! -Oh! your poor Clarissa Harlowe! You also will hate me, I fear! - Yet you won't, when you know All!-
But no more of my self! My lost self. You that can rise in a morning, to be blest, and to bless; and go to rest delighted with your own reflections, and in your unbroken, unstarting slumbers, conversing with saints and angels, the former only more pure than yourself, as they have shaken off the incumbrance of body; You shall be my subject, as you have long, long, been my only pleasure. And let me, at awful distance, revere my beloved Anna Howe, and in her reflect upon what her Clarissa Harlowe once was!-
Forgive, Oh! forgive my rambling. My peace is destroyed. My intellects are touched. And what flighty nonsense must you read, if now you will vouchsafe to correspond with me, as formerly!-
Oh! my best, my dearest, my only friend! What a tale have I to unfold! -But still upon Self, this vile, this hated Self! -I will shake it off, if possible; and why should I not, since I think, except one wretch, I hate nothing so much! -Self, then, be banished from Self one moment (for I doubt it will for no longer) to inquire after a dearer object, my beloved Anna Howe! -Whose mind, all robed in spotless white, charms and irradiates-But what would I say?-
And how, my dearest friend, after this rhapsody, which, on re-perusal, I would not let go, but to shew you, what a distracted mind dictates to my trembling pen; How do you? You have been very ill, it seems. That you are recovered, my dear, let me hear! -That your mamma is well, pray let me hear, and hear quickly! -This comfort, surely, is owing to me; for if life is no worse than chequerwork, I must now have a little white to come, having seen nothing but black, all unchequered dismal black, for a great, great while!
And what is all this wild incoherence for? -It is only to beg to know how you have been, and how you now do, by a line directed for Mrs. Rachel Clark, at Mr. Smith's, a glove-shop, in King-street, Covent-garden; which (altho' my abode is a secret to every body else) will reach the hands of-Your unhappy-but that's not enough-
Your miserable
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER III.

Mrs. Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe. (Superscribed, as directed in the preceding.)
Friday, June 30.
Miss Clarissa Harlowe,
You will wonder to receive a letter from me. I am sorry for the great distress you seem to be in. Such a hopeful young lady as you were! -But see what comes of disobedience to parents!
For my part; altho' I pity you; yet I much more pity your poor father and mother. Such education as they gave you! such improvements as you made! and such delight as they took in you! -And all come to this!-
But pray, Miss, don't make my Nancy guilty of your fault; which is that of disobedience. I have charged her over and over not to correspond with one, who has made such a giddy step. It is not to her reputation, I am sure. You knew that I so charged her; yet you go on corresponding together, to my very great vexation; for she has been very perverse upon it, more than once. Evil communication, Miss- You know the rest.
Here, people cannot be unhappy by themselves, but they must involve their friends and acquaintance, whose discretion has kept them clear of their errors, into near as much unhappiness, as if they had run into the like of their own heads. Thus my poor daughter is always in tears and grief. And she has postponed her own felicity truly, because you are unhappy!
If people, who seek their own ruin, could be the only sufferers by their headstrong doings, it were something: But, O Miss, Miss, what have you to answer for, who have made as many grieved hearts, as have known you? The whole sex is indeed wounded by you: For, who but Miss Clarissa Harlowe was proposed by every father and mother for a pattern for their daughters?
I write a long letter, where I proposed to say but a few words; and those to forbid you writing to my Nancy: And this as well because of the false step you have made, as because it will grieve her poor heart, and do you no good. If you love her, therefore, write not to her. Your sad letter came into my hands, Nancy being abroad, and I shall not shew it her: For there would be no comfort for her, if she saw it, nor for me, whose delight she is-As you once was to your parents-
But you seem to be sensible enough of your errors now! So are all giddy girls, when it is too late- And what a crest-fallen figure then does their self-willed obstinacy and headstrongness compel them to make!
I may say too much: only as I think it proper to bear that testimony against your rashness, which it behoves every careful parent to bear. And none more than
Your compassionating well wisher,
Annabella Howe.
I send this by a special messenger, who has business only so far as Barnet, because you shall have no need to write again; knowing how you love writing: And knowing likewise, that misfortune makes people plaintive.

### v6 LETTER IV.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Mrs. Howe.
Saturday, July 1.
Permit me, Madam, to trouble you with a few lines, were it only to thank you for your reproofs; which have nevertheless drawn fresh streams of blood from a bleeding heart.
My story is a dismal story. It has circumstances in it, that would engage pity, and possibly a judgment not altogether unfavourable, were those circumstances known. But it is my business, and shall be all my business, to repent of my failings, and not endeavour to extenuate them.
But I will not seek to distress your worthy mind. If I cannot suffer alone, I will make as few parties as I can in my sufferings. And, indeed, I took up my pen with this resolution, when I wrote the letter which has fallen into your hands: It was only to know, and that for a very particular reason, as well as for affection unbounded, if my dear Miss Howe, from whom I had not heard of a long time, were ill; as I had been told she was; and if so, how she now does. But my injuries being recent, and my distresses having been exceeding great, Self would croud into my letter. When distressed, the human mind is apt to turn itself to every one in whom it imagined or wished an interest, for pity and consolation -Or, to express myself better and more concisely, in your own words, Misfortune makes people plaintive: And to whom, if not to a friend, can the afflicted complain?
Miss Howe being abroad, when my letter came, I flatter myself that she is recovered. But it would be some satisfaction to me to be informed, if she has been ill. Another line from your hand would be too great a favour. But, if you will be pleased to direct any servant to answer yes, or no, to that question, I will not be farther troublesome.
Nevertheless, I must declare, that my Miss Howe's friendship was all the comfort I had, or expected to have, in this world; and a line from her would have been a cordial to my fainting heart. Judge then, dearest Madam, how reluctantly I must obey your prohibition-But yet, I will endeavour to obey it; altho' I should have hoped, as well from the tenor of all that has passed between Miss Howe and me, as from her established virtue, that she could not be tainted by Evil communication, had one or two letters been permitted. This, however, I ask not for, since I think I have nothing to do, but to beg of God (who, I hope, has not yet withdrawn his grace from me, altho' he is pleased to let loose his justice upon my faults) to give me a truly broken spirit, if it be not already broken enough, and then to take to his mercy
The unhappy
Clarissa Harlowe.
Two favours, good Madam, I have to beg of you. -The first;-that you will not let any of my relations know, that you have heard from me. The other,-that no living creature be apprised where I am to be heard of, or directed to. This is a point that concerns me, more than I can express. -In short, my preservation from further evils may depend upon it.

### v6 LETTER V.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Hannah Burton.
Thursday, June 29.
My good Hannah,
Strange things have happened to me, since you were dismissed my service (so sorely against my will), and your pert fellow-servant set over me. But that must be all forgotten now-
How do you, my Hannah? Are you recovered of your illness? If you are, Do you choose to come and be with me? Or can you conveniently?
I am a very unhappy creature, and, being among all strangers, should be glad to have you with me, of whose fidelity and love I have had so many acceptable instances.
Living or dying, I will endeavour to make it worth your while, my Hannah.
If you are recovered, as I hope, and if you have a good place, it may be, they would bear with your absence, and suffer somebody in your room, for a month or so: And, by that time, I hope to be provided for, and you may then return to your place.
Don't let any of my friends know of this my desire, whether you can come or not.
I am at Mr. Smith's, a hosier's and glove-shop, in King-street, Covent-garden.
You must direct to me by the name of Rachel Clark.
Do, my good Hannah, come if you can, to your poor young mistress, who always valued you, and always will, whether you come or not.
I send this to your mother at St. Alban's, not knowing where to direct to you. Return me a line, that I may know what to depend upon: And I shall see you have not forgotten the pretty hand you were taught, in happy days, by
Your true friend,
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER VI.

Hannah Burton, In Answer.
Monday, July 3.
Honored Maddam,
I have not forgot to write, and never will forget any thing you, my dear young lady, was so good as to larn me. I am very sorrowfull for your misfortens, my dearest young lady; so sorrowfull, I do not know what to do. Gladd at harte would I be to be able to come to you. But indeed I have not been able to stir out of my rome here at my mother's, ever since I was forsed to leave my plase with a roomatise, which has made me quite and clene helpless. I will pray for you night and day, my dearest, my kindest, my goodest young lady, who have been so badly used; and I am very sorry I cannot come to do you love and sarvice; which will ever be in the harte of mee to do, if it was in my power: Who am
Your most dewtifull sarvant to command,
Hannah Burton.

### v6 LETTER VII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Mrs. Judith Norton.
Thursday, June 29.
My dear Mrs. Norton,
I address myself to you after a very long silence (which, however, was not owing either to want of love or duty) principally to desire you to satisfy me in two or three points, which it behoves me to know.
My father, and all the family, I am informed, are to be at my uncle Harlowe's this day, as usual. Pray acquaint me, if they have been there? And if they were chearful on the anniversary occasion? And also, if you have heard of any journey, or intended journey, of my brother, in company with Captain Singleton and Mr. Solmes.
Strange things have happened to me, my dear worthy and maternal friend! -Very strange things! -Mr. Lovelace has proved a very barbarous and ingrateful man to me. But, God be praised, I have escaped from him! -Being among absolute strangers (tho' I think worthy folks), I have written to Hannah Burton to come and be with me. If the good creature fall in your way, pray encourage her to come to me. I always intended to have her, she knows: -But hoped to be in happier circumstances.
Say nothing to any of my friends, that you have heard from me.
Pray, do you think my father would be prevailed upon, if I were to supplicate him by letter, to take off the heavy curse he laid upon me, at my going from Harlowe-Place? -I can expect no other favour from him: But that being literally fulfilled, as to my prospects in this life, I hope it will be thought to have operated far enough.
I am afraid my Poor, as I used to call the good creatures to whose necessities I was wont to administer, by your faithful hands, have missed me of late. But now, alas! I am poor myself. It is not the least aggravation of my fault, nor of my regrets, that with such inclinations as God had given me, I have put it out of my power to do the good I once pleased myself to think I was born to do. It is a sad thing, my dearest Mrs. Norton, to render ourselves unworthy of the talents Providence has intrusted to us!
But these reflections are now too late; and perhaps I ought to have kept them to myself. Let me, however, hope, that you love me still. Pray let me hope that you do: And then, notwithstanding my misfortunes, which have made me seem ingrateful to the kind and truly maternal pains you have taken with me from my cradle, I shall have the happiness to think that there is One worthy person, who hates not
The unfortunate
Clarissa Harlowe.
Pray remember me to my foster-brother. I hope he continues dutiful and good to you.
Be pleased to direct for Rachel Clark, at Mr. Smith's in King-street, Covent-garden. But keep the direction an absolute secret.

### v6 LETTER VIII.

Mrs. Norton. In Answer.
Saturday, July 1.
Your letter, my dearest young lady, cuts me to the heart! Why will you not let me know all your distresses! -Yet you have said enough!
My son is very good to me. A few hours ago he was taken with a feverish disorder. But I hope it will go off happily, if his ardour for business will give him the recess from it, which his good master is willing to allow him. He presents his duty to you, and shed tears at hearing your sad letter read.
You have been misinformed as to your family's being at your uncle Harlowe's. They did not intend to be there. Nor was the day kept at all. Indeed, they have not stirred out, but to church (and that but three times), ever since the day you went away. -Unhappy day for them, and for all who know you! -To me, I am sure, most particularly so! -My heart now bleeds more and more for you.
I have not heard a syllable of such a journey as you mention, of your brother, Captain Singleton, and Mr. Solmes. There has been some talk, indeed, of your brother's setting out for his northern estates: But I have not heard of it lately.
I am afraid no letter will be received from you. It grieves me to tell you so, my dearest young lady. No evil can have happened to you, which they do not expect to hear of; so great is their antipathy to the wicked man, and so bad is his character.
I cannot but think hardly of their unforgivingness: But there is no judging for others by one's self. Nevertheless I will add, that, if you had had as gentle spirits to deal with as your own, or, I will be bold to say, as mine, these evils had never happened either to them, or to you. I knew your virtue, and your love of virtue, from your very cradle; and I doubted not but that, with God's grace, would always be your guard: -But you could never be driven; nor was there occasion to drive you-So generous, so noble, so discreet-But how does my love of your amiable qualities increase my affliction; as these recollections must do yours!
You are escaped, my dearest Miss-Happily, I hope-That is to say, with your honour-Else, how great must be your distress! -Yet from your letter I dread the worst.
I am very seldom at Harlowe Place. The house is not the house it used to be, since you went from it. Then they are so relentless! And, as I cannot say harsh things of the beloved child of my heart, as well as bosom, they do not take it amiss, that I stay away.
Your Hannah left her place ill some time ago; and, as she is still at her mother's at St. Alban's, I am afraid she continues ill. If so, as you are among strangers, and I cannot encourage you at present to come into these parts, I shall think it my duty to attend you (let it be taken as it will) as soon as my Tommy's indisposition will permit; which I hope will be soon.
I have a little money by me. You say you are poor yourself -How grievous are those words from one intitled and accustomed to affluence! -Will you be so good to command it, my beloved young lady? -It is most of it your own bounty to me. And I should take a pride to restore it to its original owner.
Your Poor bless you, and pray for you continually. I have so managed your last benevolence, and they have been so healthy, and have had such constant employ, that it has held out; and will still hold out, till happier times, I hope, betide their excellent benefactress.
Let me beg of you, my dearest young lady, to take to yourself all those aids, which good persons, like you, draw from Religion, in support of their calamities. Let your sufferings be what they will, I am sure you have been innocent in your intention. So do not despond. None are made to suffer above what they can, and therefore ought to bear.
We know not the methods of Providence, and what wise ends it may have to serve in its dispensations to its poor creatures.
Few persons have greater reason to say this than myself. And since we are apt in calamities to draw more comfort from example than precept, you will permit me to remind you of my own lot: For who has had a greater share of afflictions than myself?
To say nothing of the loss of an excellent mother, at a time of life when motherly care is most wanted; the death of a dear father, who was an ornament to his cloth (and who had qualified me to be his scribe and amanuensis), just as he came within view of a preferment which would have made his family easy, threw me friendless into the wide world; threw me upon a very careless, and, which was much worse, a very unkind husband. Poor man! -But he was spared long enough, thank God, in a tedious illness, to repent of his neglected opportunities, and his light principles; which I have always thought of with pleasure, altho' I was left the more destitute for his chargeable illness, and ready to be brought to bed, when he died, of my Tommy.
But this very circumstance, which I thought the unhappiest that I could have been left in (so short-sighted is human prudence), became the happy means of recommending me to your mother, who, in regard to my character, and in compassion to my very destitute circumstances, permitted me, as I made a conscience of not parting with my poor boy, to nurse both you and him, born within a few days of each other. And I have never since wanted any of the humble blessings which God has made me contented with.
Nor have I known what a very great grief was, from the day of my poor husband's death, till the day that your parents told me how much they were determined that you should have Mr. Solmes; when I was apprised not only of your aversion to him, but how unworthy he was of you: For then I began to dread the consequences of forcing so generous a spirit; and, till then, I never feared Mr. Lovelace, attracting as was his person, and specious his manners and address. For I was sure you would never have him, if he gave you not good reason to be convinced of his reformation; nor till your friends were as well satisfied in it as yourself. But that unhappy misunderstanding between your brother and Mr. Lovelace, and their joining so violently to force you upon Mr. Solmes, did all that mischief, which has cost you and them so dear, and poor me all my peace! O what has not this ingrateful, this doubly-guilty man to answer for!
Nevertheless, you know not what God has in store for you yet! -But if you are to be punished all your days here, for example-sake, in a case of such importance, for your one false step, be pleased to consider, That this life is but a state of probation; and if you have your purification in it, you will have your reward hereafter in a greater degree, for submitting to the dispensation with patience and resignation.
You see, my dearest Miss Clary, that I make no scruple to call the step you took a false one. In you it was less excuseable than it would have been in any other young lady; not only because of your superior talents, but because of the opposition between your character and his: So that if you had been provoked to quit your father's house, it needed not to have been with him. Nor needed I, indeed, but as an instance of my impartial love, to have written this to you.
After this, it will have an unkind, and, perhaps, at this time, an unseasonable appearance, to express my concern, that you have not before favour'd me with a line. -Yet, if you can account to yourself for your silence, I dare say I ought to be satisfied; for I am sure you love me: As I both love and honour you, and ever will, and the more for your misfortunes.
One consolation, methinks, I have, even when I am sorrowing for your calamities; and that is, that I know not any young person so qualified to shine the brighter for the trials she may be exercised with: And yet it is a consolation that ends in adding to my regrets for your afflictions, because you are blessed with a mind so well able to bear prosperity, and to make every-body round you the better for it. -Woe unto him! -O this wretched, wretched man! -But I will forbear till I know more.
Ruminating on every thing your melancholy letter suggests, and apprehending, from the gentleness of your mind, the amiableness of your person, and your youth, the further misfortunes and inconveniencies to which you may possibly be subjected, I cannot conclude without asking for your leave to attend you, and that in a very earnest manner: -And I beg of you not to deny me, on any consideration relating to myself, or even to the indisposition of my other beloved child; if I can be either of use or comfort to you. Were it, my dearest young lady, but for two or three days, permit me to attend you, altho' my son's illness should increase, and compel me to come down again at the end of those two or three days. -I repeat my request likewse that you will command from me the little sum remaining in my hands, of your bounty to your Poor, as well as that dispensed to
Your ever-affectionate and faithful servant,
Judith Norton.

### v6 LETTER IX.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Lady Betty Lawrance.
Thursday, June 29.
Madam,
I hope you'll excuse the freedom of this address, from one who has not the honour to be personally known to you, altho' you must have heard much of Clarissa Harlowe. It is only to beg the favour of a line from your Ladyship's hand (by the next post, if convenient) in answer to the following questions.
1. Whether you wrote a letter, dated, as I have a memorandum, Wedn. June 7. congratulating your nephew Lovelace on his supposed nuptials, as reported to you by Mr. Spurrier, your Ladyship's steward, as from one Captain Tomlinson: -And in it reproaching Mr. Lovelace, as guilty of slight, &c. in not having acquainted your Ladyship and the family with his marriage?
2. Whether your Ladyship wrote to Miss Montague to meet you at Reading, in order to attend you to your cousin Leeson's in Albemarle-street; on your being obliged to be in town on your old Chancery-affair, I remember are the words? And whether you bespoke your nephew's attendance there on Sunday night the 11th?
3. Whether your Ladyship and Miss Montague did come to town at that time? And whether you went to Hamstead, on Monday, in a hired coach and four, your own being repairing; and took from thence to town the young creature whom you visited there?
Your Ladyship will probably guess, that these questions are not asked for reasons favourable to your nephew Lovelace. But be the answer what it will, it can do him no hurt, nor me any good; only that I think I owe it to my former hopes (however deceived in them), and even to charity, that a person, of whom I was once willing to think better, should not prove so egregiously abandon'd, as to be wanting, in every instance, to that veracity, which is an indispensable in the character of a gentleman.
Be pleased, Madam, to direct to me (keeping the direction a secret for the present) to be left at the Belle-Savage on Ludgate-hill, till call'd for. I am,
Your ladyship's most humble servant,
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER X.

Lady Betty Lawrance, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Saturday, July 1.
Dear Madam,
I find, that all is not as it should be between you and my nephew Lovelace. It will very much afflict me, and all his friends, if he has been guilty of any designed baseness to a lady of your character and merit.
We have been long in expectation of an opportunity to congratulate you and ourselves, upon an event most earnestly wished for by us all; since all our hopes of him are built upon the power you have over him: For if ever man adored a woman, he is that man, and you, Madam, are that woman.
Miss Montague, in her last letter to me, in answer to one of mine, inquiring if she knew, from him, whether he could call you his, or was likely soon to have that honour; has these words: "I know not what to make of my cousin Lovelace, as to the point your Ladyship is so earnest about. He sometimes says, He is actually married to Miss Cl. Harlowe: At other times, that it is her own fault if he be not: -He speaks of her not only with love, but with reverence: Yet owns, that there is a misunderstanding between them; but confesses, that she is wholly faultless. An angel, and not a woman, he says she is: And that no man living can be worthy of her." -This is what my niece Montague writes.
God grant, my dearest young lady, that he may not have so heinously offended you, that you cannot forgive him! If you are not already married, and refuse to be his, I shall lose all hopes that he ever will marry, or be the man I wish him to be. So will Lord M. So will Lady Sarah Sadleir.
I will now answer your questions: But indeed I hardly know what to write, for fear of widening still more the unhappy difference between you. But yet such a young lady must command every thing from me. This then is my answer.
I wrote not any letter to him on or about the 7th of June.
Neither I nor my steward know such a man as Capt. Tomlinson.
I wrote not to my niece to meet me at Reading, nor to accompany me to my cousin Leeson's in town.
My Chancery-affair, tho', like most Chancery-affairs, it be of long standing, is nevertheless now in so good a way, that it cannot give me occasion to go to town.
Nor have I been in town these six months: Nor at Hamstead for several years.
Neither shall I have any temptation to go to town, except to pay my congratulatory compliments to Mrs. Lovelace. On which occasion I should go with the greatest pleasure; and should hope for the favour of your accompanying me to Glenham-Hall, for a month at least.
Be what will the reason of your inquiry, let me intreat you, my dear young lady, for Lord M.'s sake; for my sake; for this giddy man's sake, soul as well as body; and for all our family's sakes; not to suffer this answer to widen differences so far as to make you refuse him, if already he has not the honour of calling you his; as I am apprehensive he has not, by your signing by your family-name.
And here let me offer to you my mediation to compose the difference between you, be it what it will. Your cause, my dear young lady, cannot be put into the hands of any-body living more devoted to your service, than into those of
Your sincere admirer, and humble servant,
Eliz. Lawrance.

### v6 LETTER XI.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Mrs. Hodges.
Enfield, June 29.
Mrs. Hodges,
I am under a kind of necessity to write to you, having no one among my relations to whom I dare write, or hope a line from, if I did. It is but to answer a question. It is this:
Whether you know such a man as Captain Tomlinson? And, if you do, whether he be very intimate with my uncle Harlowe?
I will describe his person, lest, possibly, he should go by another name among you; altho' I know not why he should.
"He is a thin, tallish man, a little pock-fretten; of a sallowish complexion. Fifty years of age, or more. Of a good aspect, when he looks up. He seems to be a serious man, and one who knows the world. He stoops a little in the shoulders. Is of Berkshire. His wife of Oxfordshire; and has several children. He removed lately into your parts from Northamptonshire."
I must desire you, Mrs. Hodges, that you will not let my uncle, nor any of my relations, know that I write to you.
You used to say, that you would be glad to have it in your power to serve me. That, indeed, was in my prosperity. But, I dare say, you will not refuse me in a particular that will oblige me, without hurting yourself.
I understand, that my father, mother, and sister, and, I presume, my brother, and my uncle Antony, are to be at my uncle Harlowe's this day. God preserve them all, and may they rejoice in many happy birth-days! You will write six words to me concerning their healths.
Direct, for a particular reason, To Mrs. Dorothy Salcomb; To be left, till call'd for, at the Four Swans Inn, Bishopsgate-street.
You know my hand-writing well enough, were not the contents of the letter sufficient to excuse my name, or any other subscription, than that of
Your Friend.

### v6 LETTER XII.

Mrs. Hodges. In Answer.
Sat. July 1.
Maddam,
I return you an anser, as you wish me to doe. Master is acquented with no sitch man. I am shure no sitch ever came to our house. And master sturs very little out. He has no harte to stur out. For why? Your obstincy makes um not care to see one another. Master's birth-day never was keept soe before: For not a sole heere; and nothing but siking and sorrowin from master, to think how it yused to bee.
I axsed master, if soe bee he knoed sitch a man as one Captain Tomlinson? But sayed not whirfor I axsed. He sed, No, not he.
Shure this is no trix nor forgary bruing agenst master by won Tomlinson-Won knoes not what cumpany you may have bin forsed to keep, sen you went away, you knoe, Maddam. Ecscuse me, Maddam; but Lundon is a pestilent plase; and that Squire Luveless is a devil (for all he is sitch a like gentleman to look to), as I hev herd every boddy say; and thinke as how you have found by thiss.
I truste, Maddam, you wulde not let master cum to harme, if you knoed it, by any boddy, whoe may pretend too be acquented with him: But, for fere, I querid with myself iff I shulde not tell him. Butt I was willin to show you, that I wulde plessure you in advarsity, if advarsity bee youre lott, as wel as prosprity; for I am none of those as woulde doe otherwis. Soe noe more frum
Your humbell sarvant, to wish you well,
Sarah Hodges.

### v6 LETTER XIII.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Lady Betty Lawrance.
Monday, July 3.
Madam,
I cannot excuse myself from giving your Ladyship this one trouble more; to thank you, as I most heartily do, for your kind letter.
I must own to you, Madam, that the honour of being related to Ladies, as eminent for their virtue as for their descent, was at first no small inducement with me, to lend an ear to Mr. Lovelace's address. And the rather, as I was determined, had it come to effect, to do every thing in my power to deserve your favourable opinion.
I had another motive, which I knew would of itself give me merit with your whole family; a presumptuous one (a punishably presumptuous one, as it has proved), in the hope that I might be an humble means, in the hand of Providence, to reclaim a man, who had, as I thought, good sense enough at bottom to be reclaimed; or, at least, gratitude enough to acknowledge the intended obligation, whether the generous hope were to succeed, or not.
But I have been most egregiously mistaken in Mr. Lovelace; the only man, I persuade myself, pretending to be a gentleman, in whom I could have been so much mistaken: For while I was endeavouring to save a drowning wretch, I have been, not accidentally, but premeditatedly, and of set purpose, drawn in after him. And he has had the glory to add to the list of those he has ruined, a name, that, I will be bold to say, would not have disparaged his own. And this, Madam, by means that would shock humanity to be made acquainted with.
My whole end is served by your Ladyship's answer to the questions I took the liberty to put to you in writing. Nor have I a wish to make the unhappy man more odious to you, than is necessary to excuse myself for absolutely declining your offered mediation.
When your Ladyship shall be informed of the following particulars;
That after he had compulsatorily, as I may say, tricked me into the act of going off with him, he could carry me to one of the vilest houses, as it proved, in London:
That he could be guilty of a wicked attempt, in resentment of which, I found means to escape from him to Hamstead:
That, after he had found me out there (I know not how), he could procure two women, dressed out richly, to personate your Ladyship and Miss Montague; who, under pretence of engaging me to make a visit in town to your cousin Leeson (promising to return with me that evening to Hamstead), betrayed me back again to the vile house: Where, again made a prisoner, I was first robbed of my senses; and then (why should I seek to conceal that disgrace from others, which I cannot hide from myself?) of my honour:
When your Ladyship shall know, That, in the shocking progress to this ruin, wilful falshoods, repeated forgeries (particularly of one letter from your Ladyship, another from Miss Montague, and a third from Lord M.), and numberless perjuries, were not the least of his crimes:
You will judge, That I can have no principles that will make me worthy of an alliance with Ladies of yours and your noble sister's character, if I could not from my soul declare, that such an alliance can never now take place.
I will not offer to clear myself intirely of blame: But, as to him, I have no fault to accuse myself of: My crime was, The corresponding with him at first, when prohibited so to do, by those who had a right to my obedience; made still more inexcusable, by giving him a clandestine meeting, which put me into the power of his arts. And for this, I am content to be punished: Thankful, that at last I have escaped from him; and have it in my power to reject so wicked a man for my husband: And glad, if I may be a warning, since I cannot be an example: Which once (very vain, and very conceited as I was!) I proposed to myself to be!
All the ill I wish him is, That he may reform; and that I may be the last victim to his baseness. Perhaps this desirable wish may be obtained, when he shall see how his wickedness, his unmerited wickedness, to a poor creature, made friendless by his cruel arts, will end.
I conclude with my humble thanks to your Ladyship, for your favourable opinion of me; and with the assurance, that I will be, while life is lent me,
Your Ladyship's grateful and obliged servant,
Cl. Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER XIV.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Mrs. Norton.
Sunday Evening, July 2.
How kindly, my beloved Mrs. Norton, do you soothe the anguish of a bleeding heart! Surely you are my own mamma; and, by some unaccountable mistake, I must have been laid to a family, that, having newly found out, or at least suspected, the imposture, cast me from their hearts, with the indignation that such a discovery will warrant.
O that I had indeed been your own child, born to partake of your humble fortunes, an heiress only to that content in which you are so happy! Then should I have had a truly gentle spirit to have guided my ductile heart, which force and ungenerous usage sit so ill upon; and nothing of what has happened would have been.
But let me take heed, that I inlarge not, by impatience, the breach already made in my duty, by my rashness; since, had I not erred, my mother, at least, could never have been thought hard-hearted and unforgiving: -Am I not then answerable, not only for my own faults, but for the consequences of them; which tend to depreciate and bring disgrace upon a maternal character never before called in question?
It is kind however in you, to endeavour to extenuate the fault of one so greatly sensible of it: -And could it be wiped off intirely, it would render me more worthy of the pains you have taken in my education: For it must add to your grief, as it does to my confusion, that, after such promising beginnings, I should have so behaved, as to be a disgrace instead of a credit to you, and my other friends.
But that I may not make you think me more guilty than I am, give me leave briefly to assure you, that when my story is known, I shall be intitled to more compassion than blame, even on the score of going away with Mr. Lovelace.
As to all that happened afterwards, let me only say, that, altho' I must call myself a lost creature, as to this world, yet have I this consolation left me, that I have not suffered either for want of circumspection, or thro' credulity, or weakness. Not one moment was I off my guard, or unmindful of your early precepts. But (having been enabled to baffle many base contrivances) I was at last ruined by arts the most inhuman. But had I not been rejected by every friend, this low-hearted man had not dared, nor would have had opportunity, to treat me as he has treated me.
More I cannot, at this time, nor need I, say: And this I desire you to keep to yourself, lest resentments should be taken up, when I am gone, that may spread the evil, which I hope will end with me.
I have been misinformed, you say, as to my principal relations being at my uncle Harlowe's. The day, you say, was not kept. Nor have my brother and Mr. Solmes-Astonishing-What complicated wickedness has this wretched man to answer for! - Were I to tell you, you would hardly believe there could have been such a heart in man-
But one day you may know my whole story! - At present I have neither inclination nor words-O my bursting heart! -Yet a happy, a wished relief! - Were you present, my tears would supply the rest!
I Resume my pen!
And so you fear no letter will be received from me. But DON'T grieve to tell me so! I expect everything bad! -And such is my distress, that had you not bid me hope for mercy from the Throne of Mercy, I should have been afraid, that my father's dreadful curse would be completed, with regard to both worlds.
For, here, an additional misfortune! -In a fit of phrensical heedlesness, I sent a letter to my beloved Miss Howe, without recollecting her private address; and it is fallen into her angry mother's hands: And so that dear friend perhaps has anew incurred displeasure on my account. And here too, your worthy son is ill; and my poor Hannah, you think, cannot come to me. -O my dear Mrs. Norton, will you, can you, censure those whose resentments against me Heaven seems to approve of? and will you acquit her whom that condemns?
Yet you bid me not despond. -I will not, if I can help it. -And, indeed, most seasonable consolation has your kind letter afforded me. -Yet to God Almighty do I appeal, to avenge my wrongs, and vindicate my inno-
But hushed be my stormy passions! -Have I not but this moment said, that your letter gave me consolation? -May those be forgiven, who hinder my father from forgiving me! -And this, as to them, shall be the harshest thing that shall drop from my pen.
But altho' your son should recover, I charge you, my dear Mrs. Norton, that you do not think of coming to me. I don't know still, but your mediation with my mother (altho' at present your interposition would be so little attended to) may be of use to procure me the revocation of that most dreadful part of my father's curse, which only remains to be fulfilled. The voice of nature must at last be heard in my favour, surely. It will only plead at first to my friends in the still, conscious plaintiveness of a young and unhardened beggar! -But it will grow more clamorous when I have the courage to be so, and shall demand, perhaps, the paternal protection from further ruin; and that forgiveness, which those will be little intitled to expect, for their own faults, who shall interpose to have it refused to me, for an accidental, not a premeditated, error: And which, but for them, I had never fallen into.
But again impatiency, founded, perhaps, on self-partiality, that strange misleader! prevails.
Let me briefly say, that it is necessary to my present and future hopes, that you keep well with my family. And, moreover, should you come, I may be traced out, by your means, by the most abandoned of men. Say not then, that you think you ought to come up to me, let it be taken as it will: - For my sake, let me repeat (were my foster-brother recovered, as I hope he is), you must not come. Nor can I want your advice, while I can write, and you can answer me. And write I will, as often as I stand in need of your counsel.
Then the people I am now with seem to be both honest and humane: And there is in the same house a widow-lodger, of low fortunes, but of great merit- Almost such another serious and good woman, as the dear one, to whom I am now writing; who has, as she says, given over all other thoughts of the world, but such as shall assist her to leave it happily. -How suitable to my own views! -There seems to be a comfortable providence in this, at least! -So that at present there is nothing of exigence; nothing that can require, or even excuse, your coming, when so many better ends may be answered by your staying where you are. A time may come, when I shall want your last and best assistance: And then, my dear Mrs. Norton-And then, I will bespeak it, and embrace it with my whole heart-And then, will it not be denied me by any-body.
You are very obliging in your offer of money. But altho' I was forced to leave my cloaths behind me, yet I took several things of value with me, which will keep me from present want. You'll say, I have made a miserable hand of it-So indeed I have!- and, to look backwards, in a very little while too.
But what shall I do, if my father cannot be prevailed upon to recall his grievous malediction? -Of all the very heavy evils wherewith I have been afflicted, this is now the heaviest; for I can neither live nor die under it.
O my dear Mrs. Norton, what a weight must a father's curse have upon a mind so apprehensive of it, as mine is! -Did I think I should ever have this to deprecate?
But you must not be angry with me, that I wrote not to you before. You are very right, and very kind, to say, You are sure I love you. Indeed I do. And what a generosity is there (so like yourself) in your praise, to attribute to me more than I merit, in order to raise an emulation in me to deserve your praises! -You tell me, what you expect from me in the calamities I am called upon to bear. May I but behave answerably!
I can a little account to myself for my silence to you, my kind, my dear maternal friend [how equally sweetly and politely do you express yourself on this occasion!] -I was very desirous, for your sake, as well as for my own, that you should have it to say, that we did not correspond: Had they thought we did, every word you could have dropt in my favour, would have been rejected; and my mother would have been forbid to see you, or to pay any regard to what you should say.
Then I had sometimes better and sometimes worse prospects before me. My worst would only have troubled you to know: My better made me frequently hope, that, by the next post, or the next, and so on for weeks, I should have the best news to impart to you, that then could happen; cold as the wretch had made my heart to that Best. -For how could I think to write to you, with a confession, that I was not married, yet lived in the house (nor could I help it) with such a man? -Who likewise had given it out to several, that we were actually married, altho' with restrictions that depended on the reconciliation with my friends? And to disguise the truth, or be guilty of a falshood either direct or equivocal, that was what you had never learnt me.
But I might have written to you for advice, in my precarious situation, perhaps you will think. But, indeed, my dear Mrs. Norton, I was not lost for want of advice. And this will appear clear to you, from what I have already hinted, were I to explain myself no further: -For what need had the cruel spoiler to have had recourse to unprecedented arts-I will speak out plainer still (but you must not at present report it); to stupefying potions, and to the most brutal and outrageous force; had I been wanting in my duty?
A few words more upon this grievous subject-
When I reflect upon all that has happened to me, it is apparent, that this generally-supposed thoughtless seducer, has acted by me upon a regular and preconcerted plan of villainy.
In order to set all his vile plots in motion, nothing was wanting from the first, but to prevail upon me, either by force or fraud, to throw myself into his power: And when this was effected, nothing less than the intervention of the paternal authority (which I had not deserved to be exerted in my behalf) could have saved me from the effect of his deep machinations. Opposition from any other quarter would but too probably have precipitated his barbarous and ingrateful violence: And had you yourself been with me, I have reason now to think, that some-how or other you would have suffered in endeavouring to save me: For never was there, as now I see, a plan of wickedness more steadily and uniformly pursued, than his has been, against an unhappy creature, who merited better of him: But the Almighty has thought fit, according to the general course of his providence, to make the fault bring on its own punishment: And that, perhaps, in consequence of my father's dreadful imprecation, "That I might be punished here" [O my mamma Norton, pray with me, that here it stop!] "by the very wretch in whom I had placed my wicked confidence!"
I am sorry, for your sake, to leave off so heavily. Yet the rest must be brief.
Let me desire you to be secret in what I have communicated to you; at least, till you have my consent to divulge it.
God preserve to you your more faultless child!
I will hope for His mercy, altho' I should not obtain that of any other person.
And I repeat my prohibition: -You must not think of coming up to
Your ever-dutiful
Cl. Harlowe.
The obliging person, who left yours for me this day, promised to call to-morrow, to see if I should have any-thing to return. I would not lose so good an opportunity.

### v6 LETTER XV.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Monday Night, July 3.
O the barbarous villainy of this detestable man! And is there a man in the world, who could offer violence to so sweet a creature!
And are you sure you are now out of his reach?
You command me to keep secret the particulars of the vile treatment you have met with; or else, upon an unexpected visit which Miss Harlowe favoured me with, soon after I had received your melancholy letter, I should have been tempted to own I had heard from you, and to have communicated to her such parts of your two letters as would have demonstrated your penitence, and your earnestness to obtain the revocation of your father's malediction, as well as his protection from outrages, that may still be offered to you. But then your sister would probably have expected a sight of the letters, and even to been have permitted to take them with her to the family.
Yet they must one day be acquainted with the sad story: -And it is impossible but they must pity you, and forgive you, when they know your early penitence, and your unprecedented sufferings; and that you have fallen by the brutal force of a barbarous ravisher, and not by the vile arts of a seducing lover.
The wicked man gives it out, at Lord M.'s, as Miss Harlowe tells me, that he is actually married to you: -Yet she believes it not; nor had I the heart to let her know the truth.
She put it close to me, Whether I had not corresponded with you from the time of your going away? I could safely tell her (as I did), that I had not: But I said, that I was well informed, that you took extremely to heart your father's imprecation; and that, if she would excuse me, I would say, it would be a kind and sisterly part, if she would use her interest to get you discharged from it.
Among other severe things, she told me, that my partial fondness for you made me very little consider the honour of the rest of the family: But, if I had not heard this from you, she supposed I was set on by Miss Howe.
She expressed herself with a good deal of bitterness against that young lady: Who, it seems, everywhere, and to every-body (for you must think, that your story is the subject of all conversations), rails against your family; treating them, as your sister says, with contempt, and even with ridicule.
I am sorry such angry freedoms are taken, for two reasons; first, Because such liberties never do any good. I have heard you own, that Miss Howe has a satirical vein; but I should hope, that a young lady of her sense, and right cast of mind, must know, that the end of satire is not to exasperate, but amend; and should never be personal. If it be, as my good father used to say, it may make an impartial person suspect, that the satirist has a natural spleen to gratify; which may be as great a fault in him, as any of those which he pretends to censure and expose in others.
Perhaps a hint of this from you, will not be thrown away.
My second reason is, That these freedoms, from so warm a friend to you as Miss Howe is known to be, are most likely to be charged to your account.
My resentments are so strong against this vilest of men, that I dare not touch upon the shocking particulars which you mention, of his baseness. What defence, indeed, could there be against so determined a wretch, after you were in his power? I will only repeat my earnest supplication to you, that, black as appearances are, you will not despair. Your calamities are exceeding great, but then you have talents proportioned to your trials. This every-body allows.
Suppose the worst, and that your family will not be moved in your favour, your cousin Morden will soon arrive, as Miss Harlowe told me. If he should even be got over to their side, he will however see justice done you; and then may you live an exemplary life, making hundreds happy, and teaching young ladies to shun the snares in which you have been so dreadfully intangled.
As to the man you have lost, Is an union with such a perjured heart as his with such an admirable one as yours, to be wished for? A base, low-hearted wretch, as you justly call him, with all his pride of ancestry; and more an enemy to himself, with regard to his present and future happiness, than to you, in the barbarous and ingrateful wrongs he has done you; I need not, I am sure, exhort you to despise such a man as this; since not to be able to do so, would be a reflection upon a sex to which you have always been an honour.
Your moral character is untainted: The very nature of your sufferings, as you well observe, demonstrates that. Chear up, therefore, your dear heart, and do not despair: For is it not God who governs the world, and permits some things, and directs others, as He pleases? And will he not reward temporary sufferings, innocently incurred, and piously supported, with eternal felicity? -And what, my dear, is this poor needle's point of NOW to a boundless Eternity?
My heart, however, labours under a double affliction: For my poor boy is very, very bad! -A violent fever! -Nor can it be brought to intermit! - Pray for him, my dearest Miss;-for his recovery, if God see fit. -I hope God will see fit! -If not (how can I bear to suppose That!)-pray for me, that he will give me that patience and resignation, which I have been wishing to you. I am, my dearest young lady,
Your ever-affectionate
Judith Norton.

### v6 LETTER XVI.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Mrs. Judith Norton.
Thursday, July 6.
I ought not, especially at this time, to add to your afflictions-But yet I cannot help communicating to you (who now are my only soothing friend) a new trouble that has befallen me.
I had but one friend in the world, besides you; and she is utterly displeased with me: It is grievous, but for one moment, to lie under a beloved person's censure; and this through imputations that affect one's honour and prudence. There are points so delicate, you know, my dear Mrs. Norton, that it is a degree of dishonour to have a vindication of one's self from them appear to be necessary. In the present case, my misfortune is, that I know not how to account, but by guess (so subtle have been the workings of the dark spirit I have been unhappily intangled by), for some of the facts that I am called upon to explain.
Miss Howe, in short, supposes she has found a flaw in my character. I have just now received her severe letter: But I shall answer it, perhaps, in better temper, if I first consider yours. For indeed my patience is almost at an end. And yet I ought to consider, That faithful are the wounds of a friend. But so many things at once! -O, my dear Mrs. Norton, how shall so young a scholar in the school of affliction be able to bear such heavy and such various evils!
But to leave this subject for a while, and turn to your letter.
I am very sorry Miss Howe is so lively in her resentments on my account. I have always blamed her very freely for her liberties of this sort, with my friends. I once had a good deal of influence over her kind heart, and she made all I said a law to her. But people in calamity have but little weight in anything, or with any-body. Prosperity and independence are charming things on this account, that they give force to the counsels of a friendly heart; while it is thought insolence in the miserable to advise, or so much as remonstrate.
Yet is Miss Howe an invaluable person: And is it to be expected, that she should preserve the same regard for my judgment, that she had before I forfeited all title to discretion? With what face can I take upon me to reproach a want of prudence in her? But if I can be so happy as to re-establish myself in her ever-valued opinion, I shall endeavour to inforce upon her your just observations on this head.
You need not, you say, exhort me to despise such a man as him, by whom I have suffered: -Indeed you need not: For I would choose the cruellest death, rather than to be his. And yet, my dear Mrs. Norton, I will own to you, that once I could have loved him- Ingrateful man!-had he permitted me, I once could have loved him. Yet he never deserved my love. And was not this a fault? But now, if I can but keep out of his hands, and procure the revocation of my father's malediction, it is all I wish for.
Reconciliation with my friends I do not expect; nor pardon from them; at least, till in extremity, and as a viaticum.
O, my beloved Mrs. Norton, you cannot imagine what I have suffered! -But indeed my heart is broken! I am sure I shall not live to take possession of that!that independence, which you think would enable me to atone in some measure for my past conduct.
While this is my opinion, you may believe, I shall not be easy, till I can procure the revocation of that dreadful curse; and, if possible, a last forgiveness.
I wish to be left to take my own course, in endeavouring to procure this grace. Yet know I not, at present, what that course shall be.
I will write. But to whom is my doubt. Calamity has not yet given me the assurance to address myself to my Father. My Uncles (well as they once loved me) are hard-hearted. They never had their masculine passions humanized by the tender name of Father. Of my Brother I have no hope. I have then but my Mother, and my Sister, to whom I can apply. -"And may I not, my dearest Mamma, be permitted to lift up my trembling eye, to your all-chearing, and your once more than indulgent, your fond eye, in hopes of seasonable mercy, to the poor sick heart, that yet beats with life drawn from your own dearer heart? -Especially when pardon only, and not restoration, is implored?"
Yet were I able to engage my mother's pity, would it not be a means to make her still more unhappy, than I have already made her, by the opposition she would meet with, were she to try to give force to that pity?
To my Sister, then, I think, I will apply- Yet how hard hearted has my sister been! -But I will not ask for protection; and yet I am in hourly dread, that I shall want protection. -All I will ask for, shall be only to be freed from the heavy curse, that has operated as far as it can operate, as to this life. -And surely, it was passion, and not intention, that carried it so very far, as to the other!
But why do I thus add to your distresses? -It is not, my dear Mrs. Norton, that I have so much feeling for my own calamity, that I have none for yours: Since yours is indeed an addition to my own. But you have one consolation (a very great one) which I have not: -That your afflictions, whether respecting your more or your less deserving child, rise not from any fault of your own.
But what can I do for you more than pray? -Assure yourself, that in every supplication I put up for myself, I will, with equal fervor, remember both you and your son. For I am, and ever will be,
Your truly sympathizing and dutiful
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER XVII.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe. Superscribed, For Mrs. Rachel Clark, &c.
Wednesday, July 5.
My dear Clarissa,
I have at last heard from you from a quarter I little expected.
From my mamma.
She had for some time seen me uneasy and grieving; and justly supposed it was about you. And this morning dropt a hint, which made me conjecture that she must have heard something of you, more than I knew. And when she found that this added to my uneasiness, she owned she had a letter in her hands of yours, dated the 29th of June, directed for me.
You may guess, that this occasion'd a little warmth, that could not be wished for by either.
[It is surprising, my dear, mighty surprising! that, knowing the prohibition I lay under of corresponding with you, you could send a letter for me to our own house: Since it must be fifty to one that it would fall into my mother's hands, as you find it did.]
In short, she resented that I should disobey her: I was as much concerned that she should open and with-hold from me my letters: And at last she was pleased to compromise the matter with me, by giving up the letter, and permitting me to write to you once or twice; she to see the contents of what I wrote. For, besides the value she has for you, she could not but have a great curiosity to know the occasion of so sad a situation, as your melancholy letter shews you to be in.
[But I shall get her to be satisfied with hearing me read what I write; putting in between hooks, thus [], what I intend not to read to her.]
Need I to remind you, Miss Cl. Harlowe, of three letters I wrote to you, to none of which I had any answer; except to the first, and that a few lines only, promising a letter at large; tho' you were well enough, the day after you received my second, to go joyfully back again with him to the vile house? But more of these by-and-by. I must hasten to take notice of your letter of Wednesday last week; which you could contrive should fall into my mother's hands.
Let me tell you, that that letter has almost broken my heart. Good God! what have you brought yourself to, Miss Clarissa Harlowe? -Could I have believed, that after you had escaped from the miscreant (with such mighty pains and earnestness escaped), and after such an attempt as he had made, you would have been prevailed upon, not only to forgive him, but (without being married too) to return with him to that horrid house! -A house I had given you such an account of! -Surprising! -What an intoxicating thing is this Love? -I always feared, that You, even You, were not proof against it.
You your best self have not escaped! -Indeed I see not how you could expect to escape.
What a tale have you to unfold! -You need not unfold it, my dear: I would have engaged to prognosticate all that has happen'd, had you but told me, that you would once more have put yourself into his power, after you had taken such pains to get out of it.
Your peace is destroyed! -I wonder not at it: Since now you must reproach yourself for a credulity so ill-placed.
Your intellect is touch'd! -I am sure my heart bleeds for you: But, excuse me, my dear, I doubt your intellect was touch'd before you left Hamstead; or you would never have let him find you out there; or, when he did, suffer him to prevail upon you to return to the horrid brothel.
I tell you, I sent you three letters: The first of which, dated the 7th and 8th of June (for it was wrote at twice), came safe to your hands, as you sent me word by a few lines dated the ninth: Had it not, I should have doubted my own safety; since in it I gave you such an account of the abominable house, and threw such cautions in your way, as to that Tomlinson, as the more surprised me that you could think of going back to it again, after you had escaped from it, and from Lovelace-O my dear! - But nothing now will I ever wonder at!
The second, dated June 10 was given into your own hand at Hamstead, on Sunday the 11th, as you was lying upon a couch, in a strange way, according to my messenger's account of you, bloated, and flush-coloured; I don't know how.
The third was dated the 20th of June Having not heard one word from you since the promising billet of the 9th, I own I did not spare you in it. I ventured it by the usual conveyance, by that Wilson's, having no other: So cannot be sure you received it. Indeed I rather think you might not; because in yours, which fell into my mamma's hands, you make no mention of it: And if you had had it, I believe it would have touch'd you too much, to have been passed by unnoticed.
You have heard, that I have been ill, you say. I had a cold indeed; but it was so slight a one, that it confined me not an hour. But I doubt not, that strange things you have heard, and been told, to induce you to take the step you took. And, till you did take that step (the going back with this villain, I mean), I knew not a more pitiable case than yours: - For every body must have excused you before, who knew how you was used at home, and was acquainted with your prudence and vigilance. But, alas! my dear, we see that the wisest people are not to be depended upon, when Love, like an ignis fatuus, holds up its misleading lights before their eyes.
My mother tells me, she sent you an answer, desiring you not to write to me, because it would grieve me. To be sure I am grieved; exceedingly grieved; and, disappointed too, you must permit me to say. For I had always thought, that there never was such a woman, at your years, in the world.
But I remember once an argument you held, on occasion of a censure passed in company upon an excellent preacher, who was not a very excellent liver: Preaching and practising, you said, required quite different talents: Which, when united in the same person, made the man a saint; as wit and judgment going together constituted a genius.
You made it out, I remember, very prettily: But you never made it out, excuse me, my dear, more convincingly, than by that part of your late conduct, which I complain of.
My love for you, and my concern for your honour, may possibly have made me a little of the severest: If you think so, place it to its proper account; To That love, and to That concern: Which will but do justice, to
Your afflicted and faithful,
A. H.
POSTSCRIPT.
My mother would not be satisfied without reading my letter herself; and that before I had fixed my proposed hooks. She knows, by this means, and has excused, our former correspondence.
She indeed suspected it before: And so she very well might; knowing Me, and knowing my love of You.
She has so much real concern for your misfortunes, that, thinking it will be a consolation to you, and that it will oblige me, she consents that you shall write to me the particulars at large of your sad story: But it is on condition, that I shew her all that has passed between us, relating to yourself and the vilest of men: I have the more chearfully complied, as the communication cannot be to your disadvantage.
You may therefore write freely, and direct to our own house.
My mother promises to shew me the copy of her letter to you, and your reply to it; which latter she has but just told me of. She already apologizes for the severity of hers: And thinks the sight of your reply will affect me too much. But having her promise, I will not dispense with it.
I doubt hers is severe enough. So I fear you will think mine: But you have taught me never to spare the fault for the friend's sake and that a great error ought rather to be more inexcuseable in the person we value, than in one we are indifferent to; because it is a reflection upon our choice of that person, and tends to a breach of the love of mind; and to expose us to the world for our partiality. To the love of mind, I repeat; since it is impossible but the errors of the dearest friend must weaken our inward opinion of that friend; and thereby lay a foundation for future distance, and perhaps disgust.
God grant, that you may be able to clear your conduct after you had escaped from Hamstead; as all before that time was noble, generous, and prudent: The man a devil, and you a saint! -Yet I hope you can; and therefore expect it from you.
I send by a particular hand. He will call for your answer at your own appointment.
I am afraid this horrid wretch will trace out by the post-offices where you are, if not careful.
To have Money, and Will, and Head, to be a villain, is too much for the rest of the world, when they meet in one man.

### v6 LETTER XVIII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Thursday, July 6.
Few young persons have been able to give more convincing proofs than myself, how little true happiness lies in the enjoyment of our own wishes.
To produce one instance only of the truth of this observation; What would I have given for weeks past, for the favour of a letter from my dear Miss Howe, in whose friendship I placed all my remaining comfort? Little did I think, that the next letter she would honour me with, should be in such a stile, as should make me look more than once at the subscription, that I might be sure (the name not being written at length) that it was not signed by another A. H. For surely, thought I, this is my sister Arabella's style: Surely Miss Howe (blame me as she pleases in other points) could never repeat so sharply upon her friend, words written in the bitterness of spirit, and in the disorder of head; nor remind her, with asperity, and with mingled strokes of wit, of an argument held in the gaiety of an heart elated with prosperous fortunes (as mine then was), and very little apprehensive of the severe turn that argument would one day take against herself.
But what have I, sunk in my fortunes; my character forfeited; my honour lost [While I know it, I care not who knows it]; destitute of friends, and even of hope; What have I to do to shew a spirit of repining and expostulation to a dear friend, because she is not more kind than a sister?-
I find, by the rising bitterness which will mingle with the gall in my ink, that I am not yet subdued enough to my condition: And so, begging your pardon, that I should rather have formed my expectations of favour from the indulgence you used to shew me, than from what I now deserve to have shewn me, I will endeavour to give a particular answer to your letter; altho' it will take me up too much time to think of sending it by your messenger to-morrow: He can put off his journey, he says, till Saturday. I will endeavour to have the whole narrative ready for you by Saturday.
But how to defend myself in every thing that has happened, I cannot tell: Since in some part of the time, in which my conduct appears to have been censurable, I was not myself; and to this hour know not all the methods taken to deceive and ruin me.
You tell me, that in your first letter you gave me such an account of the vile house I was in, and such cautions about that Tomlinson, as make you wonder how I could think of going back.
Alas, my dear! I was trick'd, most vilely trick'd back, as you shall hear in its place.
Without knowing the house was so very vile a house from your intended information, I disliked the people too much, ever voluntarily to have returned to it. But had you really written such cautions about Tomlinson, and the house, as you seem to have purposed to do, they must, had they come in time, have been of infinite service to me. But not one word of either, whatever was your intention, did you mention to me, in that first of the three letters you so warmly TELL ME you did send me. I will inclose it to convince you.
But your account of your messenger's delivering to me your second letter, and the description he gives of me, as lying upon a couch, in a strange way, bloated and flush-coloured, you don't know how, absolutely puzzles and confounds me.
Lord have mercy upon the poor Clarissa Harlowe! What can this mean! -Who was the messenger you sent? Was he one of Lovelace's creatures too! - Could no-body come near me but that man's confederates, either setting out so, or made so? -I know not what to make of any one syllable of this! -Indeed I don't!
Let me see. You say, this was before I went from Hamstead! -My intellects had not then been touch'd! -Nor had I ever been surprised by wine (strange if I had!): How then could I be found in such a strange way, bloated, and flush-coloured; you don't know how! -Yet what a vile, what a hateful figure has your messenger represented me to have made!
But indeed, I know nothing of ANY messenger from you.
Believing myself secure at Hamstead, I staid longer there than I would have done, in hopes of the letter promised me in your short one of the 9th, brought me by my own messenger, in which you undertake to send for and engage Mrs. Townsend in my favour (b).
I wonder'd I heard not from you: And was told you were sick; and, at another time, that your mother and you had had words on my account, and that you had refused to admit Mr. Hickman's visits upon it: So that I supposed at one time, that you was not able to write; at another, that your mother's prohibition had its due force with you. But now I have no doubt, that the wicked man must have intercepted your letter; and I wish he found not means to corrupt your messenger to tell you so strange a story.
It was on Sunday June 11. you say, that the man gave it me. I was at church twice that day with Mrs. Moore. Mr. Lovelace was at her house the while, where he boarded, and wanted to have lodged; but I would not permit that, tho' I could not help the other. In one of these spaces it must be that he had time to work upon the man. You'll easily, my dear, find that out, by inquiring the time of his arrival at Mrs. Moore's, and other circumstances of the strange way he pretended to see me in, on a couch, and the rest.
Had any-body seen me afterwards, when I was betray'd back to the vile house, struggling under the operation of wicked potions, and robb'd indeed of my intellects (for this, as you shall hear, was my dreadful case!), I might then, perhaps, have appeared bloated, and flush-coloured, and I know not how myself. But were you to see your poor Clarissa now (or even to have seen her at Hamstead, before she suffered the vilest of all outrages), you would not think her bloated, or flush-coloured: Indeed you would not.
In a word, it could not be me your messenger saw; nor (if any-body) who it was can I divine.
I will now, as briefly as the subject will permit, enter into the darker part of my sad story: And yet it must be somewhat circumstantial, that you may not think me capable of reserve or palliation. The latter I am not conscious that I need. I should be utterly inexcuseable, were I guilty of the former to you. And yet, if you knew how my heart sinks under the thoughts of a recollection so painful, you would pity me.
As I shall not be able, perhaps, to conclude what I have to write in even two or three letters, I will begin a new one, with my story; and send the whole of it together, altho' written at different periods, as I am able.
Allow me a little pause, my dear, at this place; and to subscribe my self
Your ever-affectionate and obliged
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER XIX.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Thursday Night.
He had found me out at Hamstead: Strangely found me out; for I am still at a loss to know by what means.
I was loth, in my billet of the 9th, to tell you so, for fear of giving you apprehensions for me; and besides, I hoped then to have a shorter and happier issue account to you for, thro' your assistance, than I met with.
She then gives a narrative of all that passed at Hamstead between herself, Mr. Lovelace, Capt. Tomlinson and the women there, to the same effect with that so amply given by Mr. Lovelace.
Mr. Lovelace, finding all he could say, and all Capt. Tomlinson could urge, ineffectual, to prevail upon me to forgive an outrage so flagrantly premeditated; rested all his hopes on a visit which was to be paid me by Lady Betty Lawrance and Miss Montague.
In my uncertain situation, my prospects all so dark, I knew not to whom I might be obliged to have recourse in the last resort: And as those ladies had the best of characters, insomuch that I had reason to regret, that I had not from the first thrown my self upon their protection (when I had forfeited that of my own friends), I thought I would not shun an interview with them, though I was too indifferent to their kinsman, to seek it, as I doubted not, that one end of their visit would be to reconcile me to him.
On Monday the 12th of June, these pretended ladies came to Hamstead, and I was presented to them, and they to me, by their kinsman.
They were richly dressed, and stuck out with jewels; the pretended Lady Betty's were particularly very fine.
They came in a coach and four, hired, as was confessed, while their own was repairing in town: A pretence made, I now perceive, that I should not guess at the imposture by the want of the real Lady's arms upon it. Lady Betty was attended by her woman, whom she called Morrison; a modest country-looking person.
I had heard, that Lady Betty was a fine woman, and that Miss Montague was a beautiful young lady, genteel, and graceful, and full of vivacity: Such were these impostors; and having never seen either of them, I had not the least suspicion, that they were not the ladies they personated; and being put a little out of countenance by the richness of their dresses, I could not help, fool that I was! to apologize for my own.
The pretended Lady Betty then told me, that her nephew had acquainted them with the situation of affairs between us. And altho' she could not but say, that she was very glad, that he had not put such a flight upon his Lordship and them, as report had given them cause to apprehend (the reasons for which report, however, she much approved of); yet it had been matter of great concern to her, and to her niece Montague, and would to the whole family, to find so great a misunderstanding subsisting between us, as, if not made up, might distance all their hopes.
She could easily tell who was in fault, she said. -And gave him a look both of anger and disdain; asking him, How it was possible for him to give an offence of such a nature to so charming a lady (so she called me), as should occasion a resentment so strong?
He pretended to be awed into shame and silence.
My dearest niece, said she, and took my hand (I must call you niece, as well from love, as to humour your uncle's laudable expedient), permit me to be, not an advocate, but a mediatrix for him; and not for his sake, so much as for my own, my Charlotte's, and all our family's. The indignity he has offered to you, may be of too tender a nature to be inquired into. But as he declares, that it was not a premeditated offence; whether, my dear (for I was going to rise upon it in my temper), it were or not; and as he declares his sorrow for it (and never did creature express a deeper sorrow for any offence than he!); and as it is a reparable one; let Us, for this one time, forgive him; and thereby lay an obligation upon this man of errors-Let US, I say, my dear: For, Sir (turning to him), an offence against such a peerless lady as This, must be an offence against me, against your cousin, here; and against all the virtuous of our Sex.
See, my dear, what a creature he had picked out! Could you have thought there was a woman in the world who could thus express herself, and yet be vile? But she had her principal instructions from him, and those written down too, as I have reason to think: For I have recollected since, that I once saw this Lady Betty (who often rose from her seat, and took a turn to the other end of the room with such emotion as if the joy of her heart would not let her sit still) take out a paper from her stays, and look into it, and put it there again. She might oftener, and I not observe it; for I little thought, that there could be such impostors in the world.
I could not forbear paying great attention to what she said. I found tears ready to start; I drew out my handkerchief, and was silent. I had not been so indulgently treated a great while by a person of character and distinction (such I thought her), and durst not trust to the accent of my voice.
The pretended Miss Montague joined in, on this occasion; and, drawing her chair close to me, took my other hand, and besought me to forgive her cousin; and consent to rank myself as one of the principals of a family, that had long, very long, coveted the honour of my alliance.
I am ashamed to repeat to you, my dear, now I know what wretches they are, the tender, the obliging, and the respectful things I said to them.
The wretch himself then came forward. He threw himself at my feet. How was I beset! -The women grasping one my right hand, the other my left: The pretended Miss Montague pressing to her lips more than once the hand she held: The wicked man on his knees, imploring my forgiveness; and setting before me my happy and my unhappy prospects, as I should forgive or not forgive him. All that he thought would affect me in his former pleas, and those of Capt. Tomlinson, he repeated. He vowed, he promised, he bespoke the pretended ladies to answer for him; and they engaged their honours in his behalf.
Indeed, my dear, I was distressed, perfectly distressed. I was sorry that I had given way to this visit. For I knew not how, in tenderness to relations (as I thought them) so worthy, to treat so freely as he deserved, a man nearly allied to them: -So that my arguments, and my resolutions, were deprived of their greatest force.
I pleaded, however, my application to you. I expected every hour, I told them, an answer from you to a letter I had written, which would decide my future destiny.
They offered to apply to you themselves in person, in their own behalf, as they politely termed it. They besought me to write to you to hasten your answer.
I said, I was sure, that you would write the moment that the event of an application to be made to a third person enabled you to write. -But as to the success of their requests in behalf of their kinsman, That depended not upon the expected answer; for that, I begged their pardon, was out of the question. I wished him well. I wished him happy. But I was convinced, that I neither could make him so, nor he me.
Then, again, how the wretch promised! -How he vowed! -How he intreated! -And how the women pleaded! And they engaged themselves, and the honour of their whole family, for his just, his kind, his tender behaviour to me.
In short, my dear, I was so hard set, that I was obliged to come to a more favourable compromise with them, than I had intended. I would wait for your answer to my letter, I said: And if it made doubtful or difficult the change of measures I had resolved upon, and the scheme of life I had formed, I would then consider of the matter; and, if they would permit me, lay all before them, and take their advice upon it, in conjunction with yours, as if the one were my own aunt, and the other were my own cousin.
They shed tears upon this-Of joy they called them- But since, I believe, to their credit, bad as they are, that they were tears of temporary remorse; for the pretended Miss Montague turned about, and, as I remember, said, There was no standing it.
But Mr. Lovelace was not so easily satisfied. He was fixed upon his villainous measures perhaps; and so might not be sorry to have a pretence against me. He bit his lip-He had been but too much used, he said, to such indifference, such coldness, in the very midst of his happiest prospects. -I had on twenty occasions, shewn him, to his infinite regret, that any favour I was to confer upon him was to be the result of-There he stopt-And not of my choice.
This had like to have set all back again. I was exceedingly offended. But the pretended ladies interposed. The elder severely took him to task. He ought, she told him, to be satisfied with what I had said. She desired no other condition. And what, Sir, said she, with an air of authority, would you commit errors, and expect to be rewarded for them?
They then engaged me in more agreeable conversation -The pretended Lady declared, that she, Lord M. and Lady Sarah, would directly and personally interest themselves to bring about a general reconciliation between the two families, and this either in open or private concert with my uncle Harlowe, as should be thought fit. Animosities on one side had been carried a great way, she said; and too little care had been shewn on the other to mollify or heal. My father should see, that they could treat him as a brother and a friend; and my brother and sister should be convinced, that there was no room either for the jealousy or envy they had conceived from motives too unworthy to be avowed.
Could I help, my dear, being pleased with them?-
Permit me here to break off. The task grows too heavy, at present, for the heart of
Your Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER XX.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe; In Continuation.
I was very ill, and obliged to lay down my pen. I thought I should have fainted. But am better now-So will proceed.
The pretended Ladies, the more we talked, seemed to be the fonder of me. And The Lady Betty had Mrs. Moore called up; and asked her, If she had accommodations for her niece and self, her woman, and two men-servants, for three or four days?
Mr. Lovelace answered for her, that she had.
She would not ask her dear niece Lovelace [Permit me, my dear, whispered she, this charming style before strangers! -I will keep your uncle's secret] whether she should be welcome or not to be so near her. But for the time she should stay in these parts, she would come up every night-What say you, niece Charlotte?
The pretended Charlotte answered, she should like to do so, of all things.
The Lady Betty called her an obliging girl. She liked the place, she said. Her cousin Leeson would excuse her. The air, and my company, would do her good. She never chose to lie in the smoaky town, if she could help it. In short, my dear, said she to me, I will stay till you hear from Miss Howe; and till I have your consent to go with me to Glenham-Hall. Not one moment will I be out of your company, when I can have it. Stedman my solicitor, as the distance from town is so small, may attend me here for instructions. Niece Charlotte, one word with you, child.
They retired to the farther end of the room, and talked about their night-dresses.
The Miss Charlotte said, Morrison might be dispatched for them.
True, the other said: -But she had some letters in her private box, which she must have up. And you know, Charlotte, that I trust nobody with the keys of that.
Could not Morrison bring up that box?
No. She thought it safest where it was. She had heard of a robbery committed but two days ago, at the foot of Hamstead-hill; and she should be ruined, if she lost her box.
Well then, it was but going to town to undress, and she would leave her jewels behind her, and return; and should be the easier a great deal on all accounts.
For my part, I wondered they came up with them. But that was to be taken as a respect paid to me. And then they hinted at another visit of ceremony which they had thought to make, had they not found me so inexpressibly engaging.
They talked loud enough for me to hear them; on purpose, no doubt, tho' in affected whispers; and concluded with high praises of me.
I was not fool enough to believe, or to be puffed up with their encomiums; yet not suspecting them, I was not displeased at so favourable a beginning of acquaintance with ladies (whether I were to be related to them or not) of whom I had always heard honourable mention. And yet at the time, I thought, highly as they exalted me, that in some respects (tho' I hardly knew in what) they fell short of what I expected them to be.
The grand deluder was at the farther end of the room, another way; probably to give me an opportunity to hear these preconcerted praises-looking into a book, which, had there not been a preconcert, would not have taken his attention for one moment. It was Taylor's Holy Living and Dying.
When the pretended ladies joined me, he approached me, with it in his hand-A smart book, This, my dear! -This old divine affects, I see, a mighty flowery stile upon a very solemn subject. But it puts me in mind of an ordinary country funeral, where the young women, in honour of a defunct companion, especially if she were a virgin, or passed for such, make a flower-bed of her coffin.
And then, laying down the book, turning upon his heel, with one of his usual airs of gaiety, And are you determined, Ladies, to take up your lodgings with my charming creature?
Indeed they were.
Never were there more cunning, more artful impostors, than these women. Practised creatures, to be sure: Yet genteel; and they must have been well-educated-once, perhaps, as much the delight of their parents, as I was of mine: And who knows by what arts ruined, body and mind! -O my dear! how pregnant is this reflection!
But the man! -Never was there a man so deep! Never so consummate a deceiver! except that detested Tomlinson; whose years, and seriousness, joined with a solidity of sense and judgment, that seemed uncommon, gave him, one would have thought, advantages in villainy, the other had not time for. Hard, very hard, that I should fall into the knowledge of two such wretches; when two more such I hope are not to be met with in the world: -Both so determined to carry on the most barbarous and perfidious projects against a poor young creature, who never did or wished harm to either!
Take the following slight account of these womens and of this man's behaviour to each other before me.
Mr. Lovelace carried himself to his pretended aunt with high respect, and paid a great deference to all she said. He permitted her to have all the advantage over him in the repartees and retorts that passed between them. I could, indeed, easily see, that it was permitted; and that he forbore that acumen, that quickness, which he never spared shewing to the pretended Miss Montague; and which a man of wit seldom knows how to spare shewing, when an opportunity offers to display his wit.
The pretended Miss Montague was still more reverent in her behaviour to her aunt. While the aunt kept up the dignity of the character she had assumed, raillying both of them with the air of a person who depends upon the superiority which years and fortune give over younger persons; who might have a view to be obliged to her, either in her life, or at her death.
The severity of her raillery, however, was turned upon Mr. Lovelace, on occasion of the character of the people who kept the lodgings, which, she said, I had thought my self so well warranted to leave privately.
This startled me. For having then no suspicion of the vile Tomlinson, I concluded (and your letter of the 7th favoured my conclusions), that if the house were notorious, either he, or Mr. Mennell, would have given me or him some hints of it-Nor, altho' I liked not the people, did I observe any thing in them very culpable, till the Wednesday night before, that they offered not to come to my assistance, altho' within hearing of my distress (as I am sure they were), and having as much reason to be frighted as I, at the fire, had it been real.
I looked with indignation upon Mr. Lovelace, at this hint.
He seemed abashed. I have not patience, but to recollect the specious looks of this vile deceiver. But how was it possible, that even this florid countenance of his should enable him to command a blush at his pleasure? For blush he did, more than once: And the blush, on this occasion, was a deep-dyed crimson, unstrained for, and natural, as I thought-But he is so much of the actor, that he seems able to enter into any character; and his muscles and features appear intirely under obedience to his wicked will.
The pretended Lady went on, saying, She had taken upon herself to inquire after the people, on hearing that I had left the house in disgust; and tho' she heard not any thing much amiss, yet she heard enough to make her wonder, that he would carry his spouse, a person of so much delicacy, to a house, that, if it had not a bad fame, had not a good one.
You must think, my dear, that I liked the pretended Lady Betty the better for this. I suppose it was designed I should.
He was surprised, he said, that her Ladyship should hear a bad character of the people. It was what he had never before heard that they deserved. It was easy, indeed, to see, that they had not very great delicacy, tho' they were not indelicate. The nature of their livelihood, letting lodgings, and taking people to board (and yet he had understood that they were nice in these particulars), led them to aim at being free and obliging: And it was difficult, he said, for persons of chearful dispositions, so to behave, as to avoid censure: Openness of heart and countenance in the Sex (more was the pity!) too often subjected good population, whose fortunes did not set them above the world, to uncharitable censure.
He wished, however, that her Ladyship would tell what she had heard: Altho' now it signified but little, because she would never ask me to set foot within their doors again: And he begged she would not mince the matter.
Nay, no great matter, she said. But she had been informed, that there were more women lodgers in the house than men: Yet that their visitors were more men than women. And this had been hinted to her (perhaps by ill-willers, she could not answer for that) in such a way, as if somewhat further were meant by it, than was spoken.
This, he said, was the true innuendo way of characterizing, used by detractors. Every-body and every-thing had a black and a white side, as ill-willers and well-willers were pleased to report. He had observed, that the front house was well lett, and he believed, more to the one sex, than to the other; for he had seen, occasionally passing to and fro, several genteel modest-looking women; and who, it was very probable, were not so ill-beloved, but they might have visitors and relations of both sexes: But they were none of them any-thing to us, or we to them: We were not once in any of their companies: But in the genteelest and most retired house of the two, which we had in a manner to ourselves, with the use of a parlour to the street, to serve us for a servants hall, or to receive common visitors, or our traders only, whom we admitted not up-stairs.
He always loved to speak as he found. No man in the world had suffered more from calumny than he himself had done.
Women, he owned, ought to be more scrupulous than men needed to be where they lodged. Nevertheless, he wished, that fact, rather than surmise, were to be the foundation of their judgments, especially when they spoke of one another.
He meant no reflection upon her Ladyship's informants, or rather surmisants (as he might call them), be they who they would: Nor did he think himself obliged to defend characters impeached, or not thought well of, by women of virtue and honour. Neither were these people of importance enough to have so much said about them.
The pretended Lady Betty said, All who knew her would clear her of censoriousness: That it gave her some opinion, she must needs say, of the people, that he had continued there so long with me; that I had rather negative than positive reasons of dislike to them and that so shrewd a man, as she heard Capt. Tomlinson was, had not objected to them.
I think, niece Charlotte, proceeded she, as my nephew has not parted with these lodgings, you and I (for as my dear Miss Harlowe dislikes the people, I would not ask her for her company) will take a dish of tea with my nephew there, before we go out of town, and then we shall see what sort of people they are. I have heard that Mrs. Sinclair is a mighty forbidding creature.
With all my heart, Madam. In your Ladyship's company I shall make no scruple of going any-whither.
It was Ladyship at every word; and as she seemed proud of her title, and of her dress too, I might have guessed that she was not used to either.
What say you, cousin Lovelace? Lady Sarah, tho' melancholy woman, is very inquisitive about all your affairs. I must acquaint her with every particular circumstance when I go down.
With all his heart. He would attend her whenever she pleased. She would see very handsome apartments and very civil people.
The duce is in them, said The Miss Montague, if they appear other to us.
They then fell into family-talk: Family-happiness on my hoped-for accession into it. They mentioned Lord M.'s and Lady Sarah's great desire to see me. How many friends and admirers, with up-lift hands, I should have! [O my dear, what a triumph must these creatures, and he, have over the poor Devoted all the time!] -What a happy man he would be-They would not, The Lady Betty said, give themselves the mortification but to suppose, that I should not be one of Them!
Presents were hinted at. She resolved that I should go with her to Glenham-Hall. She would not be refused, altho' she were to stay a week beyond her time for me.
She long'd for the expected letter from you. I must write to hasten it, and to let Miss Howe know how every thing stood since I wrote last. That might dispose me absolutely in their favour, and in her nephew's; and then she hoped there would be no occasion for me to think of entering upon any new measures.
Indeed, my dear, I did at the time intend, if I heard not from you by morning, to dispatch a man and horse to you, with the particulars of all, that you might (if you thought proper), at least, put off Mrs. Townsend's coming up to another day. -But I was miserably prevented.
She made me promise, that I would write to you upon this subject, whether I heard from you, or not. One of her servants should ride post with my letter, and wait for Miss Howe's answer.
She then launched out in deserved praises of you, my dear. How fond should she be of the honour of your acquaintance!
The pretended Miss Montague joined in with her, as well for herself as for her sister.
Abominably well-instructed were they both.
O my dear! What risques may poor giddy girls run, when they throw themselves out of the protection of their natural friends, and into the wide world?
They then talked again of reconciliation and intimacy with every one of my friends; with my mother particularly; and gave the dear good lady the praises that every one gives her, who has the happiness to know her.
Ah, my dear Miss Howe! I had almost forgot my resentments against the pretended nephew! -So many agreeable things said, made me think, that, if you should advise it, and if I could bring my mind to forgive the wretch for an outrage so premeditatedly vile, and could forbear despising him for that and his other ingrateful and wicked ways, I might not be unhappy in an alliance with such a family. Yet, thought I at the time, With what intermixtures does every thing come to me, that has the appearance of good! -However, as my lucid hopes made me see fewer faults in the behaviour of these pretended Ladies, than recollection and abhorrence have helped me since to see, I began to reproach myself, that I had not at first thrown myself into their protection.
But amidst all these delightful prospects, I must not, said The Lady Betty, forget that I am to go to town.
She then ordered her coach to be got to the door- We will all go to town together, said she, and return together. Morrison shall stay here, and see every thing as I used to have it, in relation to my apartment, and my bed; for I am very particular in some respects. My cousin Leeson's servants can do all I want to be done with regard to my night-dresses, and the like. And it will be a little airing for you, my dear, and a good opportunity for Mr. Lovelace to order what you want of your apparel to be sent from your former lodgings to Mrs. Leeson's; and we can bring it up with us from thence.
I had no intention to comply. But as I did not imagine that she would insist upon my going to town with them, I made no answer to that part of her speech.
I must here lay down my tired pen!
Recollection! Heart-affecting Recollection! How it pains me!

### v6 LETTER XXI.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
In the midst of these agreeablenesses, the coach came to the door. The pretended Lady Betty besought me to give them my company to their cousin Leeson's I desired to be excused: Yet suspected nothing. She would not be denied. How happy would a visit so condescending make her cousin Leeson! -Her cousin Leeson was not unworthy of my acquaintance: And would take it for the greatest favour in the world.
I objected my dress. But the objection was not admitted. She bespoke a supper of Mrs Moore to be ready at nine.
Mr. Lovelace, vile hypocrite, and wicked deceiver, seeing, as he said, my dislike to go, desired her Ladyship not to insist upon it.
Fondness for my company was pleaded. She begged me to oblige her: Made a motion to help me to my fan herself: And, in short, was so very urgent, that my feet complied against my speech, and my mind: And, being in a manner, led to the coach by her, and made to step in first, she followed me; and her pretended niece, and the wretch, followed her: And away it drove.
Nothing but the height of affectionate complaisance passed all the way: Over and over, What a joy would this unexpected visit give her cousin Leeson! What a pleasure must it be to such a mind as mine, to be able to give so much joy to every-body I came near!
The cruel, the savage seducer (as I have since recollected) was in rapture all the way; but yet such a sort of rapture, as he took visible pains to check.
Hateful villain! -How I abhor him! -What mischief must be then in his plotting heart! -What a devoted victim must I be in all their eyes!
Though not pleased, I was nevertheless just then thoughtless of danger; they endeavouring thus to lift me up above all apprehension of that, and above myself too.
But think, my dear, what a dreadful turn all had upon me, when, through several streets and ways I knew nothing of, the coach, slackening its pace, came within sight of the dreadful house of the dreadfullest woman in the world; as she proved to me.
Lord be good unto me! cry'd the poor fool, looking out of the coach-Mr. Lovelace! -Madam! turning to the pretended aunt-Madam! turning to the niece, my eyes and hands lifted up-Lord be good unto me!
What! What! What, my dear!
He pulled the string-What need to have come this way? said he. -But since we are, I will but ask a question. -My dearest life! why this apprehension?
The coachman stopp'd: His servant, who, with one of hers was behind, alighted-Ask, said he, if I have any letters? -Who knows, my dearest creature, turning to me, but we may already have one from the Captain? - We will not go out of the coach! -Fear nothing-Why so apprehensive? -Oh! these fine spirits!-cry'd the execrable insulter.
Dreadfully did my heart then misgive me: I was ready to faint. -Why this terror, my life? -You shall not stir out of the coach! -But one question, now the fellow has drove us this way!
Your lady will faint! cry'd the execrable Lady Betty, turning to him. -My dearest niece! I will call you, taking my hand, we must alight, if you are so ill. -Let us alight-Only for a glass of water and hartshorn -Indeed we must alight.
No, no, no-I am well-Quite well-Won't the man drive on? -I am well-quite well-Indeed I am. -Man, drive on, putting my head out of the coach-Man, drive on!-tho' my voice was too low to be heard.
The coach stopp'd at the door. How I trembled!
Dorcas came to the door, on its stopping.
My dearest creature! said the vile man, gasping, as it were for breath, you shall not alight-Any letters for me, Dorcas?
There are two, Sir. And here is a gentleman, Mr. Belton, Sir, waits for your Honour; and has done so above an hour.
I'll just speak to him. Open the door-You sha'n't step out, my dear-A letter, perhaps, from the Captain already! -You sha'n't step out, my dear.
I sighed, as if my heart would burst.
But we must step out, nephew: Your lady will faint- Maid, a glass of hartshorn and water! -My dear, you must step out. -You will faint, child-We must cut your laces. -[I believe my complexion was all manner of colours by turns]-Indeed, you must step out, my dear.
He knew, he said, I should be well, the moment the coach drove from the door. I should not alight. By his soul, I should not.
Lord, Lord, nephew, Lord, Lord, cousin, both women in a breath, What ado you make about nothing! - You persuade your lady to be afraid of alighting! -See you not, that she is just fainting?
Indeed, Madam, said the vile seducer, my dearest love must not be moved in this point against her will! -I beg it may not be insisted upon.
Fiddle-faddle, foolish man! -What a pother is here! - I guess how it is: You are ashamed to let us see, what sort of people you carried your lady among! -But do you go out, and speak to your friend, and take your letters.
He stept out; but shut the coach-door after him, to oblige me.
The coach may go on, Madam! said I.
The coach shall go on, my dear life, said he-But he gave not, nor intended to give, orders that it should.
Let the coach go on! said I-Mr. Lovelace may come after us.
Indeed, my dear, you are ill! -Indeed you must alight! -Alight but for one quarter of an hour! -Alight but to give order yourself about your things. Whom can you be afraid of, in my company, and my niece's? - These people must have behaved shockingly to you! - Please the Lord, I'll inquire into it! -I'll see what sort of people they are!
Immediately came the old creature to the door. A thousand pardons, dear Madam, stepping to the coach-side, if we have any-way offended you! -Be pleased, Ladies (to the other two), to alight.
Well, my dear, whispered the Lady Betty, I now find, that an hideous description of a person we never saw, is an advantage to them. I thought the woman was a monster! But, really, she seems tolerable.
I was afraid I should have fallen into fits: But still refused to go out-Man!-Man!-Man! cry'd I, gaspingly, my head out of the coach and in, by turns, half a dozen times running, drive on! -Let us go!
My heart misgave me beyond the power of my own accounting for it; for still I did not suspect these women. But the antipathy I had taken to the vile house, and to find myself so near it, when I expected no such matter, with the sight of the old creature, all together, made me behave like a distracted person.
The hartshorn and water was brought. The pretended lady Betty made me drink it. Heaven knows if there were any thing else in it!
Besides, said she, whisperingly, I must see what sort of creatures the nieces are. Want of delicacy cannot be hid from me. You could not surely, my dear, have this aversion to re-enter a house, for a few minutes, in our company, in which you lodged and boarded several weeks, unless these women could be so presumptuously vile, as my nephew ought not to know.
Out stept the pretended lady; the servant, at her command, having opened the door.
Dearest Madam, said the other, let me follow you (for I was next the door.) Fear nothing: I will not stir from your presence.
Come, my dear, said the pretended Lady: Give me your hand; holding out hers. Oblige me this once!
I will bless your footsteps, said the old creature, if once more you honour my house with your presence.
A croud by this time was gathered about us; but I was too much affected to mind that.
Again the pretended Miss Montague urged me (standing up as ready to go out if I would give her room). Lord, my dear, said she, who can bear this croud? - What will people think?
The pretended Lady again pressed me, with both her hands held out-Only, my dear, to give orders about your things.
And thus pressed, and gazed at (for then I looked about me), the women so richly dressed, people whispering; in an evil moment, out stepp'd I, trembling, forced to lean with both my hands (frighted too much for ceremony) on the pretended Lady Betty's arm-O that I had dropped down dead upon the guilty threshold!
We shall stay but a few minutes, my dear!-but a few minutes! said the same specious jilt-out of breath with her joy, as I have since thought, that they had thus triumphed over the unhappy victim!
Come, Mrs. Sinclair, I think your name is, shew us the way-following her, and leading me. I am very thirsty. You have frighted me, my dear, with your strange fears. I must have tea made, if it can be done, in a moment. We have further to go, Mrs. Sinclair, and must return to Hamstead this night.
It shall be ready in a moment, cry'd the wretch. We have water boiling.
Hasten, then-Come, my dear, to me, as she led me through the passage to the fatal inner house-Lean upon me-How you tremble! -how you faulter in your steps! -Dearest niece Lovelace (the old wretch being in hearing), why these hurries upon your spirits? -We'll begone in a minute.
And thus she led the poor sacrifice into the old wretch's too well-known parlour.
Never was any-body so gentle, so meek, so low-voiced, as the odious woman; drawling out, in a puling accent, all the obliging things she could say: Awed, I then thought, by the conscious dignity of a woman of quality; glittering with jewels.
The called for tea was ready presently.
There was no Mr. Belton, I believe: For the wretch went not to any-body, unless it were while we were parlying in the coach. No such person, however, appeared at the tea-table.
I was made to drink two dishes, with milk, complaisantly urged by the pretended Ladies helping me each to one. I was stupid to their hands; and, when I took the tea, almost choaked with vapours; and could hardly swallow.
I thought, transiently thought, that the tea, the last dish particularly, had an odd taste. They, on my palating it, observed, that the milk was London milk; far short in goodness of what they were accustomed to from their own dairies.
I have no doubt, that my two dishes, and perhaps my hartshorn, were prepared for me; in which case it was more proper for their purpose, that they should help me, than that I should help myself. Ill before, I found myself still more and more disordered in my head; a heavy torpid pain increasing fast upon me. But I imputed it to my terror.
Nevertheless, at the pretended Ladies motion, I went up stairs, attended by Dorcas; who affected to weep for joy, that once more she saw my blessed face, that was the vile creature's word; and immediately I set about taking out some of my cloaths, ordering what should be put up, and what sent after me.
While I was thus employed, up came the pretended Lady Betty, in a hurrying way-My dear, you won't be long before you are ready. My nephew is very busy in writing answers to his letters: So, I'll just whip away, and change my dress, and call upon you in an instant.
O Madam! -I am ready! I am now ready! -You must not leave me here: And down I sunk, affrighted, into a chair.
This instant, this instant, I will return-Before you can be ready-Before you can have packed up your things-We would not be late-The robbers we have heard of may be out-Don't let us be late.
And away she hurried before I could say another word. Her pretended niece went with her, without taking notice to me of her going.
I had no suspicion yet, that these women were not indeed the Ladies they personated; and I blamed myself for my weak fears. -It cannot be, thought I, that such Ladies will abet treachery against a poor creature they are so fond of. They must undoubtedly be the persons they appear to be-What folly to doubt it! The air, the dress, the dignity, of women of quality. -How unworthy of them, and of my charity, concluded I, is this ungenerous shadow of suspicion!
So, recovering my stupified spirits, as well as they could be recovered (for I was heavier and heavier; and wondered to Dorcas, what ailed me; rubbing my eyes, and taking some of her snuff, pinch after pinch, to very little purpose), I pursued my employment: But when that was over, all packed up that I designed to be packed up; and I had nothing to do but to think; and found them tarry so long; I thought I should have gone distracted. I shut myself into the chamber that had been mine; I kneeled, I prayed; yet knew not what I prayed for: Then ran out again: It was almost dark night, I said: Where, where, was Mr. Lovelace?
He came to me, taking no notice at first of my consternation and wildness (What they had given me made me incoherent and wild): All goes well, said he, my dear! -A line from Captain Tomlinson!
All indeed did go well for the villainous project of the most cruel and most villainous of men!
I demanded his aunt! -I demanded his cousin! -The evening, I said, was closing! -My head was very, very bad, I remember, I said. -And it grew worse and worse.
Terror, however, as yet kept up my spirits; and I insisted upon his going himself to hasten them.
He called his servant. He raved at the sex for their delay: 'Twas well that business of consequence seldom depended upon such parading, unpunctual triflers!
His servant came.
He ordered him to fly to his cousin Leeson's; and to let his aunt and cousins know how uneasy we both were at their delay: Adding, of his own accord, Desire them, if they don't come instantly, to send their coach, and we will go without them. Tell them I wonder they'll serve me so!
I thought this was considerately and fairly put. But now, indifferent as my head was, I had a little time to consider the man, and his behaviour. He terrified me with his looks, and with his violent emotions, as he gazed upon me. Evident joy-suppressed emotions, as I have since recollected. His sentences short, and pronounced as if his breath were touched. Never saw I his abominable eyes look, as then they looked-Triumph in them! -Fierce and wild; and more disagreeable than the womens at the vile house appeared to me, when I first saw them: And at times, such a leering, mischief-boding cast! -I would have given the world to have been an hundred miles from him. Yet his behaviour was decent -A decency, however, that I might have seen to be struggled for-For he snatched my hand two or three times, with a vehemence in his grasp that hurt me; speaking words of tenderness through his shut teeth, as it seemed; and let it go, with a beggar-voic'd humble accent, like the vile woman's just before; half-inward; yet his words and manner carrying the appearance of strong and almost convulsed passion! -O my dear! What mischiefs was he not then meditating!
I complained once or twice of thirst. My mouth seemed parched. At the time, I supposed, that it was my terror (gasping often as I did for breath) that parched up the roof of my mouth. I called for water: Some table-beer was brought me: Beer, I suppose, was a better vehicle (if I were not dosed enough before) for their potions. I told the maid, That she knew I seldom tasted malt-liquor: Yet, suspecting nothing of this nature, being extremely thirsty, I drank it, as what came next: And instantly, as it were, found myself much worse than before; as if inebriated, I should fancy: I know not how.
His servant was gone twice as long as he needed: And, just before his return, came one of the pretended Lady Betty's, with a letter for Mr. Lovelace.
He sent it up to me. I read it: And then it was that I thought myself a lost creature; it being to put off her going to Hamstead that night, on account of violent fits which Miss Montague was pretended to be seized with: For then immediately came into my head his vile attempt upon me in this house; the revenge that my flight might too probably inspire him with on that occasion, and because of the difficulty I made to forgive him, and to be reconciled to him; his very looks wild, and dreadful to me; and the women of the house such as I had more reason than ever, even from the pretended Lady Betty's hints, to be afraid of: All these crouding together in my apprehensive mind, I fell into a kind of phrensy.
I have not remembrance how I was, for the time it lasted: But I know, that, in my first agitations, I pulled off my head-dress, and tore my ruffles in twenty tatters; and ran to find him out.
When a little recovered, I insisted upon the hint he had given of their coach. But the messenger, he said, had told him, that it was sent to fetch a physician, lest his chariot should be put up, or not ready.
I then insisted upon going directly to Lady Betty's lodgings.
Mrs. Leeson's was now a crouded house, he said: And as my earnestness could be owing to nothing but groundless apprehension [And O what vows, what protestations of his honour did he then make!], he hoped I would not add to their present concern. Charlotte, indeed, was used to fits, he said, upon any great surprizes, whether of joy or grief; and they would hold her for a week together, if not got off in a few hours.
You are an observer of eyes, my dear, said the villain; perhaps in secret insult: Saw you not in Miss Montague's now-and-then, at Hamstead, something wildish? -I was afraid for her then-Silence and quiet only do her good: Your concern for her, and her love for you, will but augment the poor girl's disorder, if you should go.
All impatient with grief and apprehension, I still declared myself resolved not to stay in that house till morning. All I had in the world, my rings, my watch, my little money, for a coach! or, if one were not to be got, I would go on foot to Hamstead that night, tho' I walked it by myself.
A coach was hereupon sent for, or pretended to be sent for. Any price, he said, he would give to oblige me, late as it was; and he would attend me with all his soul. -But no coach was to be got.
Let me cut short the rest. I grew worse and worse in my head; now stupid, now raving, now senseless. The vilest of vile women was brought to frighten me. Never was there so horrible a creature as she appeared to me at the time.
I remember, I pleaded for mercy-I remember that I said I would be his-Indeed I would be his-to obtain his mercy-But no mercy found I! -My strength, my intellects, failed me! -And then such scenes followed-O my dear, such dreadful scenes! -Fits upon fits (faintly indeed, and imperfectly remembered) procuring me no compassion-But death was with-held from me. That would have been too great a mercy!
Thus was I tricked and deluded back by blacker hearts of my own sex, than I thought there were in the world; who appeared to me to be persons of honour: And, when in his power, thus barbarously was I treated by this villainous man!
I was so senseless, that I dare not averr, that the horrid creatures of the house were personally aiding and abetting: But some visionary remembrances I have of female figures, flitting, as I may say, before my sight; the wretched woman's particularly. But as these confused ideas might be owing to the terror I had conceived of the worse than masculine violence she had been permitted to assume to me, for expressing my abhorrence of her house; and as what I suffered from his barbarity wants not that aggravation; I will say no more on a subject so shocking as this must ever be to my remembrance.
I never saw the personating wretches afterwards. He persisted to the last (dreadfully invoking heaven as a witness to the truth of his assertion), that they were really and truly the Ladies they pretended to be; declaring, that they could not take leave of me, when they left the town, because of the state of senselessness and phrensy I was in. For their intoxicating, or rather stupefying, potions, had almost deleterious effects upon my intellects, as I have hinted; insomuch that, for several days together, I was under a strange delirium; now moping, now dozing, now weeping, now raving, now scribbling, tearing what I scribbled, as fast as I wrote it: Most miserable when now-and-then a ray of reason brought confusedly to my remembrance what I had suffered.

### v6 LETTER XXII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe; In Continuation.
The Lady next gives an account,
Of her recovery from her phrensical and sleepy disorders:
Of her attempt to get away in his absence:
Of the conversations that followed, at his return, between them:
Of the guilty figure he made:
Of her resolution not to have him:
Of her several efforts to escape:
Of her treaty with Dorcas, to assist her in it:
Of Dorcas's dropping the promisory note, undoubtedly, as she says, on purpose to betray her:
Of her triumph over all the creatures of the house, assembled to terrify her; and perhaps to commit fresh outrages upon her:
Of his setting out for M. Hall:
Of his repeated letters to induce her to meet him at the altar, on her uncle's anniversary:
Of her determined silence to them all:
Of her second escape, effected, as she says, contrary to her own expectation: That attempt being at first but the intended prelude to a more promising one, which she had formed in her mind:
And of other particulars; which being to be found in Mr. Lovelace's preceding letters, and that of his friend Belford, are omitted. She then proceeds:
The very hour that I found myself in a place of safety. I took pen to write to you. When I began, I designed only to write six or eight lines, to inquire after your health: For, having heard nothing from you, I feared indeed, that you had been, and still were, too ill to write. But no sooner did my pen begin to blot the paper, but my sad heart hurried it into length. The apprehensions I had lain under, that I should not be able to get away; the fatigue I had in effecting my escape; the difficulty of procuring a lodging for myself; having disliked the people of two houses, and those of a third disliking me; for you must think I made a frighted appearance-These, together with the recollection of what I had suffered from him, and my farther apprehensions of my insecurity, and my desolate circumstances, had so disordered me, that I remember I rambled strangely in that letter.
In short, I thought it, on re-perusal, a half-distracted one: But I then despaired (were I to begin again) of writing better: So I let it go: And can have no excuse for directing it as I did, if the cause of the incoherence in it will not furnish me with a very pitiable one.
The letter I received from your mother was a dreadful blow to me. But nevertheless, it had the good effect upon me (labouring, as I was just then, under a violent fit of vapourish despondency, and almost yielding to it) which profuse bleeding and blisterings have in paralytical or apoplectical strokes; reviving my attention, and restoring me to spirits to combat the evils I was surrounded by-Sluicing off, and diverting into a new chanel (if I may be allowed another metaphor), the overcharging woes, which threatened once more to overwhelm my intellects.
But yet, I most sincerely lamented (and still lament), in your mamma's words, That I cannot be unhappy by myself: And was grieved, not only for the trouble I had given you before; but for the new one I had brought upon you by my inattention.
She then gives the contents of the letters she wrote to Mrs. Norton, to Lady Betty Lawrance, and to Mrs. Hodges; as also of their answers; whereby she detected all Mr. Lovelace's impostures.
I cannot, however, says she, forbear to wonder how the vile Tomlinson could come at the knowledge of several of the things he told me of, and which contributed to give me confidence in him.
I doubt not, continues she, that the stories of Mrs. Fretchville, and her house, would be found as vile impostures as any of the rest, were I to inquire; and had I not enough, and too much, already against the perjured man.
How have I been led on! says she-What will be the end of such a false and perjured creature; Heaven not less profaned and defied by him, than myself deceived and abused! This, however, against myself I must say, That if what I have suffered is the natural consequence of my first error, I never can forgive myself, although you are so partial in my favour, as to say, that I was not censurable for what passed before my first escape.
And now, honoured Madam, and my dearest Miss Howe, who are to sit in judgment upon my case, permit me to lay down my pen, with one request, which, with the greatest earnestness, I make to you both: And that is, That you will neither of you open your lips in relation to the potions and the violences I have hinted at. - Not that I am solicitous, that my disgrace should be hidden from the world, or that it should not be generally known, that the man has proved a villain to me: For this, it seems, every-body but myself expected from his character. But suppose, as his actions by me are really of a capital nature, it were insisted upon, that I should appear to prosecute him, and his accomplices, in a Court of Justice, how do you think I could bear That?
But since my character, before the capital enormity, was lost in the eye of the world; and That from the very hour I left my father's house; and since all my own hopes of worldly happiness are intirely over; Let me slide quietly into my grave; and let it not be remembred, except by one friendly tear, and no more, dropt from your gentle eye, my own dear Anna Howe, on the happy day that shall shut up all my sorrows, that there was such a creature as
Clarissa Harlowe.
Saturday, July 8.

### v6 LETTER XXIII.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Sunday, July 9.
May heaven signalize its vengeance, in the face of all the world, upon the most abandoned and profligate of men! -And in its own time, I doubt not but it will. -And we must look to a WORLD BEYOND THIS, for the reward of your sufferings!-
Another shocking detection, my dear! -How have you been deluded! -Very watchful I have thought you; very sagacious: -But, alas! not watchful, not sagacious enough, for the horrid villain you have had to deal with!-
The letter you sent me inclosed as mine, of the 7th of June, is a villainous forgery. The hand, indeed, is astonishingly like mine; and the cover, I see, is actually my cover: But yet the letter is not so exactly imitated, but that (had you had any suspicions about his vileness at the time) you, who so well know my hand, might have detected it.
In short, this vile forged letter, tho' a long one, contains but a few extracts from mine. Mine was a very long one. He has omitted every thing, I see, in it, that could have shewn you what a detestable house the house is; and given you suspicions of the vile Tomlinson. -You will see this, and how he has turned Miss Lardner's information, and my advices to you [execrable villain!] to his own horrid ends, by the rough draught of the genuine letter, which I shall inclose.
Apprehensive for both our safeties, from such a daring and profligate contriver, I must call upon you, my dear, to resolve upon taking legal vengeance of the infernal wretch. And this not only for our own sakes, but for the sakes of innocents, who otherwise may yet be deluded and outraged by him.
She then gives the particulars of the report made by the young fellow whom she sent to Hamstead with her letter; and who supposed he had delivered it into her own hand; and then proceeds:
I am astonished, that the vile wretch, who could know nothing of the time my messenger (whose honesty I can vouch for) would come, could have a creature ready to personate you! Strange, that the man should happen to arrive just as you were gone to church, as I find was the fact, on comparing what he says, with your hint that you were at church twice that day; when he might have got to Mrs. Moore's two hours before! -But had you told me, my dear, that the villain had found you out, and was about you! -You should have done that-Yet I blame you upon a judgment founded on the event only!
I never had any faith in the stories that go current among country girls, of spectres, familiars, and demons; yet I see not any other way to account for this wretch's successful villainy, and for his means of working-up his specious delusions, but by supposing (if he be not the devil himself), that he has a familiar constantly at his elbow. Sometimes it seems to me, that this familiar assumes the shape of that solemn villain Tomlinson: Sometimes that of the execrable Sinclair, as he calls her: Sometimes it is permitted to take that of Lady Betty Lawrance-But when, it would assume the angelic shape and mien of my beloved friend, see what a bloated figure it made!
'Tis my opinion, my dear, that you will be no longer safe where you are, than while the V. is in the country. Words are poor!-or how could I execrate him! I have hardly any doubt, that he has sold himself for a time. O may the time be short! -Or may his infernal prompter no more keep covenant with him, than he does with others!
I inclose not only the rough draught of my long letter mentioned above; but the heads of that which the young fellow thought he delivered into your own hands at Hamstead. And when you have perused them, I will leave you to judge, how much reason I had to be surprised, that you wrote me not an answer to either of those letters; one of which you owned you had received (tho' it proved to be his forged one); the other delivered into your own hands, as I was assured; and both of them of so much concern to your honour; and still how much more surprised I must be, when I received a letter from Mrs. Townsend, dated June 15. from Hamstead, importing, "That Mr. Lovelace, who had been with you several days, had, on the Monday before, brought his aunt and cousin, richly dressed, and in a coach and four, to visit you: Who, with your own consent, had carried you to town with them-to your former lodgings; where you still were: That the Hamstead women believed you to be married; and reflected upon me as a fomenter of differences between man and wife: That he himself was at Hamstead the day before; viz. Wedn. the 14th; and boasted of his happiness with you; inviting Mrs. Moore, Mrs. Bevis, and Miss Rawlins, to go to town, to visit his spouse; which they promised to do: That he declared, that you were intirely reconciled to your former lodgings: -And that, finally, the women at Hamstead told Mrs. Townsend, that he had very handsomely discharged theirs."
I own to you, my dear, that I was so much surprised and disgusted at these appearances, against a conduct till then unexceptionable, that I was resolved to make myself as easy as I could, and wait till you should think fit to write to me. But I could rein-in my impatience but for a few days; and on the 20th of June I wrote a sharp letter to you; which I find you did not receive.
What a fatality, my dear, has appeared in your case, from the very beginning till this hour! Had my mother permitted-
But can I blame her; when you have a father and mother living, who have so much to answer for? -So much!- as no father and mother, considering the child they have driven, persecuted, exposed, renounced-ever had to answer for!-
But again I must execrate the abandoned villain-Yet, as I said before, all words are poor, and beneath the occasion!
But see we not, in the horrid perjuries and treachery of this man, what rakes and libertines will do, when they get a young creature into their power? It is probable, that he might have the intolerable presumption to hope an easier conquest: But, when your unexampled vigilance and exalted virtue made potions, and rapes, and the utmost violences, necessary to the attainment of his detestable end, we see that he never boggled at them. I have no doubt, that the same or equal wickedness would be oftener committed by men of this villainous cast, if the folly and credulity of the poor inconsiderates who throw themselves into their hands, did not give them an easier triumph.
With what comfort must those parents reflect upon these things, who have happily disposed of their daughters in marriage to a virtuous man! And how happy the young women, who find themselves safe in a worthy protection! -If such a person, as Miss Clarissa Harlowe could not escape, who can be secure? -Since, tho' every rake is not a Lovelace, neither is every woman a Clarissa: And his attempts were but proportioned to your resistance and vigilance.
My mother has commanded me to let you know her thoughts upon the whole of your sad story. I will do it in another letter; and send it to you with this, by a special messenger.
But, for the future, if you approve of it, I will send my letters by the usual hand (Collins's) to be left at the Saracen's head on Snow-hill: Whither you may send yours (as we both used to do, to Wilson's), except such as we shall think fit to transmit by the post: Which I am afraid, after my next, must be directed to Mr. Hickman, as before: Since my mother is for fixing a condition to our correspondence, which, I doubt, you will not comply with, tho' I wish you would. This condition I shall acquaint you with by-and-by.
Mean time, begging excuse for all the harsh things in my last, I beseech you, my dearest creature, to believe me to be,
Your truly sympathizing,
and unalterable Friend,
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER XXIV.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Monday, July 10.
I now, my dearest friend, resume my pen, to obey my mother, in giving you her opinion upon your unhappy story.
She still harps upon the old string, and will have it, that all your calamities are owing to your first fatal step; for she believes (what I cannot), that your relations had intended, after one general trial more, to comply with your aversion, if they had found it as rivetted a one, as, let me say, it was a folly to suppose it would not be found to be, after so many ridiculously repeated experiments.
As to your latter sufferings from that vilest of miscreants, she is unalterably of opinion, that if all be as you have related (which she doubts not), with regard to the potions, and to the violences you have sustained, you ought, by all means, to set on foot a prosecution against him, and his devilish accomplices.
She asks, What murderers, what ravishers, would be brought to justice, if modesty were to be a general plea, and allowable, against appearing in a court to prosecute?
She says, that the good of society requires, that such a beast of prey should be hunted out of it: And, if you do not prosecute him, she thinks you will be answerable for all the mischiefs he may do in the course of his future villainous life.
Will it be thought, Nancy, said she, that Miss Harlowe can be in earnest, when she says, she is not solicitous to have her disgraces concealed from the world, if she is afraid or ashamed to appear in court, to do justice to herself and her sex against him? Will it not be rather surmised, that she may be apprehensive, that some weakness, or lurking love, will appear upon the trial of the strange cause? If, inferred she, such complicated villainy as this (where perjury, potions, forgery, subornation, are all combined to effect the ruin of an innocent creature, and to dishonour a family of eminence, and where those very crimes, as may be supposed, are proofs of her innocence) is to go off impunely, what case will deserve to be brought into judgment; or what malefactor ought to be hanged?
Then she thinks, and so do I, that the vile creatures, his accomplices, ought by all means to be brought to condign punishment, as they must and will be, upon bringing him to his tryal: And this may be a means to blow up and root out a whole nest of vipers, and save many innocent creatures.
She added, That, if Miss Clarissa Harlowe could be so indifferent about having this public justice done upon such a wretch, for her own sake, she ought to overcome her scruples out of regard to her family, her acquaintance, and her sex, which are all highly injured and scandalized by his villainy to her.
For her own part, she declares, That were she your mother, she would forgive you upon no other terms: And, upon your compliance with these, she herself will undertake to reconcile all your family to you.
These, my dear, are my mother's sentiments upon your sad story.
I cannot say, but there are reason and justice in them: And it is my opinion, that it would be very right for the Law to oblige an injured woman to prosecute, and to make seduction on the man's part capital, where his studied baseness, and no fault in her will, appeared.
To this purpose, the custom in the Isle of Man is a very good one-
'If a single woman there prosecutes a single man for a rape, the ecclesiastical judges impanel a jury; and, if this jury finds him guilty, he is returned guilty to the temporal courts: Where, if he be convicted, the deemster, or judge, delivers to the woman a Rope, a Sword, and a Ring; and she has it in her choice to have him hanged, beheaded, or to marry him.'
One of the two former, I think, should always be her option.
I long for the full particulars of your story. You must have but too much time upon your hands, for a mind so active as yours, if tolerable health and spirits be afforded you
The villainy of the worst of men, and the virtue of the most excellent of women, I expect will be exemplified in it, were it to be written in the same connected and particular manner, that you used to write to me in.
Try for it, my dearest friend; and since you cannot give the example without the warning, give both, for the sakes of all those who shall hear of your unhappy fate; beginning from yours of June 5. your prospects then not disagreeable. I pity you for the task; tho' I cannot willingly exempt you from it.
My mother will have me add, That she must insist upon your prosecuting. She repeats, that she makes that a condition on which she permits our future correspondence. - So let me know your thoughts upon it. I asked her, If she would be willing, that I should appear to support you in court, if you complied? -By all means, she said, if that would induce you to begin with him, and with the horrid women. I think, I could attend you; I am sure I could, were there but a probability of bringing the monster to his deserved end.
Once more your thoughts of it, supposing it were to meet with the approbation of your relations.
But whatever be your determination on this head, it shall be my constant prayer, That God will give you patience to bear your heavy afflictions, as a person ought to do, whose faulty will has not brought them upon herself; that He will speak peace and comfort to your wounded mind; and give you many happy years.
I am, and ever will be,
Your affectionate and faithful
Anna Howe.
The two preceding letters were sent by a special messenger: In the cover were written the following lines.
Monday, July 10.
I cannot, my dearest friend, suffer the inclosed to go unaccompanied by a few lines, to signify to you, that they are both less tender in some places, than I would have written, had they not been to pass my mamma's inspection. The principal reason, however, of my writing thus separately, is, To beg of you to permit me to send you money and necessaries; which you must needs want: And that you will let me know, if either I, or any-body I can influence, can be of service to you. I am excessively apprehensive, that you are not enough out of his reach where you are. Yet London, I am persuaded, is the place of all others, to be private in.
I could tear my hair for vexation, that I have it not in my power to afford you personal protection!-I am,
Your ever-devoted,
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER XXV.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Tuesday, July 11.
I approve, my dearest friend, of the method you prescribe for the conveyance of our letters; and have already caused the porter of the inn to be engaged to bring to me yours, the moment that Collins arrives with them: As the servant of the house where I am, will be permitted to carry mine to Collins for you.
As you are so earnest to have all the particulars of my sad story before you, I will, if life and spirits be lent me, give you an ample account of all that has befallen me, from the time you mention. But this, it is very probable, you will not see, till after the close of my last scene: And as I shall write with a view to that, I hope no other voucher will be wanted for the veracity of the writer.
I am far from thinking myself out of the reach of this man's further violence. But what can I do? Whither can I fly? -Perhaps my bad state of health (which must grow worse, as recollection of the past evils, and reflections upon them, grow heavier and heavier upon me) may be my protection. Once, indeed, I thought of going abroad; and had I the prospect of many years before me, I would go. -But, my dear, the blow is given. -Nor have you reason, now, circumstanced as I am, to be concerned, that it is. What a heart must I have, if it be not broken! -And, indeed, my dear, my best, I had almost said my only friend, I do so earnestly wish for the last closing scene, and with so much comfort find myself in a declining way, that I even sometimes ingratefully regret that naturally healthy constitution, which used to double upon me all my enjoyments.
As to the earnestly recommended prosecution, I may possibly touch upon it more largely hereafter, if ever I shall have better spirits; for they are at present extremely sunk and low. -But, just now, will only say, that I would sooner suffer every evil (the repetition of the capital one excepted), than appear publicly in a court to do myself justice. And I am heartily grieved, that your mother prescribes such a measure, as the condition of our future correspondence. -For, the continuance of your friendship, my dear, and the desire I had to correspond with you to my life's end, were all my remaining hopes and consolation. Nevertheless, as that friendship is in the power of the heart, not of the hand only, I hope I shall not forfeit that.
O my dear! what weight has a parent's curse-You cannot imagine-But I will not touch this string to you, who never loved them! -A reconciliation with them is not be hoped for!
I have written a letter to Miss Rawlins of Hamstead; the answer to which, just now received, has helped me to the knowlege of the vile contrivance, by which this wicked man got your letter of June the 10th. I will give you the contents of both.
In mine to her, I briefly acquaint her "with what had befallen me, thro' the vileness of the women who had been passed upon me, as the aunt and cousin of the wickedest of men; and own, that I never was married to him. I desire her to make particular inquiry, and to let me know, who it was at Mrs. Moore's, that on Sunday afternoon, June 11. while I was at church, received a letter from Miss Howe, pretending to be me, and lying on a couch: -Which letter, had it come to my hands, would have saved me from ruin. I excuse myself (from the delirium, which the barbarous usage I had received, threw me into, and from a confinement as barbarous and illegal), that I had not before applied to Mrs. Moore, for an account of what I was indebted to her: Which I now desired. And for fear of being traced by Mr. Lovelace, I directed her to superscribe her answer, To Mrs. Mary Atkins to be left till called for, at the Bell-Savage Inn, on Ludgate-Hill."
In her answer, she tells me, "that the vile wretch prevailed upon Mrs. Bevis to personate me. A sudden motion of his, it seems, on the appearance of your messenger;-persuaded to lie along on a couch: A handkerchief over her neck and face; pretending to be ill; drawn in, by false notions of your ill offices to keep up a variance between a man and his wife- and so taking the letter from your messenger as me.
"Miss Rawlins takes pains to excuse Mrs. Bevis's intention. She expresses their astonishment and concern at what I communicate: But is glad, however, and so they are all, that they know in time the vileness of the base man; the two widows and herself having, at his earnest invitation, designed me a visit at Mrs. Sinclair's; supposing all to be happy between him and me; as he assured them was the case. Mr. Lovelace, she informs me, had handsomely satisfied Mrs. Moore. And Miss Rawlins concludes with wishing to be favoured with the particulars of so extraordinary a story, as they may be of use, to let her see what wicked creatures (women as well as men) there are in the world."
I thank you for the draughts of your two letters which were intercepted by this horrid man. I see the great advantage they were of to him, in the prosecution of his villainous designs against the poor wretch, whom he has so long made the sport of his abhorred inventions.
Let me repeat, that I am quite sick of life; and of an earth, in which innocent and benevolent spirits are sure to be considered as aliens, and to be made sufferers, by the genuine sons and daughters of that earth.
How unhappy, that those letters only which could have acquainted me with his horrid views, and armed me against them, and against the vileness of the base women, should fall into his hands! -Unhappier still, in that my very escape to Hamstead, gave him the opportunity of receiving them!
Nevertheless, I cannot but still wonder, how it was possible for that Tomlinson to know what passed between Mr. Hickman and my uncle Harlowe: A circumstance, which gave that vile impostor most of his credit with me.
How the wicked wretch himself could find me out at Hamstead, must also remain wholly a mystery to me. He may glory in his contrivances-He, who has more wickedness than wit, may glory in his contrivances! -But, after all, I shall, I humbly presume to hope, be happy, when he, poor wretch, will be-Alas!-who can say what!-
Adieu, my dearest friend! -May you be happy! -And then your Clarissa Harlowe cannot be wholly miserable!

### v6 LETTER XXVI.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Wedn. Night, July 12.
I write, my dearest creature, I cannot but write, to express my concern on your dejection. Let me beseech you, my charming excellence, let me beseech you, not to give way to it.
Comfort yourself, on the contrary, in the triumphs of a virtue unsullied; a will wholly faultless. Who could have withstood the trials that you have surmounted? -Your cousin Morden will soon come. He will see justice done you, I make no doubt, as well with regard to what concerns your person as your estate. And many happy days may you yet see; and much good may you still do, if you will not heighten unavoidable accidents into guilty despondency.
But why, my dear, this pining solicitude continued after a reconciliation with relations as unworthy as implacable; whose wills are governed by an all grasping brother, who finds his account in keeping the breach open? On this over-solicitude, it is now plain to me, that the vilest of men, built all his schemes. He saw you had a thirst after it, beyond all reason for hope. The view, the hope, I own, extremely desirable, had your family been Christians; or even had they been Pagans, who had bowels.
I shall send this short letter (I am obliged to make it a short one) by young Rogers, as we call him; the fellow I sent to you to Hamstead; an innocent, tho' pragmatical rustic. Admit him, I pray you, into your presence, that he may report to me, how you look, and how you are.
Mr. Hickman should attend you; but I apprehend, that all his motions, and my own too, are watched by the execrable wretch: As indeed his are by an agent of mine; for I own, that I am so apprehensive of his plots and revenge, now I know, that he has intercepted my vehement letters against him, that he is the subject of my dreams, as well as of my waking fears.
My mother, at my earnest importunity, has just given me leave to write, and to receive your letters-But fastened this condition upon the concession, that yours must be under cover to Mr. Hickman (this with a view, I suppose, to give him consideration with me); and upon this further condition, that she is to see all we write. -'When girls are set upon a point,' she told one, who told me again, 'it is better for a mother, if possible, to make herself of their party, rather than to oppose them; since there will be then hopes, that she will still hold the reins in her own hands.'
Pray let me know what the people are with whom you lodge? -Shall I send Mrs. Townsend to direct you to lodgings, either more safe, or more convenient for you?
Be pleased to write to me by Rogers; who will wait on you for your answer, at your own time.
Adieu, my dearest creature. Comfort yourself, as you would, in the like unhappy circumstances, comfort
Your own
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER XXVII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Thursday, July 13.
I am extremely concerned, my dear Miss Howe, for being primarily the occasion of the apprehensions you have of this wicked man's vindictive attempts. What a wide spreading error is mine!-
If I find, that he sets on foot any machination against you, or Mr. Hickman, I do assure you I will consent to prosecute him, altho' I were sure I should not survive my first appearance at the Bar he should be arraigned at.
I own the justice of your mother's arguments on that subject; but must say, that I think there are circumstances in my particular case, which will excuse me, altho' (on a slighter occasion than that above apprehended) I should decline to appear against him. I have said, that I may one day enter more particularly into this subject.
Your messenger has now indeed seen me. I talked with him on the imposture put upon him at Hamstead: And am sorry to have reason to say, that had not the poor young man been very simple, and very self-sufficient, he had not been so grosly deluded. Mrs. Bevis has the same plea to make for herself. A good-natured, thoughtless woman; not used to converse with so vile and so specious a deceiver, as him, who made his advantage of both these shallow creatures.
I think I cannot be more private, than where I am. I hope I am safe. All the risque I run, is in going out, and returning from morning prayers; which I have two or three times ventured to do; once at Lincolns-Inn chapel, at eleven; once at St. Dunstan's Fleet-street, at seven in the morning, in a chair both times; and twice at six in the morning, at the neighbouring church in Covent-garden. The wicked wretches I have escaped from, will not, I hope, come to church to look for me; especially at so early prayers; and I have fixed upon the privatest pew in the latter church to hide myself in; and perhaps I may lay out a little matter in an ordinary gown, by way of disguise; my face half hid by my mob. -I am very careless, my dear, of my appearance now. Neat and clean, takes up the whole of my attention.
The man's name, at whose house I lodge, is Smith- A glove- maker, as well as seller. His wife is the shop-keeper. A dealer also in stockens, ribbands, snuff, and perfumes. A matron-like woman, plain-hearted, and prudent. The husband an honest, industrious man. And they live in good understanding with each other. A proof with me, that their hearts are right; for where a married couple live together upon ill terms, it is a sign, I think, that each knows something amiss of the other, either with regard to temper or morals, which if the world knew as well as themselves, it would as little like them, as such people like each other. Happy the marriage, where neither man nor wife has any wilful or premeditated evil in their general conduct to reproach the other with! -For even persons who have bad hearts, will have a veneration for those who have good ones.
Two neat rooms, with plain but clean furniture, on the first floor, are mine; one they call the dining-room.
There is, up another pair of stairs, a very worthy widow-lodger, Mrs. Lovick by name; who, altho' of low fortunes, is much respected, as Mrs. Smith assures me, by people of condition of her acquaintance for her piety, prudence, and understanding. With her I propose to be well acquainted.
I thank you, my dear, for your kind, your seasonable advice and consolation. I hope I shall have more grace given me, than to despond, in the religious sense of the word: Especially, as I can apply to myself the comfort you give me, that neither my will, nor my inconsiderateness, has contributed to my calamity. But nevertheless, the irreconcileableness of my relations, whom I love with an unabated reverence; my apprehensions of fresh violences (This wicked man, I doubt, will not yet let me rest); my destituteness of protection; my youth, my sex, my unacquaintedness with the world, subjecting me to insults; my reflections on the scandal I have given, added to the sense of the indignities I have received from a man, of whom I deserved not ill; all together will undoubtedly bring on the effect, that cannot be undesirable to me: -The slower, however, perhaps from my natural good constitution; and, as I presume to imagine, from principles which I hope will, in due time, and by due reflection, set me above the sense of all worldly disappointments.
At present, my head is much disordered. I have not indeed enjoyed it with any degree of clearness, since the violence done to that, and to my heart too, by the wicked arts of the abandoned creatures I was cast among.
I must have more conflicts. At times I find myself not subdued enough to my condition. I will welcome those conflicts as they come, as probationary ones-But yet my father's malediction-Yet I hope even that may be made of so much use to me, as to cause me to double my attention to render it ineffectual.
All I will at present add, are my thanks to your mother for her indulgence to us. Due compliments to Mr. Hickman; and my request, that you will believe me to be, to my last hour, and beyond it, if possible, my beloved friend, and my dearer Self (for what is now my Self?)
Your obliged and affectionate
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER XXVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Friday, July 7.
I have three of thy letters at once before me to answer; in each of which thou complainest of my silence; and in one of them tellest me, that thou canst not live unless I scribble to thee every day, or every other day at least.
Why, then, die, Jack, if thou wilt. -What heart, thinkest thou, can I have to write, when I have lost the only subject worth writing upon?
Help me again to my Angel, to my Clarissa; and thou shalt have a letter from me, or writing at least, part of a letter, every hour. All that the charmer of my heart shall say, that will I put down: Every motion, every air of her beloved person, every look, will I try to describe; and when she is silent, I will endeavour to tell thee her thoughts, either what they are, or what I'd have them to be-So that, having her, I shall never want a subject. Having lost her, my whole soul is a blank: The whole creation round me, the elements above, beneath, and every thing I behold (for nothing can I enjoy) is a blank without her!
O Return, Return, thou dear charmer of my soul! Return to thy adoring Lovelace! What is the light, what the air, what the town, what the country, what's anything, without thee? Light, air, joy, harmony, in my notion, are but parts of thee; and could they be all expressed in one word, that word would be Clarissa.
O my beloved Clarissa, Return thou then; once more Return to bless thy Lovelace, who now, by the loss of thee, knows the value of the jewel he has slighted; and rises every morning but to curse the sun, that shines upon every-body but him!
Well but, Jack, 'tis a surprising thing to me, that the dear fugitive cannot be met with; cannot be heard of. She is so poor a plotter (for plotting is not her talent), that I am confident, had I been at liberty, I should have found her out before now; altho' the different emissaries I have employed about town, round the adjacent villages, and in Miss Howe's vicinage, have hitherto failed of success. But my Lord continues so weak and low-spirited, that there is no getting from him. I would not disoblige a man whom I think in danger still: For would his gout, now it has got him down, but give him, like a fair boxer, the rising-blow, all would be over with him. And here (pox of his fondness for me! it happens at a very bad time) he makes me sit hours together entertaining him with my rogueries (a pretty amusement for a sick man!): And yet, whenever he has the gout, he prays night and morning with his chaplain. But what must his notions of religion be, who, after he has nosed and mumbled over his responses, can give a sigh or groan of satisfaction, as if he thought he had made up with heaven; and return with a new appetite to my stories? -Encouraging them, by shaking his sides with laughing at them, and calling me a sad fellow in such an accent, as shews he takes no small delight in his kinsman.
The old Peer has been a sinner in his day, and suffers for it now: A sneaking sinner, sliding, rather than rushing, into vices, for fear of his reputation: Or, rather, for fear of detection, and positive proof; for these sort of fellows, Jack, have no real regard for reputation. - Paying for what he never had, and never daring to rise to the joy of an enterprize at first hand, which could bring him within view of a tilting, or of the honour of being considered as the principal man in a court of justice.
To see such an old Trojan as this, just dropping into the grave, which I hoped ere this would have been dug, and filled up with him; crying out with pain, and grunting with weakness; yet in the same moment crack his leathern face into an horrible laugh, and call a young sinner charming varlet, encoreing him, as formerly he used to do the Italian eunuchs; what a preposterous, what an unnatural adherence to old habits!
My two cousins are generally present when I entertain, as the old peer calls it. Those stories must drag horribly, that have not more hearers and applauders, than relaters.
Applauders!-
Ay, Belford, Applauders, repeat I; for altho' these girls pretend to blame me sometimes for the facts, they praise my manner, my invention, my intrepidity. -Besides, what other people call blame, that call I praise: I ever did; and so I very early discharged shame, that cold-water damper to an enterprising spirit.
These are smart girls; they have life and wit; and yesterday, upon Charlotte's raving against me upon a related enterprize, I told her, that I had had it in debate several times, whether she were or were not too near of kin to me: And that it was once a moot point with me, whether I could not love her dearly for a month or so: And perhaps it was well for her, that another pretty little puss started up, and diverted me, just as I was entering upon the course.
They all three held up their hands and eyes at once. But I observed, that tho' the girls exclaimed against me, they were not so angry at this plain speaking, as I have found my beloved upon hints so dark, that I have wondered at her quick apprehension.
I told Charlotte, That, grave as she pretended to be in her smiling resentments on this declaration, I was sure I should not have been put to the expence of above two or three stratagems (for nobody admired a good invention more than she), could I but have disentangled her conscience from the embarasses of consanguinity.
She pretended to be highly displeased: So did her sister for her: I told her, that she seemed as much in earnest, as if she had thought me so; and dared the trial. Plain words, I said, in these cases, were more shocking to their sex than gradatim actions. And I bid Patty not be displeased at my distinguishing her sister; since I had a great respect for her likewise.
An Italian air, in my usual careless way, a half-struggled for kiss from me, and a shrug of the shoulder by way of admiration, from each pretty cousin, and Sad, sad fellow, from the old Peer, attended with a side-shaking laugh, made us all friends.
There, Jack! -Wilt thou, or wilt thou not, take this for a letter? There's Quantity, I am sure. -How have I fill'd a sheet (not a short-hand one indeed) without a subject! My fellow shall take this; for he is going to town. And if thou canst think tolerably of such execrable stuff, I will soon send thee another.

### v6 LETTER XXIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Six Sat. morning, July 8.
Have I nothing new, nothing diverting, in my whimsical way, thou askest, in one of thy three letters before me, to entertain thee with? -And thou tellest me, that, when I have least to narrate, to speak in the Scotish phrase, I am most diverting. A pretty compliment, either to thyself, or to me. To both indeed! -A sign that thou hast as frothy a heart as I a head. But canst thou suppose, that this admirable woman is not All, is not Every-thing, with me? Yet I dread to think of her too; for detection of all my contrivances, I doubt, must come next.
The old Peer is also full of Miss Harlowe; and so are my cousins. He hopes I will not be such a dog [There's a specimen of his peer-like dialect], as to think of doing dishonourably by a woman of so much merit, beauty, and fortune; and, he says, of so good a family. But I tell him, that this is a string he must not touch: That it is a very tender point: In short, is my sore place; and that I am afraid he would handle it too roughly, were I to put myself into the power of so ungentle an operator.
He shakes his crazy head. He thinks all is not as it should be between us; longs to have me present her to him, as my wife; and often tells me what great things he will do, additional to his former proposals; and what presents he will make on the birth of the first child. But I hope the whole will be in my hands before such an event take place. No harm in hoping, Jack! My uncle says, Were it not for hope, the heart would break.
Eight o'clock at Mid-summer, and these lazy varletesses (in full health) not come down yet to breakfast! -What a confounded indecency in young ladies, to let a Rake know that they love their beds so dearly, and, at the same time, where to have them! But I'll punish them: They shall breakfast with their old uncle, and yawn at one another, as if for a wager: While I drive my Phaeton to Col. Ambrose's, who yesterday gave me invitation both to breakfast and dine, on account of two Yorkshire nieces, celebrated toasts, who have been with him this fortnight past; and who, he says, want to see me. So, Jack, all women do not run away from me, thank Heaven! -I wish I could have leave of my heart, since the dear fugitive is so ingrateful, to drive her out of it with another Beauty. But who can supplant her? Who can be admitted to a place in it, after Miss Clarissa Harlowe?
At my return, if I can find a subject, I will scribble on, to oblige thee.
My Phaeton's ready: My cousins send me word they are just coming down: So in spite I'll be gone.-
Saturday afternoon.
I did stay to dine with the Colonel, and his Lady and Nieces: But I could not pass the afternoon with them, for the heart of me. There was enough in the persons and faces of the two young ladies to set me upon comparisons. Particular features held my attention for a few moments: But those served but to whet my impatience to find the charmer of my soul; who, for person, for air, for mind, had never any equal. My heart recoil'd and sicken'd upon comparing minds and conversation. Pert wit, a too studied-for desire to please; each in high good humour with herself; an open-mouth affectation in both, to shew white teeth, as if the principal excellence; and to invite amorous familiarity, by the promise of a sweet breath; at the same time reflecting tacitly upon breaths arrogantly implied to be less pure.
Once I could have borne them.
They seemed to be disappointed, that I was so soon able to leave them. Yet have I not at present so much vanity (My Clarissa has cured me of my vanity!), as to attribute their disappointment so much to particular liking of me, as to their own self-admiration. They looked upon me, as a connoisseur in beauty. They would have been proud of engaging my attention, as such: But so affected, so flimsy-witted, mere skin-deep beauties! -They had looked no further into themselves than what their glasses had enabled them to see: And their glasses were flattering-glasses too; for I thought them passive-faced, and spiritless; with eyes, however, upon the hunt for conquests, and bespeaking the attention of others, in order to countenance their own. -I believe I could, with a little pains, have given them life and soul, and to every feature of their faces sparkling information-But my Clarissa! -O Belford, my Clarissa has made me eyeless and senseless to every other Beauty! -Do thou find her for me, as a subject worthy of my pen, or This shall be the last from
Thy Lovelace.

### v6 LETTER XXX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Sunday night, July 9.
Now, Jack, have I a subject with a vengeance. I am in the very height of my tryal for all my sins to my beloved fugitive. For here, yesterday, at about five o'clock, arrived Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty Lawrance, each in her chariot and six. Dowagers love equipage; and these cannot travel ten miles without a set, and half a dozen horsemen.
My time had hung heavy upon my hands; and so I went to church after dinner. Why may not handsome fellows, thought I, like to be look'd at, as well as handsome wenches? -I fell in, when Service was over, with Major Warneton; and so came not home till after six; and was surprised, at entering the court-yard here, to find it litter'd with equipages and servants. I was sure the owners of them came for no good to me.
Lady Sarah, I soon found, was raised to this visit by Lady Betty; who has health enough to allow her to look out of herself, and out of her own affairs, for business. Yet congratulation to my uncle on his amendment (Spiteful devils on both accounts!) was the avowed errand. But coming in my absence, I was their principal subject; and they had opportunity to set each other's heart against me.
Simon Parsons hinted this to me, as I passed by the Steward's office; for it seems they talked loud; and he was making up some accounts with old Pritchard.
However, I hasten'd to pay my duty to them. Other people not performing theirs, is no excuse for the neglect of our own, you know.
And now I enter upon my Tryal.
With horrible grave faces was I received. The two antiques only bowed their tabby heads; making longer faces than ordinary; and all the old lines appearing strong in their furrow'd foreheads and fallen cheeks, How do you, cousin? and, How do you, Mr. Lovelace? looking all round at one another, as who should say, Do you speak first; and, Do you: For they seemed resolved to lose no time.
I had nothing for it, but an air as manly, as theirs was womanly. Your servant, Madam, to Lady Betty; and, Your servant, Madam-I am glad to see you abroad, to Lady Sarah.
I took my seat. Lord M. look'd horribly glum; his fingers clasped, and turning round and round, under and over, his but just disgouted thumbs; his sallow face, and goggling eyes, cast upon the floor, on the fire-place, on his two sisters, on his two kinswomen, by turns; but not once deigning to look upon me.
Then I began to think of the Laudanum and wet cloth I had told thee of long ago; and to call myself in question for a tenderness of heart that will never do me good.
At last, Mr. Lovelace;-Cousin Lovelace!-Hem!- Hem! -I am sorry, very sorry, hesitated Lady Sarah that there is no hope of your ever taking up-
What's the matter now, Madam?
The matter now! -Why, Lady Betty has two letters from Miss Harlowe, which have told us what's the matter-Are all women alike with you?
Yes; I could have answered; 'bating the difference which pride makes.
Then they all chorus'd upon me-Such a character as Miss Harlowe's! cry'd one-A lady of so much generosity and good sense! another-How charmingly she writes the two maiden monkies, looking at her fine hand-writing: Her perfections my crimes. What can you expect will be the end of these things? cried Lady Sarah-Damn'd, damn'd doings! vociferated the Peer, shaking his loose-flesh'd wabbling chaps, which hung on his shoulders like an old cow's dew-lap.
For my part, I hardly knew whether to sing or say, what I had to reply to these all-at-once attacks upon me! -Fair and softly, Ladies-One at a time, I beseech you. I am not to be hunted down without being heard, I hope. Pray let me see these letters. I beg you will let me see them.
There they are: -That's the first-Read it out, if you can.
I open'd a letter from my charmer, dated Thursday, June 29. our wedding-day, that was to be, and written to Lady Betty Lawrance. -By the contents, to my great joy, I find the dear creature is alive and well, and in charming spirits. But the direction where to send an answer was so scratched out, that I could not read it; which afflicted me much.
She puts three questions in it to Lady Betty.
1st, About a letter of hers, dated June 7. congratulating our nuptials, and which I was so good as to save my aunt the trouble of writing: A very civil thing of me, I think.
Again-"Whether she and one of her nieces Montague were to go to town, on an old Chancery-suit?" And, "Whether they actually did go to town accordingly, and to Hamstead afterwards?" and "Whether they brought to town from thence the young creature whom they visited;" was the subject of the second and third questions.
A little inquisitive dear rogue! And what did she expect to be the better for these questions? -But curiosity, damn'd curiosity, is the itch of the Sex-Yet when didst thou know it turn'd to their benefit? -For they seldom inquire, but when they fear-And the proverb, as my Lord has it, says It comes with a fear. That is, I suppose, what they fear, generally happens, because there is generally occasion for the fear.
Curiosity indeed she avows to be her only motive for these interrogatories: For tho' she says, her Ladyship may suppose the questions are not asked for good to me, yet the answer can do me no harm, nor her good, only to give her to understand, whether I have told her-a parcel of damn'd lyes; that's the plain English of her inquiry.
Well, Madam, said I, with as much philosophy as I could assume; and may I ask, pray, What was your Ladyship's answer?
There's a copy of it, tossing it to me, very disrespectfully.
This answer was dated July 1. A very kind and complaisant one to the lady, but very so-so to her poor kinsman. -That people can give up their own flesh and blood with so much ease! -She tells her "how proud all our family would be of an alliance with such an excellence." She does me justice in saying how much I adore her, as an angel of a lady; and begs of her for I know not how many sakes, besides my soul's sake "that she will be so good as to have me for an husband:" And answers,-thou wilt guess how-to the lady's questions.
Well, Madam; and, pray, may I be favour'd with the lady's other letter? I presume it is in reply to yours.
It is, said the Peer: But, Sir, let me ask you a few questions, before you read it-Give me the letter, Lady Betty.
There it is, my Lord.
Then on went the spectacles, and his head moved to the lines-A charming pretty hand! -I have often heard, that this lady is a genus.
And so, Jack, repeating my Lord's wise comments and questions will let thee into the contents of this merciless letter.
"Monday, July 3." [reads my Lord]-Let me see! -That was last Monday; no longer ago! "Monday July the third. -Madam-I cannot excuse myself-um, um, um, um, um, um [humming inarticulately, and skipping]-"I must own to you, Madam, that the honour of being related"-
Off went the spectacles-Now, tell me, Sir, Has not this Lady lost all the friends she had in the world, for your sake?
She has very implacable friends, my Lord: We all know That.
But has she not lost all for your sake? -Tell me That.
I believe so, my Lord.
Well then! -I am glad thou art not so graceless, as to deny That.
On went the spectacles again-"I must own to you, Madam, that the honour of being related to ladies as eminent for their virtue, as for their descent"-Very pretty, truly! said my Lord, repeating, " as eminent for their virtue as for their descent, was, at first, no small inducement with me to lend an ear to Mr. Lovelace's address."
-There is dignity, born dignity, in this Lady, cry'd my Lord.
Lady Sarah. She would have been a grace to our family.
Lady Betty. Indeed she would.
Lovel. To a royal family, I will venture to say.
Ld. M. Then what a devil-
Lovel. Please to read on, my Lord. It cannot be her letter, if it does not make you admire her more and more as you read. Cousin Charlotte, Cousin Patty, pray attend -Read on, my Lord.
Miss Charlotte. Amazing fortitude!
Miss Patty only lifted up her dove's eyes.
Lord M. [reading] "And the rather, as I was determined, had it come to effect, to do every thing in my power to deserve your favourable opinion."
Then again they chorus'd upon me!
A blessed time of it, poor I! -I had nothing for it but impudence!
Lovel. Pray read on, my Lord-I told you, how you would all admire her-Or shall I read?
Lord M. Damn'd assurance! [reading] "I had another motive, which I knew would of itself give me merit with your whole family;- They were all ear-"A presumptuous one; a punishably presumptuous one, as it has proved; in the hope that I might be an humble means in the hand of Providence, to reclaim a man, who had, as I thought, good sense enough at bottom to be reclaimed; or at least gratitude enough to acknowlege the intended obligation, whether the generous hope were to succeed or not." -Excellent young creature!-"
Excellent young creature! echoed the ladies, with their handkerchiefs at their eyes, attended with nose-music.
Lovel. By my soul, Miss Patty, you weep in the wrong place: You shall never go with me to a tragedy.
Lady Betty. Harden'd wretch!-
His Lordship had pulled off his spectacles to wipe them. His eyes were misty; and he thought the fault in his spectacles.
I saw they were all cock'd and prim'd-To be sure that is a very pretty sentence, said I-That is the excellency of this lady, that in every line, as she writes on, she improves upon herself. Pray, my Lord, proceed-I know her style; the next sentence will still rise upon us.
Lord M. Damn'd fellow! [again saddling and reading] "But I have been most egregiously mistaken in Mr. Lovelace!" -[They they all clamour'd again.] "The only man, I persuade myself-"
Lovel. Ladies may persuade themselves to any thing- But how can she answer for what other men would or would not have done in the same circumstances?
I was forced to say any-thing to stifle their outcries. Pox take ye all together, thought I; as if I had not vexation enough in losing her!
Lord M. [reading] "The only man, I persuade myself, pretending to be a gentleman, in whom I could have been so much mistaken."
They were all beginning again-Pray, my Lord, proceed! -Hear, hear-Pray, Ladies, hear! -Now, my Lord be pleased to proceed. The Ladies are silent.
So they were; lost in admiration of me, hands and eyes uplifted.
Lord M. I will, to thy confusion; for he had look'd over the next sentence.
What wretches, Belford, what spiteful wretches, are poor mortals! -So rejoiced to sting one another! to see each other stung!
Lord M. [reading] "For while I was endeavouring to save a drowning wretch, I have been, not accidentally, but premeditatedly, and of set purpose, drawn in after him." -What say you to this, Sirr?
Lady S. Ay, Sir, what say you to this?
Lady B. Ay, Sir, what say you to this?
Lovel. Say! Why I say it is a very pretty metaphor, if it would but hold. -But if you please, my Lord, read on. Let me hear what is further said, and I will speak to it all together.
Lord M. I will. -"And he has had the glory to add to the list of those he has ruin'd, a name that, I will be bold to say, would not have disparaged his own."
They all looked at me, as expecting me to speak.
Lovel. Be pleased to proceed, my Lord: I will speak to this by-and-by. How came she to know, I kept a list? -I will speak to this by-and by.
Lord M. [reading on] "And this, Madam, by means, that would shock humanity to be made acquainted with."
Then again, in a hurry, off went the spectacles.
This was a plaguy stroke upon me. I thought myself an oak in impudence; but, by my troth, this had almost felled me.
Lord M. What say you to this, SIR-R!-
Remember, Jack, to read all their Sirs in this dialogue with a double rr, Sirr!-denoting indignation rather than respect.
They all looked at me, as if to see if I could blush.
Lovel. Eyes off, my Lord! -Eyes off, Ladies! [looking bashfully, I believe] -What say I to this, my Lord! -Why, I say, that this lady has a strong manner of expressing herself! -That's all-There are many things that pass among Lovers, which a man cannot explain himself upon before grave people.
Lady Betty. Among Lovers, Sir-r! -But, Mr. Lovelace, can you say, that this lady behaved either like a weak, or a credulous person? -Can you say-
Lovel. I am ready to do the lady all manner of justice. -But, pray now, Ladies, if I am to be thus interrogated, let me know the contents of the rest of the letter, that I may be prepared for my defence, as you are all for my arraignment. For, to be required to answer piecemeal thus, without knowing what is to follow, is a cursed insnaring way of proceeding.
They gave me the letter: I read it thro' to myself: - And by the repetition of what I said, thou wilt guess at the remaining contents.
You shall find, Ladies; you shall find, my Lord, that I will not spare myself. Then holding the letter in my hand, and looking upon it, as a lawyer upon his breviate,
Miss Harlowe says, "That when your Ladyship" [turning to Lady Betty] "shall know, that in the progress to her ruin, wilful falshoods, repeated forgeries, and numberless perjuries, were not the least of my crimes, you will judge that she can have no principles that will make her worthy of an alliance with ladies of yours, and your noble sisters character, if she could not, from her soul, declare, that such an alliance can never now take place."
Surely, Ladies, this is passion! This is not reason. If our family would not think themselves dishonoured by my marrying a person whom I had so treated; but, on the contrary, would rejoice that I did her this justice; and if she has come out pure gold from the assay; and has nothing to reproach herself with; why should it be an impeachment of her principles, to consent, that such an alliance should take place?
She cannot think herself the worse, justly she cannot, for what was done against her will.
Their countenances menaced a general uproar-But I proceeded.
Your Lordship read to us, That she had an hope, a presumptuous one; nay, a punishably presumptuous one, she calls it; "that she might be a means in the hands of Providence, to reclaim me; and that this, she knew, if effected, would give her a merit with you all." But from what would she reclaim me? -She had heard, you'll say (but she had only heard, at the time she held That Hope), that, to express myself in the womens dialect, I was a very wicked fellow: -Well, and what then? -Why, truly, the very moment she was convinced, by her own experience, that the charge against me was more than hearsay; and that, of consequence, I was a fit subject for her generous endeavours to work upon; she would needs give me up. Accordingly, she flies out, and declares, that the ceremony which would repair all, shall never take place! -Can this be from any other motive, than female resentment?
This brought them all upon me, as I intended it should: It was as a tub to the whale; and after I had let them play with it awhile, I claimed their attention, and knowing that they always loved to hear me prate, went on.
The lady, it is plain, thought, that the reclaiming of a man from bad habits, was a much easier task, than, in the nature of things, it can be.
She writes, as your Lordship has read, "That in endeavouring to save a drowning wretch, she had been, not accidentally, but premeditatedly, and of set purpose, drawn in after him." But how is this, Ladies? -You see by her own words, that I am still far from being out of danger myself. Had she found me, in a quagmire suppose, and I had got out of it by her means, and left her to perish in it; that would have been a crime indeed. -But is not the fact quite otherwise? Has she not, if her allegory proves what she would have it prove, got out herself, and left me floundering still deeper and deeper in? -What she should have done, had she been in earnest to save me, was, to join her hand with mine, that so we might by our united strength help one another out. -I held out my hand to her, and besought her to give me hers: -But, no, truly! she was determin'd to get out herself as fast as she could, let me sink or swim: Refusing her assistance (against her own principles), because she saw I wanted it. -You see, Ladies, you see, my Lord, how pretty tinkling words run away with ears inclined to be musical!-
They were all ready to exclaim again: But I went on, proleptically, as a rhetorician would say, before their voices could break out into words.
But my fair accuser says, That, "I have added to the list of those I have ruin'd, a name, that would not have disparaged my own." It is true, I have been gay and enterprising. It is in my constitution to be so. I know not how I came by such a constitution: But I was never accustomed to check or controul; that you all know. When a man finds himself hurry'd by passion into a slight offence, which, however slight, will not be forgiven, he may be made desperate: As a thief, who only intends a robbery, is often by resistance, and for self-preservation, drawn in to commit a murder.
I was a strange, a horrid wretch, with every one. But he must be a silly fellow who has not something to say for himself, when every cause has its black and its white side. -Westminster-hall, Jack, affords every day as confident defences as mine.
But what right, proceeded I, has this lady to complain of me, when she as good as says-Here, Lovelace, you have acted the part of a villain by me-You would repair your fault: But I won't let you, that I may have the satisfaction of exposing you; and the pride of refusing you?
But, was that the case? Was that the case? Would I pretend to say, I would now marry the lady, if she would have me?
Lovel. You find she renounces Lady Betty's mediation-
Lord M. [interrupting me] Words are wind; but deeds are mind: What signifies your cursed quibbling, Bob? -Say plainly, If she will have you, will you have her? Answer me, Yes or No; and lead us not a wild-goose-chace, after your meaning.
Lovel. She knows I would. But here, my Lord, if she thus goes on to expose herself and me, she will make it a dishonour to us both to marry.
Charl. But how must she have been treated-
Lovel. [interrupting her] Why now, cousin Charlotte, chucking her under the chin, would you have me tell you all that has passed between the lady and me? Would You care, had you a bold and enterprising lover, that proclamation should be made of every little piece of amorous roguery, that he offer'd to you?
Charlotte redden'd. They all began to exclaim. But I proceeded.
The lady says, "She has been dishonour'd" (devil take me, if I spare myself!) "by means, that would shock humanity to be made acquainted with them." She is a very innocent lady, and may not be a judge of the means she hints at. Over-niceness may be under-niceness: Have you not such a proverb, my Lord?-tantamount to, One extreme produces another! -Such a lady as This, may possibly think her case more extraordinary than it is. This I will take upon me to say, That if she has met with the only man in the world, who would have treated her, as she says I have treated her, I have met in her, with the only woman in the world, who would have made such a rout about a case that is uncommon only from the circumstances that attend it.
This brought them all upon me, hands, eyes, voices, all lifted up at once. But my Lord M. who has in his head (the last seat of retreating lewdness) as much wickedness as I have in my heart, was forced (upon the air I spoke this with, and Charlotte's and all the rest reddening) to make a mouth that was big enough to swallow up the other half of his face; crying out, to avoid laughing, Oh! Oh!-as if under the power of a gouty twinge.
Hadst thou seen how the two tabbies, and the young grimalkins, looked at one another, at my Lord, and at me, by turns, thou too wouldst have been ready to split thy ugly face just in the middle. Thy mouth has already done half the work. And, after all, I found not seldom in this conversation, that my humorous undaunted way forced a smile into my service from the prim mouths of the younger ladies especially: For the case not being likely to be theirs, they could not be so much affected by it, as the elders; who, having had Roses of their own, would have been very loth to have had them nipt in the bud, without saying, By your leave, Mrs. Rose bush, to the mother of it.
The next article of my indictment was for forgery; and for personating of Lady Betty and my cousin Charlotte. Two shocking charges! thou'lt say: And so they were! - The Peer was outrageous upon the forgery-charge. The Ladies vow'd never to forgive the personating part. Not a peace-maker among them. So we all turn'd women, and scolded.
My Lord told me, That he believed in his conscience there was not a viler fellow upon God's earth, than me. - What signifies mincing the matter, said he? -And that it was not the first time I had forged his hand.
To this I answer'd, that I supposed, When the statute of scandalum magnatum was framed, there were a good many in the peerage, who knew they deserved hard names; and that that Law therefore was rather made to privilege their qualities, than to whiten their characters.
He called upon me to explain myself, with a Sir-r, so pronounced, as to shew, that one of the most ignominious words in our language was in his head.
People, I said, that were fenced in by their quality, and by their years, should not take freedoms, that a man of spirit could not put up with, unless he were able heartily to despise the insulter.
This set him in a violent passion. He would send for Pritchard instantly. Let Pritchard be called. He would alter his will; and all he could leave from me, he would.
Do, do, my Lord, said I: I always valued my own pleasure above your estate. But I'll let Pritchard know, that if he draws, he shall sign and seal.
Why, what would I do to Pritchard? -Shaking his crazy head at me.
Only, what he, or any man else, writes with his pen, to despoil me of what I think my right, he shall seal with his ears; that's all, my Lord.
Then the two Ladies interposed.
Lady Sarah told me, That I carried things a great way; and that neither Lord M. nor any of them, deserved the treatment I gave them.
I said, I could not bear to be used ill by my Lord, for two reasons; first, Because I respected his Lordship above any man living; and next, Because it look'd as if I were induced by selfish considerations, to take that from Him, which nobody else would offer to me.
And what, return'd he, shall be my inducement to take what I do at your hands? -Hay, Sir?
Indeed, cousin Lovelace, said Lady Betty, with great gravity, we do not any of us, as Lady Sarah says, deserve at your hands the treatment you give us: And let me tell you, that I don't think my character, and your cousin Charlotte's, ought to be prostituted, in order to ruin an innocent lady. She must have known early the good opinion we all have of her, and how much we wished her to be your wife. This good opinion of ours has been an inducement to her (you see she says so) to listen to your address. And this, with her friends folly, has helped to throw her into your power. How you have requited her, is too apparent. It becomes the character we all bear, to disclaim your actions by her. And, let me tell you, that to have her abused by wicked people raised up to personate us, or any of us, makes a double call upon us to disclaim them.
Lovel. Why this is talking somewhat like. I would have you all disclaim my actions. I own I have done very vilely by this lady. One step led to another. I am curst with an enterprising spirit. I hate to be foiled.
Foiled! interrupted Lady Sarah. What a shame to talk at this rate! -Did the lady set up a contention with you? All nobly sincere, and plain-hearted, have I heard Miss Clarissa Harlowe is: Above art, above disguise; neither the Coquet, nor the Prude! -Poor lady! She deserved a better fate from the man for whom she took the step which she so freely blames!
This above half affected me-Had this dispute been so handled by every one, I had been ashamed to look up. I began to be bashful.-
Charlotte ask'd, If I did not still seem inclinable to do the lady justice, if she would have me? It would be, she dared to say, the greatest felicity the family could know (She would answer for one), that this fine lady were of it.
They all declared to the same effect; and Lady Sarah put the matter home to me.
But my Lord Marplot would have it, that I could not be serious for six minutes together.
I told his Lordship, that he was mistaken; light as he thought I made of this subject, I never knew any that went so near my heart.
Miss Patty said, She was glad to hear that: Indeed she was glad to hear that: And her soft eyes glistened with pleasure.
Lord M. called her Sweet soul, and was ready to cry.
Not from humanity neither, Jack. This Peer has no bowels; as thou may'st observe by his treatment of me. But when peoples minds are weaken'd by a sense of their own infirmities, and when they are drawing on to their latter ends, they will be moved on the slightest occasions, whether those offer from within, or without them. And this, frequently, the unpenetrating world calls humanity, when all the time, in compassionating the miseries of human nature, they are but pitying themselves; and were they in strong health and spirits, would care as little for any-body else as thou or I do.
Here broke they off my tryal for this Sitting. Lady Sarah was much fatigued. It was agreed to pursue the subject in the morning. They all, however, retired together, and went into private conference.

### v6 LETTER XXXI.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
The Ladies, instead of taking up the subject where we had laid it down, must needs touch upon passages in my fair accuser's letter, which I was in hopes they would have let rest, as we were in a tolerable way. But, truly, they must hear all they could hear, of our story, and what I had to say to those passages, that they might be better enabled to mediate between us, if I were really and indeed inclined to do her the hoped-for justice.
These passages were, 1st, "That after I had trick'd her, against her will, into the act of going off with me, I carried her to one of the worst houses in London."
2, "That I had made a wicked attempt upon her; in resentment of which, she fled to Hamstead, privately.
3dly, Came the forgery, and personating charge again; and we were upon the point of renewing our quarrel, before we could get to the next charge: Which was still worse.
For that, 4thly, was, "That having trick'd her back to the vile house, I had first robbed her of her senses, and then of her honour; detaining her afterwards a prisoner there."
Were I to tell thee the glosses I put upon these heavy charges, what would it be, but to repeat many of the extenuating arguments I have used in my letters to thee? -Suffice it, therefore, to say, that I insisted much, by way of palliation, on the lady's extreme niceness: On her diffidence in my honour: On Miss Howe's contriving spirit; plots on their parts, begetting plots on mine: On the high passions of the sex: I asserted, that my whole view, in gently restraining her, was to oblige her to forgive me, and to marry me; and this, for the honour of both families. I boasted of my own good qualities; some of which none that know me, deny; and which few libertines can lay claim to.
They then fell into warm admirations and praises of the lady; all of them preparatory, as I knew, to the grand question: And thus it was introduced by Lady Sarah.
We have said as much as I think we can say, upon these letters of the poor lady. To dwell upon the mischiefs that may ensue from the abuse of a person of her rank, if all the reparation be not made, that now can be made, would perhaps be to little purpose. But you seem, Sir, still to have a just opinion of her, as well as affection for her. Her virtue is not in the least questionable. She could not resent as she does, had she any thing to reproach herself with. She is, by every-body's account, a fine woman; has a good estate in her own right; is of no contemptible family; tho' I think with regard to her, they have acted as imprudently as unworthily. For the excellency of her mind, for good oeconomy, the common speech of her, as the worthy Dr. Lewin once told me, is, That her prudence would enrich a poor man, and her piety reclaim a licentious one. I, who have not been abroad twice this twelvemonth, came hither purposely, so did Lady Betty, to see if justice may not be done her; and also whether we, and my Lord M. (your nearest relations, Sir) have, or have not, any influence over you. And, for my own part, as your determination shall be in this article, such shall be mine, with regard to the disposition of all that is within my power.
Lady Betty. And mine.
And mine, said my Lord: And valiantly he swore to it.
Lovel. Far be it from me to think slightly of favours you may any of you be glad I would deserve. But as far be it from me to enter into conditions against my own liking, with sordid views! -As to future mischiefs, let them come. I have not done with the Harlowes yet. They were the aggressors; and I should be glad they would let me hear from them, in the way they should hear from me, in the like case. Perhaps, I should not be sorry to be found, rather than be obliged to seek, on this occasion.
Miss Charlotte [reddening]. Spoke like a man of violence, rather than a man of reason! I hope you'll allow that, cousin.
Lady Sarah. Well, but since what is done, is done, and cannot be undone, let us think of the next best. Have you any objection against marrying Miss Harlowe, if she will have you?
Lovel. There can possibly be but one: That she is everywhere, no doubt, as well as to Lady Betty, pursuing that maxim, peculiar to herself (and let me tell you, so it ought to be), That what she cannot conceal from herself, she will publish to all the world.
Miss Patty. The lady, to be sure, writes this in the bitterness of her grief, and in despair.
And this from you, cousin Patty! -Sweet girl! And would you, my dear, in the like case (whispering her), have meant no more by the like exclamations?
I had a rap with her fan, and a blush; and from Lord M. a reflection, That I turn'd into jest every thing they said.
I asked, If they thought the Harlowes deserved any consideration from me; and whether that family would not exult over me, were I to marry their daughter, and if I dared not to do otherwise?
Lady Sarah. Once I was angry with that family, as we all were. But now I pity them; and think, that you have but too well justified the worst treatment they gave you.
Lord M. Their family is of standing. All gentlemen of it, and rich, and reputable. Let me tell you, that many of our coronets would be glad they could derive their descents from no worse a stem than theirs.
Lovel. They are a narrow-soul'd and implacable family. I hate them: And tho' I revere the lady, scorn all relation to them.
Lady Betty. I wish no worse could be said of him, who is such a scorner of common failings in others.
Lord M. How would my sister Lovelace have reproached herself for all her indulgent folly to this favourite boy of hers, had she lived till now, and been present on this occasion!
Lady Sarah. Well but, begging your Lordship's pardon, let us see if any thing can be done for this poor lady.
Miss Ch. If Mr. Lovelace has nothing to object against the lady's character (and I presume to think he is not asham'd to do her justice, tho' it may make against himself), I cannot see, but honour, and generosity, will compel from him all that we expect. If there be any levities, any weaknesses, to be charg'd upon the lady, I should not open my lips in her favour; tho' in private I would pity her, and deplore her hard hap. And yet, even then, there might not want arguments, from honour and gratitude, in so particular a case, to engage you, Sir, to make good the vows it is plain you have broken.
Lady Betty. My niece Charlotte has called upon you so justly, and has put the question to you so properly, that I cannot but wish you would speak to it directly, and without evasion.
All in a breath then bespoke my seriousness, and my justice: And in this manner I deliver'd myself, assuming an air sincerely solemn.
"I am very sensible, that the performance of the task you have put me upon, will leave me without excuse: But I will not have recourse either to evasion, or palliation.
"As my cousin Charlotte has severely observ'd, I am not asham'd to do justice to Miss Harlowe's merit in words, altho' I will confess, that I ought to blush that I have done it so little in deeds.
"I own to you all, and, what is more, with high regret (if not with shame, cousin Charlotte), that I have a great deal to answer for in my usage of this lady. The Sex has not a nobler mind, nor a lovelier person of it. And, for virtue, I could not have believed (excuse me, Ladies) that there ever was a woman who gave, or could have given, such illustrious, such uniform proofs of it: For, in her whole conduct, she has shewn herself to be equally above temptation and art; and, I had almost said, human frailty.
"The step she so freely blames herself for taking, was truly what she calls compulsatory: For tho' she was provoked to think of going off with me, she intended it not, nor was provided to do so: Neither would she ever have had the thought of it, had her relations left her free, upon her offer'd composition, to renounce the man she did not hate, in order to avoid the man she did.
"It piqu'd my pride, I own, that I could so little depend upon the force of those impressions, which I had the vanity to hope I had made in a heart so delicate; and in my worst devices against her, I encouraged myself, that I abused no confidence; for none had she in my honour.
"The evils she has suffer'd, it would have been more than a miracle had she avoided. Her watchfulness render'd more plots abortive, than those which contributed to her fall; and they were many and various. And all her greater trials and hardships were owing to her noble resistance and just resentment.
"I know, proceeded I, how much I condemn myself in the justice I am doing to this excellent creature. But yet I will do her justice, and cannot help it if I would. And I hope this shews, that I am not so totally abandon'd, as I have been thought to be.
"Indeed with me, she has done more honour to the Sex in her fall, if it be to be called a fall (In truth it ought not), than ever any other could do in her standing.
"When, at length, I had given her watchful virtue cause of suspicion, I was then indeed obliged to make use of power and art to hinder her from escaping from me. She then formed contrivances to elude mine; but all hers were such as strict truth and punctilious honour would justify. She could not stoop to deceit and falshood, no, not to save herself. More than once, justly did she tell me, fired by conscious worthiness, that her soul was my soul's superior! -Forgive me, Ladies, for saying, that till I knew her, I question'd a Soul in a Sex, created, as I was willing to suppose, only for temporary purposes. -It is not to be imagin'd into what absurdities men of free principles run, in order to justify to themselves their free practices; and to make a religion to their minds: And yet, in this respect, I have not been so faulty as some others.
"No wonder that such a noble creature as this looked upon every studied artifice, as a degree of baseness, not to be forgiven: No wonder that she could so easily become averse to the man (tho' once she beheld him with an eye not wholly indifferent) whom she thought capable of premeditated guilt. -Nor, give me leave, on the other hand, to say, is it to be wonder'd at, that the man who found it so difficult to be forgiven, for the slighter offences, and who had not the grace to recede or repent (made desperate), should be hurried on to the commission of the greater.
"In short, Ladies, in a word, my Lord, Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an angel; if ever there was or could be one in human nature: And is, and ever was, as pure as an angel in her will: And this justice I must do her, altho' the question, I see by every glistening eye, is ready to be asked, What, then, Lovelace, are you?-"
Lord M. A devil! -A damn'd devil! I must answer. And may the curse of God follow you in all you undertake, if you do not make her the best amends now in your power to make her!
Lovel. From you, my Lord, I could expect no other: But from the Ladies, I hope for less violence from the ingenuity of my confession.
The Ladies, elder and younger, had their handkerchiefs to their eyes, at the just testimony which I bore to the merits of this exalted creature; and which I would make no scruple to bear at the Bar of a Court of Justice, were I to be called to it.
Lady Betty. Well, Sir, this is a noble character. If you think as you speak, surely you cannot refuse to do the lady all the justice now in your power to do her.
They all joined in this demand.
I pleaded, that I was sure she would not have me: That, when she had taken a resolution, she was not to be moved: Unpersuadableness was an Harlowe sin: That, and her name, I told them, were all she had of theirs.
All were of opinion, that she might, in her present desolate circumstances, be brought to forgive me. Lady Sarah said, that her sister and she would endeavour to find out the Noble Sufferer, as they justly called her; and would take her into their protection, and be guaranties to her of the justice that I would do her; as well after marriage, as before.
It was some pleasure to me, to observe the placability of these ladies of my own family, had they, any or either of them, met with a Lovelace. But 'twould be hard upon us honest fellows, Jack, if all women were Clarissa's.
Here I am obliged to break off.

### v6 LETTER XXXII.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
It is much better, Jack, to tell your own story, when it must be known, than to have an adversary tell it for you. Conscious of this, I gave them a particular account, how urgent I had been with her to fix upon the Thursday after I left her (it being her uncle Harlowe's anniversary birth-day, and named to oblige her) for the private celebration; having some days before actually procured a Licence, which still remained with her.
That, not being able to prevail upon her to promise any thing, while under a supposed restraint; I offered to leave her at full liberty, if she would give me the least hope for that day. But neither did this offer avail me.
That this inflexibleness making me desperate, I resolved to add to my former fault, by giving directions, that she should not either go, or correspond, out of the house, till I returned from M. Hall; well knowing, that, if she were at full liberty, I must for ever lose her.
That this constraint had so much incensed her, that altho' I wrote no less than four different letters, I could not procure a single word in answer; tho' I pressed her but for four words to signify the day and the church.
I referred to my two cousins to vouch for me the extraordinary methods I took to send messengers to town, tho' they knew not the occasion: Which now I told them, was this.
I acquainted them, that I even had wrote to you, Jack, and to another gentleman, of whom I thought she had a good opinion, to attend her, in order to press for her compliance; holding myself in readiness the last day, at Salt-hill, to meet the messenger they should send, and proceed to London, if his message were favourable: But that, before they could attend her, she had found means to fly away once more: And is now, said I, perch'd perhaps, somewhere under Lady Betty's window at Glenham Hall; and there, like the sweet Philomela, a thorn in her breast, warbles forth her melancholy complaints against her barbarous Tereus.
Lady Betty declared, That she was not with her; nor did she know where she was. She should be, she added, the most welcome guest to her, that she ever received.
In truth, I had a suspicion, that she was already in their knowlege, and taken into their protection; for Lady Sarah I imagin'd incapable of being roused to this spirit by a letter only from Miss Harlowe, and that not directed to herself; she being a very indolent and melancholy woman. But her sister, I find, had wrought her up to it: For Lady Betty is as officious and managing a woman as Mrs. Howe; but of a much more generous and noble disposition. -She is my aunt, Jack.
I supposed, I said, that her Ladyship might have a private direction where to send to her. I spoke, as I wish'd: I would have given the world, to have heard, that she was inclined to cultivate the interest of any of my family.
Lady Betty answer'd, that she had no direction but what was in the letter; which she had scratched out, and which, it was probable, was only a temporary one, in order to avoid me: Otherwise she would hardly have directed an answer to be left at an inn. And she was of opinion, that to apply to Miss Howe would be the only certain way to succeed in any application for forgiveness, would I enable that young lady to interest herself in procuring it.
Miss Charlotte. Permit me to make a proposal. -Since we are all of one mind in relation to the justice due to Miss Harlowe, if Mr. Lovelace will oblige himself to marry her, I will make Miss Howe a visit, little as I am acquainted with her; and endeavour to engage her interest to forward the desired reconciliation. And if this can be done, I make no question but all may be happily accommodated; for every-body knows the love there is between Miss Harlowe and Miss Howe.
MARRIAGE, with these women, thou seest, Jack, is an atonement for all we can do to them. A true dramatic recompence!
This motion was highly approved of; and I gave my honour, as desired, in the fullest manner they could wish.
Lady Sarah. Well then, cousin Charlotte, begin your treaty with Miss Howe, out of hand.
Lady Betty. Pray do. And let Miss Harlowe be told, that I am ready to receive her, as the welcomest of guests: And I will not have her out of my sight till the knot is tied.
Lady Sarah. Tell her from me, That she shall be my daughter! -Instead of my poor Betsey! -And shed a tear in remembrance of her lost daughter.
Lord M. What say you, Sir, to this?
Lovel. Content, my Lord. I speak in the language of your house.
Lord M. We are not to be fooled, nephew. No quibbling. We will have no slur put upon us.
Lovel. You shall not. And yet, I did not intend to marry, if she exceeded the appointed Thursday. But, I think, according to her own notions, that I have injured her beyond reparation, altho' I were to make her the best of husbands; as I am resolved to be, if she will condescend, as I will call it, to have me. And be This cousin Charlotte, my part of your commission to say.
This pleased them all.
Lord M. Give thy hand, Bob! -Thou talkest like a man of honour at last. I hope we may depend upon what thou sayest?
The Ladies eyes put the same question to me.
Lovel. You may, my Lord. You may, Ladies. Absolutely you may.
Then was the personal character of the lady, as well as her more extraordinary talents and endowments, again expatiated upon: And Miss Patty, who had once seen her, launched out more than all the rest in her praise. These were followed by Family-cogencies; what never are forgotten to be inquired after in marriage-treaties, the principal inducements to the Sages of a family, and the least to be mentioned by the Parties themselves, altho' even by them, perhaps, the first thought of: That is to say, inquisition into the lady's fortune; into the particulars of the grandfather's estate; and what her father, and her single-soul'd uncles, will probably do for her, if a reconciliation be effected; as, by their means, they make no doubt but it will, between both families, if it be not my fault. The two Venerables [No longer Tabbies with me now] hinted at rich presents on their own parts; and my Lord declared, that he would make such overtures in my behalf, as should render my marriage with Miss Harlowe the best day's work I ever made; and what, he doubted not, but would be as agreeable to that family, as to myself.
Thus, at present, by a single hair, hangs over my head the matrimonial sword. And thus ended my tryal. And thus are we all friends; and Cousin and Cousin, and Nephew and Nephew, at every word.
Did ever Comedy end more happily, than this long tryal?

### v6 LETTER XXXIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wedn. July 12.
So, Jack, they think they have gain'd a mighty point. But, were I to change my mind, were I to repent, I fancy I am safe. -And yet this very moment it rises to my mind, that 'tis hard trusting too; for surely there must be some embers, where there was fire so lately, that may be stirr'd up to give a blaze to combustibles strew'd lightly upon them. Love (like some self-propagating plants or roots, which have taken strong hold in the earth), when once got deep into the heart, is hardly ever totally extirpated, except by Matrimony indeed, which is the Grave of Love, because it allows of the End of Love. Then these ladies, all advocates for herself, with herself, Miss Howe at their head, perhaps-Not in favour to me-I don't expect That from Miss Howe. -But perhaps in favour to herself: For Miss Howe has reason to apprehend vengeance from me, I ween. Her Hickman will be safe too, as she may think, if I marry her beloved friend: For he has been a busy fellow, and I have long wish'd to have a slap at him! -The lady's case desperate with her friends too; and likely to be so, while single, and her character exposed to censure.
A husband is a charming cloak; a fig-leaf'd apron for a wife: And for a lady to be protected in liberties, in diversions, which her heart pants after-and all her faults, even the most criminal, were she to be detected, to be thrown upon the husband, and the ridicule too; a charming eligible for a wife!
But I shall have one comfort, if I marry, which pleases me not a little. If a man's wife has a dear friend of her sex, a hundred liberties may be taken with that friend, which could not be taken, if the single lady (knowing what a title to freedoms marriage has given him with her friend) was not less scrupulous with him than she ought to be, as to herself. Then there are broad freedoms (shall I call them?) that may be taken by the husband with his wife, that may not be quite shocking, which if the wife bears before her friend, will serve for a lesson to that friend; and if that friend bears to be present at them without check or bashfulness, will shew a sagacious fellow, that she can bear as much herself, at proper time and place. Chastity, Jack, like Piety, is an uniform thing. If in look, if in speech, a girl waves way to undue levity, depend upon it, the devil has got one of his cloven feet in her heart already- So, Hickman, take care of thyself, I advise thee, whether I marry or not.
Thus, Jack, have I at once reconciled myself to all my relations-And, if the lady refuses me, thrown the fault upon her. This, I knew, would be in my power to do at any time: And I was the more arrogant to them, in order to heighten the merit of my compliance.
But after all, It would be very whimsical, would it not, if all my plots and contrivances should end in wedlock? What a punishment would this come out to be, upon myself too, that all this while I have been plundering my own treasury?
But, Jack, two things I must insist upon with thee, if this is to be the case. -Having put secrets of so high a nature between me and my spouse into thy power, I must, for my own honour and the honour of my wife and my illustrious progeny, first oblige thee to give up the letters I have so profusely scribbled to thee; and, in the next place, do by thee, as I have heard whisper'd in France was done by the true father of a certain monarque; that is to say, cut thy throat, to prevent thy telling of tales.
I have found means to heighten the kind opinion my friends here have begun to have of me, by communicating to them the contents of the four last letters which I wrote to press my elected spouse to solemnize. My Lord has repeated one of his phrases in my favour, that he hopes it will come out, That the devil is not quite so black as he is painted.
Now pr'ythee, dear Jack, since so many good consequences are to flow from these our nuptials (one of which to thyself; since the sooner thou diest, the less thou wilt have to answer for); and that I now-and-then am apt to believe there may be something in the old fellow's notion, who once told us, that he who kills a man, has all that man's sins to answer for, as well as his own, because he gave him not the time to repent of them, that Heaven design'd to allow him (A fine thing for thee if thou consentest to be knock'd of the head; but a cursed one for the manslayer!); and since there may be room to fear, that Miss Howe will not give us her help; I pr'ythee now exert thyself to find out my Clarissa Harlowe, that I may make a Lovelace of her. Set all the city bellmen, and the country criers, for ten miles round the metropolis, at work, with their "O yes's! and if any man, woman or child can give tale or tidings" -Advertise her in all the news-papers; and let her know, "That if she will repair to Lady Betty Lawrence, or to Miss Charlotte Montague, she may hear of something greatly to her advantage."
My two cousins Montague are actually to set out tomorrow, to Mrs. Howe's, to engage her vixen daughter's interest with her friend: To flaunt it away in a chariot and six, for the greater state and significance.
Confounded mortification to be reduced thus low! - My pride hardly knows how to brook it.
Lord M. has engaged the two venerables to stay here, to attend the issue: And I, standing very high at present in their good graces, am to gallant them to Oxford, to Blenheim, and several other places.

### v6 LETTER XXXIV.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Thursday night, July 13.
Collins sets not out to-morrow. Some domestic occasion hinders him. Rogers is but now return'd from you, and cannot well be spared. Mr. Hickman is gone upon an affair of my mother's, and has taken both his servants with him, to do credit to his employer: So I am forced to venture this by the post, directed by your assumed name.
I am to acquaint you, that I have been favoured with a visit from Miss Montague and her sister, in Lord M.'s chariot and six. My Lord's gentleman rode here yesterday, with a request that I would receive a visit from the two young ladies, on a very particular occasion; the greater favour, if it might be the next day.
As I had so little personal knowledge of either, I doubted not but it must be in relation to the interests of my dear friend; and so consulting with my mother, I sent them an invitation to favour me (because of the distance) with their company at dinner; which they kindly accepted.
I hope, my dear, since things have been so very bad, that their errand to me will be as agreeable to you, as any thing that can now happen. They came in the name of Lord M. and his two Sisters, to desire my interest to engage you to put yourself into the protection of Lady Betty Lawrence; who will not part with you, till she sees all the justice done you, that now can be done.
Lady Sarah Sadleir had not stirr'd out for a twelve-month month before, never since she lost her agreeable daughter, whom you and I saw at Mrs. Benson's: But was induced to take this journey by her sister, purely to procure you reparation, if possible. And their joint strength, united with Lord M.'s, has so far succeeded, that the wretch has bound himself to them, and to these young ladies, in the solemnest manner, to wed you in their presence, if they can prevail upon you to give him your hand.
This consolation you may take to yourself, that all this honourable family have a due, that is, the highest sense of your merit, and greatly admire you. The horrid creature has not spared himself in doing justice to your virtue; and the young ladies gave us such an account of his confessions, and self-condemnation, that my mother was quite charmed with you; and we all four shed tears of joy, that there is one of our sex (I, that that one is my dearest friend), who has done so much honour to it, as to deserve the self-convicted praises he gave you; tho' pity for the excellent creature mixed with the sensibility.
He promises by them to make the best of husbands; and my Lord, and his two sisters, are both to be guarantees that he will be so. Noble settlements, noble presents, they talked of: They say, they left Lord M. and his two sisters talking of nothing else but of those presents and settlements, how most to do you honour, the greater in proportion for the indignities you have suffered; and of changing of names by act of parliament, preparative to the interest they will all join to make, to get the titles to go where the bulk of the estate must go, at my Lord's death, which they apprehend to be nearer than they wish. Nor doubt they of a thorough reformation in his morals, from your example, and influence over him.
I made a great many objections for you-All, I believe, that you could have made yourself, had you been present. But I have no doubt to advise you, my dear (and so does my mother), instantly, to put yourself into Lady Betty's protection, with a resolution to take the wretch for your husband: All his future grandeur (he wants not pride) depends upon his sincerity to you; and the young ladies vouch for the depth of his concern for the wrongs he has done you.
All his apprehension is, in your readiness to communicate to every one, as he fears, the evils you have suffer'd; which he thinks will expose you both. But had you not revealed them to Lady Betty, you had not had so warm a friend; since it is owing to two letters you wrote to her, that all this good, as I hope it will prove, was brought about. But I advise you to be more sparing in exposing what is past, whether you have thoughts of accepting him, or not: For what, my dear, can that avail now, but to give a handle to vile wretches to triumph over your friends; since every one will not know how much to your honour your very sufferings have been?
Your melancholy letter brought by Rogers, with his account of your indifferent health, confirmed to Rogers by the woman of the house, as well as by your looks, and by your faintness while you talk'd with him, would have given me inexpressible affliction, had I not been chear'd by this agreeable visit from the young ladies. I hope you will be equally so, on my imparting the subject of it to you.
Indeed, my dear, you must not hesitate: You must oblige them: The alliance is splendid and honourable. Very few will know any thing of his brutal baseness to you. All must end, in a little while, in a general reconciliation; and you will be able to resume your course of doing the good to every deserving object, which procured you blessings were-ever you set your foot.
I am concern'd to find, that your father's rash wish affects you so much as it does. Upon my word, my dear, your mind is weaken'd grievously. You must not, indeed you must not, desert yourself. The penitence you talk of-It is for them to be penitent who hurried you into evils you could not well avoid. You judge by the unhappy event, rather than upon the true merits of your case. Upon my honour, I think you faultless in almost every step you have taken. What has not that vilely insolent and ambitious, yet stupid, brother of yours to answer for? -That spiteful thing your sister too!-
But come, since what is past cannot be help'd, let us look forward. You have now happy prospects opening to you: A family, already noble, ready to receive and embrace you with open arms and joyful hearts; and who, by their love to you, will teach another family (who know not what an excellence they have confederated to persecute) how to value you. Your prudence, your piety, will crown all: It will reclaim a wretch, that for an hundred sakes more than for his own, one would wish to be reclaimed.
Like a traveller, who has been put out of his way by the overflowing of some rapid stream, you have only had the fore-right path you were in overwhelmed. A few miles about, a day or two only lost, as I may say, and you are in a way to recover it; and, by quickening your speed, will get up the lost time. The hurry upon your spirits, mean time, will be all your inconvenience; for it was not your fault you were stopt in your progress.
Think of this, my dear; and improve upon the allegory, as you know how. If you can, without impeding your progress, be the means of assuaging the inundation; of bounding the waters within their natural channel, and thereby of recovering the overwhelmed path for the sake of future passengers who travel the same way, what a merit will yours be!-
I shall impatiently expect your next letter. The young ladies proposed, that you should put yourself, if in town, or near it, into the Reading stage-coach, which inns somewhere in Fleet-street: And if you give notice of the day, you will be met on the road, and that pretty early in your journey, by some of both sexes; one of whom you won't be sorry to see.
Mr. Hickman shall attend you at Slough; and Lady Betty herself, and one of the Misses Montague, with proper equipages, will be at Reading to receive you; and carry you directly to the seat of the former: For I have expresly stipulated, that the wretch himself shall not come into your presence till your nuptials are to be solemnized, unless you give leave.
Adieu, my dearest friend: Be happy: And hundreds will then be happy of consequence. Inexpressibly so, I am sure, will then be
Your ever-affectionate,
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER XXXV.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Sunday night, July 16.
My dearest friend,
Why would you permit a mind so much devoted to your service, to labour under such an impatience as you must know it would labour under, for want of an answer to a letter of such consequence to you, and therefore to me? -Rogers told me last Thursday, you were so ill: Your letter sent by him was so melancholy! -Yet you must be ill indeed if you could not write something to such a letter; were it but a line, to say you would write as soon as you could. Sure you have received it. The master of our nearest post-office will pawn his reputation that it went safe: I gave him particular charge of it.
God send me good news of your health, of your ability to write; and then I will chide you-Indeed I will-as I never yet did chide you.
I suppose your excuse will be, that the subject required consideration on-Lord! my dear, so it might: But you have so right a mind, and the matter in question is so obvious, that you could not want half an hour to determine- Then you intended, probably, to wait Collin's call for your letter as on to-morrow! -Suppose-Miss!-(indeed I am angry with you! suppose) something were to happen, as it did on Friday, that he should not be able to go to down to-morrow? -How, child, could you serve me so? -I know not how to leave off scolding you!
Dear, honest Collins, make haste: He will: He will. He sets out, and travels all night: For I have told him, that the dearest friend I have in the world has it in her own choice to be happy, and to make me so; and that the letter he will bring from her, will assure it to me.
I have order'd him to go directly (without stopping at the Saracen's head inn) to you at your lodgings. Matters are now in so good a way, that he safely may.
Your expected letter is ready written, I hope: If it be not, he will call for it at your hour.
You can't be so happy as you deserve to be: But I doubt not that you will be as happy as you can; that is, that you will choose to put yourself instantly into Lady Betty's protection. If you would not have him for your own sake; have him you must, for mine, for your family's, for your honour's sake! -Dear, honest Collins, make haste! make haste! and relieve the impatient heart of my Beloved's
Ever-faithful, ever-affectionate,
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER XXXVI.

Miss Howe, To Miss Charlotte Montague.
Tuesday Morning, July 18.
Madam,
I take the liberty to write to you, by this special messenger: In the phrensy of my soul I write to you, to demand of you, and of any of your family who can tell, news of my beloved friend; who, I doubt, has been spirited away by the base arts of one of the blackest-O help me to a name bad enough to call him by! -Her piety is proof against self-attempts: It must, it must be Him, the only Him, who could injure such an innocent; and now- who knows what he has done with her!
If I have patience, I will give you the occasion of this distracted vehemence.
I wrote to her the very moment you and your sister left me. But being unable to procure a special messenger, as I intended, was forced to send by the post. I urged her (you know, I promised, that I would), I urged her with earnestness, to comply with the desires of all your family. Having no answer, I wrote again on Sunday night; and sent it by a particular hand, who travelled all night; chiding her for keeping a heart so impatient as mine in such cruel suspense, upon a matter of so much importance to her; and therefore to me. And very angry I was with her in my mind.
But, judge my astonishment, my distraction, when last night, the messenger, returning post-haste, brought me word, that she had not been heard of since Friday morning! And that a letter lay for her at her lodgings, which came by the post; and must be mine.
She went out about six that morning; only intending, as they believe, to go to morning prayers at Covent-garden church, just by her lodgings, as she had done divers times before: Went on foot! -Left word she should be back in an hour-Very poorly in health!
Lord, have mercy upon me! What shall I do! -I was a distracted creature all last night!
O Madam! You know not how I love her! -She was my earthly saviour, as I may say! -My own soul is not dearer to me, than my Clarissa Harlowe! -Nay, she is my soul! -For I now have none! -Only a miserable one, however! -For she was the joy, the stay, the prop of my life! Never woman loved woman as we love one another! It is impossible to tell you half her excellencies. It was my glory and my pride, that I was capable of so fervent a love of so pure and matchless a creature! -But now! - Who knows, whether the dear injured has not all her woes, her undeserved woes! completed in death; or is not reserved for a worse fate! -This I leave to your inquiry -For-your-(shall I call the man-your) relation, I understand, is still with you.
Surely, my good Ladies, you were well authorized in the proposals you made me in presence of my mother! Surely he dare not abuse your confidence, and the confidence of your noble relations. I make no apology for giving you this trouble, nor for desiring you to favour with a line by this messenger
Your almost distracted
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER XXXVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
M. Hall, Sat. night, July 15.
All undone, undone, by Jupiter! -Zounds, Jack, what shall I do now! A curse upon all my plots and contrivances! -But I have it! -In the very heart and soul of me. I have it!
Thou toldest me, that my punishments were but beginning! -Canst thou, O fatal prognosticator! canst thou tell me, where they will end?
Thy assistance I bespeak: The moment thou receivest this, I bespeak thy assistance. This messenger rides for life and death! -And I hope he'll find you at your town-lodgings; if he meet not with you at Edgware; where, being Sunday, he will call first.
This cursed, cursed woman, on Friday dispatched man and horse with the joyful news, as she thought it would be to me, in an exulting letter from Sally Martin, that she had found out my angel as on Wednesday last; and on Friday morning, after she had been at prayers at Covent-garden church-praying for my reformation, perhaps!- got her arrested by two sheriffs officers, as she was returning to her lodgings, who put her into a chair they had in readiness, and carried her to one of the cursed fellows houses.
She has arrested her for 150l. pretendedly due for board and lodgings: A sum, besides the low villainy of the proceeding, which the dear soul could not possibly raise; all her cloaths and effects, except what she had on, and with her, when she went away, being at the old devil's!
And here, for an aggravation, has the dear creature lain already two days; for I must be gallanting my two aunts and my two cousins, and giving Lord M. an airing after his lying-in: Pox upon the whole family of us! - And returned not till within this hour: And now returned to my distraction, on receiving the cursed tidings, and the exulting letter.
Hasten, hasten, dear Jack; for the love of God, hasten to the injured charmer! My heart bleeds for her! -She deserved not This! -I dare not stir! It will be thought done by my contrivance: -And if I am absent from this place, that will confirm the suspicion.
Damnation seize quick this accursed woman! -Yet she thinks she has made no small merit with me! -Unhappy, thrice unhappy circumstance! -At a time too, when better prospects were opening for the sweet creature!
Hasten to her! -Clear me of this cursed job. Most sincerely, by all that's sacred, I swear you may! -Yet have I been such a villainous plotter, that the charming sufferer will hardly believe it; altho' the proceeding be so dirtily low!
Set her free, the moment you see her: Without conditioning, free! -On your knees, for me, beg her pardon: And assure her, that, where-ever she goes, I will not molest her: No, nor come near her without her leave: And be sure allow not any of the damned crew to go near her- Only, let her permit you to receive her commands from time to time: You have always been her friend and advocate. What would I now give, had I permitted you to have been a successful one!
Let her have all her cloaths and effects sent her instantly, as a small proof of my sincerity. And force upon the dear creature, who must be moneyless, what sums you can get her to take. Let me know, how she has been treated: If roughly, woe be to the guilty!
Take thy watch in thy hand, after thou hast freed her, and damn the whole brood, dragon and serpents, by the hour, till thou'rt tired; and tell them, I bid thee do so, for their cursed officiousness.
They had nothing to do, when they had found her, but to wait my orders how to proceed.
The great devil fly away with them all, one by one, thro' the roof of their own cursed house, and dash them to pieces against the tops of chimneys, as he flies; and let the lesser devils collect their scattered scraps, and bag them up, in order to put them together again in their allotted place, in the element of fire, with cements of molten lead.
A line! A line! A kingdom for a line! with tolerable news, the first moment thou canst write! -This fellow waits to bring it?

### v6 LETTER XXXVIII.

Miss Charlotte Montague, To Miss Howe.
M. Hall, Tuesday afternoon.
Dear Miss Howe,
Your letter has infinitely disturbed us all.
This wretched man has been half distracted ever since Saturday night.
We knew not what ailed him, till your letter was brought.
Vile wretch as, he is, he is however innocent of this new evil.
Indeed he is, he must be; as I shall more at large acquaint you.
But will not now detain your messenger.
Only to satisfy your just impatience; by telling you, that the dear young lady is safe, and we hope, well.
A horrid mistake of his general orders has subjected her to the terror and disgrace of an arrest.
Poor dear Miss Harlowe! her sufferings have endeared her to us, almost as much as her excellencies can have done to you.
But she must be now quite at liberty.
He has been a distracted man, ever since the news was brought him; and we knew not what ailed him.
But that I said before.
My Lord M. my Lady Sarah, Sadlier, and my Lady Betty Lawrence, will all to write to you this very afternoon.
And so will the wretch himself.
And send it by a servant of their own, not to detain yours.
I know not what I write.
But you shall have all the particulars, just, and true and fair, from,
Dear Madam,
Your most faithful and obedient Servant,
Ch. Montague.

### v6 LETTER XXXIX.

Miss Montague, To Miss Howe.
M. Hall, July 18.
Dear Madam,
In pursuance of my promise, I will minutely inform you of every-thing we know, relating to this shocking transaction.
When we returned from you on Thursday night, and made our report of the kind reception both we and our message met with, in that you had been so good as to promise to use your interest with your dear friend; it put us all into such good humour with one another, and with my cousin Lovelace, that we resolved upon a little tour of two days, the Friday and Saturday, in order to give an airing to my Lord, and Lady Sarah; both having been long confined, one by illness, the other by melancholy. My Lord, his two sisters, and myself, were in the coach; and all our talk was of dear Miss Harlowe, and of our future happiness with her. Mr. Lovelace, and my sister, who is his favourite, as he is hers, were in his Phaeton: And whenever we joined company, that was still the subject.
As to him, never man praised a lady, as he did her: Never man gave greater hopes, and made better resolutions. He is none of those that are governed by interest. He is too proud for that. But most sincerely delighted was he in talking of her; and of his hopes of her returning favour. He said, however, more than once, that he feared she would not forgive him; for, from his heart, he must say, he deserved not her forgiveness: And often, and often, that there was not such a woman in the world.
This I mention to shew you, Madam, that he could not at this very time be privy to such a barbarous and disgraceful treatment.
We returned not till Saturday night, all in as good humour with one another, as we went out. We never had such pleasure in his company before: If he would be good, and as he ought to be, no man would be better beloved by relations than he. But never was there a greater alteration in man when he came home, and received a letter from a messenger, who, it seems, had been flattering himself in hopes of a reward, and had been waiting for his return from the night before. In such a fury! - The man fared but badly. He instantly shut himself up to write, and ordered man and horse to be ready to set out before day-light the next morning, to carry the letter to a friend in London.
He would not see us all that night; neither breakfast nor dine with us next day. He ought, he said, never to see the light; and bid my sister, whom he called an Innocent (and she being very desirous to know the occasion of all this), shun him; saying, He was a wretch, and made so by his own inventions, and the consequences of them.
None of us could get out of him what so disturbed him. We should too soon hear, he said, to the utter dissipation of all his hopes, and all ours.
We could easily suppose, that all was not right with regard to the worthy young lady.
He was out each day; and said, he wanted to run away from himself.
Late on Monday night he received a letter from Mr. Belford, his most favoured friend, by his own messenger; who came back in a foam, man and horse. Whatever were the contents, he was not easier, but like a madman rather: But still would not let us know the occasion. But to my sister, he said, Nobody, my dear Patsey, who can think but of half the plagues that pursue an intriguing spirit, would ever quit the right path.
He was out, when your messenger came: But soon came in; and bad enough was his reception from us all. And he said, that his own torments were greater than ours, than Miss Harlowe's, or yours, Madam, all put together. He would see your letter. He always carries every-thing before him: And said, when he had read it, that He thanked God, he was not such a villain, as you, with too much reason, thought him.
Thus then he owned the matter to be:
He had left general directions to the people of the lodgings the dear lady went from, to find out where she was gone to, if possible, that he might have an opportunity to importune her to be his, before their difference was public. The wicked people, officious at least, if not wicked, discovered where she was on Wednesday; and, for fear she should remove before they could have his orders, they put her under a gentle restraint, as they call it; and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint him with it; and to take his orders.
This messenger arrived here on Friday afternoon; and tarried till we returned on Saturday night: -And when he read the letter he brought-I have told you, Madam, what a fury he was in.
The letter he retired to write, and which he dispatched away so early on Sunday morning, was to conjure his friend Mr. Belford, on receipt of it, to fly to the lady, and set her free; and to order all her things to be sent her; and to clear him of so black and villainous a fact, as he justly called it.
And by this time, he doubts not that all is happily over; and the Beloved of his soul (as he calls her at every word) in an easier and happier way than she was before the horrid fact. And now he owns, that the reason why Mr. Belford's letter set him into stronger ravings, was, because of his keeping him wilfully, and on purpose to torment him, in suspense; and reflecting very heavily upon him (for Mr. Belford, he says, was ever the lady's friend and advocate), and only mentioning, that he had waited upon her; referring to his next for further particulars; which he could have told him at the time.
He declares, and we can vouch for him, that he has been, ever since last Saturday night, the miserablest of men.
He forbore going up himself, that it might not be imagined he was guilty of so black a contrivance; and went up to complete any base views in consequence of it.
Believe us all, dear Miss Howe, under the deepest concern at this unhappy accident; which will, we fear, exasperate the charming sufferer; not too much for the occasion, but too much for our hopes.
O what wretches are these free-living men, who love to tread in intricate paths; and, when once they err, know not how far out of the way their headstrong course may lead them!
My sister joins her thanks with mine to your good mother and self, for the favours you heaped upon us last Thursday. We beseech your continued interest as to the subject of our visit. It shall be all our studies to oblige, and recompense, the dear lady, to the utmost of our power, for what she has suffered from the unhappy man.
We are, dear Madam,
Your obliged and faithful Servants,
Charlotte Martha} Montague,
Dear Miss Howe,
We join in the above request of Miss Charlotte and Miss Patty Montague, for your favour and interest; being convinced, that the accident was an accident; and no plot or contrivance of a wretch too full of them. We are, Madam,
Your most obedient humble Servants,
M.
Sarah Sadleir.
Eliz. Lawrance.
Dear Miss Howe,
After what is written above, by names and characters of such unquestionable honour, I might have been excused signing a name almost as hateful to myself, as I KNOW it is to you. But the above will have it so. Since therefore I must write, it shall be the truth; which is, That, if I may be once more admitted to pay my duty to the most deserving and most injured of her sex, I will be content to do it with a halter about my neck; and attended by a parson on my right-hand, and the hangman on my left, be doomed, at her will, either to the church or the gallows.
Your most humble Servant,
Robt. Lovelace.
Tuesday,
July 18.

### v6 LETTER XL.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
What a cursed piece of work hast thou made of it, with the most excellent of women! Thou mayest be in earnest, or in jest, as thou wilt; but the poor lady will not be long either thy sport, or the sport of fortune!
I will give thee an account of a scene that wants but her affecting pen to represent it justly; and it would wring all the black blood out of thy callous heart.
Thou only, who art the author of her calamities, shouldst have attended her in her prison. I am unequal to such a task: Nor know I any other man but would.
This last act, however unintended by thee, yet a consequence of thy general orders, and too likely to be thought agreeable to thee, by those who know thy other villainies by her, has finished thy barbarous work. And I advise thee to trumpet forth every-where, how much in earnest thou art to marry her, whether thou art or not.
Thou mayest safely do it. She will not live to put thee to the trial; and it will a little palliate for thy enormous usage of her, and be a means to make mankind, who know not what I know of the matter, herd a little longer with thee, and forbear to hunt thee to thy fellow-savages in the Libyan wilds and deserts.
Your messenger found me at Edgware, expecting to dinner with me several friends, whom I had invited three days before. I sent apologies to them, as in a case of life and death; and speeded to town to the wicked woman's: For how knew I but shocking attempts might be made upon her by the cursed wretches; perhaps by thy contrivance, in order to mortify her into thy measures?
Little knows the public what villainies are committed in these abominable houses, upon innocent creatures drawn into their snares!
Finding the lady not there, I posted away to the officer's, altho' Sally told me, that she had been but just come from thence; and that she had refused to see her, or, as she sent down word, any-body else; being resolved to have the remainder of that Sunday to herself, as it might, perhaps, be the last she should ever see.
I had the same thing told me, when I got thither.
I sent up to let her know, that I came with a commission to set her at liberty. I was afraid of sending up the name of a man known to be thy friend. She absolutely refused to see any man, however, for that day, or to answer further to any thing said from me.
Having therefore informed myself of all that the officer, and his wife, and servant, could acquaint me with, as well in relation to the horrid arrest, as to her behaviour, and the womens to her; and her ill state of health; I went back to Sinclair's, as I will still call her, and heard the three womens story: From all which, I am enabled to give thee the following shocking particulars: Which may serve, till I can see the unhappy lady herself to-morrow, if then I can gain admittance to her. Thou wilt find, that I have been very minute in my inquiries.
Thy villain it was, that set the poor lady, and had the impudence to appear, and abet the sheriff's officers in the cursed transaction. He thought, no doubt, that he was doing the most acceptable service to his blessed master. They had got a chair; the head ready up, as soon as Service was over. And as she came out of the church, at the door fronting Bedford street, the officers, stepping to her, whispered, that they had an action against her.
She was terrified, trembled, and turned pale.
Action! said she. What is that? -I have committed no bad action! -Lord bless me! Men, what mean you?
That you are our prisoner, Madam?
Prisoner, Sirs! -What-How-Why-What have I done?
You must go with us. Be pleased, Madam, to step into this chair.
With you! -With men! -Must go with men! -I am not used to go with strange men! -Indeed you must excuse me!
We can't excuse you: We are sheriff's-officers. -We have a Writ against you. You must go with us, and you shall know at whose Suit.
Suit! said the charming innocent; I don't know what you mean. Pray, men, don't lay hands upon me! -They offering to put her into the chair. I am not used to be thus treated! -I have done nothing to deserve it.
She then spied thy villain-O thou wretch, said she, there is thy vile master? -Am I again to be his prisoner? Help, good people!
A croud had before begun to gather.
My master is in the country, Madam, many miles off: If you please to go with these men, they will treat you civilly.
The people were most of them struck with compassion. A fine young creature! -A thousand pities! some. - While some few threw out vile and shocking reflections: But a gentleman interposed, and demanded to see the fellows authority.
They shewed it. Is your name Clarissa Harlowe, Madam? said he.
Yes, yes, indeed, ready to sink, my name was Clarissa Harlowe: -But it is now Wretchedness! -Lord be merciful to me! what is to come next?
You must go with these men, Madam, said the gentleman: They have authority for what they do. He pitied her, and retired.
Indeed you must, said one chairman.
Indeed you must, said the other.
Can no-body, joined in another gentleman, be applied to, who will see that so fine a creature is not ill used?
Thy villain answered, Orders were given particularly for that. She had rich relations. She need but ask and have. She would only be carried to the officer's house, till matters could be made up. The people she had lodged with, loved her: But she had left her lodgings privately.
O! had she those tricks already? cried one or two.
She heard not this-But said, Well, if I must go, I must! -I cannot resist-But I will not be carried to the woman's! -I will rather die at your feet, than be carried to the woman's!
You won't be carried there, Madam, cried thy fellow.
Only to my house, Madam, said one of the officers.
Where is That?
In High-Holborn, Madam.
I know not where High-Holborn is: But any-where, except to the woman's. -But am I to go with men only?
Looking about her, and seeing the three passages, to wit, that leading to Henrietta-street, that to King-street, and the fore-right one, to Bedford-street, crouded, she started-Any-where-Any-where, said she, but to the woman's! And stepping into the chair, threw herself on the seat, in the utmost distress and confusion-Carry me, carry me out of sight-Cover me-Cover me up-for ever! -were her words.
Thy villain drew the curtains: She had not power; and they went away with her, thro' a vast croud of people.
Here I must rest. I can write no more at present. Only, Lovelace, remember, All this was to a Clarissa!!!
The unhappy lady fainted away when, she was taken out of the chair at the officer's house.
Several people followed the chair to the very house, which is in a wretched court. Sally was there; and satisfied some of the inquirers, that the young gentlewoman would be exceedingly well used: And they soon dispersed.
Dorcas was also there; but came not in her sight. Sally, as a favour, offered to carry her to her former lodgings: But she declared, they should carry her thither a corpse, if they did.
Very gentle usage the women boast of: So would a vultur, could it speak, with the entrails of its prey upon its rapacious talons. Of this thou'lt judge, from what I have to recite.
She asked, What was meant by this usage of her? - People told me, said she, that I must go with the men! - That they had authority to take me: So I submitted. But now, what is to be the end of this disgraceful violence?
The end, said the vile Sally Martin, is, for honest people to come at their own.
Bless me! Have I taken away any thing that belongs to those who have obtained this power over me? -I have left very valuable things behind me; but have taken nothing away, that is not my own.
And who do you think, Miss Harlowe, for I understand, said the cursed creature, you are not married; who do you think is to pay for your board and your lodgings; such handsome lodgings! for so long a time as you were at Mrs. Sinclair's?
Lord have mercy upon me! Miss Martin (I think you are Miss Martin)! -And is this the cause of such a disgraceful insult upon me in the open streets?
And cause enough, Miss Harlowe (fond of gratifying her jealous revenge, by calling her Miss)-One hundred and fifty guineas, or pounds, is no small sum to lose- And by a young creature, who would have bilked her lodgings!
You amaze me, Miss Martin! -What language do you talk in? - Bilk my lodgings! -What is that?
She stood astonished, and silent for a few moments.
But recovering herself, and turning from her to the window, she wrung her hands [The cursed Sally shewed me how!]; and lifting them up-Now, Lovelace! Now indeed do I think I ought to forgive thee! -But who shall forgive Clarissa Harlowe! -O my sister! O my brother! Tender mercies were your cruelties to this!
After a pause, her handkerchief drying up her falling tears, she turned to Sally! Now, have I nothing to do but acquiesce-Only let me say, That if this aunt of yours, This Mrs. Sinclair; or This man, This Mr. Lovelace; come near me; or if I am carried to the horrid house (for that I suppose is to be the end of this new outrage); God be merciful to the poor Clarissa Harlowe! - Look to the consequence! -Look, I charge you, to the consequence!
The vile wretch told her, It was not designed to carry her any-whither against her will: But, if it were, they should take care not to be frighted again by a penknife.
She cast up her eyes to heaven, and was silent-And went to the farthest corner of the room, and, sitting down, threw her handkerchief over her face.
Sally asked her several questions: But not answering her, she told her, She would wait upon her by-and-by, when she had found her speech.
She ordered the people to press her to eat and drink. She must be fasting: Nothing but her prayers and tears, poor thing! were the merciless devil's words, as she owned to me. -Dost think I did not curse her?
She went away; and, after her own dinner, returned.
The unhappy lady, by this devil's account of her, then seemed either mortified into meekness, or to have made a resolution not to be provoked by the insults of this cursed creature.
Sally inquired, in her presence, whether she had eat or drank any-thing; and being told by the woman, that she could not prevail upon her to taste a morsel, or drink a drop, she said, This is wrong, Miss Harlowe! Very wrong! -Your religion, I think, should teach you, that starving yourself is self-murder.
She answered not.
The wretch owned, she was resolved to make her speak.
She asked, If Mabell should attend her, till it were seen what her friends would do for her, in discharge of the debt? Mabell, said she, has not yet earned the cloaths you were so good as to give her.
Am I not worth an answer, Miss Harlowe?
I would answer you (said the sweet sufferer, without any emotion), if I knew how.
I have ordered pen, ink, and paper, to be brought you, Miss Harlowe. There they are. I know you love writeing. You may write to whom you please. Your friend Miss Howe will expect to hear from you.
I have no friend, said she. I deserve none.
Rowland, for that is the officer's name, told her, She had friends enow to pay the debt, if she would write.
She would trouble no-body; she had no friends; was all they could get from her, while Sally staid: But yet spoken with a patience of spirit, as if she enjoyed her griefs.
The insolent creature went away, ordering them in her hearing to be very civil to her, and to let her want for nothing. Now had she, she owned, the triumph of her heart over this haughty beauty, who kept them all at such a distance in their own house!
What thinkest thou, Lovelace, of this! -This wretch's triumph was over a Clarissa!
About six in the evening, Rowland's wife pressed her to drink tea. She said, She had rather have a glass of water; for her tongue was ready to cleave to the roof of her mouth.
The woman brought her a glass, and some bread and butter. She tried to taste the latter; but could not swallow it: But eagerly drank the water; lifting up her eyes in thankfulness for that!!!
The divine Clarissa, Lovelace-reduced to rejoice for a cup of cold water! -By whom reduced!
About nine o'clock she asked, If any body were to be her bedfellow?
Their maid, if she pleased; or, as she was so weak and ill, the girl should sit up with her, if she chose she should.
She chose to be alone, both night and day, she said. But might she not be trusted with the keys of the room where she was to lie down; for she should not put off her cloaths?
That, they told her, could not be.
She was afraid not, she said. -But indeed she would not get away, if she could.
They told me, that they had but one bed, besides that they lay in themselves; which they would fain have had her accept of; and besides that their maid lay in, in a garret, which they called, a hole of a garret: And that that one bed was the prisoner's bed; which they made several apologies to me about. I suppose it is shocking enough.
But the lady would not lie in theirs. Was she not a prisoner, she said? -Let her have the prisoners room.
Yet they owned that she started, when she was conducted thither. But recovering herself, Very well, said she-Why should not all be of a piece? -Why should not my wretchedness be complete?
She found fault, that all the fastenings were on the outside, and none within; and said, She could not trust herself in a room, where others could come in at their pleasure, and she not go out. She had not been used to it!!!
Dear, dear soul! -My tears flow as I write. -Indeed, Lovelace, she had not been used to such treatment!
They assured her, that it was as much their duty to protect her from other persons insults, as from escaping herself.
Then they were people of more honour, she said, than she had of late been used to!
She asked, If they knew Mr. Lovelace?
No, was their answer.
Have you heard of him?
No.
Well then, you may be good sort of folks in your way.
Pause here a moment, Lovelace!-and reflect-I must.
Again they asked her, If they should send any word to her lodgings?
These are my lodgings now, are they not?-was all her answer.
She sat up in a chair all night, the back against the door; having, it seems, thrust a broken piece of a poker thro' the staples where a bolt had been on the inside.
Next morning Sally and Polly both went to visit her.
She had begged of Sally the day before, that she might not see Mrs. Sinclair, nor Dorcas, nor the broken-toothed servant, called William.
Polly would have ingratiated herself with her; and pretended to be concerned for her misfortunes. But she took no more notice of her than of the other.
They asked, If she had any commands? -If she had, she only need to mention what they were, and she should be obeyed.
None at all, she said.
How did she like the people of the house? Were they civil to her?
Pretty well, considering she had no money to give them.
Would she accept of any money? They could put it to her account.
She would contract no debts.
Had she any money about her?
She meekly put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out half a guinea, and a little silver. Yes, I have a little. - But here should be fees paid, I believe. Should there not? I have heard of entrance-money to compound for not being stript. But these people are very civil people, I fancy; for they have not offered to take away my cloaths.
They have orders to be civil to you.
It is very kind.
But we two will bail you, Miss, if you will go back with us to Mrs. Sinclair's.
Not for the world!
Hers are very handsome apartments.
The fitter for those who own them!
These are very sad ones.
The fitter for me!
You may be very happy yet, Miss, if you will.
I hope I shall.
If you refuse to eat or drink, we will give bail, and take you with us.
Then I will try to eat and drink. Any-thing but go with you.
Will you not send to your new lodgings? The people will be frighted.
So they will, if I send. So they will, if they know where I am.
But have you no things to send for from thence?
There is what will pay for their lodgings and trouble: I shall not lessen their security.
But perhaps letters or messages may be left for you there.
I have very few friends; and to those I have, I will spare the mortification of knowing what has befallen me.
We are surprised at your indifference, Miss Harlowe. Will you not write to any of your friends?
No.
Why, you don't think of tarrying here always?
I shall not live always.
Do you think you are to stay here, as long as you live?
That's as it shall please God, and those who have brought me hither.
Should you like to be at liberty?
I am miserable! -What is liberty to the miserable, but to be more miserable!
How, miserable, Miss? -You may make yourself as happy as you please.
I hope you are both happy.
We are.
May you be more and more happy!
But we wish you to be so too.
I never shall be of your opinion, I believe, as to what happiness is.
What do you take our opinion of happiness to be?
To live at Mrs. Sinclair's.
Perhaps, said Sally, we were once as squeamish and narrow-minded as you.
How came it over with you?
Because we saw the ridiculousness of prudery.
Do you come hither to persuade me to hate prudery, as you call it, as much as you do?
We came to offer our service to you.
It is out of your power to serve me.
Perhaps not.
It is not in my inclination to trouble you.
You may be worse offered.
Perhaps I may.
You are mighty short, Miss.
As I wish your visit to be, ladies.
They owned to me, that they cracked their fans, and laughed.
Adieu, perverse Beauty!
Your servant, Ladies.
Adieu, Haughty-airs!
You see me humbled-
As you deserve, Miss Harlowe. Pride will have a fall.
Better fall with what you call pride, than stand with meanness.
Who does?
I had once a better opinion of you, Miss Horton! - Indeed you should not insult the miserable.
Neither should the miserable, said Sally, insult people for their civility.
I should be sorry if I did.
Mrs. Sinclair shall attend you by-and-by, to know if you have any commands for her.
I have no wish for any liberty, but that of refusing to see her, and one more person.
What we came for, was, to know if you had any proposals to make for your inlargement?
Then, it seems, the officer put in. You have very good friends, Madam, I understand. Is it not better that you make it up? Charges will run high. A hundred and fifty guineas are easier paid than two hundred. Let these ladies bail you, and go along with them; or write to your friends to make it up.
Sally said, There is a gentleman who saw you taken, and was so much moved for you, Miss Harlowe, that he would gladly advance the money for you, and leave you to pay it when you can.
See, Lovelace, what cursed devils these are! This is the way, we know, that many an innocent heart is thrown upon keeping, and then upon the town. But for these wretches thus to go to work with such an angel as this! - How glad would have been the devilish Sally, to have had the least handle to report to thee a listening ear, or patient spirit, upon this hint!
Sir, said she, with high indignation, to the officer, did not you say last night, that it was as much your business to protect me from the insults of others, as from escaping? - Cannot I be permitted to see whom I please; and to refuse admittance to those I like not?
Your creditors, Madam, will expect to see you.
Not, if I declare I will not treat with them.
Then, Madam, you will be sent to prison.
Prison, friend! -What dost thou call thy house?
Not a prison, Madam.
Why these iron-barred windows then? Why these double locks, and bolts all on the outside, none on the In?
And down she dropt into her chair, and they could not get another word from her. She threw her handkerchief over her face, as once before, which was soon wet with tears; and grievously, they own, she sobbed.
Gentle treatment, Lovelace! -Perhaps thou, as well as these wretches, wilt think it so!
Sally then ordered a dinner, and said, They would soon be back again, and see that she eat and drank, as a good Christian should, comporting herself to her condition, and making the best of it.
What has not this charming creature suffered; what has she not gone thro' in these last three months, that I know of! -Who would think such a delicately-framed person could have sustained what she has sustained? We sometimes talk of bravery, of courage, of fortitude! -Here they are in perfection! -Such bravoes as Thou and I should never have been able to support ourselves under half the persecutions, the disappointments, and contumelies, that she has met with; but, like cowards, should have slid out of the world, basely, by some back-door; that is to say, by a sword, by a pistol, by a halter, or knife! - But here is a fine-principled lady, who, by dint of this noble consideration, as I imagine (what else can support her?) -That she has not deserved the evils she contends with; and that this world is designed but as a transitory state of probation; and that she is traveling to another, and better; puts up with all the hardships of the journey; and is not to be diverted from her course by the attacks of thieves and robbers, or any other terrors and difficulties; being assured of an ample reward at the end of it!
If thou thinkest this reflection uncharacteristic, from a companion and friend of thine, imaginest thou, that I profited nothing by my attendance on my uncle for so long a time, in his dying state; and from the pious reflections of the good clergyman, who, day by day, at the poor man's own request, visited and prayed by him? - And could I have another such instance as this, to bring all these reflections home to me?
Then who can write of good persons, and of good subjects, and be capable of admiring them, and not be made serious for the time, if he write in character? -And hence may we gather, what a benefit to the morals of men the keeping of good company must be; while those who keep only bad, must necessarily more and more harden, and be hardened.
'Tis twelve of the clock, Sunday night-I can think of nothing but of this excellent creature. Her distresses fill my head and my heart. I was drowsy for a quarter of an hour; but the fit is gone off. And I will continue the melancholy subject from the information of these wretches. Enough, I dare say, will arise in the visit I shall make, if admitted to-morrow, to send by thy servant, as to the way I am likely to find her in.
After the women had left her, she complained of her head and her heart; and seemed terrified with apprehensions of being carried once more to Sinclair's.
Refusing any-thing for breakfast, Mrs. Rowland came up to her, and told her (as these wretches owned they had ordered her, for fear she should starve herself). That she must and should have tea, and bread and butter: And that, as she had friends who could support her, if she wrote to them, it was a wrong thing, both for herself and them, to starve herself thus.
If it be for your own sakes, said she, that is another thing: Let coffee, or tea, or chocolate, or what you will, be got: And put down a chicken to my account every day, if you please, and eat it yourselves. I will taste it, if I can. I would do nothing to hinder you: I have friends will pay you liberally, when they know I am gone.
They wonder'd at her strange composure, in such distresses.
They were nothing, she said, to what she had suffer'd already, from the vilest of all men. The disgrace of seizing her in the street; multitudes of people about her; shocking imputations wounding her ears; had indeed been very affecting to her. But that was over. -Every thing soon would! -And she should be stillmore composed, were it not for the apprehensions of seeing one man, and one woman; and being tricked or forced back to the vilest house in the world.
Then were it not better to give way to the two gentlewomens offer to bail her? -They could tell her, it was a very kind proffer; and what was not be met with every day.
She believ'd so.
The ladies might, possibly, dispense with her going back to the house she had such an antipathy to. Then the compassionate gentleman, who was inclined to make it up with her creditors on her own bond, it was strange to them she hearkened not to so generous a proposal.
Did the two ladies tell you who the gentleman was? - Or, Did they say any more on that subject?
Yes, they did; and hinted to me, said the woman, that you had nothing to do, but to receive a visit from the gentleman, and the money, they believed, would be laid down on your own bond or note.
She was startled.
I charge you, said she, as you will answer it one day to my friends, that you bring no gentleman into my company. I charge you don't. If you do, you know not what may be the consequence.
They apprehended no bad consequence, they said, in doing their duty: And if she knew not her own good, her friends would thank them for taking any innocent steps to serve her, tho' against her will.
Don't push me upon extremities, man! -Don't make me desperate, woman! -I have no small difficulty, notwithstanding the seeming composure you just now took notice of, to bear, as I ought to bear, the evils I suffer. But if you bring a man or men to me, be the pretence what it will--
She stopt there, and look'd so earnestly, and so wildly, they said, that they did not know but she would do some harm to herself, if they disobeyed her; and that would be a sad thing in their house, and might be their ruin. So they promised, that no man should be brought to her, but by her own consent.
Mrs. Rowland prevailed on her to drink a dish of tea, and taste some bread and butter, about eleven on Saturday morning: Which she probably did, to have an excuse not to dine with the women, when they returned.
But she would not quit her prison-room, as she called it, to go into their parlour.
"Unbarred windows, and a lightsomer apartment, she said, had too chearful an appearance for her mind."
At another time, "The light of the sun was irksome to her. The sun seemed to shine in to mock her woes."
And when, soon after, a shower fell, she looked at it thro' the bars: "How kindly, said she, do the elements weep, to keep me company!"
"Methought, added she, the sun darting in, a while ago, and gilding those iron bars, played upon me, like the two women, who came to insult my haggard looks, by the word Beauty; and my dejected heart, with the word Haughty-airs!"
Sally came again at dinner-time, to see how she fared, as she told her; and that she did not starve herself: And, as she wanted to have some talk with her, if she gave her leave, she would dine with her.
I cannot eat.
You must try, Miss Harlowe.
And, dinner being ready just then, she offered her hand, and desired her to walk down.
No; she would not stir out of her prison-room.
These sullen airs won't do, Miss Harlowe: Indeed they won't.
She was silent.
You will have harder usage than any you have ever yet known, I can tell you, if you come not into some humour to make matters up.
She was still silent.
Come, Miss, walk down to dinner. Let me intreat you, do. Miss Horton is below: She was once your favourite.
She waited for an answer: But received none.
We came to make some proposals to you, for your good; tho' you affronted us so lately. And we would not let Mrs. Sinclair come in person, because we thought to oblige you.
That is indeed obliging.
Come, give me your hand, Miss Harlowe: You are obliged to me, I can tell you That: And let us go down to Miss Horton.
Excuse me: I will not stir out of this room.
Would you have me and Miss Horton dine in this filthy bed-room?
It is not a bed-room to me. I have not been in bed; nor will, while I am here.
And yet you care not, as I see, to leave the house. - And so you won't go down, Miss Harlowe?
I won't, except I am forced to it.
Well, well, let it alone. I sha'n't ask Miss Horton to dine in this room, I assure you. I will send up a plate.
And away the little saucy toad fluttered down.
And when they had dined, up they came together.
Well, Miss, you would not eat any thing, it seems! - Very pretty sullen airs these! -No wonder the honest gentleman had such a hand with you.
She only held up her hands and eyes; the tears trickling down her cheeks.
Insolent devils! -How much more cruel and insulting are bad women, even than bad men!
Methinks, Miss, said Sally, you are a little soily, to what we have seen you. Pity such a nice lady should not have changes of apparel. Why won't you send to your lodgings for linen, at least?
I am not nice now.
Miss looks well and clean in any thing, said Polly. But, dear Madam, why won't you send to your lodgings? It is but kind to the people. They must have a concern about you. And your Miss Howe will wonder what's become of you; for, no doubt, you correspond.
She turned from them, and, to herself, said, Too much! Too much! -She tossed her handkerchief, wet before with her tears, from her, and held her apron to her eyes.
Don't weep, Miss! said the vile Polly.
Yet do, cry'd the viler Sally, if it be a relief. Nothing, as Mr. Lovelace once told me, dries sooner than tears. For once I too wept mightily.
I could not bear the recital of this with patience. Yet I cursed them not so much as I should have done, had I not had a mind to get from them all the particulars of their gentle treatment; and this for two reasons; the one, that I might stab thee to the heart with the repetition; the other, that I might know upon what terms I am likely to see the unhappy lady to-morrow.
Well, but, Miss Harlowe, cry'd Sally, do you think these forlorn airs pretty? You are a good Christian, child. Mrs. Rowland tells me, she has got you a Bible-book- O there it lies! -I make no doubt, but you have doubled down the useful places, as honest Matt. Prior says.
Then rising, and taking it up-Ay, so you have-The Book of Job! One opens naturally here, I see-My mamma made me a fine bible-scholar. -Ecclesiasticus too! - That's Apocrypha, as they call it-You see, Miss Horton, I know something of the book.
They proposed once more to bail her, and to go home with them. A motion which she received with the same indignation as before.
Sally told her, That she had written in a very favourable manner, in her behalf, to you; and that she every hour expected an answer; and made no doubt, that you would come up with the messenger, and generously pay the whole debt, and ask her pardon for neglecting it.
This disturbed her so much, that they feared she would have fallen into fits. She could not bear your name, she said. She hoped, she should never see you more: And were you to intrude yourself, dreadful consequences might follow.
Surely, they said, she would be glad to be released from her confinement.
Indeed she should, now they had begun to alarm her with his name, who was the author of all her woes: And who, she now saw plainly, gave way to this new outrage, in order to bring her to his own infamous terms.
Why then, they asked, would she not write to her friends, to pay Mrs. Sinclair's demand?
Because she hoped she should not long trouble anybody; and because she knew, that the payment of the money, if she were able to pay it, was not what was aimed at.
Sally owned, that she told her, That, truly, she had thought herself as well descended and as well educated as herself, tho' not intitled to such considerable fortunes. And had the impudence to insist upon it to me to be truth.
She had the insolence to add, to the lady, That she had as much reason as she, to expect Mr. Lovelace would marry her; he having contracted to do so before he knew Miss Clarissa Harlowe: And that she had it under his hand and seal too-or else he had not obtained his end: Therefore, it was not likely she should be so officious as to do his work against herself, if she thought Mr. Lovelace had designs upon her, like what she presumed to hint at: That, for her part, her only view was, to procure liberty to a young gentlewoman, who made those things grievous to her, which would not be made such a rout about by anybody else-and to procure the payment of a just debt to her friend Mrs. Sinclair.
She besought them to leave her. She wanted not these instances, she said, to convince her of the company she was in: And told them, that, to get rid of such visitors, and of still worse that she apprehended, she would write to one friend to raise the money for her; tho' it would be death for her to do so; because that friend could not do it without her mother, in whose eye it would give a selfish appearance to a friendship, that was above all sordid alloys.
They advised her to write out of hand.
But how much must I write for? What is the sum? Should I not have had a bill delivered me? -God knows, I took not your lodgings. But he that could treat me, as he has done, could do this!
Don't speak against Mr. Lovelace, Miss Harlowe. He is a man I greatly esteem [Cursed toad!]. And, 'bating that he will take his advantage, where he can, of Us silly credulous girls, he is a man of honour.
She lifted up her hands and eyes, instead of speaking; And well she might! For any words she could have used, could not have expressed the anguish she must feel, on being comprehended in the US.
She must write for one hundred and fifty guineas, at least: Two hundred, if she were short of money, might as well be written for.
Mrs. Sinclair, she said, had all her cloaths. Let them be sold, fairly sold, and the money go as far as it would go. She had also a few other valuables; but no money (none at all), but the poor half-guinea, and the little silver they had seen. She would give bond to pay all that her apparel, and the other matters she had, would fall short of. She had great effects belonging to her of right. Her bond would, and must, be paid, were it for a thousand pounds. But her cloaths she should never want. She believed, if not too much undervalued, those, and her few valuables, would answer every-thing. She wished for no surplus, but to discharge the last expences; and forty shillings would do as well for those, as forty pounds. Let my ruin, said she, lifting up her eyes, be large, be complete, in this life! -For a composition, let it be COMPLETE -And there she stopped. No doubt alluding to her father's futurely-extended curse!
The wretches could not help wishing to me for the opportunity of making such a purchase for their own wear. How I cursed them! and, in my heart, thee! -But too probable, thought I, that this vile Sally Martin may hope [Tho' thou art incapable of it], that her Lovelace, as she has the assurance, behind thy back, to call thee, may present her with some of the poor lady's spoils!
Will not Mrs. Sinclair, proceeded she, think my cloaths a security, till they can be sold? They are very good cloaths. A suit or two but just put on, as it were; never worn. They cost much more than is demanded of me. My father loved to see me fine. -All shall go. But let me have the particulars of her demand. I suppose I must pay for my destroyer (that was her well-adapted word!), and his servants, as well as for myself. -I am content to do so-Indeed I am content to do so-I am above wishing, that any-body, who could thus act, should be so much as expostulated with, as to the justice and equity of it. If I have but enough to pay the demand, I shall be satisfied; and will leave the baseness of such an action as this, as an aggravation of a guilt, which I thought could not be aggravated.
I own, Lovelace, I have malice in this particularity, in order to sting thee to the heart. And, let me ask thee, What now thou canst think of thy barbarity, thy unprecedented barbarity, in having reduced a person of her rank, fortune, talents, and virtue, so low?
The wretched women, it must be owned, act but in their profession; a profession thou hast been the principal means of reducing these two to act in. And they know what thy designs have been, and how far prosecuted. It is, in their opinions, using her gently, that they have forborn to bring to her the woman so justly odious to her; and that they have not threatened her with the introducing to her strange men: Nor yet brought into her company their spirit-breakers, and humbling-drones (fellows not allowed to carry stings), to trace and force her back to their detested house; and, when there, into all their measures.
Till I came, they thought thou wouldst not be displeased at any-thing she suffered, that could help to mortify her into a state of shame and disgrace; and bring her to comply with thy views, when thou shouldst come to release her from these wretches, as from a greater evil than cohabiting with thee.
When thou considerest these things, thou wilt make no difficulty of believing, that this their own account of their behaviour to this admirable lady, has been far short of their insults: And the less, when I tell thee, that, all together, their usage had such effects upon her, that they left her in violent hysterics; ordering an apothecary to be sent for, if she should continue in them, and be worse; and particularly (as they had done from the first) that they kept out of her way any edged or pointed instrument; especially a penknife; which, pretending to mend a pen, they said, she might ask for.
At twelve Saturday night, Rowland sent to tell them, that she was so ill, that he knew not what might be the issue; and wished her out of his house.
And this made them as heartily wish to hear from you. For their messenger, to their great surprize, was not then returned from M. Hall. And they were sure he must have reached that place by Friday night.
Early on Sunday morning, both devils went to see how she did. They had such an account of her weakness, lowness, and anguish, that they forbore, out of compassion, they said, finding their visits so disagreeable to her, to see her. But their apprehension of what might be the issue was, no doubt, their principal consideration: Nothing else could have softened such flinty bosoms.
They sent for the apothecary Rowland had had to her, and gave him, and Rowland, and his wife, and maid, paradeful injunctions for the utmost care to be taken of her: No doubt, with an Old-Bailey forecast. And they sent up to let her know what orders they had given: But that, understanding she had taken something to compose herself, they would not disturb her.
She had scrupled, it seems, to admit the apothecary's visit over-night, because he was a MAN: -And could not be prevailed upon, till they pleaded their own safety to her.
They went again, from church-Lord, Bob, these creatures go to church! -But she sent them down word, that she must have all the remainder of the day to herself.
When I first came, and told them of thy execrations for what they had done, and joined my own to them, they were astonished. The mother said, she had thought she had known Mr. Lovelace better; and expected thanks, and not curses.
While I was with them, came back halting and cursing, most horribly, their messenger; by reason of the ill-usage he had received from you, instead of the reward he had been taught to expect, for the supposed good news that he carried down, of the lady's being found out, and secured. -A pretty fellow! art thou not, to abuse people for the consequences of thy own faults?
Under what shocking disadvantages, and with this addition to them, that I am thy friend and intimate, am I to make a visit to this unhappy lady to-morrow morning: In thy name too! -Enough to be refused, that I am of a sex, to which, for thy sake, she has so justifiable an aversion: Nor, having such a tyrant of a father, and such an implacable brother, has she reason to make an exception in favour of any of it on their accounts.
It is three o'clock. I will close here; and take a little rest: What I have written will be a proper preparative for what shall offer by-and-by.
Thy servant is not to return without a letter, he tells me; and that thou expectest him back in the morning. Thou hast fellows enough where thou art, at thy command. If I find any difficulty in seeing the lady, thy messenger shall post away with this. -Let him look to broken bones, and other consequences, if what he carries answer not thy expectation. But, if I am admitted, thou shalt have this and the result of my audience both together. In the former case, thou mayest send another servant to wait the next advices, from
J. Belford.

### v6 LETTER XLI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday, July 17.
About six this morning I went to Rowland's. Mrs. Sinclair was to follow me, in order to dismiss the action; but not to come in sight.
Rowland, upon inquiry, told me, that the lady was extremely ill; and that she had desired, not to let anybody but his wife or maid come near her.
I said, I must see her. I had told him my business over-night; and I must see her.
His wife went up: But returned presently, saying, She could not get her to speak to her; yet that her eye-lids moved; tho' she either would not, or could not, open them, to look up at her.
Oons, woman, said I, the lady may be in a fit: The lady may be dying. -Let me go up. Shew me the way.
A horrid hole of a house, in an alley they call a court; stairs wretchedly narrow, even to the first-floor rooms: And into a den they led me, with broken walls, which had been papered, as I saw by a multitude of tacks, and some torn bits held on by the rusty heads.
The floor indeed was clean, but the ceiling was smoked with variety of figures, and initials of names, that had been the woful employment of wretches, who had no other way to amuse themselves.
A bed at one corner, with coarse curtains tacked up at the feet to the ceiling; because the curtain rings were broken off; but a coverlid upon it with a cleanish look, tho' plaguily in tatters, and the corners tied up in tassels, that the rents in it might go no farther.
The windows dark and double-barred, the tops boarded up to save mending; and only a little four-paned eylethole of a casement to let in air; more, however, coming in at broken panes, than could come in at That.
Four old turkey-worked chairs, bursten-bottomed, the stuffing staring out.
An old, tottering, worm-eaten table, that had more nails bestowed in mending it to make it stand, than the table cost fifty years ago, when new.
On the mantle-piece was an iron shove-up candlestick, with a lighted candle in it, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, four of them, I suppose, for a peny.
Near that, on the same shelf, was an old looking-glass, cracked thro' the middle, breaking out into a thousand points; the crack given it, perhaps, in a rage, by some poor creature, to whom it gave the representation of his heart's woes in his face.
The chimney had two half-tiles in it on one side, and one whole one on the other; which shewed it had been in better plight; but now the very morter had followed the rest of the tiles, in every other place, and left the bricks bare.
An old half-barred stove-grate was in the chimney; and in that a large stone-bottle without a neck, filled with baleful eugh, as an ever-green, withered southern-wood, and sweet-briar, and sprigs of rue in flower.
To finish the shocking description, in a dark nook stood an old, broken-bottomed cane couch, without a squab, or coverlid, sunk at one corner, and unmortised, by the failing of one of its worm-eaten legs, which lay in two pieces under the wretched piece of furniture it could no longer support.
And This, thou horrid Lovelace, was the bedchamber of the divine Clarissa!!!
I had leisure to cast my eye on these things: For, going up softly, the poor lady turned not about at our entrance; nor, till I spoke, moved her head.
She was kneeling in a corner of the room, near the dismal window, against the table, on an old bolster, as it seemed to be, of the cane couch, half-covered with her handkerchief; her back to the door; which was only shut to (No need of fastenings!); her arms crossed upon the table, the fore-finger of her right-hand in her bible. She had perhaps been reading in it, and could read no longer. Paper, pens, ink, lay by her book, on the table. Her dress was white damask, exceeding neat; but her stays seemed not tight-laced. I was told afterwards, that her laces had been cut, when she fainted away at her entrance into this cursed place; and she had not been solicitous enough about her dress, to send for others. Her head-dress was a little discomposed; her charming hair, in natural ringlets, as you have heretofore described it, but a little tangled, as if not lately kembed, irregularly shading one side of the loveliest neck in the world; as her disordered, rumpled handkerchief did the other. Her face [O how altered from what I had seen it! Yet lovely in spite of all her griefs and sufferings!] was reclined, when we entered, upon her crossed arms; but so, as not more than one side of it to be hid.
When I surveyed the room around, and the kneeling Lady, sunk with majesty too in her white, flowing robes [for she had not on a hoop], spreading the dark, tho' not dirty, floor, and illuminating that horrid corner; her linen beyond imagination white, considering that she had not been undressed ever since she had been here; I thought my concern would have choaked me. Something rose in my throat, I know not what, which made me, for a moment, guggle, as it were, for speech: Which, at last, forcing its way, Con-Con-Confound you both, said I to the man and woman, is this an apartment for such a lady? And could the cursed devils of her own sex, who visited this suffering angel, see her, and leave her, in so damned a nook?
Sir, we would have had the lady to accept of our own bedchamber; but she refused it. We are poor people- And we expect no-body will stay with us longer than they can help it.
You are people chosen purposely, I doubt not, by the damned woman who has employed you: And if your usage of this lady has been but half as bad as your house, you had better never to have seen the light.
Up then raised the charming sufferer her lovely face; but with such a significance of woe overspreading it, that I could not, for the soul of me, help being visibly affected.
She waved her hand two or three times towards the door, as if commanding me to withdraw; and displeased at my intrusion; but did not speak.
Permit me, Madam-I will not approach one step farther without your leave-Permit me, for one moment, the favour of your ear!
No-No-Go, go; MAN, with an emphasis-And would have said more; but, as if struggling in vain for words, she seemed to give up speech for lost, and dropp'd her head down once more, with a deep sigh, upon her left arm; her right, as if she had not the use of it (numbed, I suppose), self-moved, dropping down on her side.
O that thou hadst been there! and in my place! -But by what I then felt, in myself, I am convinced, that a capacity of being moved by the distresses of our fellow-creatures, is far from being disgraceful to a manly heart. With what pleasure, at that moment, could I have given up my own life, could I but first have avenged this charming creature, and cut the throat of her destroyer, as she emphatically calls thee, tho' the friend that I best love! And yet, at the same time, my heart and my eyes gave way to a softness, of which (tho' not so hardened a wretch as thou) it was never before so susceptible.
I dare not approach you, dearest Lady, without your leave: But on my knees I beseech you to permit me to release you from this damned house, and out of the power of the accursed woman, who was the occasion of your being here!
She lifted up her sweet face once more, and beheld me on my knees. Never knew I before what it was to pray so heartily.
Are you not-Are you not Mr. Belford, Sir? I think your name is Belford?
It is, Madam, and I ever was a worshiper of your virtues, and an advocate for you; and I come to release you from the hands you are in.
And in whose to place me? O leave me, leave me! Let me never rise from this spot! Let me never, never more believe in man!
This moment, dearest Lady, this very moment, if you please, you may depart whithersoever you think fit. You are absolutely free, and your own mistress.
I had now as lieve die here in this place, as any-where. I will owe no obligation to any friend of him in whose company you have seen me. So, pray, Sir, withdraw.
Then turning to the officer, Mr. Rowland I think your name is? I am better reconciled to your house than I was at first. If you can but engage, that I shall have no-body come near me but your wife; no Man! and neither of those women, who have sported with my calamities; I will die with you, and in this very corner. And you shall be well satisfied for the trouble you have had with me. - I have value enough for that-for, see, I have a diamond ring; taking it out of her bosom; and I have friends will redeem it at a high price, when I am gone.
But for you, Sir, looking at me, I beg you to withdraw. If you mean me well, God, I hope, will reward you for your good meaning; but to the friend of my destroyer will I not owe an obligation.
You will owe no obligation to me, nor to any-body. You have been detained for a debt you do not owe. The action is dismissed; and you will only be so good as to give me your hand into the coach which stands as near to this house as it could draw up. And I will either leave you at the coach-door, or attend you whithersoever you please, till I see you safe where you would wish to be.
Will you then, Sir, compel me to be beholden to you?
You will inexpressibly oblige me, Madam, to command me to do you either service or pleasure.
Why then, Sir-looking at me-But why do you mock me in that humble posture! Rise, Sir! I cannot speak to you else.
I arose.
Only, Sir, take this ring. I have a sister, who will be glad to have it, at the price it shall be valued at, for the former owner's sake! -Out of the money she gives, let this man be paid; handsomely paid: And I have a few valuables more at my lodgings (Dorcas, or the MAN William, can tell where that is); let them, and my cloaths at the wicked woman's, where you have seen me, be sold, for the payment of my lodging first, and next of your friend's debts, that I have been arrested for; as far as they will go; only reserving enough to put me into the ground, any-where, or any-how, no matter. -Tell your friend, I wish it may be enough to satisfy the whole demand; but if it be not, he must make it up himself; or, if he think fit to draw for it on Miss Howe, she will repay it, and with interest, if he insist upon it. -And this, Sir, if you promise to perform, you will do me, as you offer, both pleasure and service: And say you will, and take the ring, and withdraw. If I want to say any-thing more to you (you seem to be an humane man), I will let you know: -And so, Sir, God bless you.
I approached her, and was going to speak-
Don't speak, Sir: Here's the ring.
I stood off.
And won't you take it? Won't you do this last office for me? -I have no other person to ask it of; else, believe me, I would not request it of you. But take it or not, laying it upon the table-you must withdraw, Sir: I am very ill. I would fain get a little rest, if I could. I find I am going to be bad again.
And offering to rise, she sunk down thro' excess of weakness and grief, in a fainting fit.
Why, Lovelace, wast thou not present thyself? -Why dost thou commit such villainies,as even thou thyself art afraid to appear in; and yet puttest a weaker heart and head upon encountering with?
The maid coming in just then, the woman and she lifted her up, on the decrepit couch; and I withdrew with this Rowland; who wept like a child, and said, he never in his life was so moved.
Yet so hardened a wretch art thou, that I question whether thou wilt shed a tear at my relation.
They recovered her by harts-horn and water: I went down mean while; for the detestable woman had been below some time. O how did I curse her! I never before was so fluent in curses.
She tried to wheedle me; but I renounced her; and, after she had dismissed the action, sent her away crying, or pretending to cry, because of my behaviour to her.
You will observe, that I did not mention one word to the lady about you. I was afraid to do it. For 'twas plain, that she could not bear your name: Your friend, and the company you have seen me in, were the words nearest to naming you, she could speak: And yet I wanted to clear your intention of this brutal, this sordid-looking, villainy.
I sent up again, by Rowland's wife, when I heard that the lady was recovered, beseeching her to quit that devilish place; and the woman assured her, that she was at full liberty to do so; for that the action was dismissed.
But she cared not to answer her: And was so weak and low, that it was almost as much out of her power as inclination, the woman told me, to speak.
I would have hastened away for my friend doctor H. but the house is such a den, and the room she was in such a hole, that I was ashamed to be seen in it by a man of his reputation, especially with a woman of such an appearance, and in such uncommon distress; and I found there was no prevailing on her to quit it for the people bedroom, which was neat and lightsome.
The strong room, she was in, the wretches told me, should have been in better order, but that it was but the very morning that she was brought in, that an unhappy man had quitted it; for a more eligible prison, no doubt; since there could hardly be a worse.
Being told, that she desired not to be disturbed, and seemed inclined to dose, I took this opportunity to go to her lodgings in Covent-garden; to which Dorcas (who first discovered her there, as Will. was the setter from church) had before given me a direction.
The man's name is Smith, a dealer in gloves, snuff, and such petty merchandize: His wife the shopkeeper: He a maker of the gloves they sell. Honest people, it seems.
I thought to have got the woman with me to the lady; but she was not within.
I talked with the man, and told him what had befallen the lady; owing, as I said, to a mistake of orders; and gave her the character she deserved; and desired him to send his wife, the moment she came in, to the lady; directing him whither; not doubting, that her attendance would be very welcome to her: Which he promised.
He told me, that a letter was left for her there on Saturday; and, about half an hour before I came, another, superscribed by the same hand; the first, by the post; the other, by a countryman; who, having been informed of her absence, and of all the circumstances they could tell him of it, posted away, full of concern, saying, that the lady he was sent from would be ready to break her heart at the tidings.
I thought it right to take the two letters back with me; and, dismissing my coach, took a chair, as a more proper vehicle for the lady, if I (the friend of her destroyer) could prevail upon her to leave Rowland's.
And here being obliged to give way to an indispensable avocation, I will make thee taste a little in thy turn, of the plague of suspense; and break off, without giving thee the least hint of the issue of my further proceedings. I know, that those least bear disappointment, who love most to give it. In twenty instances, hast thou afforded me proof of the truth of this observation. And I matter not thy raving.
Another letter, however, shall be ready, send for it as soon as thou wilt. But, were it not, have I not written enough to convince thee, that I am
Thy ready and obliging friend,
J. Belford?

### v6 LETTER XLII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Monday, July 17. eleven at night.
Curse upon thy hard heart, thou vile caitiff! How hast thou tortured me, by thy designed abruption! 'Tis impossible that Miss Harlowe should have ever suffered as thou hast made me suffer, and as I now suffer!
That Sex is made to bear pain. It is a curse, that the first of it intailed upon all her succeeding daughters, when she brought the curse upon us all. And they love those best, whether man or child, who give them most-But to stretch upon thy damned tenter-hooks such a spirit as mine-No rack, no torture, can equal my torture!
And must I still wait the return of another messenger? Confound thee for a malicious devil! I wish thou wert a post-horse, and I upon the back of thee! How would I whip and spur, and harrow up thy clumsy sides, till I made thee a ready-roasted, ready-flayed, mess of dog's meat; all the hounds in the county howling after thee as I drove thee, to wait my dismounting, in order to devour thee peace-meal; life still throbbing in each churned mouthful!
Give this fellow the sequel of thy tormenting scribble. Dispatch him away with it. Thou hast promised it shall be ready. Every cushion or chair I shall sit upon, the bed I shall lie down upon (if I go to bed), till he return, will be stuffed with bolt-upright awls, bodkins, corking-pins, and packing-needles: Already I can fancy, that to pink my body like my mind, I need only to be put into a hogshead stuck full of steel-pointed spikes, and rolled down a hill three times as high as the Monument.
But I lose time, yet know not how to employ it, till this fellow returns with the sequel of thy soul-harrowing intelligence!

### v6 LETTER XLIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday-night, July 17.
On my return to Rowland's, I found that the apothecary was just gone up. Mrs. Rowland being above with him, I made the less scruple to go up too, as it was probable, that to ask for leave would be to ask to be denied; hoping also, that the letters I had with me would be a good excuse.
She was sitting on the side of the broken couch, extremely weak and low; and, I observed, cared not to speak to the man; and no wonder; for I never saw a more shocking fellow, of a profession tolerably genteel, nor heard a more illiterate one prate-Physician in ordinary to this house, and others like it, I suppose! He put me in mind of Otway's apothecary in his Caius Marius:
Meagre and very rueful were his looks:
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones.
-Famine in his cheeks:
Need and oppression staring in his eyes:
Contempt and beggary hanging on his back:
The world no friend of his, nor the world's law.
As I am in black, he took me at my entrance, I believe, to be a doctor, and slunk behind me with his hat upon his two thumbs, and looked as if he expected the oracle to open, and give him orders.
The lady looked displeased, as well at me as at Rowland, who followed me, and at the apothecary. It was not, she said, the least of her present misfortunes, that she could not be left to her own sex; and to her option to see whom she pleased.
I besought her excuse; and, winking for the apothecary to withdraw (which he did), told her, that I had been at her new lodgings, to order every-thing to be got ready for her reception; presuming she would choose to go thither: That I had a chair at the door: That Mr. Smith, and his wife [I named their names, that she should not have room for the least fear of Sinclair's], had been full of apprehensions for her safety: That I had brought two letters, which were left there for her; one by the post, the other that very morning.
This took her attention. She held out her charming hand for them; took them, and, pressing them to her lips-From the only friend I have in the world! said she, kissing them again; and looking at the seals, as if to see whether they had been opened. I can't read them, said she, my eyes are too dim; and put them in her bosom.
I besought her to think of quitting that wretched hole.
Where could she go, she asked, to be safe and uninterrupted for the short remainder of her life; and to avoid being again visited by the creatures who had insulted her before?
I gave her the solemnest assurances, that she should not be invaded in her new lodgings by any-body; and said, that I would particularly engage my honour, that the person who had most offended her should not come near her, without her own consent.
Your honour, Sir! Are you not that man's friend?
I am not a friend, Madam, to his vile actions to the most excellent of women.
Do you flatter me, Sir? Then are you a Man. -But Oh, Sir, your friend, holding her face forward with great earnestness, your barbarous friend, what has he not to answer for!
There she stopt: Her heart full; and putting her hand over her eyes and forehead, the tears trickled thro' her fingers: Resenting thy barbarity, it seemed, as Caesar did the stab from his distinguished Brutus!
Tho' she was so very much disordered, I thought I would not lose this opportunity to assert your innocence of this villainous arrest.
There is no defending the unhappy man, in any of his vile actions by you, Madam; but of this last outrage, by all that's good and sacred, he is innocent!
O wretches! what a Sex is yours! -Have you all one dialect? Good and sacred! -If, Sir, you can find an oath, or a vow, or an adjuration, that my ears have not been twenty times a day wounded with, then speak it, and I may again believe a Man.
I was excessively touched at these words, knowing thy baseness, and the reason she had for them.
But say you, Sir; for I would not, methinks, have the wretch capable of this sordid baseness! -Say you, that he is innocent of this last wickedness? Can you truly say that he is?
By the great God of Heaven!-
Nay, Sir, if you swear, I must doubt you! -If you yourself think your Word insufficient, what reliance can I have on your Oath! -O that this my experience had not cost me so dear! But, were I to live a thousand years, I would always suspect the veracity of a swearer. Excuse me, Sir; but is it likely, that he who makes so free with his God, will scruple any thing that may serve his turn with his fellow-creature?
This was a most affecting reprimand!
Madam, said I, I have a regard, a regard a gentleman ought to have, to my word; and whenever I forfeit it to you-
Nay, Sir, don't be angry with me. It is grievous to me to question a gentleman's veracity. But your friend calls himself a gentleman -You know not what I have suffered by a gentleman! -And then again she wept.
I would give you, Madam, demonstration, if your griefs and your weakness would permit it, that he has no hand in this barbarous baseness: And that he resents it as it ought to be resented.
Well, well, Sir [with quickness], he will have his account to make up somewhere else; not to me. I should not be sorry to find him able to acquit his intention on this occasion. Let him know, Sir, only one thing, that, when you heard me, in the bitterness of my spirit, most vehemently exclaim against the undeserved usage I have met with from him, that even then, in that passionate moment, I was able to say [and never did I see such an earnest and affecting exaltation of hands and eyes], Give him, good God! repentance and amendment; that I may be the last poor creature, who shall be ruined by him! -And, in thy own good time, receive to thy mercy, the poor wretch who had none on me!
By my soul, I could not speak. She had not her Bible before her for nothing.
I was forced to turn my head away, and to take out my handkerchief.
What an angel is this! -Even the gaoler, and his wife and maid, wept.
Again, I wish thou hadst been there, that thou mightst have sunk down at her feet, and begun that moment to reap the effect of her generous wishes for thee; undeserving, as thou art, of any-thing but perdition!
I represented to her, that she would be less free where she was, from visits she liked not, than at her own lodging. I told her, that it would probably bring her, in particular, one visitor, who, otherwise, I would engage (but I durst not swear again, after the severe reprimand she had just given me), should not come near her, without her consent. And I expressed my surprize, that she should be unwilling to quit such a place as this; when it was more than probable, that some of her friends, when it was known how bad she was, would visit her.
She said, the place, when she was first brought into it, was indeed very shocking to her: But that she had found herself so weak and ill, and her griefs had so sunk her, that she did not expect to have lived till now: That therefore all places had been alike to her; for to die in a prison, was to die; and equally eligible as to die in a palace (palaces, she said, could have no attractions for a dying person): But that, since she feared she was not so soon to be released, as she had hoped; since she was so little mistress of herself here; and since she might, by removal, be in the way of her dear friend's letters; she would hope, that she might depend upon the assurances I gave her, of being at liberty to return to her last lodgings (otherwise she would provide herself with new ones, out of my knowlege, as well as out of yours); and that I was too much of a gentleman, to be concerned in carrying her back to the house she had so much reason to abhor; and to which she had been once before most vilely betrayed, to her ruin.
I assured her, in the strongest terms (but swore not), that you were resolved not to molest her: And, as a proof of the sincerity of my professions, besought her to give me directions (in pursuance of my friend's express desire) about sending all her apparel, and whatever belonged to her, to her new lodgings.
She seemed pleased; and gave me instantly out of her pocket her keys; asking me, If Mrs. Smith, whom I had named, might not attend me; and she would give her further directions? To which I chearfully assented; and then she told me, that she would accept of the chair I had offered her.
I withdrew; and took the opportunity to be civil to Rowland and his maid; for she found no fault with their behaviour, for what they were; and the fellow seems to be miserably poor. I sent also for the apothecary, who is as poor as the gaoler (and still poorer, I dare say, as to the skill required in his business), and satisfied him beyond his hopes.
The lady, after I had withdrawn, attempted to read the letters I brought her. But she could read but a little way in one of them, and had great emotions upon it.
She told the woman she would take a speedy opportunity to acknowledge their civilities, and to satisfy the apothecary; who might send her his bill to her lodgings.
She gave the maid something; probably, the only half-guinea she had: And then, with difficulty, her limbs trembling under her, supported by Mrs. Rowland, got down stairs.
I offered my arm: She was pleased to lean upon it. I doubt, Sir, said she, as she moved, I have behaved rudely to you: But, if you knew all, you would forgive me.
I know enough, Madam, to convince me, that there is not such purity and honour in any woman upon earth; nor any one that has been so barbarously treated.
She looked at me very earnestly. What she thought I cannot say; but, in general, I never saw so much soul in a lady's eyes, as in hers.
I ordered my servant (whose mourning made him less observable as such, and who had not been in the lady's eye) to keep the chair in view; and to bring me word, how she did, when set down. The fellow had the thought to step into the shop just before the chair entered it, under pretence of buying snuff; and so enabled himself to give me an account, that she was received with great joy by the good woman of the house; who told her, she was but just come in; and was preparing to attend her in High-Holborn. -O Mrs. Smith, said she, as soon at she saw her, did you not think I was run away? -You don't know what I have suffered since I saw you. I have been in a prison! Arrested for debts I owe not! -But, thank God, I am here! -Will you permit your maid-I have forgot her name already-
Katherine, Madam-
Will you let Katharine assist me to bed? -I have not had my cloaths off since Thursday night.
What she further said the fellow heard not, she leaning upon the maid, and going up-stairs.
But dost thou not observe, what a strange, what an uncommon, openness of heart reigns in this lady: She had been in a prison, she said, before a stranger in the shop, and before the maid-servant: And so, probably, she would have said, had there been twenty people in the shop.
The disgrace she cannot hide from herself, as she says in her letter to Lady Betty, she is not solicitous to conceal from the world!
But this makes it evident to me, that she is resolved to keep no terms with thee. And yet to be able to put up such a prayer for thee, as she did in her prison [I will often mention the prison-room, to teaze thee!]; Does not this shew, that revenge has very little sway in her mind; tho' she can retain so much proper resentment?
And this is another excellence in this admirable woman's character: For whom, before her, have we met with in the whole sex, or in ours either, that know how, in practice, to distinguish between Revenge and Resentment, for base, and ingrateful treatment?
'Tis a cursed thing, after all, that such a woman as this should be treated as she has been treated. Hadst thou been a king, and done as thou hast done by such a meritorious innocent, I believe in my heart, it would have been adjudged to be a national sin, and the sword, the pestilence, or famine, must have atoned for it! -But, as thou art a private man, thou wilt certainly meet with thy punishment (besides what thou mayest expect from the justice of thy country, and the vengeance of her friends), as she will her reward, hereafter.
It must be so, if there be really such a thing as future Remuneration; as now I am more and more convinced there must: -Else, what a hard fate is hers, whose punishment, to all appearance, has so much exceeded her fault? And, as to thine, how can temporary burnings, wert thou by some accident to be consumed in thy bed, expiate for thy abominable vileness to her, in breach of all obligations moral and divine?
I was resolved to lose no time in having every-thing which belonged to the lady, at the cursed woman's, sent her. Accordingly, I took coach to Smith's, and procured the lady (to whom I sent up my compliments, and inquiries how she bore her removal), ill as she sent me down word she was, to give proper directions to Mrs. Smith: Whom I took with me to Sinclair's; and who saw everything looked out, and put into the trunks and boxes they were first brought in, and carried away in two coaches.
Had I not been there, Sally and Polly would each of them have taken to herself something of the poor lady's spoils. This they declared: And I had something to do to get from Sally a fine Brussels-lace head, which she had the confidence to say she would wear for Miss Harlowe's sake. Nor should either I or Mrs. Smith have known she had got it, had she not been in search after the ruffles belonging it.
My resentment on this occasion, and the conversation which Mrs. Smith and I had (in which I not only expatiated upon the merits of the lady, but expressed my concern for her sufferings; tho' I left her room to suppose her married, yet without averring it), gave me high credit with the good woman: So that we are perfectly well-acquainted already: By which means I shall be enabled to give you accounts, from time to time, of all that passes; and which I will be very industrious to do, provided I may depend upon the solemn promises I have given the lady, in your name, as well as my own, that she shall be free from all personal molestation from you. And thus shall I have it in my power to return in kind your writing favours; and preserve my short-hand besides: Which, till this correspondence was opened, I had pretty much neglected.
I ordered the abandoned women to make out your account. They answered, That they would do with a vengeance. Indeed they breathe nothing but revenge. For now they say, you will assuredly marry; and your example will be followed by all your friends and companions- As the old one says, to the utter ruin of her poor house.

### v6 LETTER XLIV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Tuesday Morn. (July 18.) 6 o' clock.
Having sat up late to finish and seal up in readiness my letter to the above period, I am disturbed before I wished to have risen, by the arrival of thy second fellow; man and horse in a foam.
While he baits, I will write a few lines, most heartily to congratulate thee on thy expected rage and impatience; and on thy recovery of mental feeling.
How much does the idea thou givest me of thy deserved torments, by thy upright awls, bodkins, pins, and packing-needles, by thy rolling hogshead with iron spikes, and by thy macerated sides, delight me!
I will, upon every occasion that offers, drive more spikes into thy hogshead, and roll thee-down-hill, and up, as thou recoverest to sense, or rather returnest back to senselesness. Thou knowest therefore the terms on which thou art to enjoy my correspondence. Am not I, who have all along, and in time, protested against thy barbarous and ingrateful perfidies to a lady so noble, intitled to drive remorse, if possible, into thy hitherto-callous heart?
Only let me reinforce one thing, which perhaps I mentioned too slightly before, That the lady was prevailed upon by my solemn assurances only, that she might depend upon being free from your visits, not to remove to new lodgings, where neither you nor I should be able to find her.
These assurances I thought I might give her, not only because of your promise, but because it is necessary for you to know where she is, in order to address yourself to her by your friends.
Enable me therefore to make good to her this my solemn engagement; or adieu to all friendship, at least to all correspondence, with thee for ever.

### v6 LETTER XLV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Tuesday, July, 18. Afternoon.
I Renewed my inquiries after the lady's health, in the morning, by my servant: And, as soon as I had dined, I went myself.
I had but a poor account of it: Yet sent up my compliments. She returned me thanks for all my good offices; and her excuses, that they could not be personal just then, being very low and faint: But if I gave myself the trouble of coming about six this evening, she should be able, she hoped, to drink a dish of tea with me, and would then thank me herself.
I am very proud of this condescension; and think it looks not amiss for you, as I am your avowed friend. Methinks I want fully to remove from her mind all doubts of you in this last villainous action: And who knows then, what your noble relations may be able to do for you with her, if you hold your mind? For your servant acquainted me with their having actually engaged Miss Howe in their and your favour, before this cursed affair happened. And I desire the particulars of all from yourself, that I may the better know how to serve you.
She has two handsome apartments, a bedchamber and dining-room, with light closets in each. She has already a nurse (the people of the house having but one maid); a woman whose care, diligence, and honesty, Mrs. Smith highly commends. She has likewise the benefit of the voluntary attendance, and love, as it seems, of a widow gentlewoman, Mrs. Lovick her name, who lodges over her apartment, and of whom she seems very fond, having found something in her, she thinks, resembling the qualities of her worthy Mrs. Norton.
About seven o' clock this morning, it seems, the lady was so ill, that she yielded to their desires to have an apothecary sent for-Not the fellow, thou mayst believe, she had had before at Rowland's; but one Mr. Goddard, a man of skill and eminence; and of conscience too; demonstrated as well by general character, as by his prescriptions to this lady: For, pronouncing her case to be grief, he ordered, for the present, only innocent julaps, by way of cordial; and, as soon as her stomach should be able to bear it, light kitchen-diet; telling Mrs. Lovick, that That, with air, moderate exercise, and chearful company, would do her more good, than all the medicines in his shop.
This has given me, as, it seems, it has the lady (who also praises his modest behaviour, paternal looks, and genteel address), a very good opinion of the man; and I design to make myself acquainted with him; and, if he advises to call in a doctor, to wish him, for the fair patient's sake, more than the physician's (who wants not practice), my worthy friend Dr. H.-whose character is above all exception, as his humanity, I am sure, will distinguish him to the lady.
Mrs. Lovick gratified me with an account of a letter she had written from the lady's mouth to Miss Howe; she being unable to write herself with steadiness. It was to this effect; in answer, it seems, to her two letters, whatever were the contents of them.
'That she had been involved in a dreadful calamity, which she was sure, when known, would exempt her from the effects of her friendly displeasure, for not answering her first; having been put under an arrest: - Could she have believed it? -That she was released but the day before: And was now so weak, and so low, that she was obliged to get a widow gentlewoman in the same house to account thus for her silence to her two letters of the 13th and 16th: That she would, as soon as able, answer them: Begged of her, mean time, not to be uneasy for her; since (only that this was a calamity which came upon her when she was far from being well; a load laid upon the shoulders of a poor wretch, ready before to sink under too heavy a burden) it was nothing to the evil she had before suffered: And one felicity seemed likely to issue from it; which was, that she should be at rest, in an honest house, with considerate and kind-hearted people; having assurance given her, that she should not be molested by the wretch, whom it would be death for her to see: So that now she (Miss Howe) needed not to send to her by private and expensive conveyances: Nor need Collins to take precautions for fear of being dogged to her lodgings; nor she to write by a fictitious name to her, but by her own.'
You see I am in a way to oblige you: You see how much she depends upon my engaging for your forbearing to intrude yourself into her company: Let not your flaming impatience destroy all; and make me look like a villain to a lady who has reason to suspect every man she sees to be so. -Upon this condition, you may expect all the services that can flow from true friendship, and from
Your sincere Wellwisher,
John Belford?

### v6 LETTER XLVI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq.
Tuesday night, July 18.
I am just come from the lady. I was admitted into the dining-room, where she was sitting in an elbowchair, in a very weak and low way. She made an effort to stand up, when I entered; but was forced to keep her seat. You'll excuse me, Mr. Belford: I ought to rise, to thank you for all your kindness to me. I was to blame to be so loth to leave that sad place; for I am in Heaven here, to what I was there: And good people about me too! -I have not had good people about me for a long, long time before; so that (with a half-smile) I had begun to wonder whither they were all gone.
Her nurse and Mrs. Smith, who were present, took occasion to retire: And, when we were alone, You seem to be a person of humanity, Sir, said she: You hinted, as I was leaving my prison, that you were not a stranger to my sad story. If you know it truly, you must know, that I have been most barbarously treated; and have not deserved it at the man's hands by whom I have suffered.
I told her, I knew enough to be convinced, that she had the merit of a saint, and the purity of an angel: And was proceeding, when she said, No flighty compliments! No undue attributes, Sir! I offered to plead for my sincerity; and mentioned the word Politeness, and would have distinguished between That and Flattery. Nothing can be polite, said she, that is not just: Whatever I may have had, I have now no vanity to gratify.
I disclaimed all intention of compliment: All I had said, and what I should say, was, and should be, the effect of sincere veneration. My unhappy friend's account of her had intitled her to That.
I then mentioned your grief, your penitence, your resolutions of making her all the amends that were possible now to be made her: And, in the most earnest manner, I asserted your innocence as to the last villainous outrage.
Her answer was to this effect: It is painful to me to think of him. The amends you talk of, cannot be made. This last violence you speak of, is nothing to what preceded it. That cannot be atoned for; nor palliated: This may: And shall not be sorry to be convinced, that he cannot be guilty of so very low a wickedness. -Yet, after his vile forgeries of hands-after his personating basenesses -what are the iniquities he is not capable of?
I would then have given her an account of the tryal you stood with your friends: Your own previous resolutions of marriage, had she honoured you with the requested four words: All your family's earnestness to have the honour of her alliance: And the application of your two cousins to Miss Howe, by general consent, for that young lady's interest with her: But, having just touched upon these topics, she cut me short, saying, That was a cause before another tribunal: Miss Howe's letters to her were upon that subject; and she should write her thoughts to her, assoo n as she was able.
I then attempted more particularly to clear you of having any hand in the vile Sinclair's officious arrest; a point she had the generosity to wish you cleared of: And, having mentioned the outrageous letter you had written to me on this occasion, she asked, If I had that letter about me?
I owned I had.
She wished to see it.
This puzzled me horribly: For you must needs think, that most of the free things, which, among us Rakes, pass for wit and spirit, must be shocking stuff to the ears or eyes of persons of delicacy of that sex: And then such an air of levity runs thro' thy most serious letters; such a false bravery, endeavouring to carry off ludicrously the subjects that most affect thee; that those letters are generally the least fit to be seen, which ought to be most to thy credit.
Something like this I observed to her; and would fain have excused myself from shewing it: But she was so earnest, that I undertook to read some parts of it, resolving to omit the most exceptionable.
I know thou'lt curse me for that; but I thought it better to oblige her, than to be suspected myself; and so not have it in my power to serve thee with her, when so good a foundation was laid for it; and when she knows as bad of thee as I can tell her.
Thou remembrest the contents, I suppose, of thy furious letter. Her remarks upon the different parts of it which I read to her, were to the following effect:
Upon thy two first lines, All undone! undone, by Jupiter! - Zounds, Jack, what shall I do now! A curse upon all my plots and contrivances! thus she expressed herself:
'O how light, how unaffected with the sense of its own crimes, is the heart that could dictate to the pen this libertine froth!'
The paragraph, which mentions the vile arrest, affected her a good deal.
In the next, I omitted thy curse upon thy relations, whom thou wert gallanting: And read on the seven subsequent paragraphs, down to thy execrable wish; which was too shocking to read to her. What I read produced the following reflections from her:
'The plots and contrivances which he curses, and the exultings of the wicked wretches on finding me out, shew me, that all his guilt was premeditated: Nor doubt I, that his dreadful perjuries, and inhuman arts, as he went along, were to pass for fine stratagems; for witty sport; and to demonstrate a superiority of inventive talents! -O my cruel, cruel brother! had it not been for thee, I had not been thrown upon so pernicious and so despicable a plotter! -But proceed, Sir; pray proceed.'
At that part, Canst thou, O fatal prognosticator! tell me where my punishments will end?-she sighed: And when I came to that sentence, Praying for my reformation, perhaps-Is that there? said she, sighing again. -Wretched man! -And shed a tear for thee. -By my faith, Lovelace, I believe she hates thee not! -She has at least a concern, a generous concern, for thy future happiness! - What a noble creature hast thou injured!
She made a very severe reflection upon me, on reading these words- On your knees, for me, beg her pardon- You had all your lessons, Sir, said she, when you came to redeem me-You was so condescending as to kneel: I thought it was the effect of your own humanity, and good-natured earnestness to serve me: Excuse me, Sir, I knew not, that it was in consequence of a prescribed lesson.'
This concerned me not a little: I could not bear to be thought such a wretched puppet, such a Joseph Leman, such a Tomlinson-I endeavoured therefore, with some warmth, to clear myself of this reflection; and she again asked my excuse: 'I was avowedly, she said, the friend of a man, whose friendship, she had reason to be sorry to say, was no credit to any-body.' -And desired me to proceed. -I did; but fared not much better afterwards: For,
On that passage, where you say, I had always been her friend and advocate, This was her unanswerable remark: I find, Sir, by this expression, that he had always designs against me; and that you all along knew that he had: Would to Heaven, you had had the goodness to have contrived some way, that might not have endangered your own safety, to give me notice of his baseness, since you approved not of it! But you gentlemen, I suppose, had rather see an innocent fellow-creature ruined, than be thought capable of an action, which, however generous, might be likely to loosen the bands of a wicked friendship!'
After this severe but just reflection, I would have avoided reading the following, altho' I had unawares begun the sentence (but she held me to it): What would I now give, had I permitted you to have been a successful advocate! And this was her remark upon it-'So, Sir, you see, if you had been the happy means of preventing the evils designed me, you would have had your friend's thanks for it, when he came to his consideration. This satisfaction, I am persuaded every-one, in the long run, will enjoy, who has the virtue to withstand, or prevent, a wicked purpose. I was obliged, I see, to your kind wishes-But it was a point of honour with you to keep his secret; the greater honour, perhaps, the viler the secret. Yet permit me to wish, Mr. Belford, that you were capable of relishing the pleasures that arise to a benevolent mind from VIRTUOUS friendship! -None other is worthy of the sacred name. You seem an humane man: I hope, for your own sake, you will one day experience the difference: And, when you do, think of Miss Howe and Clarissa Harlowe (I find you know much of my sad story), who were the happiest creatures on earth in each other's friendship, till this friend of yours'-And there she stopt, and turned from me.
Where thou callest thyself A villainous plotter; 'To take crime to himself, said she, without shame, O what a hardened wretch is this man!'
On that passage, where thou sayest, Let me know how she has been treated: If roughly, woe be to the guilty! this was her remark, with an air of indignation: 'What a man is your friend, Sir! -Is such a one as he to set himself up to punish the guilty? -All the rough usage I could receive from them, was infinitely less'-And there she stopt, a moment or two: Then proceeding-'And who shall punish him? What an assuming wretch! - No-body but himself is intitled to injure the innocent? - He is, I suppose, on earth, to act the part, which the malignant fiend is supposed to act below: Dealing out punishments, at his pleasure, to every inferior instrument of mischief!'
What, thought I, have I been doing! I shall have this savage fellow think I have been playing him booty, in reading part of his letter to this sagacious lady! -Yet, if thou art angry, it can only, in reason, be at thyself; for who would think I might not communicate to her some of the least exceptionable parts of a letter (as a proof of thy sincerity in exculpating thyself from a criminal charge), which thou wrotest to thy friend, to convince him of thy innocence? But a bad heart, and a bad cause, are confounding things: And so let us put it to its proper account.
I passed over thy charge to me, to curse them by the hour; and thy names of Dragon and Serpents, tho' so applicable; since, had I read them, thou must have been supposed to know from the first, what creatures they were; vile fellow as thou wert, for bringing so much purity among them! And I closed with thy own concluding paragraph, A line! A line! A kingdom for a line! &c. However telling her, since she saw, that I omitted some sentences, that there were further vehemences in it; but as they were better fitted to shew to me the sincerity of the writer, than for so delicate an ear as hers to hear, I chose to pass them over.
You have read enough, said she-He is a wicked, wicked man! -I see he intended to have me in his power at any rate; and I have no doubt of what his purposes were, by what his actions have been. You know his vile Tomlinson, I suppose-you know-But what signifies talking? -Never was there such a premeditately false heart in man [ Nothing can be truer, thought I!]: What has he not vowed! What has he not invented! And all for what? -Only, to ruin a poor young creature, whom he ought to have protected; and whom he had first deprived of all other protection?
She arose, and turned from me, her handkerchief at her eyes: And, after a pause, came towards me again- 'I hope, said she, I talk to a man, who has a better heart: And I thank you, Sir, for all your kind, tho' ineffectual, pleas in my favour formerly, whether the motives for them were compassion, or principle, or both. That they were ineffectual, might very probably be owing to your want of earnestness; and that, as you might think, to my want of merit. I might not, in your eye, deserve to be saved! -I might appear to you a giddy creature, who had run away from her true and natural friends; and who therefore ought to take the consequence of the lot she had drawn.'
I was afraid, for thy sake, to let her know how very earnest I had been: But assured her, that I had been her zealous friend; and that my motives were founded upon a merit, that, I believed, was never equalled: That, however indefensible Mr. Lovelace was, he had always done justice to her virtue: That to a full conviction of her untainted honour it was owing, that he so earnestly desired to call so inestimable a jewel his-And was proceeding, when she again cut me short-
Enough, and too much, of this subject, Sir! -If he will never more let me behold his face, that is all I have now to ask of him. -Indeed, indeed, clasping her hands, I never will, if I can, by any means not criminally desperate, avoid it.
What could I say for thee? -There was no room, however, at that time, to touch this string again, for fear of bringing upon myself a prohibition, not only of the subject, but of ever attending her again.
I gave some distant intimations of money-matters. I should have told thee, that, when I read to her that passage, where thou biddest me force what sums upon her I can get her to take-she repeated, No, no, no, no! several times with great quickness; and I durst no more than just intimate it again-and that so darkly, as left her room to seem not to understand me.
Indeed I know not the person, man or woman, I should be so much afraid of disobliging, or incurring a censure from, as from her. She has so much true dignity in her manner, without pride or arrogance; which, in those who have either, one is tempted to mortify; such a piercing eye, yet softened so sweetly with rays of benignity, that she commands all one's reverence.
Methinks I have a kind of holy love for this angel of a woman; and it is matter of astonishment to me, that thou couldst converse with her a quarter of an hour together, and hold thy devilish purposes.
Guarded as she was by piety, prudence, virtue, dignity, family, fortune, and a purity of heart, that never woman before her boasted, what a true devil must he be (yet I doubt I shall make thee proud!), who could resolve to break thro' so many fences!
For my own part, I am more and more sensible, that I ought not to have contented myself with representing against, and expostulating with thee upon, thy base intentions: And indeed I had it in my head, more than once, to try to do something for her. But, wretch that I was! I was with-held by notions of false honour, as she justly reproached me, because of thy own voluntary communications to me of thy purposes: And then, as she was brought into such a cursed house, and was so watched by thyself, as well as by thy infernal agents, I thought (knowing my man!), that I should only accelerate the intended mischiefs. -Moreover, finding thee so much overawed by her virtue, that thou hadst not, at thy first carrying her thither, the courage to attempt her; and that she had, more than once, without knowing thy base views, obliged thee to abandon them, and to resolve to do her justice, and thyself honour; I hardly doubted, that her merit would be triumphant at last.
It is my opinion (if thou holdest thy purposes to marry), that thou canst not do better, than to procure thy real aunts, and thy real cousins, to pay her a visit, and to be thy advocates: But, if they decline personal visits, letters from them, and from my Lord M. supported by Miss Howe's interest, may, perhaps, effect something in thy favour.
But these are only my hopes, founded on what I wish for thy sake. The lady, I really think, would choose death rather than thee: And the two women are of opinion, tho' they know not half of what she has suffered, that her heart is actually broken.
At taking my leave, I tendered my best services to her, and besought her to permit me frequently to inquire after her health.
She made me no answer, but by bowing her head.

### v6 LETTER XLVII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wednesday, July 19.
This morning I took chair to Smith's; and, being told, that the lady had a very bad night, but was up, I sent for her worthy apothecary; who, on his coming to me, approving of my proposal of calling in Dr. H. I bid the women acquaint her with the designed visit.
It seems, she was at first displeased; yet withdrew her objection: But, after a pause, asked them, What she should do? She had effects of value, some of which she intended, as soon as she could, to turn into money; but, till then, had not a single guinea to give the Doctor for his fee.
Mrs. Lovick said, she had five guineas by her: They were at her service.
She would accept of three, she said, if she would take that (pulling a diamond ring from her finger), till she repaid her; but on no other terms.
Having been told, I was below with Mr. Goddard, she desired to speak one word with me, before she saw the Doctor.
She was sitting in an elbow-chair, leaning her head on a pillow; Mrs. Smith and the widow on each side her chair; her nurse, with a phial of hartshorn, behind her; in her own hand, her salts.
Raising her head at my entrance, she inquired, If the Doctor knew Mr. Lovelace?
I told her, No; and that I believed you never saw him in your life.
Was the Doctor my friend?
He was; and a very worthy and skilful man. I named him for his eminence in his profession: And Mr. Goddard said, he knew not a better physician.
I have but one condition to make before I see the gentleman; that he refuse not his fees from me. If I am poor, Sir, I am proud. I will not be under obligation. You may believe, Sir, I will not. I suffer this visit, because I would not appear ingrateful to the few friends I have left, nor obstinate to such of my relations, as may some time hence, for their private satisfaction, inquire after my behaviour in my sick hours. So, Sir, you know the condition. And don't let me be vexed: I am very ill; and cannot debate the matter.
Seeing her so determined, I told her, If it must be so, it should.
Then, Sir, the gentleman may come. But I shall not be able to answer many questions. Nurse, you can tell him, at the window there, what a night I have had, and how I have been for two days past. And Mr. Goddard, if he be here, can let him know what I have taken. Pray let me be as little questioned, as possible.
The Doctor paid his respects to her, with the gentlemanly address for which he is noted: And she cast up her sweet eyes to him, with that benignity which accompanies her every graceful look.
I would have retired; but she forbid it.
He took her hand, the lily not of so beautiful a white; Indeed, Madam, you are very low, said he: But, give me leave to say, That you can do more for yourself, than all the faculty can do for you.
He then withdrew to the window. And, after a short conference with the women, he turned to me, and to Mr. Goddard, at the other window: We can do nothing here, speaking low, but by cordials, and nourishment. What friends has the lady? She seems to be a person of condition; and, ill as she is, a very fine woman. -A single lady, I presume?
I whisperingly told him she was. That there were extraordinary circumstances in her case; as I would have apprised him, had I met with him yesterday. That her friends were very cruel to her; but that she could not hear them named, without reproaching herself; tho' they were much more to blame, than she.
I knew I was right, said the Doctor. A love-case, Mr. Goddard! A love-case, Mr. Belford! There is one person in the world, who can do her more service, than all the faculty.
Mr. Goddard said, he had apprehended her disorder was in her mind; and had treated her accordingly: And then told the Doctor what he had done: Which he approving of, again taking her charming hand, said, My good young Lady, you will require very little of our assistance. You must, in a great measure, be your own doctress. Come, dear Madam (Forgive me the familiar tenderness; your aspect commands love, as well as reverence; and a father of children, some of them older than yourself, may be excused for them), chear up your spirits. Resolve to do all in your power to be well; and you'll soon grow better.
You are very kind, Sir, said she. I will take whatever you direct. My spirits have been hurried. I shall be better, I believe, before I am worse. The care of my good friends here, looking at the women, shall not meet with an ingrateful return.
The Doctor wrote. He would fain have declined his fee. As her malady, he said, was rather to be relieved by the soothings of a friend, than by the prescriptions of a physician, he should think himself greatly honoured to be admitted rather to advise her in the one character, than to prescribe to her in the other.
She answered, That she should be always glad to see so humane a gentleman: That his visits would keep her in charity with his sex: But that, were she to forget that he was her physician, she might be apt to abate of the confidence in his skill, which might be necessary to effect the amendment that was the end of his visits.
And when he urged her still further, which he did in a very polite manner, and as passing by the door two or three times a day, she said, she should always have pleasure in considering him in the kind light he offered himself to her: That that might be very generous in one person to offer, which would be as ungenerous in another to accept: That indeed she was not at present high in circumstance; and he saw by the tender (which he must accept of), that she had greater respect to her own convenience, than to his merit, or than to the pleasure she should take in his visits.
We all withdrew together; and the Doctor and Mr. Goddard having a great curiosity to know something more of her story, at the motion of the latter we went into a neighbouring coffee-house, and I gave them, in confidence, a brief relation of it; making all as light for you as I could; and yet you'll suppose, that, in order to do but common justice to the lady's character, heavy must be that light.
Three o'clock, afternoon.
I just now called again at Smith's; and am told she is somewhat better; which she attributed to the soothings of her Doctor. She expressed herself highly pleased with both gentlemen; and said, that their behaviour to her was perfectly paternal.-
Paternal, poor lady! -Never having been, till very lately, from under her parents wings, and now abandon'd by all her friends, she is for finding out something paternal and maternal in every one (the latter qualities in Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith), to supply to herself the father and mother her dutiful heart pants after!
Mrs. Smith told me, that, after we were gone, she gave the keys of her trunks and drawers to her and the widow Lovick, and desired them to take an inventory of them; which they did, in her presence.
They also informed me, That she had requested them to find her a purchaser for two rich dress'd suits; one never worn, the other not above once or twice.
This shock'd me exceedingly: Perhaps it may thee a little!!! -Her reason for so doing, she told them, was, That she should never live to wear them: That her sister, and other relations, were above wearing them: That her mother would not endure in her sight any-thing that was hers: That she wanted the money: That she would not be obliged to any-body, when she had effects by her, which she had no occasion for: And yet, said she, I expect not, that they will fetch a price answerable to their value.
They were both very much concerned, as they own'd; and asked my advice upon it: And the richness of her apparel having given them a still higher notion of her rank, than they had before, they supposed she must be of quality; and again wanted to know her story.
I told them, That she was indeed a lady of family and fortune: I still gave them room to suppose her married: But left it to her to tell them all in her own time and manner: All I would say, was, That she had been very vilely treated; deserved it not; and was all innocence and purity.
You may suppose, that they both expressed their astonishment, that there could be a man in the world, who could ill-treat so fine a creature.
As to disposing of the two suits of apparel, I told Mrs. Smith, That she should pretend, that, upon inquiry, she had found a friend, who would purchase the richest of them; but (that she might not mistrust) would stand upon a good bargain. And having twenty guineas about me, I left them with her, in part of payment; and bid her pretend to get her to part with it for as little more as she could induce her to take.
I am setting out for Edgware with poor Belton-More of whom in my next. I shall return to-morrow; and leave This in readiness for your messenger, if he shall call in my absence. Adieu!

### v6 LETTER XLVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
[In Answer to Letter xlvi.]
M. Hall, Wedn. night, July 19.
Thou mightst well apprehend, that I should think thou wert playing me booty, in communicating my letter to the lady.
Thou askest, Who would think thou mightst not read to her the least exceptionable parts of a letter written in my own defence to thee? - I'll tell thee who-The man, who, in the same letter that he asks this question, tells the friend whom he exposes to her resentment, "That there is such an air of levity runs thro' his most serious letters, that those of his are least fit to be seen, which ought to be most to his credit:" And now, what thinkest thou of thy self-condemned folly? Be, however, I charge thee, more circumspect for the future, that so this clumsy error may stand singly by itself.
"It is painful to her to think of me!" "Libertine froth!" "So pernicious and so despicable a plotter!" "A man whose friendship is no credit to any-body!" "Harden'd wretch!" "The devil's counterpart!" "A wicked, wicked man!" -But did she, could she, dared she, to say or imply all this? -And say it to a man whom she praises for humanity, and prefers to myself for that virtue; when all the humanity he shews, and she knows it too, is by my direction-So robs me of the credit of my own works? Admirably intitled, all this shews her, to thy refinement upon the words resentment and revenge. But thou wert always aiming and blundering at something thou never couldst make out.
The praise thou givest to her ingenuousness, is another of thy peculiars. I think not as thou dost, of her tell-tale recapitulations and exclamations: -What end can they answer? -Only that thou hast an holy love [The devil fetch thee for thy oddity!], or it is extremely provoking to suppose one sees such a charming creature stand upright before a libertine, and talk of the sin against her, that cannot be forgiven! -I wish at my heart, that these chaste ladies would have a little modesty in their anger! - It would sound very strange, if I Robert Lovelace should pretend to have more true delicacy, in a point that requires the utmost, than Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
I think I will put it into the head of her Nurse Norton, and her Miss Howe, by some one of my agents, to chide the dear novice for her proclamations.
But to be serious; Let me tell thee, that severe as she is, and saucy, in asking so contemptuously, "What a man is your friend, Sir, to set himself to punish guilty people!" I will never forgive the cursed woman, who could commit this last horrid violence on so excellent a creature.
The barbarous insults of the two nymphs, in their visits to her; the choice of the most execrable den that could be found out, in order, no doubt, to induce her to go back to theirs; and the still more execrable attempt, to propose to her a man who would pay the debt; a snare, I make no question, laid for her despairing and resenting heart by that devilish Sally (thinking her, no doubt, a woman), in order to ruin her with me; and to provoke me, in a fury, to give her up to their remorseless cruelty; are outrages, that, to express myself in her style, I never can, never will, forgive.
But as to thy opinion, and the two womens at Smith's, that her heart is broken; that is the true womens language: I wonder how thou camest into it: Thou who hast seen and heard of so many female deaths and revivals.
I'll tell thee what makes against this notion of theirs.
Her time of life, and charming constitution: The good she ever delighted to do, and fancied she was born to do: And which she may still continue to do, to as high a degree as ever; nay, higher; since I am no sordid varlet, thou knowest: Her religious turn; a turn that will always teach her to bear inevitable evils with patience: The contemplation upon her last noble triumph over me, and over the whole crew; and upon her succeeding escape from us all: Her will unviolated: And the inward pride of having not deserved the treatment she has met with.
How is it possible to imagine, that a woman, who has all these consolatories to reflect upon, will die of a broken heart?
On the contrary, I make no doubt, but that, as she recovers from the dejection into which this last scurvy villainy (which none but wretches of her own sex could have been guilty of), has thrown her, returning Love will re-enter her time-pacified mind: Her thoughts will then turn once more on the conjugal pivot: Of course she will have livelier notions in her head; and these will make her perform all her circumvolutions with ease and pleasure; tho' not with so high a degree of either, as if the dear proud rogue could have exalted herself above the rest of her sex, as she turned round.
Thou askest, on reciting the bitter invectives that the lady made against thy poor friend (standing before her, I suppose, with thy fingers in thy mouth), What couldst thou say FOR me?
Have I not, in my former letters, suggested an hundred things, which a friend, in earnest to vindicate or excuse a friend, might say, on such an occasion?
But now to current topics, and the present state of matters here-It is true, as my servant told thee, that Miss Howe had engaged, before this cursed woman's officiousness, to use her interest with her friend in my behalf: And yet she told my cousins, in the visit they made her, that it was her opinion, that she would never forgive me.
I long to know what Miss Howe wrote to her friend, in order to induce her to marry the despicable plotter; the man whose friendship is no credit to any-body; the wicked, wicked man. Thou hadst the two letters in thy hand. Had they been in mine, the seal would have yielded to the touch of my warm finger [Perhaps without the help of the post-office bullet], and the folds, as other plications have done, open'd of themselves, to oblige my curiosity. A wicked omission, Jack, not to contrive to send them down to me, by man and horse! It might have passed, that the messenger, who brought the second letter, took them both back. I could have returned them by another, when copied, as from Miss Howe, and no-body but myself and thee the wiser.
My two aunts, finding the treaty, upon the success of which they have set their foolish hearts, likely to run into length, are about departing to their own seats; having taken from me the best security the nature of the case will admit of, that is to say, my word, to marry the lady, if she will have me.
All I have to do, in my present uncertainty, is, to brighten up my faculties, by filing off the rust they have contracted by the town smoke, a long imprisonment in my close attendance to so little purpose on my fair perverse; and to brace up, if I can, the relaxed fibres of my mind, which have been twitch'd and convuls'd like the nerves of some tottering paralytic, by means of the tumults she has excited in it; that so I may be able to present to her a husband as worthy as I can be of her acceptance; or, if she reject me, be in a capacity to resume my usual gaiety of heart, and shew others of the misleading sex, that I am not discouraged by the difficulties I have met with from this sweet individual of it, from endeavouring to make myself as acceptable to them as before.
In this latter case, one tour to France and Italy, I dare say, will do the business. Miss Harlowe will by that time have forgotten all she has suffered from the ingrateful Lovelace: Tho' it will be impossible that her Lovelace should ever forget a woman, whose equal he despairs to meet with, were he to travel from one end of the world to the other.
If thou continuest paying off the heavy debts my long letters, for so many weeks together, have made thee groan under, I will endeavour to restrain myself in the desires I have (importunate as they are) of going to town, to throw myself at the feet of my soul's beloved. Policy, and honesty, both join to strengthen the restraint my own promise and thy engagement have laid me under on this head. I would not afresh provoke: On the contrary, would give time for her resentments to subside, that so all that follows may be her own act and deed.
Hickman [I have a mortal aversion to that fellow!] has, by a line which I have just now received, requested an interview with me on Friday at Mr. Dormer's, as at a common friend's. Does the business he wants to meet me upon, require that it should be at a common friend's? - A challenge implied; i'n't it, Belford? -I shall not be civil to him, I doubt. He has been an intermeddler! - Then I envy him on Miss Howe's account: For if I have a right notion of this Hickman, it is impossible that that virago can ever love him.
A charming encouragement for a man of intrigue, when he has reason to believe, that the woman he has a view upon has no love for her husband! What good principles must that wife have, who is kept in against temptation by a sense of her duty, and plighted faith, where affection has no hold of her!
Pr'ythee let's know, very particularly, how it fares with poor Belton. -'Tis an honest fellow. -Something more than his Thomasine seems to stick with him.
Tourville, Mowbray, and myself, pass away our time as pleasantly as possibly we can without thee. I wish we don't add to Lord M.'s gouty days by the joy we give him.
This is one advantage, as I believe I have elsewhere observed, that we male-delinquents in love-matters have of the other sex: -For while they, poor things! sit sighing in holes and corners, or run to woods and groves to bemoan themselves for their baffled hopes, we can rant and roar, hunt and hawk; and, by new loves, banish from our hearts all remembrance of the old ones.
Merrily, however, as we pass our time, my reflections upon the injuries done to this noble creature bring a qualm upon my heart very often. But I know she will permit me to make her amends, after she has plagued me heartily; and that's my consolation.
An honest fellow still! -Clap thy wings, and crow, Jack!-

### v6 LETTER XLIX.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Thursday morn. July 20.
What, my dearest creature, have been your sufferings! - What must have been your anguish on so disgraceful an insult, committed in the open streets, and in the open day!
No end, I think, of the undeserved calamities of a dear soul, who has been so unhappily driven and betrayed into the hands of a vile libertine! -How was I shocked at the receiving of your letter written by another hand; and only dictated by you! -You must be very ill. Nor is it to be wondered at. But I hope it is rather from hurry, and surprize, and lowness, which may be overcome, than from a grief given way to, which may be attended with effects I cannot bear to think of.
But whatever you do, my dear, you must not despond! Indeed you must not despond! Hitherto you have been in no fault: But despair would be all your own; and the worst fault you can be guilty of.
I cannot bear to look upon another hand instead of yours. My dear creature, send me a few lines, tho' ever so few, in your own hand, if possible. -For they will revive my heart; especially if they can acquaint me of your amended health.
I expect your answer to my letter of the 13th. We all expect it with impatience.
His relations are persons of so much honour-They are so very earnest to rank you among them-The wretch is so very penitent: Every one of his family says he is-Your own are so implacable-Your last distress, tho' the consequence of his former villainy, yet neither brought on by his direction, nor with his knowlege; and so much resented by him-That my mamma is absolutely of opinion, that you should be his-Especially if, yielding to my wishes, as in my letter, and those of all his friends, you would have complied, had it not been for this horrid arrest.
I will inclose the copy of the letter I wrote to Miss Montague last Tuesday, on hearing that no-body knew what was become of you; and the answer to it, underwritten and signed by Lord M. and Lady Sarah Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance, as well as by the young ladies -And also by the wretch himself.
I own, that I like not the turn of what he has written to me; and before I will further interest myself in his favour, I have determined to inform myself, by a friend, from his own mouth, of his sincerity, and whether his whole inclination be in his request to me, exclusive of the wishes of his relations. Yet my heart rises against him, on the supposition that there is the shadow of a reason for such a question, the lady Miss Clarissa Harlowe. -But, I think, with my mother, that marriage is now the only means left to make your future life tolerably easy-happy there is no saying. -In the eye of the world itself, his disgraces, in that case, will be more than yours. -And to those who know you, glorious will be your triumph.
I am obliged to accompany my mother soon to the Isle of Wight. My aunt Harman is in a declining way, and insists upon seeing us both; and Mr. Hickman too, I think.
His sister, of whom we had heard so much, with her Lord, were brought t'other day to visit us. She strangely likes me, or says she does.
I can't say, but that I think she answers the excellent character we have heard of her.
It would be death to me to set out for the little island, and not see you first: And yet my mother (fond of exerting an authority, that she herself, by that exertion, often brings into question) insists, that my next visit to you must be a congratulatory one, as Mrs. Lovelace.
When I know what will be the result of the questions to be put in my name to that wretch, and what is your mind on my letter of the 13th, I shall tell you more of mine.
The bearer promises to make so much dispatch, as to attend you this very afternoon. May he return with good tidings to
Your ever-affectionate
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER L.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Thursday afternoon.
You oppress me, my dearest Miss Howe, by your flaming, yet steady love. I will be very brief, because I am not well; yet a good deal better than I was; and because I am preparing an answer to yours of the 13th. But, beforehand, I must tell you, my dear, I will not have that man-Don't be angry with me. -But indeed I won't. So let him be asked no questions about me, I beseech you.
I do not despond, my dear. I hope I may say, I will not despond. Is not my condition greatly mended? I thank Heaven it is!
I am no prisoner now in a vile house. I am not now in the power of that man's devices. I am not now obliged to hide myself in corners for fear of him. One of his intimate companions is become my warm friend, and engages to keep him from me, and that by his own consent. I am among honest people. I have all my cloaths and effects restored me. The wretch himself bears testimony to my honour.
Indeed I am very weak and ill: But I have an excellent physician, Dr. H. and as worthy an apothecary, Mr. Goddard. -Their treatment of me, my dear, is perfectly paternal! -My mind too, I can find, begins to strengthen: And methinks, at times, I find myself superior to my calamities.
I shall have sinkings sometimes. I must expect such. And my father's maledict-But you will chide me for introducing that, now I am enumerating my comforts.
But I charge you, my dear, that you do not suffer my calamities to sit too heavy upon your own mind: If you do, that will be to new-point some of those arrows, that have been blunted, and lost their sharpness.
If you would contribute to my happiness, give way, my dear, to your own; and to the chearful prospects before you!
You will think very meanly of your Clarissa Harlowe, if you do not believe, that the greatest pleasure she can receive in this life, is in your prosperity and welfare. Think not of me, my only friend, but as we were in times past: And suppose me gone a great, great way off! -A long journey! -How often are the dearest of friends, at their country's call, thus parted,-with a certainty for years- with a probability for ever!
Love me still, however. But let it be with a weaning love. I am not what I was, when we were inseparable lovers, as I may say. -Our views must now be different. -Resolve, my dear, to make a worthy man happy, because a worthy man must make you so. -And so, my dearest love, for the present adieu! -Adieu, my dearest love!- But I shall soon write again, I hope!

### v6 LETTER LI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace. Esq;
[In Answer to Letter xlviii.]
Thursday, July 20.
I Read that part of your conclusion to poor Belton, where you inquire after him, and mention how merrily you, and the rest, pass your time at M. Hall. He fetched a deep sigh; You are all very happy! were his words: -I am sorry they were his words; for, poor fellow, he is going very fast. Change of air, he hopes, will mend him, joined to the chearful company I have left him in. But nothing, I dare say, will.
A consuming malady, and a consuming mistress, to an indulgent keeper, are dreadful things to struggle with both together: Violence must be used to get rid of the latter: and yet he has not spirit left him, to exert himself. His house is Thomasine's house; not his. He has not been within his doors for a fortnight past. Vagabonding about from inn to inn; entering each for a bait only; and staying two or three days without power to remove; and hardly knowing which to go to next. His malady is within him; and he cannot run away from it.
Her boys (once he thought them his) are sturdy enough to shoulder him in his own house as they pass by him. Siding with the mother, they in a manner expel him; and, in his absence, riot away on the remnant of his broken fortunes. As to their mother, who was once so tender, so submissive, so studious to oblige, that we all pronounced him happy, and his course of life the eligible, she is now so termagant, so insolent, that he cannot contend with her, without doing infinite prejudice to his health. A broken-spirited defensive, hardly a defensive, therefore reduced to: And this to a heart, for so many years waging offensive war (nor valuing whom the opponent), what a reduction! -Now comparing himself to the superannuated lion in the fable, kick'd in the jaws, and laid sprawling, by the spurning heel of an ignoble ass!
I have undertaken his cause. He has given me leave, yet not without reluctance, to put him into possession of his own house; and to place in it for him his unhappy sister, whom he has hitherto slighted, because unhappy. It is hard, he told me (and wept, poor fellow, when he said it), that he cannot be permitted to die quietly in his own house! -The fruits of blessed keeping these!-
Tho' but lately apprised of her infidelity, it now comes out to have been of so long continuance, that he has no room to believe the boys to be his: Yet how fond did he use to be of them!
If I have occasion for your assistance, and that of our compeers, in reinstating the poor fellow, I will give you notice. Mean time, I have just now been told, that Thomasine declares she will not stir: For, it seems, she suspects that measures will be fallen upon to make her quit. She is Mrs. Belton, she says, and will prove her marriage.
If she give herself these airs in his life-time, what would she attempt to do after his death?
Her boys threaten any-body, who shall presume to insult their mother. Their father (as they call poor Belton) they speak of as an unnatural one. And their probably true father is for ever there, hostilely there, passing for her cousin, as usual: Now her protecting cousin.
Hardly ever, I dare say, was there a keeper, that did not make a keeperess; who lavish'd away on her kept-fellow, what she obtained from the extravagant folly of him who kept her.
I will do without you, if I can. The case will be only, as I conceive, like that of the antient Sarmatians, returning, after many years absence, to their homes, their wives then in possession of their slaves: So that they had to contend not only with those wives, conscious of their infidelity, and with their slaves, but with the children of those slaves, grown up to manhood, resolute to defend their mothers, and their long manumitted fathers. But the noble Sarmatians, scorning to attack their slaves with equal weapons, only provided themselves with the same sort of whips, with which they used formerly to chastise them. And, attacking them with them, the miscreants fled before them. -In memory of which, to this day, the device on the coin in Novogrod in Russia, a city of the antient Sarmatia, is a man on horseback, with a whip in his hand.
The poor fellow takes it ill, that you did not press him more than you did, to be of your party at M. Hall. It is owing to Mowbray, he is sure, that he had so very slight an invitation, from one whose invitations used to be so warm.
Mowbray's speech to him, he says, he never will forgive: "Why, Tom," said the brutal fellow, with a curse, "thou droopest like a pip or roup-cloaking chicken. Thou shouldst grow perter, or submit to a solitary quarantine, if thou wouldst not infect the whole brood."
For my own part, only that this poor fellow is in distress, as well in his affairs, as in his mind, or I should be sick of you all. Such is the relish I have of the conversation, and such my admiration of the deportment and sentiments of this divine lady, that I would forego a month, even of thy company, to be admitted into hers but for one hour: And I am highly in conceit with myself, greatly as I used to value thine, for being able, spontaneously, as I may say, to make this preference.
It is, after all, a devilish life we have lived. And to consider how it all ends in a very few years: To see what a state of ill health this poor fellow is so soon reduced to: And then to observe how every one of ye run away from the unhappy being, as rats from a falling house, is fine comfort to help a man to look back upon companions ill-chosen, and a life mis-spent!
For my own part, if I can get some good family to credit me with a sister or a daughter, as I have now an increased fortune, which will enable me to propose handsome settlements, I will desert ye all; marry, and live a life of reason, rather than a life of brute, for the time to come.

### v6 LETTER LII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday night.
I was forced to take back my twenty guineas. How the women managed it, I can't tell (I suppose too readily found a purchaser for the rich suit); but she mistrusted, that I was the advancer of the money; and would not let the cloaths go. But Mrs. Lovick has actually sold, for fifteen guineas, some rich lace, worth three times the sum: Out of which she repaid her the money she borrowed for fees to the doctor, in an illness occasioned by the barbarity of the most savage of men. Thou knowest his name!
The Doctor called on her in the morning, it seems, and had a short debate with her about fees. She insisted, that he should take one every time he came, write or not write; mistrusting, that he only gave verbal directions to Mrs. Lovick, or the nurse, to avoid taking any.
He said, That it would have been impossible for him, had he not been a physician, to forbear inquiries after the health and welfare of so excellent a person. He had not the thought of paying her a compliment in declining the offer'd fee: But he knew her case could not so suddenly vary, as to demand his daily visits. She must permit him, therefore, to inquire after her health of the women below; and he must not think of coming up, if he were to be pecuniarily rewarded for the satisfaction he was so desirous to give himself.
It ended in a compromise for a see each other time: Which she unwillingly submitted to; telling him, that tho' she was at present desolate and in disgrace, yet her circumstances were, of right, high; and no expences could rise so, as to be scrupled, whether she lived or died. But she submitted, she added, to the compromise, in hopes to see him as often as he had opportunity; for she really looked upon him, and Mr. Goddard, from their kind and tender treatment of her, with a regard next to filial.
I hope thou wilt make thyself acquainted with this worthy doctor, when thou comest to town; and give him thy thanks, for putting her into conceit with the Sex that thou hast given her so much reason to execrate.
Farewell.

### v6 LETTER LIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
M. Hall, Friday, July 21.
Just returned from an interview with this Hickman: A precise fop of a fellow, as starch'd as his ruffles.
Thou knowest I love him not, Jack; and whom we love not, we cannot allow a merit to; perhaps not the merit they should be granted. -However, I am in earnest when I say, that he seems to me to be so set, so prim, so affected, so mincing, yet so clouterly in his person, that I dare engage for thy opinion, if thou dost justice to him, and to thyself, that thou never beheldest such another, except in a pier-glass.
I'll tell thee how I play'd him off.
He came in his own chariot to Dormer's; and we took a turn in the garden, at his request. He was devilish ceremonious, and made a bushel of apologies for the freedom he was going to take; and, after half a hundred hums and haws, told me, that he came-that he came-to wait on me-at the request of dear Miss Howe, on the account -on the account-of Miss Harlowe.
Well, Sir, speak on, said I: But give me leave to say, that if your book be as long as your preface, it will take up a week to read it.
This was pretty rough, thou'lt say: But there's nothing like balking these formalists at first. When they're put out of their road, they are filled with doubts of themselves, and can never get into it again: So that an honest fellow, impertinently attacked, as I was, has all the game in his own hand, quite thro' the conference.
He stroak'd his chin, and hardly knew what to say. At last, after parenthesis within parenthesis, apologizing for apologies, in imitation, I suppose, of Swift's Digressions in Praise of Digressions,-I presume, I presume, Sir, you were privy to the visit made to Miss Howe by the young ladies your cousins, in the name of Lord M. and Lady Sarah Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance?
I was, Sir: And Miss Howe had a letter afterwards, signed by his Lordship and those Ladies, and underwritten by myself. Have you seen it, Sir?
I can't say but I have. It is the principal cause of this visit: For Miss Howe thinks your part of it is written with such an air of levity-Pardon me, Sir,-that she knows not whether you are in earnest, or not, in your address to her for her interest to her friend.
Will Miss Howe permit me to explain myself in person to her, Mr. Hickman?
O Sir, by no means: Miss Howe, I am sure, would not give you that trouble.
I should not think it a trouble. I will most readily attend you, Sir, to Miss Howe, and satisfy her in all her scruples. Come, Sir, I will wait upon you now. You have a chariot. Are alone. We can talk as we ride.
He hesitated, wriggled, winced, stroaked his ruffles, set his wig, and pulled his neckcloth, which was long enough for a bib-I am not going directly back to Miss Howe, Sir. It will be as well, if you will be so good as to satisfy Miss Howe by me.
What is it she scruples, Mr. Hickman?
Why, Sir, Miss Howe observes, that in your part of the letter, you say-But let me see, Sir: I have a copy of what you wrote-Pulling it out-Will you give me leave, Sir? -Thus you begin-Dear Miss Howe -
No offence, I hope, Mr. Hickman?
None in the least, Sir! -None at all, Sir! -Taking aim, as it were to read.
Do you use spectacles, Mr. Hickman?
Spectacles, Sir! His whole broad face lifted up at me: Spectacles! -What makes you ask me such a question? Such a young man as I use spectacles, Sir!-
They do in Spain, Mr. Hickman; young as well as old; to save their eyes. -Have you ever read Prior's Alma, Mr. Hickman?
I have, Sir: -Custom is every-thing in nations, as well as with individuals: I know the meaning of your question. -But 'tis not the English custom.-
Was you ever in Spain, Mr. Hickman?
No, Sir: I have been in Holland.
In Holland, Sir! -Never in France or Italy? -I was resolved to travel with him into the land of Puzzledom.
No, Sir, I cannot say I have, as yet.
That's a wonder, Sir, when on the continent!
I went on a particular affair: I was obliged to return soon.
Well, Sir; you was going to read-Pray be pleased to proceed.
Again he took aim, as if his eyes were older than the rest of him; and read, After what is written above, and signed by names and characters of such unquestionable honour-To be sure, taking off his eye, no-body questions the honour of Lord M. nor that of the good ladies, who signed the letter.
I hope, Mr. Hickman, no-body questions mine neither?
If you please, Sir, I will read on: -I might have been excused signing a name, almost as hateful to myself [You are pleased to say], as I KNOW it is to You-
Well, Mr. Hickman, I must interrupt you at this place. In what I wrote to Miss Howe, I distinguish'd the word KNOW. I had a reason for it. Miss Howe has been very free with my character. I have never done her any harm. I take it very ill of her. And I hope, Sir, you come in her name to make excuses for it.
Miss Howe, Sir, is a very polite young lady. She is not accustomed to treat any gentleman's character unbecomingly.
Then I have the more reason to take it amiss, Mr. Hickman.
Why, Sir, you know the friendship-
No friendship should warrant such freedoms as Miss Howe has taken with my character.
I believe he began to wish he had not come near me. He seemed quite disconcerted.
Have you not heard Miss Howe treat my name with great-
Sir, I come not to offend or affront you: But you know what a love there is between Miss Howe and Miss Harlowe. -I doubt, Sir, you have not treated Miss Harlowe, as so fine a young lady deserved to be treated: And if love for her friend has made Miss Howe take freedoms, as you call them, a generous mind, on such an occasion, will rather be sorry for having given the cause, than-
I know your consequence, Sir! -But I'd rather have this reproof from a lady, than from a gentleman. I have a great desire to wait upon Miss Howe. I am persuaded we should soon come to a good understanding. Generous minds are always of kin. I know we should agree in every-thing. Pray, Mr. Hickman, be so kind as to introduce me to Miss Howe.
Sir-I can signify your desire, if you please, to Miss Howe.
Do so. Be pleased to read on, Mr. Hickman.
He did very formally, as if I remembered not what I had written; and when he came to the passage about the halter, the parson, and the hangman, reading it, Why, Sir, says he, does not this look like a jest? -Miss Howe thinks it does. It is not in the lady's power, you know, Sir, to doom you to the gallows.
Then, if it were, Mr. Hickman, you think she would?
You say here to Miss Howe, proceeded he, that Miss Harlowe is the most injured of her sex. I know from Miss Howe; that she highly resents the injuries you own: Insomuch that Miss Howe doubts that she shall ever prevail upon her to overlook them: And as your family are all desirous you should repair her wrongs, and likewise desire Miss Howe's interposition with her friend: Miss Howe fears, from this part of your letter, that you are too much in jest; and that your offer to do her justice, is rather in compliment to your friends intreaties, than proceeding from your own inclinations: And she desires to know your true sentiments on this occasion, before she interposes further.
Do you think, Mr. Hickman, that, if I am capable of deceiving my own relations, I have so much obligation to Miss Howe, who has always treated me with great freedom, as to acknowledge to her, what I don't to them?
Sir, I beg pardon: -But Miss Howe thinks, that, as you have written to her, she may ask you, by me, for an explanation of what you have written.
You see, Mr. Hickman, something of me. -Do you think I am in jest, or in earnest?
I see, Sir, you are a gay gentleman, of fine spirits, and all That-All I beg in Miss Howe's name, is, to know, if you really, and bona fide, join with your friends, in desiring her to use her interest to reconcile you to Miss Harlowe?
I should be extremely glad to be reconciled to Miss Harlowe; and should owe great obligations to Miss Howe, if she could bring about so happy an event.
Well, Sir, and you have no objections to marriage, I presume, as the terms of that reconciliation?
I never liked matrimony in my life. I must be plain with you, Mr. Hickman.
I am sorry for it: I think it a very happy state.
I hope you will find it so, Mr. Hickman.
I doubt not but I shall, Sir. And I dare say, so would you, if you were to have Miss Harlowe.
If I could be happy in it with any-body, it would be with Miss Harlowe.
I am surprised, Sir! -Then, after all, you don't think of marrying Miss Harlowe! -After the hard usage-
What hard usage, Mr. Hickman? I don't doubt but a lady of her niceness has represented what would appear trifles to any other, in a very strong light.
If what I have had hinted to me, Sir-Excuse me- has been offered to the lady, she has more than trifles to complain of.
Let me know what you have heard, Mr. Hickman? I will very truly answer to the accusations.
Sir, you know best what you have done: You own the lady is the most injured, as well as the most deserving, of her sex.
I do, Sir; and yet, I would be glad to know what you have heard; for on that, perhaps, depends my answer to the questions Miss Howe puts to me by you.
Why then, Sir, since you ask it, you cannot be displeased if I answer you: -In the first place, Sir, you will acknowlege, I suppose, that you promised Miss Harlowe Marriage, and all That?
Well, Sir, and I suppose what you have to charge me with, is, That I was desirous to have all That, without marriage.
Cot-so, Sir, I know you are deemed to be a man of wit: But may I not ask, if these things sit not too light upon you?
When a thing is done, and cannot be helped, 'tis right to make the best of it. I wish the lady would think so too.
I think, Sir, ladies should not be deceived. I think a promise to a lady should be as binding as to any other person, at the least.
I believe you think so, Mr. Hickman: And I believe you are a very honest good sort of a man.
I would always keep my word, Sir, whether to man or woman.
You say well. And far be it from me to persuade you to do otherwise. But what have you farther heard?
Thou wilt think, Jack, I must be very desirous to know in what light my elected spouse had represented things to Miss Howe; and how far Miss Howe had communicated them to Mr. Hickman.
Sir, this is no part of my present business.
But, Mr. Hickman, 'tis part of mine. I hope you would not expect, that I should answer your questions, at the same time that you refuse to answer mine. What, pray, have you farther heard?
Why then, Sir, if I must say, I am told, that Miss Harlowe was carried to a very bad house.
Why, indeed, the people did not prove so good as they should be. -What farther have you heard?
I have heard, Sir, that the lady had strange advantages taken of her, very unfair ones; but what I cannot say.
And cannot you say? Cannot you guess? Then I'll tell you, Sir. Perhaps some liberty was taken with her, when she was asleep. Do you think no lady ever was taken at such an advantage? -You know, Mr. Hickman, that ladies are very shy of trusting themselves with the modestest of our sex, when they are disposed to sleep; and why so, if they did not expect, that advantages would be taken of them at such times?
But, Sir, had not the lady something given her to make her sleep?
Ay, Mr. Hickman, that's the question: I want to know if the lady says she had?
I have not seen all she has written; but by what I have heard, it is a very black affair-Excuse me, Sir.
I do excuse you, Mr. Hickman: But, supposing it were so, do you think a lady was never imposed upon by wine, or so? -Do you think the most cautious woman in the world might not be cheated by a stronger liquor, for a smaller, when she was thirsty, after a fatigue in this very warm weather? And do you think, if she was thus thrown into a profound sleep, that she is the only lady that was ever taken at such advantage?
Even as you make it, Mr. Lovelace, this matter is not a light one. But I fear it is a great deal heavier than as you put it.
What reasons have you to fear this, Sir? What has the lady said? Pray, let me know. I have reason to be so earnest.
Why, Sir, Miss Howe herself knows not the whole. The lady promises to give her all the particulars, at a proper time, if she lives; but has said enough to make it out to be a very bad affair.
I am glad Miss Harlowe has not yet given all the particulars. And, since she has not, you may tell Miss Howe from me, That neither she, nor any lady in the world, can be more virtuous than Miss Harlowe is to this hour, as to her own mind. Tell her, that I hope she never will know the particulars; but that she has been unworthily used: Tell her, that tho' I know not what she has said, yet I have such an opinion of her veracity, that I would blindly subscribe to the truth of every tittle of it, tho' it make me ever so black. Tell her, that I have but three things to blame her for: One, That she won't give me an opportunity of repairing her wrongs: The Second, That she is so ready to acquaint every-body with what she has suffered, that it will put it out of my power to redress those wrongs, with any tolerable reputation to either of us. Will this, Mr. Hickman, answer any part of the intention of this visit?
Why, Sir, this is talking like a man of honour, I own. But you say there is a Third thing you blame the lady for; may I ask what That is?
I don't know, Sir, whether I ought to tell it you, or not. Perhaps you won't believe it, if I do. But tho' the lady will tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, yet, perhaps, she will not tell the whole truth.
Pray, Sir-But it mayn't be proper: -Yet you give me great curiosity: Sure there is no misconduct in the lady. I hope there is not. I am sure, if Miss Howe did not believe her to be faultless in every particular, she would not interest herself so much in her favour as she does, dearly as she loves her.
I love the lady too well, Mr. Hickman, to wish to lessen her in Miss Howe's opinion; especially as she is abandoned of every other friend. But, perhaps, it would hardly be credited, if I should tell you.
I should be very sorry, Sir, and so would Miss Howe, if this poor lady's conduct had laid her under obligation to you for this reserve. -You have so much the appearance of a gentleman, as well as are so much distinguished in your family and fortunes, that I hope you are incapable of loading such a young lady as this, in order to lighten yourself. -Excuse me, Sir.
I do, I do, Mr. Hickman. You say, you came not with any intention to affront me. I take freedom, and I give it. -I should be very loth, I repeat, to say anything that may weaken Miss Harlowe in the good opinion of the only friend she thinks she has left.
It may not be proper, said he, for me to know your third article against this unhappy lady: But I never heard of any body, out of her own implacable family, that had the least doubt of her honour. Mrs. Howe, indeed, once said, after a conference with one of her uncles, that she feared all was not right of her side. -But else, I never heard-
Oons, Sir, in a fierce tone, and with an erect mien, stopping short upon him, which made him start back- 'Tis next to blasphemy to question the lady's honour. She is more pure than a vestal; for vestals have been often warmed by their own fires. No age, from the first to the present, ever produced, nor will the future, to the end of the world, I dare averr, ever produce, a young blooming lady, tried as she has been tried, who has stood all trials, as she has done. -Let me tell you, Sir, That you never saw, never knew, never heard of, such another lady, as Miss Harlowe.
Sir, Sir, I beg your pardon. Far be it from me to question the lady. You have not heard me say a word, that could be so construed. I have the utmost honour for her. Miss Howe loves her, as she loves her own soul; and that she would not do, if she were not sure she were as virtuous as herself.
As herself, Sir! -I have a high opinion of Miss Howe, Sir-But, I dare say-
What, Sir, dare you say of Miss Howe? -I hope, Sir, you will not presume to say any-thing to the disparagement of Miss Howe!
Presume, Mr. Hickman! -That is presuming language, let me tell you, Mr. Hickman!
The occasion for it, Mr. Lovelace, if designed, is presuming, if you please. -I am not a man ready to take offence, Sir-Especially where I am employed as a mediator. But no man breathing shall say disparaging things of Miss Howe, in my hearing, without observation.
Well said, Mr. Hickman. I dislike not your spirit, on such a supposed occasion. But what I was going to say is this, That there is not, in my opinion, a woman in the world, who ought to compare herself with Miss Clarissa Harlowe, till she has stood her trials, and has behaved under them, and after them, as she has done. You see, Sir, I speak against myself. You see I do. For, libertine as I am thought to be, I never will attempt to bring down the measures of right and wrong to the standard of my actions.
Why, Sir, this is very right. It is very noble, I will say. But 'tis pity-Excuse me, Sir-'tis pity, that the man who can pronounce so fine a sentence, will not square his actions accordingly.
That, Mr. Hickman, is another point. We all err in some things. I wish not that Miss Howe should have Miss Harlowe's trials: And I rejoice, that she is in no danger of any such from so good a man.
Poor Hickman! -He looked as if he knew not whether I meant a compliment or a reflection!
But, proceeded I, since I find that I have excited your curiosity, that you may not go away with a doubt that may be injurious to the most admirable of women, I am inclined to hint to you, what I have in the third place to blame her for.
Sir, as you please-It may not be proper-
It cannot be very improper, Mr. Hickman-So let me ask you, What would Miss Howe think, if her friend is the more determined against me, because she thinks (in revenge to me, I verily believe that!) of encouraging another lover?
How, Sir! -Sure this cannot be the case! -I can tell you, Sir, if Miss Howe thought this, she would not approve of it at all: For, little as you think Miss Howe likes you, Sir, and little as she approves of your actions by her friend, I know she is of opinion, that she ought to have no-body living, but you: And should continue single all her life, if she be not yours.
Revenge and obstinacy, Mr. Hickman, will make women, the best of them, do very unaccountable things. - Rather than not put out both eyes of the man they are offended with, they will give up one of their own.
I don't know what to say to this, Sir: But, sure, she cannot encourage any other person's address! -So soon too-Why, Sir, she is, as we are told, so ill, and so weak-
Not in resentment weak, I'll assure you. I am well acquainted with all her movements-And I tell you, believe it, or not, that she refuses me in view of another lover.
Can it be?
'Tis true, by my soul! -Has she not hinted This to Miss Howe, do you think?
No indeed, Sir. If she had, I should not have troubled you, at this time, from Miss Howe.
Well then, you see I am right: That tho' she cannot be guilty of a falshood, yet she has not told her friend the whole truth.
What shall a man say to these things! looking most stupidly perplexed.
Say! say, Mr. Hickman! -Who can account for the workings and ways of a passionate and offended lady? Endless would be the histories I could give you, within my own knowlege, of the dreadful effects of womens passionate resentments, and what that Sex will do, when disappointed. But can there be a stronger instance than this, of such a person as Miss Harlowe, who, at this very instant, and ill as she is, not only encourages, but, in a manner, makes court to, one of the most odious dogs that ever was seen? I think Miss Howe should not be told this. And yet she ought too, in order to dissuade her from such a preposterous rashness.
O fie! O strange! Miss Howe knows nothing of this! To be sure she won't look upon her, if this be true!
'Tis true, very true, Mr. Hickman! True as I am here to tell you so! -And he is an ugly fellow too; uglier to look at than me.
Than you, Sir! Why, to be sure, you are one of the handsomest men in England.
Well, but the wretch she so spitefully prefers to me is a mishapen, meager varlet; more like a skeleton than a man! Then he dresses-you never saw a devil so bedizened! Hardly a coat to his back, nor a shoe to his foot: A bald-pated villain, yet grudges to buy a peruke to hide his baldness: For he is as covetous as hell, never satisfied, yet plaguy rich.
Why, Sir, there is some joke in this, surely. A man of common parts knows not how to take such gentlemen as you. But, Sir, if there be any truth in the story, what is he? Some Jew, or miserly citizen, I suppose, that may have presumed on the lady's distressful circumstances; and your lively wit points him out as it pleases.
Why the rascal has estates in every county in England, and out of England too.
Some East-India governor, I suppose, if there be anything in it. The lady once had thoughts of going abroad. But, I fancy, all this time you are in jest, Sir. If not, we must surely have heard of him-
Heard of him! Ay, Sir, we have all heard of him- But none of us care to be intimate with him-except this lady-and that, as I told you, in spite to me-His name, in short, is DEATH! -DEATH, Sir, stamping, and speaking loud, and full in his ear; which made him jump half a yard high.
Thou never beheldest any man so disconcerted. He looked as if the frightful skeleton was before him, and he had not his accounts ready. When a little recovered, he scribbled with his waistcoat buttons, as if he had been telling his beads.
This, Sir, proceeded I, is her wooer! -Nay, she is so forward a girl, that she wooes him: But I hope it never will be a match.
He had before behaved, and now looked, with more spirit than I expected from him.
I came, Sir, said he, as a mediator of differences. It behoves me to keep my temper. But, Sir, and turned short upon me, as much as I love peace, and to promote it, I will not be ill-used.
As I had played so much upon him, it would have been wrong to take him at his more than half-menace: Yet, I think, I owe him a grudge, for his presuming to address Miss Howe.
You mean no defiance, I presume, Mr. Hickman, any more than I do offence. On that presumption, I ask your excuse. But This is my way. I mean no harm. I cannot let sorrow touch my heart. I cannot be grave six minutes together, for the blood of me. I am a descendent of old Chancellor More, I believe; and should not forbear to cut a joke, were I upon the scaffold. But you may gather, from what I have said, that I prefer Miss Harlowe, and that upon the justest grounds, to all the women in the world: And I wonder, that there should be any difficulty to believe, from what I have signed, and from what I have promised to my relations, and enabled them to promise for me, that I should be glad to marry that excellent lady, upon her own terms. I acknowlege to you, Mr. Hickman, that I have basely injured her. If she will honour me with her hand, I declare, that it is my intention to make her the best of husbands. But, nevertheless, I must say, that, if she goes on appealing her case, and exposing us both, as she does, it is impossible to think the knot can be knit, with reputation to either. And altho', Mr. Hickman, I have delivered my apprehensions under so ludicrous a figure, I am afraid, that she will ruin her constitution; and, by seeking death when she may shun him, will not be able to avoid him when she would be glad to do so.
This cool and honest speech let down his stiffened muscles into complacency. He was my very obedient and faithful humble servant several times over, as I waited on him to his chariot: And I was his almost as often.
And so Exit Hickman.

### v6 LETTER LIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
[In answer to Letters xlvii. li. lii.]
Friday night, July 21.
I will throw away a few paragraphs upon the contents of thy last shocking letters, just brought me; and send what I shall write by the fellow who carries mine on the interview with Hickman.
Reformation, I see, is coming fast upon thee. Thy uncle's slow death, and thy attendance upon him, thro' every stage towards it, prepared thee for it. But go thou on in thy own way, as I will in mine. Happiness consists in being pleased with what we do: And if thou canst find delight in being sad, it will be as well for thee, as if thou wert merry, tho' no other person should join to keep thee in countenance.
I am, nevertheless, exceedingly disturbed at the lady's ill health. It is intirely owing to the cursed arrest. She was absolutely triumphant over me, and the whole crew, before. Thou believest me guiltless of That: So, I hope, does she. -The rest, as I have often said, is a common case; only a little uncommonly circumstanced; that's all: Why, then, all these severe things from her and thee?
As to selling her cloaths, and her laces, and so forth, it has, I own, a shocking sound with it. What an implacable, as well as unjust, set of wretches are those of her unkindredly kin; who have money of hers in their hands, as well as large arrears of her own estate; yet withhold both, avowedly to distress her! But may she not have money of that proud and saucy friend of hers, Miss Howe, more than she wants? -And should I not be overjoyed, thinkst thou, to serve her? -What then is there in the parting with her apparel, but female perverseness? -And I am not sure, whether I ought not to be glad, if she does this out of spite to me. -Some disappointed fair-ones would have hanged, some drowned, themselves. My beloved only revenges herself upon her cloaths. Different ways of working has passion in different bosoms, as humour and complexion induce. -Besides, dost think I shall grudge to replace, to three times the value, what she disposes of? So, Jack, there is no great matter in this.
Thou seest how sensible she is of the soothings of the polite Doctor: This will enable thee to judge how dreadfully the horrid arrest, and her gloomy father's curse, must have hurt her. I have great hope, if she will but see me, that my behaviour, my contrition, my soothings, may have some happy effects upon her.
But thou art too ready to give me up. Let me seriously tell thee, that, all excellence as she is, I think the earnest interposition of my relations; the implored mediation of that little fury Miss Howe; and the commissions thou actest under from myself; are such instances of condescension and high value in them, and such contrition in me, that nothing farther can be done. -So here let the matter rest for the present, till she considers better of it.
But now a few words upon poor Belton's case. I own I was, at first, a little startled at the infidelity of his Thomasine: Her hypocrisy to be for so many years undetected! -I have very lately had some intimations given me of her vileness; and had intended to mention it to thee, when I saw thee. To say the truth, I always suspected her eye: The eye, thou knowest, is the casement, at which the heart generally looks out. Many a woman, who will not shew herself at the door, has tipt the sly, the intelligible wink from the windows.
But Tom had no management at all. A very careless fellow. Would never look into his own affairs. The estate his uncle left him was his ruin: Wife, or mistress, whoever was, must have had his fortune to sport with.
I have often hinted his weaknesses of this sort to him; and the danger he was in of becoming the property of designing people. But he hated to take pains. He would ever run away from his accounts; as now, poor fellow! he would be glad to do from himself. Had he not had a woman to fleece him, his coachman, or valet, would have been his prime minister, and done it as effectually.
But yet, for many years I thought she was true to his bed. At least, I thought the boys were his own. For tho' they are muscular, and big-boned, yet I supposed the healthy mother might have furnished them with legs and shoulders: For she is not of a delicate frame; and then Tom, some years ago, looked up, and spoke more like a man, than he has done of late; squeaking inwardly, poor fellow! for some time past, from contracted quail-pipes, and wheesing from lungs half spit away.
He complains, thou sayest, that we all run away from him. Why, after all, Belford, it is no pleasant thing to see a poor fellow one loves, dying by inches, yet unable to do him good. There are friendships which are only bottle-deep: I should be loth to have it thought, that mine for any of my vassals is such a one. Yet, to gay hearts, which became intimate because they were gay, the reason for their first intimacy ceasing, the friendship will fade; that sort of friendship, I mean, which may be distinguished, more properly, by the word companionship.
But mine, as I said, is deeper than this: I would still be as ready as ever I was in my life, to the utmost of my power, to do him service.
As one instance of this my readiness to extricate him from all his difficulties as to Thomasine, dost thou care to propose to him an expedient, that is just come into my head?
It is this: I would engage Thomasine, and her cubs, if Belton be convinced they are neither of them his, in a party of pleasure: She was always complaisant to me: It should be in a boat hired for the purpose, to sail to Tilbury, to the isle of Sheepy, or a pleasuring up the Medway; and 'tis but contriving to turn the boat bottom-upward: I can swim like a fish: Another boat should be ready to take up whom I should direct, for fear of the worst: And then, if Tom has a mind to be decent, one suit of mourning will serve for all three: Nay, the hostler-cousin may take his plunge from the steerage: And who knows but they may be thrown up on the beach, Thomasine and he, hand in hand?
This, thou'lt say, is no common instance of friendship.
Mean time, do thou prevail upon him to come down to us: He never was more welcome in his life, than he shall be now: If he will not, let him find me some other service; and I will clap a pair of wings to my shoulders, and he shall see me come flying in at his windows at the word of command.
As for thy resolution of repenting and marrying; I would have thee consider which thou wilt set about first. If thou wilt follow my advice, thou shalt make short work of it: Let Matrimony take place of the other; for them thou wilt, very possibly, have Repentance come tumbling in fast upon thee, as a consequence, and so have both in one.

### v6 LETTER LV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Friday noon, July 21.
This morning I was admitted, as soon as I sent up my name, into the presence of the divine lady. Such I may call her; as what I have to relate will fully prove.
She had had a tolerable night, and was much better in spirits; though weak in person; and visibly declining in looks.
Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith were with her; and accused her, in a gentle manner, of having applied herself too assiduously to her pen for her strength, having been up ever since five. She said, she had rested better than she had done for many nights: She had found her spirit free, and her mind tolerably easy: And having, as she had reason to think, but a short time, and much to do in it; she must be a good housewife of her hours.
She had been writing, she said, a letter to her sister: But had not pleased herself in it; tho' she had made two or three essays: But that the last must go.
By hints I had dropt, from time to time, she had reason, she said, to think that I knew every-thing that concerned her and her family; and, if so, must be acquainted with the heavy curse her father had laid upon her; which had been dreadfully fulfilled in one part, as to her temporary prospects, and that in a very short time; which gave her great apprehensions for the other. She had been applying herself to her sister, to obtain a revocation of it. I hope my father will revoke it, said she, or I shall be very miserable. -Yet (and she gasped as she spoke, with apprehension)-I am ready to tremble at what the answer may be; for my sister is hard-hearted.
I said something reflecting upon her friends; as to what they would deserve to be thought of, if the unmerited imprecation were not withdrawn. -Upon which she took me up, and talked in such a dutiful manner of her parents, as must doubly condemn them (if they remain implacable), for their inhuman treatment of such a daughter.
She said, I must not blame her parents: It was her dear Miss Howe's fault. But what an enormity was there in her crime, which could set the best of parents (as they had been to her, till she disobliged them) in a bad light, for resenting the rashness of a child, from whose education they had reason to expect better fruits! There were some hard circumstances in her case, it was true: But my friend could tell me, that no one body, throughout the whole fatal transaction, had acted out of character, but herself. She submitted therefore to the penalty she had incurred. If they had any fault, it was only, that they would not inform themselves of some circumstances, which would alleviate a little her misdeed; and that, supposing her a guiltier creature than she was, they punished her without a hearing.
Lord! -I was going to curse thee, Lovelace! How every instance of excellence, in this all-excelling creature, condemns thee! -Thou wilt have reason to think thyself of all men most accursed, if she, die!
I then besought her, while she was capable of such glorious instances of generosity and forgiveness, to extend her goodness to a man, whose heart bled in every vein of it, for the injuries he had done her; and who would make it the study of his whole life to repair them.
The women would have withdrawn, when the subject became so particular. But she would not permit them to go. She told me, that if, after this time, I was for entering, with so much earnestness, into a subject so very disagreeable to her, my visits must not be repeated. Nor was there occasion, she said, for my friendly offices in your favour; since she had begun to write her whole mind upon that subject to Miss Howe, in answer to letters from her, in which Miss Howe urged the same arguments, in compliment to the wishes of your noble and worthy relations.
Mean time, you may let him know, said she, That I reject him with my whole heart: -Yet that, altho' I say this with such a determination as shall leave no room for doubt, however I say it not with passion. On the contrary, tell him, that I am trying to bring my mind into such a frame, as to be able to pity him (Poor perjured wretch! what has he not to answer for!); and that I shall not think myself qualified for the state I am aspiring to, if, after a few struggles more, I cannot forgive him too: And I hope, clasping her hands together, uplifted, as were her eyes, my dear earthly father will set me the example my heavenly one has already set us all; and, by forgiving his fallen daughter, teach her to forgive the man, who then, I hope, will not have destroyed my eternal prospects, as he has my temporal!
Stop here, thou wretch! -But I need not bid thee-For I can go no farther!

### v6 LETTER LVI.

Mr. Belford. In Continuation.
You will imagine how affecting her noble speech and behaviour was to me, at the time, when the bare recollection and transcription obliged me to drop my pen. The women had tears in their eyes. I was silent for a few moments. -At last, Matchless excellence! Inimitable goodness! I called her, with a voice so accented, that I was half-ashamed of myself, as it was before the women. -But who could stand such sublime generosity of soul, in so young a creature, her loveliness giving grace to all she said? -Methinks, said I (and I really, in a manner involuntarily, bent my knee), I have before me an angel indeed. I can hardly forbear prostration, and to beg your influence to draw me after you, to the world you are aspiring to! -Yet-But what shall I say? -Only, dearest excellence, make me, in some small instances, serviceable to you, that I may (if I survive you) have the glory to think I was able to contribute to your satisfaction, while among us.
Here I stopt. She was silent. I proceeded-Have you no commission to employ me in; deserted as you are by all your friends; among strangers, though, I doubt not, worthy people? Cannot I be serviceable by message, by letter-writing, by attending personally, with either message or letter, your father, your uncles, your brother, your sister, Miss Howe, Lord M. or the ladies his sisters? Any office to be employed in to serve you, absolutely independent of my friend's wishes, or of my own wishes to oblige him. Think, Madam, if I cannot?
I thank you, Sir: Very heartily I thank you: But in nothing that I can at present think of, or at least resolve upon, can you do me service. I will see what return the letter I have written will bring me. -Till then-
My life and my fortune, interrupted I, are devoted to your service. Permit me to observe, that here you are, without one natural friend; and (so much do I know of your unhappy case) that you must be in a manner destitute of the means to make friends-
She was going to interrupt me, with a prohibitory kind of earnestness in her manner-
I beg leave to proceed, Madam: I have cast about twenty ways how to mention this before, but never dared till now. Suffer me, now that I have broke the ice, to tender myself-as your banker only. -I know you will not be obliged: You need not. You have sufficient of your own, if it were in your hands; and from that, whether you live or die, will I consent to be reimbursed. I do assure you, that the unhappy man shall never know either my offer, or your acceptance-Only permit me this small-
And down behind her chair I dropt a Bank note of 100l. which I had brought with me, intending some how or other to leave it behind me: Nor shouldst thou ever have known it, had she favoured me with the acceptance of it; and so I told her.
You give me great pain, Mr. Belford, said she, by these instances of your humanity. And yet, considering the company I have seen you in, I am not sorry to find you capable of such. Methinks I am glad, for the sake of human nature, that there could be but one such man in the world, as him you and I know. -But as to your kind offer, whatever it be, if you take it not up, you will greatly disturb me. I have no need of your kindness. I have effects enough, which I never can want, to supply my present occasions; and, if needful, can have recourse to Miss Howe. I have promised that I would-So, pray, Sir, urge not upon me this favour. -Take it up yourself. - If you mean me peace and ease of mind, urge not this favour. -And she spoke with impatience.
I beg, Madam, but one word-
Not one, Sir, till you have taken back what you have let fall. I doubt not either the honour, or the kindness, of your offer; but you must not say one word more on this subject. I cannot bear it.
She was stooping, but with pain. I therefore prevented her; and besought her to forgive me for a tender, which, I saw, had been more discomposing to her than I had hoped (from the purity of my intentions), it would be. But I could not bear to think, that such a mind as hers should be distressed: Since the want of the conveniencies she was used to abound in might affect and disturb her in the divine course she was in.
You are very kind to me, Sir, said she, and very favourable in your opinion of me. But I hope, that I cannot now be easily put out of my present course. My declining health will more and more confirm me in it. Those who arrested and confined me, no doubt, thought they had fallen upon the ready method to distress me so, as to bring me into all their measures. But I presume to hope, that I have a mind that cannot be debased, in essential instances, by temporary calamities: Little do those poor wretches know of the force of innate principles, forgive my own implied vanity, was her word, who imagine, that a prison, or penury, or want, can bring a right-turned mind to be guilty of a wilful baseness, in order to avoid such short-lived evils.
She then turned from me towards the window, with a dignity suitable to her words; and such as shewed her to be more of soul than of body, at that instant.
What magnanimity! -No wonder a virtue so solidly based could baffle all thy arts: -And that it forced thee (in order to carry thy accursed point) to have recourse to those un-natural ones, which robbed her of her charming senses.
The women were extremely affected, Mrs. Lovick especially; -who said whisperingly to Mrs. Smith; We have an angel, not a woman, with us, Mrs. Smith!
I repeated my offers to write to any of her friends; and told her, that, having taken the liberty to acquaint Dr. H. with the cruel displeasure of her relations, as what I presumed lay nearest her heart, he had proposed to write himself, to acquaint her friends how ill she was, if she would not take it amiss.
It was kind in the Doctor, she said: But begged, that no step of that sort might be taken without her knowlege and consent. She would wait to see what effects her letter to her sister would have. All she had to hope for, was, that her father would revoke his malediction: For the rest, her friends would think she could not suffer too much; and she was content to suffer: For, now, nothing could happen, that could make her wish to live.
Mrs. Smith went down; and, soon returning, asked, If the lady and I would not dine with her that day: For it was her wedding-day. She had engaged Mrs. Lovick, she said; and should have no-body else, if we would do her that favour.
The charming creature sighed, and shook her head- Wedding-day, repeated she! -I wish you, Mrs. Smith, many happy wedding-days! -But you will excuse me.
Mr. Smith came up with the same request. They both applied to me.
On condition the lady would, I should make no scruple; and would suspend an engagement: Which I actually had.
She then desired they would all sit down. You have several times, Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith, hinted your wishes, that I would give you some little history of myself: Now, if you are at leisure, that this gentleman, who, I have reason to believe, knows it all, is present, and can tell you if I give it justly, or not; I will oblige your curiosity.
They all eagerly, the man Smith too, sat down; and she began an account of herself, which I will endeavour to repeat, as nearly in her own words, as I possibly can: For I know you will think it of importance to be apprised of her manner of relating your barbarity to her, as well as what her sentiments are of it; and what room there is for the hopes your friends have in your favour, from her.
'At first when I took these lodgings, said she, I thought of staying but a short time in them; and so, Mrs. Smith, I told you: I therefore avoided giving any other account of myself, than that I was a very unhappy young creature, seduced from good friends, and escaped from very vile wretches.
'This account I thought myself obliged to give, that you might the less wonder at seeing a young body rushing thro' your shop, into your back apartment, all trembling, and out of breath; an ordinary garb over my own; craving lodging and protection; only giving my bare word, that you should be handsomely paid: All my effects contained in a pocket-handkerchief.
'My sudden absence, for three days and nights together, when arrested, must still further surprise you: And altho' this gentleman, who, perhaps, knows more of the darker part of my story, than I do myself, has informed you (as you, Mrs. Lovick, tell me), that I am only an unhappy, not a guilty creature; yet I think it incumbent upon me not to suffer honest minds to be in doubt about my character.
'You must know, then, that I have been, in one instance (I had like to have said but in one instance; but that was a capital one), an undutiful child, to the most indulgent of parents: For what some people call cruelty in them, is owing but to the excess of their love, and to their disappointment; having had reason to expect better from me.
'I was visited (at first, with my friends connivance) by a man of birth and fortune, but of worse principles, as it proved, than I believed any man could have. My brother, a very headstrong young man, was absent at that time; and, when he returned (from an old grudge, and knowing the gentleman, it is plain, better than I knew him), intirely disapproved of his visits: And, having a great sway in our family, brought other gentlemen to address me: And at last (several having been rejected) he introduced one extremely disagreeable: In every indifferent body's eyes disagreeable. I could not love him. They all joined to compel me to have him; a rencounter between the gentleman my friends were set against, and my brother, having confirmed them all his enemies.
'To be short: I was confined, and treated so very hardly, that, in a rash fit, I appointed to go off with the man they hated. A wicked intention, you'll say: But I was greatly provoked. Nevertheless, I repented; and resolved not to go off with him; yet I did not mistrust his honour to me neither; nor his love; because nobody thought me unworthy of the latter, and my fortune was not to be despised. But foolishly (wickedly, as my friends still think, and contrivingly, with a design, as they imagine, to abandon them) giving him a private meeting, I was trick'd away; poorly enough trick'd away, I must needs say; tho' others, who had been first guilty of so rash a step, as the meeting of him was, might have been so deceived and surprised, as well as I.
'After remaining some time at a farm-house in the country, behaving to me all the time with honour, he brought me to handsome lodgings in town, till still better provision could be made for me. But they proved to be, as he indeed knew and designed, at a vile, a very vile creature's; tho' it was long before I found her out to be so; for I knew nothing of the town, or its ways.
'There is no repeating what followed: Such unprecedented vile arts!-for I gave him no opportunity to take me at any disreputable advantage."-
And here (half covering her sweet face, with her handkerchief put to her tearful eyes) she stopt.
Hastily, as if she would fly from the hateful remembrance, she resumed: -'I made my escape afterwards from the abominable house in his absence, and came to yours: And this gentleman has almost prevailed on me to think, that the ingrateful man did not connive at the vile arrest: Which was made, no doubt, in order to get me once more to those wicked lodgings: For nothing do I owe them, except I were to pay them"- (She sighed, and again wiped her charming eyes-adding in a softer, lower voice)-"for being ruined!"-
Indeed, Madam, said I, guilty, abominably guilty, as he is in all the rest, he is innocent of this last wicked outrage.
'Well, and so I wish him to be. That evil, heavy as it was, is one of the slightest evils I have suffered. But hence you'll observe, Mrs. Lovick (for you seemed this morning curious to know if I were not a wife), that I never was married. -You, Mr. Belford, no doubt, knew before, that I am no wife: And now I never will be one. Yet, I bless God, that I am not a guilty creature!
'As to my parentage, I am of no mean family: I have in my own right, by the intended favour of my grandfather, a fortune not contemptible: Independent of my father, if I had pleased; but I never will please.
'My father is very rich. I went by another name when I came to you first: But that was to avoid being discovered to the perfidious man; who now engages, by this gentleman, not to molest me.
'My real name you now know to be Harlowe: Clarissa Harlowe. I am not yet twenty years of age.
'I have an excellent mother, as well as father; a woman of family, and fine sense-Worthy of a better child! -They both doated upon me.
'I have two good uncles: Men of great fortune; jealous of the honour of their family; which I have wounded.
'I was the joy of their hearts; and, with theirs and my father's, I had three houses to call my own; for they used to have me with them by turns, and almost kindly to quarrel for me: So that I was two months in the year at one's house; two months at the other's: Six months at my father's; and two at the houses of others of my dear friends, who thought themselves happy in me: And whenever I was at any one's, I was crouded upon with letters by all the rest, who longed for my return to them.
'In short, I was beloved by every-body. The Poor- I used to make glad their hearts: I never shut my hand to any distress, where-ever I was-But now I am poor myself!
'So, Mrs. Smith, so, Mrs. Lovick, I am not married. It is but just to tell you so. And I am now, as I ought to be, in a state of humiliation and penitence for the rash step which has been followed by so much evil. God, I hope, will forgive me, as I am endeavouring to bring my mind to forgive all the world, even the man who has ingratefully, and by dreadful perjuries (Poor wretch! he thought all his wickedness to be wit!), reduced to this, a young creature, who had his happiness in her view, and in her wish, even beyond this life; and who was believed to be of rank, and fortune, and expectations, considerable enough to make it the interest of any gentleman in England to be faithful to his vows to her. But I cannot expect that my parents will forgive me: My refuge must be death; the most painful kind of which I would suffer, rather than be the wife of one who could act by me, as the man has acted, upon whose birth, education, and honour, I had so much reason to found better expectations.
'I see, continued she, that I, who once was everyone's delight, am now the cause of grief to every-one- You, that are strangers to me, are moved for me! 'Tis kind! -But 'tis time to stop. Your compassionate hearts, Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Lovick, are too much touched' (For the women sobb'd again, and the man was also affected). 'It is barbarous in me, with my woes, thus to sadden your wedding-day.' Then turning to Mr. and Mrs. Smith-'May you see many happy ones, honest, good couple! -How agreeable is it to see you both join so kindly to celebrate it, after many years are gone over you! -I once-But no more! -All my prospects of felicity, as to this life, are at an end. My hopes, like opening buds or blossoms in an over-forward spring, have been nipt by a severe frost! -Blighted by an eastern wind! -But I can but once die; and if life be spared me, but till I am discharged from a heavy malediction, which my father in his wrath laid upon me, and which is fulfilled literally in every article relating to this world, it is all I have to wish for; and death will be welcomer to me, than rest to the most wearied traveller, that ever reached his journey's-end.'
And then she sunk her head against the back of her chair, and, hiding her face with her handkerchief, endeavoured to conceal her tears from us.
Not a soul of us could speak a word. Thy presence, perhaps, thou harden'd wretch, might have made us ashamed of a weakness, which, perhaps, thou wilt deride me in particular for, when thou readest this!-
She retired to her chamber soon after, and was forced, it seems, to lie down. We all went down together; and, for an hour and half, dwelt upon her praises; Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick repeatedly expressing their astonishment, that there could be a man in the world capable of offending, much more of wilfully injuring, such a lady; and repeating, that they had an angel in their house. -I thought they had; and that as assuredly as there was a devil under the roof of good Lord M.
I hate thee heartily! -By my faith I do! -Every hour I hate thee more than the former!-
J. Belford.

### v6 LETTER LVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Sat. July 22.
What dost hate me for, Belford? -And why more and more? -Have I been guilty of any offence thou knewest not before? -If pathos can move such a heart as thine, can it alter facts? -Did I not always do this incomparable creature as much justice as thou canst do her for the heart of thee, or as she can do herself? -What nonsense then thy hatred, thy augmented hatred, when I still persist to marry her, pursuant to word given to thee, and to faith plighted to all my relations? But hate, if thou wilt, so thou dost but write: Thou canst not hate me so much as I do myself: And yet I know, if thou really hatedst me, thou wouldst not venture to tell me so.
Well, but after all, what need of her history to these women? She will certainly repent, some time hence, that she has thus needlesly exposed us both.
Sickness palls every appetite, and makes us hate what we loved: But renewed health changes the scene; disposes us to be pleased with ourselves; and then we are in a way to be pleased with every-one else. Every hope, then, rises upon us: Every hour presents itself to us on dancing feet: And what Mr. Addison says of Liberty, may, with still greater propriety, be said of Health (For what is Liberty itself without Health?):
It makes the gloomy face of nature gay;
Gives beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.
And I rejoice that she is already so much better, as to hold, with strangers, such a long and interesting conversation.
Strange, confoundedly strange, and as perverse (that is to say, as womanly) as strange, that she should refuse, and sooner choose to die-[O the obscene word! and yet how free does thy pen make with it to me!], than be mine, who offended her by acting in character, while her parents acted shamefully out of theirs, and when I am now willing to act out of my own to oblige her: Yet I not to be forgiven! They to be faultless with her! -And marriage the only medium to repair all breaches, and to salve her own honour! -Surely thou must see the inconsistence of her forgiving unforgivingness, as I may call it! -Yet, heavy varlet as thou art, thou wantest to be drawn up after her! And what a figure dost thou make with thy speeches, stiff as Hickman's ruffles, with thy aspirations and prostrations! -Unused, thy weak head, to bear the sublimities that fall, even in common conversation, from the lips of this ever-charming creature!
But the prettiest whim of all, was to drop the bank note behind her chair, instead of presenting it on thy knees to her hand! -To make such a lady as this doubly stoop-By the acceptance, and to take it from the ground! -What an ungraceful benefit-conferrer art thou! How aukward, to take it into thy head, that best way of making a present to a lady, was to throw the present behind her chair!
I am very desirous to see what she has written to her sister; what she is about to write to Miss Howe; and what return she will have from the Harlowe-Arabella. Canst thou not form some scheme to come at the copies of these letters, or at the substance of them at least, and of that of her other correspondencies? Mrs. Lovick, thou seemest to say, is a pious woman: The lady, having given such a particular history of herself, will acquaint her with every-thing. And art thou not about to reform? - Won't this consent of minds between thee and the widow [What age is she, Jack? The devil never trumpt up a friendship between a man and a woman, of any-thing like years, which did not end in matrimony, or the dissipation of both their morals! won't it] strike out an intimacy between ye, that may enable thee to gratify me in this particular? A proselyte, I can tell thee, has great influence upon your good people: Such a one is a saint of their own creation; and they will water, and cultivate, and cherish him, as a plant of their own raising; and this from a pride truly spiritual!
But one consolation arises to me, from the pretty regrets this admirable creature seems to have, in indulging reflections on the peoples wedding-day: -I ONCE!-thou makest her break off with saying.
She once! What?-O Belford! why didst thou not urge her to explain what she once hoped?
What once a lady hopes, in love-matters, she always hopes, while there is room for hope: And are we not both single? Can she be any man's but mine? Will I be any woman's but hers?
I never will! I never can! -And I tell thee, that I am every day, every hour, more and more in love with her: And, at this instant, have a more vehement passion for her than ever I had in my life! -And that with views absolutely honourable, in her own sense of the word: Nor have I varied, so much as in wish, for this week past; firmly fixed, and wrought into my very nature, as the life of honour, or of generous confidence in me, was in preference to the life of doubt and distrust: That must be a life of doubt and distrust, surely, where the woman confides nothing, and ties up a man for his good behaviour for life, taking church and state sanctions in aid of the obligation she imposes upon him.
I shall go on Monday morning to a kind of Ball, to which Colonel Ambrose has invited me. It is given on a family account. I care not on what: For all that delights me in the thing, is, that Mrs. and Miss Howe are to be there; Hickman, of course; for the old lady will not stir abroad without him. The Colonel is in hopes, that Miss Arabella Harlowe will be there likewise; for all the fellows and women of fashion round him are invited.
I fell in by accident with the Colonel, who, I believe, hardly thought I would accept of the invitation. But he knows me not, if he thinks I am ashamed to appear at any place, where ladies dare shew their faces. Yet he hinted to me, that my name was up, on Miss Harlowe's account. But, to allude to one of my uncle's phrases, if it be, I will not lie abed when any-thing joyous is going forward.
As I shall go in my Lord's chariot, I would have had one of my cousins Montague to go with me: But they both refused: And I sha'n't choose to take either of thy brethren. It would look as if I thought I wanted a bodyguard: Besides, one of them is too rough, the other too smooth, and too great a fop for some of the staid company that will be there; and for me in particular. Men are known by their companions; and a fop (as Tourville, for example) takes great pains to hang out a sign, by his dress, of what he has in his shop. Thou, indeed, art an exception; dressing like a coxcomb, yet a very clever fellow. Nevertheless so clumsy a beau, that thou seemest to me, to owe thyself a double spite, making thy ungracefulness appear the more ungraceful, by thy remarkable tawdriness when thou art out of mourning.
I remember, when I first saw thee, my mind laboured with a strong puzzle, whether I should put thee down for a great fool, or a smatterer in wit: Something I saw was wrong in thee, by thy dress. If this fellow, thought I, delights not so much in ridicule, that he will not spare himself, he must be plaguy silly to take so much pains to make his ugliness more conspicuous than it would otherwise be.
Plain dress, for an ordinary man or woman, implies at least modesty, and always procures kind quarter from the censorious. Who will ridicule a personal imperfection in one that seems conscious that it is an imperfection? Who ever said, an anchoret was poor? But to such as appear proud of their deformity, or bestow tinsel upon it, in hopes to set it off, who would spare so very absurd a wronghead?
But, altho' I put on these lively airs, I am sick at my soul! -My whole heart is with my charmer! With what indifference shall I look upon all the assemblee at the Colonel's, my Beloved in my ideal eye, and engrossing my whole heart?

### v6 LETTER LVIII.

Miss Howe, To Miss Arabella Harlowe.
Thursday, July 20.
Miss Harlowe,
I cannot help acquainting you, however it may be received, as coming from me, that your poor sister is dangerously ill, at the house of one Smith, who keeps a glover's and perfume-shop, in King-street, Covent-Garden. She knows not that I write. Some violent words, in the nature of an imprecation, from her father, afflict her greatly in her weak state. I presume not to direct to you what to do in this case. You are her sister. I therefore could not help writing to you, not only for her sake, but for your own.
I am, Madam,
Your humble Servant,
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER LIX.

Miss Arabella Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Thursday, July 20.
Miss Howe,
I have yours of this morning. All that has happened to the unhappy body you mention, is what we foretold, and expected. Let him, for whose sake she abandoned us, be her comfort. We are told he has remorse, and would marry her. We don't believe it, indeed. She may be very ill. Her disappointment may make her so, or ought. Yet is she the only one I know, who is disappointed.
I cannot say, Miss, that the notification from you is the more welcome for the liberties you have been pleased to take with our whole family, for resenting a conduct, that it is a shame any young lady should justify. Excuse this freedom, occasioned by greater.
I am, Miss, Your humble Servant,
Arabella Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LX.

Miss Howe. In Reply.
Friday, July 21.
Miss Arabella Harlowe,
If you had half as much sense as you have ill nature, you would (notwithstanding the exuberance of the latter) have been able to distinguish between a kind intention to you all (that you might have the less to reproach yourselves with, if a deplorable case should happen), and an officiousness I owed you not, by reason of freedoms at least reciprocal. I will not, for the unhappy body's sake, as you call a sister you have helped to make so, say all that I could say. If what I fear happen, you shall hear (whether desired or not) all the mind of
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER LXI.

Miss Arabella Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Friday July 21.
Miss Anna Howe,
Your pert letter I have received. You, that spare no-body, I cannot expect should spare me. You are very happy in a prudent and watchful mother-But else-Mine cannot be exceeded in prudence: But we had all too good an opinion of Somebody, to think watchfulness needful. There may possibly be some reason why you are so much attached to her, in an error of this flagrant nature.
I help to make a sister unhappy! -It is false, Miss! - It is all her own doings! -Except, indeed, what she may owe to Somebody's advice-You know who can best answer for that.
Let us know your mind as soon as you please: As we shall know it to be your mind, we shall judge what attention to give it. That's all, from, &c.
Ar. H.

### v6 LETTER LXII.

Miss Howe, To Miss Arabella Harlowe.
Sat. July 22.
It may be the misfortune of some people to engage every -body's notice: Others may be the happier, tho' they may be the more envious, for no-body's thinking them worthy of any. But one would be glad people had the sense to be thankful for that want of consequence, which subjected them not to hazards they would hardly have been able to manage under.
I own to you, that had it not been for the prudent advice of that admirable Somebody (whose principal fault is the superiority of her talents, and whose misfortune to be brother'd and sister'd by a couple of creatures, who are not able to comprehend her excellencies), I might at one time have been plunged into difficulties. But, pert as the superlatively pert may think me, I thought not myself wiser, because I was older; nor for that poor reason qualified to prescribe to, much less to maltreat, a genius so outsoaring.
I repeat it with gratitude, that the dear creature's advice was of very great service to me-And this before my mother's watchfulness became necessary. But how it would have fared with me, I cannot say, had I had a brother or sister, who had deemed it their interest, as well as a gratification of their sordid envy, to misrepresent me.
Your admirable sister, in effect, saved you, Miss, as well as me-With this difference-You, against your will- Me, with mine: And but for your own brother, and his own sister, would not have been lost herself.
Would to God both sisters had been obliged with their own wills! -The most admirable of her sex would never then have been out of her father's house! -You, Miss-I don't know what had become of you. -But, let what would have happened, you would have met with the humanity you have not shewn, whether you had deserved it or not: -Nor, at worst, lost either a kind sister, or a pitying friend, in the most excellent of sisters.
But why run I into length to such a poor thing? -Why push I so weak an adversary? whose first letter is all low malice, and whose next is made up of falshood and inconsistence, as well as spite and ill-manners. Yet I was willing to give you a part of my mind:-Call for more of it; it shall be at your service: From one, who, tho' she thanks God she is not your sister, is not your enemy: But that she is not the latter, is with-held but by two considerations; one, that you bear, tho' unworthily, a relation to a sister so excellent; the other, that you are not of consequence enough to engage any-thing but the pity and contempt of
A. H.

### v6 LETTER LXIII.

Mrs. Harlowe, To Mrs. Howe.
Sat. July 22.
Dear Madam,
I send you inclosed copies of five letters, that have passed between Miss Howe and my Arabella. You are a person of so much prudence and good sense, and (being a mother yourself) can so well enter into the distresses of all our family, upon the rashness and ingratitude of a child we once doated upon, that, I dare say, you will not countenance the strange freedoms your daughter has taken with us all. These are not the only ones we have to complain of; but we were silent on the others, as they did not, as these have done, spread themselves out upon paper. We only beg, that we may not be reflected upon by a young lady, who knows not what we have suffered, and do suffer, by the rashness of a naughty creature, who has brought ruin upon herself, and disgrace upon a family, which she has robbed of all comfort. I offer not to prescribe to your known wisdom in this case; but leave it to you to do as you think most proper.
I am, Madam,
Your most humble Servant,
Charl. Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXIV.

Mrs. Howe. In Answer.
Sat. July 22.
Dear Madam,
I am highly offended with my daughter's letters to Miss Harlowe. I knew nothing at all of her having taken such a liberty. These young creatures have such romantic notions, some of love, some of friendship, that there is no governing them in either. Nothing but time, and dear experience, will convince them of their absurdities in both. I have chidden Miss Howe very severely. I had before so just a notion of what your whole family's distress must be, that, as I told your brother, Mr. Antony Harlowe, I had often forbid her corresponding with the poor fallen angel-For surely never did young lady more resemble what we imagine of angels, both in person and mind. But, tired out with her headstrong ways (I am sorry to say this of my own child), I was forced to give way to it again: And, indeed, so sturdy was she in her will, that I was afraid it would end in a fit of sickness, as too often it did in fits of sullens.
None but parents know the trouble that children give They are happiest, I have often thought, who have none. And these women-grown girls, bless my heart! how ungovernable!-
I believe, however, you will have no more such letters from my Nancy. I have been forced to use compulsion with her, upon Miss Clary's illness (and it seems she is very bad); or she would have run away to London, to attend upon her: And this she calls doing the duty of a friend; forgetting, that she sacrifices to her romantic friendship her duty to a fond indulgent mother.
There are a thousand excellencies in the poor sufferer, notwithstanding her fault: And, if the hints she has given to my daughter be true, she has been most grievously abused. But I think your forgiveness and her father's forgiveness of her ought to be all at your own choice; and no-body should intermeddle in that, for the sake of due authority in parents: And besides, as Miss Harlowe writes, it was what every-body expected, tho' Miss Clary would not believe it, till she smarted for her credulity. And, for these reasons, I offer not to plead any-thing in alleviation of her fault, which is aggravated by her admirable sense, and a judgment above her years.
I am, Madam, with compliments to good Mr. Harlowe, and all your afflicted family,
Your most humble Servant,
Annabella Howe.
I shall set out for the Isle of Wight in a few days, with my daughter. I will hasten our setting-out, on purpose to break her mind from her friend's distresses; which afflict us as much, nearly, as Miss Clary's rashness has done you.

### v6 LETTER LXV.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Sat. July 22.
My dearest Friend,
We are busy in preparing for our little journey and voyage: But I will be ill, I will be very ill, if I cannot hear you are better before I go.
Rogers greatly afflicted me, by telling me the bad way you are in. But now you have been able to hold a pen, and as your sense is strong and clear, I hope that the amusement you will receive from writing will make you better.
I dispatch this by an extraordinary way, that it may reach you time enough to move you to consider well before you absolutely decide upon the contents of mine of the 13th, on the subject of the two Misses Montague's visit to me; since, according to what you write, must I answer them.
In your last, you conclude very positively, that you will not be his. To be sure, he rather deserves an infamous death, than such a wife. But, as I really believe him innocent of the arrest, and as all his family are such earnest pleaders, and will be guarantees, for him, I think the compliance with their intreaties, and his own, will be now the best step you can take; your own family remaining implacable, as I can assure you they do. He is a man of sense; and it is not impossible but he may make you a good husband, and in time may become no bad man.
My mother is intirely of my opinion: And on Friday, pursuant to a hint I gave you in my last, Mr. Hickman had a conference with the strange wretch: And tho' he liked not, by any means, his behaviour to himself; nor, indeed, had reason to do so; yet he is of opinion, that he is sincerely determined to marry you, if you will condescend to have him.
Perhaps Mr. Hickman may make you a private visit before we set out. If I may not attend you myself, I shall not be easy, except he does. And he will then give you an account of the admirable character the surprising wretch gave of you, and of the justice he does to your virtue.
He was as acknowleging to his relations, tho' to his own condemnation, as his two cousins me. All that he apprehends, as he said to Mr. Hickman, is, that if you go on appealing your case, and exposing him, wedlock itself will not wipe off the dishonour to both: And moreover, 'that you would ruin your constitution by your immoderate sorrow; and, by seeking death when you might avoid it, would not be able to escape it when you would wish to do so.'
So, my dearest friend, I charge you, if you can, to get over your aversion to this vile man. You may yet live to see many happy days, and be once more the delight of all your friends, neighbours, and acquaintance, as well as a stay, a comfort, and a blessing, to your Anna Howe.
I long to have your answer to mine of the 13th. Pray keep the messenger till it be ready. If he return on Monday night, it will be time enough for his affairs, and to find me come back from Colonel Ambrose's; who gives a Ball on the anniversary of Mrs. Ambrose's birth and marriage, both in one. The gentry all round the neighbourhood are invited this time, on some good news they have received from Mrs. Ambrose's brother the governor.
My mother promised the Colonel for me and herself, in my absence. I would fain have excused myself to her; and the rather, as I had exceptions on account of the day: But she is almost as young as her daughter; and thinking it not so well to go without me, she told me, She could propose nothing that was agreeable to me. And having had a few sparring blows with each other very lately, I think I must comply. For I don't love jangling, when I can help it; tho' I seldom make it my study to avoid the occasion, when it offers of itself. I don't know, if either were not a little afraid of the other, whether it would be possible that we could live together: -I, All my father-My mamma-What? -All my Mother -What else should I say?
O my dear, how many things happen in this life to give us displeasure! How few to give us joy! -I am sure, I shall have none of this occasion; since the true partner of my heart, the principal half of the one soul, that, it used to be said, animated The pair of friends, as we were called; You, my dear (who used to irradiate every circle you set your foot into, and to give me real significance, in second place to yourself), cannot be there! -One hour of your company, my ever-instructive friend (I thirst for it!), how infinitely preferable to me, to all the diversions and amusements, with which our sex are generally most delighted! -Adieu, my dear!-
A. Howe.

### v6 LETTER LXVI.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Sunday, July 23.
What pain, my dearest friend, does your kind solicitude for my welfare give me! How much more binding and tender are the ties of pure friendship, and the union of like minds, than the ties of nature! Well might the Sweet Singer of Israel, when he was carrying to the utmost extent the praises of the friendship between him and his beloved friend, say, that the love of Jonathan to him was wonderful; that it surpassed the love of women! What an exalted idea does it give of the soul of Jonathan, sweetly attemper'd for this sacred band, if we may suppose it but equal to that of my Anna Howe for her fallen Clarissa! But, altho' I can glory in your kind love for me, think, my dear, what concern much fill a mind, not ungenerous, when the obligation lies all on one side: And when, at the same time that your Light is the brighter for my Darkness, I must give pain to a dear friend, to whom I delighted to give pleasure; and, at the same time, discredit, for supporting my blighted fame against the busy tongues of uncharitable censurers!-
This it is that makes me, in the words of my admired exclaimer, very little altered, often repeat: "O! that I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me! When his candle shined upon my head and when by his light I walked through darkness! As I was in the days of my childhood-when the Almighty was yet with me; when I was in my father's house When I washed my steps with butter, and the rock poured me out rivers of oil!"
You set before me your reasons, enforced by the opinion of your honoured mother, why I should think of Mr. Lovelace for a husband.
And I have before me your letter of the 13th 9b), containing the account of the visit and proposals, and kind interposition, of the two Misses Montague, in the name of the good Ladies Sarah Sadleir and Betty Lawrance, and that of Lord M.
Also yours of 18th, demanding me, as I may say, of those ladies, and of that family, when I was so infamously and cruelly arrested, and you knew not what was become of me:
The answer likewise of those ladies, signed in so full and so generous a manner by themselves, and by that nobleman, and those two venerable ladies; and, in his light way, by the wretch himself:
These, my dearest Miss Howe, and your letter of the 16th, which came when I was under arrest, and which I received not till some days after:
Are all before me.
And I have as well weighed the whole matter, and your arguments in support of your advice, as at present my head and my heart will let me weight them.
I am, moreover, willing to believe, not only from your own opinion, but from the assurances of one of Mr. Lovelace's friends, Mr. Belford, a good-natured and humane man, who spares not to censure the author of my calamities (I think, with undissembled and undesigning sincerity), that that man is innocent of the disgraceful arrest:
And even, if you please, in sincere compliment to your opinion, and to that of Mr. Hickman, that (over-persuaded by his friends, and ashamed of his unmerited baseness to me) he, in earnest, would marry me, if I would have him.
" Well, and now, what is the result of all? -It is this: That I must abide by what I have already declared -And that is (Don't be angry at me, my best friend) That I have much more pleasure in thinking of death, than of such a husband. In short, as I declared in my last, that I cannot Forgive me, if I say, I will not-Ever be his.
"But you will expect my reasons: I know you will: And if I give them not, will conclude me either obstinate, or implacable, or both: And those would be sad imputations, if just, to be laid to the charge of a person who thinks and talks of dying. And yet, to say, that resentment and disappointment have no part in my determination, would be saying a thing hardly to be credited. For, I own, I have resentments, strong resentments, not unreasonable ones, as you will be convinced, if already you are not so, when you know all my story-If ever you do know it-For I begin to fear (so many things more necessary to be thought of, than either this man, or my own vindication, have I to do) that I shall not have time to compass what I have intended, and, in a manner, promised you.
"I have one reason to give in support of my resolution, that, I believe, yourself will allow of: But having owned, that I have resentments, I will begin with those considerations, in which anger and disappointment have too great a share; in hopes, that having once disburden'd my mind upon paper, and to my Anna Howe, of those corroding uneasy passions, I shall prevent them for ever from returning to my heart, and to have their place supplied by better, milder, and more agreeable ones.
"My pride, then, my dearest friend, altho a great deal mortified, is not sufficiently mortified, if it be necessary for me to submit to make that man my choice, whose actions are, and ought to be, my abhorrence! -What!-shall I, who have been treated with such premeditated and perfidious barbarity, as is painful to be thought of, and cannot with modesty be described, think of taking the violator to my heart? Can I vow duty to one so wicked, and hazard my salvation by joining myself to so great a profligate, now I know him to be so? Do you think your Clarissa Harlowe so lost, so sunk, at least, as that she could, for the sake of patching up, in the world's eye, a broken reputation, meanly appear indebted to the generosity, or compassion perhaps, of a man, who has, by means so inhuman, robbed her of it? Indeed, my dear, I should not think my penitence for the rash step I took, any thing better than a specious delusion, if I had not got above the least wish to have Mr. Lovelace for my husband.
"Yes, I warrant, I must creep to the violator, and be thankful to him for doing me poor justice!
"Do you not already see me (pursuing the advice you give), with a downcast eye, appear before his friends, and before my own (supposing the latter would at last condescend to own me), divested of that noble confidence, which arises from a mind unconscious of having deserved reproach?
"Do you not see me creep about my own house, preferring all my honest maidens to myself,-as if afraid, too, to open my lips, either by way of reproof or admonition, lest their bolder eyes should bid me look inward, and not expect perfection from them?
"And shall I intitle the wretch to upbraid me with his generosity, and his pity; and, perhaps to reproach me, for having been capable of forgiving crimes of such a nature?
"I once indeed hoped, little thinking him so premeditatedly vile a man, that I might have the happiness to reclaim him: I vainly believed, that he loved me well enough to suffer my advice for his good, and the example I humbly presumed I should be enabled to set him, to have weight with him; and the rather, as he had no mean opinion of my morals and understanding: But now, what hope is there left for this my prime hope? -Were I to marry him, what a figure should I make, preaching virtue and morality to a man whom I had trusted with opportunities to seduce me from all my own duties? -And then, supposing I were to have children by such a husband, must it not, think you, cut a thoughtful person to the heart, to look round upon her little family, and think she had given them a father destin'd, without a miracle, to perdition; and whose immoralities, propagated among them by his vile example, might, too probably, bring down a curse upon them? And, after all, who knows but that my own sinful compliances with a man, who would think himself intitled to my obedience, might taint my own morals, and make me, instead of a reformer, an imitator of him? -For who can touch pitch, and not be defiled?
"Let me then repeat, that I truly despise this man! If I know my own heart, indeed I do! -I pity him! - Beneath my very pity, as he is, I nevertheless pity him! -But this I could not do, if I still loved him: For, my dear, one must be greatly sensible of the baseness and ingratitude of those we love. I love him not, therefore! My soul disdains communion with him.
"But altho' thus much is due to resentment, yet have I not been so far carried away by its angry effects, as to be rendered incapable of casting about what I ought to do, and what could be done, if the Almighty, in order to lengthen the time of my penitence, were to bid me to live.
"The single life, at such times, has offer'd to me, as the life, the only life, to be chosen. But in that, must I not now sit brooding over my past afflictions, and mourning my faults till the hour of my release? And would not every-one be able to assign the reason, why Clarissa Harlowe chose solitude, and to sequester herself from the world? Would not the look of every creature, who beheld me, appear as a reproach to me? And would not my conscious eye confess my fault, whether the eyes of others accused me, or not? One of my delights was, to enter the cots of my poor neighbours, to leave lessons to the boys, and cautions to the elder girls: And how should I be able, unconscious, and without pain, to say to the latter, Fly the delusions of men, who had been supposed to have run away with one?
"What then, my dear and only friend, can I wish for but death? -And what, after all, is death? 'Tis but a cessation from mortal life: 'Tis but the finishing of an appointed course: The refreshing inn after a fatiguing journey: The end of a life of cares and troubles; and, if happy, the beginning of a life of immortal happiness.
"If I die not now, it may possibly happen, that I may be taken when I am less prepared. Had I escaped the evils I labour under, it might have been in the midst of some gay promising hope; when my heart had beat high with the desire of life; and when the vanity of this earth had taken hold of me.
"But now, my dear, for your satisfaction let me say, that altho' I wish not for life, yet would I not, like a poor coward, desert my post, when I can maintain it, and when it is my duty to maintain it.
"More than once, indeed, was I urged by thoughts so sinful: But then it was in the height of my distress: And once, particularly, I have reason to believe, I saved myself by my desperation from the most shocking personal insults: from a repetition, as far as I know, of his vileness; the base women (with so much reason dreaded by me) present, to intimidate me, if not to assist him!- O my dear, you know not what I suffered on that occasion! -nor do I what I escaped at the time, if the wicked man had approached me to execute the horrid purposes of his vile heart. High resolution, a courage I never knew before; a settled, not a rash courage; and such a command of my passions-I can only say, I know not how I came by such an uncommon elevation of mind, if it were not given me in answer to my earnest prayers to Heaven for such a command of myself, before I entered into the horrid company."
As I am of opinion, that it would have manifested more of revenge and despair, than of principle, had I committed a violence upon myself, when the villainy was perpetrated; so I should think it equally criminal, were I now wilfully to neglect myself; were I purposely to run into the arms of death (as that man supposes I shall do) when I might avoid it.
Nor, my dear, whatever are the suppositions of such a short-sighted, such a low-souled man, must you impute to gloom, to melancholy, to despondency, nor yet to a spirit of faulty pride, or still more faulty revenge, the resolution I have taken never to marry this; and if not this, any man. So far from deserving this imputation, I do assure you (my dear and only love) that I will do every-thing I can to prolong my life, till God, in mercy to me, shall be pleased to call for it. I have reason to think my punishment is but the due consequence of my fault, and I will not run away from it; but beg of Heaven to sanctify it to me. When appetite serves, I will eat and drink what is sufficient to support nature. A very little, you know, will do for that. And whatever my physicians shall think fit to prescribe, I will take, though ever so disagreeable. In short, I will do every-thing I can do, to convince all my friends, who hereafter may think it worth their while to inquire after my last behaviour, that I possessed my soul with tolerable patience; and endeavoured to bear with a lot of my own drawing: For thus, in humble imitation of the sublimest exemplar, I often say: -Lord, it is thy will; and it shall be mine. Thou art just in all thy dealings with the children of men; and I know thou wilt not afflict me beyond what I can bear: And, if I can bear it, I ought to bear it; and (thy grace assisting me) I will bear it.
"But here, my dear, is another reason; a reason that will convince you yourself, that I ought not to think of wedlock; but of a quite different preparation: I am persuaded, as much as that I am now alive, that I shall not long live. The strong sense I have ever had of my fault, the loss of my reputation, my disappointments, the determined resentment of my friends, aiding the barbarous usage I have met with where I least deserved it, have seized upon my heart: Seized upon it, before it was so well fortified by religious considerations, as I hope it now is. Don't be concerned, my dear-But I am sure, if I may say it with as little presumption as grief, in the words of Job, That God will soon dissolve my substance; and bring me to death, and to the house appointed for all living."
And now, my dearest friend, you know all my mind. And you will be pleased to write to the ladies of Mr. Lovelace's family, That I think myself infinitely obliged to them, for their good opinion of me; and that it has given me greater pleasure than I thought I had to come in this life, that, upon the little knowledge they have of me, and that not personal, I was thought worthy (after the ill usage I have received) of an alliance with their honourable family: But that I can by no means think of their kinsman for a husband: And do you, my dear, extract from the above, such reasons as you think have any weight in them.
I would write myself to acknowledge their favour, had I not more employment for my head, my heart, and my fingers, than I doubt they will be able to go through.
I should be glad to know when you set out on your journey; as also your little stages; and your time of stay at your aunt Harman's; that my prayers may locally attend you, whithersoever you go, and where-ever you are.
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXVII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Sunday, July 23.
The letter accompanying This, being upon a very peculiar subject, I would not embarass it, as I may say, with any other. And yet having some further matters upon my mind, which will want your excuse for directing them to you, I hope the following lines will have that excuse.
My good Mrs. Norton, so long ago as in a letter dated the 3d of this month, hinted to me, that my relations took amiss some severe things you was pleased, in love to me, to say of them. Mrs. Norton mentioned it with that respectful love which she bears to my dearest friend: But wished, for my sake, that you would rein in a vivacity, which, on most other occasions, so charmingly becomes you. This was her sense. You know that I am warranted to speak and write freer to my Anna Howe, than Mrs. Norton would do.
I durst not mention it to you at that time, because appearances were so strong against me, on Mr. Lovelace's getting me again into his power, (after my escape to Hamstead) as made you very angry with me when you answered mine on my second escape. And, soon afterwards, I was put under that barbarous arrest; so that I could not well touch upon that subject till now.
Now, therefore, my dearest Miss Howe, let me repeat my earnest request (for This is not the first time by several that I have been obliged to chide you on this occasion), That you will spare my parents, and other relations, in all your conversations about me. -Indeed, I wish they had thought fit to take other measures with me: But who shall judge for them? -The event has justified them, and condemned me. They expected nothing good of this vile man; he has not, therefore, deceived them: But they expected other things from me; and I have. And they have the more reason to be set against me, if (as my aunt Hervey wrote formerly) they intended not to force my inclinations, in favour of Mr. Solmes; and if they believe, that my going off was the effect of choice and premeditation.
I have no desire to be received to favour by them: For why should I sit down to wish for what I have no reason to expect? -Besides, I could not look them in the face, if they would receive me. Indeed I could not. All I have to hope for, is, first, that my father will absolve me from his heavy malediction: And next, for a last blessing. The obtaining of these favours are needful to my peace of mind.
I have written to my sister; but have only mentioned the absolution.
I am afraid, I shall receive a very harsh answer from her: My fault, in the eyes of my family, is of so enormous a nature, that my first application will hardly be encouraged. Then they know not (nor perhaps will believe), that I am so very ill as I am. So that, were I actually to die before they could have time to take the necessary informations, you must not blame them too severely. You must call it a Fatality. I know not what you must call it: For, alas! I have made them as miserable as I am myself. And yet sometimes I think, that, were they chearfully to pronounce me forgiven, I know not whether my concern for having offended them would not be augmented: Since I imagine, that nothing can be more wounding to a spirit not ungenerous, than a generous forgiveness.
I hope your mamma will permit our correspondence for one month more, altho' I do not take her advice as to having this man. Only for one month. I will not desire it longer. When catastrophes are consummating, what changes (changes that make one's heart shudder to think of) may one short month produce! -But if she will not- why then, my dear, it becomes us both to acquiesce.
You can't think what my apprehensions would have been, had I known Mr. Hickman was to have had a meeting (on such a questioning occasion as must have been his errand from you) with that haughty and uncontroulable man.
You give me hope of a visit from him: Let him expect to see me greatly altered. I know he loves me: For he loves every-one whom you love. A painful interview, I doubt! But I shall be glad to see a man, who you will one day, and an early day, I hope, make happy; and whose gentle manners, and unbounded love for you, will make you so, if it be not your own fault.
I am, my dearest, kindest friend, the sweet companion of my happy hours, the friend ever dearest and nearest to my fond heart.
Your equally obliged and faithful
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXVIII.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Monday, July 24.
Excuse, my dearest young Lady, my long silence. I have been extremely ill. My poor boy has also been at death's door; and, when I hoped that he was better, he has relapsed. Alas! my dear, he is very dangerously ill. Let us both have your prayers!
Very angry letters have passed between your sister and Miss Howe. Every-one of your family is incensed against that young lady. I wish you would remonstrate against her warmth; since it can do no good; for they will not believe, but that her interposition has your connivance; nor that you are so ill as Miss Howe assures them you are.
Before she wrote, they were going to send up young Mr. Brand the clergyman, to make private inquiries of your health, and way of life-But now they are so exasperated, that they have laid aside their intention.
We have flying reports here, and at Harlowe-Place, of some fresh insults which you have undergone: And that you are about to put yourself into Lady Betty Lawrance's protection. I believe they would now be glad (as I should be), that you would do so; and this, perhaps, will make them suspend for the present any determination in your favour.
How unhappy am I, that the dangerous way my son is in prevents my attendance on you! Let me beg of you to write me word how you are, both as to person and mind. A servant of Sir Robert Beachcroft, who rides post on his master's business to town, will present you with this; and, perhaps, will bring me the favour of a few lines in return. He will be obliged to stay in town several hours, for an answer to his dispatches.
This is the anniversary,that used to give joy to as many as had the pleasure and honour of knowing you. May the Almighty bless you, and grant, that it may be the only unhappy one that may be ever known by you, my dearest young Lady; and by
Your ever-affectionate
Judith Norton.

### v6 LETTER LXIX.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Mrs. Norton.
Monday night, July 24.
My dear Mrs. Norton,
Had I not fallen into fresh troubles, which disabled me for several days from holding a pen, I should not have forborn inquiring after your health, and that of your son; for I should have been but too ready to impute your own silence to the cause, to which, to my very great concern, I find it was owing. I pray to Heaven, my dear good friend, to give you comfort in the way most desireable to yourself.
I am exceedingly concerned at Miss Howe's writing about me to my friends. I do assure you, that I was as ignorant of her intention so to do, as of the contents of her letter. Nor has she yet let me know (discouraged, I suppose, by her ill success), that she did write. Impossible to share the delight which such charming spirits give, without the inconvenience that will attend their volatility. -So mixed are our best enjoyments!
It was but yesterday that I wrote to chide the dear creature for freedoms of that nature, which her unseasonable love for me had made her take, as you wrote me word in your former. I was afraid, that all such freedoms would be attributed to me. And I am sure, that nothing but my own application to my friends, and a full conviction of my contrition, will procure me favour. Least of all can I expect, that either your mediation or hers (both of whose fond and partial love of me is so well known) will avail me.
She then gives a brief account of the arrest: Of her dejection under it: Of her apprehensions of being carried to her former lodgings: Of Mr. Lovelace's avowed innocence, as to that insult: Of her release, by Mr. Belford: Of Mr. Lovelace's promise not to molest her: Of her cloaths being sent her: Of the earnest desire of all his friends, and of himself, to marry her: Of Miss Howe's advice to comply with their requests: And, of her declared resolution rather to die, than be his, sent to Miss Howe, to be given to his relations, but as yesterday. After which, she thus proceeds:
Now, my dear Mrs. Norton, you will be surprised, perhaps, that I should have returned such an answer: But, when you have every-thing before you, you, who know me so well, will not think me wrong. And, besides, I am upon a better preparation, than for an earthly husband.
Nor let it be imagined, my dear and ever-venerable friend, that my present turn of mind proceeds from gloominess or melancholy; for altho' it was brought on by disappointment (the world shewing me early, even at my first rushing into it, its true and ugly face); yet, I hope, that it has obtained a better root, and will every day more and more, by its fruits, demonstrate to me, and to all my friends, that it has.
I have written to my sister. Last Friday I wrote. So the dye is thrown. I hope for a gentle answer. But, perhaps, they will not vouchsafe me any. It is my first direct application, you know. I wish Miss Howe had left me to my own workings, in this tender point.
It will be a great satisfaction to me, to hear of your perfect recovery; and that my foster-brother is out of danger. But why said I, out of danger? -When can this be justly said of creatures, who hold by so uncertain a tenure? This is one of those forms of common speech, that proves the frailty and the presumption of poor mortals, at the same time.
Don't be uneasy you cannot answer your wishes to be with me. I am happier than I could have expected to be among mere strangers. It was grievous at first; but use reconciles every-thing to us. The people of the house where I am, are courteous and honest. There is a widow who lodges in it (have I not said so formerly?), a good woman; who is the better for having been a proficient in the school of affliction.
An excellent school! my dear Mrs. Norton, in which we are taught to know ourselves, to be able to compasonate and bear with one another, and to look up to a better hope.
I have as humane a physician (whose fees are his least regard), and as worthy an apothecary, as ever patient was visited by. My nurse is diligent, obliging, silent, and sober. So I am not unhappy without: And within- I hope, my dear Mrs. Norton, that I shall be every day more and more happy within.
No doubt, it would be one of the greatest comforts I could know, to have you with me: You, who love me so dearly: Who have been the watchful sustainer of my helpless infancy: You, by whose precepts I have been so much benefited! -In your dear bosom could I repose all my griefs. And by your piety, and experience in the ways of Heaven, should I be strengthened in what I am still to go through.
But, as it must not be, I will acquiesce; and so, I hope, will you: For you see in what respects I am not unhappy; and in those that I am, they lie not in your power to remedy.
Then, as I have told you, I have all my cloaths in my own possession. So I am rich enough, as to this world, and in common conveniencies.
So you see, my venerable and dear friend, that I am not always turning the dark side of my prospects, in order to move compassion; a trick imputed to me, too often, by my hard-hearted sister; when, if I know my own heart, it is above all trick or artifice. Yet I hope at last I shall be so happy, as to receive benefit rather than reproach from this talent, if it be my talent. At last, I say; for whose heart have I hitherto moved? -Not one, I am sure, that was not predetermined in my favour!
As to the day-I have passed it, as I ought to pass it- It has been a very heavy day to me! -More for my friends sake, too, than for my own! -How did they use to pass it! -What a Gala! -How have they now passed it! - To imagine it, how grievous! -Say not, that those are cruel, who suffer so much for my fault; and who, for eighteen years together, rejoiced in me, and rejoiced me, by their indulgent goodness! -But I will think the rest! - Adieu, my dearest Mrs. Norton! -Adieu!

### v6 LETTER LXX.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Miss Arab. Harlowe.
Friday, July 21.
If, my dearest Sister, I did not think the state of my health very precarious, and that it was my duty to take this step, I should hardly have dared to approach you, altho' but with my pen, after having found your censures so dreadfully justified as they have been.
I have not the courage to write to my father himself; nor yet to my mother. And it is with trembling, that I address myself to you, to beg of you to intercede for me; that my father will have the goodness to revoke that heaviest part of the very heavy curse he laid upon me, which relates to HEREAFTER; For, as to the HERE, I have, indeed, met with my punishment from the very wretch in whom I was supposed to place my confidence.
As I hope not for restoration to favour, I may be allowed to be very earnest on this head: Yet will I not use any arguments in support of my request, because I am sure my father cannot wish to have his poor child miserable for ever!
I have the most grateful sense of my mother's goodness in sending me up my cloaths. I would have acknowleged the favour the moment I received them, with the most thankful duty, but that I feared any line from me would be unacceptable.
I would not give fresh offence: So will decline all other commendations of duty and love; appealing to my heart for both, where both are flaming with an ardour that nothing but death can extinguish: Therefore only subscribe myself, without so much as a name,
My dear and happy Sister,
Your afflicted Servant.
A letter directed for me, at Mr. Smith's, a glover, in King-street, Covent-garden, will come to hand.

### v6 LETTER LXXI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
[In answer to his Letters, Num. LIV. LVII.]
Edgware, Monday, July 24.
What pains thou takest to persuade thyself, that the lady's ill health is owing to the vile arrest, and to her friends implacableness! Both, primarily (if they were), to be laid at thy door. What poor excuses will good heads make for the evils they are put upon by bad hearts! -But 'tis no wonder, that he who can sit down premeditatedly to do a bad action, will content himself with a bad excuse: And yet, what fools must he suppose the rest of the world to be, if he imagines them as easily to be imposed upon, as he can impose upon himself?
In vain dost thou impute to pride or wilfulness the necessity to which thou hast reduced this lady of parting with her cloaths: For can she do otherwise, and be the noble-minded creature she is?
Her implacable friends have refused her the current cash she left behind her; and wished, as her sister wrote to her, to see her reduced to want: Probably therefore they will not be sorry that she is reduced to such streights; and will take it for a justification from Heaven of their wicked hard-heartedness. Thou canst not suppose she would take supplies from thee: To take them from me would, in her opinion, be taking them from thee. Miss Howe's mother is an avaritious woman; and, perhaps, the daughter could do nothing of that sort unknown to her; and, if she could is too noble a girl to deny it, if charged. And then Miss Harlowe is firmly of opinion, that she shall never want nor wear the things she disposes of.
Having heard nothing from town that obliges me to go thither, I shall gratify poor Belton with my company till to-morrow, or perhaps till Wednesday: For the unhappy man is more and more loth to part with me. I shall soon set out for Epsom, to endeavour to serve him there, and reinstate him in his own house. Poor fellow! he is most horribly low-spirited; mopes about; and nothing diverts him. I pity him at my heart; but can do him no good. - What consolation can I give him, either from his past life, or from his future prospects?
Our friendships and intimacies, Lovelace, are only calculated for strong life and health. When sickness comes, we look round us, and upon one another, like frighted birds, at the sight of a kite ready to souse upon them. Then, with all our bravery, what miserable wretches are we!
Thou tellest me, that thou seest reformation is coming swiftly upon me. I hope it is. I see so much difference in the behaviour of this admirable woman in her illness, and that of poor Belton in his, that it is plain to me, the sinner is the real coward, and the saint the true hero; and, sooner or later, we shall all find it to be so, if we are not cut off suddenly.
The lady shut herself up at six o'clock yesterday afternoon; and intends not to see company till seven or eight this; not even her nurse; imposing upon herself a severe fast. And why? It is her birth day! -Blooming, yet declining in her blossom! -Every birth-day till this, no doubt, happy! -What must be her reflections! -What ought to be thine!
What sport dost thou make with my aspirations, and my prostrations, as thou callest them; and with my dropping of the bank note behind her chair. I had too much awe of her at the time, and too much apprehended her displeasure at the offer, to make it with the grace that would better have become my intention. But the action, if aukward, was modest. Indeed, the fitter subject for ridicule with thee; who canst no more taste the beauty and delicacy of modest obligingness, than of modest love. For the same may be said of inviolable respect, that the poet says of unfeigned affection.
I speak, I know not what!-
Speak ever so; and if I answer you
I know not what, it shews the more of love.
Love is a child that talks in broken language;
Yet then it speaks most plain.
The like may be pleaded in behalf of that modest respect, which made the humble offerer afraid to invade the awful eye, or the revered hand; but aukwardly to drop its incense beside the altar it should have been laid upon. But how should that soul, which could treat delicacy itself brutally, know any-thing of this?
But I am still more amazed at thy courage, to think of throwing thyself in the way of Miss Howe, and Miss Arabella Harlowe! -Thou wilt not dare, surely, to carry this thought into execution!
As to my dress, and thy dress, I have only to say, That the sum total of thy observation is this: That my outside gettest thou by the comparison? Do thou reform the one, and I'll try to mend the other. I challenge thee to begin.
Mrs. Lovick gave me, at my request, the copy of a meditation she shewed me, which was extracted by the lady from the Scriptures, while under arrest at Rowland's, as appears by the date. She is not to know, that she has taken such a liberty.
You and I always admired the noble simplicity, and natural ease and dignity of style, which are the distinguishing characteristics of these books, whenever any passages from them, by way of quotation in the works of other authors, popt upon us. And once I remember you, even you, observed, that those passages always appeared to you like a rich vein of golden ore, which runs thro' baser metals; embellishing the work they were brought to authenticate.
Try, Lovelace, if thou canst relish a divine beauty. I think it must strike transient (if not permanent) remorse into thy heart. Thou boastest of thy ingenuity; let this be the test of it; and whether thou canst be serious on a subject so deep, the occasion of it resulting from thyself.
MEDITATION.
Saturday, July 15.
O that my grief were thoroughly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balance together!
For now it would be heavier than the sand of the sea: Therefore my words are swallowed up.
For the arrows of the Almighty are within me; the poison whereof drinketh up my spirit. The terrors of God do set themselves in array against me.
When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise? When will the night be gone? And I am full of tossings to and from, unto the dawning of the day.
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without hope-Mine eye shall no more see good.
Wherefore is light given to her that is in misery; and life unto the bitter in soul?
Who longeth for death; but it cometh not; and diggeth for it more than for hid treasures?
Why is light given to one whose way is hid; and whom God hath hedged in?
For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me!
I was not in safety; neither had I rest; neither was I quiet: Yet trouble came.
O that my words were now written! O that they were printed in a book! that they were graven with an iron pen and lead in the book for ever!
I have a little leisure, and am in a scribbling vein: Indulge me, Lovelace, a few reflections on these sacred books.
We are taught to read the Bible, when children, and as a rudiment only; and, as far as I know, this may be the reason, why we think ourselves above it, when at a maturer age. For, you know, that our parents, as well as we, wisely rate our proficiency by the books we are advanced to, and not by our understanding what we have passed through. But, in my uncle's illness, I had the curiosity, in some of my dull hours (lighting upon one in his closet), to dip into it: And then I found, where ever I turned, that there were admirable things in it. I have borrowed one, on receiving from Mrs. Lovick the above meditations; for I had a mind to compare them by the book, hardly believing they could be so exceedingly apposite as I find they are. And one time or other, it is very likely, that I shall make a resolution to give it a thorough perusal, by way of course, as I may say.
This, mean time, I will venture to repeat, is certain, that the style is that truly easy, simple, and natural one, which we should admire in other authors excessively. Then all the world join in an opinion of its antiquity, and authenticity too; and the learned are fond of strengthening their different arguments by its sanctions. Indeed, I was so much taken with it at my uncle's, that I was half ashamed that it appeared so new to me. And yet, I cannot but say, that I have some of the Old Testament history, as it is called, in my head: But, perhaps, am more obliged for it to Josephus, than to the Bible itself.
Odd enough, with all our pride of learning, that we choose to derive the little we know from the under-currents, perhaps muddy ones too, when the clear, the pellucid fountain-head is much nearer at hand, and easier to be come at-Slighted the more, possibly, for that very reason!
But man is a pragmatical foolish creature; and the more we look into him, the more we must despise him. -Lords of the creation! -Who can forbear indignant laughter! When we see not one of the individuals of that creation, except his perpetually excentric self, but acts within its own natural and original appointments: And all the time, proud and vain as the conceited wretch is of fancied and self-dependent excellence, he is obliged not only for the ornaments, but for the necessaries of life, (that is to say, for food as well as raiment) to all the other creatures; strutting with their blood and spirits in his veins, and with their plumage on his back: For what has he of his own, but a very mischievous, monkey-like, bad nature? Yet thinks himself at liberty to kick, and cuff, and elbow out every worthier creature: And when he has none of the animal creation to hunt down and abuse, will make use of his power, his strength, or his wealth, to oppress the less powerful and weaker of his own species!
When you and I meet next, let us enter more largely into this subject: And, I dare say, we shall take it by turns, in imitation of the two sages of antiquity, to laugh and to weep at the thoughts of what miserable, yet conceited beings men in general, but we libertines in particular, are.
I fell upon a piece at Dorrell's this very evening, intitled, The sacred Classics, written by one Blackwall.
I took it home with me; and had not read a dozen pages, when I was convinced, that I ought to be ashamed of myself to think, how greatly I have admired less noble and less natural beauties in pagan authors; while I have known nothing of this all-excelling collection of beauties, the Bible! By my faith, Lovelace, I shall for the future have a better opinion of the good sense and taste of half a score parsons, whom I have fallen in with in my time, and despised for magnifying, as I thought they did, the language and the sentiments to be found in it, in preference to all the antient poets and philosophers. And this is now a convincing proof to me, and shames as much as infidel's presumption as his ignorance, that those who know least, are the greatest scoffers. A pretty pack of would-be-wits of us, who censure without knowlege, laugh without reason, and are most noisy and loud against things we know least of!

### v6 LETTER LXXII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wednesday, July 26.
I came not to town till this morning early; poor Belton clinging to me, as a man destitute of all other hold.
I hastened to Smith's; and had but a very indifferent account of the lady's health. I sent up my compliments; and she desired to see me in the afternoon.
Mrs. Lovick told me, that, after I went away on Saturday, she actually parted with one of her best suits of cloaths, to a gentlewoman who is her (Mrs. Lovick's) benefactress, and who bought them for a niece who is very speedily to be married, and whom she fits out and portions as her intended heiress. The lady was so jealous that the money might come from you or me, that she would see the purchaser: Who owned to Mrs. Lovick, that she bought them for half their worth: But yet, tho' her conscience permitted her to take them at such an under-rate, the widow says, her friend admired the lady, as one of the loveliest of her sex: And having been let into a little of her story, could not help tears at taking away her purchase.
She may be a good sort of woman: Mrs. Lovick says, she is: But Self is an odious devil, that reconciles to some people the most cruel and dishonest actions. But, nevertheless, it is my opinion, that those who can suffer themselves to take advantage of the necessities of their fellow-creatures, in order to buy any thing at a less rate than would allow them the legal interest of their purchase-money (supposing they purchase before they want), are no better than robbers for the difference.- To plunder a wreck, and to rob at a fire, are indeed higher degrees of wickedness: But do not these as well as the others heighten the distresses of the distressed, and heap more misery on the miserable, whom it is the duty of every one to relieve?
About three o'clock I went again to Smith's. The lady was writing when I sent up my name; but admitted of my visit. I saw a visible alteration in her countenance for the worse; and Mrs. Lovick respectfully accusing her of too great assiduity to her pen, early and late, and of her abstinence the day before, I took notice of the alteration; and told her, that her physician had greater hopes of her, than she had of herself; and I would take the liberty to say, that despair of recovery allowed not room for cure.
She said, She neither despaired nor hoped. Then stepping to the glass, with great composure, My countenance, says she, is indeed an honest picture of my heart. But the mind will run away with the body at any time.
Writing is all my diversion, continued she; and I have subjects that cannot be dispensed with. As to my hours, I have always been an early riser: But now Rest is less in my power than ever: Sleep has a long time ago quarrelled with me, and will not be friends, altho' I have made the first advances. What will be, must.
She then stept to her closet, and brought to me a parcel sealed up with three seals: Be so kind, said she, as to give This to your friend. A very grateful present it ought to be to him: For, Sir, this packet contains all his letters to me. Such letters they are, as, compared with his actions, would reflect dishonour upon all his Sex, were they to fall into other hands.
As to my letters to him, they are not many. He may either keep or destroy them, as he pleases.
I thought I ought not to forego this opportunity to plead for you: I therefore, with the packet in my hand, urged all the arguments I could think of in your favour.
She heard me out with more attention than I could have promised myself, considering her determin'd resolution.
I would not interrupt you, Mr. Belford, said she, tho' I am far from being pleased with the subject of your discourse. The motives for your pleas in his favour, are generous. I love to see instances of generous friendship in either Sex. But I have written my full mind on this subject to Miss Howe, who will communicate it to the ladies of his family. No more, therefore, I pray you, upon a topic that may lead to disagreeable recriminations.
Her apothecary came in. He advised her to the air, and blamed her for so great an application, as he was told she made, to her pen; and he gave it as the Doctor's opinion, as well as his own, that she would recover, if she herself desired to recover, and would use the means.
The lady may indeed write too much for her health, perhaps: But I have observed on several occasions, that when the physical men are at a loss what to prescribe, they forbid their patients what they best like, and are most diverted with.
But, noble-minded as they see this lady is, they know not half her nobleness of mind, nor how deeply she is wounded; and depend too much upon her youth, which I doubt will not do in this case, and upon time, which will not alleviate the woes of such a mind: For, having been bent upon doing good, and upon reclaiming a libertine whom she loved, she is disappointed in all her darling views, and will never be able, I fear, to look up with satisfaction enough in herself to make life desirable to her. For this lady had other views in living, than the common ones of eating, sleeping, dressing, visiting, and those other fashionable amusements, which fill up the time of most of her Sex, especially of those of it, who think themselves fitted to shine in and adorn polite assemblies. Her grief, in short, seems to me to be of such a nature, that time, which alleviates most other persons afflictions, will, as the poet says, give increase to hers.
Thou, Lovelace, mightest have seen all this superior excellence, as thou wentest along. In every word, in every sentiment, in every action, is it visible. -But thy cursed inventions and intriguing spirit ran away with thee. 'Tis fit that the subject of thy wicked boast, and of talents so egregiously misapplied, should be thy punishment and thy curse.
Mr. Goddard took his leave; and I was going to do so too, when the maid came up, and told her, a gentleman was below, who very earnestly inquired after her health, and desired to see her: His name Hickman.
She was overjoyed; and bid the maid desire the gentleman to walk up.
I would have withdrawn; but, I suppose, she thought it was likely I should have met him upon the stairs, and so she forbid it.
She shot to the stairs-head to receive him, and, taking his hand, asked half a dozen questions (without waiting for any answer) in relation to Miss Howe's health; acknowleging, in high terms, her goodness in sending him to see her, before she set out upon her little journey.
He gave her a letter from that young lady; which she put into her bosom, saying, She would read it by-and-by.
He was visibly shocked to see how ill she looked.
You look at me with concern, Mr. Hickman, said she-Oh! Sir, times are strangely alter'd with me, since I saw you last at my dear Miss Howe's! -What a chearful creature was I then! -My heart at rest! My prospects charming! And beloved by every-body! -But I will not pain you!
Indeed, Madam, said he, I am grieved for you at my soul.
He turned away his face with visible grief in it.
Her own eyes glisten'd: But she turned to each of us, presenting one to the other: Him to me, as a gentleman truly deserving to be called so; Me to him, as your friend, indeed [How was I, at that instant, ashamed of myself!]; but, nevertheless, as a man of humanity; detesting my friend's baseness; and desirous of doing her all manner of good offices.
Mr. Hickman received my civilities with a coldness, which, however, was rather to be expected on your account, than that it deserved exception on mine. And the lady invited us both to breakfast with her in the morning; he being obliged to return next day.
I left them together, and called upon Mr. Dorrell, my attorney, to consult him upon poor Belton's affairs; and then went home, and wrote thus far, preparative to what may occur in my breakfasting-visit in the morning.

### v6 LETTER LXXIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday, July 27.
I went this morning, according to the lady's invitation, to breakfast, and found Mr. Hickman with her.
A good deal of heaviness and concern hung upon his countenance; but he received me with more respect than he did yesterday; which, I presume, was owing to the lady's favourable character of me.
He spoke very little; for I suppose they had all their talk out yesterday and before I came this morning.
By the hints that dropped, I perceived that Miss Howe's letter gave an account of your interview with her at Col. Ambrose's-of your professions to Miss Howe; and Miss Howe's opinion, that marrying you was the only way now left to repair her wrongs.
Mr. Hickman, as I also gathered, had press'd her, in Miss Howe's name, to let her find her, on her return from the Isle of Wight, at a neighbouring farm-house, where neat apartments would be made ready to receive her. She asked, How long it would be before they returned? And he told her, It was proposed to be no more than a fortnight out and in. Upon which, she said, She should then perhaps have time to consider of that kind proposal.
He had tender'd her money from Miss Howe; but could not induce her to take any. No wonder I was refused! She only said, That, if she had occasion, she would be obliged to no-body but Miss Howe.
Mr. Goddard, her apothecary, came in before breakfast was over. At her desire he sat down with us. Mr. Hickman asked him, If he could give him any consolation in relation to Miss Harlowe's recovery, to carry down to a lady, who loved her as she loved her own life?
The lady, said he, will do very well, if she will resolve upon it herself. Indeed you will, Madam. The Doctor is intirely of this opinion; and has ordered nothing for you, but weak jellies, and innocent cordials, lest you should starve yourself. And, let me tell you, Madam, that so much watching, so little nourishment, and so much grief, as you seem to indulge, is enough to impair the most vigorous health, and to wear out the strongest constitution.
What, Sir, said she, can I do? I have no appetite. Nothing you call nourishing will stay on my stomach. I do what I can: And have such kind directors in Dr. H. and you, that I should be inexcusable if I did not.
I'll give you a regimen, Madam, replied he; which, I am sure, the Doctor will approve of, and will make physic unnecessary in your case. And that is, 'Go to rest at ten at night. Rise not till seven in the morning. Let your breakfast be water-gruel, or milk-pottage, or weak broths: Your dinner any-thing you like, so you will but eat: A dish of tea, with milk, in the afternoon; and sagoe for your supper: And, my life for yours, this diet, and a month's country-air, will set you up.'
We were much pleased with the worthy gentleman's disinterested regimen: And she said, referring to her nurse (who vouched for her), Pray, Mr. Hickman, let Miss Howe know the good hands I am in: And as to the kind charge of the gentleman, assure her, that all I promised to her, in the longest of my two last letters, on the subject of my health, I do and will, to the utmost of my power, observe. I have engaged, Sir (to Mr. Goddard I have engaged, Sir (to me), to Miss Howe, to avoid all wilful neglects. It would be an unpardonable fault, and very ill become the character I would be glad to deserve, or the temper of mind I wish my friends hereafter to think me mistress of, if I did not.
Mr. Hickman and I went afterwards to a neighbouring coffee-house; and he gave me some account of your behaviour at the Ball on Monday night, and of your treatment of him in the conference he had with you before that; which he represented in a more favourable light than you had done yourself: And yet he gave his sentiments of you with great freedom, but with the politeness of a gentleman.
He told me how very determined the lady was against marrying you; that she had, early this morning, set herself to write a letter to Miss Howe, in answer to one he brought her, which he was to call for at twelve, it being almost finished before he saw her at breakfast; and that at three he proposed to set out on his return.
He told me, that Miss Howe, and her mother, and himself, were to begin their little journey for the Isle of Wight on Monday next: But that he must make the most favourable representation of Miss Harlowe's bad health, or they should have a very uneasy absence. He expressed the pleasure he had in finding the lady in such good hands: Proposed to call on Dr. H. to take his opinion, whether it was likely she would recover; and hoped he should find it favourable.
As he was resolved to make the best of the matter, and as the lady had refused to accept of money offered by Mr. Hickman, I said nothing of her parting with her cloaths. I thought it would serve no other end to mention it, but to shock Miss Howe: For it has such a sound with it, that a lady of her rank and fortune should be so reduced, that I cannot myself think of it with patience; nor know I but one man in the world who can.
This gentleman is a little finical and formal; but I think him an agreeable sensible man, and not at all deserving of the treatment, or the character, you give him.
But you are really a strange mortal: Because you have advantages in your person, in your air, and intellect, above all the men I know, and a face that would deceive the devil, you can't think any man else tolerable.
It is upon this modest principle that thou deridest some of us, who, not having thy confidence in their outside appearance, seek to hide their defects by the taylor's and peruke-maker's assistance [Mistakenly enough, if it be really done so absurdly as to expose them more]; and sayst, That we do but hang out a sign, in our dress, of what we have in the shop of our minds. This, no doubt, thou thinkest, is smartly observed: But pr'ythee, Lovelace, tell me, if thou canst, What sort of a sign must thou hang out, wert thou obliged to give us a clear idea, by it, of the furniture of thy mind?
Mr. Hickman tells me, He should have been happy with Miss Howe some weeks ago (for all the settlements have been some time engrossed); but that she will not marry, she declares, while her dear friend is so unhappy.
This is truly a charming instance of the force of female friendship; which you and I, and our brother rakes, have constantly ridiculed as a chimerical and impossible thing, in ladies of equal age, rank, and perfections.
But really, Lovelace, I see more and more, that there are not in the world, with all our conceited pride, narrower-soul'd wretches than we Rakes and Libertines are. And I'll tell thee how it comes about.
Our early love of roguery makes us generally run away from instruction; and so we become mere smatterers in the sciences we are put to learn; and, because we will know no more, think there is no more to be known.
With an infinite deal of vanity, un-reined imaginations, and no judgments at all, we next commence half-wits; and then think we have the whole field of knowlege in possession, and despise everyone who takes more pains, and is more serious, than ourselves, as phlegmatic stupid fellows, who have no taste for the most poignant pleasures of life.
This makes us insufferable to men of modesty and merit, and obliges us to herd with those of our own cast; and by this means we have no opportunities of seeing or conversing with any-body who could or would shew us what we are; and so we conclude, that we are the cleverest fellows in the world, and the only men of spirit in it; and, looking down with supercilious eyes on all who give not themselves the liberties we take, imagine the world made for us, and for us only.
Thus, as to useful knowlege, while others go to the bottom, we only skim the surface; are despised by people of solid sense, of true honour, and superior talents; and, shutting our eyes, move round and round (like so many blind mill horses) in one narrow circle, while we imagine we have all the world to range in.
I threw myself in Mr. Hickman's way, on his return from the lady; and we took a small repast, at the Lebeck's Head in Chandos-street.
He was excessively moved at taking leave of her; being afraid, as he said to me, tho' he would not tell her so) that he should never see her again. She charged him to represent every-thing to Miss Howe in the most favourable light that the truth would bear.
He told me of a tender passage at parting; which was, that having saluted her at her closet-door, he could not help once more taking the same liberty, in a more servant manner, at the stairs-head, whither she accompanied him; and this in the thought, that it was the last time he should ever have that honour; and offering to apologize for his freedom (for he had press'd her to his heart with a vehemence, that he could neither account for or resist)-Excuse you, Mr. Hickman! that I will: You are my brother, and my friend: And to shew you, that the good man, who is to be happy with my beloved Miss Howe, is very dear to me, you shall carry to her this token of my love (offering her sweet face to his salute, and pressing his hand between hers); and perhaps her love of me will make it more agreeable to her, than her punctilio would otherwise allow it to be: And tell her, said she, dropping on one knee, with clasped hands, and uplifted eyes, that in this posture you see me, in the last moment of our parting, begging a blessing upon you both, and that you may be the delight and comfort of each other, for many, very many, happy years!
Tears, said he, fell from my eyes: I even sobb'd with mingled joy and sorrow; and she retreating as soon as I raised her, I went down stairs, highly dissatisfied with myself for going; yet unable to stay, my eyes fixed the contrary way to my feet, as long as I could behold the skirts of her raiment.
I went into the back-shop, continued the worthy man, and recommended the angelic lady to the best care of Mrs. Smith; and, when I was in the street, cast my eye up at her window: There, for the last time, I doubt, said he, that I shall ever behold her, I saw her; and she waved her charming hand to me, and with such a look of smiling goodness, and mingled concern, as I cannot describe.
Pr'ythee tell me, thou vile Lovelace, if thou hast not a notion, even from these jejune descriptions of mine (as I have from reflecting upon the occasion), that there must be a more exalted pleasure in intellectual friendship, than ever thou couldst taste in the grosser fumes of sensuality? And whether it may not be possible for thee, in time, to give that preference to the infinitely preferable, which I hope, now, that I shall always give?
I will leave thee to make the most of this reflection, from
Thy true friend,
J. Belford.

### v6 LETTER LXXIV.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Tuesday, July 25.
Your two affecting letters were brought to me (as I had directed any letter from you should be), to the Colonel's, about an hour before we broke up. I could not forbear dipping into them there; and shedding more tears over them than I will tell you of; altho' I dried my eyes, as well as I could, that the company I was obliged to return to, and my mamma, should see as little of my concern as possible.
I am yet (and was then still more) excessively flutter'd. The occasion I will communicate to you by-and-by: For nothing but the flutters given by the stroke of death could divert my first attention from the sad and solemn contents of your last favour. These therefore I must begin with.
How can I bear the thoughts of losing so dear a friend! I will not so much as suppose it. Indeed I cannot! Such a mind as yours was not vested in humanity, to be snatch'd away from us so soon. There must be still a great deal for you to do, for the good of all who have the happiness to know you.
You enumerate, in your letter of Thursday last, the particulars in which your situation is already mended: Let me see, by effects, that you are in earnest in that enumeration; and that you really have the courage to resolve to get above the sense of injuries you could not avoid; and then will I trust to Providence, and my humble prayers, for your perfect recovery: And glad at my heart shall I be, on my return from the little Island, to find you well enough to be near us, according to the proposal Mr. Hickman has to make you.
You chide me, in yours of Sunday, on the freedom I take with your friends.
I may be warm. I know I am. -Too warm. -Yet warmth in friendship, surely, cannot be a crime; especially when our friend has great merit, labours under oppression, and is struggling with undeserved calamity.
I have no notion of coldness in friendship, be it dignified or distinguished by the name of prudence, or what it will.
You may excuse your relations. It was ever your way to do so. But, my dear, other people must be allowed to judge as they please. I am not their daughter, nor the sister of your brother and sister-I thank Heaven, I am not.
But if you are displeased with me, for the freedoms I took so long ago, as you mention, I am afraid, if you knew what passed upon an application I made to your sister, very lately, to procure you the absolution your heart is so much set upon, that you would be still more concerned. But they have been even with me. But I must not tell you all. I hope however, that these unforgivers (my mother is among them) were always good, dutiful, passive children to their parents.
Once more, forgive me. I owned I was too warm. But I have no example to the contrary, but from You: And the treatment you meet with, is very little encouragement to me, to endeavour to imitate you in your dutiful meekness.
You leave it to me, to give a negative to the hopes of the noble family, whose only disgrace is, that so very vile a man is so nearly related to them. But yet-Alas! my dear, I am so fearful of consequences, so selfishly fearful, if this negative must be given-I don't know what I should say- But give me leave to suspend, however, this negative, till I hear from you again.
Their earnest courtship of you into their splendid family is so very honorable to you-They so justly admire you-You must have had such a noble triumph over the base man-He is so much in earnest-The world knows so much of the unhappy affair-You may do still so much good-Your will is so inviolate-Your relations are so implacable-Think, my dear, and re-think.
And let me leave you to do so, while I give you the occasion of the flutter I mentioned at the beginning of this letter; in the conclusion of which, you will find the obligation I have consented to lay myself under, to refer this important point once more to your discussion, before I give, in your name, the negative that cannot, when given, be with honour to yourself repented of or recalled.
Know then, my dear, that I accompanied my mother to Colonel Ambrose's, on the occasion I mentioned to you in my former. Many ladies and gentlemen were there, whom you know; particularly Miss Kitty D'Oily, Miss Lloyd, Miss Biddy D'Ollyffe, Miss Biddulph, and their respective admirers, with the Colonel's two nieces, fine women both; besides many whom you know not; for they were strangers to me, but by name. A splendid company, and all pleased with one another, till Colonel Ambrose introduced one, who, the moment he was brought into the great hall, set the whole assemblee into a kind of agitation.
It was your villain.
I thought I should have sunk, as soon as I set my eyes upon him. My mother was also affected; and, coming to me, Nancy, whisper'd she, can you bear the sight of that wretch without too much emotion? -If not, withdraw into the next apartment.
I could not remove. Every-body's eyes were glanced from him to me. I sat down,and fann'd myself, and was forced to order a glass of water. O that I had the eye the basilisk is reported to have, thought I, and that his life were within the power of it-directly would I kill him!
He entered with an air so hateful to me, but so agreeable to every other eye, that I could have look'd him dead for that too.
After the general salutations, he singled out Mr. Hickman, and told him, He had recollected some parts of his behaviour to him when he saw him last, which had made him think himself under obligation to his patience and politeness.
And so, indeed, he was.
Miss D'Oily, upon his complimenting her, among a knot of ladies, asked him, in their hearing, How Miss Clarissa Harlowe did?
He heard, he said, you were not so well as he wished you to be, and as you deserved to be.
O Mr. Lovelace, said she, what have you to answer for, on that young lady's account, if all be true that I have heard?
I have a great deal to answer for, said the unblushing villain: But that dear lady has so many excellencies, and so much delicacy, that little sins are great ones in her eye.
Little sins! reply'd the lady: Mr. Lovelace's character is so well known, that no-body believes he can commit little sins.
You are very good to me, Miss D'Oily.
Indeed I am not.
Then I am the only person to whom you are not very good: And so I am the less obliged to you.
He turned, with an unconcerned air, to Miss Playford, and made her some genteel compliments. I believe you know her not. She visits his cousins Montague. Indeed, he had something in his specious manner to say to everybody: And this too soon quieted the disgust each person had at his entrance.
I still kept my seat, and he either saw me not, or would not yet see me; and addressing himself to my mother, taking her unwilling hand, with an air of high assurance, I am glad to see you here, Madam: I hope Miss Howe is well. I have reason to complain greatly of her: But hope to owe to her the highest obligations that can be laid on man.
My daughter, Sir, is accustomed to be too warm and too zealous in her friendships for either my tranquillity, or her own.
There had indeed been some late occasion given for mutual displeasure between my mother and me: But I think she might have spared this to him; tho' no-body heard it, I believe, but the person to whom it was spoken and the lady who told it to me; for my mother spoke it low.
We are not wholly, Madam, to live for ourselves, said the vile hypocrite. It is not every-one who has a soul capable of friendship: And what a heart must that be, which can be insensible to the interests of a suffering friend?
This sentiment from Mr. Lovelace's mouth, said my mother! -Forgive me, Sir; But you can have no end, surely, in endeavouring to make me think as well of you, as some innocent creatures have thought of you, to their cost.
She would have flung from him. But, detaining her hand-Less severe, dear Madam, said he, be less severe, in this place, I beseech you. You will allow, that a very faulty person may see his errors; and when he does, and owns them, and repents, should he not be treated mercifully?
Your air, Sir, seems not to be that of a penitent. But the place may as properly excuse this subject, as what you call my severity.
But, dearest Madam, permit me to say, that I hope for your interest with your charming daughter (was his sycophant word) to have it put into my power to convince all the world, that there never was a truer penitent. And why, why this anger, dear Madam (for she struggled to get her hand out of his); these violent airs, so maidenly! -Impudent fellow! -May I not ask, if Miss Howe be here?
She would not have been here, replied my mother, had she known whom she had been to see.
And is she here, then? -Thank Heaven! -He disengaged her hand, and stept forward into company.
Dear Miss Lloyd, said he, with an air, (taking her hand, as he quitted my mother's) tell me, tell me, is Miss Arabella Harlowe here? Or will she be here? I was informed she would: And this, and the opportunity of paying my compliments to your friend Miss Howe, were great inducements with me to attend the Colonel.
Superlative assurance! Was it not, my dear?
Miss Arabella Harlowe, excuse me, Sir, said Miss Lloyd, would be very little inclined to meet you here, or any-where else.
Perhaps so, my dear Miss Lloyd: But, perhaps, for that very reason, I am more desirous to see her.
Miss Harlowe, Sir, said Miss Biddulph, with a threatening air, will hardly be here without her brother. I imagine, if one come, both will come.
Heaven grant they both may! said the wretch. Nothing, Miss Biddulph, shall begin from me to disturb this assemblee, I assure you, if they do. One calm half-hour's conversation with that brother and sister, would be a most fortunate opportunity to me, in presence of the Colonel and his Lady, or whom else they should choose.
Then turning round, as if desirous to find out the one or the other, or both, he 'spied me, and, with a very low bow, approached me.
I was all in a flutter, you may suppose. He would have taken my hand. I refused it, all glowing with indignation: Every-body's eyes upon us.
I went from him to the other end of the room, and sat down, as I thought out of his hated sight: But presently I heard his odious voice, whispering, behind my chair (he leaning upon the back of it, with impudent unconcern) Charming Miss Howe! looking over my shoulder: One request-I started up from my seat, but could hardly stand neither, for very indignation-O this sweet, but becoming, disdain, whisper'd on the insufferable creature! -I am sorry to give you all this emotion: But either here, or at your own house, let me intreat from you one quarter of an hour's audience. -I beseech you, Madam, but one quarter of an hour, in any of the adjoining apartments.
Not for a kingdom, fluttering my fan. -I knew not what I did. -But I could have killed him.
We are so much observed-Else on my knees, my dear Miss Howe, would I beg your interest with your charming friend.
She'll have nothing to say to you.
I had not then your letters, my dear.
Killing words! -But indeed I have deserved them, and a dagger in my heart besides. -I am so conscious of my demerits, that I have no hope, but in your interposition- Could I owe that favour to Miss Howe's mediation, which I cannot hope for on any other account-
My mediation, vilest of men! -My mediation! -I abhor you! -From my soul, I abhor you, vilest of men!. -Three or four times I repeated these words, stammering too. -I was excessively flutter'd.
You can call me nothing, Madam, so bad as I will call myself. -I have been, indeed, the vilest of men. -But now I am not so. -Permit me (Every-body's eyes upon us) but one moment's audience-To exchange but ten words with you, dearest Miss Howe-in whose presence you please-for your dear friend's sake-but ten words with you in the next apartment.
It is an insult upon me, to presume, that I would exchange one with you, if I could help it! -Out of my way, and my sight, fellow!
And away I would have flung: But he took my hand. I was excessively disordered. -Every-body's eyes more and more intent upon us.
Mr. Hickman, whom my mother had drawn on one side, to injoin him a patience, which, perhaps, need not to have been inforced, came up just then, with my mother, who had him by his leading strings-By his sleeve, I should say.
Mr. Hickman, said the bold wretch, be my advocate but for ten words in the next apartment with Miss Howe, in your presence, and in yours, Madam, to my mother.
Hear, Nancy, what he has to say to you. To get rid of him, hear his ten words.
Excuse me, Madam. His very breath-Unhand me, Sir!
He sigh'd, and look'd-O how the practised villain sigh'd and look'd! He then let go my hand, with such a reverence in his manner, as brought blame upon me from some, that I would not hear him. -And this incensed me the more. O my dear, this man is a devil! -This man is indeed a devil! -So much patience, when he pleases! So much gentleness! -Yet so resolute, so persisting, so audacious!
I was going out of the assemblee in great disorder. He was at the door as soon as I.
How kind this is! said the wretch; and, ready to follow me, open'd the door for me.
I turned back, upon this, and, not knowing what I did, snapp'd my fan just in his face, as he turned short upon me; and the powder flew from his wig.
Every-body seemed as much pleased, as I was vexed.
He turned to Mr. Hickman, nettled at the powder flying, and at the smiles of the company upon him; Mr. Hickman, you will be one of the happiest men in the world, because you are a good man, and will do nothing to provoke this passionate lady; and because she has too much good sense to be provoked without reason: But else, the Lord have mercy upon you!
This man, this Mr. Hickman, my dear, is too meek for a man. Indeed he is. -But my patient mother twits me, that her passionate daughter ought to like him the better for that. But meek men abroad are not always meek men at home. I have observed that, in more instances than one: And if they were, I should not, I verily think, like them the better for being so.
He then turned to my mother, resolved to be even with her too: Where, good Madam, could Miss get all this spirit?
The company round smiled; for I need not tell you, that my mother's high-spiritedness is pretty well known; and she, sadly vexed, said, Sir, you treat me, as you do the rest of the world-But-
I beg pardon, pardon, Madam, interrupted he: I might have spared my question-And instantly (I retiring to the other end of the hall) he turned to Miss Playford: What would I give, Miss, to hear you sing that song you obliged us with at Lord M.'s?
He then, as if nothing had happened, fell into a conversation with her, and Miss D'Ollyffe, upon music; and whisperingly sung to Miss Playford, holding her two hands, with such airs of genteel unconcern, that it vexed me not a little, to look round, and see how pleased half the giddy fools of our Sex were with him, notwithstanding his notorious wicked character. -To this it is, that such vile fellows owe much of their vileness; whereas, if they found themselves shunned, and despised, and treated as beasts of prey, as they are, they would run to their caverns, there howl by themselves; and none but such as sad accident, or unpitiable presumption, threw in their way, would suffer by them.
He afterwards talked very seriously, at times, to Mr. Hickman: At times, I say; for it was with such breaks and starts of gaiety, turning to this lady, and to that, and then to Mr. Hickman again, resuming a serious or a gay air at pleasure, that he took every-body's eye, the womens especially; who were full of their whispering admirations of him, qualified with If's, and But's, and What pity's, and such sort of stuff, that shewed, in their very dispraises, too much liking.
Well may our Sex be the sport and ridicule of such libertines! Unthinking eye-governed creatures! -Would not a little reflection teach us, that a man of merit must be a man of modesty, because a diffident one? And that such a wretch as this must have taken his degrees in wickedness, and gone thro' a course of vileness, before he could arrive at this impenetrable effrontery? An effrontery which can proceed only from the light opinion he has of us, and the high one of himself.
But our Sex are generally modest and bashful themselves, and are too apt to consider that, which, in the main, is their principal grace, as a defect: And finely do they judge, when they think of supplying that defect, by choosing a man, who cannot be ashamed.
His discourse to Mr. Hickman turned upon you, and his acknowleged injuries of you, tho' he could so lightly start from the subject, and return to it.
I have no patience with such a devil-Man he cannot be called. To be sure he would behave in the same manner any-where, or in any presence, even at the altar itself, if a lady were with him there.
It shall ever be a rule with me, that he who does not regard a woman with some degree of reverence, will look upon her, and occasionally treat her, with contempt.
He had the confidence to offer to take me out; but I absolutely refused him, and shunned him all I could, putting on the most contemptuous airs: But nothing could mortify him.
I wished twenty times I had not been there.
The gentlemen were as ready as I to wish he had broken his neck, rather than been present, I believe: For nobody was regarded but him. So little of the fop, yet so elegant and rich in his dress: His person so specious: His manner so intrepid: So much meaning and penetration in his face: So much gaiety, yet so little of the monkey: Tho' a travell'd gentleman, yet no affectation; no mere toupet-man; but all manly; and his courage and wit, the one so known, the other so dreaded, you must think the petits-maitres (of which there were four or five present) were most deplorably off in his company: And one grave gentleman observed to me (pleased to see me shun him as I did) that the poet's observation was too true, That the generality of ladies were Rakes in their hearts, or they could not be so much taken with a man who had so notorious a character.
I told him, The reflection both of the poet and applier was much too general, and made with more ill-nature than good manners.
When the wretch saw how industriously I avoided him (shifting from one part of the hall to another), he at last boldly stept up to me, as my mother and Mr. Hickman were talking to me; and thus, before them, accosted me:
I beg your pardon, Madam; but, by your mother's leave, I must have a few moments conversation with you, either here, or at your own house; and I beg you will give me the opportunity.
Nancy, said my mother, hear what he has to say to you. In my presence you may: And better in the adjoining apartment, if it must be, than to come to you at our own house.
I retired to one corner of the hall, my mother following me, and he, taking Mr. Hickman under the arm, following her-Well, Sir, said I, what have you to say? -Tell me here.
I have been telling Mr. Hickman, said he, how much I am concerned for the injuries I have done to the most excellent woman in the world: And yet, that she obtained such a glorious triumph over me the last time I had the honour to see her, as, with my penitence, ought to have qualified her former resentments: But that I will, with all my soul, enter into any measures to obtain her forgiveness of me. My cousins Montague have told you this. Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, and my Lord M. are engaged for my honour. I know your power with the dear creature. My cousins told me, you gave them hopes you would use it in my behalf. My Lord M. and his two sisters are impatiently expecting the fruits of it. You must have heard from her before now: I hope you have. And will you be so good, as to tell me, if I may have any hopes?
If I must speak on this subject, Let me tell you, that you have broken her heart. You know not the value of the lady you have injured. You deserve her not. And she despises you, as she ought.
Dear Miss Howe, mingle not passion with denunciations so severe. I must know my fate. I will go abroad once more, if I find her absolutely irreconcileable. But I hope she will give me leave to attend upon her, to know my doom from her own mouth.
It would be death immediate for her to see you. And what must You be, to be able to look her in the face?
I then reproached him (with vehemence enough, you may believe) on his baseness, and the evils he had made you suffer: The distress he had reduced you to: All your friends made your enemies: The vile house he had carried you to: Hinted at his villainous arts; the dreadful arrest: And told him of your present deplorable illness, and resolution to die rather than have him.
He vindicated not any part of his conduct, but that of the arrest; and so solemnly protested his sorrow for his usage of you, accusing himself in the freest manner, and by, deserved appellations, that I promised to lay before you this part of our conversation. And now you have it.
My mother, as well as Mr. Hickman, believes, from what passed on this occasion, that he is touched in conscience for the wrongs he has done you: But, by his whole behaviour, I must own, it seems to me, that nothing can touch him for half an hour together. Yet I have no doubt, that he would willingly marry you; and it piques his pride, I could see, that he should be denied: As it did mine, that such a wretch had dared to think it in his power to have such a woman whenever he pleased; and that it must be accounted a condescension, and matter of obligation (by all his own family at least), that he would vouchsafe to think of marriage.
Now, my dear, you have the reason before you, why I suspend the decisive Negative to the ladies of his family: My mother, Miss Lloyd, and Miss Biddulph, who were inquisitive after the subject of our retired conversation, and whose curiosity I thought it was right, in some degree, to gratify (especially as those young ladies are of our select acquaintance), are all of opinion, that you should be his.
You will let Mr. Hickman know your whole mind; and when he acquaints me with it, I will tell you all my own.
Mean time, may the news he will bring me of the state of your health, be favourable! prays, with the utmost fervency,
Your ever-faithful and affectionate
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER LXXV.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Thursday, July 27.
My dearest Miss Howe,
After I have thankfully acknowledged your favour in sending Mr. Hickman to visit me before you set out upon your intended journey, I must chide you (in the sincerity of that faithful love, which could not be the love it is, if it would not admit of that cementing freedom) for suspending the decisive Negative, which, upon such full deliberation, I had intreated you to give to Mr. Lovelace's relations.
I am sorry, that I am obliged to repeat to you, my dear, who know me so well, that, were I sure I should live many years, I would not have Mr. Lovelace: Much less can I think of him, as it is probable I may not live one.
As to the world, and its censures, you know, my dear, that, however desirous I always was of a fair fame, yet I never thought it right to give more than a second place to the world's opinion. The challenges made to Mr. Lovelace by Miss D'Oily, in public company, are a fresh proof, that I have lost my reputation: And what advantage would it be to me, were it retrievable, and were I to live long, if I could not acquit myself to myself?
Having, in my former, said so much on the freedoms you have taken with my friends, I shall say the less now: But your hint, that something else has newly passed between some of them and you, gives me great concern, and that as well for my own sake, as for theirs; since it must necessarily incense them against me. I wish, my dear, that I had been left to my own course on an occasion so very interesting to myself. But since what is done cannot be helped, I must abide the consequences: Yet I dread, more than before, what may be my sister's answer, if an answer be at all vouchsafed.
Will you give me leave, my dear, to close this subject with one remark? -It is this: That my beloved friend, in points where her own laudable zeal is concerned, has ever seemed more ready to fly from the rebuke, than the fault. If you will excuse this freedom, I will acknowledge thus far in favour of your way of thinking, as to the conduct of some parents in these nice cases, That indiscreet opposition does frequently as much mischief as giddy love.
As to the invitation you are so kind as to give me, to remove privately into your neighbourhood, I have told Mr. Hickman, that I will consider of it: But believe, if you will be so good as to excuse me, that I shall not accept of it, even should I be able to remove. I will give you my reasons for declining it; and so I ought, when both my love, and my gratitude, would make a visit now-and-then, from my dear Miss Howe, the most consolatory thing in the world to me.
You must know then, that this great town, wicked as it is, wants not opportunities of being better; having daily prayers at several churches in it; and I am desirous, as my strength will admit, to embrace those opportunities. The method I have proposed to myself (and was beginning to practise, when that cruel arrest deprived me both of freedom and strength), is this: When I was disposed to gentle exercise, I took a chair to St. Dunstan's church in Fleet street, where are prayers at seven in the morning: I proposed, if the weather favoured, to walk (if not, to take chair) to Lincoln's-Inn chapel; where, at eleven in the morning, and at five in the afternoon, are the same desirable opportunities; and at other times to go no farther than Covent-Garden church, where are early morning prayers likewise.
This method, pursued, I doubt not, will greatly help as it has already done, to calm my disturbed thoughts, and to bring me to that perfect resignation, which I aspire after: For I must own, my dear, that sometimes still my griefs, and my reflections, are too heavy for me; and all the aid I can draw from religious duties is hardly sufficient to support my staggering reason. I am a very young creature, you know, my dear, to be left to my own conduct, in such circumstances as I am in.
Another reason why I choose not to go down into your neighbourhood, is, The displeasure that might arise on my account between your mother and you.
If, indeed, you were actually married, and the worthy man (who would then have a title to all your regard) were earnestly desirous of my near neighbourhood, I know not what I might do: For altho' I might not perhaps intend to give up my other important reasons at the time I should make you a congratulatory visit, yet I might not know how to deny myself the pleasure of continuing near you, when there.
I send you inclosed the copy of my letter to my sister. I hope it will be thought to be written with a true penitent spirit; for indeed it is. I desire that you will not think I stoop too low in it; since there can be no such thing as that, in a child, to parents whom she has unhappily offended.
But if still (perhaps more disgusted than before at your freedom with them) they should pass it by with the contempt of silence (for I have not yet been favoured with an answer), I must learn to think it right in them so to do; especially as it is my first direct application: For I have often censured the boldness of those, who, applying for a favour, which it is in a person's option to grant, or to refuse, take the liberty of being offended, if they are not gratified; as if the petitioned-to had not as good a right to reject, as the petitioner to ask.
But if my letter should be answered, and that in such terms as will make me loth to communicate it to so warm a friend-you must not, my dear, take upon you to censure my relations; but allow for them, as they know not what I have suffered; as being filled with just resentments against me (just to them, if they think them just); and as not being able to judge of the reality of my penitence.
And after all, what can they do for me? -They can only pity me: And what will that do, but augment their own grief; to which, at present, their resentment is an alleviation? For can they, by their pity, restore to me my lost reputation? Can they, by it, purchase a sponge, that will wipe out from the year the past fatal five months of my life?
Your account of the gay, unconcerned behaviour of Mr. Lovelace, at the Colonel's, does not surprise me at all, after I am told, that he had the intrepidity to go thither, knowing who were invited and expected. -Only this, my dear, I really wonder at, that Miss Howe could imagine, that I could have a thought of such a man for a husband.
Poor wretch! I pity him, to see him fluttering about; abusing talents that were given him for excellent purposes; taking courage for wit; and dancing, fearless of danger, on the edge of a precipice!
But, indeed, his threatening to see me, most sensibly alarms and shocks me. I cannot but hope, that I never, never more shall see him in this world.
Since you are so loth, my dear, to send the desired Negative to the ladies of his family, I will only trouble you to transmit the letter I shall inclose for that purpose; directed indeed to yourself, because it was to you that those ladies applied themselves on this occasion; but to be sent by you to any one of the ladies, at your own choice.
I commend myself, my dearest Miss Howe, to your prayers; and conclude with repeated thanks for sending Mr. Hickman to me; and with wishes for your health and happiness, and for the speedy celebration of your nuptials,
Your ever-affectionate and obliged,
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXXVI.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
[Inclosed in the preceding.]
Thursday, July 27.
My dearest Miss Howe,
Since you seem loth to acquiesce in my determined resolution, signified to you as soon as I was able to hold a pen, I beg the favour of you, by this, or by any other way you think most proper, to acquaint the worthy Ladies who have applied to you in behalf of their relation, that, altho' I am infinitely obliged to their generous opinion of me, yet I cannot consent to sanctify, as I may say, Mr. Lovelace's repeated breaches of all moral sanctions, and hazard my future happiness by an union with a man, thro' whose premeditated injuries, in a long train of the basest contrivances, I have forfeited my temporal hopes.
He himself, when he reflects upon his own actions, must surely bear testimony to the justice, as well as fitness, of my determination. The Ladies, I dare say, would, were they to know the whole of my unhappy story.
Be pleased to acquaint them, that I deceive myself, if my resolution on this head (however ingratefully, and even inhumanly, he has treated me) be not owing more to principle than passion. Nor can I give a stronger proof of the truth of this assurance, than by declaring, that I can and will forgive him, on this one easy condition, That he will never molest me more.
In whatever way you choose to make this declaration, be pleased to let my most respectful compliments to the Ladies of the noble family, and to my Lord M. accompany it. And do you, my dear, believe, that I shall be, to the last moment of my life,
Your ever-obliged and affectionate
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXXVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Friday, July 28.
I have three letters of thine to take notice of: But I am divided in my mind, whether to quarrel with thee, in thy unmerciful reflections; or to thank thee, for thy acceptable particularity and diligence. But several of my sweet dears have I, indeed, in my time made to cry and laugh in a breath; nay, one side of their pretty faces laugh, before the cry could go off the other: Why may I not, therefore, curse and applaud thee in the same moment? To take both in one: And what follows, as it shall rise from my pen.
How often have I ingenuously confessed my sins against this excellent creature? -Yet thou never sparest me, altho' as bad a man as myself. Since then, I get so little by my confessions, I had a good mind to try to defend myself; and that not only from antient and modern story, but from common practice; and yet avoid repeating any-thing I have suggested before in my own behalf.
I am in a humour to play the fool with my pen: Briefly then, from antient story first: -Dost thou not think, that I am as much intitled to forgiveness on Miss Harlowe's account, as Virgil's hero was on Queen Dido's? For what an ingrateful varlet was that vagabond to the hospitable princess, who had willingly conferred upon him the last favour? -Stealing away (whence, I suppose, the ironical phrase of Trusty Trojan to this day) like a thief; pretendedly indeed at the command of the gods; but could that be, when the errand he went upon was to rob other princes, not only of their dominions, but of their lives? -Yet this fellow is, at every word, the pius aeneas, with the immortal bard who celebrates him.
Should Miss Harlowe even break her heart (which Heaven forbid!) for the usage she has received (to say nothing of her disappointed pride, to which her death would be attributable, more than to reason) what comparison will her fate hold to Queen Dido's? And have I half the obligation to her, that AEneas had to the Queen of Carthage. The latter placing a confidence, the former none, in her man? -Then, whom else have I robbed? Whom else have I injured? Her brother's worthless life I gave him, instead of taking any man's, as the Trojan vagabond did the lives of thousands. Why then should it not be the pius Lovelace, as well as the pius AEneas? For, doth thou think, had a conflagration happened, and had it been in my power, that I would not have saved my old Anchises (as he did his from the Ilion bonfire) even at the expence of my Creusa, had I had a wife of that name?
But for a more modern instance in my favour-Have I used Miss Harlowe, as our famous Maiden-Queen, as she was called, used one of her own blood, a Sister-Queen; who threw herself into her protection from her rebel-subjects; and whom she detained prisoner eighteen years, and at last cut off her head? Yet (credited by worse and weaker reigns, a succession four deep) do not honest Protestants pronounce her pious too? -And call her particularly their Queen?
As to common practice-Who, let me ask, that has it in his power to gratify a predominant passion, be it what it will, denies himself the gratification? -Leaving it to cooler deliberation; and, if he be a great man, to his flatterers; to find a reason for it afterwards?
Then, as to the worst part of my treatment of this lady- How many men are there, who, as well as I, have sought, by intoxicating liquors, first to inebriate, then to subdue? What signifies what the potations were, when the same end was in view?
Let me tell thee, upon the whole, that neither the Queen of Carthage, nor the Queen of Scots, would have thought they had any reason to complain of cruelty, had they been used no worse than I have used the Queen of my heart: And then do I not aspire with my whole soul to repair by marriage? Would the pius AEneas, thinkest thou, have done such a piece of justice by Dido, had she lived?
Come, come, Belford, let people run away with notions as they will, I am comparatively a very innocent man. And if by these, and other like reasonings, I have quieted my own conscience, a great end is answered. What have I to do with the world?
And now I sit me peaceably down to consider thy letters.
I hope thy pleas in my favour, when she gave thee (so generously gave thee), for me, my letters, were urged with an honest energy. But I suspect thee much for being too ready to give up thy client. Then thou hast such a misgiving aspect; an aspect, rather inviting rejection, than carrying persuasion with it; and art such an hesitating, such an humming and hawing caitiff; that I shall attribute my failure, if I do fail, rather to the inability and ill looks of my advocate, than to my cause. Again, Thou art deprived of the force men of our cast give to arguments; for she won't let thee swear! -Art moreover a very heavy, thoughtless fellow; tolerable only at a second rebound; a horrid dunce at the impromptu. These, encountering with such a lady, are great disadvantages. -And still a greater is thy balancing (as thou dost at present) between old Rakery and new Reformation: Since this puts thee into the same situation with her, as they told me at Leipsick Martin Luther was in, at the first public dispute which he held, in defence of his supposed new doctrines, with Eckius. For Martin was then but a linsey-wolsey reformer. He retained some dogma, which, by natural consequence, made others that he held untenable. So that Eckius, in some points, had the better of him. But, from that time, he made clear work, renouncing all that stood in his way: And then his doctrines ran upon all fours. He was never puzzled afterwards; and could boldly declare, that he would defend them in the face of angels and men; and to his friends, who would have dissuaded him from venturing to appear before the emperor Charles the Fifth at Spires, That, were there as many devils at Spires, as tiles upon the houses, he would go. An answer that is admired by every Protestant Saxon to this day.
Since then thy unhappy aukwardness destroys the force of thy arguments, I think thou hadst better (for the present, however) forbear to urge her on the subject of accepting the reparation I offer; lest the continual teazing of her to forgive me should but strengthen her in her denials of forgiveness; till, for consistency sake, she'll be forced to adhere to a resolution so often avowed: Whereas, if left to herself, a little time, and better health, which will bring on better spirits, will give her quicker resentments; those quicker resentments will lead her into vehemence; that vehemence will subside, and turn into expostulation and parley: My friends will then interpose, and guaranty for me: And all our trouble on both sides will be over. Such is the natural course of things.
I cannot endure thee for thy hopelesness in the lady's recovery; and that in contradiction to the Doctor and Apothecary.
Time, in the words of Congreve, thou sayst, will give increase to her afflictions. But why so? Knowest thou not, that those words (so contrary to common experience) were applied to the case of a person, while passion was in its full vigour? -At such a time, every-one in a heavy grief thinks the same: But as Enthusiasts do by Scripture, so dost thou by the poets thou hast read: Any-thing that carries the most distant allusion from either, to the case in hand, is put down by both for gospel, however incongruous to the general scope of either, and to that case. So once, in a pulpit, I heard one of the former very vehemently declare himself to be a dead dog; when every man, woman, and child, were convinced to the contrary by his howling.
I can tell thee, that, if nothing else will do, I am determined, in spite of thy buskin-airs, and of thy engagements for me to the contrary, to see her myself.
Face to face have I known many a quarrel made up, which distance would have kept alive, and widened. Thou wilt be a madder Jack than him in the Tale of a Tub, if thou givest an active opposition to this interview.
In short, I cannot bear the thought, that a lady, whom once I had bound to me in the silken cords of love, should slip through my fingers, and be able, while my heart flames out with a violent passion for her, to despise me, and to set both love and me at defiance. Thou canst not imagine how much I envy thee, and her Doctor, and her Apothecary, and every-one whom I hear of being admitted to her presence and conversation; and wish to be the one or the other in turn.
Wherefore, if nothing else will do, I will see her. I'll tell thee of an admirable expedient, just come cross me, to save thy promise, and my own.
Mrs. Lovick, you say, is a good woman: If the lady be worse, she shall advise her to send for a parson to pray by her: Unknown to her, unknown to the lady, unknown to thee (for so it may pass), I will contrive to be the man, petticoated out, and vested in a gown and cassock. I once, for a certain purpose, did assume the canonicals; and I was thought to make a fine sleek appearance, my broad rose-bound beaver became me mightily, and I was much admired upon the whole, by all who saw me.
Methinks it must be charmingly apropos to see me kneeling down by her bed-side (I am sure I shall pray heartily), beginning out of the Common-prayer book the Sick Office for the restoration of the languishing lady, and concluding with an exhortation to charity and forgiveness for myself.
I will consider of this matter. But, in whatever shape I shall choose to appear, of this thou mayst assure thyself, I will apprise thee before-hand of my determined-upon visit, that thou mayest contrive to be out of the way, and to know nothing of the matter. This will save thy word; and, as to mine, can she think worse of me than she does at present?
An indispensable of true love and profound respect, in thy wise opinion, is absurdity or aukwardness. -'Tis surprising, that thou shouldst be one of those partial mortals, who take their measures of right and wrong from what they find themselves to be, and cannot help being! - So aukwardness is a perfection in the aukward! -At this rate, no man ever can be in the wrong. But I insist upon it, that an aukward fellow will do every-thing aukwardly: And if he be like thee, will rack his unmeaning brain for excuses as aukward as his first fault. Respectful Love is an inspirer of actions worthy of itself; and he who cannot shew it, where he most means it, manifests, that he is an unpolite rough creature, a perfect Belford, and has it not in him.
But here thou'lt throw out that notable witticism, that my outside is the best of me, thine the worst of thee; and that, if I set about mending my mind, thou wilt mend thy appearance.
But, pr'ythee, Jack, don't stay for that; but set about thy amendment in dress, when thou leavest off thy mourning; for why shouldst thou prepossess in thy disfavour all those who never saw thee before? -It is hard to remove early-taken prejudices, whether of liking or distaste: People will hunt, as I may say, for reasons to confirm first impressions, in compliment to their own sagacity: Nor is it every mind that has the ingenuity to confess itself mistaken, when it finds itself to be wrong. Thou thyself art an adept in the pretended science of reading of men; and, whenever thou art out, wilt study to find some reasons why it was more probable that thou shouldst have been right; and wilt watch every motion and action, and every word and sentiment, in the person thou hast once censured, for proofs, in order to help thee to revive and maintain thy first opinion. And, indeed, as thou seldom errest on the favourable side, human nature is so vile a thing, that thou art likely to be right five times in six, on the other: And perhaps it is but guessing of others, by what thou findest in thy own heart, to have reason to compliment thyself on thy penetration.
Here is preachment for thy preachment: And, I hope, if thou likest thy own, thou wilt thank me for mine; the rather, as thou may'st be the better for it, if thou wilt: Since it is calculated for thy own meridian.
Well, but the lady refers my destiny to the letter she has written, actually written, to Miss Howe; to whom, it seems, she has given her reasons, why she will not have me. I long to know the contents of this letter: But am in great hopes, that she has so expressed her denials, as shall give room to think, she only wants to be persuaded to the contrary, in order to reconcile herself to herself.
I could make some pretty observations upon one or two places of the lady's meditation: But, wicked as I am thought to be, I never was so abandoned, as to turn into ridicule, or even to treat with levity, things sacred. I think it the highest degree of ill manners, to jest upon those subjects, which the world in general look upon with veneration, and call divine. I would not even treat the mythology of the Heathen, to a Heathen, with the ridicule that perhaps would fairly lie from some of the absurdities that strike every common observer. Nor, when at Rome, and in other popish countries, did I ever behave shockingly at those ceremonies which I thought very extraordinary: For I saw some people affected, and seemingly edified, by them; and I contented myself to think, tho' they were beyond my comprehension, that, if they answered any good end to the many, there was religion enough in them, or civil policy at least, to exempt them from the ridicule of even a bad man, who had common sense, and good manners.
For the like reason, I have never given noisy or tumultuous instances of dislike to a new Play, if I thought it ever so indifferent: For, I concluded first, that every one was intitled to see quietly what he paid for: And, next, as the Theatre (the epitome of the world) consisted of Pit, Boxes, and Gallery, it was hard, I thought, if there could be such a performance exhibited, as would not please somebody in that mixed multitude: And, if it did, those somebodies had as much right to enjoy their own judgments undisturbedly, as I had to enjoy mine.
This was my way of shewing my disapprobation; I never went again. And as a man is at his option, whether he will go to a Play, or not, he has not the same excuse for expressing his dislike clamorously, as if he were compelled to see it.
I have ever, thou knowest, declared against those shallow libertines, who could not make out their pretensions to wit, but on two subjects, to which every man of true wit will scorn to be beholden: Profaneness and Obscenity, I mean; which must shock the ears of every man or woman of sense, without answering any end, but of shewing a very low and abandoned nature. And, till I came acquainted with the brutal Mowbray (no great praise to myself from such a tutor), I was far from making so free, as I now do, with oaths and curses; for then I was forced to outswear him sometimes, to keep him in his allegiance to me his general: Nay, I often check myself to myself, for this empty, unprofitable liberty of speech; in which we are outdone by the sons of the common sewer.
All my vice is women, and the love of plots and intrigues; and I cannot but wonder, how I fell into those shocking freedoms of speech; since, generally-speaking they are far from helping forward my main end: Only, now-and-then, indeed, a little novice rises to one's notice, who seems to think dress, and oaths, and curses, the diagnostics of the rakish spirit she is inclined to favour: And, indeed, they are the only qualifications, that some, who are called Rakes, and Pretty fellows, have to boast of. But what must the women be, who can be attracted by such empty-soul'd profligates? -Since wickedness with wit is hardly excusable; but, without it, is equally shocking and contemptible.
There again is preachment for thy preachment; and thou wilt be apt to think, that I am reforming too: But no such matter. If this were new light darting in upon me, as thy morality seems to be to thee, something of this kind might be apprehended: But this was always my way of thinking; and I defy thee, or any of thy brethren, to name a time, when I have either ridiculed Religion, or talked obscenely. On the contrary, thou knowest how often I have checked that Bear in love-matters, Mowbray, and the finical Tourville, and thyself too, for what ye have called the double-entendre. In love, as in points that required a manly resentment, it has always been my maxim, to act, rather than talk; and I do assure thee, as to the first, the ladies themselves will excuse the one sooner than the other.
As to the admiration thou expressest for the books of Scripture, thou art certainly right in it. But 'tis strange to me, that thou wert ignorant of their beauty, and noble simplicity, till now. Their antiquity always made me reverence them: And how was it possible that thou couldst not, for that reason, if for no other, give them a perusal?
I'll tell thee a short story, which I had from my tutor, admonishing me against exposing myself by ignorant wonder, when I should quit college, go to town, or travel.
'The first time Dryden's Alexander's Feast fell into his hands, he told me, he was prodigiously charmed with it: And, having never heard any-body speak of it before, thought, as thou dost of the Bible, that he had made a new discovery.
'He hastened to an appointment which he had with several wits (for he was then in town), one of whom was a noted Critic, who, according to him, had more merit than good fortune; for all the little nibblers in wit, whose writings would not stand the test of criticism, made it, he said, a common cause to run him down, as men would a mad dog.
The young gentleman (for young he then was) set forth magnificently in the praises of that inimitable performance; and gave himself airs of second-hand merit, for finding out its beauties.
'The old Bard heard him out with a smile, which the collegian took for approbation, till he spoke; and then it was in these mortifying words: 'Sdeath, Sir, where have you lived till now, or with what sort of company have you conversed, young as you are, that you have never before heard of the finest piece in the English language?'
This story had such an effect upon me, who had ever a proud heart, and wanted to be thought a clever fellow, that, in order to avoid the like disgrace, I laid down two rules to myself. The first, whenever I went into company where there were strangers, to hear every-one of them speak, before I gave myself liberty to prate: The other, if I found any of them above my match, to give up all title to new discoveries, contenting myself to praise what they praised, as beauties familiar to me, tho' I had never heard of them before. And so, by degrees, I got the reputation of a wit myself: And when I threw off all restraint, and books, and learned conversation, and fell in with some of our brethren who are now wandering in Erebus, and with such others as Belton, Mowbray, Tourville, and thyself, I set up on my own stock; and, like what we have been told of Sir Richard, in his latter days, valued myself on being the emperor of the company; for, having fathomed the depth of them all, and afraid of no rival but thee, whom also I had got a little under (by my gaiety and promptitude at least), I proudly, like Addison's Cato, delighted to give laws to my little senate.
Proceed with thee by-and-by.

### v6 LETTER LXXVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
But now I have cleared myself of any intentional levity on occasion of my beloved's meditation; which, as thou observest, is finely suited to her case (that is to say, as she and you have drawn her case); I cannot help expressing my pleasure, that by one or two verses of it (the arrow, Jack, and what she feared being come upon her!) I am encouraged to hope, what it will be very surprising to me if it do not happen: That is, in plain English, that the dear creature is in the way to be a mamma.
This cursed arrest, because of the ill effects the terror might have had upon her, in that hoped-for circumstance, has concerned me more than on any other account. It would be the pride of my life to prove, in this charming frost-piece, the triumph of nature over principle, and to have a young Lovelace by such an angel: And then, for its sake, I am confident she will live, and will legitimate it. And what a meritorious little cherub would it be, that should lay an obligation upon both parents before it was born, which neither of them would be able to repay! -Could I be sure it is so, I should be out of all pain for her recovery: Pain, I say; since, were she to die-( Die! abominable word! how I hate it!) I verily think I should be the most miserable man in the world.
As for the earnestness she expresses for death, she has found the words ready to her hand in honest Job; else she would not have delivered herself with such strength and vehemence.
Her innate piety (as I have more than once observed) will not permit her to shorten her own life, either by violence or neglect. She has a mind too noble for that; and would have done it before now, had she designed any such thing: For, to do it, like the Roman matron, when the mischief is over, and it can serve no end; and when the man, however a Tarquin, as some may think him, in this action, is not a Tarquin in power, so that no national point can be made of it; is what she has too much good sense to think of.
Then, as I observed in a like case, a little while ago, the distress, when this was written, was strong upon her; and she saw no end of it: But all was darkness and apprehension before her. Moreover, has she it not in her power to disappoint, as much as she has been disappointed? Revenge, Jack, has induced many a woman to cherish a life, which grief and despair would otherwise have put an end to.
And, after all, death is no such eligible thing, as Job in his calamities, makes it. And a death desired merely from wordly disappointment shews not a right mind, let me tell this lady, whatever she may think of it. You and I, Jack, altho' not afraid in the height of passion or resentment to rush into those dangers which might be followed by a sudden and violent death, whenever a point of honour calls upon us, would shudder at his cool and deliberate approach in a lingering sickness, which had debilitated the spirits.
So we read of a French general, in the reign of Harry the IVth (I forget his name, if it were not Mareschal Biron) who, having faced with intrepidity the ghastly varlet on an hundred occasions in the field, was the most dejected of wretches, when, having forfeited his life for treason, he was led with all the cruel parade of preparation, and surrounding guards, to the scaffold.
The poet says well:
'Tis not the Stoic lesson, got by rote,
The pomp of words, and pedant dissertation,
That can support us in the hour of terror.
Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it:
But when the trial comes, they start, and stand aghast.
Very true: For then it is the old man in the fable, with his bundle of sticks.
The lady is well read in Shakespeare, our English pride and glory; and must sometimes reason with herself in his words, so greatly expressed, that the subject, affecting as it is, cannot produce any thing more so.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible, warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice:
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
Or blown, with restless violence, about
The pendent worlds; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and uncertain thought
Imagines howling: 'Tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loaded worldly life,
That pain, age, penury, and imprisonment,
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
I find, by one of thy three letters, that my beloved had some account from Hickman of my interview with Miss Howe, at Col. Ambrose's. I had a very agreeable time of it there; altho' severely raillied by several of the assemblee. It concerns me, however, not a little, to find our affair so generally known among the Flippanti of both sexes. It is all her own fault. There never, surely, was such an odd little soul as this. -Not to keep her own secret, when the revealing of it could answer no possible good end; and when she wants not (one would think) to raise to herself either pity or friends, or to me enemies, by the proclamation! -Why, Jack, must not all her own sex laugh in their sleeves at her weakness! What would become of the peace of the world, if all women should take it into their heads to follow her example? What a fine time of it would the heads of families have? Their wives always filling their ears with their confessions; their daughters with theirs: Sisters would be every day setting their brothers about cutting of throats, if they had at heart the honour of their families, as it is called; and the whole world would either be a scene of confusion, or cuckoldom must be as much the fashion as it is in Lithuania.
I am glad, however, that Miss Howe, as much as she hates me, kept her word with my cousins on their visit to her, and with me at the Colonel's, to endeavour to persuade her friend to make up all matters by matrimony; which, no doubt, is the best, nay, the only method she can take, for her own honour, and that of her family.
I had once thoughts of revenging myself on that little vixen, and, particularly, as thou mayst remember, had planned something to this purpose on the journey she is going to take, which had been talked of some time. But, I think-Let me see-Yes, I think, I will let this Hickman have her safe and intire, as thou believest the fellow to be a tolerable sort of a mortal, and that I had made the worst of him: And I am glad, for his own sake, he has not launched out too virulently against me to thee.
And thus, if I pay thee not in quality, I do in quantity (and yet leave a multitude of things unobserved upon): For I begin not to know what to do with myself here- Tired with Lord M. who, in his recovery, has play'd upon me the fable of the nurse, the crying child, and the wolf- Tired with my cousins Montague, tho' charming girls, were they not so near of kin-Tired with Mowbray and Tourville, and their everlasting identity-Tired with the country-Tired of myself: Longing for what I have not; I must go to town; and there have an interview with the charmer of my soul: For desperate diseases must have desperate remedies; and I only wait to know my doom from Miss Howe; and then, if it be rejection, I will try my fate, and receive my sentence at her feet. -But I will apprise thee of it before-hand, as I told thee, that thou mayst keep thy parole with the lady, in the best manner thou canst.

### v6 LETTER LXXIX.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe
[In answer to hers of July 27.]
Friday night, July 28.
I will now, my dearest friend, write to you all my mind, without reserve, on your resolution not to have this vilest of men. You gave me, in yours of Sunday the 23d, reasons so worthy of the pure mind of my Clarissa Harlowe, in support of this your resolution, that nothing but self-love, lest I should lose my ever-amiable friend, could have prevailed upon me to wish you to alter it.
Indeed, I thought it was impossible there could be (however desirable) so noble an instance given by any of our Sex, of a passion conquered, when there were so many inducements to give way to it. And, therefore, I was willing to urge you once more to overcome your just indignation, and to be prevailed upon by the solicitations of his friends, before you carried your resentments to so great a height, that it would be more difficult for you, and less to your honour, to comply, than if you had complied at first.
But now, my dear, that I see you fixed in your noble resolution; and that it is impossible for your pure mind to join itself with that of so perjured a miscreant; I congratulate you most heartily upon it; and beg your pardon for but seeming to doubt, that Theory and Practice were not the same thing with my beloved Clarissa Harlowe.
I have only one thing that saddens my heart on this occasion; and that is, the bad state of health Mr. Hickman (unwillingly) owns you are in: For, altho' you so well observe the doctrine you always laid down to me, That a censured person should first seek to be justified to herself, and give but a second place to the world's opinion of her; and, in all cases where the two could not be reconciled, to prefer the first to the last; and tho' you are so well justified to your Anna Howe, and to your own heart; yet, my dear, let me beseech you to endeavour to recover your health and spirits, by all possible means: And this, as what, if it can be effected, will crown the work, and shew the world, that you were indeed got above the base wretch; and, tho' put out of your course for a little while, could resume it again, and go on blessing all within your knowlege, as well by your example, as by your precepts.
For Heaven's sake, then, for the world's sake, for the honour of our sex, and for my sake, once more I beseech you, try to overcome this shock: And, if you can overcome it, I shall then be as happy as I wish to be; for I cannot, indeed I cannot, think of parting with you, for many, many years to come.
The reasons you give for discouraging my wishes to have you near us, are so convincing, that I ought at present to acquiesce in them: But, my dear, when your mind is fully settled, as (now you are so absolutely determined in it, with regard to this wretch) I hope it will soon be, I shall expect you with us, or near us: And then you shall chalk out every path that I will set my foot in; nor will I turn aside either to the right hand or to the left.
You wish I had not mediated for you to your friends. I wish so too; because it was ineffectual; because it may give new ground for the malice of some of them to work upon; and because you are angry with me for doing so. But how, as I said in my former, could I sit down quietly, knowing how uneasy their implacableness must make you? But I will tear myself from the subject-for I see I shall be warm again-and displease you-And there is not one thing in the world, that I would do, however agreeable to myself, if I thought it would disoblige you; nor any one that I would omit to do, if I knew it would give you pleasure. And, indeed, my dear, half-severe friend, I will try, if I cannot avoid the fault, as willingly as I would the rebuke.
For this reason, I forbear saying any-thing on so nice a subject as your letter to your sister. It must be right, because you think it so-and, if it be taken as it ought, that will shew you, that it is. But if it beget insults and revilings, as it is but too likely-I find you don't intend to let me know it.
You were always so ready to accuse yourself for other peoples faults, and to suspect your own conduct, rather than the judgment of your relations, that I have often told you, I cannot imitate you in this. It is not a necessary point of belief with me, that all people in years are therefore wise; or that all young people are therefore rash and headstrong: It may be generally the case, as far as I know: And possibly it may be so in the case of my mother and her girl: But I will venture to say, that it has not yet appeared to be so between the principals of Harlowe-Place, and their second daughter.
You are for excusing them before-hand for their expected cruelty, as not knowing what you have suffered, nor how ill you are: They have heard of the former, and are not sorry for it: Of the latter, they have been told, and I have most reason to know how they have taken it-But I shall be far from avoiding the fault, and as surely shall incur the rebuke, if I say any more upon this subject. I will therefore only add at present, That your reasonings in their behalf shew you to be all excellence; their returns to you, that they are all-Do, my dear, let me end with a little bit of spiteful justice-But you won't, I know-So I have done, quite done, however reluctantly: Yet, if you think of the word I would have said, don't doubt the justice of it, and fill up the blank with it.
You put me in hope, that, were I actually married, and Mr. Hickman to desire it, you would think of obliging me with a visit on the occasion; and that, perhaps, when with me, it would be difficult for you to remove far from me.
Lord, my dear, what a stress do you seem to lay upon Mr. Hickman's desiring it! To be sure he does, and would, of all things, desire to have you near us, and with us, if we might be so favoured. Policy, as well as veneration for you, would undoubtedly make the man, if not a fool, desire this. But let me tell you, that if Mr. Hickman, after marriage, should pretend to dispute with me my friendships, as I hope I am not quite a fool, I should let him know how far his own quiet was concerned in such an impertinence; especially if they were such friendships as were contracted before I knew him.
I know I always differed from you on this subject; for you think more highly of a husband's prerogative, than most people do of the royal one. -These notions, my dear, from a person of your sense and judgment, are no-way advantageous to us; inasmuch as they justify that insolent Sex in their assumptions; when hardly one out of ten of them, their opportunities considered, deserve any prerogative at all. Look thro' all the families we know; and we shall not find one-third of them have half the sense of their wives. -And yet these are to be vested with prerogatives! -And a woman of twice their sense has nothing to do but hear, tremble, and obey-And for conscience-sake too, I warrant!
But Mr. Hickman and I may perhaps have a little discourse upon these sort of subjects, before I suffer him to talk of the day: And then I shall let him know what he has to trust to; as he will me, if he be a sincere man, what he pretends to expect from me. But let me tell you, my dear, that it is more in your power, than perhaps you think it, to hasten the day so much pressed-for by my mother, as well as wish'd-for by you-For the very day that you can assure me, that you are in a tolerable state of health, and have discharged your Doctor and Apothecary, at their own motions, on that account-Some day in a month from that desirable news, shall be it-So, my dear, make haste and be well; and then this matter will be brought to effect in a manner more agreeable to your Anne Howe, than it otherwise ever can.
I send this day, by a particular hand, to the Misses Montague, your letter of just reprobation of the greatest profligate in the kingdom; and hope I shall not have done amiss, that I transcribe some of the paragraphs of your letter of the 23d, and send them with it, as you at first intended should be done.
You are, it seems (and that too much for your health), employed in writing. I hope it is in penning down the particulars of your tragical story. And my mother has put me in mind to press you to it, with a view, that one day, if it might be published under feigned names, it would be of as much use as honour to the Sex. My mother says, she cannot help admiring you for the propriety of your resentment in your refusal of the wretch; and she would be extremely glad to have her advice of penning your sad story complied with. And then, she says, your noble conduct throughout your trials and calamities will afford not only a shining Example to your Sex; but, at the same time (those calamities befalling Such a person) a fearful Warning to the inconsiderate young creatures of it.
On Monday we shall set out on our journey; and I hope to be back in a fortnight, and on my return will have one pull more with my mother for a London journey: And, if the pretence must be the buying of cloaths, the principal motive will be that of seeing once more my dear friend, while I can say, I have not finally given consent to the change of a visitor into a relation; and so can call myself MY OWN, as well as
Your,
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER LXXX.

Miss Howe, To the two Misses Montague.
Sat. July 29.
Dear Ladies,
I have not been wanting to use all my interest with my beloved friend, to induce her to forgive and be reconciled to your kinsman (tho' he has so ill deserved it); and have even repeated my earnest advice to her on this head. This repetition, and the waiting for her answer, having taken up time, have been the cause, that I could not sooner do myself the honour of writing to you on this subject.
You will see, by the inclosed, her immoveable resolution, grounded on noble and high-soul'd motives, which I cannot but regret and applaud at the same time: Applaud, for the justice of her determination, which will confirm all your worthy house in the opinion you had conceived of her unequalled merit; and regret, because I have but too much reason to apprehend, as well by that, as by the report of a gentleman just come from her, that she is in such a declining way, as to her health, that her thoughts are very differently employed than on a continuance here.
The inclosed letter she thought fit to send to me unsealed, that, after I had perused it, I might forward it to you: And this is the reason it is superscribed by myself, and sealed with my seal. It is very full and peremptory; but as she had been pleased, in a letter to me, dated the 23d instant (as soon as she could hold a pen), to give me ampler reasons, why she could not comply with your pressing requests, as well as mine, I will transcribe some of the passages in that letter, which will give one of the wickedest men in the world (if he sees them) reason to think himself one of the unhappiest, in the loss of so incomparable a wife, as he might have gloried in, had he not been so superlatively wicked. These are the passages:
[See, for these passages, Miss Harlowe's letter, No. lxvi. dated July 23. marked with turn'd comma's, thus "]
And now, ladies, you have before you my beloved friend's reasons for her refusal of a man unworthy of the relation he bears to so many excellent persons: And I will add (for I cannot help it), that, the merit and rank of the person considered, and the vile manner of his proceedings, there never was a greater villainy committed: And since she thinks her first and only fault cannot be expiated but by death, I pray to God daily, and will hourly from the moment I shall hear of that sad catastrophe, that He will be pleased to make him the subject of his vengeance, in some such way, as that all who know of his perfidious crime, may see the hand of Heaven in the punishment of it.
You will forgive me, ladies; I love not my own soul better than I do Miss Clarissa Harlowe: And the distresses she has gone thro'; and the persecutions she suffers from all her friends; the curse she lies under, for his sake, from her implacable father; her reduced health and circumstances, from high health and affluence; and that execrable arrest and confinement, which have deepened all her other calamities (and which must be laid at his door, as the action of his vile agents, that, whether from his immediate orders or not, naturally flowed from his preceding baseness); the Sex dishonoured in the eye of the world, in the person of one of the greatest ornaments of it; his unmanly methods, whatever they were (for I know not all as yet), of compassing her ruin; all join to justify my warmth, and my execrations, against a man, whom I think excluded by his crimes from the benefit even of christian forgiveness-And were you to see all she writes, and the admirable talents she is mistress of, you yourselves would join to admire her, and execrate him, as I do.
Believe me to be, with a high sense of your merits,
Dear Ladies,
Your most obedient humble Servant,
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER LXXXI.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Friday, July 28.
My dearest young Lady,
I have the consolation to tell you, that my son is once again in an hopeful way, as to his health. He desires his duty to you. He is very low and weak. And so am I. But this is the first time that I have been able, for several days past, to sit up to write, or I would not have been so long silent.
Your letter to your sister is received and answered. You have the answer by this time, I suppose. I wish it may be to your satisfaction: But am afraid it will not: For, by Betty Barnes, I find they were in a great ferment on receiving yours, and much divided whether it should be answered or not. They will not yet believe that you are so ill, as, to my infinite concern, I find you are. What passed between Miss Harlowe and Miss Howe, as I feared, has been an aggravation.
I shewed Betty two or three passages in your letter to me; and she seemed moved, and said, She would report them favourably, and would procure me a visit from Miss Harlowe, if I would promise to shew the same to her. But I have heard no more of that.
Methinks, I am sorry you refuse the wicked man: But doubt not, nevertheless, that your motives for doing so, are righter, than my wishes that you would not. But as you would be resolved, as I may say, on life, if you gave way to such a thought; and as I have so much interest in it; I cannot forbear shewing this regard to myself, as to ask you, Cannot you, my dear young lady, get over your just resentments? -But I dare say no more on this subject.
What a dreadful thing indeed was it for my dearest tender young lady to be arrested in the streets of London! -How does my heart go over again for you, what yours must have suffered at that time! -Yet this, to such a mind as yours, must be light, compared to what you had suffered before.
O my dearest Miss Clary, how shall we know what to pray for, when we pray for any thing, but that God's will may be done, and that we may be resigned to it! -When at nine years old, and afterwards at eleven, you had a dangerous fever, how incessantly did we all grieve, and pray, and put up our vows to the throne of grace, for your recovery! For all our lives were bound up in your life- Yet now, my dear, as it has proved (especially if we are soon to lose you) what a much more desirable event, both for you, and for us, had we then lost you!
A sad thing to say! But as it is in pure love to you that I say it, and in full conviction, that we are not always fit to be our own choosers, I hope it may be excuseable; and the rather, as the same reflection will naturally lead both you and me to acquiesce under the present dispensation; since we are assured, that nothing happens by chance; and that the greatest good may, for aught we know, be produced from the heaviest evils.
I am glad you are with such honest people; and that you have all your effects restored-How dreadfully have you been used, that one should be glad of such a poor piece of justice as that?
Your talent at moving the passions is always hinted at; and this Betty of your sister's never comes near me, that she is not full of it. But, as you say, whom has it moved, that you wished to move? Yet, were it not for this unhappy notion, I am sure your mamma would relent. Forgive me, my dear Miss Clary; for I must try one way to be convinced if my opinion be not just. But I will not tell you what that is, unless it succeeds. I will try, in pure duty and love to them, as well as to you.
May Heaven be your support, in all your trials, is the constant prayer, my dearest young lady, of
Your ever-affectionate Friend and Servant,
Judith Norton.

### v6 LETTER LXXXII.

Mrs. Norton, To Mrs. Harlowe.
Friday, July 28.
Honoured Madam,
Being forbidden, without leave, to send you anything I might happen to receive from my beloved Miss Clary, and so ill, that I cannot attend to ask your leave, I give you this trouble, to let you know, that I have received a letter from her; which, I think, I should hereafter be held inexcuseable, as things may happen, if I did not desire permission to communicate it to you, and that as soon as possible.
Applications have been made to the dear young lady from Lord M. from the two ladies his sisters, and from both his nieces, and from the wicked man himself, to forgive and marry him. This, in noble indignation for the usage she has received from him, she has absolutely refused. And perhaps, Madam, if you and the honoured family should be of opinion, that to comply with their wishes is now the properest measure that can be taken, the circumstances of things may require your authority or advice, either to induce her to change her mind, or to confirm her in it.
I have reason to believe, that one motive for her refusal, is her full conviction, that she shall not long be a trouble to any-body; and so she would not give a husband a right to interfere with her family, in relation to the estate her grandfather bequeathed to her. But of this, however, I have not the least intimation from her. Nor would she, I dare say, mention it, as a reason, having still stronger to refuse him, from his vile treatment of her.
The letter I have received will shew how truly penitent the dear creature is; and if I have your permission, I will send it sealed up, with a copy of mine, to which it is an answer. But as I resolve upon this step without her knowlege (and indeed I do), I will not acquaint her with it, unless it be attended with desirable effects: Because, otherwise, besides making me incur her displeasure, it might quite break her already half-broken heart.
I am, honoured Madam,
Your dutiful and ever-obliged Servant,
Judith Norton.

### v6 LETTER LXXXIII.

Mrs. Harlowe, To Mrs. Judith Norton.
Sunday, July 30.
We all know your virtuous prudence, worthy woman; we all do. But your partiality to this your rash favourite is likewise known. And we are no less acquainted with the unhappy body's power of painting her distresses so as to pierce a stone.
Every-one is of opinion, that the dear naughty creature is working about to be forgiven and received; and for this reason it is, that Betty has been forbidden (Not by me, you may be sure!) to mention any more of her letters; for she did speak to my Bella of some moving passages you read to her.
This will convince you, that nothing will be heard in her favour: To what purpose then, should I mention any thing about her? -But you may be sure that I will, if I can have but one second. However, that is not at all likely, until we see what the consequences of her crime will be: And who can tell that? -She may-How can I speak it, and my once darling daughter unmarried! -She may be with child! -This would perpetuate her stain. Her brother may come to some harm; which God forbid! -One child's ruin, I hope, will not be followed by another's murder!
As to her grief, and her present misery, whatever it be, she must bear with it; and it must be short of what I hourly bear for her! Indeed I am afraid nothing but her being at the last extremity of all will make her father, and her uncles, and her other friends, forgive her.
The easy pardon perverse children meet with, when they have done the rashest and most rebellious thing they can do, is the reason (as is pleaded to us every day), that so many follow their example. They depend upon the indulgent weakness of their parents tempers, and, in that dependence, harden their own hearts: And a little humiliation, when they have brought themselves into the foretold misery, is to be a sufficient atonement for the greatest perverseness.
But for such a child as this (I mention what others hourly say, but what I must sorrowfully subscribe to) to lay plots and stratagems to deceive her parents, as well as herself; and to run away with a libertine; Can there be any atonement for her crime? And is she not answerable to God, to us, to you, and to all the world who knew her, for the abuse of such talents as she has abused?
You say her heart is half-broken: Is it to be wondered at? Was not her sin committed equally against warning, and the light of her own knowledge?
That he would now marry her, or that she would refuse him, if she believed him in earnest, as she has circumstanced herself, is not at all probable; and were I inclined to believe it, no-body else here would. He values not his relations; and would deceive them as soon as any others: His aversion to marriage he has always openly declared; and still occasionally declares it. But if he be now in earnest, which every one who knows him must doubt; Which do you think (hating us too, as he professes to hate and despise us all) would be soonest to be chosen here, To hear of her death, or of her marriage with such a vile man?
To all of us, I cannot say! For Oh! my good Mrs. Norton, you know what a mother's tenderness for the child of her heart would make her choose, notwithstanding all that child's faults, rather than lose her for ever!
But I must sail with the tide; my own judgment also joining with it, or I should make the unhappiness of the more worthy still greater (my dear Mr. Harlowe's particularly); which is already more than enough to make them unhappy for the remainder of their days. This I know; If I were to oppose the rest, our son would fly out to find this libertine; and who could tell what would be the issue of that, with such a man of violence and blood, as that Lovelace is known to be?
All I can expect to prevail for her, is, that in a week, or so, Mr. Brand may be sent up to inquire privately about her present state, and way of life, and to see she is not altogether destitute: For nothing she writes herself will be regarded.
Her father indeed has, at her earnest request, withdrawn the curse, which, in a passion, he laid upon her, at her first wicked flight from us. But Miss Howe [It is a sad thing, Mrs. Norton, to suffer so many ways at once!] had made matters so difficult by her undue liberties with us all, as well by speech in all companies, as by letters written to my Bella, that we could hardly prevail upon him to hear her letter read.
These liberties of Miss Howe with us; the general cry against us abroad, where-ever we are spoken of; and the visible and not seldom, audible disrespectfulness, which high and low treat us with to our faces, as we go to and from church, and even at church (for no-where else have we the heart to go), as if none of us had been regarded but upon her account; and as if she were innocent, we all in fault; are constant aggravations, you must needs think, to the whole family.
She has made my lot heavy, I am sure, that was far from being light before! -I am injoined (to tell you truth) not to receive any thing of hers, from any hand, without leave. Should I therefore gratify my yearnings after her, so far as to receive privately the letter you mention, what would the case be, but to torment myself, without being able to do her good? -And were it to be known-Mr. Harlowe is so passionate-And should it throw his gout into his stomach, as her rash flight did-Indeed, indeed, I am very unhappy! -For Oh, my good woman, she is my child still! -But unless it were more in my power- Yet do I long to see the letter-You say it tells of her present way and circumstances. -The poor child, who ought to be in possession of thousands! -And will! -For her father will be a faithful steward for her. -But it must be in his own way, and at his own time.
And is she really ill? -so very ill? -But she ought to sorrow. -She has given a double measure of it.
But does she really believe she shall not long trouble us? -But Oh, my Norton! -She must, she will long trouble us-For can she think her death, if we should be deprived of her, will put an end to our afflictions? -Can it be thought, that the fall of such a child will not be regretted by us to the last hour of our lives?
But, in the letter you have, does she, without reserve, express her contrition? Has she in it no reflecting hints? Does she not aim at extenuations? -If I were to see it, will it not shock me so much, that my apparent grief may expose me to harshnesses? -Can it be contrived-
But to what purpose? -Don't send it-I charge you don't-I dare not see it-
Yet-
But, alas!-
O forgive the distracted-thoughted mother! You can. -You know how to allow for all this. -So I will let it go. -I will not write over again this part of my letter.
But I choose not to know more of her, than is communicated to us all-No more than I dare own I have seen- And what some of them may rather communicate to me, than receive from me: And this for the sake of my outward quiet: Altho' my inward peace suffers more and more by the compelled reserve.
I was forced to break off. But I will now try to conclude my long letter.
I am sorry you are ill. But if you were well, I could not, for your own sake, wish you to go up, as Betty tells us you long to do. If you went, nothing would be minded that came from you. As they already think you too partial in her favour, your going up would confirm it, and do yourself prejudice, and her no good. And as every-body values you here, I advise you not to interest yourself too warmly in her favour, especially before my Bella's Betty, till I can let you know a proper time. Yet to forbid you to love the dear naughty creature, who can? O my Norton! you must love her! -And so must I!
I send you five guineas, to help you in your present illness, and your son's; for it must have lain heavy upon you. What a sad, sad thing, my dear good woman, that all your pains, and all my pains, for eighteen or nineteen years together, have, in so few months, been rendered thus deplorably vain! Yet I must be always your friend, and pity you, for the very reason that I myself deserve every one's pity.
Perhaps I may find an opportunity to pay you a visit, as in your illness, and then may weep over the letter you mention, with you. But, for the future, write nothing to me about the poor girl, that you think may not be communicated to us all.
And I charge you, as you value my friendship, as you wish my peace, not to say any-thing of a letter you have from me, either to the naughty-one, or to any-body else. It was some little relieve (the occasion given) to write to you, who must, in so particular a manner, share my affliction. A mother, Mrs. Norton, cannot forget her child, tho' that child could abandon her mother; and, in so doing, run away with all her mother's comforts! -As I can truly say, is the case of
Your unhappy Friend, Charlotte Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXXXIV.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Mrs. Judith Norton.
Sat. July 29.
I Congratulate you, my dear Mrs. Norton, with all my heart, on your son's recovery; which I pray to God, with your own health, to perfect.
I write in some hurry, being apprehensive of the consequence of the hints you give of some method you propose to try in my favour (With my relations, I presume you mean): But you will not tell me what, you say, if it prove unsuccessful.
Now I must beg of you, that you will not take any step in my favour, with which you do not first acquaint me.
I have but one request to make to them, besides what is contained in my letter to my sister; and I would not, methinks, for their own future peace of mind's sake, that they should be teazed so, by your well-meant kindness, and Miss Howe's, as to be put upon denying me that. And why should more be asked for me than I can partake of? More than is absolutely necessary for my own peace?
You suppose I should have my sister's answer to my letter, by the time yours reached my hand. I have it; and a severe one, a very severe one, it is. Yet, considering my fault in their eyes, and the provocations I am to suppose they so newly had from my dear Miss Howe, I am to look upon it as a favour, that it was answered at all. I will send you a copy of it soon; as also of mine, to which it is an answer.
I have reason to be very thankful, that my father has withdrawn that heavy malediction, which affected me so much-A parent's curse, my dear Mrs. Norton, what child could die in peace under a parent's curse; so literally fulfilled too, as this has been, in what relates to this life!
My heart is too full to touch upon the particulars of my sister's letter. -I can make but one atonement for my fault. May that be accepted! And may it soon be forgotten, by every dear relation, that there was such an unhappy daughter, sister, or niece, as Clarissa Harlowe!
My cousin Morden was one of those, who was so earned in prayers for my recovery, at nine and eleven years of age, as you mention. My sister thinks he will be one of those, who will wish I never had a being. But pray, when he does come, let me hear of it with the first.
You think, that were it not for that unhappy notion of my moving talent, my mamma would relent. What would I give to see her once more, and, altho' unknown to her, to kiss but the hem of her garment!
Could I have thought, that the last time I saw her would have been the last, with what difficulty should I have been torn from her embraced feet! -And when, skreen'd behind the yew-hedge on the 5th of April last I saw my father, and my uncle Antony, and my brother and sister, how little did I think, that That would be the last time I should ever see them; and, in so short a space, that so many dreadful evils would befal me!
But I can write nothing, but what must give you trouble. I will therefore, after repeating my desire, that you will not intercede for me, but with my previous consent, conclude with the assurance, that I am, and ever will be,
Your most affectionate and dutiful Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXXXV.

Miss Ar. Harlowe, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
[In Answer to hers of Friday, July 21.]
Thursday, July 27.
O my unhappy lost Sister!
What a miserable hand have you made of your romantic and giddy expedition! I pity you at my heart!
You may well grieve and repent! -Lovelace has left you! -In what way or circumstances, you know best.
I wish your conduct had made your case more pitiable. But 'tis your own seeking!
God help you! -For you have not a friend will look upon you! -Poor, wicked, undone creature! -Fallen, as you are, against warning, against expostulation, against duty!
But it signifies nothing to reproach you. I weep over you!
My poor mamma! -Your rashness and folly have made her more miserable than you can be! Yet she has besought my papa to grant your request.
My uncles joined with her; for they thought there was a little more modesty in your letter, than in those of your pert advocate: And he is pleased to give me leave to write; but only these words for him, and no more: "That he withdraws the curse he laid upon you, at the first hearing of your wicked flight, so far as it is in his power to do it; and hopes that your present punishment may be all you will meet with. For the rest, He will never own you, nor forgive you; and grieves he has such a daughter in the world."
All this, and more, you have deserved from him, and from all of Us: But what have you done to this abandoned libertine, to deserve what you have met with at his hands? -I fear, I fear, sister! -But no more! -A blessed four months work have you made of it!
My brother is now at Edinburgh, sent thither by my father (tho' he knows not this to be the motive), that he may not meet this triumphant deluder.
We are told he would be glad to marry you: But why, then, did he abandon you? He had kept you, till he was tired of you, no question; and it is not likely he would wish to have you, but upon the terms you have already without all doubt been his.
You ought to advise your friend Miss Howe to concern herself less in your matters, than she does, except she could do it with more decency. She has written three letters to me: Very insolent ones. Your favourer, poor Mrs. Norton, thinks you know nothing of the pert creature's writeing. I hope you don't. But then the more impertinent the writer. But, believing the fond woman, I sat down the more readily to answer your letter, and write with less severity, than otherwise I should have done, if I had answered it at all.
Monday last was your Birth-day. Think, poor ingrateful wretch, as you are! how we all used to keep it; and you will not wonder to be told, that we ran away from one another that day. But God give you true penitence, if you have it not already! And it will be true, if it be equal to the shame, and the sorrow, you have given us all.
Your afflicted Sister, Arabella Harlowe.
Your cousin Morden is every day expected in England. He, as well as others of the family, when he comes to hear what a blessed piece of work you have made of it, will wish you never had a being.

### v6 LETTER LXXXVI.

Miss Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Sunday, July 30.
You have given me great pleasure, my dearest friend, by your approbation of my reasonings, and of my resolution founded upon them, never to have Mr. Lovelace. This approbation is so right a thing, give me leave to say, from the nature of the case, and from the strict honour and true dignity of mind, which I always admired in my Anna Howe, that I could hardly tell to what, but to my evil destiny, that of late would not let me please anybody, to attribute the advice you gave me to the contrary.
But let not the ill state of my health, and what that may naturally tend to, sadden you. I have told you, that I will not run away from life, nor avoid the means that may continue it, if God see fit: And if he do not, who shall repine at his will?
If it shall be found, that I have not acted unworthy of your love, and of my own character, in my greater trials, that will be a happiness to both on reflection.
The shock which you so earnestly advise me to try to get over, was a shock, the greatest that I could receive. But, my dear, as it was not incurred by my fault, I hope I am already got above it. I hope I am!
I am more grieved (at times however) for others, than for myself. And so I ought. For as to myself, I cannot but reflect, that I have had an escape, rather than a loss, in missing Mr. Lovelace for a husband: Even had he not committed the vilest of all outrages.
Let any one, who knows my story, collect his character from his behaviour to me, before that outrage; and then judge, whether it was in the least probable for such a man to make me happy. But to collect his character from his principles, with regard to the Sex in general, and from his enterprizes upon many of them, and to consider the cruelty of his nature, and the sportiveness of his invention, together with the high opinion he has of himself, it will not be doubted, that a wife of his must have been miserable; and more miserable if she loved him, than if she could have been indifferent to him.
A twelvemonth might, very probably, have put a period to my life; situated as I was with my friends; persecuted and harassed as I had been by my brother and sister; and my very heart torn in pieces by the wilful, and, as it is now apparent, premeditated suspenses of the man, whose gratitude I wished to engage, and whose protection I was the more intitled to expect, as he had robbed me of every other, and, hating my own family, had reduced me to an absolute dependence upon himself. This once, as I thought, all his view; and uncomfortable enough for me, if it had been all.
Can it be thought, my dear, that my heart was not affected, happy as I was before I knew Mr. Lovelace, by such am unhappy change in my circumstances? -Nor, perhaps, was the wicked violence wanting to have cut short, tho' not so very short perhaps, a life that he has sported with.
Had I been his but a month, he must have possessed the estate on which my relations had set their hearts; the more to their regret, as they hated him, as much as he hated them.
Have I not reason, these things considered, to think myself happier without Mr. Lovelace, than with him? - My will too unviolated; and very little, nay, not anything, as to him, to reproach myself with?
But with my relations it is otherwise. They indeed deserve to be pitied. They are, and no doubt will long be, unhappy.
To judge of their resentments, and of their conduct, we must put ourselves in their situation: -And while they think me more in fault than themselves (whether my favourers are of their opinion, or not) and have a right to judge for themselves, they ought to have great allowances made for them; my parents especially. They stand at least self-acquitted (that cannot I); and the rather, as they can recollect, to their pain, their past indulgencies to me, and their unquestionable love.
Your partiality for the friend you so much value, will not easily let you come into this way of thinking. But only, my dear, be pleased to consider the matter in the following light.
Here was my Mother, one of the most prudent persons of her Sex, married into a family, not perhaps so happily tempered as herself; but every one of which she had the address, for a great while, absolutely to govern as she pleased by her directing wisdom, at the same time that they knew not but her prescriptions were the dictates of their own hearts; such a sweet art had she of conquering by seeming to yield. Think, my dear, what must be the pride and the pleasure of such a mother, that in my brother she could give a son to the family she distinguished with her preferable love, not unworthy of their wishes; a daughter, in my sister, of whom she had no reason to be ashamed; and in me, a second daughter, whom every-body complimented (such was their partial favour to me) as being the still more immediate likeness of herself? How, self-pleased, could she smile round upon a family she had so blessed! What compliments were paid her upon the example she had given us, which were followed with such hopeful effects! With what a noble confidence could she look upon her dear Mr. Harlowe, as a person made happy by her; and be delighted to think, that nothing but purity streamed from a fountain so pure!
Now, my dear, reverse, as I daily do, this charming prospect. See my dear mamma, sorrowing in her closet; endeavouring to suppress her sorrow at her table, and in those retirements where sorrow was before a stranger: Hanging down her pensive head: Smiles no more beaming over her benign aspect: Her virtue made to suffer for faults she could not be guilty of: Her patience continually tried (because she has more of it than any other) with repetitions of faults she is as much wounded by, as those can be from whom she so often hears of them: Taking to herself, as the fountain-head, a taint which only had infected one of the under-currents: Afraid to open her lips (were she willing) in my favour, lest it should be thought she has any byas in her own mind to failings that never otherwise could have been suspected in her: Robbed of that conscious merit, which the mother of hopeful children may glory in: Every one who visits her, or is visited by her, by dumb shew, and looks that mean more than words can express, condoling where they used to congratulate: The affected silence wounding: The compassionating look reminding: The half-suppressed sigh in them, calling up deeper sighs from her; and their averted eyes, endeavouring to restrain the rising tear, provoking tears from her, that will not be restrained.
When I consider these things, and, added to these, the pangs that tear in pieces my Father's stronger heart, because it cannot relieve itself by those tears which carry the torturing grief to the eyes of softer spirits: The overboiling tumults of my impatient and uncontroulable Brother, piqued to the heart of his honour, in the fall of a sister, in whom he once gloried: The pride of an Elder Sister, who had given unwilling way to the honours paid over her head to one born after her: And, lastly, the dishonour I have brought upon Two Uncles, who each contended which should most favour their then happy niece: When, I say, I reflect upon my fault in these strong, yet just lights, what room can there be to censure any-body but my unhappy self? And how much reason have I to say, If I justify myself, mine own heart shall condemn me: If I say, I am perfect, it shall also prove me perverse?
Here permit me to lay down my pen for a few moments.
You are very obliging to me, intentionally, I know, when you tell me, It is in my power to hasten the day of Mr. Hickman's happiness. But yet, give me leave to say, that I admire this kind assurance less than any other paragraph of your letter.
In the first place, you know it is not in my power to say when I can dismiss my physician; and you should not put the celebration of a marriage intended by yourself, and so desirable to your mother, upon so precarious an issue. Nor will I accept of a compliment, which must mean a slight to her.
If any-thing could give me a relish for life, after what I have suffered, it would be the hopes of the continuance of the more than sisterly love, which has, for years, uninterruptedly bound us together as one mind. -And why, my dear, should you defer giving (by a tie still stronger) another friend at one, who has so few?
I am glad you have sent my letter to Miss Montague. I hope I shall hear no more of this unhappy man.
I had begun the particulars of my tragical story: But it is so painful a task, and I have so many more important things to do, and, as I apprehend, so little time to do them in, that, could I avoid it, I would go no farther in it.
Then, to this hour, I know not by what means several of his machinations to ruin me were brought about; so that some material parts of my sad story must be defective, if I were to sit down to write it. But I have been thinking of a way that will answer the end wished for by your mother and you full as well; perhaps better.
Mr. Lovelace, it seems, has communicated to his friend Mr. Belford all that has passed between himself and me, as he went on. Mr. Belford has not been able to deny it. So that (as we may observe by the way) a poor young creature, whose indiscretion has given a libertine power over her, has a reason, she little thinks of, to regret her folly; since these wretches, who have no more honour in one point than in another, scruple not to make her weakness a part of their triumph to their brother libertines.
I have nothing to apprehend of this sort, if I have the justice done me in his letters, which Mr. Belford assures me that I have: And therefore the particulars of my story, and the base arts of this vile man, will, I think, be best collected from those very letters of his (if Mr. Belford can be prevailed upon to communicate them); to which I dare appeal with the same truth and fervor as he did, who says, -O that one would hear me! and that mine adversary had written a book! -Surely, I would take it upon my shoulders, and bind it to me as a crown! For I covered not my transgressions as Adam, by hiding mine iniquity in my bosom.
There is one way, which may be fallen upon to induce Mr. Belford to communicate these letters; since he seems to have (and declares he always had) a sincere abhorrence of his friend's baseness to me: But that, you'll say, when you hear it, is a strange one. Nevertheless, I am very earnest upon it, at present.
It is no other than this:
I think to make Mr. Belford the Executor of my last will (Don't be surprised!): And with this view I permit his visits with the less scruple: And every time I see him, from his concern for me, am more and more inclined to do so. If I hold in the same mind, and if he accept the trust, and will communicate the materials in his power, those, joined with what you can furnish, will answer the whole end.
I know you will start at my notion of such an Executor: But pray, my dear, consider, in my present circumstances, what I can do better, as I am impowered to make a will, and have considerable matters in my own disposal.
Your mother, I am sure, would not consent that you should take this office upon you. It might subject Mr. Hickman to the insults of that violent man. Mrs. Norton cannot, for several reasons respecting herself. My Brother looks upon what I ought to have, as his right: My uncle Harlowe is already my trustee, with my cousin Morden, for the estate my grandfather left me: But you see I could not get from my own family the few pieces I left behind me at Harlowe-Place; and my uncle Antony once threatened to have my grandfather's will controverted. My Father! -To be sure, my dear, I could not expect that my Father would do all I wish should be done: And a will to be executed by a father for a daughter (parts of it, perhaps, absolutely against his own judgment) carries somewhat daring and prescriptive in the very word.
If, indeed, my cousin Morden were to come in time, and would undertake this trust-But even him it might subject to hazards; and the more, as he is a man of great spirit; and as the other man (of as great) looks upon me (unprotected as I have long been) as his property.
Now Mr. Belford knows, as I have already mentioned, every-thing that has passed. He is a man of spirit, and, it seems, as fearless as the other, with more humane qualities. You don't know, my dear, what instances of sincere humanity this Mr. Belford has shewn, not only on occasion of the cruel arrest, but on several occasions since. And Mrs. Lovick has taken pains to inquire after his general character; and hears a very good one of him, for justice and generosity in all his concerns of Meum and Tuum, as they are called: He has a knowlege of law-matters; and has two executorships upon him at this time, in the discharge of which his honour is unquestioned.
All these reasons have already in a manner determined me to ask this favour of him; altho' it will have an odd sound with it, to make an intimate friend of Mr. Lovelace my Executor.
This is certain: My brother will be more acquiescent a great deal in such a case with the articles of my will, as he will see that it will be to no purpose to controvert some of them, which else, I dare say, he would controvert, or persuade my other friends to do so. And who would involve an Executor in a Law-suit, if they could help it? Which would be the case, if any-body were left, whom my brother could hope to awe or controul; since my father (who is governed by him) has possession of all: Nor would I wish, you may believe, to have effects torn out of my father's hands: While Mr. Belford, who is a man of fortune (and a good oeconomist in his own affairs), would have no interest but to do justice.
Then he exceedingly presses for some occasion to shew his readiness to serve me: And he would be able to manage his violent friend, over whom he has more influence than any other person.
But, after all, I know not, if it were not more eligible by far, that my story should be forgotten as soon as possible; and myself too. And of this I shall have the less doubt, if the character of my parents cannot be guarded (You will forgive me, my dear) from the unqualified bitterness, which, from your affectionate zeal for me, has sometimes mingled with your ink. At point that ought, and (I insist upon it) must be well considered of, if any-thing be done which your mother and you are desirous should be done.
My father has been so good as to take off from me the heavy malediction he laid me under. I must be now solicitous for a last blessing; and that is all I shall presume to ask. My sister's letter, communicating this grace, is a severe one. But as she writes to me as from every-body, how could I expect it to be otherwise?
If you set out to-morrow, this letter cannot reach you till you get to your aunt Harman's. I shall therefore direct it thither, as Mr. Hickman instructed me.
I hope you will have met with no inconveniencies in your little journey and voyage; and that you will have found in good health all whom you wish to see well.
Let me recommend to you, my dear, that, if your friends and relations in the little Island join their solicitations with your mother's commands, to have your nuptials celebrated before you leave them, you do not refuse to oblige them. How grateful will the notification that you have done so, be to
Your ever-faithful and affectionate
Cl. Harlowe!

### v6 LETTER LXXXVII.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, to Miss Harlowe.
Saturday, July 29.
I Repine not, my dear sister, at the severity you have been pleased to express in the letter you favoured me with; because that severity was accompanied with the grace I had petitioned for: And because the reproaches of my own heart are stronger than any other person's reproaches can be; altho' I am not half so culpable as I am imagined to be; as would be allowed, if all the circumstances of my unhappy story were known; and which I shall be ready to communicate to Mrs. Norton, if she be commissioned to inquire into them; or to you, my sister, if you can have patience to hear them.
I remembred with a bleeding heart what day the 24th of July was. I began with the eve of it; and I passed the day itself-as it was fit I should pass it. Nor have I any comfort to give to my dear and ever-honoured father and mother, and to you, my Bella, but This-That, as it was the first unhappy anniversary of my birth, in all probability, it will be the last.
Believe me, my dear sister, I say not this, merely to move compassion; but from the best grounds: And as I think it of the highest importance to my peace of mind, to obtain one further favour, I would choose to owe to your intercession, as my sister, the leave I beg, to address half a dozen lines, with the hope of having them answered as I wish, to either or to both my honoured parents, to beg their last blessing.
This blessing is all the favour I have now to ask: It is all I dare to ask: Yet am afraid to rush at once, tho' by letter, into the presence of either. And if I did not ask it, it might seem to be owing to stubbornness and want of duty, when my heart is all humility and penitence. Only, be so good as to embolden me to attempt this task: Write but this one line, "Clary Harlowe, you are at liberty to write as you desire." This will be enough-And shall, to my last hour be acknowledged as the greatest favour, by
Your truly penitent Sister,
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER LXXXVIII.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Monday, July 31.
My dearest young lady,
I Must indeed own, that I took the liberty to write to your mamma, offering to inclose to her, if she gave me leave, yours of the 24th: By which I thought she would see what was the state of your mind; what the nature of your last troubles was, from the wicked arrest; what the people are where you lodge; what proposals were made you from Lord M.'s family; also your sincere penitence; and how much Miss Howe's writing to them, in the terms she wrote in, disturbed you-But, as you have taken the matter into your own hands, and forbid me, in your last, to act in this nice affair unknown to you, I am glad the letter was not required of me: And indeed it may be better that the matter lie wholly between you and them; since my affection for you is thought to proceed from partiality.
They would choose, no doubt, that you should owe to themselves, and not to my humble mediation, the favour you so earnestly sue for, and which I would not have you despair of: For I will venture to assure you, that your mother is ready to take the first opportunity to shew her maternal tenderness for you: And this I gather from several hints I am not at liberty to explain myself upon.
I long to be with you, now I am better, and now my son is in a fine way of recovery. But is it not hard, to have it signified to me, that at present it will not be taken well, if I go? -I suppose, while the reconciliation, which I hope will take place, is negotiating by means of the correspondence so newly opened between you and your sister. But if you would have me come, I will rely on my good intentions, and risque every-one's displeasure.
Mr. Brand has business in town, to solicit for a benefice which it is expected the incumbent will be obliged to quit for a better preferment: And when there, he is to inquire privately after your way of life, and of your health.
He is a very officious young man; and, but that your uncle Harlowe (who has chosen him for this errand) regards him as an oracle, your mother had rather any-body else had been sent.
He is one of those puzzling, over-doing gentlemen, who think they see farther into matters than any-body else, and are fond of discovering mysteries where there are none, in order to be thought a shrewd man.
I can't say I like him, either in the pulpit, or out of it: I who had a father one of the soundest divines, and finest scholars, in the kingdom; who never made an ostentation of what he knew; but loved and venerated the gospel he taught, preferring it to all other learning; to be obliged to hear a young man depart from his text as soon as he has named it (so contrary, too, to the example set him by his learned and worthy principal, when his health permits him to preach), and throwing about, to a Christian and Country audience, scraps of Latin and Greek from the pagan classics; and not always brought in with great propriety neither (if I am to judge, by the only way given me to judge of them, by the English he puts them into); is an indication of something wrong, either in his head, or his heart, or both; for, otherwise, his education at the University must have taught him better. You know, my dear Miss Clary, the honour I have for the Cloth: It is owing to that, that I say what I do.
I know not the day he is to set out; and as his inquiries are to be private, be pleased to take no notice of this intelligence. I have no doubt, that your life and conversation are such, as may defy the scrutinies of the most officious inquirer.
I am just now told, that you have written a second letter to your sister: But am afraid they will wait for Mr. Brand's report, before further favour will be obtained from them; for they will not yet believe you are so ill, as I fear you are.
But you would soon find, that you have an indulgent mother, were she at liberty to act according to her own inclination. And this gives me great hopes, that all will end well at last: For I verily think you are in the right way to a reconciliation: God give a blessing to it, and restore your health, and you to all your friends, prays
Your ever-affectionate Servant,
Judith Norton.
Your good mamma has privately sent me five guineas: She is pleased to say, to help us in the illness we have been afflicted with; but, more likely, that I might send them to you, as from myself. I hope, therefore, I may send them up, with ten more I have still left.
I will send you word of Mr. Morden's arrival, the moment I know it.
If agreeable, I should be glad to know all that passes between your relations and you.

### v6 LETTER LXXXIX.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, to Mrs. Norton.
Wednesday, Aug. 2.
You give me, my dear Mrs. Norton, great pleasure in hearing of yours and your son's recovery. May you continue, for many, many years, a blessing to each other!
You tell me, that you did actually write to my mamma, offering to inclose mine of the 24th past: And you say, It was not required of you. That is to say, altho' you cover it over as gently as you could, that your offer was rejected; which makes it evident, that no plea will be heard for me. Yet, you bid me hope, that the grace I sued for would, in time, be granted.
The grace I then sued for was indeed granted: But you are afraid, you say, that they will wait for Mr. Brand's report, before favour will be obtained in return to the second letter, which I wrote to my sister: And you add, That I have an indulgent mamma, were she at liberty to act according to her own inclination; and that all will end well at last.
But what, my dear Mrs. Norton, what is the grace I sue for in my second letter? -It is not that they will receive me into favour-If they think it is, they are mistaken. I do not, I cannot expect that: Nor, as I have often said, should I, if they would receive me, bear to live in the eye of those dear friends whom I have so grievously offended. 'Tis only, simply, a blessing I ask: A blessing to die with; not to live with. -Do they know that? And do they know, that their unkindness will perhaps shorten my date? So that their favour, if ever they intend to grant it, may come too late?
Once more, I desire you not to think of coming to me. I have no uneasiness now, but what proceeds from the apprehension of seeing a man I would not see for the world, if I could help it; and from the severity of my nearest and dearest relations: A severity intirely their own, I doubt; for you tell me, that my brother is at Edinburgh! You would therefore heighten their severity, and make yourself enemies besides, if you were to come to me- Don't you see that you would?
Mr. Brand may come, if he will. He is a Clergyman, and must mean well; or I must think so, let him say of me what he will. All my fear is, that, as he knows I am in disgrace with a family whose esteem he is desirous to cultivate; and as he has obligations to my uncle Harlowe, and to my father; he will be but a languid acquitter. Not that I am afraid of what he, or any-body in the world, can hear as to my conduct. You may, my beloved and dear friend, indeed you may, rest satisfied, that That is such as may warrant me to challenge the inquiries of the most officious.
I will send you copies of what passes, as you desire, when I have an answer to my second letter. I now begin to wish, that I had taken the heart to write to my father himself; or to my mother, at least; instead of to my sister; and yet I doubt my poor mother can do nothing for me of herself. A strong confederacy, my dear Mrs. Norton, (a strong confederacy indeed!) against a poor girl, their daughter, sister, niece! -My brother, perhaps, got it renewed, before he left them. He needed not-His work is done; and more than done.
Don't afflict yourself about money-matters on my account. I have no occasion for money. I am glad my mother was so considerate to you. I was in pain for you, on the same subject. But Heaven will not permit so good a woman to want the humble blessings she was always satisfied with. I wish every individual of our family were but as rich as you! -O my mamma Norton, you are rich; You are rich indeed! -The true riches are such content as you are blessed with. -And I hope in God, that I am in the way to be rich too.
Adieu, my ever-indulgent friend. You say, all will be at last happy-And I know it will-I confide that it will, with as much security, as you may, that I will be to my last hour,
Your ever-grateful and affectionate
Cl. Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER XC.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday, Aug. 1.
I am most confoundedly chagrined and disappointed: For here, on Saturday, arrived a messenger from Miss Howe, with a letter to my cousins; which I knew nothing of till yesterday; when my two aunts were procured to be here, to sit in judgment upon it with the old Peer, and my two kinswomen. And never was Bear so miserably baited as thy poor friend! -And for what? - Why, for the cruelty of Miss Harlowe: For have I committed any new offence? And would I not have succeeded in her favour, upon her own terms, if I could? And is it fair to punish me for what is my misfortune, and not my fault? Such event-judging fools as I have for my relations! I am ashamed of them all.
In that of Miss Howe was inclosed one to her from Miss Harlowe, to be sent to my cousins, containing a final rejection of me; and that in very vehement and positive terms; yet pretends, that in this rejection she is governed more by principle than passion -(Damn'd lye, as ever was told!) And, as a proof that she is, says, that she can forgive me, and does, on this one condition, That I will never molest her more: The whole letter so written, as to make herself more admired, me more detested.
What we have been told of the agitations and workings, and sighings and sobbings, of the French prophets among us formerly, were nothing at all to the scene exhibited by these maudlin souls, at the reading of these letters; and of some affecting passages extracted from another of my fair Implacable's to Miss Howe-Such lamentations for the loss of so charming a relation! Such applaudings of her virtue, of her exaltedness of soul and sentiment! Such menaces of disinherisons! I, not needing their reproaches to be stung to the heart with my own reflections, and with the rage of disappointment; and as sincerely as any of them admiring her-What the devil, cried I, is all this for? -Is it not enough to be despised and rejected? Can I help her implacable spirit? -Would I not repair the evils I have made her suffer? -Then was I ready to curse them all, herself and Miss Howe, for company -And heartily I swore, that she should yet be mine.
I now swear it over-again to thee-Were her death to follow in a week after the knot is ty'd, by the Lord of Heaven, it shall be ty'd, and she shall die a Lovelace. - Tell her so, if thou wilt: But, at the same time, tell her, that I have no view to her fortune; and that I will solemnly resign that, and all pretensions to it, in whose favour she pleases, if she resign life issueless. -I am not so low-minded a wretch, as to be guilty of any sordid views to her fortune: Let her judge for herself then, whether it be not for her honour rather to leave this world a Lovelace than a Harlowe.
But do not think I will intirely rest a cause so near my heart, upon an advocate, who so much more admires his client's adversary, than his client. I will go to town in a few days, in order to throw myself at her feet: Bringing with me, or having at hand, a resolute, well-prepared parson; and the ceremony shall be performed, let what will be the consequence.
But if she will permit me to attend her for this purpose, at either of the churches mentioned in the licence (which she has by her, and, thank Heaven! has not returned me with my letters); then will I not disturb her; but meet her at the altar in either church, and will engage to bring my two cousins to attend her, and even Lady Sarah and Lady Betty, and my Lord M. in person, to give her to me.
Or, if it will be still more agreeable to her; I will undertake, that either or both my aunts shall go to town, and attend her down; and the marriage shall be celebrated in theirs and Lord M.'s presence, here, or elsewhere, at her own choice.
Do not play me booty, Belford; but sincerely and warmly use all the eloquence thou art master of, to prevail upon her to choose one of these three methods. One of them she must choose-By my soul, she must.
Here is Charlotte tapping at my closet-door for admittance. What a devil wants Charlotte? -I will bear no more reproaches! -Come in, girl!
My cousin Charlotte, finding me writing on with too much earnestness to have any regard for politeness to her, and guessing at my subject, besought me to let her see what I had written.
I obliged her. And she was so highly pleased on seeing me so much in earnest, that she offered, and I accepted her offer, to write herself to Miss Harlowe; with permission to treat me in it as she thought fit.
I shall inclose a copy of her letter.
When she had written it, she brought it to me, with apologies for the freedom taken with me in it: But I excused it; and she was ready to give me a kiss for joy of my approbation: And I gave her two for writing it; telling her, I had hopes of success from it; and that I thought she had luckily hit it off.
Every-one approves of it, as well as I, and is pleased with me, for so patiently submitting to be abused, and undertaken for. -If it do not succeed, all the blame will be thrown upon the dear creature's perverseness: Her charitable or forgiving disposition, about which she makes such a parade, will be justly questioned; and the pity of which she is now in full possession, will be transferred to me.
Putting therefore my whole confidence in this letter, I postpone all my other alternatives, as also my going to town, till my empress send an answer to my cousin Montague.
But if she persist, and will not promise to take time to consider of the matter, thou mayest communicate to her what I had written, as above, before my cousin entered; and, if she be still perverse, assure her, that I must and will see her-But this with all honour, all humility: And, if I cannot move her in my favour, I will then go abroad, and perhaps never more return to England.
I am sorry thou art, at this critical time, so busily employed, as thou informest me thou art, in thy Watford affairs, and in preparing to do Belton justice. If thou wantest my assistance in the latter, command me. Tho' ingrossed and plagued as I am, with this perverse beauty, I will obey thy first summons.
I have great dependence upon thy zeal and thy friendship: Hasten back to her, therefore, and resume a task so interesting to me, that it is equally the subject of my dreams, as of my waking hours.

### v6 LETTER XCI.

Miss Montague, To Miss Clar. Harlowe.
Tuesday, Aug. 1.
Dearest Madam,
All our family is deeply sensible of the injuries you have received at the hands of one of it, whom You only can render in any manner worthy of the relation he stands in to us all: And if, as an act of mercy and charity, the greatest your pious heart can shew, you will be pleased to look over his past wickedness and ingratitude, and suffer yourself to be our kinswoman, you will make us the happiest family in the world: And I can engage, that Lord M. And Lady Sarah Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance, and my Sister, who are all admirers of your virtues, and of your nobleness of mind, will for ever love and reverence you, and do every-thing in all our powers to make you amends for what you have suffered from Mr. Lovelace. This, Madam, we should not, however, dare to petition for, were we not assured, that he is most sincerely sorry for his past vileness to you; and that he will, on his knees, beg your pardon, and vow eternal love and honour to you.
Wherefore, my dearest cousin (How you will charm us all, if this agreeable style may be permitted!) for all our sakes, for his soul's sake (You must, I am sure, be so good a lady, as to wish to save a soul!), and allow me to say, for your own fame's sake, condescend to our joint requests: And if, by way of encouragement, you will but say, you will be glad to see, and to be as much known personally, as you are by fame, to Charlotte Montague, I will, in two days time from the receipt of your permission, wait upon you, with or without my sister, and receive your further commands.
Let me, our dearest cousin (we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of calling you so), let me intreat you to give me your permission for my journey to London; and put it in the power of Lord M. and of the Ladies of the family, to make you what reparation they can make you, for the injuries which a person of the greatest merit in the world has received from one of the most audacious men in it; and you will infinitely oblige us all; and particularly her, who repeatedly presumes to style herself,
Your affectionate cousin, and obliged Servant,
Charlotte Montague.

### v6 LETTER XCII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday morning, Aug. 3. six o' clock.
I have been so much employed in my own and Belton's affairs, that I could not come to town till last night; having contented myself with sending to Mrs. Lovick, to know, from time to time, the state of the lady's health; of which I received but very indifferent accounts, owing, in a great measure, to letters or advices brought her from her implacable family.
I have now completed my own affairs; and, next week, shall go to Epsom, to endeavour to put Belton's sister into possession of his own house, for him: After which, I shall devote myself wholly to your service, and to that of the lady.
I was admitted to her presence last night; and found her visibly altered for the worse. When I went home, I had your letter of Tuesday last put into my hands. Let me tell thee, Lovelace, that I insist upon the performance of thy engagement to me that thou wilt not personally molest her.
Mr. Belford dates again on Thursday morning 10 o'clock; and gives an account of a conversation which he had just held with the lady, upon the subject of Miss Montague's letter to her, preceding, and upon Mr. Lovelace's alternatives, as mentioned in Letter No. XC. which Mr. Belford supported with the utmost earnestness. But, as the result of this conversation will be found in the subsequent letters, Mr. Belford's pleas and arguments, and the lady's answers, are omitted.

### v6 LETTER XCIII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Montague.
Thursday, Aug. 3.
Dear Madam,
I am infinitely obliged to you for your kind and condescending letter. A letter, however, which heightens my regrets, as it gives me a new instance of what a happy creature I might have been in an alliance so much approved of by such worthy Ladies; and which, on their accounts, and on that of Lord M. would have been so reputable to myself, and once so desirable.
But indeed, indeed, Madam, my heart sincerely repulses the man, who, descended from such a family, could be guilty, first, of such premeditated violence as he has been guilty of; and, as he knows, further intended me, on the night previous to the day he set out for Berkshire; and, next; pretending to spirit, be so mean, as to wish to lift into that family a person he was capable of abasing into a companionship with the most abandoned of her Sex.
Allow me then, dear Madam, to declare with fervour, that I think I never could deserve to be ranked with the Ladies of a family so splendid and so noble, if, by vowing love and honour at the altar to such a violator, I could sanctify, as I may say, his unprecedented and elaborate wickedness.
Permit me, however, to make one request to my good Lord M. and to the two Ladies his Lordship's sisters, and to your kind self, and your sister-It is, That you will all be pleased to join your authority and interests to prevail upon Mr. Lovelace not to molest me further.
Be pleased to tell him, That, if I am designed for life, it will be very cruel in him to attempt to hunt me out of it; for I am determined never to see him more, if I can help it. The more cruel, because he knows, that I have nobody to protect me from him: Nor do I wish to engage any-body to his hurt, or to their own.
If I am, on the other hand, destined for death, it will be no less cruel, if he will not permit me to die in peace- Since a peaceable and happy end I wish him. Indeed I do.
Every worldly good attend you, dear Madam, and every branch of the honourable family, is the wish of one, whose misfortune it is, that she is obliged to disclaim any other title, than That of,
Dear Madam,
Your and Their obliged and faithful Servant,
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER XCIV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday afternoon, Aug. 3.
I am just now agreeably surprised by the following letter, delivered into my hands by a messenger from the lady. The letter she mentions, as inclosed, I have returned, without taking a copy of it. The contents of it will soon be communicated to you, I presume, by another way. They contain an absolute rejection of thee-Poor Lovelace:-
To John Belford, Esq;
Aug. 3.
SIR,
You have frequently offered to oblige me in anything that shall be within your power: And I have such an opinion of you, as to be willing to hope you meant me, at the times, more than mere compliment.
I have therefore two requests to make to you; the first I will now mention; the other, if this shall be comply'd with, otherwise not.
It behoves me to leave behind me such an account as may clear up my conduct to several of my friends who will not at present concern themselves about me: And Miss Howe, and her mother, are very solicitous that I will do so.
I am apprehensive, that I shall not have time to do this; and you will not wonder, that I have less and less inclination to set about such a painful task; especially as I find myself unable to look back with patience on what I have suffered; and shall be too much discomposed by it, to proceed with the requisite temper in a task of still greater importance, which I have before me.
It is very evident to me, that your wicked friend has given you, from time to time, a circumstantial account of all his behaviour to me, and devices against me; and you have more than once assured me, that, both by writing and speech, he has done my character all the justice I could wish for.
Now, Sir, if I may have a fair, a faithful specimen from his letters or accounts to you, upon some of the most interesting occasions, I shall be able to judge, whether there will or will not be a necessity for me, for my honour's sake, to enter upon the solicited task.
You may be assured, from my inclosed answer to the letter which Miss Montague has honoured me with (and which you'll be pleased to return me as soon as read), that it is impossible for me ever to think of your friend, in the way I am importuned to think of him: He cannot therefore receive any detriment from the requested specimen: And I give you my honour, that no use shall be made of it to his prejudice, in Law, or otherwise. And that it may not, after I am no more, I assure you, that it is a main part of my view, that the passages you shall oblige me with shall be always in your own power, and not in that of any other person.
If, Sir, you think fit to comply with my request, the passages I would wish to be transcribed (making neither better nor worse of the matter), are those which he has written to you, on or about the 7th and 8th of June, when I was alarmed by the wicked pretence of a fire; and what he was written from Sunday June 11. to the 19th. And in doing this you will much oblige
Your humble Servant,
Cl. Harlowe.
Now, Lovelace, since there are no hopes for thee of her returning favour; Since some praise may lie for thy ingenuity, having never offered (as more diminutive-minded libertines would have done) to palliate thy crimes, by aspersing the lady, or her sex; Since she may be made easier by it; Since thou must fare better from thy own pen, than from hers; and, finally, Since thy actions have manifested, that thy letters are not the most guilty part of what she knows of thee; I see not why I may not oblige her, upon her honour, and under the restrictions, and for the reasons she has given; and this without breach of the confidence due to friendly communications; especially, as I might have added, Since thou gloriest in thy pen, and in thy wickedness, and canst not be ashamed.
But, be this as it may, she will be obliged before thy remonstrances or clamours against it can come; so, pr'ythee now, make the best of it, and rave not; except for the sake of a pretence against me, and to exercise thy talent of execration! -And, if thou likest to do so for these reasons, rave and welcome.
I long to know what the second request is: But this I know, that if it be any-thing less than cutting thy throat, or endangering my own neck, I will certainly comply; and be proud of having it in my power to oblige her.
And now I am actually going to be busy in the Extracts.

### v6 LETTER. XCV.

Mr. Belford, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Aug. 3, 4.
Madam,
You have engaged me to communicate to you, upon honour (making neither better nor worse of the matter), what Mr. Lovelace has written to me, in relation to yourself, in the period preceding your going to Hamstead, and in that between the 11th and 19th of June: And you assure me, you have no view in this request, but to see if it be necessary for you, from the account he gives, to touch the painful subjects yourself, for the sake of your own character.
Your commands, Madam, are of a very delicate nature, as they may seem to affect the secrets of private friendship: But as I know you are not capable of a view, the motives to which you will not own; and as I think the communication may do some credit to my unhappy friend's character, as an ingenuous man; tho' his actions by the most excellent woman in the world have lost him all title to that of an honourable one; I obey you with the greater chearfulness.
He then proceeds with his extracts, and concludes them with an address to her in his friend's behalf, in the following words:
'And now, Madam, I have fulfilled your commands; and, I hope, not dis-served my friend with you; since you will hereby see the justice he does to your virtue in every line he writes. He does the same in all his letters, tho' to his own condemnation: And give me leave to add, that if this ever-amiable sufferer could but think it in any manner consistent with her honour to receive his vows at the altar, on his truly penitent turn of mind, I have not the least doubt, but that he would make her the best and tenderest of husbands. What obligation would not the admirable lady hereby lay upon all his noble family, who so greatly admire her! and, I will presume to say, upon her own, when the unhappy family aversion (which certainly has been carried to an unreasonable height against him) is got over, and a general reconciliation take place! For who is it, that would not give these two admirable persons to each other, were not his morals an objection?'
However this be, I would humbly refer to you, Madam, whether, as you will be mistress of very delicate particulars from me his friend, you should not in honour think yourself concerned to pass them by, as if you had never seen them; and not to take any advantage of the communication, not even in argument, as some perhaps might lie, with respect to the premeditated design he seems to have had, not against you, as you; but as against the Sex; over whom (I am sorry I can bear witness myself) it is the villainous aim of all libertines to triumph: And I would not, if any misunderstanding should arise between him and me, give him room to reproach me, that his losing of you, or (thro' his usage of you) his losing of his own friends, were owing to what perhaps he would call breach of trust, were he to judge rather by the events, if such should happen, than by my intention.
I am, Madam, with the most profound veneration,
Your most faithful humble Servant,
J. Belford.

### v6 LETTER XCVI.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To John Belford, Esq;
Friday, Aug. 4.
SIR,
I hold myself extremely obliged to you for your communications. I will make no use of them, that you shall have reason to reproach either yourself or me with. I wanted no new lights to make the unhappy man's premeditated baseness to me unquestionable, as my answer to Miss Montague's letter might convince you.
I must own in his favour, that he has observed some decency in his accounts to you of the most-indecent and shocking actions. And if all his strangely-communicative narrations are equally decent, nothing will be rendered criminally odious by them, but the vile heart that could meditate such contrivances as were much stronger evidences of his inhumanity, than of his wit: Since men of very contemptible parts and understanding may succeed in the vilest attempts, if they can get above regarding the moral sanctions which bind man to man; and sooner upon an innocent heart, than upon any other; because, knowing its own integrity, it is the less apt to suspect that of others.
I find I have had great reason to think myself obliged to your intention in the whole progress of my sufferings. It is, however, impossible, Sir, to miss the natural inference on this occasion, that lies against his predetermined baseness. But I say the less, because you shall not think I borrow from your communications aggravations that are not needed.
And now, Sir, that I may spare you the trouble of offering any future arguments in his favour, let me tell you, that I have weighed every-thing thoroughly: All that human vanity could suggest; All that a desirable reconciliation with my friends, and the kind respects of his own, could bid me hope for: The enjoyment of Miss Howe's friendship, the dearest consideration to me now, of all worldly ones: All these I have weighed: And the result is, and was before you favoured me with these communications, that I have more satisfaction in the hope, that, in one month, there will be an end of All with me, than in the most agreeable things that could happen from an alliance with Mr. Lovelace, altho' I were to be assured he would make the best and tenderest of husbands. But as to the rest; If, satisfied with the evils he has brought upon me, he will forbear all further persecutions of me, I will, to my last hour, wish him good: Altho' he hath overwhelmed the fatherless, and digged a pit for his friend: Fatherless may she well be called, and motherless too, who has been denied all paternal protection, and motherly forgiveness.
And now, Sir, acknowleging gratefully your favour in the Extracts, I come to the second part of my request: Which requires a great deal of courage to mention to you: And which courage nothing but a great deal of distress, and a very destitute condition, can give. But, if improper, I can but be denied; and dare to say, I shall be at least excused. Thus, then, I preface it:
You see, Sir, that I am thrown absolutely into the hands of strangers, who, altho' as kind and compassionate as strangers can be wished to be, are nevertheless persons from whom I cannot expect any-thing more than pity and good wishes; nor can my memory receive from them any more protection than my person, if either should need it.
If then I request it, of the only gentleman possessed of materials that will enable him, to do my character justice;
And who has courage, independence, and ability to oblige me;
To be the protector of my memory, as I may say;
And to be my Executor; and to see some of my dying requests performed;
(And if I leave it to him to do the whole in his own way, manner, and time; consulting, however, in requisite cases, my dear Miss Howe);
I presume to hope, that this part of my request may be granted.
And if it may, These satisfactions will accrue to me from the favour done me, and the office undertaken:
It will be an honour to my memory, with all those who shall know, that I was so well satisfied of my innocence, that, having not time to write my own story, I could intrust it to the relation which the destroyer of my fame and fortunes has given of it.
I shall not be apprehensive of involving any one in troubles or hazards by this task, either with my own relations, or with your friend; having dispositions to make, which perhaps my own friends will not be so well pleased with as it were to be wished they would be; for I intend not unreasonable ones: But you know, Sir, where Self is judge, matters, even with good people, will not always be rightly judged of.
I shall also be freed from the pain of recollecting things, that my soul is vexed at; and this at a time when its tumults should be allay'd, in order to make way for the most important preparation.
And who knows, but that the man, who already, from a principle of humanity, is touched at my misfortunes, when he comes to revolve the whole story, placed before him in one strong light, and when he shall have the catastrophe likewise before him; and shall become in a manner, interested in it: Who knows, but that, from a still higher principle, he may so regulate his future actions, as to find his own reward, in the everlasting welfare which is wished him by his
Obliged Servant,
Clarissa Harlowe?

### v6 LETTER XCVII.

Mr. Belford, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Friday, Aug. 4.
Madam,
I am so sensible of the honour done me in yours of this day, that I would not delay for one moment the answering of it. I hope you will live to see many happy years; and to be your own Executrix in those points which your heart is most set upon. But, in case of survivorship, I most chearfully accept of the sacred office you are pleased to offer me; and you may absolutely rely upon my fidelity, and, if possible, upon the literal performance of every article you shall injoin me.
The effect of the kind wish you conclude with has been my concern ever since I have been admitted to the honour of your conversation. It shall be my whole endeavour that it be not vain. The happiness of approaching you, which this trust, as I presume, will give me frequent opportunities of doing, must necessarily promote the desirable end; since it will be impossible to be a witness of your piety, equanimity, and other virtues, and not aspire to emulate you. All I beg is, That you will not suffer any future candidate, or event, to displace me; unless some new instances of unworthiness appear, either in the morals or behaviour of,
Madam,
Your most obliged and faithful Servant,
J. Belford.

### v6 LETTER XCVIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Friday night, Aug. 4.
I have actually delivered to the lady the extracts she requested me to give her from thy letters. I do assure thee, that I have made the very best of the matter for thee, not that conscience, but that friendship, could oblige me to make. I have changed or omitted some free words. The warm description of her person in the fire-scene, as I may call it, I have omitted. I have told her, that I have done justice to you, in the justice you have done to her unexampled virtue. But take the very words which I wrote to her immediately following the extracts:
'And now, Madam,'-See the paragraph marked with inverted commas
The lady is extremely uneasy at the thoughts of your attempting to visit her. For Heaven's sake (your word being given), and for Pity's sake (for she is really in a very weak and languishing way), let me beg of you not to think of it.
Yesterday afternoon she received a cruel letter, as Mrs. Lovick supposes it to be, by the effect it had upon her, from her sister, in answer to one written last Saturday, intreating a blessing and forgiveness from her parents.
She acknowleges, that, if all thy letters are written with equal decency and justice, as I have assured her they are, she shall think herself freed from the necessity of writing her own story: And this is an advantage to the accruing from the extracts I have obliged her with; tho' thou, perhaps, wilt not thank me for so doing.
But what thinkest thou is the second request she had to make to me? No other than that I would be her Executor! -Her motives will appear before thee in proper time; and then, I dare answer for them, will be satisfactory.
You cannot imagine how proud I am of this trust. I am afraid I shall too soon come into the execution of it. As she is always writing, what a melancholy pleasure will the perusal and disposition of her papers afford me! Such a sweetness of temper, so much patience and resignation, as she seems to be mistress of; yet writing of and in the midst of present distresses! How much more lively and affecting, for that reason, must her stile be, than all that can be read in the dry, narrative, unanimated stile of persons relating difficulties and dangers surmounted! The minds of such not labouring in suspense, not tortured by the pangs of uncertainty, about events still hidden in the womb of fate; but, on the contrary, perfectly at ease; the relater unmoved by his own story, how then able to move the hearer or reader?
Saturday morning, Aug. 5.
I am just returned from visiting the lady, and thanking her in person for the honour she has done me; and assuring her, if called to the sacred trust, of the utmost fidelity and exactness. I found her very ill. I took notice of it. She said, She had received a second hard-hearted letter from her sister; and she had been writing a letter (and that on her knees) directly to her mother; which before she had not the courage to do. It was for a last blessing, and forgiveness. No wonder, she said, that I saw her affected. Now that I had accepted of the last charitable office for her (for which, as well as for complying with her other request, she thanked me) I should one day have all these letters before me: And could she have a kind one, in return to that she had been now writing, to counterbalance the unkind one she had from her sister, she might be induced to shew me both together.
I knew she would be displeased, if I had censured the cruelty of her relations; I therefore only said, That surely she must have enemies, who hoped to find their account in keeping up the resentments of her friends against her.
It may be so, Mr. Belford, said she: The unhappy never want enemies. One fault, wilfully committed, authorizes the imputation of many more. Where the ear is opened to accusations, accusers will not be wanting; and every-one will officiously come with stories against a disgraced child, where nothing dare be said in her favour. I should have been wise in time, and not have needed to be convinced, by my own misfortunes, of the truth of what common experience daily demonstrates. Mr. Lovelace's baseness, my father's inflexibility, my sister's reproaches, are the natural consequences of my own rashness; so I must make the best of my hard lot. Only, as these consequences follow one another so closely, while they are new, how can I help being anew affected?
I asked, If a letter written by myself, by her doctor or apothecary, to any of her friends, representing her low state of health, and great humility, would be acceptable? Or if a journey to any of them would be of service, I would gladly undertake it in person, and strictly conform to her orders, to whomsoever she would direct me to apply.
She earnestly desired, that nothing of this sort might be attempted, especially without her knowlege and consent. Miss Howe, she said, had done harm by her kindly-intended zeal; and if there were room to expect favour by mediation, she had ready at hand a kind friend, Mrs. Norton, who for piety and prudence had few equals; and who would let slip no opportunity to do her service.
I let her know, that I was going out of town till Monday: She wish'd me pleasure; and said, she should be glad to see me on my return.
Adieu!

### v6 LETTER XCIX.

Miss Ar. Harlowe, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
[In Answer to hers of Saturday, July 29.]
Thursday morn. Aug. 3.
Sister Clary,
I wish you would not trouble me with any more of your letters. You had always a knack at writing; and depended upon making every one do what you would, when you wrote. But your wit and your folly have undone you. And now, as all naughty creatures do, when they can't help themselves, you come begging and praying, and make others as uneasy as yourself.
When I wrote last to you, I expected that I should not be at rest.
And so you'd creep on, by little and little, till you'll want to be received again.
But you only hope for forgiveness, and a blessing, you say. A blessing for what, sister Clary? Think for what? -However, I read your letter to my father and mother.
I won't tell you what my papa said-One who has the true sense you boast to have of your misdeeds, may guess, without my telling you, what a justly incensed father would say on such an occasion.
My poor mamma-O wretch! What has not your ingrateful folly cost my poor mamma! -Had you been less a darling, you would not, perhaps, have been so graceless: But I never in my life saw a cocker'd favourite come to good.
My heart is full, and I can't help writing my mind; for your crimes have disgraced us all; and I am afraid, and ashamed, to go to any public or private assemblee or diversion: And why? -I need not say why, when your actions are the subjects, either of the open talk, or of the affronting whispers, of both sexes, at all such places.
Upon the whole, I am sorry I have no more comfort to send you: But I find no-body willing to forgive you. I don't know what time may do for you; and when it is seen, that your penitence is not owing more to disappointment than true conviction: For it is too probable, Miss Clary, that, had you gone on as swimmingly as you expected, and had not your feather-headed villain abandoned you, we should have heard nothing of these moving supplications: Nor of any-thing, but defiances from him, and a guilt gloried in from you. And this is every-one's opinion, as well as that of
You grieved Sister,
Arabella Harlowe.
I send this by a particular hand, who undertakes to give it you, or leave it for you, by to-morrow night.

### v6 LETTER C.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To her Mother.
Sat. Aug. 5.
Honoured Madam,
No self-convicted criminal ever approached her angry and just judge with greater awe, nor with a truer contrition, than I do you by these lines.
Indeed I must say, that if the matter of my humble prayer had not respected my future welfare, I had not dared to take this liberty. But my heart is set upon it, as upon a thing next to God Almighty's forgiveness necessary for me.
Had my happy sister known my distresses, she would not have wrung my heart, as she has done, by a severity, which I must needs think unkind and unsisterly.
But complaint of any unkindness from her belongs not to me: Yet, as she is pleased to write, that it must be seen that my penitence is less owing to disappointment, than to true conviction, permit me, Madam, to insist upon it, that I am actually intitled to the blessing I sue for; since my humble prayer is founded upon a true and unfeigned repentance: And this you will the readier believe, if the creature, who never, to the best of her remembrance, told her mamma a wilful falshood, may be credited, when she declares, as she does, in the most solemn manner, that she met the seducer, with a determination not to go off with him: That the rash step was owing more to compulsion than infatuation: And that her heart was so little in it, that she repented and grieved from the moment she found herself in his power; and for every moment after, for several weeks before she had any cause from him to apprehend the usage she met with.
Wherefore, on my knees, my ever-honoured mamma, (for on my knees I write this letter) I do most humbly beg your Blessing: Say but, in so many words (I ask you not to call me your daughter)-Lost, unhappy wretch, I forgive you! and may God bless you! -This is all! Let me, on a blessed scrap of paper, but see one sentence to this effect, under your dear hand, that I may hold it to my heart in my most trying struggles, and I shall think it a passport to Heaven. And, if I do not too much presume, and it were We instead of I, and both your honoured names subjoined to it, I should then have nothing more to wish. Then would I say, "Great and merciful God! thou seest here in this paper thy poor unworthy creature absolved by her justly-offended parents: O join, for my Redeemer's sake, thy all-gracious Fiat, and receive a repentant sinner to the arms of thy mercy!"
I can conjure you, Madam, by no subject of motherly tenderness, that will not, in the opinion of my severe censurers, before whom this humble address must appear, add to my reproach; Let me therefore, for God's sake, prevail upon you to pronounce me blest and forgiven, since you will thereby sprinkle comfort thro' the last hours of
Your
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER CI.

Miss Montague, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
[In Answer to hers of Thursday, Aug. 3.]
Monday, Aug. 7.
Dear Madam,
We were all of opinion, before your letter came, that Mr. Lovelace was utterly unworthy of you, and deserved condign punishment rather than the blessing of such a wife: And hoped far more from your kind consideration for us, than any we supposed you could have for so base an injurer. For we were all determined to love you, and admire you, let his behaviour to you be what it would.
But, after your letter, what can be said?
I am, however, commanded to write in all the subscribing names, to let you know, how greatly your sufferings have affected us: To tell you, that my Lord M. has forbid him ever more to darken the doors of the apartments where he shall be: And as you labour under the unhappy effects of your friends displeasure, which may subject you to inconveniencies, his Lordship, and Lady Sarah, and Lady Betty, beg of you to accept, for your life, or, at least, till you are admitted to enjoy your own estate, of one hundred guineas per quarter, which will be regularly brought you by an especial hand, and of the inclosed Bank bill for a beginning. And do not, dearest Madam, we all beseech you, do not think you are beholden for this token of Lord M.'s and Lady Sarah's and Lady Betty's love to you; to the friends of this vile man; for he has not one friend left among us.
We each of us desire to be favoured with a place in your esteem; and to be considered upon the same foot of relationship, as if what once was so much our pleasure to hope would be, had been. And it shall be our united prayer, that you may recover health and spirits, and live to see many happy years: And, since this wretch can no more be pleaded for, that, when he is gone abroad, as he now is preparing to do, we may be permitted the honour of a personal acquaintance with a lady who has no equal. These are the earnest requests, dearest young Lady, of
Your affectionate Friends,
and most faithful Servants,
M.
Sarah Sadleir.
Eliz. Lawrance.
Charl. Montague.
Marth. Montague.
You will break the hearts of the three first-named more particularly, if you refuse them your acceptance. Dearest Miss Harlowe, punish not them for his crimes. We send by a particular hand, which will bring us, we hope, your accepting favour.
Mr. Lovelace writes by the same hand; but he knows nothing of ours, nor we of his: For we shun each other; and one part of the house holds us, another him, the remotest from each other.

### v6 LETTER CII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Sat. Aug. 5.
I am so excessively disturbed at the contents of Miss Harlowe's answer to my cousin Charlotte's letter of Tuesday last (which was given her by the same fellow that gave me yours), that I have hardly patience or consideration enough to weigh what you write.
She had need, indeed, to cry out for mercy herself from her friends, who knows not how to shew any! She is a true daughter of the Harlowes-By my soul, Jack, she is a true daughter of the Harlowes! Yet has she so many excellencies, that I must love her; and, fool that I am, love her the more for her despising me.
Thou runnest on with thy cursed nonsensical reformado-rote, of dying, dying, dying! and, having once got the word by the end, canst not help foisting it in at every period! The devil take me, if I don't think thou wouldst give her poison with thy own hands, rather than she should recover, and rob thee of the merit of being a conjurer!
But no more of thy cursed knell; thy changes upon death's candlestick turned bottom-upwards: She'll live to bury me; I see that: For, by my soul, I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep; nor, what's still worse, love any woman in the world but her. Nor care I to look upon a woman now; on the contrary, I turn my head from every one I meet; except by chance an eye, an air, a feature, strikes me resembling hers in some glancing-by face; and then I cannot forbear looking again; tho' the second look recovers me; for there can be no-body like her.
But surely, Belford, the devil's in this lady! The more I think of her nonsense and obstinacy, the less patience I have with her. Is it possible she can do herself, her family, her friends, so much justice any other way, as by marrying me? Were she sure she should live but a day, she ought to die a wife. If her Christian revenge will not let her wish to do so for her own sake, ought she not for the sake of her family, and of her Sex, which she pretends sometimes to have so much concern for? And if no sake is dear enough to move her Harlowe-spirit in my favour, has she any title to the pity thou so pitifully art always bespeaking for her?
As to the difference which her letter has made between me and the stupid family here (and I must tell thee we are all broke in pieces) I value not that of a button. They are fools to anathematize and curse me, who can give them ten curses for one, were they to hold it for a day together.
I have one half of the house to myself; and that the best; for the Great enjoy that least, which costs them most: Grandeur and Use are two things: The common part is theirs; the state part is mine: And here I lord it, and will lord it, as long as I please; while the two pursy sisters, the old gouty brother, and the two musty nieces, are stived up in the other half, and dare not stir for fear of meeting me: Whom (that's the jest of it) they have forbidden coming into their apartments, as I have them into mine. And so I have them all prisoners, while I range about as I please. Pretty dogs and doggesses, to quarrel and bark at me, and yet, whenever I appear, afraid to pop out of their kennels; or if out before they see me, at the sight of me run growling in again, with their flapt ears, their sweeping dewlaps, and their quivering tails curling inwards.
And here, while I am thus worthily waging war with beetles, drones, wasps, and hornets, and am all on fire with the rage of slighted love, thou art regaling thyself with phlegm and rock-water, and art going on with thy reformation-scheme, and thy exultations in my misfortunes!
The devil take thee for an insensible dough-bak'd varlet: I have no more patience with thee, than with the lady; for thou knowest nothing either of love or friendship, but art as incapable of the one, as unworthy of the other; else wouldst thou not rejoice, as thou dost under the grimace of pity, in my disappointments.
And thou art a pretty fellow, art thou not? to engage to transcribe for her some parts of my letters written to thee in confidence? Letters that thou shouldest sooner have parted with thy cursed tongue, than have owned thou ever hadst received such: Yet these are now to be communicated to her! But I charge thee, and woe be to thee if it be too late! that thou do not oblige her with a line of mine.
If thou hast done it, the least vengeance I will take, is to break thro' my honour given to thee not to visit her, as thou wilt have broken thro' thine to me, in communicating letters written under the seal of friendship.
I am now convinced, too sadly for my hopes, by her letter to my cousin Charlotte, that she is determined never to have me.
Unprecedented wickedness, she calls mine to her. But how does she know what the ardor of flaming love will stimulate? How does she know the requisite distinctions of the words she uses in this case? -To think the worst, and to be able to make comparisons in these very delicate situations, must she not be less delicate than I had imagined her to be? -But she has heard, that the devil is black; and having a mind to make one of me, brays together, in the mortar of her wild fancy, twenty chimney-sweepers, in order to make one sootier than ordinary rise out of the dirty mass.
But what a whirlwind does she raise in my soul, by her proud contempts of me! Never, never, was mortal man's pride so mortified. How does she sink me, even in my own eyes! -Her heart sincerely repulses me, she says, for my Meanness-Yet she intends to reap the benefit of what she calls so! -Curse upon her haughtiness, and her meanness, at the same time! -Her haughtiness to me, and her meanness to her own relations; more unworthy of kindred with her, than I can be, or I am mean indeed.
Yet who but must admire, who but must adore her? - O that cursed, cursed house! But for those, had her unimpaired intellects, and the majesty of her virtue, saved her, as once it did by her humble eloquence, another time by her terrifying menaces against her own life.
Yet in both these to find her power over me, and my love for her, and to hate, to despise, and to refuse me! -She might have done this with some shew of justice, had the last-intended violation been perpetrated: -But to go away conqueress and triumphant in every light! -Well may she despise me for suffering her to do so.
She left me low and mean indeed! -And the impression holds with her. -I could tear my flesh, that I gave her not cause-that I humbled her not indeed-or that I staid not in town till I could have exalted myself, by giving myself a wife superior to all trial, to all temptation.
I will venture one more letter to her, however; and if that don't do, or procure me an answer, then will I endeavour to see her, let what will be the consequence. If she get out of my way, I will do some noble mischief to the vixen girl whom she most loves, and then quit the kingdom for ever.
And now, Jack, since thy hand is in at communicating the contents of private letters, tell her this, if thou wilt. And add to it, That if She abandon me, GOD will; and it is no matter then what becomes of
Her Lovelace!

### v6 LETTER CIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
[In Answer to his of Friday night, Aug. 4]
Monday, Aug. 7.
And so you have actually delivered to the fair Implacable extracts of letters written in the confidence of friendship! Take care-Take care, Belford-I do indeed love you better than I love any man in the world: But this is a very delicate point. The matter is grown very serious to me. My heart is bent upon having her. And have her I will, tho' I marry her in the agonies of death.
She is very earnest, you say, that I will not offer to molest her. That, let me tell her, will absolutely depend upon herself, and the answer she returns, whether by pen and ink, or the contemptuous one of silence, which she bestowed upon my last four to her: And I will write it in such humble, and in such reasonable terms, that, if she is not a true Harlowe, she shall forgive me. But as to the executorship she is for conferring upon thee-Thou shalt not be her executor: Let me perish if thou shalt. -Nor shall she die. No-body shall be any-thing, no-body shall dare to be any-thing, to her, but me-Thy happiness is already too great, to be admitted daily to her presence; to look upon her, to talk to her, to hear her talk, while I am forbid to come within view of her window. -What a reprobation is this, of the man who was once more dear to her than all the men in the world! -And now to be able to look down upon me, while her exalted head is hid from me among the stars, sometimes with low scorn, at other times with abject pity, I cannot bear it.
This I tell thee, that if I have not success in my effort by letter, I will overcome the creeping folly that has found its way to my heart, or I will tear it out in her presence, and throw it at hers, that she may see how much more tender than her own that organ is, which she, and you, and every-one else, have taken the liberty to call callous.
Give notice to the people who live back and edge, and on either hand, of the cursed mother, to remove their best effects, if I am rejected: For the first vengeance I shall take, will be to set fire to that den of serpents. Nor will there be any fear of taking them when they are in any act that has the relish of salvation in it, as Shakespeare says-So that my revenge, if they perish in the flames I shall light up, will be complete, as to them.

### v6 LETTER CIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Monday, Aug. 7.
Little as I have reason to expect either your patient ear, or forgiving heart, yet cannot I forbear to write to you once more (as a more pardonable intrusion, perhaps, than a visit would be), to beg of you to put it in my power to atone, as far as it is possible to atone, for the injuries I have done you.
Your angelic purity, and my awaken'd conscience, are standing records of your exalted merit, and of my detestable baseness: But your forgiveness will lay me under an eternal obligation to you-Forgive me then, my dearest life, my earthly good, the visible anchor of my future hope! As you (who believe you have something to be forgiven for) hope for pardon yourself, forgive me, and consent to meet me, upon your own conditions, and in whose company you please, at the holy altar, and to give yourself a title to the most repentant and affectionate heart, that ever beat in a human bosom.
But, perhaps, a time of probation may be required. It may be impossible for you, as well from indisposition as doubt, so soon to receive me to absolute favour as my heart wishes to be received. In this case, I will submit to your pleasure; and there shall be no penance which you can impose, that I will not chearfully undergo, if you will be pleased to give me hope, that, after an expiation, suppose of months, wherein the regularity of my future life and actions-shall convince you of my reformation, you will at last be mine.
Let me beg the favour then of a few lines, encouraging me in this conditional hope, if it must not be a still nearer hope, and a more generous encouragement.
If you refuse me This, you will make me desperate. But even then I must, at all events, throw myself at your feet, that I may not charge myself with the omission of any earnest, any humble effort, to move you in my favour: For in You, Madam, in YOUR forgiveness, are centred my hopes as to both worlds: Since to be reprobated finally by You, will leave me without expectation of mercy from Above! -For I am now awaken'd enough to think, that to be forgiven by injured innocents is necessary to the Divine pardon; the Almighty putting into the power of such, (as is reasonable to believe) the wretch who causelesly and capitally offends them. And who can be intitled to this power, if You are not?
Your cause, Madam, in a word, I look upon to be the cause of virtue, and, as such, the cause of God. And may I not expect, that He will assert it in the perdition of a man, who has acted by a person of the most spotless purity, as I have done, if you, by rejecting me, shew that I have offended beyond the possibility of forgiveness?
I do most solemnly assure you, that no temporal or worldly views induce me to this earnest address. I deserve not forgiveness from you. Nor do my Lord M. and his sisters from me. I despise them from my heart, for presuming to imagine, that I will be controuled by the prospect of any benefits in their power to confer. There is not a person breathing, but yourself, who shall prescribe to me. Your whole conduct, Madam, has been so nobly principled, and your resentments are so admirably just, that you appear to me even in a divine light; and in an infinitely more amiable one at the same time, than you could have appeared in, had you not suffered the barbarous wrongs, that now fill my mind with anguish and horror at my own recollected villainy to the most excellent of women.
I repeat, that all I beg for the present, is a few lines, to guide my doubtful steps; and (if possible for you so far to condescend) to encourage me to hope, that, if I can justify my present vows by my future conduct, I may be permitted the honour to style myself
Eternally Yours,
R. Lovelace.

### v6 LETTER CV.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Lord M. and to the Ladies of his House.
[In Reply to Miss Montague's of Monday, Aug. 7.]
Tuesday, Aug. 8.
Excuse me, my good Lord, and my ever-honoured Ladies, from accepting of your noble quarterly bounty; and allow me to return, with all grateful acknowlegement, and true humility, the inclosed earnest of your goodness to me. Indeed I have no need of the one, and cannot possibly want the other: But, nevertheless, have such a sense of your generous favour, that, to my last hour, I shall have pleasure in contemplating upon it, and be proud of the place I hold in the esteem of such venerable personages, to whom I once had the ambition to hope to be related.
But give me leave to express my concern, that you have banished your kinsman from your presence and favour: Since now, perhaps, he will be under less restraint than ever; and since I in particular, who had hoped by your influences to remain unmolested for the remainder of my days, may be again subjected to his persecutions.
He has not, my good Lord, and my dear Ladies, offended against you, as he has against me; and yet you could all very generously intercede for him with me: And shall I be very improper, if I desire, for my own peace-sake; for the sake of other poor creatures, who may be still injured by him, if he be made quite desperate; and for the sake of all your worthy family; that you will extend to him that forgiveness which you hoped for from me? and this the rather, as I presume to think, that his daring and impetuous spirit will not be subdued by violent methods; since I have no doubt, that the gratifying of a present passion will be always more prevalent with him, than any future prospects, however unwarrantable the one, or beneficial the other.
Your resentments on my account are extremely generous, as your goodness to me is truly noble: But I am not without hope, that he will be properly affected by the evils he has made me suffer; and that, when I am laid low and forgotten, your whole honourable family will be enabled to rejoice in his reformation; and see many of those happy years together, which, my good Lord, and my dear Ladies, you so kindly wish to
Your ever-grateful and obliged
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER CVI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday night, Aug. 10.
You have been informed by Tourville, how much Belton's illness and affairs have engaged me, as well as Mowbray and him, since my former. I called at Smith's on Monday, in my way to Epsom.
The lady was gone to chapel: But I had the satisfaction to hear she was not worse; and left my compliments, and an intimation that I should be out of town for three or four days.
I refer myself to Tourville, who will let you know the difficulty we had to drive out this meek mistress, and frugal manager, with her cubs, and to give the poor fellow's sister possession for him of his own house; he skulking mean while at an inn at Croydon, too dispirited to appear in his own cause.
But I must observe, that we were probably but just in time to save the shatter'd remains of his fortune from this rapacious woman, and her accomplices: For, as he cannot live long, and she thinks so, we found she had certainly taken measures to set up a marriage, and keep possession of all for herself and her sons.
Tourville will tell you how I was forced to chastise the quondam hostler in her sight, before I could drive him out of the house. He had the insolence to lay hands on me: And I made him take but one step from the top to the bottom of a pair of stairs. I thought his neck and all his bones had been broken. And then, he being carried out neck-and-heels, Thomasine thought fit to walk out after him.
Charming consequences of keeping; the state we have been so fond of extolling! -Whatever it may be in strong health, sickness and declining spirits in the keeper, will let him see the difference.
She should soon have him, she told a confident, in the space of six foot by five; meaning his bed: And then she would let no-body come near him but whom she pleased. The hostler-fellow, I suppose, would then have been his physician his will ready made for him;-and widows-weeds, probably, ready provided; who knows, but to appear in them in his own-sight; as once I knew an instance in a wicked wife, insulting a husband she hated, when she thought him past recovery: Tho' it gave the man such spirits, and such a turn, that he got over it, and lived to see her in her coffin, dress'd out in the very weeds she had insulted him in.
So much, for the present, for Belton, and his Thomasine.
I begin to pity thee heartily, now I see thee in earnest, in the fruitless love thou expressest to this angel of a lady; and the rather, as, say what thou wilt, it is impossible she should get over her illness, and her friends implacableness, of which she has had fresh instances.
I hope thou art not indeed displeased with the extracts I have made from thy letters for her. The letting her know the justice thou hast done to her virtue in them, is so much in favour of thy ingenuity, that I think in my heart I was right; tho' to any other woman, and to one who had not known the worst of thee that she could know, it might have been wrong.
If the end will justify the means, it is plain, that I have done well with regard to you both; since I have made her easier, and you appear in a better light to her, than otherwise you would have done.
But if, nevertheless, you are dissatisfied with my having obliged her in a point, which I acknowlege to be delicate, let us canvas this matter at our first meeting: And then I will shew you what the extracts were, and what connexions I gave them in your favour.
But surely thou dost not pretend to say what I shall, or shall not do, as to the executorship.
I am my own man, I hope. I think thou shouldst be glad to have the justification of her memory left to one, who, at the same time, thou mayst be assured, will treat thee, and thy actions, with all the lenity the case will admit.
I cannot help expressing my surprize at one instance of thy self-partiality; and that is, where thou sayst, She had need, indeed, to cry out for mercy herself from her friends, who knows not how to shew any!
Surely thou canst not think the cases alike! -For she, as I understand, desires but a last blessing, and a last forgiveness, for a fault in a manner involuntary, if a fault at all; and hopes not to be received: Thou, to be forgiven premeditated wrongs (which, nevertheless, she forgives, on condition to be no more molested by thee); and hopest to be received into favour, and to make the finest jewel in the world thy absolute property, in consequence of that forgiveness.
I will now briefly proceed to relate what has passed since my last, as to the poor lady; by which thou wilt see, she has troubles enough upon her, all springing originally from thee, without thy needing to add more to them by new vexations. And as long as thou canst exert thyself so very cavalierly at M. Hall, where every-one is thy prisoner, I see not but the bravery of thy spirit may be as well gratified in domineering there over half a dozen persons of rank and distinction, as it could be over a helpless orphan, as I may call this lady, since she has not a single friend to stand by her, if I do not; and who will think herself happy, if she can refuge herself from thee, and from all the world, in the arms of death.
My last was dated on Saturday.
On Sunday, in compliance with her doctor's advice, she took a little airing. Mrs. Lovick, and Mr. Smith and his wife, were with her. After being at Highgate chapel at divine service, she treated them with a little repast; and in the afternoon was at Islington church, in her way home; returning tolerably chearful.
She had received several letters in my absence, as Mrs. Lovick acquainted me, besides yours. Yours, it seems, much distressed her; but she ordered the messenger, who pressed for an answer, to be told, that it did not require an immediate one.
On Wednesday she received a letter from her uncle Harlowe, in answer to one she had written to her mother on Saturday on her knees. It must be a very cruel one, Mrs. Lovick says, by the effects it had upon her: For, when she received it, she was intending to take an afternoon airing in a coach; but was thrown into so violent a fit of hysterics upon it, that she was forced to lie down; and (being not recovered thereby) to go to bed about eight o'clock.
On Thursday morning she was up very early; and had recourse to the Scriptures to calm her mind, as she told Mrs. Lovick: And, weak as she was, would go in a chair to Lincoln's-inn chapel, about eleven. She was brought home a little better; and then sat down to write to her uncle. But was obliged to leave off several times-To struggle, as she told Mrs. Lovick, for an humble temper. 'My heart, said she to the good woman, is a proud heart, and not yet, I find, enough mortified to my condition; but, do what I can, will be for prescribing resenting things to my pen.'
I arrived in town from Belton's this Thursday evening; and went directly to Smith's. She was too ill to receive my visit. But on sending up my compliments, she sent me down word, that she should be glad to see me in the morning.
Mrs. Lovick obliged me with the copy of a meditation collected by the lady from the Scriptures. She has intitled it, Poor mortals the cause of their own misery; so intitled, I presume, with intention to take off the edge of her repinings at hardships so disproportioned to her fault, were her fault even as great as she is inclined to think it. We may see by this, the method she takes to fortify her mind, and to which she owes, in a great measure, the magnanimity with which she bears her undeserved persecutions.
MEDITATION.
Poor mortals the cause of their own misery.
Say not thou, It is thro' the Lord that I fell away; for thou oughtest not to do the thing that he hateth.
Say not thou, He hath caused me to err; for he hath no need of the sinful man.
He himself made man from the beginning, and left him in the hand of his own counsel;
If thou wilt, to keep the commandments, and to perform acceptable faithfulness.
He hath set fire and water before thee: Stretch forth thine hand to whether thou wilt.
He hath commanded no man to do wickedly; neither hath he given any man licence to sin.
And now, Lord, what is my hope? Truly my hope is only in thee.
Deliver me from all my offences; and make me not a rebuke unto the foolish.
When thou with rebuke dost chasten man for sin, thou makest his beauty to consume away, like as it were a moth fretting a garment: Every man therefore is vanity.
Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted.
The troubles of my heart are inlarged. O bring thou me out of my distresses!
Mrs. Smith gave me the following particulars of a conversation that passed between herself and a young clergyman, on Tuesday afternoon, who, as it appears, was employed to make inquiries about the lady by her friends.
He came into the shop in a riding-habit, and asked for some Spanish snuff; and finding only herself there, he desired to have a little talk with her in the back-shop.
He beat about the bush in several distant questions, and at last began to talk more directly about Miss Harlowe.
He said, He knew her before her fall (That was his impudent word); and gave the substance of the following account of her, as I collected it from Mrs. Smith.
'She was then, he said, the admiration and delight of every-body: He lamented, with great solemnity, her backsliding; another of his phrases. Mrs. Smith said, He was a fine scholar; for he spoke several things she understood not; and either in Latin or Greek, she could not tell which; but was so good as to give her the English of them without asking. A fine thing, she said, for a scholar to be so condescending!'
He said, 'Her going off with so vile a rake had given great scandal and offence to all the neighbouring ladies, as well as to her friends.'
He told Mrs. Smith 'how much she used to be followed by every-one's eye, whenever she went abroad, or to church, and praised and blessed by every tongue, as she passed; especially by the poor: That she gave the fashion to the fashionable, without seeming herself to intend it, or to know she did: That, however, it was pleasant to see ladies imitate her in dress and behaviour, who, being unable to come up to her in grace and ease, exposed but their own affectation and aukwardness, at the time that they thought themselves secure of a general approbation, because they wore the same things, and put them on in the same manner, that she did, who had every-body's admiration; little considering, that were her person like theirs, or if she had had their defects, she would have brought up a very different fashion; for that nature was her guide in every-thing, and ease her study; which, joined with a mingled dignity and condescension in her air and manner, whether she received or paid a compliment, distinguished her above all her Sex.
'He spoke not, he said, his own sentiments only on this occasion, but those of every-body: For that the praises of Miss Clarissa Harlowe were such a favourite topic, that a person who could not speak well upon any other subject, was sure to speak well upon That; because he could say nothing but what he had heard repeated and applauded twenty times over.'
Hence it was, perhaps, that this gentleman accounted for the best things that he said himself; tho' I must own that the personal knowlege of the lady which I am favoured with, made it easy to me to lick into shape what the good woman reported to me, as the character given her by the young Levite: For who, even now, in her decline of health, sees not that all these attributes belong to her?
I suppose he has not been long come from college, and now thinks he has nothing to do, but to blaze away for a scholar among the ignorant; as such young fellows are apt to think those who cannot cap verses with them, and tell us how an antient author expressed himself in Latin on a point which, however, they may know how, as well as that author, to express in English.
Mrs. Smith was so taken with him, that she would fain have introduced him to the lady, not questioning but it would be very acceptable to her, to see one who knew her and her friends so well. But this he declined for several reasons, which he gave. One was, that persons of his cloth should be very cautious of the company they were in, especially where Sex was concerned, and where a lady had slurred her reputation-[I wish I had been there, when he gave himself these airs] Another, that he was desired to inform himself of her present way of life, and who her visiters were; for, as to the praises Mrs. Smith gave the lady, he hinted, that she seemed to be a good-natured woman, and might (tho' for the lady's sake he hoped not) be too partial and short-sighted to be trusted to, absolutely, in a concern of so high a nature as he intimated the task was which he had undertaken; nodding out words of doubtful import, and assuming airs of great significance, (as I could gather) throughout the whole conversation. And when Mrs. Smith told him, that the lady was in a very bad state of health, he gave a careless shrug-She may be very ill, says he: Her disappointments must have touch'd her to the quick: But she is not bad enough, I dare say, yet, to atone for her very great lapse, and to expect to be forgiven by those whom she has so much disgraced.
A starch'd conceited novice! What would I give he had fallen in my way?
He went away highly satisfied with himself, no doubt, and assured of Mrs. Smith's great opinion of his sagacity and learning: But bid her not say any-thing to the lady about him, or his inquiries. And I, for very different reasons, injoined the same thing.
I am glad, however, for her peace of mind's sake, that they begin to think it behoves them to inquire about her.

### v6 LETTER CVII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Friday, Aug. 11.
Mr. Belford acquaints his friend with the generosity of Lord M. and the Ladies of his family; and with the lady's grateful sentiments upon the occasion.
He says, that in hopes to avoid the pain of seeing him, she intends to answer his letter of the 7th, tho' much against her inclination. 'She took great notice, says Mr. Belford, of that passage in yours, which makes necessary to the Divine pardon, the forgiveness of a person causelesly injured.'
'Her grandfather, I find, has enabled her at eighteen years of age to make her will, and to devise great part of his estate to whom she pleases of the family, and the rest out of it (if she die single), at her own discretion; and this to create respect to her; as he apprehended that she would be envied: And she now resolves to set about making her will out of hand.'
Mr. Belford insists upon the promise he had made him, not to molest the lady: And gives him the contents of her answer to Lord M. and the Ladies, declining their generous offers. See Letter CV.

### v6 LETTER CVIII.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Rob. Lovelace, Esq;
Friday, Aug. 11.
'Tis a cruel alternative to be either forced to see you, or to write to you. But a will of my own has been long denied me; and to avoid a greater evil, nay, now I may say, the greatest, I write.
Were I capable of disguising or concealing any real sentiments, I might safely, I dare say, give you the remote hope you request, and yet keep all my resolutions. But I must tell you, Sir; it becomes my character to tell you; that, were I to live more years than perhaps I may weeks, and there were not another man in the world, I could not, I would not, be yours.
There is no merit in performing a duty;
Religion injoins me, not only to forgive injuries, but to return good for evil. It is all my consolation, and I bless God for giving me That, that I am now in such a state of mind, with regard to you, that I can chearfully obey its dictates. And accordingly I tell you, that, where-ever you go, I wish you happy. And in This I mean to include every good wish.
And now having, with great reluctance, I own, complied with one of your compulsatory alternatives, I expect the fruits of it.
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER CIX.

Mr. John Harlowe, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
[In answer to hers to her Mother.]
Monday, Aug. 7.
Poor ungrateful, naughty Kinswoman,
Your mother neither caring, nor being permitted, to write, I am desired to set pen to paper, tho' I had resolved against it.
And so I am to tell you, that your letters, joined to the occasion of them, almost break the hearts of us all.
Were we sure you had seen your folly, and were truly penitent, and, at the same time, that you were so very ill as you intimate, I know not what might be done for you. But we are all acquainted with your moving ways when you want to carry a point.
Unhappy girl! how miserable have you made us all! We, who used to visit with so much pleasure, now cannot endure to look upon one another.
If you had not known, upon an hundred occasions, how dear you once was to us, you might judge of it, now, were you to know how much your folly has unhing'd us all.
Naughty, naughty girl! You see the fruits of preferring a rake and libertine to a man of sobriety and morals. Against full warning, against better knowlege. And such a modest creature too, as you was! How could you think of such an unworthy preference?
Your mother can't ask, and your sister knows not in modesty how to ask; and so I ask you, If you have any reason to think yourself with child by this villain? -You must answer this, and answer it truly, before any thing can be resolved upon about you.
You may well be touched with a deep remorse for your misdeeds. Could I ever have thought that my doating-piece, as every-one called you, would have done thus? To be sure I loved you too well. But that is over now. Yet, tho' I will not pretend to answer for any-body but myself, for my own part, I say, God forgive you! And this is all from
Your afflicted Uncle,
John Harlowe.
The following Meditation was stitch'd to the bottom of this Letter, with black silk.
MEDITATION.
O That thou wouldst hide me in the grave! That thou wouldst keep me secret, till thy wrath be past!
My face is foul with weeping: and on my eye-lid is the shadow of death.
My friends scorn me; but mine eye poureth out tears unto God.
A dreadful sound is in my ears; in prosperity the destroyer came upon me!
I have sinned! What shall I do unto thee, O thou Preserver of men! Why hast thou set me as a mark against thee; so that I am a burden to myself!
When I say, My bed shall comfort me; My couch shall ease my complaint;
Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me thro' visions.
So that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than life.
I loath it! I would not live alway! -Let me alone; for my days are vanity!
He hath made me a by-word of the people; and aforetime I was as a tabret.
My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart.
When I looked for good, then evil came unto me; and when I waited for light, then came darkness.
And where now is my hope?-
Yet all the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.

### v6 LETTER CX.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To John Harlowe, Esq;
Thursday, Aug. 10.
Honoured Sir,
It was an act of charity I begged: Only for a last blessing, that I might die in peace. I ask not to be received again, as my severe sister (Oh! that I had not written to her!) is pleased to say, is my view. Let that grace be denied me when I do!
I could not look forward to my last scene with comfort, without seeking, at least, to obtain the blessing I petitioned for; and that with a contrition so deep, that I deserved not, were it known, to be turned over from the tender nature of a mother, to the upbraiding pen of an uncle; and to be wounded by a cruel question, put by him in a shocking manner; and which a little, a very little time, will better answer than I can: For I am not either a harden'd or shameless creature: If I were, I should not have been so solicitous to obtain the favour I sued for.
And permit me to say, that I asked it as well for my father and mother's sake, as for my own; for I am sure, They at least will be uneasy, after I am gone, that they refused it to me.
I should still be glad to have theirs, and yours, Sir, and all your blessings, and your prayers: But, denied in such a manner, I will not presume again to ask it: Relying intirely on the Almighty's; which is never denied, when supplicated for with such true penitence, as I hope mine is.
God preserve my dear uncle, and all my honoured friends! prays
Your unhappy Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER CXI.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, Monday, Aug. 7.
My dearest creature,
I can write just now but a few lines. I cannot tell how to bear the sound of that Mr. Belford for your Executor, cogent as your reasons for that measure are: And yet I am firmly of opinion, that none of your relations should be named for the trust: But I dwell the less upon this subject, as I hope (and cannot bear to apprehend the contrary) that you will still live many, many years.
Mr. Hickman, indeed, speaks very handsomely of Mr. Belford. But he, poor man! has not much penetration. If he had, he would hardly think so well of me as he does.
I have a particular opportunity of sending this by a friend of my aunt Harman's; who is ready to set out for London (and this occasions my hurry), and is to return out of hand. I expect therefore by him a large pacquet from you; and hope and long for news of your amended health: Which Heaven grant to the prayers of
Your ever-affectionate
Anna Howe.

### v6 LETTER CXII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Friday, Aug. 11.
I will send you a large pacquet, as you desire and expect; since I can do it by so safe a conveyance: But not all that is come to my hand-For I must own, that my friends are very severe; too severe for any-body who loves them not, to see their letters. You, my dear, would not call them my friends, you said, long ago; but my relations: Indeed I cannot call them my relations, I think! - But I am ill; and therefore, perhaps, more peevish than I should be. It is difficult to go out of ourselves to give a judgment against ourselves; and yet, oftentimes, to pass a just judgment, we ought.
I thought I should alarm you in the choice of my Executor. But the sad necessity I am reduced to must excuse me.
I shall not repeat any-thing I have said before on that subject: But if your objections will not be answered to your satisfaction, by the papers and letters I shall inclose, marked 1, 2, 3, 4, to 9, I must think myself in another instance unhappy; since I am engaged too far (and with my own judgment too) to recede.
As I have the accompanying transcripts from Mr. Belford in confidence from his friend's letters to him, I must insist, that you suffer no soul but yourself to peruse them; and that you return them by the very first opportunity; that so no use may be made of them, that may do hurt either to the original writer, or to the communicator. You'll observe I am bound by promise to this care. If thro' my means any mischief should arise, between this humane and that inhuman libertine, I should think myself utterly inexcusable.
I subjoin a list of the papers or letters I shall inclose. You must return them all, when perused.
I am very much tired and fatigued-with-I don't know what-with writing, I think-But most with myself, and with a situation I cannot help aspiring to get out of, and above!
O, my dear, 'tis a sad, a very sad world! -While under our parents protecting wings, we know nothing at all of it. Book-learned and a scribbler, and looking at people as I saw them as visitors or visiting, I thought I knew a great deal of it. Pitiable ignorance! -Alas! I knew nothing at all!
With zealous wishes for your happiness, and the happiness of every one dear to you, I am, and will ever be,
Your gratefully-affectionate Cl. Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER CXIII.

Mr. Antony Harlowe, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
[In reply to hers, to her uncle Harlowe, of Thursday, Aug. 10.]
Aug. 12.
Unhappy girl!
As your uncle Harlowe chooses not to answer your pert letter to him; and as mine written to you before (a) was written as if it were in the spirit of prophecy, as you have found to your sorrow; and as you are now making yourself worse than you are in your health, and better than you are in your penitence, as we are very well assured, in order to move compassion; which you do not deserve, having had so much warning: For all these reasons, I take up my pen once more; tho' I had told your brother, at his going to Edinburgh, that I would not write to you, even were you to write to me, without letting him know. So indeed had we all; for he prognosticated what would happen, as to your applying to us, when you knew not how to help it.
Brother John has hurt your niceness, it seems, by asking you a plain question, which your mother's heart is too full of grief to let her ask; and modesty will not let your sister ask, tho' but the consequence of your actions- And yet it must be answered, before you'll obtain from your father and mother, and us, the notice you hope for, I can tell you that.
You lived several guilty weeks with one of the vilest fellows that ever drew breath, at bed as well as board, no doubt (for is not his character known?); and pray don't be ashamed to be asked after what may naturally come of such free living. This modesty, indeed, would have become you for eighteen years of your life-You'll be pleased to mark that-but makes no good figure compared with your behaviour since the beginning of April last. So pray don't take it up, and wipe your mouth upon it, as if nothing had happened.
But, may be, I likewise am too shocking to your niceness! -Oh, girl, girl! your modesty had better been shewn at the right time and place! -Every-body, but you, believed what the Rake was: But you would believe nothing bad of him-What think you now?
Your folly has ruined all our peace. And who knows where it may yet end? -Your poor father but yesterday shewed me this text: With bitter grief he shewed it me, poor man! And do you lay it to your heart:
'A father waketh for his daughter, when no man knoweth; and the care for her taketh away his sleep- When she is young, lest she pass away the flower of her age (and you know what proposals were made to you at different times): And, being married, lest she should be hated: In her virginity, lest she should be defiled, and gotten with child in her father's house (I don't make the words, mind that): And, having an husband, lest she should misbehave herself.' And what follows? 'Keep a sure watch over a shameless daughter (yet no watch could hold you!), lest she make thee a laughing-stock to thine enemies (as you have made us all to this cursed Lovelace), and a bye-word in the city, and a reproach among the people, and make thee ashamed before the multitude.' Ecclus. xlii. 9, 10, &c.
Now will you wish you had not written pertly. Your sister's severities! -Never, girl, say that is severe, that is deserved. You know the meaning of words. No-body better. Would to the Lord you had acted up but to one half of what you know. Then had we not been disappointed and grieved, as we all have been: And no-body more than him who was
Your loving Uncle, Antony Harlowe.
This will be with you to-morrow. Perhaps you may be suffered to have some part of your estate, after you have smarted a little more. Your pertly-answered uncle John, who is your trustee, will not have you be destitute. But we hope all is not true that we hear of you. -Only take care, I advise you, that, bad as you have acted, you act not still worse, if it be possible to act worse. Improve upon the hint.

### v6 LETTER CXIV.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Ant. Harlowe, Esq;
Sunday, Aug. 13.
Honoured Sir,
I am very sorry for my pert letter to my uncle Harlowe. Yet I did not intend it to be pert. People new to misfortune may be too easily moved to impatience.
The fall of a regular person, no doubt, is dreadful and inexcusable. It is like the sin of apostasy. Would to Heaven, however, that I had had the circumstances of mine inquired into!
If, Sir, I make myself worse than I am in my health, and better than I am in my penitence, it is fit I should be punished for my double dissimulation: And you have the pleasure of being one of my punishers. My sincerity in both respects will, however, be best justified by the event. To that I refer. -May Heaven give you always as much comfort in reflecting upon the reprobation I have met with, as you seem to have pleasure in mortifying a poor creature, extremely mortified; and that from a right sense, as she presumes to hope, of her own fault!
What you have heard of me I cannot tell. When the nearest and dearest relations give up an unhappy wretch, it is not to be wondered at, that those who are not related to her are ready to take up and propagate slanders against her. Yet I think I may defy calumny itself, and (excepting the fatal, tho' involuntary step of April 10.) wrap myself in my own innocence, and be easy. I thank you, Sir, nevertheless, for your caution, mean it what it will.
As to the question required of me to answer, and which is allowed to be too shocking either for a mother to put to a daughter, or a sister to a sister; and which, however, you say, I must answer. -O Sir!-And must I answer? -This then be my answer: -'A little time, a much less time than is imagined, will afford a more satisfactory answer to my whole family, and even to my brother and sister, than I can give in words.'
Nevertheless, be pleased to let it be remembred, that I did not petition for a restoration to favour. I could not hope for that. Nor yet to be put in possession of any part of my own estate. Nor even for means of necessary subsistence from the produce of that estate-But only for a blessing; for a last blessing!
And this I will further add, because it is true, that I have no wilful crime to charge against myself: No free living at bed and at board, as you phrase it!
Why, why, Sir, were not other inquiries made of me, as well as this shocking one? -Inquiries that modesty would have permitted a mother or a sister to make; and which, if I may be excused to say so, would have been still less improper, and more charitable, to have been made by uncles, (were the mother forbid, or the sister not inclined, to make them), than those they have made.
Altho' my humble application has brought upon me so much severe reproach, I repent not that I have written to my mamma (altho' I cannot but wish that I had not written to my sister); because I have satisfied a dutiful consciousness by it, however unanswered by the wished-for success. Nevertheless, I cannot help saying, that mine is indeed a hard fate, that I cannot beg pardon for my capital error, without doing it in such terms, as shall be an aggravation of the offence.
But I had best leave off, lest, as my full mind, I find, is rising to my pen, I have other pardons to beg, as I multiply lines, where none at all will be given.
God Almighty bless, preserve, and comfort my dear sorrowing and grievously offended father and mother! - And continue in honour, favour, and merit, my happy sister! -May God forgive my brother, and protect him from the violence of his own temper, as well as from the destroyer of his sister's honour! -And may you, my dear uncle, and your no less now than ever dear brother, my second papa, as he used to bid me call him, be blessed and happy in them all, and in each other! -And, in order to this, may you all speedily banish from your remembrance for ever,
The unhappy Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER CXV.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Monday, Aug. 14.
All your friends here, my dear young Lady, now seem set upon proposing to you to go to one of the Plantations. This, I believe, is owing to some misrepresentations of Mr. Brand; from whom they have received a letter.
I wish with all my heart, that you could, consistently with your own notions of honour, yield to the pressing requests of all Mr. Lovelace's family in his behalf. This, I think, would stop every mouth; and, in time, reconcile every-body to you. For your own friends will not believe that he is in earnest to marry you; and the hatred between the families is such, that they will not condescend to inform themselves better; nor would believe him, if he were ever so solemnly to avow that he is.
I should be very glad to have in readiness, upon occasion, some brief particulars of your sad story under your own hand. But, let me tell you, at the same time, that no misrepresentations, nor even your own confession, shall lessen my opinion, either of your piety, or of your prudence in essential points; because I know it was always your humble way to make light faults heavy against yourself: And well might you, my dearest young Lady, aggravate your own failings, who have ever had so few; and those few so slight, that your ingenuity has turned most of them into excellencies.
Nevertheless, let me advise you, my dear Miss Clary, to discountenance any visits, that may, with the censorious, affect your character. As that has not hitherto suffered by your wilful default, I hope you will not, in a desponding negligence (satisfying yourself with a consciousness of your own innocence), permit it to suffer. Difficult situations, you know, my dear young Lady, are the tests not only of prudence, but of virtue.
I think, I must own to you, that, since Mr. Brand's letter has been received, I have a renewed prohibition to attend you. However, if you will give me leave, that shall not detain me from you. Nor would I stay for that leave, if I were not in hopes, that, in this critical situation, I may be able to do you service here.
I have often had messages and inquiries after your health, from the truly reverend Dr. Lewen, who has always expressed, and still expresses, infinite concern for you. He intirely disapproves of the measures of the family, with regard to you. He is too much indisposed to go abroad. But, were he in-good health, he would not, as I understand, visit at Harlowe-Place; having been unhandsomely treated, some time ago, by your brother, on his offering to mediate between your family and you.
I am just now informed, that your cousin Morden is arrived in England. He is at Canterbury, it seems, looking after some concerns he has there; and is soon expected in these parts. Who knows what may arise from his arrival? -God be with you, my dearest Miss Clary, and be your Comforter and Sustainer. And never fear but he will; for I am sure, I am very sure, that you put your whole trust in Him.
And what, after all, is this world, on which we so much depend for durable good, poor creatures that we are! -When all the joys of it, and (what is a balancing comfort) all the troubles of it, are but momentary, and vanish like a morning dream?
And be this remembred, my dearest young Lady, that worldly joy claims no kindred with the joys we are bid to aspire after. These latter we must be fitted for by affliction and disappointment. You are therefore in the direct road to glory, however thorny the path you are in. And I had almost said, that it depends upon yourself, by your patience, and by your resignedness to the dispensation (God enabling you, who never fails the true penitent, and sincere invoker), to be an heir of a blessed immortality.
But this glory, I humbly pray, that you may not be permitted to enter into, ripe as you are so soon likely to be for it, till with your gentle hand (a pleasure I have so often, as you know promised to myself) you have closed the eyes of
Your maternally-affectionate.
Judith Norton.

### v6 LETTER CXVI.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Mrs. Norton.
Thursday, Aug. 17.
What Mr. Brand, or any-body, can have written or said to my prejudice, I cannot imagine; and yet some evil reports have gone out against me; as I find by some hints in a very severe letter written to me by my uncle Antony. Such a letter as I believe was never written to any poor creature, who, by ill health of body, as well as of mind, was before tottering on the brink of the grave. but my friends may possibly be better justified than the reporters. -For who knows what they may have heard?
You give me a kind caution, which seems to imply more than you express, when you advise me against countenancing of visitors that may discredit me. You should, in so tender a point, my dear Mrs. Norton, have spoken quite out. Surely, I have had afflictions enow to make my mind fitted to bear any-thing. But I will not puzzle myself by conjectural evils. I might, if I had not enow that were certain. And I shall hear all, when it is thought proper that I should. Mean time, let me say, for your satisfaction, that I know not that I have any-thing criminal or disreputable to answer for either in word or deed, since the fatal 10th of April last.
You desire an account of what passes between me and my friends; and also particulars, or brief heads, of my sad story, in order to serve me as occasions shall offer. My dear good Mrs. Norton, you shall have a whole pacquet of papers, which I have sent to my Miss Howe, when she returns them; and you shall have, besides, another pacquet (and that with this letter), which I cannot at present think of sending to that dear friend, for the sake of my own relations; whom she is already but too eager to censure heavily. From these you will be able to collect a great deal of my story. But for what is previous to these papers, and which more particularly relates to what I have suffered from Mr. Lovelace, you must have patience; for at present I have neither head nor heart for such subjects. The papers I send you with this will be those mentioned in the margin. You must restore them to me, as soon as perused; and upon your honour, make no use of any intelligence you have from me, but by my consent.
These communications you must not, my good Mrs. Norton, look upon as appeals against my relations. On the contrary, I am heartily sorry, that they have incurred the displeasure of so excellent a divine as Dr. Lewen. But you desire to have every-thing before you; and I think you ought; for who knows, as you say, but you may be applied to at last, to administer comfort from their conceding hearts, to one that wants it; and who sometimes, judging by what she knows of her own heart, thinks herself intitled to it?
I know, that I have a most indulgent and sweet-tempered mother; but, having to deal with violent spirits, she has too often forfeited that peace of mind, which she so much prefers, by her over-concern to preserve it.
I am sure she would not have turned me over for an answer to a letter written with so contrite and fervent a spirit, as was mine to her, to a manly spirit, had she been left to herself.
But, my dear Mrs. Norton, might not, think you, the revered lady have favoured me with one private line? - If not, might not she have permitted you to have written by her order, or connivance, one softening, one motherly line, when she saw her poor girl borne so hard upon?
O no, she might not! -Because her heart, to be sure, is in their measures! -And if she think them right, perhaps they must be right! -At least knowing only what they know! -And yet they might know all, if they would! - And possibly, in their own good time, they think to make proper inquiry. -My application was made to them but lately-Yet how grievous will it be to their hearts, if their time should be out of time!
By the letters I have sent to Miss Howe, you will see, when you have them before you, that Lord M. and the Ladies of his family, jealous as they are of the honour of their house (to express myself in their language), think better of me than my own relations do. You will see an instance of their generosity to me, which has extremely affected me.
Some of the letters in the same pacquet will also let you into the knowlege of a strange step which I have taken (strange you will think it); and, at the same time, give you my reasons for it.
It must be expected, that situations uncommonly difficult will make necessary some extraordinary steps, which but for those situations would be hardly excuseable. It will be very happy indeed, and somewhat wonderful, if all the measures I have been driven to take should be right. A pure intention, void of all undutiful resentment, is what must be my consolation, whatever others may think of those measures, when they come to know them: Which, however, will hardly be till it is out of my power to justify them, or to answer for myself.
I am glad to hear of my cousin Morden's safe arrival. I should wish to see him methinks: But I am afraid, that he will sail with the stream; as it must be expected, that he will hear what they have to say first. -But what I most fear, is, that he will take upon himself to avenge me-Rather than this should happen, I would have him look upon me as a creature utterly unworthy of his concern; at least of his vindictive concern.
How soothing to the wounded heart of your Clarissa, how balmy, are the assurances of your continued love and favour! -Love me, my dear mamma Norton, continue to love me to the end! -I now think, that I may, without presumption, promise to deserve your love to the end. And when I am gone, cherish my memory in your worthy heart; for in so doing you will cherish the memory of one, who loves and honours you more than she can express.
But when I am no more, get over, I charge you, as soon as you can, the smarting pangs of grief that will attend a recent loss; and let all be early turned into that sweetly-melancholy Regard to MEMORY, which, engaging us to forget all faults, and to remember nothing but what was thought amiable, gives more pleasure than pain to survivors -Especially if they can comfort themselves with the humble hope, that the Divine mercy has taken the dear departed to itself.
And what-is the space of time to look backward upon, between an early departure and the longest survivance? -And, what the consolation attending the sweet hope of meeting again, never more to be separated, never more to be pained, grieved, or aspersed! -But mutually blessing, and being blessed, to all eternity!
In the contemplation of this happy state, in which I hope, in God's good time, to rejoice with you, my beloved Mrs. Norton, and also with my dear relations, all reconciled to, and blessing the child against whom they are now so much incensed, I conclude myself
Your ever-dutiful and affectionate
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v6 LETTER CXVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Sunday, Aug. 13.
I don't know what a devil ails me; but I never was so much indisposed in my life. At first, I thought some of my blessed relations here had got a dose administred to me, in order to get the whole house to themselves. But as I am the hopes of the family, I believe they would not be so wicked.
I must lay down my pen. I cannot write with any spirit at all. What a plague can be the matter with me!
Lord M. paid me just now a cursed gloomy visit, to ask how I do after bleeding. His sisters both drove away yesterday, God be thanked. But they asked not my leave; and hardly bid me good-bye. My Lord was more tender, and more dutiful than I expected. Men are less unforgiving than women. I have reason to say so, I am sure. For, besides implacable Miss Harlowe, and the old Ladies, the two Montague Apes han't been near me yet.
Neither eat, drink, nor sleep! -A piteous case, Jack! If I should die like a fool now, people would say Miss Harlowe had broke my heart. -That she vexes me to the heart, is certain.
Confounded squeamish! I would fain write it off. But must lay down my pen again. It won't do. Poor Lovelace! -What a devil ails thee?
Well, but now let's try for't-Hoy-Hoy-Hoy! Confound me for a gaping puppy, how I yawn! -Where shall I begin? At thy Executorship? -Thou shalt have a double office of it: For I really think thou mayst send me a coffin and a shroud. I shall be ready for them by the time they can come down.
What a little fool is this Miss Harlowe! I warrant she'll now repent that she refused me. Such a lovely young widow -What a charming widow would she have made! How would she have adorned the weeds! To be a widow in the first twelvemonth is one of the greatest felicities that can befall a fine lady. Such pretty employment in new dismals, when she had hardly worn round her blazing joyfuls! Such lights, and such shades! how would they set off one another, and be adorned by the wearer!-
Go to the devil! -I will write! -Can I do any-thing else?
They would not have me write, Belford. -I must be ill indeed, when I can't write.-
But thou seemest nettled, Jack! Is it because I was stung? It is not for two friends, any more than for man and wife, to be out of patience at one time. -What must be the consequence, if they are? -I am in no fighting mood just now: But as patient and passive as the chickens that are brought me in broth -For I am come to that already.
But I can tell thee, for all this, be thy own man, if thou wilt, as to the Executorship, I will never suffer thee to expose my letters. They are too ingenuous by half to be seen. And I absolutely insist upon it, that, on receipt of this, thou burn them all.
I will never forgive thee that impudent and unfriendly reflection, of my cavaliering it here over half a dozen persons of distinction: Remember, too, thy poor helpless orphan -These reflections are too serious; and thou art also too serious, for me to let these things go off as jesting; notwithstanding the Roman stile is preserved; and, indeed, but just preserved. By my soul, Jack, if I had not been taken thus egregiously cropsick, I would have been up with thee, and the lady too, before now.
But write on, however: And send me copies, if thou canst, of all that passes between our Charlotte and Miss Harlowe. I'll take no notice of what thou communicatest of that sort. I like not the people here the worse for their generous offer to the lady. But you see she is as proud as implacable. There's no obliging her. She'd rather sell her cloaths, than be beholden to any-body, altho' she would oblige by permitting the obligation.
Oh Lord! Oh Lord!-Mortal ill-Adieu, Jack!
I was forced to leave off, I was so ill, at this place. And what dost think? My uncle brought the parson of the parish to pray by me; for his chaplain is at Oxford. I was lain down in my night-gown over my waistcoat, and in a doze: And, when I open'd my eyes, who should I see, but the parson kneeling on one side the bed; Lord M. on the other; Mrs. Greme, who had been sent for to tend me, as they call it, at the feet: God be thanked, my Lord, said I, in an ecstasy! -Where's Miss? -For I thought they were going to marry me.
They thought me delirious, at first, and pray'd louder and louder.
This roused me: Off the bed I started; slid my feet into my slippers; put my hand in my waistcoat pocket, and pulled out thy letter with my Beloved's meditations in it: My Lord, Dr. Wright, Mrs. Greme, you have thought me a very wicked fellow: But, see! I can read you as good as you can read me.
They stared at one another. I gaped, and read, Poor mo-or-tals the cau-o-ause of their own-their own mis-ser-ry.
It is as suitable to my case, as to the lady's, as thou'lt observe, if thou readest it again. At the passage where it is said, That when a man is chastened for sin, his beauty consumes away, I stept to the glass: A poor figure, by Jupiter, cried I! -And they all praised and admired me; lifted up their hands and their eyes; and the Doctor said, He always thought it impossible, that a man of my sense could be so wild as the world said I was. My Lord chuckled for joy; congratulated me; and, thank my dear Miss Harlowe, I got high reputation among good, bad, and indifferent. In short, I have established myself for ever with all here. -But, O Belford, even this will not do! -I must leave off again.
A visit from the Montague sisters, led in by my hobling uncle, to congratulate my amendment and reformation both in one. What a lucky event this illness, with this meditation in my pocket; for we were all to pieces before! Thus, when a boy, have I joined with a croud coming out of church, and have been thought to have been there myself.
I am incensed at the insolence of the young Levite. Thou wilt highly oblige me, if thou'lt find him out, and send me his ears in the next letter.
My charmer mistakes me, if she thinks I proposed her writing to me, as an alternative that should dispense with my attendance upon her. That it shall not do, nor did I intend it should, unless she had pleased me better in the contents of it than she has done. Bid her read again. I gave no such hopes. I would have been with her in spite of you both, by to-morrow, at farthest, had I not been laid by the heels thus, like a helpless miscreant.
But I grow better and better every hour, I say: The Doctor says not: But I am sure I know best: And I will soon be in London, depend on't. But say nothing of this to my dear, cruel, and implacable Miss Harlowe.
A-dieu-u, Ja-aack-What a gaping puppy (Yaw-n! yaw-n! yaw-n!)
Thy Lovelace.

### v6 LETTER CXVIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday, Aug. 14.
I am extremely concerned for thy illness. I should be very sorry to lose thee. Yet, if thou diest so soon, I could wish, from my soul, it had been before the beginning of last April: And this as well for thy sake, as for the sake of the most excellent woman in the world: For then thou wouldst not have had the most crying sin of thy life to answer for.
I was told on Saturday, that thou wert very much out of order; and this made me forbear writing till I heard further. Harry, on his return from thee, confirmed the bad way thou art in. But I hope Lord M. in his unmerited tenderness for thee, thinks the worst of thee. What can it be, Bob? A violent fever, they say; but attended with odd and severe symptoms.
I will not trouble thee, in the way thou art in, with what passes here with Miss Harlowe. I wish thy repentance as swift as thy illness; and as efficacious, if thou diest; for it is else to be feared, that She and You will never meet in one place.
I told her how ill you are. Poor man! said she. Dangerously ill, say you?
Dangerously indeed, Madam! -So Lord M. sends me word!
God be merciful to him, if he die! said the admirable creature. -Then, after a pause, Poor wretch! -May he meet with the mercy he has not shewn!
I send this by a special messenger: For I am impatient to hear how it goes with thee. -If I have received thy last letter, what melancholy reflections will that last, so full of shocking levity, give to
Thy true Friend,
John Belford.

### v6 LETTER CXIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday, Aug. 15.
Thank thee, Jack, most heartily I thank thee, for the sober conclusion of thy last! -I have a good mind, for the sake of it, to forgive thy till-now absolutely unpardonable extracts.
But dost think I will lose such an angel, such a forgiving angel, as this? -By my soul, I will not! -To pray for mercy for such an ingrateful miscreant! -How she wounds, how she cuts me to the soul, by her exalted generosity! - But She must have mercy upon me first! -Then will she teach me a reliance, for the sake of which her prayer for me will be answered.
But hasten, hasten to me, particulars of her health, of her employments, of her conversation.
I am sick only of love! -O that I could have called her mine! -It would then have been worth while to be sick! -To have sent for her down to me from town; and to have had her, with healing in her dove-like wings, flying to my comfort; her duty and her choice to pray for me, and to bid me live for her sake! -O Jack! what an angel have I-
But I have not lost her! -I will not lose her! I am almost well; should be quite well but for these prescribing rascals, who, to do credit to their skill, will make the disease of importance. -And I will make her mine! -And be sick again, to intitle myself to her dutiful tenderness, and pious as well as personal concern!
God for ever bless her! -Hasten, hasten particulars of her! -I am sick of love! -Such generous goodness! - by all that's great and good, I will not lose her! So tell her! -She says, That she could not pity me, if she thought of being mine! This, according to Miss Howe's transcriptions to Charlotte-But bid her hate me, and have me: And my behaviour to her shall soon turn that hate to love! -For, body and mind, I will be wholly hers.

### v6 LETTER CXX.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday, Aug. 17.
I am sincerely rejoiced to hear that thou art already so much amended, as thy servant tells me thou art. Thy letter looks as if thy morals were mending with thy health. This was a letter I could shew, as I did, to the lady.
She is very ill (Cursed letters received from her implacable family!): So I could not have much conversation with her, in thy favour, upon it. -But what passed will make thee more and more adore her.
She was very attentive to me, as I read it; and, when I had done, Poor man! said she; what a letter is this! He had timely instances, that my temper was not ungenerous, if generosity could have obliged him! But his remorse, and that for his own sake, is all the punishment I wish him. -Yet I must be more reserved, if you write to him every-thing I say!
I extolled her unbounded goodness-How could I help it, tho' to her face!
No goodness in it! she said-It was a frame of mind she had endeavoured after for her own sake. She suffered too much in want of mercy, not to wish it to a penitent heart. -He seems to be penitent, said she; and it is not for me to judge beyond appearances. -If he be not, he deceives himself more than any-body else.
She was so ill, that this was all that passed on the occasion.
What a fine subject for Tragedy would the injuries of this lady, and her behaviour under them, both with regard to her implacable friends, and to her persecutor, make! With a grand objection as to the moral, nevertheless; for here virtue is punished! Except indeed we look forward to the rewards of HEREAFTER, which, morally, she must be sure of, or who can? Yet, after all, I know not, so sad a fellow art thou, and so vile an husband mightest thou have made, whether her virtue is not rewarded in missing thee: For things the most grievous to human nature, when they happen, as this charming creature once observed, are often the happiest for us in the event.
I have frequently thought, in my attendance on this lady, That if Belton's admired author, Nic. Rowe, had had such a character before him, he would have drawn another sort of a penitent than he has done, or given his Play, which he calls The Fair Penitent, a fitter title. Miss Harlowe is a penitent indeed! I think, if I am not guilty of a contradiction in terms, a penitent without a fault; her parents conduct towards her from the first considered.
The whole story of the other is a pack of damn'd stuff. Lothario, 'tis true, seems such another wicked ungenerous varlet as thou know'st who: The author knew how to draw a Rake; but not to paint a Penitent. Calista is a desiring luscious wench, and her penitence is nothing else but rage, insolence, and scorn. Her passions are all storm and tumult; nothing of the finer passions of the Sex, which, if naturally drawn, will distinguish themselves from the masculine passions, by a softness that will even shine thro' rage and despair. Her character is made up of deceit and disguise. She has no virtue; is all pride; and her devil is as much within her, as without her.
How then can the fall of such a one create a proper distress, when all the circumstances of it are considered? For does she not brazen out her crime, even after detection? Knowing her own guilt, she calls for Altamont's vengeance on his best friend, as if he had traduced her; yields to marry Altamont, tho' criminal with another; and actually beds that whining puppy, when she had given up herself body and soul to Lothario; who, nevertheless, refused to marry her.
Her penitence, when begun, she justly stiles The phrensy of her soul; and, as I said, after having, as long as she could, most audaciously brazened out her crime, and done all the mischief she could do (occasioning the death of Lothario, of her father, and others), she stabs herself.
And can this be an act of penitence?
But, indeed, our poets hardly know how to create a distress without horror and murder; and must shock your soul, to bring tears from your eyes.
Altamont indeed, who is an amorous blockhead, a credulous cuckold, and (tho' painted as a brave fellow, and a soldier)-a whining Tom Essence, and a quarreller with his best friend, dies like a fool, without sword or pop-gun, of mere grief and nonsense, for one of the vilest of her sex: But the Fair Penitent, as she is called, dies by her own hand; and, having no title by her past crimes to laudable pity, forfeits all claim to true penitence, and, in all probability, to future mercy.
But here is Miss Harlowe, virtuous, noble, wise, pious, unhappily insnared by the vows and oaths of a vile Rake, whom she believes to be a man of honour: And, being ill used by her friends for his sake, is in a manner forced to throw herself upon his protection; who, in order to obtain her confidence, never scruples the deepest and most solemn protestations of honour. After a series of plots and contrivances, all baffled by her virtue and vigilance, he basely has recourse to the vilest of arts, and, to rob her of her honour, is forced first to rob her of her senses. Unable to bring her, notwithstanding, to his ungenerous views of cohabitation, she awes him in the very entrance of a fresh act of premeditated guilt, in presence of the most abandoned of women, assembled to assist his cursed purpose; triumphs over them all, by virtue only of her innocence; and escapes from the vile hands he had put her into: Nobly, not franticly, resents: Refuses to see, or to marry the wretch; who, repenting his usage of so divine a creature, would fain move her to forgive his baseness, and make him her husband: And, tho' persecuted by all her friends, and abandoned to the deepest distress, obliged, from ample fortunes, to make away with her apparel for subsistence, surrounded by strangers, and forced (in want of others) to make a friend of the friend of her seducer. Tho' longing for death, and making all the proper preparatives for it, convinced that grief and ill usage have broken her noble heart, she abhors the impious thought of shortening her allotted period; and, as much a stranger to revenge as despair, is able to forgive the author of her ruin; wishes his repentance, and that she may be the last victim to his barbarous perfidy: And is solicitous for nothing so much in this life, as to prevent vindictive mischief to and from the man, who has used her so basely.
This is penitence! This is piety! And hence a distress naturally arises, that must worthily affect every heart.
Whatever the ill-usage of this excellent lady is from her relations, it breaks not out into excesses: She strives, on the contrary, to find reason to justify them at her own expence; and seems more concerned for their cruelty to her for their sakes hereafter, when she shall be no more, than for her own: For, as to herself, she is sure, she says, God will forgive her, tho' no-body else will.
On every extraordinary provocation she has recourse to the Scriptures, and endeavours to regulate her vehemence by sacred precedents. Better people, she says, have been more afflicted than she, grievous as she sometimes thinks her afflictions: And shall she not bear what less faulty persons have born? On the very occasion I have mentioned (some new instances of implacableness from her friends) the inclosed meditation will shew, how mildly she complains, and yet how forcibly. See if thou, in the wicked levity of thy heart, canst apply it as thou didst the other, to thy case: If thou canst not, give way to thy conscience, and That will make the properest application.
MEDITATION.
How long will ye vex my soul, and break me in pieces with words!
Be it indeed that I have erred, mine error remaineth with myself.
To her that is afflicted, pity should be shewn from her friend.
But she that is ready to slip with her feet, is as a lamp despised in the thought of them that are at ease.
There is a shame which bringeth sin, and there is a shame which bringeth glory and grace.
Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye, my friends! for the hand of God hath touched me.
If your soul were in my soul's stead, I also could speak as ye do: I could heap up words against you-
But I would strengthen you with my mouth, and the moving of my lips should assuage your grief.
Why will ye break a leaf driven to and fro? Why will ye pursue the dry stubble? Why will ye write bitter words against me, and make me possess the iniquities of my youth?
Mercy is seasonable in the time of affliction, as clouds of rain in the time of drought.
Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little-Before I go whence I shall not return; even to the land of darkness, and shadow of death!
POSTSCRIPT.
This excellent lady is informed, by a letter from Mrs. Norton, that Colonel Morden is just arrived in England. He is now the only person she wishes to see.
I expressed some jealousy upon it, lest he should have place given over me in the Executorship. She said, That she had no thoughts to do so now; for that such a trust, were he to accept of it (which she doubted) might, from the nature of some of the papers which in that case would necessarily pass through his hands, occasion mischiefs between my friend and him, that would be worse than death for her to think of.
Poor Belton, I hear, is at death's door. A messenger is just come from him, who tells me, He cannot die till he sees me. I hope the poor fellow will not go off yet; since neither his affairs in this world, nor for the other, are in tolerable order. I cannot avoid going to the poor man. Yet am unwilling to stir, till I have an assurance from thee, that thou wilt not disturb the lady: For I know he will be very loth to part with me, when he gets me to him.
Tourville tells me how fast thou mendest: Let me conjure thee not to think of molesting this incomparable woman. For thy own sake I request this, as well as for hers, and for the sake of thy given promise: For, should she die within a few weeks, as I fear she will, it will be said, and perhaps too justly, that thy visit has hastened her end.
In hopes thou wilt not, I wish thy perfect recovery: Else, that thou mayst relapse, and be confined to thy bed.

### v6 LETTER CXXI.

Mr. Belford, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Sat. morn. Aug. 19.
Madam,
I think myself obliged in honour to acquaint you, that I am afraid Mr. Lovelace will try his fate by an interview with you.
I wish to Heaven you could prevail upon yourself to receive his visit. All that is respectful, even to veneration, and all that is penitent, will you see in his behaviour, if you can admit of it. But as I am obliged to set out directly for Epsom (to perform, as I apprehend, the last friendly offices for poor Mr. Belton, whom once you saw) and as I think it more likely, that Mr. Lovelace will not be prevailed upon, than that he will, I thought fit to give you this intimation, lest otherwise, if he should come, you should be too much surprised.
He flatters himself, that you are not so ill as I represent you to be. When he sees you, he will be convinced, that the most obliging things he can do, will be as proper to be done for the sake of his own future peace of mind, as for your health-sake; and, I dare say, in fear of hurting the latter, he will forbear the thoughts of any further intrusion; at least while you are so much indisposed: So that one half-hour's shock, if it will be a shock to see the unhappy man (but just got up himself from a dangerous fever), will be all you will have occasion to stand.
I beg you will not too much hurry and discompose yourself. It is impossible he can be in town till Monday, at soonest. And if he resolve to come, I hope to be at Mr. Smith's before him.
I am, Madam, with the profoundest veneration,
Your most faithful and most obedient Servant,
J. Belford.

### v6 LETTER CXXII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
[In Answer to his of Aug. 17.]
Sunday, Aug. 20.
What an unmerciful fellow art thou! A man has no need of a conscience, who has such an impertinent monitor. But if Nic. Rowe wrote a Play that answers not his title, am I to be reflected upon for that? -I have sinned! I repent! I would repair! -She forgives my sin! She accepts my repentance! But she won't let me repair! -What wouldst have me do?
But get thee gone to Belton, as soon as thou canst. Yet whether thou goest or not, up I must go, and see what I can do with the sweet oddity myself. The moment these prescribing varlets will let me, depend upon it, I go. Nay, Lord M. thinks she ought to permit me one interview. His opinion has great authority with me-when it squares with my own: And I have assured him, and my two cousins, that I will behave with all the decency and respect, that man can behave with to the person whom he most respects. And so I will. Of this, if thou choosest not to go to Belton mean time, thou shalt be witness.
Colonel Morden, thou hast heard me say, is a man of honour and bravery: -But Colonel Morden has had his girls, as well as you and I. And indeed, either openly or secretly, who has not? The devil always baits with a pretty wench, when he angles for a man, be his age, rank, or degree, what it will.
I have often heard my Beloved speak of the Colonel with great distinction and esteem. I wish he could make matters a little easier, for her mind's sake, between the rest of the implacables and herself.
Methinks I am sorry for honest Belton. But a man cannot be ill, or vapourish, but thou liftest up thy shriek-owl note, and killest him immediately. None but a fellow, who is fit for a drummer in death's forlorn-hope, could take so much delight, as thou dost, in beating a dead-march with thy goose quills.
I shall call thee seriously to account, when I see thee, for the extracts thou hast given the lady from my letters, notwithstanding what I said in my last; especially if she continue to refuse me. An hundred times have I known a woman deny, yet comply at last: But, by these extracts, thou hast, I doubt, made her bar up the door of her heart, as she used to do her chamber-door, against me. -This therefore is a disloyalty that friendship cannot bear, nor honour allow me to forgive.

### v6 LETTER CXXIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
London, Aug. 21. Monday.
I Believe I am bound to curse thee, Jack. Nevertheless I won't anticipate, but proceed to write thee a longer letter, than thou hast had from me for some time past. So here goes.
That thou mightest have as little notice as possible of the time I was resolved to be in town, I set out in my Lord's chariot and six yesterday, as soon as I had dispatched my letter to thee, and arrived in town last night: For I knew I could have no dependance on thy friendship, where Miss Harlowe's humour was concerned.
I had no other place so ready, and so was forced to go to my old lodgings, where also my wardrobe is; and there I poured out millions of curses upon the whole crew, and refused to see either Sally or Polly; and this not only for suffering the lady to escape; but for the villainous arrest, and for their insolence to her at the officer's house.
I dress'd myself in a never-worn suit, which I had intended for one of my wedding-suits: -And liked myself so well, that I began to think with thee, that my outside was the best of me.
I took a chair to Smith's, my heart bounding in almost audible thumps to my throat, with the assured expectation of seeing my Beloved. I clasped my fingers, as I was danced along: I charged my eyes to languish and sparkle by turns: I talked to my knees, telling them how they must bend; and, in the language of a charming describer, acted my part in fancy, as well as spoke it to myself:
Tenderly kneeling, thus will I complain:
Thus court her pity; and thus plead my pain:
Thus sigh for fancied frowns, if frowns should rise;
And thus meet favour in her softning eyes.
In this manner entertained I myself, till I arrived at Smith's; and there the fellows set down their gay burden. Off went their hats; Will. ready at hand in a new livery; up went the head; out rush'd my Honour; the woman behind the compter all in flutters;-respect and fear giving due solemnity to her features; and her knees, I doubt not, knocking against the inside of her wainscot fence.
Your servant, Madam-Will. let the fellows move to some distance, and wait.
You have a young lady lodges here; Miss Harlowe, Madam: Is she above?
Sir, Sir, and please your Honour [The woman is struck with my figure, thinks I]: Miss Harlowe, Sir! There is, indeed, such a young lady lodges here-But, but-
But what, Madam? -I must see her. -One pair of stairs; is it not? -Don't trouble yourself-I shall find her apartment. And was making towards the stairs.
Sir, Sir, the lady, the lady is not at home-she is abroad- She is in the Country-
In the country! Not at home! -Impossible! You will not pass this story upon me, good woman. I must see her. I have business of life and death with her.
Indeed, Sir, the lady is not at home! Indeed, Sir, she is abroad!-
She then rung a bell: John, cried she, pray step down! - Indeed, Sir, the lady is not at home.
Down came John, the good man of the house, when I expected one of his journeymen, by her sawcy familiarity.
My dear, said she, the gentleman will not believe Miss Harlowe is abroad.
John bow'd to my fine cloaths, Your servant, Sir-Indeed the lady is abroad. She went out of town this morning by six o'clock-into the country-by the Doctor's advice.
Still I would not believe either John or his wife. I am sure, said I, she cannot be abroad. I heard she was very ill-She is not able to go out in a coach. Do you know Mr. Belford, friend?
Yes, Sir; I have the honour to know Squire Belford. He is gone into the country to visit a sick friend. He went on Saturday, Sir.
This had also been told from thy lodgings to Will. whom I sent to desire to see thee, on my first coming to town.
Well, and Mr. Belford wrote me word that she was exceeding ill. How then can she be gone out?
O Sir, she is very ill; very ill, indeed-Could hardly walk to the coach.
Belford, thought I, himself knew nothing of the time of my coming; neither can he have received my letter of yesterday: And so ill, 'tis impossible she would go out.
Where is her servant? Call her servant to me.
Her servant, Sir, is her nurse: She has no other. And she is gone with her.
Well, friend, I must not believe you. You'll excuse me; but I must go up stairs myself. And was stepping up.
John hereupon put on a serious, and a less respectful face-Sir, this house is mine; and-
And what, friend? not doubting then but she was above. -I must and will see her. I have authority for it. I am a justice of peace. I have a search warrant.
And up I went; they following me, muttering, and in a plaguy flutter.
The first door I came to was lock'd. I tapp'd at it.
The lady, Sir, has the key of her own apartment.
On the inside, I question not, my honest friend; tapping again. And being assured, if she heard my voice, that her timorous and soft temper would make her betray herself, by some flutters, to my listening ear, I said aloud, I am confident Miss Harlowe is here: Dearest Madam, open the door: Admit me but for one moment to your presence.
But neither answer nor fluttering saluted my ear; and, the people being very quiet, I led on to the next apartment; and, the key being on the outside, I opened it, and looked all round it, and into the closet.
The man said, He never saw so uncivil a gentleman in his life.
Hark thee, friend, said I; Let me advise thee to be a little decent; or I shall teach thee a lesson thou never learnedst in all thy life.
Sir, said he, 'tis not like a gentleman, to affront a man in his own house.
Then pr'ythee, man, replied I, don't crow upon thine own dunghill.
I stepped back to the locked door: My dear Miss Harlowe, I beg of you to open the door, or I'll break it open;-pushing hard against it, that it crack'd again.
The man looked pale; and, trembling and with his fright, made a plaguy long face; and called to one of his bodice-makers above, Joseph, come down quickly.
Joseph came down: A lion's face grinning fellow; thick, and short, and bushy-headed, like an old oak-pollard. Then did master John put on a sturdier look. But I only humm'd a tune, travers'd all the other apartments, sounded the passages with my knuckles, to find whether there were private doors, and walked up the next pair of stairs, singing all the way; John, and Joseph, and Mrs. Smith, following me trembling.
I looked round me there, and went into two open-door bed-chambers; searched the closets, the passages, and peeped thro' the key-hole of another: No Miss Harlowe, by Jupiter! What shall I do! -What shall I do! -Now will she be grieved that she is out of the way.
I said this on purpose to find out whether these people knew the lady's story; and had the answer I expected from Mrs. Smith-I believe not, Sir, said she.
Why so, Mrs. Smith? Do you know who I am?
I can guess, Sir.
Whom do you guess me to be?
Your name is Mr. Lovelace, Sir, I make no doubt.
The very same. But how came you to guess so well, dame Smith? You never saw me before-Did you?
Here, Jack, I laid out for a compliment, and missed it.
'Tis easy to guess, Sir; for there cannot be two such gentlemen as you.
Well said, dame Smith-But mean you good or bad? - Handsome was the least I thought she would have said.
I leave you to guess, Sir.
Condemned, thinks I, by myself, on this appeal.
Why, father Smith, thy wife is a wit, man! -Didst thou ever find that out before? -But where is widow Lovick, dame Smith? My cousin John Belford says she is a very good woman. Is she within? Or is she gone with Miss Harlowe too?
She will be within by-and-by, Sir. She is not with the lady.
Well, but my good dear Mrs. Smith, where is the lady gone? And when will she return?
I can't tell, Sir.
Don't tell fibs, dame Smith; don't tell fibs; chucking her under the chin: Which made John's upper-lip, with chin shortened, rise to his nose-I am sure you know! - But here's another pair of stairs: Let us see; Who lives up there? -But hold, here's another room lock'd up, tapping at the door-Who's at home, cry'd I?
That's Mrs. Lovick's apartment. She is gone out, and has the key with her.
Widow Lovick! rapping again, I believe you are at home: Pray open the door.
John and Joseph muttered and whispered together.
No whispering, honest friends: 'Tis not manners to whisper. Joseph, what said John to thee?
John, Sir! disdainfully repeated the good woman.
I beg pardon, Mrs. Smith: But you see the force of example. Had you shewed your honest man more respect, I should. Let me give you a piece of advice: -Women who treat their husbands irreverently, teach strangers to use them with contempt. There, honest master John; why dost not pull off thy hat to me? -O, so thou wouldst, if thou hadst it on: But thou never wearest thy hat in thy wife's presence, I believe; dost thou?
None of your fleers and your jeers, Sir, cry'd John. I wish every married pair lived as happily as we do.
I wish so too, honest friend. But I'll be hang'd if thou hast any children.
Why so, Sir?
Hast thou? -Answer me, man: Hast thou, or not?
Perhaps not, Sir. But what of that?
What of that? -Why I'll tell thee. The man who has no children by his wife must put up with plain John. Hadst thou a child or two, thou'dst be called Mr. Smith, with a courtesy, or a smile at least, at every word.
You are very pleasant, Sir, replied my dame. I fancy, if either my husband or I had as much to answer for as I know whom, we should not be so merry.
Why then, dame Smith, so much the worse for those who were obliged to keep you company. But I am not merry-I am sad! -Hey-ho! -Where shall I find my dear Miss Harlowe?
My beloved Miss Harlowe! (calling at the foot of the third pair of stairs) if you are above, for God's sake answer me. I am coming up.
Sir, said the good man, I wish you'd walk down. The servants rooms, and the working rooms, are up those stairs, and another pair; and no-body's there that you want.
Shall I go up, and see if Miss Harlowe be there, Mrs. Smith?
You may, Sir, if you please.
Then I won't; for, if she was, you would not be so obliging.
I am ashamed to give you all this attendance: You are the politest traders I ever knew. Honest Joseph, slapping him upon the shoulders on a sudden, which made him jump, didst ever grin for a wager, man? -For the rascal seemed not displeased with me; and, cracking his flat face from ear to ear, with a distended mouth, shew'd his teeth, as broad and as black as his thumb-nails. But don't I hinder thee? What canst earn a-day, man?
Half a crown, I can earn a-day; with an air of pride and petulance, at being startled.
There then is a day's wages for thee. But thou needest not attend me further.
Come, Mrs. Smith, come, John, master Smith I should say; let's walk down, and give me an account where the lady is gone, and when she will return.
So down stairs led I. John and Joseph (tho' I had discharged the latter), and my dame, following me, to shew their complaisance to a stranger.
I re-entered one of the first-floor rooms. I have a great mind to be your lodger: For I never saw such obliging folks in my life. What rooms have you to lett?
None at all, Sir.
I am sorry for that. But whose is this?
Mine, Sir, chuffily said John.
Thine, man! Why then I will take it of thee. This, and a bed-chamber, and a garret for my servant, will content me. I will give thee thy own price, and half a guinea a day over, for those conveniencies.
For ten guineas a day, Sir-
Hold, John! Master Smith, I should say-Before thou speakest, consider-I won't be affronted, man.
Sir, I wish you'd walk down, said the good woman. Really, Sir, you take-
Great liberties I hope you would not say, Mrs. Smith?
Indeed, Sir, I was going to say something like it.
Well, then, I am glad I prevented you; for the words better become my mouth than yours. But I must lodge with you till the lady returns. I believe I must. However, you may be wanted in the shop; so we'll talk that over there.
Down I went, they paying diligent attendance on my steps.
When I came into the shop, seeing no chair or stool, I went behind the compter, and sat down under an arched kind of canopy of carved-work, which these proud traders, emulating the royal nich-fillers, often give themselves, while a joint-stool, perhaps, serves those by whom they get their bread: Such is the dignity of trade in this mercantile nation!
I looked about me, and above me, and told them I was very proud of my seat; asking, If John were ever permitted to fill this superb nich?
Perhaps he was, he said, very surlily.
That is it, cry'd I, that makes thee look so like a statue, man.
John looked plaguy glum upon me. But his man Joseph and my man Will turned round with their backs to us, to hide their grinning, with each his fist in his mouth.
I asked, What it was they sold?
Powder, and wash-balls, and snuff, they said; and gloves and stockens.
O come, I'll be your customer. Will. do I want wash-balls?
Yes, and please your Honour, you can dispense with one or two.
Give him half a dozen, dame Smith.
She told me she must come where I was, to serve them. Pray, Sir, walk from behind the compter.
Indeed but I won't. The shop shall be mine. Where are they, if a customer should come in?
She pointed over my head, with a purse-mouth, as if she would not have simper'd, could she have help'd it. I reached down the glass, and gave Will. six. There-put 'em up, sirrah.
He did, grinning with his teeth out before; which touching my conscience, as the loss of them was owing to me, Joseph, said I, come hither. Come hither, man, when I bid thee.
He stalked towards me, his hands behind him, half willing, and half unwilling.
I suddenly wrapt my arm round his neck. Will. thy penknife, this moment. D-n the fellow, where's thy penknife?
O Lord! said the pollard-headed dog, struggling to get his head loose from under my arm, while my other hand was muzzling about his cursed chaps, as if I would take his teeth out.
I will pay thee a good price, man: Don't struggle thus! The penknife, Will!
O Lord! cry'd Joseph, struggling still more and more: And out comes Will's pruning-knife; for the rascal is a gardener in the country. I have only this, Sir.
The best in the world to launch a gum. D-n the fellow, why dost struggle thus?
Master and Mistress Smith being afraid, I suppose, that I had a design upon Joseph's throat, because he was their champion (and this, indeed, made me take the more notice of him), coming towards me with countenances tragicomical, I let him go.
I only wanted, said I, to take out two or three of this rascal's broad teeth, to put them into my servant's jaws- And I would have paid him his price for them. -I would, by my soul, Joseph.
Joseph shook his ears; and with both hands stroaked down, smooth as it would lie, his bushy hair; and looked at me, as if he knew not whether he should laugh or be angry: But, after a stupid stare or two, stalked off to the other end of the shop, nodding his head at me as he went, still stroaking down his hair, and took his stand by his master, facing about, and muttering, that I was plaguy strong in the arms, and he thought would have throttled him. Then folding his arms, and shaking his bristled head, added, 'Twas well I was a gentleman, or he would not have taken such an affront.
I demanded where their rappee was? The good woman pointed to the place; and I took up a scollop-shell of it, refusing to let her weigh it, and filled my box. And now, Mrs. Smith, said I, where are your gloves?
She shewed me; and I chose four pair of them, and set Joseph, who looked as if he wanted to be taken notice of again, to open the fingers.
A female customer, who had been gaping at the door, came in for some Scots snuff; and I would serve her. The wench was plaguy homely; and I told her so; or else, I said, I would have treated her. She in anger (No woman is homely in her own opinion) threw down her peny; and I put it in my pocket.
Just then, turning my eye to the door, I saw a pretty genteel lady, with a footman after her, peeping in with a What's the matter, good folks? to the starers; and I ran to her from behind the compter, and, as she was making off, took her hand, and drew her into the shop, begging that she would be my customer; for that I had but just begun trade.
What do you sell, Sir, said she, smiling; but a little surprised?
Tapes, ribbands, silk-laces, pins, and needles; for I am a pedlar: Powder, patches, wash-balls, stockens, garters, snuffs, and pin-cushions-Don't we, goody Smith?
So in I gently drew her to the compter, running behind it myself, with an air of great diligence and obligingness. I have excellent gloves and wash-balls, Madam; Rappee, Scots, Portugal, and all sorts of snuff.
Well, said she, in very good humour, I'll encourage a young beginner for once. Here, Andrew (to her footman) you want a pair of gloves, don't you?
I took down a parcel of gloves, which Mrs. Smith pointed to, and came round to the fellow to fit them on myself.
No matter for opening them, said I: Thy fingers, friend, are as stiff as drumsticks. Push-Thou'rt an aukward dog! I wonder such a pretty lady will be followed by such a clumsy varlet.
The fellow had no strength for laughing: And Joseph was mightily pleased, in hopes, I suppose, I would borrow a few of Andrew's teeth, to keep him in countenance: And, like all the world, as the jest was turned from themselves, father and mother Smith seem'd diverted with the humour.
The fellow said, the gloves were too little.
Thrust, and be d-n'd to thee, said I: Why, fellow, thou hast not the strength of a cat.
Sir, Sir, said he, laughing, I shall hurt your Honour's side.
D-n thee, thrust, I say.
He did; and burst out the sides of the glove.
Will. said I, where's thy pruning-knife? By my soul, friend, I had a good mind to pare thy cursed paws. But come, here's a larger pair: Try them, when thou gettest home; and let thy sweetheart, if thou hast one, mend the other; and so take both.
The lady laughed at the humour; as did my fellow, and Mrs. Smith, and Joseph: Even John laughed, tho' he seemed, by the force put upon his countenance, to be but half pleased with me neither.
Madam, said I, and stept behind the compter, bowing over it, now I hope you will buy something for yourself. No-body shall use you better, nor sell you cheaper.
Come, said she, give me six peny-worth of Portugal snuff.
They shewed me where it was, and I served her; and said, when she would have paid me, I took nothing at my opening.
If I treated her footman, she told me, I should not treat her.
Well, with all my heart, said I: 'Tis not for Us tradesmen to be saucy-Is it, Mrs. Smith?
I put her sixpence in my pocket; and, seizing her hand, took notice to her of the croud that had gathered about the door, and besought her to walk into the back shop with me.
She struggled her hand out of mine, and would stay no longer.
So I bow'd, and bid her kindly welcome, and thanked her, and hoped I should have her custom another time.
She went away-smiling; and Andrew after her; who made me a fine bow.
I began to be out of countenance at the crowd, which thicken'd apace; and bid Will. order the chair to the door.
Well, Mrs. Smith, with a grave air, I am heartily sorry Miss Harlowe is abroad. You don't tell me where she is?
Indeed, Sir, I cannot.
You will not, you mean. -She could have no notion of my coming. I came to town but last night-Have been very ill. She has almost broke my heart, by her cruelty. You know my story, I doubt not. Tell her, I must go out of town to-morrow morning. But I will send my servant, to know if she will favour me with one half-hour's conversation; for, as soon as I get down, I shall set out for Dover, in my way to France, if I have not a countermand from her who has the sole disposal of my fate.
And so, flinging down a Portugal Six-and-thirty, I took Mr. Smith by the hand, telling him, I was sorry we had not more time to be better acquainted; and bidding honest Joseph farewell; who purs'd up his mouth as I passed by him, as if he thought his teeth still in jeopardy; and bidding Mrs. Smith adieu, and to recommend me to her fair lodger, humm'd an air, and, the chair being come, whipt into it; the people about the door seeming to be in good humour with me; one crying, A pleasant gentleman, I warrant him! And away I was carried to White's, according to direction.
As soon as I came thither, I ordered Will. to go and change his cloaths, and to disguise himself by putting on his black wig, and keeping his mouth shut; and then to dodge about Smith's, to inform himself of the lady's motions.
I GIVE thee this impudent account of myself, that thou mayst rave at me, and call me harden'd, and what thou wilt. For, in the first place, I, who had been so lately ill, was glad I was alive; and then I was so balked by my charmer's unexpected absence, and so ruffled by that, and by the bluff treatment of father John, that I had no other way to avoid being out of humour with all I met with. Moreover I was rejoiced to find, by the lady's absence, and by her going out at six in the morning, that it was impossible she should be so ill as thou representedst her to be; and this gave me still higher spirits. Then I know the Sex always love chearful and humorous fellows. The dear creature herself used to be pleased with my gay temper and lively manner; and had she been told, that I was blubbering for her in the back shop, she would have despised me still more than she does.
Furthermore, I was sensible, that the people of the house must needs have a terrible notion of me, as a savage, bloody-minded, obdurate fellow; a perfect woman-eater; and, no doubt, expected to see me with the claws of a lion, and the fangs of a tyger; and it was but policy to shew them, what a harmless, pleasant fellow I am, in order to familiarize the John's and the Joseph's to me. For it was evident to me, by the good woman's calling them down, that she thought me a dangerous man. Whereas now, John and I having shaken hands together, and dame Smith having seen that I have the face, and hands, and looks of a man, and walk upright, and prate, and laugh, and joke, like other people; and Joseph, that I can talk of taking his teeth out of his head, without doing him the least hurt; they will all, at my next visit, be much more easy and pleasant with me than Andrew's gloves were to him; and we shall be hail, fellow, well met, as the saying is, and as thoroughly acquainted, as if we had known one another a twelvemonth.
When I returned to our mother's, I again cursed her and all her nymphs together; and still refused to see either Sally or Polly. I raved at the horrid arrest; and told the old dragon, that it was owing to her and hers, that the fairest virtue in the world was ruined; my reputation for ever blasted; and that I was not married, and happy in the love of the most excellent of her sex.
She, to pacify me, said, she would shew me a new face that would please me; since I would not see my Sally, who was dying for grief.
Where is this new face, cry'd I? Let me see her, tho' I shall never see any face with pleasure but Miss Harlowe's.
She won't come down, reply'd she. She will not be at the word of command yet-Is but just in the tramels; and must be waited upon, I'll assure you; and courted much besides.
Ay! said I, that looks well. Lead me to her this instant.
I followed her up: And who should she be, but that little road, Sally.
O curse you, said I, for a devil, is it you? Is yours the new face?
O my dear, dear Mr. Lovelace? cry'd she, I am glad any-thing will bring you to me! And so the little beast threw herself about my neck, and there clung like a cat. Come, said she, what will you give me, and I'll be virtuous for a quarter of an hour, and mimic your Clarissa to the life.
I was Belforded all over. I could not bear such an insult upon the dear creature (for I have a soft and generous nature in the main, whatever you think); and cursed her most devoutly, for taking her name in her mouth in such a way. But the little devil was not to be balked; but fell a crying, sobbing, praying, begging, exclaiming, fainting, so that I never saw my lovely girl so well aped; and I was almost taken in; for I could have fancied I had her before me once more.
O this Sex! this artful Sex! There's no minding them. At first, indeed, their grief and their concern may be real: But give way to the hurricane, and it will soon die away in soft murmurs, trilling upon your ears like the notes of a well-tuned viol. And, by Sally, one sees, that Art will generally so well supply the place of Nature, that you shall not easily know the difference. Miss Harlowe, indeed, is the only woman in the world, I believe, that can say, in the words of her favourite Job (for I can quote a text as well as she), But it is not so with me.
They were very inquisitive about my fair one. They told me, that you seldom came near them; that, when you did, you put on plaguy grave airs; would hardly stay five minutes; and did nothing but praise Miss Harlowe, and lament her hard fate. In short, that you despised them; was full of sentences; and they doubted not, in a little while, would be a lost man, and marry.
A pretty character for thee, is it not? Thou art in a blessed way, yet hast nothing to do but to go on in it; and then what a work hast thou to go through! If thou turnest back, these sorceresses will be like the Czar's Cossacks (at Pultowa, I think it was), who were planted with ready primed and cocked pieces, behind the regulars, in order to shoot them dead, if they did not push on, and conquer; and then wilt thou be most lamentably despised by every harlot thou hast made-And, O Jack! how formidable, in that case, will be the number of thy enemies!
I intend to regulate my motions by Will's intelligence; for see this dear creature I must and will. Yet I have promised Lord M to be down in two or three days, at farthest; for he is grown plaguy fond of me since I was ill.
I am in hopes, that the word I left, that I am to go out of town to-morrow morning, will soon bring the lady back again.
Mean time, I thought I would write to divert thee, while thou art of such importance about the dying; and as thy servant, it seems, comes backward and forward every day, perhaps I may send thee another to-morrow, with the particulars of the interview between the dear lady and me; after which my soul thirsteth.

### v6 LETTER CXXIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday, Aug. 22.
I must write on, to divert myself: For I can get no rest; no refreshing rest. I awaked just now in a cursed fright. How a man may be affected by dreams!
'Methought I had an interview with my beloved. I found her all goodness, condescension, and forgiveness. She suffer'd herself to be overcome in my favour by the joint intercessions of Lord M, Lady Sarah, Lady Betty, and my two cousins Montague, who waited upon her in deep mourning; the ladies in long trains sweeping after them; Lord M. in a long black mantle trailing after him. They told her, they came in these robes to express their sorrow for my sins against her, and to implore her to forgive me.
'I myself, I thought, was upon my knees, with a sword in my hand, offering either to put it up in the scabbard, or to thrust it into my heart, as she should command the one or the other.
'At that moment her cousin Morden, I thought, all of a sudden, flash'd in thro' a window, with his drawn sword-Die, Lovelace, said he! this instant die, and be damned, if in earnest thou repairest not by marriage my cousin's wrongs!
'I was rising to resent this insult, I thought, when Lord M. run between us with his great black mantle, and threw it over my face: And instantly, my charmer, with that sweet voice which has so often played upon my ravished ears, wrapped her arms round me, muffled as I was in my Lord M's mantle, O spare, spare my Lovelace! And spare, O Lovelace, my beloved cousin Morden! Let me not have my distresses augmented by the fall of either or both of those who are so dear to me.
'At this, charmed with her sweet mediation, I thought I would have clasped her in my arms: When immediately the most angelic form I had ever beheld, vested all in transparent white, descended from a ceiling, which, opening, discovered a ceiling above that, stuck round with golden cherubs and glittering seraphs, all exulting, Welcome, welcome, welcome! and, encircling my charmer, ascended with her to the region of seraphims; and instantly, the opening ceiling closing, I lost sight of her, and of the bright form together, and found wrapt in my arms her azure robe (all stuck thick with stars of embossed silver), which I had caught hold of in hopes of detaining her; but was all that was left me of my beloved Miss Harlowe. And then (horrid to relate!) the floor sinking under me, as the ceiling had opened for her, I dropt into a hole more frightful than that of Elden; and, tumbling over and over down it, without view of a bottom, I awaked in a panic; and was as effectually disordered for half an hour, as if my dream had been a reality.'
Wilt thou forgive me troubling thee with such visionary stuff? Thou wilt see by it, only, that, sleeping or waking, my Clarissa is always present with me.
But here this moment is Will. come running hither to tell me, that his lady actually returned to her lodgings last night between eleven and twelve, and is now there, tho' very ill.
I hasten to her. But, that I may not add to her indisposition, by any rough or boisterous behaviour, I will be as soft and gentle as the dove herself in my addresses to her.
That I do love her, O all ye host of heaven,
Be witness!-That she is dear to me!
Dearer than day to one whom sight must leave;
Dearer than life, to one who fears to die;
The chair is come. I fly to my beloved.

### v6 LETTER CXX.

Mr. Lovelace, to John Belford, Esq;
Curse upon my stars! -Disappointed again! It was about eight when I arrived at Smith's-The woman was in the shop.
So, old acquaintance, how do you now? I know my Love is above. -Let her be acquainted that I am here, waiting for admission to her presence, and can take no denial. Tell her, that I will approach her with the most respectful duty, and in whose company she pleases; and I will not touch the hem of her garment, without her leave.
Indeed, Sir, you're mistaken. The lady is not in this house, nor near it.
I'll see that. -Will! beckoning him to me, and whispering, See if thou canst any way find out (without losing sight of the door, lest she should be below stairs) if she be in the neighbourhood, if not within.
Will. bowed and went off. Up went I, without further ceremony; attended now only by the good woman.
I went into each apartment, except that which was locked before, and was now also locked: And I called to Miss Harlowe in the voice of Love; but by the still silence was convinced she was not there. Yet, on the strength of my intelligence, I doubted not but she was in the house.
I then went up two pair of stairs, and looked round the first room: But no Miss Harlowe.
And who, pray, is in this room? stopping at the door of another.
A widow gentlewoman, Sir. -Mrs. Lovick.
O my dear Mrs. Lovick! said I, I am intimately acquainted with her character, from my cousin John Belford. I must see Mrs. Lovick by all means. Good Mrs. Lovick, open the door.
She did.
Your servant, Madam. Be so good as to excuse me. - You have heard my story. You are an admirer of the most excellent woman in the world. Dear Mrs. Lovick, tell me what is become of her?
The poor lady, Sir, went out yesterday, on purpose to avoid you.
How so? She knew not that I would be here.
She was afraid you would come, when she heard you were recovered from your illness. -Ah! Sir, what pity it is that so fine a gentleman should make such ill returns for God's goodness to him!
You are an excellent woman, Mrs. Lovick: I know that, by my cousin John Belford's account of you; and Miss Harlowe is an angel.
Miss Harlowe is indeed an angel, replied she; and soon will be company for angels.
No jesting with such a woman as this, Jack.
Tell me of a truth, good Mrs. Lovick, where I may see this dear lady. Upon my soul, I will neither fright nor offend her. I will only beg of her to hear me speak for one half-quarter of an hour; and, if she will have it so, I will never trouble her more.
Sir, said the widow, it would be death for her to see you. She was at home last night; I'll tell you truth: But fitter to be in bed all day. She came home, she said, to die; and, if she could not avoid your visit, she was unable to fly from you; and believed she should die in your presence.
And yet go out again this morning early? How can that be, Widow?
Why, Sir, she rested not two hours, for fear of you. Her fear gave her strength, which she'll suffer for, when that fear is over. And finding herself, the more she thought of it, the less able to stay to receive your visit, she took chair, and is gone no-body knows whither. But, I believe, she intended to be carried to the water-side, in order to take boat; for she cannot bear a coach. It extremely incommoded her yesterday.
But before we talk any further, said I, if she be gone abroad, you can have no objection to my looking into every apartment above and below; because I am told she is actually in the house.
Indeed, Sir, she is not. You may satisfy yourself, if you please: But Mrs. Smith and I waited on her to her chair. We were forced to support her, she was so weak. She said, Where can I go, Mrs. Lovick? Whither can I go, Mrs. Smith? -Cruel, cruel man! Tell him I called him so, if he come again! -God give him that peace which he denies me!
Sweet creature! cry'd I, and looked down, and took out my handkerchief.
The widow wept. I wish, said she, I had never known so excellent a lady, and so great a sufferer! I love her as my own child!
Mrs. Smith wept.
I then gave over the hope of seeing her for this time. I was extremely chagrined at my disappointment, and at the account they gave of her ill health.
Would to Heaven, said I, she would put it in my power to repair her wrongs! I have been an ungrateful wretch to her. I need not tell you, Mrs. Lovick, how much I have injured her, nor how much she suffers by her relations implacableness. 'Tis the latter, Mrs. Lovick, 'tis That, Mrs. Smith, that cuts her to the heart. Her family is the most implacable family on earth; and the dear creature, in refusing to see me, and to be reconciled to me, shews her relation to them a little too plainly.
O Sir, said the widow, not one syllable of what you say belongs to this lady. I never saw so sweet a creature! so edifying a piety! and one of so forgiving a temper! She is always accusing herself, and excusing her relations. And, as as to You, Sir, she forgives you: She wishes you well; and happier than you will let her be. Why will you not, Sir, why will you not, let her die in peace? 'Tis all she wishes for. You don't look like a hard-hearted gentleman! -How can you thus hunt and persecute a poor lady, whom none of her relations will look upon? It makes my heart bleed for her.
And then she wept again. Mrs. Smith wept also. My seat grew uneasy to me. I shifted to another several times; and what Mrs. Lovick farther said, and shewed me, made me still more uneasy.
Bad as the poor lady was last night, said she, she transcribed into her book a meditation on your persecuting her thus. I have a copy of it. If I thought it would have any effect, I would read it to you.
Let me read it myself, Mrs. Lovick.
She gave it to me. It has a Harlowe-spirited title. And from a forgiving spirit, intolerable. I desired to take it with me. She consented, on condition that I shewed it to 'Squire Belford. So here, Mr. 'Squire Belford, thou may'st read it, if thou wilt.
On being hunted after by the enemy of my soul.
Monday, Aug. 21.
Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man. Preserve, me from the violent man.
Who imagines mischief in his heart.
He hath sharpened his tongue like a serpent. Adders poison is under his lips.
Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked. Preserve me from the violent man; who hath purposed to overthrow my goings.
He hath hid a snare for me. He hath spread a net by the way-side. He hath set gins for me in the way wherein I walked.
Keep me from the snares which he hath laid for me, and the gins of this worker of iniquity.
The enemy hath persecuted my soul. He hath smitten my life down to the ground. He hath made me dwell in darkness, as those that have been long dead.
Therefore is my spirit overwhelmed within me. My heart within me is desolate.
Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble.
For my days are consumed like smoke: and my bones are burnt as the hearth.
My heart is smitten and withered like grass: so that I forget to eat my bread.
By reason of the voice of my groaning, my bones cleave to my skin.
I am like a pelican of the wilderness. I am like an owl of the desart.
I watch; and am as a sparrow alone upon the house-top.
I have eaten ashes like bread; and mingled my drink with weeping:
Because of thine indignation and thy wrath: for thou hast lifted me up, and cast me down.
My days are like a shadow that declineth, and I am withered like grass.
Grant not, O Lord, the desires of the wicked: further not his devices, lest he exalt himself.
Why now, Mrs. Lovick, said I, when I had read this meditation, as she called it, I think I am very severely treated by the lady, if she mean me in all this. For how is it that I am the enemy of her soul, when I love her both soul and body?
She says, that I am a violent man, and a wicked man. - That I have been so, I own: But I repent, and only wish to have it in my power to repair the injuries I have done her.
The gin, the snare, the net, mean matrimony, I suppose -But is it a crime in me to wish to marry her? Would any other woman think it so? and choose to become a pelican in the wilderness, or a lonely sparrow on the house-top, rather than to have a mate that would chirp about her all day and all night?
She says, she has eaten ashes like bread-A sad mistake to be sure!-and mingled her drink with weeping-Sweet maudlin soul! should I say of any-body confessing this, but Miss Harlowe.
She concludes with praying, that the desires of the wicked (meaning poor me, I doubt) may not be granted; that my devices may not be furthered, lest I exalt my-self. -I should undoubtedly exalt my-self, and with reason, could I have the honour and the blessing of such a wife. And if my desires have so honourable an end, I know not why I should be called wicked, and why I should not be allowed to hope, that my honest devices may be furthered, that I MAY exalt myself.
But here, Mrs. Lovick, let me ask, as something is undoubtedly meant by the lonely sparrow on the house-top, Is not the dear creature at this very instant (tell me truly) concealed in Mrs. Smith's cockloft? -What say you, Mrs. Lovick; What say you, Mrs. Smith, to this?
They assured me to the contrary; and that she was actually abroad, and they knew not where.
Thou seest, Jack, that I would fain have diverted the chagrin given me by the womens talk, and by this collection of Scripture-texts drawn up in array against me. And several other whimsical and light things I said (all I had for it!) for this purpose. But the widow would not let me come off so. She stuck to me; and gave me, as I told thee a good deal of uneasiness, by her sensible and serious expostulations. Mrs. Smith put in now and then; and the two Jack-pudden fellows, John and Joseph, not being present, I had no provocation to turn the conversation into a farce; and, at last, they both joined warmly to endeavour to prevail upon me to give up all thoughts of seeing the lady. But I could not hear of that. On the contrary, I besought Mrs. Smith to let me have one of her rooms but till I could see her; and were it but for one, two, or three days, I would pay a year's rent for it; and quit it the moment the interview was over. But they desired to be excused; and were sure the lady would not come to the house till I was gone, were it for a month.
This pleased me; for I found they did not think her so very ill as they would have me believe her to be; but I took no notice of the slip, because I would not guard them against more of the like.
In short, I told them, I must and would see her: But that it should be with all the respect and veneration that heart could pay to excellence like hers. And that I would go round to all the Churches in London and Westminster, where there were Prayers or Service, from sun-rise to sunset, and haunt their house like a ghost, till I had the opportunity my soul panted after.
This I bid them tell her. And thus ended our serious conversation.
I took leave of them, and went down; and, stepping into my chair, caused myself to be carried to Lincoln's-Inn; and walked in the gardens till Chapel was opened; and then I went in, and staid prayers, in hopes of seeing the dear creature enter: But to no purpose; and yet I prayed most devoutly that she might be conducted thither, either by my good angel, or her own. And indeed I burn more than ever with impatience to be once more permitted to kneel at the feet of this adorable woman. And had I met her, or spy'd her in the Chapel, it is my firm belief, that I should not have been able (tho' it had been in the midst of the Sacred Office, and in the presence of thousands) to have forborne prostration to her, and even clamorous supplication for her forgiveness: A Christian act; the exercise of it therefore worthy of the place.
After Service was over, I stept into my chair again, and once more was carried to Smith's, in hopes I might have surprized her there: But no such happiness for thy friend. I staid in the back-shop an hour and half, by my watch; and again underwent a good deal of preachment from the women. John was mainly civil to me now; won over a little by my serious talk, and the honour I professed for the lady; and they all three wished matters could be made up between us: But still insisted, that she could never get over her illness; and that her heart was broken. A cue, I suppose, they had from you.
While I was there, a letter was brought for her by a particular hand. They seemed very solicitous to hide it from me; which made me suspect it was for her. I desired to be suffered to cast an eye upon the seal, and the superscription; promising to give it back to them unopened.
Looking upon it, I told them, I knew the hand and seal. It was from her sister. And I hoped it would bring her news that she would be pleased with.
They joined most heartily in the same hope: And giving the letter to them again, I civilly took my leave, and went away.
But I will be there again presently; for I fancy my courteous behaviour to these women, will, on their report of it, procure me the favour I so earnestly covet. And so I will leave my letter unsealed, to tell thee the event of my next visit at Smith's.
Thy servant just calling, I send thee this. And will soon follow it by another. Mean time, I long to hear how poor Belton is. To whom my best wishes.
END of Vol. 6.

### Vol. 7

### v7 LETTER I.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Tuesday, Aug. 22.
I have been under such concern for the poor man, whose exit I almost hourly expect, and at the shocking scenes his illness, and his agonies exhibit; that I have been only able to make memoranda of the melancholy passages, from which to draw up a more perfect account, for the instruction of us all, when the writing-appetite shall return.
It is returned! Indignation has revived it, on receipt of thy letters of Sunday and yesterday; by which I have reason to reproach thee in very serious terms, that thou hast not kept thy honour with me: And if thy breach of it be attended with such effects as I fear it will be, I shall let thee know more of my mind on this head.
If thou would'st be thought in earnest in thy wishes, to move the poor lady in thy favour, thy ludicrous behaviour at Smith's, when it comes to be represented to her, will have a very consistent appearance; will it not? -It will, indeed, confirm her in her opinion, that the grave is more to be wished-for, by one of her serious and pious turn, than a husband incapable either of reflexion or remorse; just recovered, as thou art, from a dangerous, at least a sharp illness.
I am extremely concerned for the poor unprotected lady; she was so excessively low and weak on Saturday, that I could not be admitted to her speech: And to be driven out of her lodgings, when it was fitter for her to be in bed, is such a piece of cruelty, as he only could be guilty of, who could act as thou hast done, by such an angel.
Canst thou thyself say, on reflection, that it has not the look of a wicked and hardened sportiveness, in thee, for the sake of a wanton humour only, (since it can answer no end that thou proposest to thyself, but the direct contrary) to hunt from place to place a poor lady, who, like a harmless deer, that has already a barbed shaft in her breast, seeks only a refuge from thee, in the shades of death?
But I will leave this matter upon thy own conscience, to paint thee such a scene from my memoranda, as thou perhaps wilt be moved by more effectually than by any other: Because it is such a one, as thou thyself must one day be a principal actor in; and, as I thought, hadst very lately in apprehension: And is the last scene of one of thy most intimate friends, who has been for the four past days labouring in the agonies of death. For, Lovelace, let this truth, this undoubted truth, be ingraven on thy memory, in all thy gaieties, That the life we are so fond of, is hardly life; a mere breathing-space only; and that at the end of its longest date,
Thou must die, as well as BELTON.
Thou knowest by Tourville what we had done as to the poor man's worldly affairs; and that we had got his unhappy sister to come and live with him; (little did we think him so very near his end); and so I will proceed to tell thee, that when I arrived at his house on Saturday night, I found him excessively ill: But just raised, and in his elbow-chair, held up by his nurse and Mowbray, (the roughest and most untouched creature that ever enter'd a sick man's chamber) while the maid-servants were trying to make that bed easier for him which he was to return to; his mind ten times uneasier than That could be, and the true cause that the down was no softer to him.
He had so much longed to see me, his sister told me, (whom I sent for down to enquire how he was) that they all rejoiced when I entered: Here, said Mowbray, Here Tommy, is honest Jack Belford!
Where, where? said the poor man.
I hear his voice, cry'd Mowbray, coming up stairs.
In a transport of joy, he would have raised himself at my entrance, but had like to have pitched out of the chair: And when recover'd, call'd me his best friend! his kindest friend! but, burst out into a flood of tears, O Jack! O Belford! said he, see the way I am in! See how weak! So much, and so soon reduced! Do you know me? Do you know your poor friend Belton?
You are not so much altered, my dear Belton, as you think you are. But I see you are weak; very weak-And I am sorry for it.
Weak! weak, indeed, my dearest Belford, said he, and weaker in my mind, if possible, than in my body; and wept bitterly-or I should not thus unman myself, I, who never feared any thing, to be forced to shew myself such a nursling! -I am quite ashamed of myself! -But don't despise me, dear Belford, don't despise me, I beseech thee.
I ever honoured a man that could weep for the distresses of others; and ever shall, said I; and such a one cannot be insensible to his own.
However, I could not help being visibly moved at the poor fellow's emotion.
Now, said the brutal Mowbray, do I think thee insufferable, Jack. Our poor friend is already a peg too low; and here thou art letting him down lower and lower still. This soothing of him in his dejected moments, and joining thy womanish tears with his, is not the way; I am sure it is not. If our Lovelace were here, he'd tell thee so.
Thou art an impenetrable creature, reply'd I; unfit to be present at a scene thou wilt not be able to feel the terrors of, till thou feelest them in thyself; and then, if thou hast time for feeling, my life for thine, thou behavest as pitifully, as those thou thinkest most pitiful.
Then turning to the poor sick man, Tears, my dear Belton, are no signs of an unmanly, but, contrarily, of a humane nature; they ease the over-charged heart, which would burst but for that kindly and natural relief.
Give Sorrow words, (says Shakespeare;)
The grief that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
I know, my dear Belton, thou usedst to take pleasure in repetitions from the poets; but thou must be tasteless of their beauties now: Yet be not discountenanced by this uncouth and unreflecting Mowbray, for as Juvenal says, Tears are the prerogative of manhood.
'Tis, at least, seasonably said, my dear Belford; it is kind to keep me in countenance for this womanish weakness, as Mowbray has been upbraidingly calling it, ever since he has been with me. And in so doing (whatever I might have thought in such high health as he enjoys) has convinced me, that bottle-friends feel nothing but what moves in that little circle.
Well, well proceed in your own way, Jack. I love my friend Belton as well as you can do; yet for the blood of me, I cannot but think, that soothing a man's weakness is increasing it.
If it be a weakness, to be touched at great and concerning events, in which our humanity is concerned, said I, thou mayest be right.
I have seen many a man, said the rough creature, going up Holbourn-hill, that has behaved more like a man than either of you.
Ay, but Mowbray, reply'd the poor man, those wretches have not had such infirmities of body as I have long laboured under, to enervate their minds. Thou art a shocking fellow, and ever wert. But to be able to remember nothing in these moments, but what reproaches me, and to know, that I cannot hold it long, and what may then be my lot, if-But interrupting himself and turning to me, Give me thy pity, Jack, 'tis balm to my wounded soul; and let Mowbray sit indifferent enough to the pangs of a dying friend, to laugh at us both.
The harden'd fellow then retired, with the air of a Lovelace; only more stupid; yawning and stretching, instead of humming a tune as thou didst at Smith's.
I assisted to get the poor man into bed. He was so weak and low, that he could not bear the fatigue, and fainted away; and I verily thought was quite gone. But recovering, and his doctor coming, and advising to keep him quiet, I retired, and joined Mowbray in the garden; who took more delight to talk of the living Lovelace and his levities, than of the dying Belton and his repentance.
I just saw him again on Saturday night before I went to bed: which I did early; for I was surfeited with Mowbray's frothy insensibility, and could not bear him. It is such a horrid thing to think of, that a man who had lived in such strict terms of amity with another (the proof does not come out so, as to say friendship); who had pretended so much love for him; could not bear to be out of his company; would ride a hundred miles an end to enjoy it, and would fight for him, be the cause right or wrong: Yet now, could be so little moved to see him in such misery of body and mind as to be able to rebuke him, and rather ridicule than pity him, because he was more affected by what he felt, than he had seen a male factor (hardened perhaps by liquor, and not softened by previous sickness) on his going to execution.
This put me strongly in mind of what the divine Miss Harlowe once said to me, talking of friendship, and what my friendship to you required of me: 'Depend upon it, Mr. Belford,' said she, 'that one day you will be convinced, that what you call friendship, is chaff and stubble; and that nothing is worthy of that sacred name
'THAT HAS NOT VIRTUE FOR ITS BASE
Sunday morning, I was called up at six o'clock, at his earnest request, and found him in a terrible agony. O Jack! Jack! said he, looking wildly, as if he had seen a spectre-Come nearer me! reaching out both arms. - Come nearer me! -Dear, dear Belford, save me! Then clasping my arm with both his hands, and rearing up his head towards me, his eyes strangely rolling, Save me! dear Belford, save me! repeated he.
I put my other arm about him,-Save you from what, my dear Belton! Save you from what! -Nothing shall hurt you! -What must I save you from?
Recovering from his terror, he sunk down again, O save me from myself! said he; Save me from my own reflections. O dear Jack! what a thing it is to die; and not to have one comfortable reflection to revolve! -What would I give for one year of my passed life?-only one year-and to have the same sense of things that I now have?
I try'd to comfort him, as well as I could: But free-livers to free-livers are sorry death-bed comforters. And he broke in upon me: O my dear Belford, said he, I am told, (and I have heard you ridiculed for it) that the excellent Miss Harlowe has wrought a conversion in you. May it be so! you are a man of sense; O may it be so! Now is your time! Now, that you are in full vigour of mind and body! But your poor Belton, alas! kept his vices, till they left him. And see the miserable effects in debility of mind and despondency! Were Mowbray here, and were he to laugh at me, I would own that this is the cause of my despair: That God's justice cannot let his mercy operate for my comfort: For Oh! I have been very, very wicked; and have despised the offers of his grace, till he has withdrawn it from me for ever.
I used all the arguments I could think of, to give him consolation; and what I said, had such an effect upon him, as to quiet his mind for the greatest part of the day; and in a lucid hour his memory served him to repeat those lines of Dryden, grasping my hand, and looking wistfully upon me:
O that I less could fear to lose this being,
Which, like a snow-ball, in my coward-band,
The more 'tis grasp'd, the faster melts away!
In the afternoon of Sunday, he was inquisitive after you, and your present behaviour to Miss Harlowe. I told him how you had been, and how light you made of it. Mowbray was pleased with your impenetrable hardness of heart, and said, Bob Lovelace was a good edge-tool, and steel to the back: And such coarse but hearty praises he gave thee, as an abandon'd man might give, and only an abandon'd man could wish to deserve.
But hadst thou heard what the poor dying, wise-too-late Belton said on this occasion, perhaps it would have made thee serious an hour or two, at least.
When poor Lovelace is brought, said he, to a sick-bed, as I am now, and his mind forebodes, that it is impossible he should recover, which his could not do in his late illness: If it had, he could not have behaved so lightly in it-When he revolves his past mis spent life; his actions of offence to helpless innocents; in Miss Harlowe's case particularly: What then, will he think of himself, or of his past actions? His mind debilitated; his strength turned into weakness; unable to stir or to move without help; not one ray of hope darting in upon his benighted soul; his conscience standing in the place of a thousand witnesses; his pains excruciating; weary of the poor remnant of life he drags, yet dreading that in a few short hours, his bed will be changed to worse, nay, to worst of all; and that worst of all, to last beyond time and to all eternity; O Jack! What will he then think of the poor transitory gratifications of sense, which now engage all his attention? Tell him, dear Belford, tell him, how happy he is, if he knows his own happiness; how happy, compared to his poor dying friend, that he has recovered from his illness, and has still an opportunity lent him, for which I would give a thousand worlds, had I them to give!
I approved exceedingly of what he said, as reflections suited to his present circumstances; and inferred consolations to him from a mind so properly touched.
He proceeded in the like penitent strain. I have lived a very wicked life; so have we all. We have never made a conscience of doing all the mischief, that either force or fraud put it in our power to do. We have laid snares for the innocent heart; and have not scrupled by the too-ready sword to extend, as occasions offer'd, the wrongs we did, to the persons whom we had before injur'd in their dearest relations. But yet I think in my heart, that I have less to answer for than either Lovelace or Mowbray; for I, by taking to myself that accursed deceiver from whom thou hast freed me, (and who for years, unknown to me, was retaliating upon my own head some of the evils I had brought upon others) and retiring, and living with her as a wife, was not party to half the mischiefs, that I doubt they, and Tourville, and even You, Belford, committed. As to the ungrateful Thomasin, I hope I have met with my punishment in her. But notwithstanding this, dost thou not think, that such an action -and such an action-and such an action, (and then he recapitulated several enormities, in which, led on by false bravery, and the heat of youth and wine, we have all been concerned) Dost thou not think that these villainies, (let me call them now by their proper name,) joined to the wilful and gloried-in neglect of every duty that our better sense and education gave us to know were required of us as Men and Christians, are not enough to weigh down my soul into despondency? -Indeed, indeed, they are! And now to hope for mercy! And to depend upon the efficacy of that gracious attribute when that no less shining one of justice forbids me to hope; How can I! -I, who have despised all warnings, and taken no advantage of the benefit I might have reap'd from the lingring consumptive illness I have laboured under, but left all to the last stake; hoping for recovery, against hope, and driving off repentance, till that grace is denyed me; for oh! my dear Belford! I can now neither repent, nor pray, as I ought; my heart is harden'd, and I can do nothing but despair!-
More he would have said; but, overwhelm'd with grief and infirmity, he bowed his head upon his pangful bosom, endeavouring to hide from the sight of the hardened Mowbray, who just then enter'd the room, those tears which he could not restrain.
Prefac'd by a phlegmatic hem; Sad, very sad, truly! cry'd Mowbray; who sat himself down on one side of the bed, as I on the other: His eyes half closed, and his lips pouting out to his turn'd-up nose, his chin curdled (to use one of thy descriptions) leaving one at a loss to know, whether stupid drowsiness or intense contemplation had got most hold of him.
An excellent, however uneasy lesson, Mowbray, said I! by my faith it is! -It may one day, who knows how soon? be our own case!
I thought of thy yawning fit, as described in thy letter of Aug. 13. For up started Mowbray, writhing and shaking himself as in an ague-fit; his hands stretch'd over his head-with thy hoy! hoy! hoy! yawning. -And then recovering himself, with another stretch and a shake, What's a clock, cried he? pulling out his watch-And stalking by long tip-toe strides thro' the room, down stairs he went; and meeting the maid, in the passage, I heard him say-Betty, bring me a bumper of claret; thy poor master, and this damn'd Belford are enough to throw a Hercules into the vapours.
Mowbray, after this, amusing himself in our friend's library, which is, as thou knowest, chiefly classical and dramatical, found out a passage in Lee's Oedipus, which he could needs have to be extremely apt, and in he came full fraught with the notion of the courage it would give the dying man, and read it to him. 'Tis poetical and pretty. This is it.
When the sun sets, shadows that shew'd at noon.
But small, appear most long and terrible:
So when we think fate hovers o'er our heads,
Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds:
Owls, ravens, crickets seem the watch of death:
Nature's worst vermin scare her god-like sons.
Echoes, the very leavings of a voice,
Grow babling ghosts, and call us to our graves.
Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus;
While we, fantastic dreamers, heave and puff,
And sweat with our imagination's weight.
He expected praises for finding this out. But Belton turning his head from him, Ah, Dick! (said he) these are not the reflections of a dying man! What thou wilt one day feel, if it be what I now feel, will convince thee that the evils before thee, and with thee, are more than the effects of imagination.
I was called twice on Sunday-night to him; for the poor fellow, when his reflections on his past life annoy him most, is afraid of being left with the women; and his eyes, they tell me, hunt and roll about for me. Where's Mr. Belford? -But I shall tire him out, cries he-yet beg of him to step to me-yet don't-yet do; were once the doubting and changeful orders he gave: And they called me accordingly.
But, alas! What could Belford do for him? Belford, who had been but too often the companion of his guilty hours, who wants mercy as much as he does; and is unable to promise it to himself, tho' 'tis all he can bid his poor friend rely upon!
What miscreants are we! What figures shall we make in these terrible hours!
If Miss Harlowe's glorious Example, on one hand, and the terrors of This poor man's on the other, affect me not, I must be abandoned to perdition; as I fear thou wilt be, if thou benefittest not thyself from both.
Among the consolatory things I urged, when I was called up the last time on Sunday-night, I told him, That he must not absolutely give himself up to despair: That many of the apprehensions he was under, were such as the best men must have, on the dreadful uncertainty of what was to succeed to this life. 'Tis well observed, said I, by a poetical divine, who was an excellent christian, That
Death could not a more sad retinue find,
Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind.
About eight o'clock yesterday (Monday) morning, I found him a little calmer. He asked me, who was the author of the two lines I had repeated to him; and made me speak them over again. A sad retinue, indeed, said the poor man! And then expressing his hopelessness of life, and his terrors at the thoughts of dying; and drawing from thence terrible conclusions with regard to his future state, There is, said I, such a natural aversion to death in human nature, that you are not to imagine, that you, my dear Belton, are singular in the fear of it, and in the apprehensions that fill the thoughtful mind upon its approach; but you ought, as much as possible, to separate those natural fears, which all men must have on so solemn an occasion, from those particular ones, which your justly-apprehended unfitness fills you with. Lord Roscommon, in his Prospect of Death, which I dipped into last night from a collection in your closet, and which I put into my pocket, says, (and turning to the place)
Merely to die, no man of reason fears;
For certainly we must,
As we are born, return to dust;
'Tis the last point of many ling'ring years:
But whither then we go,
Whither we fain would know;
But human understanding cannot shew.
This makes us tremble-
My Lord Roscommon, therefore, proceeded I, had such apprehensions of this dark state as you have: And the excellent divine I hinted at last night, who had very little else but human frailties to reproach himself with, and whose Miscellanies fell into my hands among my uncle's books, in my attendance upon him in his last hours, says,
It must be done, my soul: But 'tis a strange,
A dismal and mysterious change,
When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay,
And to an unknown-somewhere-wing away;
When Time shall be Eternity, and thou
Shalt be-thou knowest not what-and live-thou know'st not how!
Amazing state! no wonder that we dread
To think of death, or view the dead;
Thou're all wrapt up in clouds, as if to thee
Our very knowlege had antipathy.
Then follows, what I repeated,
Death could not a more sad retinue find,
Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind.
Alas! my dear Belford, (inferr'd the unhappy deep-thinker) what poor creatures does this convince me we mortals are at best! -But what then must be the case of such a profligate as I, who, by a past wicked life, have added force to these natural terrors? If death be so repugnant a thing to human nature, that good men will be startled at it, what must it be to one who has lived a life of sense and appetite; nor ever reflected upon the end which I now am within view of?
What could I say to an inference so fairly drawn? Mercy! mercy! unbounded mercy! was still my plea, tho' his repeated opposition of justice to it, in a manner silenced it: And what would I have given to have had rise to my mind, one good, one eminently good action, to have remembered him of, in order to combat his fears with it?
I believe, Lovelace, I shall tire thee, and that more with the subject of my letter, than even with the length of it. But, really, I think thy spirits are so offensively up, since thy recovery, that I ought, as the melancholy subjects offer, to endeavour by them to reduce thee to the standard of humanity. And then thou canst not but be curious to know every thing that concerns the poor man, for whom thou hast always expressed a great regard. I will therefore proceed as I have begun: If thou likest not to read it now, lay it by, if thou wilt, till the like circumstances befal thee, till like reflections from those circumstances seize thee; and then take it up, and compare the two cases together.
At his earnest request, I sat up with him last night; and, poor man! it is impossible to tell thee, how easy and safe he thought himself in my company, for the first part of the night: A drowning man will catch at a straw, the Proverb well says: And a straw was I, with respect to any real help I could give him. He often awaked in terrors, and once calling out for me, Dear Belford, said he, Where are you! -Oh! There you are! -Give me your friendly hand! -Then grasping it, and putting his clammy, half-cold lips to it-How kind! I fear every thing when you are absent! But the presence of a friend, a sympathizing friend-Oh! how comfortable!-
But about four in the morning, he frighted me much: He waked with three terrible groans; and endeavoured to speak, but could not presently-and when he did,- Jack, Jack, Jack, five or six times repeated he as quick as thought, now, now, now, save me, save me, save me-I am going,-going indeed!
I threw my arms about him, and raised him upon his pillow, as he was sinking (as if to hide himself) in the bed-cloaths-And staring wildly, Where am I! said he, a little recovering. Did you not see him! turning his head this way and that; horror in his countenance; Did you not see him?
See who! See what, my dear Belton!
O lay me upon the bed again, cry'd he! -Let me not die upon the floor! Lay me down gently! And stand by me! Leave me not! All, all will soon be over!
You are already, my dear Belton, upon the bed. You have not been upon the floor. -This is a strong delirium; you are faint for want of refreshment; (for he had refused several times to take any thing) Let me persuade you to take some of this cordial julep. I will leave you, if you will not oblige me.
He then readily took it; but said he could have sworn that Tom Metcalfe had been in the room, and had drawn him out of bed by the throat, upbraiding him with the injuries he had first done his sister, and then him, in the duel to which he owed that fever which cost him his life.
Thou knowest the story, Lovelace, too well, to need my repeating it: But mercy on us, if in these terrible moments all the evils we do, rise to our affrighted imaginations! If so, what shocking scenes have I, but still more hast thou, to go through, if, as the noble poet says,
If, any sense at that sad time remains.
The doctor ordered him an opiate, this morning early, which operated so well, that he dosed and slept several hours more quietly than he had done for the two past days and nights, tho' he had sleeping draughts given him before. But it is more and more evident every hour, that nature is almost worn out in him.
Mowbray, quite tired with this house of mourning, intends to set out in the morning to find you. He was not a little rejoiced to hear you were in town; I believe to have a pretence to leave us.
He has just taken leave of his poor friend, intending to go away early: An everlasting leave, I may venture to say; for I think he will hardly live till to-morrow night.
I believe the poor man would not have been sorry had he left him when I arrived; for 'tis a shocking creature, and enjoys too strong health to know how to pity the sick. Then (to borrow an observation from thee) he has, by nature, strong bodily organs, which those of his soul are not likely to whet out; and he, as well as the wicked friend he is going to, may last a great while from the strength of their constitutions, tho' so greatly different in their talents; if neither the sword nor the halter interpose.
I must repeat, That I cannot but be very uneasy for the poor lady, whom thou so cruelly persecutest; and that I do not think thou hast kept thy honour with me. I was apprehensive, indeed, that thou wouldst attempt to see her, as soon as thou gottest well enough to come up; and I told her as much, making use of it as an argument to prepare her for thy visit, and to induce her to stand it. But she could not, it is plain, bear the shock of it; and, indeed, she told me, that she would not see thee, tho' but for one half hour, for the world.
Could she have prevailed upon herself, I know that the sight of her would have been as affecting to thee, as thy visit could have been to her; when thou hadst seen to what a lovely skeleton (for she is really lovely still, nor can she, with such a form and features, be otherwise) thou hast, in a few weeks, reduced one of the most charming women in the world; and that in the full bloom of her youth and beauty.
Mowbray undertakes to carry This, that he may be more welcome to you, he says. Were it to be sent unsealed, the characters we write in would be Hebrew to the dunce. I desire you to return it; and I'll give you a copy of it upon demand; for I intend to keep it by me, as a guard against the infection of thy company which might otherwise, perhaps, some time hence, be apt to weaken the impressions I always desire to have of the awful scene before me. God convert us both!

### v7 LETTER II.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wednesday-morn, 11 o'Clock.
I believe no man has two such servants as I have. Because I treat them with kindness, and do not lord it over my inferiors, and damn and curse them by looks and words like Mowbray; or beat their teeth out like Lovelace; but cry, Pr'ythee, Harry, do this, and Pr'ythee, Jonathan, do that, the fellows pursue their own devices, and regard nothing I say, but what falls in with these. Here, this vile Harry, who might have brought your letter of yesterday in good time, came not in with it till past eleven last night (drunk, I suppose); and concluding that I was in bed, as he pretends, (because he was told I sat up the preceding night) brought it not to me; and having over slept himself, just as I had sealed up my letter, in comes the villain with the forgotten one, shaking his ears, and looking as if he himself did not believe the excuses he was going to make. I questioned him about it, and heard his pitiful pleas, and tho' I never think it becomes a gentleman to treat people insolently who by their stations are humbled beneath his feet, yet could I not forbear to Lovelace and Mowbray-him, most cordially.
And this detaining Mowbray, (who was ready to set out to thee before) while I write a few lines upon it, the fierce fellow, who is impatient to exchange the company of a dying Belton, for that of a too lively Lovelace, affixed a supplement of curses upon the staring fellow that was larger than my book- Nor did I offer to take off the Bear from such a Mongrel, since he deserved not of me, on this occasion, the protection which every master owes to a good servant.
He has not done cursing him yet; for stalking about the court-yard with his boots on, (the poor fellow dressing his horse, and unable to get from him) he is at him without mercy; and I will heighten his impatience (since being just under the window where I am writing, he will not let me attend to my pen) by telling thee, how he fills my ears as well as the fellow's, with his-Hay, Sir! And G-d d-n ye, Sir! And were you my servant, ye dog ye! And must I stay here till the mid-day sun scorches me to a parchment, for such a mangey dog's drunken neglect? -Ye lye, Sirrah! Ye lye, I tell you-(I hear the fellow's voice in an humble excusatory tone, tho' not articulately) Ye lye, ye dog! -I'd a good mind to thrust my whip down your drunken throat: Damn me, if I would not flay the skin from the back of such a rascal, if thou wert mine, and have dog's-skin gloves made of it, for thy brother scoundrels to wear in remembrance of thy abuses of such a master.
The poor horse suffers for this, I doubt not; for, What now! and, Stand still, and be damn'd to ye, cries the fellow, with a kick, I suppose, which he better deserves himself. For these varlets, where they can, are Mowbrays and Lovelaces to man or beast; and, not daring to answer him, is slaying the poor horse.
I hear the fellow is just escaped, the horse (better curryed than ordinary, I suppose, in half the usual time) by his clanking shoes, and Mowbray's silence, letting me know, that I may now write on: And so, I will tell thee, that, in the first place, (little as I, as well as you, regard dreams,) I would have thee lay thine to heart; for I could give thee such an interpretation of it, as would shock thee, perhaps: and if thou asketh me for it, I will.
Mowbray calls to me from the court-yard, That 'tis a cursed hot day, and he shall be fry'd by riding in the noon of it: And, that poor Belton longs to see me. So I will only add, my earnest desire, that thou wilt give over all thoughts of seeing the lady, if, when this comes to thy hand, thou hast not seen her: And, that it would be kind, if thoud'st come, and, for the last time thou wilt ever see thy poor friend, share my concern for him; and, in him, see what, in a little time, will be thy fate and mine, and That of Mowbray, Tourville, and the rest of us: -For what are ten, fifteen, twenty, or thirty years, to look back to: In which period forward we shall all, perhaps, be mingled with the dust we sprung from?

### v7 LETTER III.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wednesday-Morn, Aug. 23.
All alive, dear Jack! and in ecstasy! Likely to be once more a happy man! For I have received a letter from my beloved Miss Harlowe; in consequence, I suppose, of advices that I mentioned in my last from her sister. And I am setting out for Berks directly, to shew the contents to my Lord M. and to receive the congratulations of all my kindred upon it.
I went, last night, as I intended, to Smith's: But the dear creature was not returned at near ten o'clock. And, lighting upon Tourville, I took him home with me, and made him sing me out of my megrims. I went to bed tolerably easy at two; had bright and pleasant dreams, not such a frightful one as that I gave thee an account of: And at eight this morning, as I was dressing, to be in readiness against Will came back, whom I had sent to enquire after his lady's return, I had this letter brought me by a chairman.
To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Tuesday night, 11 o'clock. (Aug. 22.)
SIR,
I have good news to tell you. I am setting out with all diligence for my father's house. I am bid to hope that he will receive his poor penitent with a goodness peculiar to himself; for I am overjoyed with the assurance of a thorough reconciliation, thro' the interposition of a dear blessed friend, whom I always loved and honoured I am so taken up with my preparation for this joyful and long-wished-for journey, that I cannot spare one moment for any other business, having several matters of the last importance to settle first. So, pray, Sir, don't disturb or interrupt me-I beseech you don't. -You may, in time, possibly, see me at my father's; at least, if it be not your own fault.
I will write a letter, which shall be sent you when I am got thither and received: Till when, I am, &c.
Clarissa Harlowe.
I dispatched instantly a letter to the dear creature, assuring her, with the most thankful joy, "That I would directly set out for Berks, and wait the issue of the happy reconciliation, and the charming hopes she had filled me with. I poured out upon her a thousand blessings. I declared, that it should be the study of my whole life to merit such transcendent goodness. And that there was nothing which her father or friends should require at my hands, that I would not for her sake comply with, in order to promote and complete so desirable a reconciliation."
I hurried it away, without taking a copy of it; and I have ordered the chariot-and-six to be got ready; and, hey for M. Hall! -Let me but know how Belton does. I hope a letter from thee is on the road. And if the poor fellow can spare thee, make haste, I advise thee, to attend this truly divine lady, or else thou mayest not see her of months perhaps; at least, not while she is Miss Harlowe. And favour me with one letter before she sets out, if possible, confirming to me, and accounting for, this generous change.
But what accounting for it is necessary? The dear creature cannot receive consolation herself, but she must communicate it to others. How noble! -She would not see me in her adversity: But no sooner does the sun of prosperity begin to shine upon her, than she forgives me.
I know to whose mediation all this is owing. It is to Col. Morden's. She always, as she says, lov'd and honour'd him: And he loved her above all his relations.
I shall now be convinced that there is something in dreams. The ceiling opening is the reconciliation in view. The bright form, lifting her up through it to another ceiling stuck round with golden Cherubims and Seraphims, indicates the charming little boys and girls, that will be the fruits of this happy reconciliation. The welcomes, thrice repeated, are those of her family, now no more to be deemed implacable. Yet are they a family too, that my soul cannot mingle with.
But then what is my tumbling over and over, thro' the floor, into a frightful hole (descending as she ascends)? Ho! only This; it alludes to my disrelish to matrimony: Which is a bottomless pit, a gulph, and I know not what. And I suppose, had I not awoke (in such a plaguy fright) I had been soused into some river at the bottom of the hole, and then been carried (mundified or purified from my past iniquities) by the same bright form (waiting for me upon the mossy banks) to my beloved girl; and we should have gone on, cherubiming of it, and carolling, to the end of the chapter.
But what are the black sweeping mantles and robes of my Lord M. thrown over my face, and what are those of the Ladies? Oh, Jack! I have these too: They indicate nothing in the world but that my Lord will be so good as to die, and leave me all he has. So, rest to thy good natured soul, honest Lord M.
Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty Lawrance, will also die, and leave me swindging legacies.
Miss Charlotte and her sister-what will become of them? -O! they will be in mourning of course for their uncle and aunts-That's right!
As to Morden's flashing through the window, and crying, Die, Lovelace, and be damn'd, if thou wilt not repair my cousin's wrongs! That is only, that he would have sent me a challenge, had I not been disposed to do the lady justice.
All I dislike is This part of the dream: For, even in a dream, I would not be thought to be threatened into any measure, tho' I liked it ever so well.
And so much for my prophetic dream.
Dear charming creature! What a meeting will there be between her and her father and mother and uncles! What transports, what pleasure, will this happy, long-wished for reconciliation give her dutiful heart! And indeed, now, methinks, I am glad she is so dutiful to them; for her duty to parents is a conviction to me, that she will be as dutiful to her husband: Since duty upon principle is an uniform thing.
Why pr'ythee, now, Jack, I have not been so much to blame, as thou thinkest: For had it not been for me, who have led her into so much distress, she could neither have received nor given the joy that will now overwhelm them all. So here rises great and durable good out of temporary evil!
I knew they loved her, (the pride and glory of their family) too well to hold out long!
I wish I could have seen Arabella's letter. She has always been so much eclipsed by her sister, that, I dare say, she has signified this reconciliation to her with intermingled phlegm and wormwood; and her invitation most certainly runs all in the rock-water style.
I shall long to see the promised letter too, when she is got thither, which I hope will give an account of the reception she will meet with.
There is a solemnity, however, I think, in the style of her letter, which pleases and affects me at the same time. But as it is evident she loves me still, and hopes soon to see me at her father's; she could not help being a little solemn, and half-ashamed, (dear blushing pretty rogue!) to own her love, after my usage of her.
And then her subscription: Till when, I am, Clarissa Harlowe: As much as to say, after that, I shall be, if not your own fault, Clarissa Lovelace!
O my best love! My ever generous and adorable creature! How much does this thy forgiving goodness exalt us both! -I, for the occasion given thee! Thou for turning it so gloriously to thy advantage, and to the honour of both!
And if, my beloved creature, you will but connive at the imperfections of your adorer, and not play the wife upon me: If, while the charms of Novelty have their force with me, I should happen to be drawn aside by the intricacies of intrigue, and of plots that my soul loves to form, and pursue; and if thou wilt not be open-eyed to the follies of my youth, (a transitory state!) every excursion shall serve but the more to endear thee to me, till in time, and in a very little time too, I shall get above sense; and then, charmed by thy soul-attracting converse, and brought to despise my former courses, what I now, at distance, consider as a painful duty, will be my joyful choice, and all my delight will centre in thee!
Mowbray is just arrived with thy letters. I therefore close my agreeable subject, to attend to one, which I doubt will be very shocking. I have engaged the rough varlet to bear me company in the morning to Berks; where I shall file off the rust he has contracted in his attendance upon the poor fellow.
He tells me, that between the dying Belton, and the preaching Belford, he shan't be his own man these three days. And says, that thou addest to the unhappy fellow's weakness, instead of giving him courage to help him to bear his destiny.
I am sorry he takes the unavoidable lot so heavily. But he has been long ill; and sickness enervates the mind, as well as the body; as he himself very significantly observed to thee.

### v7 LETTER IV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wedn. Evening.
I have been reading thy shocking letter. -Poor Belton! what a multitude of lively hours have we passed together! 'Twas a fearless, chearful fellow! - Who'd ha' thought all should end in such dejected whimpering and terror?
But, why didst thou not comfort the poor man about the rencounter between him and that poltroon Metcalfe? He acted in that affair like a man of true honour, and as I should have acted in the same circumstances. Tell him I say so, and what happened, he could neither help nor foresee.
Some people are as sensible of a scratch from a pin's point, as others from a push of a sword: And who can say any thing for the sensibility of such fellows? Metcalfe would resent for his sister, when his sister resented not for herself. Had she demanded her brother's protection and resentment, that would have been another man's matter, as Lord M. phrases it: But she herself thought her brother a coxcomb to busy himself, undesired, in her affairs, and wished for nothing but to be provided for decently, and privately, in her lying-in; and was willing to take the chance of Maintenon-ing his conscience in her favour, and getting him to marry, when the little stranger came; for she knew what an easy, good-natured fellow he was. And, indeed, if she had prevailed upon him, it might have been happy for both; as then he would not have fallen in with his cursed Thomasin. But truly this officious brother of hers must interpose. This made a trifling affair important: And what was the issue? Metcalfe challenged; Belton met him; disarmed him; gave him his life: But the fellow, more sensible in his skin than in his head, having received a scratch, he was frighted; it gave him first a puke, then a fever, and then he died. That was all. And how could Belton help that? -But sickness, a long tedious sickness, will make a bugbear of any thing to a languishing heart, I see that. And so far was Mowbray apropos in the verses from Nat. Lee; which thou hast transcribed.
Merely to die, no man of reason fears; is a mistake, say thou, or say thy author, what ye will. And thy solemn parading about the natural repugnance between life and death, is a proof that it is.
Let me tell thee, Jack, that so much am I pleased with this world, in the main; tho' in some points too, the world, (to make a person of it,) has been a rascal to me; so delighted am I with the joys of youth; with my worldly prospects as to fortune; and now, newly, with the charming hopes given me by dear, thrice dear, and forever dear Miss Harlowe; that were I even sure that nothing bad would come hereafter, I should be very loth, (very much afraid if thou wilt have it so) to lay down my life and them together; and yet upon a call of honour, no man fears death less than myself.
But I have not either inclination or leisure to weigh thy leaden arguments, except in the pig, or, as thou wouldst say, in the lump.
If I return thy letters, let me have them again some time hence, that is to say, when I am married, or when poor Belton is half-forgotten; or when time has inrolled the honest fellow among those whom we have so long lost, that we may remember them with more pleasure than pain; and then I may give them a serious perusal, and enter with thee as deeply as thou wilt into the subject.
When I am married, said I? -What a sound has that!
I must wait with patience for a sight of this charming creature, till she is at her father's: And yet, as the but blossoming beauty, as thou tellest me, is reduced to a shadow, I should have been exceedingly delighted to see her now, and every day till the happy one; that I might have the pleasure of beholding how sweetly, hour by hour, she will rise to her pristine glories, by means of that state of ease and contentment, which will take place of the stormy past, upon her reconciliation with her friends, and our happy nuptials.

### v7 LETTER V.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Well, but now my heart is a little at ease, I will condescend to take some brief notice of some other passages in thy letters.
I find, I am to thank thee, that the dear creature has avoided my visit. Things are now in so good a train, that I must forgive thee; else, shouldest thou have heard more of this new instance of disloyalty to thy general.
Thou art continually giving thyself high praise, by way of opposition, as I may say, to others; gently and artfully blaming thyself, for qualities, thou wouldest at the same time have to be thought, and which generally are thought, praise-worthy.
Thus, in the airs thou assumest about thy servants, thou wouldst pass for a mighty humane mortal, and that at the expence of Mowbray and me; whom thou representest as kings and emperors to our menials. Yet art thou always unhappy in thy attempts of this kind, and never canst make us, who know thee, believe That to be a virtue in thee, which is but the effect of constitutional phlegm and absurdity.
Knowest thou not, that some men have a native dignity in their manner, that makes them more regarded by a look, than either thou canst be in thy low style, or Mowbray in his high?
I am fit to be a prince, I can tell thee; for I reward well, and I punish seasonably and properly; and I am generally as well served as any man.
The art of governing these under-bred varlets, lies more in the dignity of looks than in words, and thou art a sorry fellow, to think humanity consists in acting by thy servants, as men must act who are not able to pay them their wages; or had made them masters of secrets, which if divulged, would lay them at the mercy of such wretches.
Now to me, who never did any thing I was ashamed to own, and who have more ingenuity than ever man had; who can call a villainy by its right name, tho' practised by myself, and (by my own readiness to reproach myself) anticipate all reproach from others; who am not such a hypocrite, as to wish the world to think me other or better than I am: It is my part, to look a servant into his duty, if I can: Nor will I keep one, who knows not how to take me by a nod, or a wink; and who, when I smile, shall not be all transport; when I frown, all terror. If, indeed, I am out of the way a little, I always take care to reward the varlets for bearing patiently my displeasure. But this I hardly ever am, but when a fellow is egregiously stupid in any plain points of duty, or will be wiser than his master; and when he shall tell me, that he thought acting contrary to my orders, was the way to serve me best.
One time or other, I will enter the lists with thee upon thy conduct and mine to servants; and I will convince thee, that what thou wouldst have pass for humanity, if it be indiscriminately practised to all tempers, will perpetually subject thee to the evils thou complainest of; and justly too; and that he only is fit to be a master of servants, who can command their attention as much by a nod, as if he were to pr'ythee a fellow to do his duty, on one hand, or to talk of flaying, and horsewhipping, like Mowbray, on the other: For the servant who being used to expect thy creeping style, will always be master of his master; and he who deserves to be treated as the other, is not fit to be any man's servant; nor would I keep such a fellow to rub my horse's heels.
I shall be the readier to enter the lists with thee upon this argument, because I have presumption enough to think, that we have not in any of our dramatic poets, that I can at present call to mind, one character of a servant of either sex, that is justly hit off. So absurdly wise some, and so sottishly foolish others; and both sometimes in the same person. Foils drawn from the lees or dregs of the people to set off the characters of their masters and mistresses; nay, sometimes, which is still more absurd, introduced with more wit than the poet has to bestow upon their principals. -Mere flints and steels to strike fire with-Or, to vary the metaphor, to serve for whetstones to wit, which otherwise could not be made apparent: -Or for engines to be made use of like the machinery of the ancient poets (or the still more unnatural Soliloquy) to help on a sorry plot, or to bring about a necessary eclaircissement, to save the poet the trouble of thinking deeply for a better way to wind up his bottoms.
Of this I am persuaded, (whatever my practice be to my own servants) that thou wilt be benefited by my theory, when we come to controvert the point. For then I shall convince thee, that the dramatic as well as natural characteristics of a good servant, ought to be fidelity, common sense, chearful obedience, and silent respect: That wit in his station, except to his companions, would be sawciness: That he should never presume to give his advice: That if he ventured to expostulate upon any unreasonable command, or such a one as appeared to him to be so, he should do it with humility and respect, and take a proper season for it. But such lessons do most of the dramatic performances I have seen give, where servants are introduced as characters essential to the play, or to act very significant or long parts in it (which, of itself, I think a fault); such lessons, I say, do they give to the footmens gallery, that I have not wondered we have so few modest or good men-servants among those who often attend their masters or mistresses to plays. Then how miserably evident must that poet's conscious want of genius be, who can stoop to raise or give force to a clap by the indiscriminative roar of the party-coloured gallery!
But this subject I will suspend to a better opportunity; that is to say, to the happy one, when my nuptials with my Clarissa will oblige me to increase the number of my servants, and of consequence to enter more nicely into their qualifications.
Although I have the highest opinion that man can have, of the generosity of my dear Miss Harlowe, yet I cannot for the heart of me account for this agreeable change in her temper, but one way. Faith and troth, Belford, I verily believe, laying all circumstances together, that the dear creature unexpectedly finds herself in the way I have so ardently wished her to be in; and that this makes her, at last, incline to favour me, that she may set the better face upon her gestation, when at her father's.
If this be the case, all her failing away, and her fainting fits, are charmingly accounted for. Nor is it surprising, that such a sweet novice in these matters should not know to what to attribute her frequent indispositions. If this should be the case, how shall I laugh at thee! and (when I am sure of her) at the dear novice herself, that all her grievous distresses shall end in a man-child: which I shall love better than all the Cherubims and Seraphims that may come after; though there were to be as many of them as I beheld in my dream; in which a vast expanse of ceiling was stuck as full of them as it could hold.
I shall be afraid to open thy next, lest it bring me the account of poor Belton's death. Yet, as there are no hopes of his recovery-But what should I say, unless the poor man were better fitted-But thy heavy sermon shall not affect me too much neither.
I inclose thy papers: And do thou transcribe them for me, or return them; for, there are some things in them, which, at a proper season, a mortal man should not avoid attending to: And thou seemest to have entered deeply into the shocking subject-But here I will end, lest I grow too serious.
Thy servant called here about an hour ago, to know if I had any commands: I therefore hope that thou wilt have this early in the morning. And if thou canst let me hear from thee, do. I'll stretch an hour or two in expectation of it. Yet I must be at Lord M.'s to-morrow night, if possible, though ever so late.
Thy fellow tells me the poor man is much as he was when Mowbray left him.
Wouldst thou think, that this varlet Mowbray is sorry, that I am so near being happy with Miss Harlowe. And, 'egad, Jack, I know not what to say to it, now the fruit seems to be within my reach. But, let what will come, I'll stand to't: For I find I can't live without her.

### v7 LETTER VI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wedn. Three o'clock.
I will proceed where I left off in my last.
As soon as I had seen Mowbray mounted, I went to attend upon poor Belton, whom I found in dreadful agonies, in which he awoke, as he generally does.
The doctor came in presently after; and I was concerned at the scene that passed between them.
It opened with the dying man's asking him, with melancholy earnestness, If nothing, if nothing at all, could be done for him?
The doctor shook his head, and told him, he doubted not.
I cannot die, said the poor man; I cannot think of dying. I am very desirous of living a little longer, if I could but be free from these horrible pains in my stomach and head. Can you give me nothing to make me pass one week, but one week, in tolerable ease, that I may die like a man? -If I must die!
But, doctor, I am yet a young man: in the prime of my years-Youth is a good subject for a physician to work upon: Can you do nothing, nothing at all for me, doctor?
Alas, Sir, replied his physician, you have been long in a bad way. I fear, I fear, nothing in physic can help you.
He was then out of all patience: What, then, is your art, Sir? -I have been a passive machine for a whole twelvemonth, to be wrought upon at the pleasure of you people of the faculty. I verily believe, had I not taken such doses of nasty stuff, I had been now a well man- But who the plague would regard Physicians, whose art is to cheat us with hopes, while they help to destroy us? And who, not one of you, know any thing but by guess?
Sir, continued he fiercely, (and with more strength of voice, and coherence, than he had shewn for several hours before) if you give me over, I give you over-The only honest and certain part of the art of healing is Surgery. A good Surgeon is worth a thousand of you. I have been in Surgeon's hands often, and have always found reason to depend upon their skill: But your art, Sir, what is it?- but to dawb, dawb, dawb; load, load, load; plaister, plaister, plaister; till ye utterly destroy the appetite first, and the constitution afterwards, which you are called-in to help. I had a companion once-My dear Belford, thou knewest honest Blomer-as pretty a physician he would have made, as any in England, had he kept himself from excess in wine and women; and he always used to say, there was nothing at all but pick-pocket parade in the Physicians art; and that the best guesser was the best physician; and I used to believe him too: And yet, fond of life, and fearful of death, what do we do, when we are taken ill, but call ye in? And what do ye do, when called in, but nurse our distempers, till from pigmies you make giants of them? -And then ye come creeping with solemn faces, when ye are ashamed to prescribe, or when the stomach won't bear its natural food, by reason of your poisonous potions, Alas! I am afraid physic can do no more for him! -Nor need it, when it has brought to the brink of the grave, the poor wretch who placed all his reliance in your cursed slops, and the flattering hopes you gave him.
The doctor was out of countenance; but said, If we could make mortal men immortal, and would not, all this might be just.
I blamed the poor man; yet excused him to the physician. To die, dear doctor, when, like my poor friend, we are so desirous of life, is a melancholy thing. We are apt to hope too much, not considering that the seeds of death are sown in us when we begin to live, and grow up, till, like rampant weeds, they choak the tender flower of life; which declines in us, as those weeds flourish. We ought therefore to begin early to study what our constitutions will bear, in order to root out, by temperance, the weeds which the soil is most apt to produce; or, at least, to keep them down as they rise; and not, when the flower or plant is withered at the root, and the weed in its full vigour, expect that the medical art will restore the one, or destroy the other; when that other, as I hinted, has been rooting itself in the habit from the time of our birth.
This speech, Bob, thou wilt call a prettiness; or a White Bear;-but the allegory is just; and thou hast not quite cured me of the Metaphorical.
Very true, said the doctor, you have brought a good metaphor to illustrate the thing. I am sorry I can do nothing, for the gentleman; and can only recommend patience, and a better frame of mind.
Well, Sir, said the poor angry man, vexed at the doctor, but more at death; you will perhaps recommend the next in succession to the physician, when he can do no more; and, I suppose, will send your brother to pray by me for those virtues which you wish me.
It seems the physician's brother is a clergyman in the neighbourhood.
I was greatly concerned to see the gentleman thus treated; and so I told poor Belton when he was gone: But he continued impatient, and would not be denied, he said, the liberty of talking to a man, who had taken so many guineas of him for doing nothing, or worse than nothing, and never declined one, though he knew all the time he could do him no good.
It seems, the gentleman, though rich, is noted for being greedy after sees; and poor Belton went on, raving at the extravagant fees of English physicians, compared with those of the most eminent foreign ones. But, poor man! he, like the Turks, who judge of a general by his success, (out of patience to think he must die) would have worshipped the doctor, and not grudged three times the sum, could he have given him hopes of recovery.
But nevertheless, I must needs say, that gentlemen of the faculty should be more moderate in their fees, or take more pains to deserve them: for, generally, they only come into a room, feel the sick man's pulse, ask the nurse a few questions, inspect the patient's tongue, and perhaps his water; then sit down, look plaguy wise; and write. The golden fee finds the ready hand, and they hurry away, as if the sick man's room were infectious. So to the next they troll, and to the next, if men of great practice; valuing themselves upon the number of visits they make in a morning, and the little time they make them in. They go to dinner, and unload their pockets; and sally out again to refill them. And thus, in a little time, they raise vast estates; for, as Ratcliffe said, when first told of a great loss which befel him, It was only going up and down a hundred pair of stairs to fetch it up.
Mrs. Sambre (Belton's sister) had several times proposed to him a minister to pray by him; but the poor man could not, he said, bear the thoughts of one; for that he should certainly die in an hour or two after: And he was willing to hope still, against all probability, that he might recover; and was often asking his sister, if she had not seen people as bad as he was, who, almost to a miracle, when every body gave them over, had got up again?
She, shaking her head, told him, she had: But, once saying, that their disorders were of an acute kind, and such as had a crisis in them, he called her small-hopes, and Job's comforter; and bid her say nothing, if she could not say more to the purpose, and what was fitter for a sick man to hear. And yet, poor fellow! he has no hopes himself, as is plain by his desponding terrors; one of which he fell into, and a very dreadful one, soon after the doctor went.
Wednesday, 9 o'clock at night.
The poor man has been in convulsions, terrible convulsions! for an hour past. O Lord! Lovelace, death is a shocking thing! By my faith, it is! -I wish thou wert present on this occasion. It is not merely the concern a man has for his friend; but, as death is the common lot, we see, in his agonies, how it will be one day with ourselves. I am all over as if cold water were poured down my back, or as if I had a strong ague fit upon me. I was obliged to come away. And I write, hardly knowing what. -I wish thou wert here.
Though I left him, because I could stay no longer, I can't be easy by myself, but must go to him again.
Eleven o'clock.
Poor Belton! -Drawing on apace! Yet was he sensible when I went in: Too sensible, poor man! He has something upon his mind to reveal, he tells me, that is the worst action of his life; worse than ever you or I knew of him, he says. It must be then very bad!
He ordered every body out; but was seized with another convulsion-fit, before he could reveal it: And in it he lies struggling between life and death. But I'll go in again.
One o'clock in the morning.
All now must soon be over with him: Poor! poor fellow! He has given me some hints of what he wanted to say; but all incoherent, interrupted by dying hiccoughs and convulsions.
Bad enough it must be, heaven knows! by what I can gather. Alas! Lovelace, I fear, I fear, he came too soon into his uncle's estate.
If a man were to live always, he might have some temptation to do base things, in order to procure to himself, as it would then be, everlasting ease, plenty or affluence: But, for the sake of ten, twenty, thirty years of poor life, to be a villain-can that be worth while? with a conscience stinging him all the time too! And when he comes to wind up all, such agonizing reflections upon his past guilt! All then appearing as nothing! What he most valued, most disgustful! and not one thing to think of, as the poor fellow says twenty and twenty times over, but what is attended with anguish and reproach!
To hear the poor man wish he had never been born! To hear him pray to be nothing after death! Good God! how shocking!
By his incoherent hints, I am afraid 'tis very bad with him. No pardon, no mercy, he repeats, can lie for him!
I hope I shall make a proper use of this lesson. Laugh at me if thou wilt, but never, never more, will I take the liberties I have taken; but whenever I am tempted, will think of Belton's dying agonies, and what my own may be.
Thursday, three in the morning.
He is now at the last gasp-Rattles in the throat: Has a new convulsion every minute almost: What horror is he in! His eyes look like breath-stained glass! They roll ghastly no more; are quite set: His face distorted, and drawn out, by his sinking jaws, and erected staring eyebrows, with his lengthened furrowed forehead, to double its usual length, as it seems. It is not, it cannot be, the face of Belton, thy Belton, and my Belton, whom we have beheld with so much delight over the social bottle, comparing notes, that one day may be brought against us, and make us groan, as they very lately did him - that is to say, while he had strength to groan; for now his voice is not to be heard; all inward, lost; not so much as speaking by his eyes: Yet, strange! how can it be? the bed rocking under him like a cradle!
For o'clock.
Alas! he's gone! That groan, that dreadful groan,
Was the last farewel of the parting mind!
The struggling soul has bid a long adieu
To its late mansion-Fled!-Ah! whither fled?
Now is all indeed over! -Poor, poor Belton! By this time thou knowest if thy crimes were above the size of God's mercies! Now are every one's cares and attendance at an end! Now do we, thy friends, poor Belton! know the worst of thee, as to this life! Thou art released from insufferable tortures, both of body and mind! May those tortures, and thy repentance, expiate for thy offences, and mayst thou be happy to all eternity!
We are told, that God desires not the death, the spiritual death, of a sinner: And 'tis certain, that thou didst deeply repent! I hope therefore, as thou wert not cut off in the midst of thy sins by the sword of injured friendship, which more than once thou hadst braved, (the dreadfullest of all deaths, next to Suicide, because it gives no opportunity for repentance) that this is a merciful earnest that thy penitence is accepted; and that thy long illness, and dreadful agonies in the last stages of it, will be thy only punishment.
I wish indeed, I heartily wish, we could have seen one ray of comfort darting in upon his benighted mind, before he departed. But all, alas! to the very last gasp, was horror and confusion. And my only fear arises from this, That, till within the four last days of his life, he could not be brought to think he should die, though in a visible decline for months; and, in that presumption, was too little inclined to set about a serious preparation for a journey, which he hoped he should not be obliged to take; and when he began to apprehend that he could not put it off, his impatience, and terror, and apprehension, shewed too little of that reliance and resignation, which afford the most comfortable reflections to the friends of the dying as well as to the dying themselves.
But we must leave poor Belton to that mercy, which we have all so much need of; and, for my own part, do you, Lovelace, and the rest of the fraternity, as ye will) I am resolved, I will endeavour to begin to repent of my follies, while my health is sound, my intellects untouched, and while it is in my power to make some atonement, as near to restitution as is possible, to those I have wronged or missed. And do ye outwardly, and from a point of false bravery, make as light as ye will of my resolution, as ye are none of ye of the class of abandoned and stupid sots who endeavour to disbelieve the future existence which ye are afraid of, I am sure you will justify me, in your hearts, if not by your practices; and one day you will wish you had joined with me in the same resolution, and will confess there is more good sense in it, than now perhaps you will own.
Seven o'clock, Thursday morning.
You are very earnest, by your last letter (just given me) to hear again from me, before you set out for Berks. I will therefore close with a few words upon the only subject in your letter, which I can at present touch upon, and this is the letter you give me a copy of from the lady.
Want of rest, and the sad scene I have before my eyes, have rendered me altogether incapable of accounting for it in any shape. You are in ecstasies upon it. You have reason to be so, if it be as you think. Nor would I rob you of your joy: But I must say, that I am amazed at it.
Surely Lovelace this surprizing letter cannot be a forgery of thy own, in order to carry on some view, and to impose upon me. Yet by the style of it, it cannot; tho' thou art a perfect Proteus too.
I will not, however, and another word, after I have desired the return of this, and have told you, that I am,
Your true Friend and Well-wisher,
J. Belford.

### v7 LETTER VII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Aug. 24. Thursday morn.
I received thy letter in such good time, by thy fellow's dispatch, that it gives me an opportunity of throwing in a few paragraphs upon it. I read a passage or two of it to Mowbray; and we both agree, that thou art an absolute master of the Lamentable.
Poor Belton! what terrible conflicts were thy last conflicts! -I hope, however, that he is happy: And I have the more hope, because the hardness of his death is likely to be such a warning to thee. If it have the effect thou declarest it shall have, what a world of mischief will it prevent! How much good will it do! How many poor wretches will rejoice at the occasion, (if they know it) however melancholy in itself, which shall bring them in a compensation for injuries they had been forced to sit down contented with? But, Jack, tho' thy uncle's death has made thee a rich fellow, art thou sure, that the making good of such a vow, will not totally bankrupt thee?
Thou sayest I may laugh at thee, if I will. Not I, Jack: I do not take it to be a laughing subject: And I am heartily concerned at the loss we all have in poor Belton: And when I get a little settled, and have leisure to contemplate the vanity of all sublunary things, (a subject that will now-and-then, in my gayest hours, obtrude itself upon me) it is very likely, that I may talk seriously with thee upon these topics; and, if thou hast not got too much the start of me in the repentance thou art entering upon, will go hand-in-hand with thee in it. If thou hast, thou wilt let me just keep thee in my eye; for it is an up-hill work, and I shall see thee, at setting out, at a great distance; but as thou art a much heavier and clumsier fellow than myself, I hope that without much puffing and sweating, only keeping on a good round dogtrot, I shall be able to overtake thee.
Mean time take back thy letter, as thou desirest; I would not have it in my pocket upon any account at present; nor read it once more.
I am going down without seeing my Beloved. I was a hasty fool to write her a letter, promising that I would not come near her, till I saw her at her father's. For as she is now actually at Smith's, and I so near her, one short visit could have done no harm.
I sent Will. two hours ago with my grateful compliments, and to know how she does. How must I adore this charming creature! For I am ready to think my servant a happier fellow than myself, for having been within a pair of stairs and an apartment of her!
Mowbray and I will drop a tear apiece, as we ride along, to the memory of poor Belton: -As we ride along, I say: For we shall have so much joy, when we arrive at Lord M's, and when I communicate to him and my cousins the dear creature's letter, that we shall forget every thing grievous: Since now their family-hopes in my reformation (the point which lies so near their hearts) will all revive; it being an article of their faith, that if I marry, repentance and mortification will follow of course.
Neither Mowbray nor I shall accept of thy verbal invitation to the funeral. We like not these dismal formalities. And as to the respect-that is supposed to be shewn to the memory of a deceased friend in such an attendance, why should we do any thing to reflect upon those who have made it a fashion to leave this parade to people whom they hire for that purpose?
Adieu, and be chearful. Thou canst now do no more for poor Belton, wert thou to howl for him to the end of thy life.

### v7 LETTER VIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Sat. Aug. 26.
On Thursday afternoon I assisted at the opening of poor Belton's will, in which he has left me his sole Executor, and bequeathed me a legacy of 100 guineas; which I shall present to his unfortunate sister, to whom he has not been so kind as I think he ought to have been. He has also left 20l. apiece to Mowbray, Tourville, thyself, and me, for a ring to be worn in remembrance of him.
After I had given some particular orders about the preparations to be made for his funeral, I went to town; but having made it late before I got in on Thursday night, and being fatigued for want of rest several nights before, and low in my spirits, [I could not help it, Lovelace!] I contented myself to send my compliments to the innocent sufferer, to inquire after her health.
My servant saw Mrs. Smith, who told him, she was very glad I was come to town; for that the lady was worse than she had yet been.
It is impossible to account for the contents of her letter to you; or, to reconcile those contents to the facts I have to communicate.
I was at Smith's by seven yesterday (Friday) morning; and found that the lady was just gone in a chair to St. Dunstan's to prayers; she was too ill to get out by six to Covent Garden church; and was forced to be supported to her chair by Mrs. Lovick. They would have persuaded her against going; but she said she knew not but it would be her last opportunity. Mrs. Lovick, dreading that she would be taken worse at church, walked thither before her.
Mrs. Smith told me, she was so ill on Wednesday night, that she had desired to receive the Sacrament; and accordingly it was administred to her, by the parson of the parish: Whom she besought to take all opportunities of assisting her in her solemn Preparation.
This the gentleman promised: And called in the morning to enquire after her health; and was admitted at the first word. He staid with her about half an hour; and when he came down, with his face turned aside, and a faltering accent, 'Mrs. Smith, said he, you have an angel in your house. -I will attend her again in the evening, as she desires, and as often as I think it will be agreeable to her.'
Her increased weakness she attributed to the fatigues she had undergone by your means; and to a letter she had received from her sister, which she answered the same day.
Mrs. Smith told me, that two different persons had called there, one on Thursday morning, one in the evening, to inquire after her state of health; and seemed as if commissioned from her relations for that purpose; but asked not to see her, only were very inquisitive after her visitors, (particularly, it seems, after me: What could they mean by that?) after her way of life, and expences; and one of them inquired after her manner of supporting them; to the latter of which, Mrs. Smith said, she had answered, as the truth was, that she had been obliged to sell some of her cloaths, and was actually about parting with more; at which the inquirist (a grave old farmer-looking man) held up his hands, and said, Good God!-this will be sad, sad news to somebody! I believe I must not mention it. But Mrs. Smith says, she desired he would; let him come from whom he would. He shook his head, and said, if she died, the flower of the world would be gone, and the family she belonged to, would be no more than a common family. I was pleased with the man's expression.
You may be curious to know how she passed her time, when she was obliged to leave her lodging to avoid you.
Mrs. Smith tells me, 'That she was very ill, when she went out on Monday morning, and sighed as if her heart would break as she came down stairs, and as she went through the shop into the coach, her nurse with her, as you had informed me before: That she ordered the coachman (whom she hired for the day) to drive any-whither, so it was into the air: He accordingly drove her to Hamstead, and thence to Highgate. There she alighted at the Bowling-green House, extremely ill, and having breakfasted, ordered the coachman to drive very slowly, any-where. He crept along to Muswell-hill, and put up at a public house there; where she employed herself two hours in writing, tho' exceedingly weak and low; till the dinner she had ordered was brought in: She endeavoured to eat; but could not; her appetite was gone, quite gone, she said. And then she wrote on for three hours more: After which, being heavy, she dozed a little in an elbow-chair. When she awoke, she ordered the coachman to drive her very slowly to town, to the house of a friend of Mrs. Lovick, whom, as agreed upon, she met there: But, being extremely ill, she would venture home at a late hour, altho' she heard from the widow, that you had been there, and had reason to be shocked at your behaviour. She said, She found there was no avoiding you: She was apprehensive she should not live many hours, and it was not impossible but the shock the sight of you must give her, would determine her fate in your presence.
'She accordingly went home. She heard the relation of your astonishing vagaries, with hands and eyes often lifted up; and with the words, Shocking creature! Incorrigible wretch! and, Will nothing make him serious! intermingled. And not being able to bear an interview with a man so hardened, she took to her usual chair early in the morning, and was carried to the Temple-stairs, whither she had ordered her nurse before her, to get a pair of oars in readiness (for her fatigues the day before, made her unable to bear a coach); and then she was rowed to Chelsea, where she breakfasted; and after rowing about, put in at the Swan at Brentford-Aight, where she dined; and would have written, but had no conveniency either of tolerable pens, or ink, or private room; and then proceeding to Richmond, they rowed her back to Mortlack; where she put in, and drank tea at a house her waterman recommended to her. She wrote there for an hour; and returned to the Temple; and, when she landed, made one of the watermen get her a chair, and so was carried to the widow's friend, as the night before; where she again met the widow, who informed her, that you had been after her twice that day.
'Mrs. Lovick gave here there her sister's letter; and she was so much affected with the contents of it, that she was twice very near fainting away; and wept bitterly, as Mrs. Lovick told Mrs. Smith; dropping some warmer expressions than ever they had heard proceed from her lips, in relation to her friends; calling them cruel, and complaining of ill offices done her, and of vile reports raised against her.
'While she was thus disturbed, Mrs. Smith came to her, and told her, that you had been there a third time, and was just gone, (at half an hour after nine) having left word, how civil and respectful you would be; but that you was determined to see her at all events.
'She said, It was hard she could not be permitted to die in peace: That her lot was a severe one: That she began to be afraid she should not forbear repining, and to think her punishment greater than her fault; but recalling herself immediately, she comforted herself that her life would be short, and with the assurance of a better.'
By what I have mentioned, You will conclude with me, that the letter brought her by Mrs. Lovick (the superscription of which you saw to be written in her sister's hand) could not be the letter on the contents of which she grounded that she wrote to you, on her return home. And yet neither Mrs. Lovick, nor Mrs. Smith, nor the servant of the latter, know of any other brought her. But as the women assured me, that she actually did write to you, I was eased of a suspicion which I had begun to entertain, that you (for some purpose I could not guess at) had forged the letter from her of which you sent me a copy.
On Wednesday morning, when she received your letter in answer to hers, she said, Necessity may well be called the mother of Invention-But Calamity is the test of Integrity. -I hope I have not taken an inexcusable step- and there she stopt a minute or two, and then said, I shall now, perhaps, be allowed to die in peace.
I staid till she came in. She was glad to see me; but, being very weak, said, she must sit down before she could go up stairs; and so went into the back-shop; leaning upon Mrs. Lovick: And when she had sat down, 'I am glad to see you, Mr. Belford, said she; I must say so-let misreporters say what they will.'
I wondered at this expression; but would not interrupt her.
Oh! Sir, said she, I have been grievously harassed. Your friend, who would not let me live with reputation, will not permit me to die in peace. -You see how I am-Is there not a great alteration in me within this week? -But 'tis all for the better. -Yet were I to wish for life, I must say, that your friend, your barbarous friend, has hurt me greatly.
She was so very weak, so short-breath'd, and her words and action so very moving, that I was forced to walk from her; the two women and her nurse, turning away their faces also, weeping.
I have had, Madam, said I, since I saw you, a most shocking scene before my eyes for days together. My poor friend Belton is no more. He quitted the world yesterday morning in such dreadful agonies, that the impression it has left upon me, has so weakened my mind-I was loth to have her think, that my grief was owing to the weak state I saw her in, for fear of dispiriting her.
That is only, Mr. Belford, interrupted she, in order to strengthen it, if a proper use be made of the impression. - But I should be glad, since you are so humanely affected with the solemn circumstance, that you could have written an account of it in the style and manner you are master of, to your gay friend. Who knows, as it would have come from an associate and of an associate, how it might have affected him?
That I had done, I told her, in such a manner as had, I believed, some effect upon you.
His behaviour in this honest family so lately, said she, and his cruel pursuit of me, give but little hopes, that any thing serious or solemn will affect him.
We had some talk about Belton's dying behaviour, and I gave her several particulars of the poor man's impatience and despair; to which she was very attentive; and made fine observations upon the subject of procrastination.
A letter and pacquet were brought her by a man on horse-back from Miss Howe, while we were talking. She retired up-stairs to read it; and while I was in discourse with Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick, the doctor and apothecary both came in together. They confirmed to me my fears, as to the dangerous way she is in. They had both been apprized of the new instances of implacableness in her friends, and of your persecutions: And the doctor said, He would not for the world be either the unforgiving father of that lady, or the man who had brought her to this distress. Her heart's broke; she'll die, said he: There is no saving her. But how, were I either the one or the other of the people I have named, I should support myself afterwards, I cannot tell.
When she was told we were all three together, she desired us to walk up. She arose to receive us, and after answering two or three general questions relating to her health, she addressed herself to us, to the following effect.
As I may not, said she, see you three gentlemen together again, let me take this opportunity to acknowlege my obligations to you all. I am inexpressibly obliged to You, Sir, and to You, Sir (courtesying to the doctor and to Mr. Goddard) for your more than friendly, your paternal care and concern for me. Humanity in your profession, I dare say, is far from being a rare qualification, because you are gentlemen by your profession: But so much kindness, so much humanity, did never desolate creature meet with, as I have met with from you both. But indeed I have always observed, that where a person relies upon Providence, it never fails to raise up a new friend for every old one that falls off.
This gentleman, (bowing to me) who, some people think, should have been one of the last I should have thought of as my Executor-is nevertheless, (such is the strange chance of things!) the only one I can choose; and therefore I have chosen him for that charitable office, and he has been so good as to accept of it: For rich, as I may boast myself to be, I am rather so in right, than in fact, at this present. I repeat therefore my humble thanks to you all three, and beg of God to return to You and Yours, (looking to each) an hundredfold, the kindness and favour you have shewn me; and that it may be in the power of You and of Yours to the end of time, to confer benefits, rather than to be obliged to receive them. This is a god-like power, gentlemen: I once rejoiced in it, in some little degree; and much more in the prospect I had of its being inlarged to me; tho' I have had the mortification to experience the reverse, and to be obliged almost to every body I have seen or met with: But all, originally, thro' my own fault; so I ought to bear the punishment without repining: And I hope I do. -Forgive these impertinencies: A grateful heart, that wants the power it wishes for, to express itself suitably to its own impulses, will be at a loss what properly to dictate to the tongue; and yet, unable to restrain its overflowings, will force it to say weak and silly things, rather than appear ingratefully silent. Once more then, I thank ye all three for your kindness to me: And God Almighty make you that amends which at present I cannot!
She retired from us to her closet with her eyes sull; and left us looking upon one another.
We had hardly recovered ourselves, when she, quite easy, chearful, and smiling, returned to us. Doctor, said she (seeing we had been moved) you will excuse me for the concern I give you; and so will You, Mr. Goddard, and You, Mr. Belford; for 'tis a concern that only generous natures can shew; and to such natures sweet is the pain, if I may so say, that attends such a concern. But as I have some few preparations still to make, and would not (tho' in ease of Mr. Belford's future cares, which is, and ought to be, part of my study) undertake more than it is likely I shall have time lent me to perform, I would beg of you to give me your opinions, (You see my way of living; and you may be assured, that I will do nothing wilfully to shorten my life) how long it may possibly be, before I may hope to be released from all my troubles.
They both hesitated, and looked upon each other. Don't be afraid to answer me, said she, each sweet hand pressing upon the arm of each gentleman, with that mingled freedom and reserve, which virgin modesty, mixed with conscious dignity, can only express, and with a look serenely earnest, Tell me how long you think I may hold it? And believe me, gentlemen, the shorter you tell me my time is likely to be, the more comfort you will give me.
With what pleasing woe, said the doctor, do you fill the minds of those who have the happiness to converse with you, and see the happy frame you are in! What you have undergone within a few days past, has much hurt you: And should you have fresh troubles of those kinds, I could not be answerable for your holding it- And there he paused.
How long, doctor? -I believe I shall have a little more ruffling-I am afraid I shall-But there can happen only one thing that I shall not be tolerably easy under-How long then, Sir?-
He was silent.
A Fortnight, Sir?
He was still silent.
Ten days? -A week? -How long, Sir? with smiling earnestness.
If I must speak, Madam, If you have not better treatment than you have lately met with, I am afraid-There again he stopt.
Afraid of what, doctor? Don't be afraid-How long, Sir?
That a fortnight or three weeks may deprive the world of the finest flower in it.
A fortnight or three weeks yet, doctor! -But, God's will be done! I shall, however, by this means, have full time, if I have but strength and intellect, to do all that is now upon my mind to do. And so, Sirs, I can but once more thank you, turning to each of us, for all your goodness to me; and, having letters to write, will take up no more of your time-Only, doctor, be pleased to order me some more of those drops: They chear me a little, when I am low; and, putting a see into his unwilling hand- You know the terms, Sir! -Then, turning to Mr. Goddard, You'll be so good, Sir, as to look in upon me tonight, or to-morrow, as you have opportunity: And you, Mr. Belford, I know, will be desirous to set out to prepare for the last office for you late friend: So I wish you a good journey, and hope to see you when that is performed.
She then retired, with a chearful and serene air. The two gentlemen went away together. I went down to the women, and, inquiring, found, that Mrs. Lovick was this day to bring her twenty guineas more, for some other of her apparel.
The widow told me, that she had taken the liberty to expostulate with her, upon the occasion she had for raising this money, to such great disadvantage; and it produced the following short, and affecting conversation between them.
None of my friends will wear any thing of mine, said she. I shall leave a great many good things behind me- And as to what I want the money for-don't be surprized: -but suppose I want it to purchase a house?
You are all mystery, Madam, I don't comprehend you.
Why, then, Mrs. Lovick, I will explain myself: I have a man, not a woman, for my Executor: And think you that I will leave to his care any thing that concerns my own person? -Now, Mrs. Lovick, smiling, do you comprehend me?
Mrs. Lovick wept.
O fie! proceeded the lady, drying up her tears with her own handkerchief, and giving her a kiss-Why this kind weakness for one, whom you have been so little a while acquainted with? Dear, good Mrs. Lovick, don't be concerned for me on a prospect which I have occasion to be pleased with; but go to-morrow to your friends, and bring me the money they have agreed to give you.
Thus, Lovelace, is it plain, that she means to bespeak her last house! Here's presence of mind; here's tranquillity of heart, on the most affecting occasion! -This is magnanimity indeed! -Couldst thou, or could I, with all our boist'rous bravery, and offensive false courage, act thus? -Poor Belton! how unlike was thy behaviour?
Mrs. Lovick tells me, that the lady spoke of a letter she had received from her favourite divine Dr. Lewin, in the time of my absence. And of an answer she had returned to it. But Mrs. Lovick knows not the contents of either.
When thou receivest this letter, thou wilt see what will soon be the end of all thy injuries to this divine lady. I say, when thou receivest it; for I will delay it for some little time, lest thou shouldst take it into thy head (under pretence of resenting the disappointment her letter must give thee) to molest her again.
This letter having detained me by its length, I shall not now set out for Epsom till to-morrow.
I should have mentioned, that the lady explained to me, what the one thing was, that she was afraid might happen to ruffle her. It was the apprehension of what may result from a visit which Col. Morden, as she is informed, designs to make you.

### v7 LETTER IX.

The Revd. Dr. Lewen, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
Friday, Aug. 18.
Presuming, dearest and ever-respectable young lady, upon your former favour, and upon your opinion of my judgment and sincerity, I cannot help addressing you by a few lines, on your present unhappy situation.
I will not look back upon the measures which you have either been led or driven into: But will only say as to those, that I think you are the least to blame of any young lady that was ever reduced from happy to unhappy circumstances; and I have not been wanting to say as much, where I hoped my freedom would have been better received, than I have had the mortification to find it to be.
What I principally write for now, is, to put you upon doing a piece of justice to yourself, and to your sex, in the prosecuting for his life (I am assured his life is in your power) the most profligate and abandoned of men, as he must be, who could act so basely, as I understand Mr. Lovelace has acted by you.
I am very ill; and am now forced to write upon my pillow; my thoughts confused; and incapable of method: I shall not therefore aim at method: But to give you in general my opinion; and that is, That your religion, your duty to your family, the duty you owe to your honour, and even charity to your sex, oblige you to give public evidence against this very wicked man.
And let me add, another consideration: The prevention, by this means, of the mischiefs that may otherwise happen between your brother and Mr. Lovelace, or between the latter and your cousin Morden, who is now, I hear, arrived, and resolves to have justice done you.
A consideration which ought to affect your conscience; (Forgive me, dearest young lady, I think I am now in the way of my duty) and to be of more concern to you, than that hard pressure upon your modesty, which I know the appearance against him in an open Court, must be of to such a lady as you: And which, I conceive, will be your great difficulty. But I know, Madam, that you have dignity enough to become the blushes of the most naked truth, when necessity, justice and honour, exact it from you. Rakes and Ravishers would meet with encouragement indeed, and most from those who had the greatest abhorrence of their actions, if violated modesty were never to complain of the injury it received from the villainous attempters of it.
In a word, the reparation of your family dishonour, now rests in your own bosom: and which only one of these two alternatives can repair; to wit, either to Marry, or to prosecute him at Law. Bitter expedients for a soul so delicate as yours.
He, and all his friends, I understand, sollicit you to the first: And it is certainly, now, all the amends within his power to make. But I am assured, that you have rejected their, sollicitations, and his, with the indignation and contempt that his foul actions have deserved: But yet, that you refuse not to extend to him the Christian forgiveness he has so little reason to expect, provided he will not disturb you further.
But, Madam, the prosecution I advise, will not let your present and future exemption from fresh disturbance from so vile a molester, depend upon his courtesy: I should think so noble and so rightly-guided a spirit as yours, would not permit that it should, if you could help it.
And can indignities of any kind be properly pardoned, till we have it in our power to punish them? To pretend to pardon, while we are labouring under the pain or dishonour of them, will be thought by some, to be but the vaunted mercy of a pusilanimous heart trembling to resent them. The remedy I propose, is a severe one; but what pain can be more severe than the injury? or how will injuries be believed to grieve us, that are never honourably complained of?
I am sure, Miss Clarissa Harlowe, however injured, and oppressed, remains unshaken in her sentiments of honour, and virtue: And although she would sooner die, than deserve that her modesty should be drawn into question; yet she will think no truth immodest, that is to be uttered in the vindicated cause of innocence and chastity. Little, very little difference, is there, my dear young lady, between a suppressed evidence, and a false one.
It is a terrible circumstance, I once more own, for a young lady of your delicacy, to be under the obligation of telling so shocking a story in public Court: But it is still a worse imputation, that she should pass over so mortal an injury unresented.
Conscience, honour, justice, and the cares of heaven, are on your side: And modesty would, by some, be thought but an empty name, should you refuse to obey their dictates.
I have been consulted, I own, on this subject. I have given it, as my opinion, that you ought to prosecute the abandoned man. But without my reasons. These I reserved, with a resolution to lay them before you, unknown to any body; that the result (if what I wish) might be your own.
I will only add, that the misfortunes which have befallen you, had they been the lot of a child of my own, could not have affected me more, than yours have done. My own child I love: But I both love and honour you: Since to love you, is to love virtue, good sense, prudence, and every thing that is good and noble in woman.
Wounded as I think all these are by the injuries, you have received, you will believe that the knowlege of your distresses must have afflicted, beyond what I am able to express,
Your sincere Admirer, and humble Servant,
Arthur Lewen.
I just now understand, that your sister will, by proper authority, propose this prosecution to you. I humbly presume, that the reason why you resolved not upon this step from the first, was, that you did not know, that it would have the countenance and support of your relations.

### v7 LETTER X.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To the Rev. Dr. Lewen.
Sat. Aug. 19.
Reverend and Dear Sir,
I thought, till I received your affectionate and welcome letter, that I had neither father, uncle, brother left; nor hardly a friend among my former favourers of your sex. Yet, knowing you so well, and having no reason to upbraid myself with a faulty will, I was to blame (even although I had doubted the continuance of your good opinion) to decline the tryal whether I had forfeited it or not; and if I had, whether I could not, honourably, re-instate myself in it.
But, Sir, it was owing to different causes that I did not; partly to shame, to think how high, in my happier days, I stood in your esteem, and how much I must be sunk in it, since those so much nearer in relation to me, gave me up; partly to deep distress, which makes the humbled heart diffident; and made mine afraid to claim the kindred mind in yours, which would have supplied to me, in some measure, all the dear and lost relations I have named.
Then, So loth, as I sometimes was, to be thought to want to make a party against those whom both duty and inclination bid me reverence: So long trailed on between hope and doubt: So little mine own mistress at one time; so fearful of making or causing mischief, at another; and not being encouraged to hope, by your kind notice, that my application to you would be acceptable;-apprehending, that my relations had engaged your silence at least.
These-But why these unavailing retrospections now? I was to be unhappy-in order to be happy; that is my hope: -Resigning, therefore, to That hope, I will, without any further preamble, write a few lines (if writing to you, I can write but a few) in answer to the subject of your kind letter.
Permit me, then, to say, That I believe your arguments would have been unanswerable in almost every other case of This nature, but in That of the unhappy Clarissa Harlowe.
It is certain, that creatures who cannot stand the shock of public shame, should be doubly careful how they expose themselves to the danger of incurring private guilt, which may possibly bring them to it: But as to myself, suppose there were no objections from the declining way I am in as to my health; and supposing I could have prevailed upon myself to appear against This man, was there not room to apprehend, that the end so much wished for by my friends, (to wit, his condign punishment) would not have been obtained, when it came to be seen, that I had consented to give him a clandestine meeting; and, in consequence of that, had been weakly tricked out of myself; and further still, had not been able to avoid living under one roof with him for several weeks; which I did, not only without complaint, but without cause of complaint.
Little advantage in a court (perhaps, bandied about, and jested profligately with) would some of those pleas in my favour have been, which out of court, and to a private and serious audience, would have carried the greatest weight against him-Such, particularly, as the infamous methods to which he had recourse.
It would, no doubt, have been a ready retort from every mouth, that I ought not to have thrown myself into the power of such a man, and that I ought to take for my pains what had befallen me.
But had the prosecution been carried on to effect, and had he even been sentenced to death, can it be thought, that his family would not have had interest enough to obtain his pardon for a crime thought too lightly of, though one of the greatest that can be committed against a creature valuing her honour above her life? -While I had been censured as pursuing with sanguinary views a man who offered me early all the reparation in his power to make?
And had he been pardoned, would he not then have been at liberty to do as much mischief as ever?
I dare say, Sir, such is the assurance of the man upon whom my unhappy destiny threw me; and such his inveteracy to my family (which would then have appeared to be justified by their known inveteracy to him, and by their earnest endeavours to take away his life) that he would not have been sorry to have had an opportunity to confront me and my father, uncles, and brother, at the Bar of a court of justice, on such an occasion. In which case, would not, on his acquittal, or pardon, resentments have been reciprocally heightened? And then would my brother, or my cousin Morden, have been more secure than now?
How do these considerations aggravate my fault? My motives, at first, were not indeed blameable: But I had forgotten the excellent caution, which yet I was not ignorant of, That we ought not to do evil that good may come of it.
In full conviction of the purity of my heart, and of the firmness of my principles (Why may I not, thus called upon, say what I am conscious of, and yet, without faulty pride; since all is but a duty, and I should be utterly inexcusable, could I not justly say what I do?) In this full conviction, he has offered me marriage. He has avowed his penitence: A sincere penitence I have reason to think it, tho' perhaps not a Christian one. And his noble relations, (kinder to the poor sufferer than her own) on the same conviction, and his own not ungenerous acknowlegements, have joined to intercede with me to forgive and accept of him. Altho' I cannot comply with the latter part of their intercession, have not you, Sir, from the best rules, and from the divinest example, taught me to forgive injuries?
The injury I have received from him is indeed of the highest nature, and it was attended with circumstances of unmanly baseness, and premeditation; yet, I bless God, it has not tainted my mind; it has not hurt my morals. No thanks, indeed, to the wicked man, that it has not. No vile courses have followed it. My will is unviolated. The evil (respecting myself, and not my friends) is merely personal. No credulity, no weakness, no want of vigilance, have I to reproach myself with. I have, thro' grace, triumphed over the deepest machinations. I have escaped from him. I have renounced him. The man whom once I could have loved, I have been enabled to despise: And shall not charity complete my triumph? And shall I not enjoy it? -And where would be my triumph, if he deserved my forgiveness? -Poor man! He has had a loss in losing me! I have the pride to think so, because I think I know my own heart. I have had none in losing him!
But I have another plea to make, which alone would have been enough (as I presume) to answer the contents of your very kind and friendly letter.
I know, my dear and reverend friend, the spiritual guide and director of my happier days! I know, that you will allow of my endeavour to bring myself to this charitable disposition, when I tell you how near I think myself to that great and awful moment, in which, and even in the ardent preparation to which, every sense of indignity or injury, that concerns not the immortal soul, ought to be absorbed in higher and more important contemplations.
Thus much for myself.
And for the satisfaction of my friends and favourers, Miss Howe is sollicitous to have all those letters and materials preserved, which will set my whole story in a true light. The good Dr. Lewen is one of the principal of those friends and favourers.
The warning that may be given from those papers to all such young creatures as may have known or heard of me, may be more efficacious, as I humbly presume to think, to the end wished for, than my appearance could have been in a court of justice, pursuing a doubtful event, under the disadvantages I have mentioned. And if, my dear and good Sir, you are now, on considering every thing, of this opinion, and I could know it, I should consider it as a particular felicity; being as sollicitous as ever to be justified in what I may, in your eyes.
I am sorry, Sir, that your indisposition has reduced you to the necessity of writing upon your pillow. But how much am I obliged to that kind and generous concern for me, which has impelled you, as I may say, to write a letter, containing so many paternal lines, with such inconvenience to yourself!
May the Almighty bless you, dear and reverend Sir, for all your goodness to me, both of now, and of long standing! Continue to esteem me to the last, as I do, and will, venerate you! And let me bespeak your prayers; the continuance, I should say, of your prayers; for I doubt not that I have always had them: And to them, perhaps, has in part been owing, (as well as to your pious precepts thro' my earlier youth) that I have been able to make the stand I have made; altho' every thing that you prayed for has not been granted to me, by that Divine Wisdom, which knows what is best for its poor creatures.
My prayers for you are, That it will please God to restore you to your affectionate flock; and after as many years of life as shall be for His service, and to your own comfort, give us a happy meeting in those regions of blessedness, which you have taught me, as well by example, as by precept, to aspire to!
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XI.

Miss Arab. Harlowe, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
[In answer to hers to her uncle Antony of Aug. 13.]
Monday, Aug. 21.
Sister Clary,
I find by your letters to my uncles, that they, as well as I, are in great disgrace with you for writing our minds to you.
We can't help it, sister Clary.
You don't think it worth your while, I find, to press for the blessing you pretend to be so earnest about, a second time: You think, no doubt, that you have done your duty in asking for it: So you'll sit down satisfy'd with That, I suppose, and leave it to your wounded parents to repent hereafter that they have not done Theirs, in giving it to you, at the first word; and in making such enquiries about you, as you think ought to have been made. Fine encouragement to inquire after a run-away daughter! living with her fellow, as long as he would live with her! You repent also, (with your full mind, as you modestly call it) that you wrote to me.
So we are not likely to be applied to any more, I find, in this way.
Well then, since This is the case, sister Clary, let me, with all humility, address myself with a proposal or two to you; to which you will be graciously pleased to give an answer.
Now you must know, that we have had hints given us from several quarters, that you have been used in such a manner by the villain you ran away with, that his life would be answerable for his crime, if it were fairly to be proved. And, by your own hints, something like it appears to us.
If, Clary, there be any thing but jingle and affecting period, in what proceeds from your full mind, and your dutiful consciousness; and if there be truth in what Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Howe have acquainted us with; you may yet justify your character to us, and to the world, in every thing but your scandalous elopement; and the Law may reach the villain: And, could we but bring him to the gallows, what a meritorious revenge would that be to our whole injured family, and to the innocents he has deluded, as well as the saving from ruin many others?
Let me, therefore, know (if you please) whether you are willing to appear to do Yourself, and Us, and your Sex, this justice? If not, sister Clary, we shall know what to think of you; for neither you nor we can suffer more than we have done, from the scandal of your fall: And, if you will, Mr. Ackland and Counsellor Derham will both attend you to make proper enquiries, and to take minutes of your story, to found a process upon, if it will bear one, with as great a probability of success, as we are told it may be prosecuted with.
But, by what Mrs. Howe intimates, this is not likely to be complied with; for it is what she hinted to you, it seems, by her lively daughter, but without effect; and then, again, possibly, you may not at present behave so prudently in some certain points, as to intitle yourself to public justice; which if true, the Lord have mercy upon you!
One word only more as to the above proposal;-Your admirer, Dr. Lewen, is clear in his opinion, that you should prosecute the villain.
But if you will not agree to this, I have another proposal to make to you, and that in the name of every one in the family; which is, that you will think of going to Pensylvania to reside there for some few years, till all is blown over; and, if it please God to spare you, and your unhappy parents, till they can be satisfied, that you behave like a true and uniform penitent; at least till you are one-and-twenty; you may then come back to your own estate, or have the produce of it sent you thither, as you shall choose. A period which my papa fixes, because it is the custom; and because he thinks your grandfather should have fixed it; and because, let me add, you have fully proved by your fine conduct, that you were not at years of discretion at eighteen. Poor doting, tho' good old man! -Your grandfather he thought-But I would not be too severe.
Mr. Hartley has a widow-sister at Pensylvania, with whom he will undertake you may board, and who is a sober, sensible, and well-read woman. And if you were once well there, it would rid your father and mother of a world of cares, and fears, and scandal; and I think is what you should wish for of all things.
Mr. Hartley will engage for all accommodations in your passage suitable to your rank and fortune; and he has a concern in a ship, which will sail in a month; and you may take your secret-keeping Hannah with you, or whom you will of your newer acquaintance. 'Tis presumed it will be of your own sex.
These are what I had to communicate to you; and if you'll oblige me with an answer (which the hand that conveys this will call for on Wednesday Morning) it will be very condescending.
Arabella Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Arabella Harlowe.
Tuesday, Aug. 22.
Write to me, my hard-hearted sister, in what manner you please, I shall always be thankful to you for your notice. But (think what you will of me) I cannot see Mr. Ackland and the Counsellor on such a business as you mention.
The Lord have mercy upon me indeed! For none else will.
Surely I am believed to be a creature past all shame, or it could not be thought of sending two gentlemen to me on such an errand.
Had my mother required of me (or would modesty have permitted you to enquire into) the particulars of my sad story, or had Mrs. Norton been directed to receive them from me, methinks it had been more fit; and, I presume to think, more in every one's character too, had they been required of me before such heavy judgment had passed upon me, as has been passed.
I know that this is Dr. Lewen's opinion. He has been so good as to inforce it in a kind letter to me. I have answered his letter; and given such reasons as I hope will satisfy him: I could wish it were thought worth while to ask to see them.
To your other proposal, of going to Pensylvania; this is my answer: -If nothing happen within a month which may full as effectually rid my parents and friends of that world of cares, and fears, and scandals, which you mention, and if I am then able to be carried on board of ship, I will chearfully obey my father and mother, altho' I were sure to die in the passage. And, if I may be forgiven for saying so, you shall set over me, instead of my poor obliging, but really unculpable Hannah, your Betty Barnes; to whom I will be answerable for all my conduct. And I will make it worth her while to accompany me.
I am equally surprized and concerned at the hints which both you and my uncle Antony give of new points of misbehaviour in me! -What can be meant by them?
I will not tell you, Miss Harlowe, how much I am afflicted at your severity, and how much I suffer by it, and by your hard-hearted levity of style, because what I shall say may be construed into jingle and period, and because I know it is intended (very possibly for kind ends) to mortify me. All I will therefore say, is, That it does not lose its end, if that be it.
But, nevertheless, (divesting myself as much as possible of all resentment) I will only pray, that heaven will give you, for your own sake, a kinder heart, than at present; since a kind heart, I am convinced, is a greater blessing to its possessor, than it can be to any other person. Under this conviction I subscribe myself, my dear Bella,
Your ever-affectionate Sister,
Cl. Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XIII.

Mrs. Judith Norton, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
In answer to hers of Thursday, Aug. 17.
Tuesday, Aug. 22.
My dearest young Lady,
The Letters you sent me, I now return by the hand that brings you this.
It is impossible for me to express how much I have been affected by them, and your last of the 17th. Indeed, my dear Miss Clary, you are very harshly used; indeed you are! And if you should be taken from us, what grief, and what punishment, are they not treasuring up against themselves, in the heavy reflections which their rash censures and unforgiveness will occasion them!
But I find what your uncle Antony's cruel letter is owing to, as well as one you will be still more afflicted by, (God help you, my poor dear child!) when it comes to your hand, written by your sister, with proposals to you.
It was finished, to send you, yesterday, I know; and I apprise you of it, that you should fortify your heart against the contents of it.
The motives, which incline them all to this severity, if well-grounded, would authorize any severity, they could express, and which, while they believe them to be so, both They and You are to be equally pitied.
They are owing to the information of that officious Mr. Brand, who has acquainted them from some enemy of yours in the neighbourhood about you, that visits are made you, highly censurable, from a man of a free character, and an intimate of Mr. Lovelace; who is often in private with you; sometimes twice or thrice a day.
Betty gives herself great liberties of speech upon this occasion, and all your friends are too ready to believe, that things are not as they should be: which makes me wish, that, let the gentleman's views be ever so honourable, you could intirely drop acquaintance with him.
Something of this nature was hinted at by Betty to me before, but so darkly, that I could not tell what to make of it; and this made me mention it to you so generally, as I did in my last.
Your cousin Morden has been among them: He is exceedingly concerned for your misfortunes; and as they will not believe Mr. Lovelace would marry you, he is determined to go to Lord M.'s, in order to inform himself from Mr. Lovelace's own mouth, whether he intends to do you That justice or not.
He was extremely caressed by every one at his first arrival; but I am told there is some little coldness between them and him at present.
I was in hopes of getting a sight of this letter of Mr. Brand's (a rash, officious man!) But, it seems, Mr. Morden had it given him yesterday to read, and he took it away with him.
God be your comfort, my dear Miss! But indeed I am exceedingly disturbed at the thoughts of what may still be the issue of all these things. I am,
My beloved young Lady,
Your most affectionate and faithful
Judith Norton.

### v7 LETTER XIV.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Tuesday, Aug. 22.
After I had sealed up the inclosed, I had the honour of a private visit from your aunt Hervey, who has been in a very low-spirited way, and kept her chamber for several weeks past; and is but just got abroad.
She longed, she said, to see me, and to weep with me, on the hard fate that had befallen her beloved niece.
I will give you a faithful account of what passed between us; as I expect, that it will, upon the whole, administer hope and comfort to you.
'She pity'd very much your good mamma, who, she assured me, is obliged to act a part entirely contrary to her inclinations; as she herself, she owns, had been in a great measure.
'She said, that the poor lady was with great difficulty with-held from answering your letter to her; which had (as was your aunt's expression) almost broken the heart of every one: That she had reason to think, that she was neither consenting to your two uncles writing; nor approving of what they wrote.
'She is sure they all love you dearly; but have gone so far, that they know not how to recede.
'That, but for the abominable league which your brother had got every-body into (he refusing to set out for Scotland till it was renewed) and till they had all promised to take no step towards a reconciliation in his absence but by his consent; and to which your sister's resentments kept them up; all would before now have happily subsided.
'That no-body knew the pangs which their inflexible behaviour gave them, ever since you had begun to write to them in so affecting and humble a style.
'That, however, they were not inclined to believe that you were either so ill, or so penitent, as you really are; and still less, that Mr. Lovelace is in earnest in his offers of marriage.
'She is sure, she says, that all will soon be well: And the sooner for Mr. Morden's arrival: Who is very zealous in your behalf.
'She wished to heaven, that you would accept of Mr. Lovelace, wicked as he has been, if he were now in earnest.
'It had always, she said, been matter of astonishment to her, that so weak a pride in her cousin James, of making himself the whole family, should induce them all to refuse an alliance with such a family as Mr. Lovelace's was.
'She would have it, that your going-off with Mr. Lovelace was the unhappiest step for your honour and your interest that could have been taken; for that altho' you would have had a severe tryal the next day; yet it would probably have been the last; and your pathetic powers must have drawn you off some friends-hinting at your mamma, at your uncle Harlowe, at your uncle Hervey, and herself.'
But here I must observe (that the regret that you did not trust to the event of that meeting, may not in your present low way, too much afflict you) that it seems a little too evident from this opinion of your aunt's, that it was not so absolutely determined that all compulsion was designed to be avoided, since your freedom from it must have been owing to the party to be made among them by your persuasive eloquence, and dutiful expostulation.
'She owned, that some of them, were as much afraid of meeting you, as you could be of meeting them: - But why so, if they designed, in the last instance, to give you your way?
She told me, 'That Mrs. Williams, your mamma's former house-keeper, had been with her, to ask her opinion, if it would be taken amiss, if she desired leave to go up, to attend her dearest young lady, in her calamity. She referred her to your mamma; but had heard no more of it.
'Her daughter, Miss Dolly, she said, had been frequently earnest with her on the same subject; and renewed her request, with the greatest fervor, when your first letter came to hand.
'Your aunt says, that being then very ill, she wrote to your mother upon it, hoping it would not be taken amiss, if she permitted Miss Dolly to go; but that your sister, as from your mamma, answered her, That now you seemed to be coming to, and to have a due sense of your faults, you must be left entirely to their own management.
'Miss Dolly, she said, had pined ever since she had heard of Mr. Lovelace's baseness; being doubly mortified by it: First, on account of your sufferings; next, because she was one, who rejoiced in your getting off; and vindicated you for it: And had incurred censure and ill-will on that account; especially from your brother and sister; so that she seldom went to Harlowe-Place.'
Make the best use of these intelligences, my dearest young lady, for your consolation.
I will only add, that I am, with the most fervent prayers for your recovery and restoration,
Your ever-faithful
Judith Norton.

### v7 LETTER XV.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Mrs. Judith Norton.
Thursday, Aug. 24.
The relation of such a conversation as passed between my aunt and you, would have given me pleasure, had it come some time ago; because it would have met with a spirit more industrious than mine now is, to pick out remote comfort in the hope of a favourable turn that might one day have rewarded my patient duty.
I did not doubt my aunt's good-will to me. Her affection I did not doubt. But shall we wonder that kings and princes meet with so little controul in their passions, be they ever so violent, when in a private family, an aunt, nay, even a mother in that family, shall choose to give up a once favoured child against their own inclinations, rather than oppose an aspiring young man, who had armed himself with the authority of a father, who, when once determined, never would be expostulated with?
And will you not blame me, if I say, that good sense, that relationly indulgence, must be a little offended at the treatment I have met with, and if I own, that I think, that great rigor has been exercised towards me? And yet I am now authorized to call it rigor by the judgment of two excellent sisters, my mother and my aunt, who acknowlege, (as you tell me from my aunt) that they have been obliged to join against me, contrary to their inclinations; and that, even in a point which concerns my eternal welfare.
But I must not go on at this rate. For may not the inclination my mother has given up, be the effect of a too fond indulgence, rather than that I merit the indulgence? And yet, so petulantly perverse am I, that I must tear myself from the subject.
All then that I will say further to it, at this time, is, that were the intended goodness to be granted to me but a week hence; it would possibly be too late-Too late, I mean, to be of the consolation to me, that I would wish from it: For what an inefficacious preparation must I have been making, if it has not, by this time, carried me above-But above what? -Poor mistaken creature! -Unhappy self-deluder!-that finds herself above nothing! Nor able to subdue her own faulty impatience!
But in deed to have done with a subject, that I dare not trust myself with; if it come in your way, let my aunt Hervey, let my dear cousin Dolly, let the worthy Mrs. Williams, know, how exceedingly grateful to me their kind intentions and concern for me are: And, as the best warrant or justification of their good opinions (since I know that their favour for me is founded on the belief that I loved virtue) tell them, that I continued to love virtue to my last hour, as I presume to hope it may be said; and assure them, that I never made the least wilful deviation, however unhappy I became for one faulty step; which nevertheless was not owing to unworthy or perverse motives.
I am very sorry, that my cousin Morden has taken a resolution to see Mr. Lovelace.
My apprehensions on this intelligence, are a great abatement to the pleasure I have in knowing that he still loves me.
My sister's letter to me is a most afflicting one-So needlessly, so ludicrously taunting. -But for that part of it that is so, I ought rather to pity her, than to be so much concerned at it as I am.
I wonder what I have done to Mr. Brand-I pray God to forgive both him and his informants, whoever they be. But if the scandal arise solely from Mr. Belford's visits, a very little time will confute it. -Mean while, the pacquet I shall send you, which I sent to Miss Howe, will, I hope, satisfy you, my dear Mrs. Norton, as to my reasons for admitting his visits.
My sister's taunting letter, and the inflexibleness of my dearer friends-But how do remoter-begun subjects tend to the point which lies nearest the heart! -As new-caught bodily disorders all croud to a fractured or distempered part.
I will break off, with requesting your prayers, that I may be blessed with patience and due resignation; and with assuring you, that I am, and will be to the last hour of my life,
Your equally grateful and affectionate
Cl. Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XVI.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
In reply to hers of Friday Aug. 11.
Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, Aug. 23.
My dearest Friend,
I have read the letters and copies of letters you favoured me with: And I return them by a particular hand.
I am extremely concerned at your indifferent state of health: But I approve all your proceedings and precautions, in relation to the naming of a man for an office, that, I hope, will not require to be filled up for many, many years.
I admire, and so we do all, that greatness of mind, which can make you so stedfastly despise (thro' such inducements as no other woman could resist, and in such desolate circumstances as you are in) the wretch that ought to be so heartily despised and detested.
What must the contents of those letters from your relations be, which you will not communicate to me! Fie upon them! How my heart rises-But I dare say no more-Tho' you yourself now begin to think they use you with great severity.
Every body here is so taken with Mr. Hickman, (and the more from the horror they conceive at the character of such a wretch as Lovelace) that I have been teazed to death almost, to name a day. This has given him airs; and, did I not keep him to it, he would behave himself as carelesly, and as insolently, as if he were sure of me. I have been forced to mortify him no less than four times since we have been here.
I made him lately undergo a severe penance for some negligences, that were not to be passed over: Not designed ones, he said: But that was a poor excuse, as I told him: For, had they been designed, he should never have come into my presence more: That they were not, shewed his want of thought and attention; and those were inexcuseable in a man only in his probatory state.
He hoped he had been more than in a probatory state, he said.
And therefore, Sir, might be more careless? -So you add ingratitude to negligence, and make what you plead as accident, that itself wants an excuse, design, which deserves none.
I would not see him for two days, and he was so penitent, and so humble, that I had like to have lost myself, to make him amends: For, as you have said, a resentment carried too high, often ends in an amends too humble.
I long to be nearer to you: But that must not yet be, it seems. Pray, my dear, let me hear from you as often as you can.
May heaven increase your comforts, and restore your health, are the prayers of
Your ever faithful and affectionate
ANNA HOWE.
P. S. Excuse me that I did not write before; it was owing to a little coasting voyage I was obliged to give into.

### v7 LETTER XVII.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Friday, Aug. 25.
You are very obliging, my dear Miss Howe, to account to me for your silence. I was easy in it, as I doubted not, that among such near and dear friends as you are with, you was diverted from writing by some such agreeable excursion, as that you mention.
I was in hopes that you had given over, at this time of day, those very sprightly airs, which I have taken the liberty to blame you for, as often as you have given me occasion for it; and that has been very often.
I was always very grave with you upon this subject: And while your own and a worthy man's future happiness are in the question, I must enter into it, whenever you forget yourself, altho' I had not a day to live: And indeed I am very ill.
I am sure, it was not your intention to take your future husband with you to the little island, to make him look weak and silly among those of your relations who never before had seen him. Yet do you think it possible for them (however prepared and resolved they may be to like him) to forbear smiling at him when they see him suffering under your whimsical penances? A model man should no more be made little in his own eyes, than in the eyes of others. If he be, he will have a diffidence, which will give an aukwardness to every thing he says or does: And this will be no more to the credit of your choice, than to that of the approbation he meets with from your friends, or to his own credit.
I love an obliging, and even an humble deportment in a man to the woman he addresses. It is mark of his politeness, and tends to give her that opinion of herself, which it may be supposed bashful merit wants to be inspired with. But if the lady exacts it with a high hand, she shews not either her own politeness or gratitude; altho' I must confess she does her courage. I gave you expectation that I would be very serious with you.
O my dear, that had it been my lot (as I was not permitted to live single) to have met with a man by whom I could have acted generously and unreservedly!
Mr. Lovelace, it is now plain, in order to have a pretence against me, taxed my behaviour to him, with stiffness and distance. You, at one time, thought me guilty of some degree of prudery. Difficult situations should be allowed for; which often make occasions for censure unavoidable. I deserved not blame from him who made mine difficult. And you, my dear, if I had had any other man to deal with, or had he had but half the merit which Mr. Hickman has, should have found that my doctrine on this subject, should have governed my practice!
But to put myself out of the question-I'll tell you what I should think, were I an indifferent by-stander, of these high airs of yours, in return for Mr. Hickman's humble demeanour. "The lady thinks of having the gentleman, I see plainly, would I say. But I see, as plainly, that she has a very great indifference to him. And to what may this indifference be owing? To one or all of these considerations, no doubt: That she receives his addresses rather from motives of convenience than choice: That she thinks meanly of his endowments and intellects; at least more highly of her own: Or, she has not the generosity to use that power with moderation, which his great affection for her puts into her hands."
How would you like, my dear, to have any of these things said?
Then to give but the shadow of a reason for free-livers and free-speakers to say, or to imagine, that Miss Howe gives her hand to a man, who has no reason to expect any share in her heart, I am sure you would not wish that such a thing should be so much as supposed. Then, all the regard from you to come afterwards; none to be shewn before; must, I should think, be capable of being construed, as a compliment to the husband, made at the expence of the wife's delicacy.
There is no fear that attempts could be formed by the most audacious, [two Lovelaces there cannot be!] upon a character so revered for virtue, and so charmingly spirited as Miss Howe's: Yet, to have any man encouraged to despise a husband by the example of one who is most concerned to do him honour; what, my dear, think you of that? -It is but too natural for envious men (and who that knows Miss Howe, will not envy Mr. Hickman?) to scoff at, and to jest upon those who are treated with, or will bear indignity from a woman. If a man so treated, have a true and ardent love for the woman he addresses, he will be easily over-awed by her displeasure: And this will put him upon acts of submission, which will be called meanness. And what woman of true spirit would like to have it said, that she would impose any thing upon the man, from whom she one day expected protection and defence, that should be capable of being construed as a meanness, or unmanly abjectness in his behaviour, even to herself? -Nay, I am not sure, and I ask it of you; my dear, to resolve me, whether in your own opinion, it is not likely, that a woman of spirit will despise rather than value more, the man who will take patiently an insult at her hands; especially before company?
I have always observed, that prejudices in disfavour of a person, at his first appearance, fix deeper, and are much more difficult to be removed when fixed, than prejudice in favour: Whether owing to envy, or to that malignant principle so eminently visible in little minds, which makes them wish to bring down the more worthy characters to their own low level, I pretend not to determine. When once, therefore, a woman of your good sense give room to the world, to think she has not an high opinion of the lover, whom, nevertheless, she entertains, it will be very difficult for her afterwards, to make that world think so well as she would have it, of the husband she has chosen.
Give me leave to observe, that to condescend with dignity, and to command with such kindness, and sweetness of manners, as should let the condescension, while single, be seen and acknowleged, are points, which a wise woman, knowing her man, should aim at: And a wise woman, I should think, would choose to live single all her life, rather than give herself to a man, whom she thinks unworthy of a treatment so noble.
But when a woman lets her lover see, that she has the generosity to approve of and reward a well-meant service; that she has a mind that lifts her above the little captious follies, which some (too licentiously, I hope) attribute to the sex in general: That she resents not (if ever she thinks she has reason to be displeased) with petulance, or through pride: Nor thinks it necessary to insist upon little points, to come at or secure great ones, perhaps not proper to be aimed at: Nor leaves room to suppose she has so much cause to doubt her own merit, as to put the love of the man she intends to favour, upon disagreeable or arrogant tryals: But lets reason be the principal guide of her actions: -She will then never fail of that true respect, of that sincere veneration, which she wishes to meet with; and which will make her judgment, after marriage, consulted, sometimes with a preference to a man's own, at other times, as a delightful confirmation of it.
And so much, my beloved Miss Howe, for this subject now, and I dare say, for ever!
I will begin another letter by-and-by, and send both together. -Mean time, I am, &c.
In the promised next letter the lady acquaints Miss Howe with Mr. Brand's Report; with her sister's proposals either that she will go abroad, or prosecute Mr. Lovelace; she complaints of the severe letter of her uncle Antony and her sister; but in milder terms than they deserved.
She sends her Dr. Lewen's letter, and the copy of her answer to it.
She tells her of the difficulties she had been under to avoid seeing Mr. Lovelaee. Gives her the contents of the letter she wrote to him: Is afraid, she says, that it is a step that is not strictly right, is allegory and metaphor be not allowable to one in her circumstances.
She informs her of her cousin Morden's arrival and readiness to take her part with her relations; of his designed interview with Mr. Lovelace; and tells her what her apprehensions are upon it.
She gives her the purport of the conversation between her aunt Hervey and Mrs. Norton. And then adds:
But were they ever so favourably inclined to me now, what can they do for me? I wish, and that for their sakes more than for my own, that they would yet relent-But I am very ill-I must drop my Pen-A sudden Faintness overspreads my heart-Excuse my crooked writing! -Adieu, my dear!-Adieu!
Three o'clock, Friday.
Once more, I resume my pen. I thought I had taken my last farewell of you. I never was so very oddly affected: Something that seemed totally to overwhelm my faculties -I don't know how to describe it! -I believe I do amiss in writing so much, and taking too much upon me: But an active mind, tho' clouded by bodily illness, cannot be idle.
I'll see if the air, and a discontinued attention will help me. -But if it will not, don't be concerned for me, my dear! -I shall be happy. Nay, I am more so already, than of late I thought I could ever be in this life. - Yet how this body clings! -How it incumbers!
Seven o'clock.
I could not send this letter away with so melancholy an ending, as you would have thought it. So I deferred closing it, till I saw how I should be on my return from my airing: And now I must say, I am quite another thing: So alert!-that I could proceed with as much spirit as I as begun, and add more preachment to your lively subject, if I had not written more than enough upon it already.
I wish you would let me give you and Mr. Hickman joy. Do, my dear! -I should take some to myself, if you would.
My respectful compliments to all your friends, as well to those I have the honour to know, as to those I do not know.
I have just now been surprized with a letter from one whom I long ago gave up all thoughts of hearing from. From Mr. Wyerley. I will inclose it. You'll be surprized at it, as much as I was. This seems to be a man whom I might have reclaimed. But I could not love him. Yet I hope I never treated him with arrogance. Indeed, my dear, if I am not too partial to myself, I think I refused him with more gentleness, than you retain somebody else. And this recollection gives me less pain than I should have had in the other case, on receiving this instance of a generosity that affects me. I will also inclose the rough draught of my answer, as soon as I have transcribed it.
If I begin another sheet, I shall write to the end of it: Wherefore I will only add, my prayers for your honour and prosperity, and for a long, long, happy life; and that, when it comes to be wound up, you may be as calm and as easy at quitting it, as I hope in God I shall be. Who am, and will be, to the latest moment,
Your truly affectionate and obliged Servant,
Cl. Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XVIII.

Mr. Wyerley, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Wednesday, Aug. 23.
Dearest Madam,
You will be surprised to find renewed, at this distance of time, an address so positively tho' so politely discouraged: But, however it be received, I must renew it. Every body has heard, that you have been vilely treated by a man, who, to treat you ill, must be the vilest of men. Every body knows your just resentment of his base treatment: That you are determined never to be reconciled to him: And that you persist in these sentiments against all the intreaties of his noble relations, against all the prayers and repentance of his ignoble self. And all the world that have the honour to know you, or have heard to him, applaud your resolution, as worthy of yourself; worthy of your virtue, and of that strict honour which was always attributed to you by every one who spoke of you.
But, Madam, were all the world to have been of a different opinion, it could never have altered mine. I ever loved you; I ever must love you. Yet have I endeavoured to resign to my hard fate. When I had so many ways, in vain, sought to move you in my favour, I sat down, seemingly contented. I even wrote to you, that I would sit down contended. And I endeavoured to make all my friends and companions think I was. But no body knows what pangs this self-denial cost me! In vain did the chace, in vain did travel, in vain did lively company, offer themselves: Tho' embraced each in its turn, yet with redoubled force did my passion for you bring on my unhappiness, when I looked into myself, into my own heart; for there did your charming image sit inthroned; and you ingrossed me all.
I truly deplore those misfortunes, and those sufferings, for your own sake; which, nevertheless, encourage me to renew my bold hope. I know not particulars. I dare not inquire after them; because my sufferings would be increased with the knowledge of what yours have been. I therefore desire not to know more than what common report wounds my ears with; and what is given me to know, by your absence from your cruel family, and from the sacred place, where I, among numbers of your rejected admirers, used to be twice a week sure to behold you, doing credit to that service, of which your example gave me the highest notions. But whatever be those misfortunes, of whatsoever nature those sufferings, I shall bless the occasion for my own sake, (tho' for yours curse the author of them) if they may give me the happiness to know, that this my renewed address may not be absolutely rejected. Only give me hope, that it may one day meet with encouragement, if in the interim nothing happen, either in my morals or behaviour, to give you fresh offence. Give me but hope of this-Not absolutely to reject me is all the hope I ask for; and I will love you, if possible, still more than I ever loved you-And that for your sufferings; for well you deserve to be loved, even to adoration, who can, for honour and for virtue's sake, subdue a passion which common spirits (I speak by cruel experience) find invincible; and this at a time when the black offender kneels and supplicates, as I am well assured he does, (all his friends likewise supplicating for him) to be forgiven.
That you cannot forgive him; not forgive him so as to receive him again to favour, is no wonder. His offence is against virtue: That is a part of your essence-What magnanimity is this! How just to yourself, and to your spotless character! Is it any merit to admire more than ever so exalted a distinguisher? It is not. I cannot plead it.
What hope have I left, may it be said, when my address was before rejected, now, that your sufferings, so nobly borne, have, with all good judges, exalted your character? Yet, Madam, I have to pride myself in this, That while your friends, (not looking upon you in the just light I do) persecute and banish you; while your fortune and estate is with-held from you, and threatened (as I know) to be with-held, as long as the chicaning Law, or rather the chicaneriers of its practicers, can keep it from you: While you are destitute of protection; every body standing aloof, either thro' fear of the injurer of one family, or of the hard-hearted of the other; I pride myself, I say, to stand forth, and offer my fortune, and my life, at your devotion: With a selfish hope indeed: I should be too great an hypocrite not to own this: And I know how much you abhor insincerity.
But, whether you encourage that hope or not, accept my best services, I beseech you, Madam: And be pleased to excuse me for a piece of hone start, which the nature of the case, (doubting the honour of your notice otherwise) makes me choose to conclude with-It is this:
If I am to be still the most unhappy of men, let your pen, by one line, tell me so. If I am permitted to indulge a hope, however distant, your silence shall be deemed by me, the happiest indication of it that you can give-Except that still happier-(the happiest that can befal me) a signification that you will accept the tender of that life and fortune, which it would be my pride, and my glory, to sacrifice in your service, leaving the reward to yourself.
Be your determination as it may, I must for ever admire and love you: Nor will I ever change my condition, while you live, whether you change yours or not: For, having once had the presumption to address You, I cannot stoop to think of any other woman: And this I solemnly declare in the presence of that God, whom I daily pray to bless and protect you, be your determination what it will with regard to, dearest Madam,
Your most devoted and ever-affectionate and faithful Servant,
Alexander Wyerley.

### v7 LETTER XIX.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Alex. Wyerley, Esq;
Sat. Aug. 26.
SIR
The generosity of your purpose would have commanded not only my notice, but my thanks, altho' you had not given me the alternative you are pleased to call artful. And I do therefore give you my thanks for your kind letter.
At the time you distinguished me by your favourable opinion, I told you, Sir, that my choice was the single life. And most truly did I tell you so.
When that was not permitted me, and I looked round upon the several gentlemen who had been proposed to me, and had reason to believe that there was not one of them against whose morals or principles there lay not some exception, it would not have been much to be wondered at, if Fancy had been allowed to give a preference, where Judgment was at a loss to determine.
Far be it from me to say this with a design to upbraid you, Sir, or to reflect upon you. I always wished you well. You had reason to think I did. You had the generosity to be pleased with the frankness of my behaviour to you; as I had with that of yours to me: And I am sorry to be now told, that the acquiescence you obliged me with, gave you so much pain.
Had the option I have mentioned been allowed me afterwards, (as I not only wished but proposed) things had not happened that did happen. But there was a kind of fatality, by which our whole family was impelled, as I may say; and which none of us were permitted to avoid. But this is a subject that cannot be dwelt upon.
As matters are, I have only to wish, for your own sake, that you will encourage and cultivate those good motions in your mind, to which many passages in your kind and generous letter now before me, must be owing. Depend upon it, Sir, that such motions wrought into habit, will yield you pleasure at a time when nothing else can. And at present, shining out in your actions and conversation, will commend you to the worthiest of our Sex. For, Sir, the man who is good upon choice, as well as by education, has that quality in himself, which ennobles the human race, and without which the most dignified by birth or rank are ignoble.
As to the resolution you so solemnly make not to marry while I live, I should be concerned at it, were I not morally sure, that you may keep it, and yet not be detrimented by it. Since a few, a very few days, will convince you, that I am got above all human dependence- and that there is no need of that protection and favour, which you so generously offer to, Sir,
Your obliged Well-wisher, and humble Servant,
Cl. Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XX.

Mr. Lovelace, To J. Belford, Esq;
Monday noon, Aug. 28.
About the time of poor Belton's interrment last night, as near as we could guess, Lord M, Mowbray and myself toasted once, To the memory of honest Tom Belton; and, by a quick transition to the living, Health to Miss Harlowe; which Lord M. obligingly began, and, To the happy reconciliation; and then we stuck in a remembrance To honest Jack Belford, who, of late, we all agreed, was become an useful and humane man; preferring his friend's service to his own.
But what is the meaning I hear nothing from thee,(a)? And why dost thou not let me into the ground of the sudden reconciliation between my beloved and her friends, and the cause of the generous invitation which she gives me of attending her at her father's some time hence?
Thou must certainly have been let into the secret by this time; and I can tell thee, I shall be plaguy jealous, if there be any one thing pass between my Angel and Thee, that is to be concealed from me. For either I am a principal in this cause, or I am nothing. I have dispatched Will. to know the reason of they neglect.
But, let me whisper a word or two in thy ear. I begin to be afraid, after all, that this letter was a stratagem to get me out of town, and for nothing else: for, in the first place, Tourville, in a letter I received this morning, tells me, that the lady is actually very ill-[I am sorry for it with all my soul!] This, thou'lt say, I may think a reason, why she cannot set out as yet: But then, I have heard, on the other hand, but last night, that the family is as implacable as ever; and my Lord and I expect this very afternoon a visit from Colonel Morden; who undertakes, it seems, to question me as to my intention with regard to his cousin.
This convinces me, that if she has apprised them of my offers to her, they will not believe me to be in earnest, till they are assured that I am so from my own mouth. And then I understand, that the intended visit is an officiousness of Morden's own, without the desire of any of her friends.
Now, Jack, what can a man make of all this? My intelligence as to the continuance of her family's implacableness is not to be doubted; and yet when I read her letter, what can one say? Surely, the dear little rogue will not lie!
I never knew her dispense with her word, but once: And that was, when she promised to forgive me, after the dreadful fire that had like to have happened at our mother's, and yet would not see me next day, and afterwards made her escape to Hamstead, in order to avoid forgiving me: And as she severely smarted for this departure from her honour given (for it is a sad thing for good people to break their word, when it is in their power to keep it) one would not expect, that she should set about deceiving again; more especially by the premeditation of writing. You, perhaps, will ask, What honest man is obliged to keep his promise with a highwayman? for well I know your unmannerly way of making comparisons: But I say, every honest man is-And I will give you an illustration.
Here is a marauding varlet, who demands your money, with his pistol at your breast. You have neither money nor valuable effects about you; and promise solemnly, if he will spare your life, that you will send him an agreed-upon sum, by such a day, to such a place. The question is, If your life is not in the fellow's power?
How he came by the power is another question; for which he must answer with his life, when caught-so he runs risque for risque.
Now if he gives you your life, does he not give, think you, a valuable consideration for the money you engage your honour to send him? If not, the sum must be exorbitant, or your life is a very paltry one, even in your own opinion.
I need not make the application; and I am sure, that even thou thyself, who never sparest me, and thinkest thou knowest my heart by thy own, canst not possibly put the case in a stronger light against me.
Then, why do good people take upon themselves to censure, as they do, persons less scrupulous than themselves? Is it not because the latter allow themselves in any liberty, in order to carry a point? And can my not doing my duty, warrant another for not doing his? Thou wilt not say it can.
And how would it sound, to put the case as strongly once more, as my greatest enemy would put it, both as to fact and in words: Here has that profligate wretch Lovelace broken his vow with and deceived Miss Clarissa Harlowe -A vile fellow! would an enemy say: But it is like him. But when it comes to be said, that the pious Miss Clarissa Harlowe has broken her word with and deceived Lovelace; Good Lord! would every one say! Sure it cannot be!
Upon my soul, Jack, such is the veneration I have for this admirable woman, that I am shocked barely at putting the case; and so wilt thou, if thou respectest her as thou oughtest: For thou knowest, that men and women all the world over, form their opinions of one another, by each person's professions and known practices. In this lady therefore it would be as unpardonable to tell a wilful untruth, as it would be strange if I kept my word. -In Love-cases, I mean; for as to the rest, I am an honest moral man, as all who know me can testify.
And what, after all, would this lady deserve, if she has deceived me in this case? For did she not set me prancing away upon Lord M's best nag, to Lady Sarah's, and to Lady Betty's, with an erect and triumphing countenance, to shew them her letter to me? And I have received their congratulations upon it: Well, and now, Cousin Lovelace, cries one; Well and now, cousin Lovelace, cries t'other; I hope you'll make the best of husbands to so excellent and so forgiving a lady! And now we shall soon have the pleasure of looking upon you as a reformed man, added one! And now we shall see you in the way we have so long wished you to be in, exulted the other!
My cousins Montague also have been ever since rejoicing in the new relationship. Their charming cousin, and their lovely cousin, at every word! -And how dearly they will lover her! -What lessons will they take from her! -And yet Charlotte, who pretends to have the eye of an eagle, was for finding out some mystery in the style and manner, till I overbore her, and laughed her out of it.
As for Lord M. he has been in hourly expectation of being sent to with proposals of one sort or other from the Harlowes: And still will have it, that such proposals will be made by Colonel Morden when he comes; and that the Harlowes only put on a face of irreconcileableness, till they know the issue of Morden's visit, in order to make the better terms with us.
Indeed, if I had not undoubted reason, as I said, to believe the continuance of their antipathy to me, and implacableness to her, I should be apt to think there might be some foundation for my Lord's conjecture; for there is a cursed deal of low cunning in all that family, except in the angel of it, who has so much generosity of soul, that she despises cunning, both name and thing.
What I mean by all This, is, to let thee see, what a stupid figure I should make to all my own family, if my Clarissa has been capable, as Gulliver in his abominable Yahoo-story phrases it, of saying the thing that is not. By my foul, Jack, if it were only that I should be outwitted by such a novice at plotting, and that it would make me look silly to my kinswomen here, who know I value myself upon my contrivances, it would vex me to the heart; and I would instantly clap a feather-bed into a coach and fix, and fetch her away, sick or well, and marry her at my leisure.
But Col. Morden is come, and I must break off.

### v7 LETTER XXI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday Night, Aug. 28.
I doubt you will be all impatience, that you have not heard from me since mine of Thursday last. You would be still more so, if you knew that I had by me a letter ready-written.
I went early yesterday morning to Epsom; and found every thing disposed according to the directions I had left on Friday; and at night the solemn office was performed. Tourville was there; and behaved very decently, and with greater concern than I thought he would ever have expressed for any body.
Thomasine, they told me, in a kind of disguise, was in an obscure pew, out of curiosity (for it seems she was far from shewing any tokens of grief) to see the last office performed for the man whose heart she had so largely contributed to break.
I was obliged to stay till this afternoon, to settle several necessary matters, and to direct inventories to be taken in order for appraisement; for every thing is to be turned into money, by his will. I presented his sister with the too guineas the poor man left me as his executor, and desired her to continue in the house, and take the direction of every thing, till I could hear from his nephew at Antigua, who is heir at law. He had left her but 50l. altho' he knew her indigence; and that it was owing to a vile husband, and not to herself, that she was indigent.
The poor man left about 200l. in money, and 200l. in two East-India bonds; and I will contrive, if I can, to make up the poor woman's 50l. and my 100 guineas, 200l. to her; and then she will have some little matter coming in certain, which I will oblige her to keep out of the hands of son, who has compleated that ruin which his father had very near effected.
I gave Tourville his 20l. and will send you and Mowbray yours by the first order. And so much for poor Belton's affairs till I see you.
I got to town in the evening, and went directly to Smith's. I found Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith in the back-shop, and I saw they had been both in tears. They rejoiced to see me, however, and told me, that the doctor and Mr. Goddard were but just gone; as was also the worthy clergyman, who often comes to pray by her; and all three were of opinion, that she would hardly live to see the entrance of another week. I was not so much surprised as grieved; for I had feared as much when I left her on Saturday.
I sent up my compliments; and she returned, that she would take it for a favour if I would call upon her in the morning, by eight o'clock. Mrs. Lovick told me, That she had fainted away on Saturday, while she was writing, as she had done likewise the day before; and having received benefit then by a little turn in a chair, she was carried abroad again. She returned somewhat better; and wrote till late; yet had a pretty good night; and went to Covent-garden church in the morning: But came home so ill, that she was obliged to lie down.
When she arose, seeing how much grieved Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith were for her, she made apologies for the trouble she gave them-You were happy, said she, before I came hither. It was a cruel thing in me to come among honest strangers, and to be sick, and die with you.
When they touched upon the irreconcileableness of her friends, she said, She had ill offices done her to them, and they did not know how ill she was, nor would they believe any thing she should write. But yet she could not but sometimes think it a little hard, that she should have so many near and dear friends living, and not one to look upon her-No old servant, no old friend, she said, to be permitted to come near her, without being sure of incurring displeasure; and to have such a great work to go thro' by herself, a young creature as she was, and to have every thing to think of as to her temporal matters, and to order, to her very interrment! No dear mother, said she, to pray by me and bless me! -No kind sister to sooth and comfort me! -But come, said she, how do I know but all is for the best-If I can but make a right use of the dispensation? -Pray for me, Mrs. Lovick-Pray for me, Mrs. Smith, that I may-I have great need of your prayers. - This cruel man has discomposed me. His persecutions have given me a pain just here-putting her hand to her heart. What a step has he made me take to avoid him! - Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled? He has made a bad spirit take possession of me, I think-Broken in upon all my duties. And will not yet, I doubt, let me be at rest. Indeed he is very cruel. -But, this is one of my trials, I believe. By God's grace I shall be easier to-morrow, and especially if I have no more of his tormentings, and if I can can get a tolerable night. And I will fit up till eleven, that I may.
She said, That tho' this was so heavy a day with her, she was at other times, within these few days past especially, blessed with bright hours; and particularly, that she had now-and-then such joyful assurances (which she hoped were not presumptuous ones) that God would receive her to his mercy, that she could hardly contain herself, and was ready to think herself above this earth while she was in it: And what, inferred she to Mrs. Lovick, must be the state itself, the very aspirations after which, have often cast a beamy light thro' the thickest darkness, and when I have been at the lowest ebb, have dispelled the black clouds of despondency? -As I hope they soon will this spirit of repining.
She had a pretty good night, it seems, and this morning went in a chair to St. Dunstan's church.
The chairmen told Mrs. Smith, that after prayers (for she did not return till between nine and ten) they carried her to a house in Fleet-street, where they never waited on her before. And where dost think this was? -Why, to an Undertaker's! Good God! what a woman is this! She went into the back-shop, and talked with the master of it about half an hour, and came from him with great serenity; he waiting upon her to her chair with a respectful countenance, but full of curiosity and seriousness.
'Tis evident, that she then went to bespeak her house that she talked of. -As soon as you can, Sir, were her words to him as she got into the chair. Mrs. Smith told me this with the same surprize, and grief, that I heard it.
She was so ill in the afternoon, having got cold either at St. Dunstan's or at chapel, that she sent for the clergyman to pray by her; and the women, unknown to her, sent both for Dr. H. and Mr. Goddard: Who were just gone, as I told you, when I came to pay my respects to her this evening.
And thus I have recounted from the good women what passed to this night since my absence.
I long for to-morrow, that I may see her: And yet 'tis such a melancholy longing, as I never experienced, and know not how to describe.
Tuesday, Aug. 29.
I was at Smith's at half an hour after seven. They told me, that the lady was gone in a chair to St. Dunstan's; but was better than she had been in either of the two preceding days; and said to Mrs Lovick and Mrs. Smith, as she went into the chair, I have a good deal to answer for to you, my good friends, for my vapourish conversation of last night.
If, Mrs. Lovick, said she smiling, I have no new matters to discompose me, I believe my spirits will hold out purely.
She returned immediately after prayers.
Mr. Belford, said she, as she entered the back-shop where I was, and upon my approaching her, I am very glad to see you. You have been performing for your poor friend a kind last office. 'Tis not long ago, since you did the same for a near relation. Is it not a little hard upon you, that these troubles should fall so thick to your lot? But they are charitable offices: And it is a praise to your humanity, that poor dying people know not where to choose so well.
I told her I was sorry to hear she had been so ill since I had the honour to attend her; but rejoiced to find, that now she seemed a good deal better.
It will be sometimes better, and sometimes worse, replied she, with poor creatures, when they are balancing between life and death. But no more of these matters just now. I hope, Sir, you'll breakfast with me. I was quite vapourish yesterday. I had a very bad spirit upon me. Had I not, Mrs. Smith? But I hope I shall be no more so. And to-day I am perfectly serene. This day rises upon me as if it would be a bright one.
She desired me to walk up, and invited Mr. Smith and his wife, and Mrs. Lovick also, to breakfast with her. I was better pleased with her liveliness than with her looks.
The good people retiring after breakfast, the following conversation passed between us.
Pray, Sir, let me ask you, said she, if you think I may promise myself that I shall be no more molested by your friend?
I hesitated: For how could I answer for such a man?
What shall I do, if he comes again? -You see how I am. -I cannot fly from him now-If he has any pity left for the poor creature whom he has thus reduced, let him not come. -But have you heard from him lately? And will have come?
I hope not, Madam; I have not heard from him since Thursday last, that he went out of town, rejoicing in the hopes your letter gave him of a reconciliation between your friends and you, and that he might in good time see you at your father's; and he is gone down to give all his friends joy of the news, and is in high spirits upon it.
Alas for me! I shall surely have him come up to persecute me again! As soon as he discovers that That was only a stratagem to keep him away, he will come up; and who knows but even now he is upon the road? I thought I was so bad, that I should have been out of his and every body's way before now; for I expected not, that this contrivance would serve me above two or three days; and by this time he must have found out, that I am not so happy as to have any hope of a reconciliation with my family; and then he will come, if it be only in revenge for what he will think a deceit.
I believe I looked surprised to hear her confess that her letter was a stratagem only; for she said, You wonder, Mr. Belford, I observe, that I could be guilty of such an artifice. I doubt it is not right: But how could I see a man who had so mortally injured me; yet, pretending sorrow for his crimes, and wanting to see me, could behave with so much shocking levity as he did to the honest people of the house? Yet, 'tis strange too, that neither you nor he found out my meaning on perusal of my letter. You have seen what I wrote, no doubt?
I have, Madam. And then I began to account for it, as an innocent artifice.
Thus far indeed, Sir, it is innocent, that I meant him no hurt, and had a right to the effect I hoped for from it; and he had none to invade me. But have you, Sir, that letter of his, in which he gives you (as I suppose he does) the copy of mine?
I have, Madam. And pulled it out of my letter case: But hesitating-Nay, Sir, said she, be pleased to read my letter to yourself-I desire not to see his-and see if you can be longer a stranger to a meaning so obvious.
I read it to myself-Indeed, Madam, I can find nothing but that you are going down to Harlowe-place to be reconciled to your father and other friends: And Mr. Lovelace presumed that a letter from your sister, which he saw brought when he was at Mr. Smith's, gave you the welcome news of it.
She then explained all to me, and that, as I may say, in six words-A religious meaning is couched under it, and that's the reason that neither you nor I could find it out.
Read but for my father's house, Heaven, said she, and for the interposition of my dear blessed friend, suppose the Mediation of my Saviour; which I humbly rely upon; and all the rest of the letter will be accounted for.
I read it so, and stood astonished for a minute at her invention, her piety, her charity, and at thine and my own stupidity, to be thus taken in.
And now, thou vile Lovelace, what hast thou to do, (the lady all consistent with herself, and no hopes left for thee) but to hang, down, or shoot thyself, for an outwitted triumpher?
My surprize being a little over, she proceeded: As to the letter that came from my sister while your friend was here, you will soon see, Sir, that it is the cruelest letter she ever wrote me.
And then she expressed a deep concern for what might be the consequence of Col. Morden's intended visit to you; and besought me, that if now, or at any time hereafter, I had opportunity to prevent any further mischief, without detriment or danger to myself, I would do it.
I assured her of the most particular attention to this and to all her commands; and that in a manner so agreeable to her, that she invoked at blessing upon me for my goodness, as she called it, to a desolate creature who suffered under the worst of orphanage; those were her words.
She then went back to her first subject, her uneasiness for fear of your molesting her again; and sid, If you have any influence over him, Mr. Belford, prevail upon him, that he will give me the assurance, that the short remainder of my time shall be all my own. I have need of it. Indeed I have. Why will he wish to interrupt me in my duty? Has he not punished me enough for my preference of him to all his sex? Has he not destroyed my fame and my fortune? And will not his causeless vengeance upon me be complete, unless he ruins my soul too? -Excuse me, Sir, this vehemence! But indeed it greatly imports me, to know that I shall be no more disturbed by him. And yet, with all this aversion, I would sooner give away to his visit, tho' I were to expire the moment I saw him, than to be the cause of any fatal misunderstanding between you and him.
I assured her, that I would make such a representation of the matter to you, and of the state of her health, that I would undertake to answer for you, that you would not attempt to come near her.
And for this reason, Lovelace, do I lay the whole matter before you, and desire you will authorize me, as soon as this and mine of Saturday last come to your hands, to dissipate her fears.
This gave her a little satisfaction; and then she said, that had I not told her I could promise for you, she was determined, ill as she is, to remove somewhere out of my knowlege as well as out of yours. And yet, to have been obliged to leave people I am but just got acquainted with, said the poor lady, and to have died among perfect strangers, would have completed my hardships.
This conversation, I found, as well from the length, as the nature of it, had fatigued her; and seeing her change colour once or twice, I made that my excuse, and took leave of her: Desiring her permission to attend her in the evening; and so often as possible; for I could not help telling her, that every time I saw her, I more and more considered her as a beatified spirit; and as one sent from heaven to draw me after her out of the miry gulph in which I had been so long immersed.
And laugh at me, if thou wilt; but it is true, that every time I approach her, I cannot but look upon her, as one just entering into a companionship with saints and angels. This thought so wholly possessed me; that I could not help begging, as I went away, her prayers and her blessing; and that with the reverence due to an angel, and with an earnestness like That, which expecting intimates manifest, when they seek to make an interest with a person, who is just exalted into a prime degree of power, by the favour of his prince.
In the evening, she was so low and weak, that I took my leave of her, in less than a quarter of an hour. I went directly home. Where, to the pleasure and wonder of my cousin and her family, I now pass many honest evenings: Which they impute to your being out of town.
I shall dispatch my packet to-morrow morning early by my own servant, to make you amends for the suspence I must have kept you in: You'll thank me for that, I hope; but will not, I am sure, for sending your servant back without a letter.
I long for the particulars of the conversation between you and Mrs. Morden: The lady, as I have hinted, is full of apprehensions about it. Send me back this packet when perused, for I have not had either time or patience to take a copy of it. -And I beseech you enable me to make good my engagements to the poor lady that you will not invade her again.

### v7 LETTER XXII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wednesday, Aug. 30.
I have a conversation to give you that passed between this admirable lady and Dr. H. which will furnish a new instance of the calmness and serenity with which she can talk of death, and prepare for it, as if it were an occurrence as familiar to her as dressing and undressing.
As soon as I had dispatched my servant to you with my letters of the 26th, 28th, and yesterday the 29th, I went to pay my duty to her, and had the pleasure to find her, after a tolerable night, pretty lively and chearful. She was but just returned from her usual devotions. And Doctor H. alighted as she entered the door.
After enquiring how she did, and hearing her complaints of shortness of breath (which she attributed to inward decay, precipitated by her late harasses, as well from her friends as from you) he was for advising her to go into the air.
What will that do for me, said she? Tell me truly, good Sir, with a chearful aspect, (you know you cannot disturb me by it) whether now you do not put on the true physician; and, despairing that any thing in medicine will help me, advise me to the air, as the last resource? -Can you think the air will avail in such a malady as mine?
He was silent.
I ask, said she, because my friends (who will possibly some times hence inquire after the means I used for my recovery) may be satisfied that I omitted nothing which so worthy and so skilful a physician prescribed?
The air, Madam, my possibly help the difficulty of breathing, which has so lately attacked you.
But, Sir, you see how weak I am. You must see that I have been consuming from day to day; and now, if I can judge by what I feel in myself, putting her hand to her heart, I cannot continue long. If the air would very probably add to my days, tho' I am far from being desirous to have them lengthened, I would go into it; and the rather, as I know Mrs. Lovick would kindly accompany me. But if I were to be at the trouble of removing into new lodgings (a trouble which I think now would be too much for me) and this only to die in the country, I had rather the scene were to be shut up here. For here have I meditated the spot, and the manner, and every thing, as well of the minutest as of the highest consequence, that can attend the solemn moments. So, Doctor, tell me truly, May I stay here, and be clear of any imputations of curtailing, thro' wilfulness or impatiency, or thro' resentments which I hope I am got above, a life that might otherwise be prolonged? -Tell me, Sir, you are not talking to a coward in this respect; indeed you are not! -Unaffectedly smiling.
The doctor turning to me, was at a loss what to say, lifting up his eyes only in admiration of her.
Never had any patient, said she, a more indulgent and more humane physician-But since you are loth to answer my question directly, I will put it in other words. You don't injoin me to go into the air, Doctor, do you?
I do not, Madam. Nor do I now visit you as a physician; but as a person whose conversation I admire, and whose sufferings I condole. And to explain myself more directly, as to the occasion of this day's visit in particular, I must tell you, Madam, that, understanding how much you suffer by the displeasure of your friends; and having no doubt, but that if they knew the way you are in, they would alter their conduct to you; and believing it must cut them to the heart, when too late they shall be informed of everything; I have resolved to apprise them by letter (stranger as I am to their persons) how necessary it is for some of them to attend you very speedily. For their sakes, Madam, let me press for your approbation of this measure.
She paused, and at last said, This is kind, very kind, in you, Sir. But I hope that you do not think me so perverse, and so obstinate, as to have left till now any means unessayed, which I thought likely to move my friends in my favour. But now, Doctor, said she, I should be too much disturbed at their grief, if they were any of them to come or to send me: And, perhaps, if I found they still loved me, with to live; and so should quit unwillingly that life, which I am now really fond of quitting, and hope to quit, as becomes a person who has had such a weaning-time as I have been favoured with.
I hope, Madam, said I, we are not so near as you apprehend, to that deplorable deprivation you hint at with such an amazing presence of mind. And therefore I presume to second the doctor's motion, if it were only for the sake of your father and mother, that they may have the satisfaction, if they must lose you, to think, they were first reconciled to you.
It is very kindly, very humanely considered, said she.
But, if you think me not so very near my last hour; let me desire this may be postponed till I see what effect my cousin Morden's mediation may have. Perhaps he may vouchsafe to make me a visit yet, after his intended interview with Mr. Lovelace is over; of which, who knows, Mr. Belford, but your next letters may give an account? I hope it will not be a fatal one to any body! -Will you promise me, Doctor, to forbear writing for two days only, and I will communicate to you any thing that occurs in that time; and then you shall take your own way? Mean time, I repeat my thanks for your goodness to me. -Nay, dear Doctor, hurry not away from me so precipitately (for he was going for fear of an offered fee) I will no more affront you with tenders that have painted you some time past: And since I must now, from this kindly offered favour, look upon you only as a friend, I will assure you henceforth, that I will give you no more uneasiness on that head: And now, Sir, I know I shall have the pleasure of seeing you oftener than heretofore.
The worthy gentleman was pleased with his assurance, telling her, that he had always come to see her with great pleasure, but parted with her, on the account the hinted at, with as much pain; and that he should not have forborn to double his visits, could he have had this kind assurance as early as he wished for it.
There are few instances of like disinterestedness, I doubt, in this tribe. Till now I always held it for gospel, That friendship and physician were incompatible things; and little imagined, that a man of medicine, when he had given over his patient to death, would think of any visits but those of ceremony, that he might stand well with the family, against it came to their turns to go thro' his turnpike.
After the Doctor was gone, she fell into a very serious discourse of the vanity of life, and the wisdom of preparing for death, while health and strength remained, and before the infirmities of body impaired the faculties of the mind, and disabled them from acting with the necessary; efficacy and clearness: The whole calculated for everyone's meridian, but particularly, as it was easy to observe, for Thine and Mine.
She was very curious to know further particulars of the behaviour of poor Belton is his last moments. You must not wonder at my inquiries, Mr. Belford, said she; for who is that is to undertake a journey into a country they never travelled to before, that inquires not into the difficulties of the road, and what accommodations are to be expected in the way?
I gave her a brief account of the poor man's terrors, and unwillingness to die: And when I had done; Thus, Mr. Belford, said she, must it always be, with poor souls who have never thought of their long voyage till the moment they are to imbark for it.
She made such other observations upon this subject, as coming from the mouth of a person who will so soon be a comparison for angels, I shall never forget. And indeed, when I went home, that I might in graft them the better on my memory, I entered them down in writing: But I will not let you see them until you are in a frame more proper to benefit by them, than you are likely to be in one while.
Thus far I had written, when the unexpected early return of my servant with your packet (yours and he meeting at Slough, and exchanging letters) obliged me to leave off to give its contents a reading. -Here, therefore, I close this letter.

### v7 LETTER XXIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday morn. Aug. 29.
Now, Jack, will I give thee an account of what passed on occasion of the visit made us by Col. Morden. He came on horseback, attended by one servant; and Lord M. received him as a relation of Miss Harlowe's, with the highest marks of civility and respect.
After some general talk of the times, and of the weather, and such nonsense as Englishmen generally make their introductory topics to conversation, the Colonel addressed himself to Lord M. and to me, as follows:
I need not, my Lord, and Mr. Lovelace, as you know the relation I bear to the Harlowe family, make any apology for entering upon a subject, which on account of that relation, you must think is the principal reason of the honour I have done myself in this visit.
Miss Harlowe, Miss Clarissa Harlowe's affair, said Lord M. with his usual forward bluntness. That, Sir, is what you mean. 'She is, by all accounts, the most excellent woman in the world.'
I am glad to hear that is your Lordship's opinion of her. It is every one's.
It is not only my opinion, Col. Morden (proceeded the prateing peer) but it is the opinion of all my family. Of my sisters, of my nieces, and of Mr. Lovelace himself.
Col. Would to heaven it had been always Mr. Lovelace's opinion of her!
Lovel. You have been out of England, Colonel, a good many years. Perhaps you are not yet fully apprised of all the particulars of this case.
Col. I have been out of England, Sir, about seven years. My cousin Clary Harlowe was then about twelve years of age: But never was there at twenty so discreet, so prudent, and so excellent a creature. All that knew her, or saw her, admired her. Mind and person, never did I see such promises of perfection in any young lady: And I am told, nor is it to be wondered at, that as she advanced to maturity, she more than justified and made good those promises. -Then, as to fortune-what her father, what her uncles, and what I myself intended to do for her, besides what her grandfather had done- There is not a finer fortune in the county.
Lovel. All this, Colonel, and more than this, is Miss Clarissa Harlowe; and had it not been for the implacableness and violence of her family, (all resolved to push her upon a match as unworthy of her, as hateful to her) she had still been happy.
Col. I own, Mr. Lovelace, the truth of what you observed just now, that I am not thoroughly acquainted with all that has passed between you and my cousin. But permit me to say, that when I first heard that you made your addresses to her, I knew but of one objection against you. That, indeed, a very great one: And upon a letter sent me, I gave her my free opinion upon the subject. But had it not been for that, I own, that in my private mind, there could not have been a more suitable match: For you are a gallant gentleman, graceful in your person, easy and genteel in your deportment, and in your family, fortunes, and expectations happy as a man can wish to be. Then the knowlege I had of you in Italy (altho' give me leave to say, your conduct there was not wholly unexceptionable) convinces me, that you are brave: And few gentlemen come up to you in wit and vivacity. Your education has given you great advantages; your manners are engaging, and you have travelled; and I know, if you'll excuse me, you make better observations than you are governed by. All these qualifications make it not at all surprising, that a young lady should love you: And that this love, joined to that indiscreet warmth wherewith my cousin's friends would have forced her inclinations in favour of men who are far your inferiors in the qualities I have named, should throw her upon your protection: But then, if there were these two strong motives, the one to induce, the other to impel her, let me ask you, Sir, If she were not doubly intitled to generous usage from a man whom she chose for her protector; and whom, let me take the liberty to say, she could so amply reward for the protection he was to afford her?
Lovel. Miss Clarissa Harlowe was intitled, Sir, to the best usage that man could give her. I have no scruple to own it. I will always do her the justice she so well deserves. I know what will be your inference; and have only to say, That time past cannot be recalled. Perhaps I wish it could.
The Colonel then in a very manly strain set forth the wickedness of attempting a woman of virtue, and character. He said, that men had generally too many advantages over the weakness, credulity, and inexperience of the fair sex, who were too apt to be hurried into acts of precipitation by their reading inflaming novels, and idle romances; that his cousin, however, he was sure, was above the reach of common seduction, or to be influenced to the rashness her parents accused her of, by weaker motives than their violence, and the most solemn promises on my part: But, nevertheless, having those motives, and her prudence (eminent as it was) being rather the effect of constitution than experience (a fine advantage, however, he said, to ground an unblameable future life upon) she might not be apprehensive of bad designs, in a man she loved: It was, therefore, a very heinous thing to abuse the confidence of such a lady.
He was going on in this trite manner: But, interrupting him, I said; These general observations, Colonel, perhaps, suit not this particular case. But you yourself are a man of gallantry; and, possibly, were you to be put to the question, might not be able to vindicate every action of your life, any more than I.
Col. You are welcome, Sir, to put what questions you please to me. And, I thank God, I can both own and be ashamed of my errors.
Lord M. looked at me; but as the Colonel did not by his manner seem to intend a reflexion, I had no occasion to take it for one; especially as I can as readily own my errors, as he, or any man can his, whether ashamed of them or not.
He proceeded. As you seem to call upon me, Mr. Lovelace, I will tell you (without boasting of it) what has been my general practice, till lately, that I hope I have reformed it a good deal.
I have taken liberties, which the Laws of Morality will by no means justify; and once I should have thought myself warranted to cut the throat of any young fellow, who should make as free with a sister of mine, as I have made with the sisters and daughters of others. But then I took care never to promise any thing I intended not to perform. A modest ear should as soon have heard downright obscenity from my lips, as matrimony, if I had not intended it. Young ladies are generally ready enough to believe we mean honourably, if they love us; and it would look like a strange affront to their virtue and charms, that it should be supposed needful to put the question whether in your address you mean a wife. But when once a man makes a promise, I think it ought to be performed; and a woman is well warranted to appeal to every one against the perfidy of a deceiver; and is always sure to have the world of her side.
Now, Sir, continued he, I believe you have so much honour as to own, that you could not have made way to so eminent a virtue, without promising marriage; and that very explicitly and solemnly-
I know very well, Colonel, interrupted I, all you would say-You will excuse me, I am sure, that I break in upon you, when you find it is to answer the end you drive at.
I own to you then, that I have acted very unworthily by Miss Clarissa Harlowe; and I'll tell you further, that I heartily repent of my ingratitude and baseness to her. Nay, I will say still further, that I am so grosly culpable as to her, that even to plead, that the abuses and affronts I daily received from her implacable relations, were in any manner a provocation to me to act vilely by her, would be a mean and low attempt to excuse myself-So low and so mean, that it would doubly condemn me. And if you can say worse, speak it.
He look'd upon Lord M. and then upon me, two or three times. And my Lord said, My kinsman speaks what he thinks, I'll answer for him.
Lovel. I do, Sir; and what can I say more? And what further, in your opinion, can be done?
Col. Done! Sir? Why, Sir, (in a haughty tone he spoke) I need not tell you that reparation follows repentance. And I hope you make no scruple of justifying your sincerity as to the one, by the other.
I hesitated (for I relished not the manner of his speech, and his haughty accent) as undetermined whether to take proper notice of it, or not.
Col. Let me put this question to you, Mr. Lovelace. -Is it true, as I have heard it is, That you would marry my cousin, if she would have you? -What say you, Sir?-
This wound me up a peg higher?
Lovel. Some questions, as they may be put, imply commands, Colonel. I would be glad to know how I am to take yours? And what is to be the end of your interrogatories)
Col. My questions are not meant by me as commands, Mr. Lovelace. The end is, to prevail upon a gentleman to act like a gentleman, and a man of honour.
Lovel. (briskly) And by what arguments, Sir, do you propose to prevail upon me?
Col. By what arguments, Sir, prevail upon a gentleman to act like a gentleman! -I am surprised at That question from Mr. Lovelace.
Lovel. Why so, Sir?
Col. Why so, Sir, (angrily)-Let me-
Lovel. (interrupting) I don't choose, Colonel, to be repeated upon, in that accent.
Lord M. Come, come, gentlemen, I beg of you to be willing to understand one another. You young gentlemen are so warm-
Col. Not I, my Lord-I am neither very young, nor unduly warm. Your nephew, my Lord, can make me be every thing he would have me to be.
Lovel. And that shall be, whatever you please to be, Colonel.
Col. (fiercely) The choice be yours, Mr. Lovelace. Friend or foe! as you do or are willing to do justice to one of the finest women in the world.
Lord M. I guess'd from both your characters, what would be the case when you met. Let me interpose, gentlemen, and beg you but to understand one another. You both shoot at one mark; and if you are patient, will both hit it. Let me beg of you, Colonel, to give no challenges-
Col. Challenges, my Lord! -They are things I ever was readier to accept than to offer. But does your Lordship think, that a man so nearly related as I have the honour to be to the most accomplished woman on earth-
Lord M. (interrupting) We all allow the excellencies of the lady -And we shall all take it as the greatest honour to be ally'd to her that can be conferred upon us.
Col. So you ought, my lord!-
A perfect Chamont! thought I
Lord M. So we ought, Colonel! And so we do! -And pray let every one do as he ought!-and no more than he ought; and you, Colonel, let me tell you, will not be so hasty.
Lovel. (coolly) Come, come, Col. Morden, don't let this dispute, whatever you intend to make of it, go farther than with you and me. You deliver yourself in very high terms. Higher than ever I was talked to in my life. But here, beneath this roof, 'twould be inexcusable for me to take that notice of it, which perhaps it would become me to take elsewhere.
Col. This is spoken as I wish the man to speak, whom I should be pleased to call my friend, if all his actions were of a piece; and as I would have the man speak, whom I would think it worth my while to call my foe. I love a man of spirit, as I love my soul. But, Mr. Lovelace, as my Lord thinks we aim at one mark, let me say, that were we permitted to be alone for six minutes, I dare say, we should soon understand one another perfectly well.
And he moved to the door.
Lovel. I am intirely of your opinion, Sir, and will attend you.
My Lord rung, and stept between us; Colonel, return, I beseech you, said he; for he had stept out of the room, while my Lord held me-Nephew, you shall not go out.
The bell, and my Lord's raised voice, brought in Mowbray, and Clements, my lord's gentleman; the former in his careless way, with his hands behind him, What's the matter, Bobby? What's the matter, my Lord?
Only, only, only, stammer'd the agitated peer, these young gentlemen are, are, are-young gentlemen, that's all -Pray, Colonel Morden (who again entered the room, with a sedater aspect) let this cause have a fair tryal, I beseech you.
Col. With all my heart, my Lord.
Mowbray whisper'd me, What is the cause, Bobby? - Shall I take the gentleman to task, for thee, my boy?
Not for the world, whispered I. The Colonel is a gentleman, and I desire you'll not say one word.
Well, well, well, Bobby, I have done. I can turn thee loose to the best man upon God's earth, that's all, Bobby; strutting off to the other end of the room.
Col. I am sorry, my Lord, I should give your Lordship the least uneasiness. I came not with such a design.
Lord M. Indeed, Colonel, I thought you did, by your taking fire so quickly. I am glad to hear you say you did not. How soon a little spark kindles into a flame; especially when it meets with such combustible spirits!
Col. If I had had the least thought of proceeding to extremities, I am sure Mr. Lovelace would have given me the honour of a meeting where I should have been less an intruder; but I came with an amicable intention;-To reconcile differences, rather than to widen them.
Lovel. Well then, Col. Morden, let us enter upon the subject in your own way. I don't know the man I should sooner choose to be upon terms with, than one whom Miss Clarissa Harlowe so much respects. But I cannot bear to be treated either in word or accent, in a menacing way.
Lord M. Well, well, well, well, gentlemen, this is somewhat like. Angry men make to themselves beds of nettles, and when they lie down in them, are uneasy with every body. But I hope you are friends. Let me hear you say you are. -I am persuaded, Colonel, that you don't know all this unhappy story. You don't know how desirous my kinsman is, as well as all of us, to have this matter and happily. You don't know, do you, Colonel, that Mr. Lovelace, at all our requests, is disposed to marry the lady?
Col. At all your requests, my Lord? -I should have hoped, that Mr. Lovelace was disposed to do justice, for the sake of justice; and when, at the same time, the doing of justice, was doing himself the highest honour.
Mowbray lifted up his before half-closed eyes to the Colonel, and glanced them upon me.
Lovel. This is in very high language, Colonel.
Mowbr. By my soul, I thought so.
Col. High language, Mr. Lovelace? Is it not just language?
Lovel. It is, Colonel. And I think, the man that does honour to Miss Clarissa Harlowe, does me honour. But, nevertheless, there is a manner in speaking, that may be liable to exception, where the words, without that manner, can bear none.
Col. Your observation in the general is undoubtedly just; but if you have the value for my cousin, that you say you have, you must needs think-
Lovel. You must allow me, Sir, to interrupt you-If I have the value I say I have-I hope, Sir, when I say I have that value, there is no room for that if, pronounced as you pronounced it with an emphasis.
Col. You have broken in upon me twice, Mr. Lovelace. I am as little accustomed to be broken in upon, as you are to be repeated upon.
Lord M. Two barrels of gunpowder, by my conscience; What a devil will it signify talking, if thus you are to blow one another up at every wry word?
Lovel. No man of honour, my Lord, will be easy to have his veracity called in question, though but by implication.
Col. Had you heard me out, Mr. Lovelace, you would have found, that my if was rather an if of inference, than of doubt. But 'tis, really, a strange liberty gentlemen of free principles take; who at the same time that they would resent unto death the imputation of being capable of telling an untruth to a Man, will not scruple to break thro' the most solemn oaths and promises to a Woman. I must assure you, Mr. Lovelace, that I always made a conscience of my vows and promises.
Lovel. You did right, Colonel. But let me tell you, Sir, that you know not the man you talk to, if you imagine he is not able to rise to a proper resentment, when he sees his generous confessions taken for a mark of base-spiritedness.
Col. (warmly, and with a sneer) Far be it from me, Mr. Lovelace, to impute to you the baseness of spirit you speak of; for what would that be, but to imagine, that a man who has done a very flagrant injury, is not ready to shew his bravery in defending it-
Mowbr. This is damn'd severe, Colonel. It is, by Jove. I could not take so much at the hands of any man breathing as Mr. Lovelace before this took at yours.
Col. Who are You, Sir? What pretence have you to interpose in a cause where there is an acknowleged guilt on one side, and the honour of a considerable family wounded in the tenderest part by that guilt on the other?
Mowbr. (whispering to the Colonel.) My dear child, you will oblige me highly, if you will give me the opportunity of answering your question. And was going out.
The Colonel was held in by my Lord. And I brought in Mowbray.
Col. Pray, my good Lord, let me attend this officious gentleman. I beseech you do. I will wait upon your Lordship in three minutes, depend upon it.
Lovel. Mowbray, is this acting like a friend by me, to suppose me incapable of answering for myself? And shall a man of honour and bravery, as I know Colonel Morden to be, (rash as perhaps in this visit he has shewn himself) have it to say, that he comes to my Lord M's house, in a manner naked as to attendants and friends, and shall not for That reason be rather borne with, than insulted? This moment, my dear Mowbray, leave us. You have really no concern in this business; and if you are my friend, I desire you'll ask the Colonel pardon for interfering in it in the manner you have done.
Mowbr. Well, well, Bob; thou shalt be arbiter in this matter. I know I have no business in it-And, Colonel, (holding out his hand) I leave you to one who knows how to defend his own cause, as well as any man in England.
Col. (taking Mowbray's hand, at Lord M's request) You need not tell me that, Mr. Mowbray. I have no doubt of Mr. Lovelace's ability to defend his own cause, were it a cause to be defended. And let me tell you, Mr. Lovelace, that I am astonished to think, that a brave man, and a generous man, as you have appeared to be in two or three instances that you have given in the little knowlege I have of you, should be capable of acting as you have done by the most excellent of her sex.
Lord M. Well, but, gentlemen, now Mr. Mowbray is gone; and you have both shewn instances of courage and generosity to boot, let me desire you to lay your heads together amicably, and think whether there be any thing to be done to make all end happily for the lady?
Lovel. But hold, my Lord, let me say one thing, now Mowbray is gone; and that is, that I think a gentleman ought not to put up tamely one or two severe things that the Colonel has said.
Lord M. What the devil canst thou mean? I thought all had been over. Why, thou hast nothing to do, but to confirm to the Colonel, that thou art willing to marry Miss Harlowe, if she will have thee.
Col. Mr. Lovelace will not scruple to say That, I suppose, notwithstanding all that has passed: But if you think, Mr. Lovelace, I have said any thing I should not have said, I suppose it is this: That the man who has shewn so little of the Thing Honour, to a defenceless unprotected woman, ought not to stand so nicely upon the empty name of it, with a man who is expostulating with him upon it. I am sorry to have cause to say this, Mr. Lovelace; but I would on the same occasion repeat it to a King in all his glory, and surrounded by all his guards.
Lord M. But what is all this, but more sacks upon the mill? more coals upon the fire? You have a mind to quarrel both of you, I see that. Are you not willing, Nephew, are you not most willing, to marry this lady, if she can be prevailed upon to have you?
Lovel. Damn me, my Lord, if I'd marry an Empress upon such treatment as this.
Lord M. Why now, Bob, thou art more choleric than the Colonel. It was his turn just now. And now you see he is cool, you are all gunpowder.
Lovel. I own the Colonel has many advantages over me; but, perhaps, there is one advantage he has not, if it were put to the tryal.
Col. I came not hither, as I said before, to seek the occasion: But if it be offered me, I won't refuse it-And since we find we disturb my good Lord M. I'll take my leave, and will go home by the way of St. Alban's.
Lovel. I'll see you part of the way, with all my heart, Colonel.
Col. I accept your civility very chearfully, Mr. Lovelace.
Lord M. (interposing again, as we were both for going out) And what will this do, gentlemen? Suppose you kill one another, will the matter be better'd or worsted by that? Will the lady be made happier or unhappier, do you think by either or both of your deaths? Your characters are too well known to make fresh instances of the courage of either needful. And, I think, if the honour of the lady is your view, Colonel, it can be no other way so effectually promoted, as by marriage. And, Sir, if you would use your interest with her, it is very probable, that you may succeed, tho' no body else can.
Lovel. I think, my Lord, I have said all that a man can say (since what is passed cannot be recalled) and you see Col. Morden rises in proportion to my coolness, till it is necessary for me to assert myself, or even he would despise me.
Lord M. Let me ask you, Colonel; Have you any way, any method, that you think reasonable and honourable to propose, to bring about a reconciliation with the lady? That is what we all wish for. And I can tell you, Sir, it is not a little owing to her family, and to their implacable usage of her, that her resentments are heighten'd against my kinsman; who, however, has used her vilely; but is willing to repair her wrongs.-
Lovel. Not, my Lord, for the sake of her family; nor for this gentleman's haughty behaviour; but for her own sake, and in full sense of the wrongs I have done her.
Col. As to my haughty behaviour, as you call it, Sir, I am mistaken if you would not have gone beyond it in the like case, of a relation so meritorious, and so unworthily injured. And, Sir, let me tell you, that if your motives are not Love, Honour, and Justice, and if they have the least tincture of mean Compassion for her, or of an unchearful assent on your part, I am sure it will neither be desired or accepted by a person of my cousin's merit and sense; nor shall I wish that it should.
Lovel. Don't think, Colonel, that I am meanly compounding off a debate, that I should as willingly go thro' with you as to eat or drink, if I have the occasion given me for it: But thus much I will tell you, That my Lord, that Lady Sarah Sadleir, Lady Betty Lawrance, my two cousins Montague, and myself, have written to her in the most solemn and sincere manner, to offer her such terms, as no one but herself would refuse, and this long enough before Col. Morden's arrival was dreamt of.
Col. What reason, Sir, may I ask, does she give, against listening to so powerful a mediation, and to such offers?
Lovel. It looks like capitulating, or else-
Col. It looks not like any such thing to me, Mr. Lovelace, who have as good an opinion of your spirit as man can have. And what, pray, is the part I act, and my motives for it? Are they not, in desiring that justice may be done to my cousin Clarissa Harlowe, that I seek to establish the honour of Mrs. Lovelace, if matters can once be brought to bear?
Lovel. Were she to honour me with her acceptance of That name, Mr. Morden, I should not want you or any man to assert the honour of Mrs. Lovelace.
Col. I believe it. But till she has honoured you with that acceptance, she is nearer to me than to you, Mr. Lovelace. And I speak this, only to shew you, that in the part I take, I mean rather to deserve your thanks than your displeasure, tho' against yourself, were there occasion. Nor ought you to take it amiss, if you rightly weigh the matter: For, sir, whom does a lady want protection against, but her injurers? And who has been her greatest injurer? - Till therefore, she becomes intitled to your protection, as your wife, you yourself cannot refuse me some merit in wishing to have justice done my cousin. But, Sir, you was going to say, that if it were not to look like capitulating, you would hint the reasons my cousin gives against accepting such an honourable mediation?
I then told him of my sincere offers of marriage; 'I made no difficulty, I said, to own my apprehensions, that my unhappy behaviour to her, had greatly affected her: But that it was the implacableness of her friends that had thrown her into despair, and given her a contempt for life.' I told him, 'That she had been so good, as to send me a letter to divert me from a visit my heart was set upon making her: A letter, on which I built great hopes, because she assured me in it, that she was going to her father's; and that I might see her there, when she was received, if it were not my own fault.'
Col. It is possible? And were you, Sir, thus earnest? And did she send you such a letter?
Lord M. confirmed both; and also, that, in obedience to her desires, and that intimation, I had come down without the satisfaction I had proposed to myself in seeing her.
It is very true, Colonel, said I: And I should have told you This before: But your heat made me decline it; for, as I said, it had an appearance of meanly capitulating with you. An abjectness of heart, of which had I been capable, I should have despised myself as much as I might have expected you would despise me.
Lord M. proposed to enter into the proof of all this: He said, in his phraseological way, That one story was good, till another was heard: That the Harlowe family and I, 'twas true, had behaved like so many Orsons to one another; and that they had been very free with all our family besides: That nevertheless, for the lady's sake, more than for theirs, or even for mine (he could tell me) he would do greater things for me, than they could ask, if she could be brought to have me: And that this he wanted to declare, and would sooner have declared, if he could have brought us sooner to patience, and a good understanding.
The Colonel made excuses for his warmth, on the score of his affection to his cousin.
My regard for her, made me readily admit them: And so a fresh bottle of Burgundy, and another of Champagne, being put upon the table, we sat down in good humour, after all this blustering, in order to enter closer into the particulars of the case: Which I undertook, at both their desires, to do.
But these things must be the subject of another letter, which shall immediately follow this, if it do not accompany it.
Mean time you will observe, That a bad cause gives a man great disadvantages: For I myself think, that the interrogatories put to me with so much spirit by the Colonel, made me look cursedly mean; at the same time that it gave him a superiority which I know not how to allow to the best man in Europe. So that, literally speaking, as a good man would infer, guilt is its own punisher; in that it makes the most lofty spirit look like the miscreant he is-A good man, I say: So, Jack, proleptically, I add, Thou hast no right to make the observation.

### v7 LETTER XXIV.

Mr. Lovelace. In Continuation.
Tuesday Afternoon, Aug. 29.
I went back in this part of our conversation to the day that I was obliged to come down to attend my Lord, in the dangerous illness which some feared would have been his last.
I told the Colonel 'What earnest letters I had written to a particular friend, to engage him to prevail upon the lady not to slip a day that had been proposed for the private celebration of our nuptials; and of my letters (a) written to herself on that subject;' for I had stept to my closet, and fetched down all the letters and draughts and copies of letters relating to this affair.
I read to him 'several passages in the copies of those letters, which, thou wilt remember, make not a little to my honour.' And I told him, 'That I wished I had kept copies of those to my friend on the same occasion; by which he would have seen how much in earnest I was in my professions to her, altho' she would not answer one of them.' And thou mayst remember, that one of those four letters accounted to herself, why I was desirous she should remain where I had left her.
I then proceeded to give him an account 'of the visit made by Lady Sarah and Lady Betty to Lord M. and me, in order to induce me to do her justice. Of my readiness to comply with their desires; and of their high opinion of her merit. Of the visit made to Miss Howe by my cousins Montague, in the name of us all, to ingage her interest with her friend in my behalf. Of my conversation with Miss Howe, at a private assemblee, to whom I gave the same assurances, and besought her interest with her friend.'
I then read the copy of the letter, (tho' so much to my disadvantage) which was written to her by Miss Charlotte Montague, Aug. 1. intreating her alliance in the names of all our family.
This made him ready to think, that his fair cousin carried her resentment against me too far. He did not imagine, he said, that either myself or our family had been so much in earnest.
So thou seest, Belford, that it is but glossing over one part of a story, and omitting another, that will make a bad cause a good one at any time. What an admirable Lawyer should I have made! And what a poor hand would this charming creature, with all her innocence, have made of it in a court of justice against a man who had so much to say, and to shew for himself.
I then hinted at the generous annual tender which Lord M. and his sisters made to his fair cousin, in apprehension that she might suffer by her friends implacableness.
And this also the Colonel highly applauded, and was pleased to lament the unhappy misunderstanding between the two families, which had made the Harlowes less fond of an alliance with a family of so much honour as this instance shewed ours to be.
I then told him, 'That having, by my friend [meaning thee] who was admitted into her presence (and who had always been an admirer of her virtues, and had given me such advice from time to time in relation to her as I wished I had followed) been assured, that a visit from me would be very disagreeable to her, I once more resolved to try what a letter would do; and that accordingly, on the 7th of August, I wrote her one.
'This, Colonel, is the copy of it. I was then out of humour with my Lord M. and the Ladies of my family. You will therefore read it to yourself.'
This letter gave him high satisfaction. You write here, Mr. Lovelace, from your heart. 'Tis a letter full of penitence and acknowlegement. Your request is reasonable, -To be forgiven only as you shall appear to deserve it after a time of probation, which you leave to her to fix. Pray, Sir, did she return an answer to this letter?
She did, but with reluctance, I own, and not till I had declared, by my friend, that if I could not procure one, I would go up to town, and throw myself at her feet.
I wish I might be permitted to see it, Sir, or to hear such parts of it read, as you shall think proper.
Turning over my papers. Here it is, Sir. I will make no scruple to put it into your hands.
This is very obliging, Mr. Lovelace.
He read it. My charming cousin! -How strong her resentments! -Yet how charitable her wishes! Good God! that such an excellent creature! -But, Mr. Lovelace, it is to your regret, as much as to mine, I doubt not.-
Interrupting him, I swore that it was.
So it ought, said he. Nor do I wonder that it should be so. I shall tell you by-and-by, proceeded he, how much she suffers with her friends, by false and villainous reports. But, Sir, will you permit me to take with me these two letters? I shall make use of them to the advantage of you both.
I told him, I would oblige him with all my heart. And this he took very kindly, as he had reason, and put them in his pocket-book, promising to return them in a few days.
I then told him, 'That upon this refusal, I took upon myself to go to town, in hopes to move her in my favour; and that, tho' I went without giving her notice of my intention, yet had she got some notion of my coming, and so contrived to be out of the way: And at last, when she found I was fully determined at all events to see her, before I went abroad,' [which I shall do, said I, if I cannot prevail upon her] 'she sent me the letter I have already mentioned to you, desiring me to suspend my purposed visit: And that for a reason which amazes and confounds me, because I don't find there is any thing in it: And yet I never knew her once dispense with her word; for she always made it a maxim, that it was not lawful to do evil, that good might come of it: And yet in this letter, for no reason in the world but to avoid seeing me (to gratify a humour only) has she sent me out of town, depending upon the assurance she had given me.'
Col. This is indeed surprising. But I cannot believe that my cousin, for such an end only, or indeed for any end, according to the character I hear of her, should stoop to make use of such an artifice.
Lovel. This, Colonel, is the thing that astonishes me; and yet, see here! -This is the letter she wrote me; - Nay, Sir, 'tis her own hand.
Col. I see it is; and a charming hand it is.
Lovel. You observe, Colonel, that all her hopes of reconciliation with her parents are from you. You are her dear blessed friend! She always talked of you with delight.
Col. Would to heaven I had come to England before she left Harlowe-Place. Nothing of this had then happened. Not a man of those whom I have heard that her friends proposed for her, should have had her. Nor you, Mr. Lovelace, unless I had found you to be the man every one who sees you, must with you to be: And if you had been that man, no one living should I have preferred to you for such an excellence.
My Lord and I both joined in the wish: And 'faith, I wished it most cordially.
The Colonel read the letter twice over, and then returned it to me. 'Tis all a mystery, said he: I can make nothing of it. For, alas! her friends are as averse to a reconciliation as ever.
Lord M. I could not have thought it. But don't you think there is something very favourable to my nephew in this letter? -Something that looks as if the lady would comply at last?
Col. Let me die if I know what to make of it. This letter is very different from her preceding one! -You returned an answer to it, Mr. Lovelace?
Lovel. An answer, Colonel! No doubt of it. And an answer full of transport. I told her, 'I would directly set out for Lord M's, in obedience to her will. I told her, that I would consent to any thing she should command, in order to promote this happy reconciliation, I told her, that it should be my hourly study, to the end of my life, to deserve a goodness so transcendent.' But I cannot forbear saying, that I am not a little shocked and surprised, if nothing more be meant by it than to get me into the country without seeing her.
Col. That can't be the thing, depend upon it, Sir. There must be more in it than That. For were that all, she must think you would soon be undeceived, and that you would then most probably resume your intention - Unless, indeed, she depended upon seeing me in the interim, as she knew I was arrived. But I own, I know not what to make of it. Only that she does me a great deal of honour, if it be me that she calls her blessed friend, whom she always loved and honoured. Indeed, I ever loved her: And if I die unmarried and without children, shall be as kind to her, as her grandfather was. And the rather, as I fear that there is too much of envy and self love in the resentments her brother and sister endeavour to keep up in her father and mother against her. But I shall know better how to judge of This, when my cousin James comes from Edinburgh; and he is every hour expected.
But let me ask you, Mr. Lovelace, What is the name of your friend, who is admitted so easily into my cousin's presence? Is it not Belford, pray?
Lovel. It is, Sir; a man of honour, and a great admirer of your fair cousin.
Was I right, as to the first, Jack? The last I have such strong proof of, that it makes me question the first; since she would not have been out of the way of my intended visit but for thee.
Col. Are you sure, Sir, that Mr. Belford is a man of honour?
Lovel. I can swear for him, Colonel. What makes you put this question?
Col. Only this: That an officious pragmatical novice has been sent up to inquire into my cousin's life and conversation: And, would you believe it! the frequent visits of this gentleman have been interpreted basely to her disreputation? -Read that letter, Mr. Lovelace, and you will be shocked at every part of it.
This cursed letter, no doubt, is from the young Levite, whom thou, Jack, describedst, as making inquiry of Mrs. Smith about Miss Harlowe's character and visiters.
I believe I was a quarter of an hour in reading it: For I made it, tho' not a short one, six times as long as it is, by the additions of oaths and curses to every pedantic line. Lord M. too helped to lengthen it, by the like execrations. And thou, Jack, wilt have as much reason to curse it, as we.
You cannot but see, said the Colonel, when I had done reading it, that this fellow has been officious in his malevolence; for what he says is mere hearsay, and that hearsay conjectural scandal without fact, or the appearance of fact, to support it; so that an unprejudiced eye, upon the face of the letter, would condemn the writer of it, as I did, and acquit my cousin. But yet, such is the spirit by which the rest of my relations are governed, that they run away with the belief of the worst it insinuates, and the dear creature has had shocking letters upon it; the pedant's hints are taken; and a voyage to one of the colonies has been proposed to her, as the only way to avoid Mr. Belford and you. I have not seen these letters indeed; but they took a pride in repeating some of their contents, which must have cut the poor soul to the heart; and these, joined to her former sufferings-What have you not, Mr. Lovelace, to answer for?
Lovel. Who the devil could have expected such consequences as there? Who could have believed there could be parents so implacable? Brother and sister so envious? And, give me leave to say; a lady so immoveably fixed against the only means that could be taken to put all right with every body? -And what now can be done?
Lord M. I have great hopes, that Col. Morden may yet prevail upon his cousin. And by her last letter, it runs in my mind, that she has some thoughts of forgiving all that's past. Do you think, Colonel, if there should not be such a thing as a reconciliation going forward at present, that her letter may not imply, that if we could bring such a thing to bear with her friends, she would be reconciled to Mr. Lovelace?
Col. Such an artifice would better become the Italian subtlety than the English simplicity. Your Lordship has been in Italy, I presume?
Lovel. My Lord has read Boccacio, perhaps, and that's as well, as to the hint he gives, which may be borrowed from one of that author's stories. But Miss Clarissa Harlowe is above all artifice. She must have some meaning I cannot fathom.
Col. Well, my Lord, I can only say, That I will make some use of the letters Mr. Lovelace has obliged me with: And after I have had some talk with my cousin James, who is hourly expected; and when I have dispatched two or three affairs that press upon me; I will pay my respects to my dear cousin; and shall then be able to form a better judgment of things. Mean time I will write to her; for I have sent to inquire about her, and find she wants consolation.
Lovel. If you favour me, Colonel, with the damned letter of that fellow Brand, for a day or two, you will oblige me.
Col. I will. But remember, the man is a parson, Mr. Lovelace; an innocent one too, they say. Else I had been at him before now. And these college novices, who think they know every thing in their cloysters, and that all learning lies in books, make dismal figures when they come into the world among men and women.
Lord M. Brand! Brand! It should have been Firebrand, I think in my conscience!
Thus ended this doughty conference.
I cannot say, Jack, but I am greatly taken with Col. Morden. He is brave and generous, and knows the world; and then his contempt of the parsons is a certain sign that he is one of Us.
We parted with great civility; Lord M. (not a little pleased that we did, and as greatly taken with the Colonel) repeated his wish, after the Colonel was gone, that he had arrived in time to save the lady; if that would have done it.
I wish so too. For by my soul, Jack, I am every day more and more uneasy about her. But I hope she is not so ill as I am told she is.
I inclose this Fire-Brand's letter, as my Lord calls him. I reckon it will rouze all thy phlegm into vengeance.
I know not what to advise as to shewing it to the lady. Yet, perhaps, she will be able to reap more satisfaction than concern from it, knowing her own innocence; in that it will give her to hope, that her friends treatment of her, is owing as much to misrepresentation, as to their own natural implacableness. Such a mind as her's, I know, would be glad to find out the shadow of a reason for the shocking letters the Colonel says they have sent her, and for their proposal to her, of going to some one of the colonies. (Confound them all-But if I begin to curse, I shall never have done)-Then it may put her upon such a defence, as she might be glad of an opportunity to make, and to shame them for their monstrous credulity-But this I leave to thy own fat-headed prudence-Only it vexes me to the heart, that even scandal and calumny should dare to surmise the bare possibility of any man's sharing the favours of a lady, whom now methinks I could worship with a veneration due only to a divinity.
Charlotte and her sister could not help weeping at the base aspersion: When, when, said Patty, lifting up her hands, will this sweet lady's sufferings be at an end? -Oh cousin Lovelace!-
And thus am I blamed for every one's faults! -When her brutal father curses her, it is I. I upbraid her with her severe mother. Her stupid uncle's implacableness is all mine. Her brother's virulence, and her sister's spite and envy, are intirely owing to me. This rascal Brand's letter is of my writing-O Jack, what a wretch is thy Lovelace!
Returned without a letter! -This damned fellow Will is returned without a letter! Yet the rascal tells me that he hears you have been writing to me these two days!
Plague confound thee, who must know my impatience, and the reason for it!
To send a man and horse on purpose; as I did! My imagination chained to the belly of the beast, in order to keep pace with him! Now he is got to this place; Now to that; Now to London; Now to thee.
Now (a letter given him) whip and spur upon the return. This town just entered, not staying to bait: That village passed by: Leaves the wind behind him; in a foaming sweat man and horse.
And in this way did he actually enter Lord M.'s courtyard.
The reverberating pavement brought me down-The letter, Will! The letter, dog! -The letter, Sirrah!
No letter, Sir! -Then wildly staring round me, fists clenched, and grinning like a maniac, Confound thee for a dog, and him that sent thee without one! -This moment out of my sight, or I'll scatter thy stupid brains thro' the air; snatching from his holsters a pistol, while the rascal threw himself from the foaming beast, and run to avoid the fate, which I wished with all my soul thou hadst been within the reach of me, to have met with.
But, to be as meek as a lamb to one who has me at his mercy, and can wring and torture my soul as he pleases, What canst thou mean to send back my varlet without a letter? -I will send away by day-dawn another fellow upon another beast for what thou hast written; and I charge thee on thy allegiance, that thou dispatch him not back empty-handed.

### v7 LETTER XXV.

Mr. Brand, To John Harlowe, Esq; (Inclosed in the preceding)
Worthy Sir, my very good Friend and Patron,
I arrived in town yesterday, after a tolerable pleasant journey (considering the hot weather and dusty roads). I put up at the Bull and Gate in Holborn, and hastened to Covent-garden. I soon found the house where the unhappy lady lodges. And, in the back-shop, had a good deal! of discourse with Mrs. Smith, (her landlady) whom I found to be so highly prepossessed in her favour, that I saw it would not answer your desires to take my informations altogether from her, and being obliged to attend my patron; who, to my sorrow,
(Miserum est aliena vivere quadra)
I find wants much waiting upon, and is another sort of man than than he was at college: For, Sir, (inter nos) honours change manners. For the aforesaid causes I thought it would best answer all the ends of the commission you honoured me with, to engage, in the desired scrutiny, the wife of a particular friend, who lives almost over against the house where she lodges, and who is a gentlewoman of character and sobriety, a mother of children, and one who knows the world well.
To her I applied myself, therefore, and gave her a short history of the case, and desired she would very particularly enquire into the conduct of the unhappy young lady; her present way of life and subsistence; her visiters, her imployments, and such-like; for these, Sir, you know, are the things whereof you wished to be informed.
Accordingly, Sir, I waited upon the gentlewoman aforesaid, this day; and, to my very great trouble (because I know it will be to yours, and likewise to all your worthy family's) I must say, that I do find things look a little more darkly, than I hoped they would. For, alas! Sir, the gentlewoman's report turns not out so favourable for Miss's reputation, as I wished, as you wished, and as every one of her friends wished. But so it is throughout the world, that one false step generally brings on another; and peradventure a worse, and a still worse; till the poor limed soul, (a very fit epithet of the divine Quarles's!) is quite entangled, and, (without infinite mercy) lost for ever.
It seems, Sir, she is, notwithstanding, in a very ill state of health. In this, both gentlewomen (that is to say, Mrs. Smith her landlady, and my friend's wife) agree. Yet she goes often out in a chair, to prayers, (as it is said). But my friend's wife tells me, that nothing is more common in London, than that the frequenting of the church at morning prayers, is made the presence and cover for private assignations. What a sad thing is this! that what was designed for wholsome nourishment to the poor soul, should be turned into rank poison! But as Mr. Daniel de Foe, an ingenious man, tho' a dissenter, observes (But indeed it is an old proverb; only I think he was the first that put it into verse)
God never had a house of pray'r,
But Satan had a chapel there.
Yet, to do the lady justice, no-body comes home with her: Nor, indeed can they, because she goes forward and backward in a sedan or chair (as they call it). But then there is a gentleman of no good character (an intimado of Mr. Lovelace's) who is a constant visiter of her, and of the people of the house, whom he regales and treats, and has (of consequence) their high good words.
I have hereupon taken the trouble (for I love to be exact in any commission I undertake) to inquire particularly about this gentleman, as he is called (albeit I hold no man so but by his actions: For, as Juvenal says,
-Nobilitas sola est, atque unica virtus)
And this I did before I would sit down to write to you.
His name is Belford. He has a paternal estate of upwards of 1000 pounds by the year; and is now in mourning for an uncle who left him very considerably besides. He bears a very profligate character as to women (for I enquired particularly about That), and is Mr. Lovelace's more especial privado, with whom he holds a regular correspondence; and has been often seen with Miss (tete a tete) at the window: In no bad way, indeed: But my friend's wife is of opinion, that all is not as it should be. And, indeed, it is mighty strange to me, if Miss be so notable a penitent (as is represented) and if she have such an aversion to Mr. Lovelace, that she will admit his privado into her retirements, and see no other company.
I understand, from Mrs. Smith, that Mr. Hickman was to see her some time ago, from Miss Howe; and I am told, by another hand (You see, Sir, how diligent I have been to execute the commissions you had given me) that he had no extraordinary opinion of this Belford, at first; tho' they were seen together one morning by the opposite neighbour, at breakfast with Miss: And another time this Belford was observed to watch Mr. Hickman's coming from her; so that, as it should seem, he was mighty zealous to ingratiate himself with Mr. Hickman; no doubt, to engage him to make a favourable report to Miss Howe of the intimacy he was admitted into by her unhappy friend; who, (as she is very ill) may mean no harm in allowing his visits (for he, it seems, brought to her, or recommended, at least, the doctor and apothecary that attend her): But I think, upon the whole, it looketh not well.
I am sorry, Sir, I cannot give you a better account of the young lady's prudence. But, what shall we say?
Uvaque conspecta livorem ducit ab uva,
as Juvenal observes.
One thing I am afraid of; which is, That Miss may be under necessities; and that this Belford (who, as Mrs. Smith owns, has offered her money, which she, at the time, refused) may find an opportunity to take advantage of those necessities: And it is well observed by the poet, that
AEgre formosam poteris: servare puellam:
Nunc proce, nunc auro forma petita ruit.
And this Belford (who is a bold man, and has, as they say, the look of one) may make good that of Horace (with whose writings you are so well acquainted; nobody better)
Audax omnia perpeti,
Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas.
Forgive me, Sir, for what I am going to write: But if you could prevail upon the rest of your family, to join in the scheme which you, and her virtuous sister, Miss Arabella, and the archdeacon, and I, once talked of, (which is, to persuade the unhappy young lady to go, in some creditable manner, to some one of the foreign colonies) it might save not only her own credit and reputation, but the reputation and credit of all her family, and a great deal of vexation moreover. For it is my humble opinion, that you will hardly, any of you, injoy yourselves while this (once innocent) young lady is in the way of being so frequently heard of by you: And this would put her out of the way both of this Belford and of that Lovelace, and it might, peradventure, prevent as much evil as scandal.
You will forgive me, Sir, for this my plainness. Ovid pleads for me,
-Adulator nullus amicus erit,
And I have no view but that of approving myself a zealous well-wisher to all your worthy family (whereto I owe a great number of obligations) and very particularly, Sir,
Your obliged and humble Servant,
Elias Brand.
Wedn. Aug. 9.
P. S. I shall give you further hints when I come down (which will be in a few days;) and who my informants were; but by these you will see, that I have been very assiduous (for the time) in the task you set me upon.
The length of my letter you will excuse; for I need not tell you, Sir, what narrative, complex, and conversation letters, (such a one as mine) require. Every one to his talent. Letter-writing is mine, I will be bold to say; and that my correspondence was much coveted at the University, on that account. But this I should not have taken upon me to mention; only in defence of the length of my letter; for nobody writes shorter, or pithier, when the subject is upon common forms only-But in apologizing for my prolixity, I am adding to the fault, (if it were one, which, however, I cannot think it to be, the subject considered: But this I have said before in other words:) So, Sir, if you will excuse my postscript, I am sure you will not find fault with my letter.
I think I have nothing to add until I have the honour of attending you in person; but that I am, as above, &c. &c. &c.
E. B.

### v7 LETTER XXVI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wednesday night, Aug. 30.
It was lucky enough that our two servants met at Hannah's (a), which gave them so good an opportunity of exchanging their letters time enough for each to return to his master early in the day.
Thou dost well to brag of thy capacity for managing servants, and to set up for correcting our poets in their characters of this class of people, when, like a madman, thou canst beat their teeth out, and attempt to shoot them thro' the head, for not bringing to thee what they nad no power to obtain.
You well observe that you would have made a thorough-pac'd Lawyer. The whole of the conversation-piece between you and the Colonel, affords a convincing proof, that there is a black and a white side to every cause: But what must the conscience of a partial whitener of his own cause, or blackener of another's, tell him, while he is throwing dust in the eyes of his judges, and all the time knows his own guilt?
The Colonel, I see, is far from being a faultless man: But while he ought not to carry his point by breach of faith, he has an excuse which thou hast not. But with respect to him, and to us all, I can now, with detestation of some of my own actions, see, that the taking advantage of another person's good opinion of us, to injure (perhaps to ruin) that other, is the most ungenerous wickedness that can be committed.
Man acting thus by man, we should not be at a loss to give such actions a name: But is it not doubly and trebly aggravated, when such advantage is taken of an inexperienced and innocent young creature, whom we pretend to love above all the women in the world; and when we seal our pretences by the most solemn vows and protestations of inviolable honour, that we can invent?
I see that this gentleman is the best match thou ever couldest have had, upon all accounts: His spirit such another impetuous one as thy own; soon taking fire: vindictive; and only differing in This, that the cause he ingages in is a just one. But, commend me to honest brutal Mowbray, who, before he knew the cause, offers his sword in thy behalf against a man who had taken the injured side, and whom he had never seen before.
As soon as I had run thro' your letters, and that incendiary Brand's (by the latter of which I saw to what cause a great deal of this last implacableness of the Harlowe family is owing) I took coach to Smith's, altho' I had been come from thence but about an hour, and had taken leave of the lady for the night.
I sent down for Mrs. Lovick, and desired her, in the first place, to acquaint the lady (who was busied in her closet) that I had letters from Berks: In which I was informed, that the interview between Col. Morden and Mr. Lovelace had ended without ill consequences; that the Colonel intended to write to her very soon, and was interesting himself mean while in her favour, with her relations; that I hoped, that this agreeable news would be a means of giving her good rest; and I would wait upon her in the morning, by the time she should return from prayers, with all the particulars.
She sent me word, that she should be glad to see me in the morning; and was highly obliged to me for the good news I had sent her up.
I then, in the back-shop, read to Mrs. Lovick and to Mrs. Smith, Brand's letter, and asked them, If they could guess at the man's informant? They were not at a loss, Mrs. Smith having seen the same fellow Brand who had talked with her, as I mentioned in a former, come out of a milliner's shop over-against them; which milliner, she said, had also been lately very inquisitive about the lady.
I wanted no further hint; but, bidding them take no notice to the lady of what I had read, I shot over the way, and asking for the mistress of the house, she came to me.
Retiring with her, at her invitation, into her parlour, I desired to know, if she was acquainted with a young country clergyman of the name of Brand. She hesitatingly, seeing me in some emotion, owned, that she had some small knowlege of the gentleman. Just then came in her husband, who is, it seems, a petty officer in the excise, and not an ill-behaved man, who owned a fuller knowlege of him.
I have the copy of a letter, said I, from this Brand, in which he has taken great liberties with my character, and with That of the most unblameable lady in the world, which he grounds upon informations that you, Madam, have given him. And then I read to them several passages in his letter; and asked, What foundation she had for giving that fellow such impressions of either of us?
They knew not what to answer: But, at last, said, that he had told them how wickedly the young lady had run away from her parents: What worthy and rich people they were: In what favour he stood with them; and that they had imployed him to inquire after her behaviour, visiters, &c.
They said, That indeed they knew very little of the young lady; but that [Curse upon their censoriousness!] it was but too natural to think, that where a lady had given way to a delusion, and taken so wrong a step, she would not stop there: That the most sacred places and things were but too often made a cloak for bad actions. That Mr. Brand had been informed (perhaps by some enemy of mine) that I was a man of very free principles, and an intimado, as he calls it, of the man who had ruined her. And that their cousin Barker, a mantua-maker, who lodged up one pair of stairs, had often from her window, seen me with the lady in her chamber, talking very earnestly together: And that Mr. Brand being unable to account for her admitting my visits, and knowing I was but a new acquaintance of hers, and an old one of Mr. Lovelace's, thought himself obliged to lay these matters before her friends.
This was the sum and substance of their tale. O how I cursed the censoriousness of this plaguy triumvirate! A parson, a milliner, and a mantua-maker! The two latter, not more by business led to adorn the person, than generally by scandal to destroy the reputations of those they have a mind to exercise their talents upon!
The two women took great pains to persuade me, that they were people of conscience: -Of consequence, I told them, too much addicted, I doubted, to censure other people who pretended not to their strictness; for that I had ever found censoriousness, narrowness, and unchantableness to prevail too much with those who affected to be thought more pious than their neighbours.
That was not them, they said; and that they had since inquired into the lady's character and manner of life, and were very much concerned to think any thing they had said should be made use of against her: And as they heard from Mrs. Smith, that she was not likely to live long they should be sorry she should go out of the world a sufferer by their means, or with an ill opinion of them, tho' strangers to her. The husband offered to write, if I pleased, to Mr. Brand, in vindication of the lady; and the two women said, they should be glad to wait upon her in person, to beg her pardon for any thing she had reason to take amiss from them; because they were now convinced that there was not such another young lady in the world.
I told them, That the least said of the affair to the lady in her present circumstances, was best. That she was fond of taking all occasions to find excuses for her relations on their implacableness to her; That therefore I should take some notice to her of the uncharitable and weak surmizes which gave birth to so vile a scandal. But that I would have him, Mr. Walton, (for that is the husband's name) write to his acquaintance Brand, as soon as possible, as he had offered. -And so I left them.

### v7 LETTER XXVII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday, 11 o'Clock, Aug. 31.
I am just come from the lady, whom I left chearful and serene.
She thanked me for my communication of the preceding night. I read to her such parts of your letters as I could read to her; and I thought it was a good test to distinguish the froth and whipt-syllabub in them from the cream, in what one could and could not read to a woman of so fine a mind; since four parts out of six of thy letters, which I thought entertaining as I read them to myself, appeared to me, when I would have read them to her, most abominable stuff, and gave me a very contemptible idea of thy talents, and of my own judgment.
She was far from rejoicing, as I had done, at the disappointment her letter gave you when explained.
She said, she meant only an innocent allegory, that might carry instruction and warning to you, when the meaning was taken, as well as answer her own hopes for the time. It was run off in a hurry. She was afraid, it was not quite right in her. But hoped the end would excuse, if it could not justify, the means. And then she again expressed a good deal of apprehension, lest you should still take it into your head to molest her, when her time, she says, is so short, that she wants every moment of it; repeating what she had once said before, That when she wrote, she was so ill, that she believed, she should not have lived till now: If she had thought she should, she must have thought of an expedient that would have better answered her intentions; hinting at a removal out of the knowlege of us both.
But she was much pleased that the conference between you and Colonel Morden ended so amicably, after two or three such violent sallies, as I acquainted her you had had between you; and said, she must absolutely depend upon the promise I had given her to use my utmost endeavours to prevent further mischief on her account.
She was pleased with the justice you did her character to her cousin.
She was glad to hear, that he had so kind an opinion of her, and that he would write to her.
I was under an unnecessary concern, how to break to her, that I had the copy of Brand's vile letter: Unnecessary, I say; for she took it just as you thought she would, as an excuse she wished to have for the implacableness of her friends; and begg'd I would let her read it herself; for, said she, the contents cannot disturb me, be they what they will.
I gave it her, and she read it to herself, a tear now-and-then ready to start, and a sigh sometimes interposing.
She gave me back the letter with great and surprising calmness, considering the subject.
There was a time, said she, and that not long since, when such a letter as this would have greatly pained me. But I hope, I have now got above all these things; for I can refer to your kind offices, and Miss Howe's, the justice that will be done to my memory among my friends. There is a good and a bad light in which every thing that befals us, may be taken. If the human mind will busy itself to make the worst of every disagreeable occurrence, it will never want woe. This letter, affecting as the subject of it is to my reputation, gives me more pleasure than pain, because I can gather from it, that had not my friends been prepossessed by misinformed, or rash and officious persons, who are always at hand to flatter or sooth the passions of the affluent, they could not have been so immoveably determined against me. But now, they are sufficiently cleared from ever imputation of unforgiveness; for, while I appeared to them in the character of a vile hypocrite, pretending to true penitence, yet giving up myself to profligate courses, how could I expect either their pardon or blessing?
But, Madam, said I, you'll see by the date of this letter, August 9, that their severity, previous to that, cannot be excused by it.
It imports me much, replied she, on account of my present wishes, as to the office you are so kind to undertake, that you should not think harshly of my friends. I must own to you, that I have been apt sometimes myself to think them not only severe, but cruel. Suffering minds will be partial to their own cause and merits. Knowing their own hearts, if sincere, they are apt to murmur when harshly treated: But if they are not believed to be innocent by persons, who have a right to decide upon their conduct according to their own judgments, how can it be helped? Besides, Sir, How do you know, that there are not about my friends as well-meaning misrepresenters as Mr. Brand really seems to be? But be this as it will, there is no doubt that there are and have been multitudes of persons, as innocent as myself, who have suffered upon surmises as little probable as those on which Mr. Brand founds his judgment. Your intimacy, Sir, with Mr. Lovelace, and (may I say?) a character which, it seems, you have been less sollicitous formerly about justifying, than perhaps you will be for the future; and your frequent visits to me, may well be thought to be questionable circumstances in my conduct.
I could only admire her in silence.
But you see, Sir, proceeded she, how necessary it is for young people of our sex, to be careful of our company: And how much, at the same time, it behoves young gentlemen to be chary of their own reputation, were it only for the sake of such of ours, as they may mean honourably by; and who otherwise may suffer in their good names for being seen in their company.
As to Mr. Brand, continued she, he is to be pitied; and let me injoin you, Mr. Belford, not to take up any resentments against him which may be detrimental either to his person or his fortunes. Let his function and his good meaning plead for him. He will have concern enough, when he finds every body whose displeasure I now labour under, acquitting my memory of perverse guilt, and joining in a general pity for me.
This, Lovelace, is the lady whose life thou hast curtailed in the blossom of it! -How many opportunities must thou have had of admiring her inestimable worth, yet couldst have thy senses so much absorbed in the Woman in her charming person, as to be blind to the Angel that shines out in such full glory in her mind? Indeed, I have ever thought myself, when blest with her conversation, in the company of a real angel: And I am sure it would be impossible for me, were she to be as beautiful, and as crimsoned over with health as I have seen her, to have the least thought of Sex, when I heard her talk.
Thursday, three o'clock, Aug. 31.
On my re-visit to the lady, I found her almost as much a sufferer from joy, as she had sometimes been from grief: For she had just received a very kind letter from her cousin Morden; which she was so good as to communicate to me. As she had already begun to answer it, I begg'd leave to attend her in the evening, that I might not interrupt her in it.
The letter is a very tender one
Here Mr. Belford gives the substance of it upon his memory. [See the next letter.] And then adds:
But, alas! all will be now too late. For the decree is certainly gone out. The world is unworthy of her!

### v7 LETTER XXVIII.

Colonel Morden, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
Tuesday, Aug. 29.
My dear Cousin,
Permit me to condole those misfortunes, which have occasioned so unhappy a difference between you, and the rest of your family: And to offer my assistance, to enable you to make the best of what has happened.
You have fallen into most unworthy hands. The letter I wrote to you from Florence I find, came too late to have its hoped-for effect. I am very sorry it did: As I am that I did not come sooner to England in person.
But, forgetting past things, let us look forward. I have been with Mr. Lovelace, and Lord M. I need not tell you, it seems, how desirous all the family are of the honour of an alliance with you; nor how exceedingly earnest the former is to make you all the reparation in his power.
I think; my dear cousin, that you cannot now do better than to give him the honour of your hand. He says such just and great things of your virtue, and so heartily condemns himself, that I think there is great and honourable room for your forgiving him: And the more, as it seems you are determined against a legal prosecution.
Your effectual forgiveness of him, it is evident to me, will accelerate a general reconciliation: For, at present, my other cousins cannot persuade themselves, that he is in earnest to do you justice; or that you would refuse him, if you believed he was.
But, my dear cousin, there may possibly be something in this affair, to which I may be a stranger. If there be, and you will acquaint me with it, all that a naturally warm heart can do in your behalf, shall be done.
Nothing but my endeavour to serve you here has hitherto prevented me from assuring you of this by word of mouth: For I long to see you, after so many years absence. I hope I shall be able, in my next visits to my several cousins, to set all right. Proud spirits, when convinced that they have carried resentments too high, want but a good excuse to condescend: And parents must always love the child they once loved.
Mean while, I beg the favour of a few lines, to know if you have reason to doubt Mr. Lovelace's sincerity. For my part, I can have none, if I am to judge from the conversation that passed yesterday between him and me, in presence of Lord M.
You will be pleased to direct for me at your uncle Antony's.
Permit me, my dearest cousin, till I can procure a happy reconciliation between you and your father, and brother, and uncles, to supply the place to you of all those near relations, as well as that of
Your affectionate Kinsman, and humble Servant,
Wm. Morden.

### v7 LETTER XXIX.

Miss Cl. Harlowe, To Wm. Morden, Esq;
Thursday, Aug. 31.
I most heartily congratulate you, dear Sir, on your return to your native country.
I heard with much pleasure that you were come; but I was both afraid and ashamed, till you encouraged me by a first notice, to address myself to you.
How consoling is it to my wounded heart to find, that you have not been carried away by that tide of resentment and displeasure, with which I have been so unhappily overwhelmed-But that, while my still nearer relations have not thought fit to examine into the truth of vile reports raised against me, you have informed yourself (and generously credited the information), that my error was owing more to my misfortune than my fault.
I have not the least reason to doubt Mr. Lovelace's sincerity in his offers of marriage: Nor that all his relations are heartily desirous of ranking me among them. I have had noble instances of their esteem for me, on their apprehending that my father's displeasure must have subjected me to difficulties: And this, after I had absolutely refused their pressing solicitations in their kinsman's favour, as well as his own.
Nor think me, my dear cousin, blameable for refusing him. I had given Mr. Lovelace no reason to think me a weak creature. If I had, a man of his character might have thought himself warranted to endeavour to make ungenerous advantage of the weakness he had been able to inspire. The consciousness of my own weakness (in that case) might have brought me to a composition with his wickedness.
I can indeed forgive him. But that is, because I think his crimes have set me above him. Can I be above the man, Sir, to whom I shall give my hand and my vows; and with them a sanction to the most premeditated baseness? No, Sir, let me say, that your cousin Clarissa, were she likely to live many years, and that (if she married not this man) in penury and want, despised and forsaken by all her friends, puts not so high a value upon the conveniencies of life, nor upon life itself, as to seek to re-obtain the one, or to preserve the other, by giving such a sanction: A sanction, which (were she to perform her duty) would reward the violater.
Nor is it so much from Pride, as from Principle, that I say this. What, Sir, when Virtue, when Chastity is the crown of a woman, and particularly of a Wife, shall your cousin stoop to marry the man who could not form an attempt upon hers, but upon a presumption, that she was capable of receiving his offered hand, when he had found himself mistaken in the vile opinion he had conceived of her? Hitherto he has not had reason to think me weak. Nor will I give him an instance so flagrant, that weak I am, in a point in which it would be criminal to be found weak.
One day, Sir, you will perhaps know all my story. But, whenever it is known, I beg, that the author of my calamities may not be vindictively sought after. He could not have been the author of them, but for a strange concurrence of unhappy causes. As the Law will not be able to reach him when I am gone, any other sort of vengeance terrifies me but to think of it: For, in such a case, should my friends be safe, what honour would his death bring to my memory? If any of them should come to misfortune, how would my fault be aggravated!
God long preserve you, my dearest cousin, and bless you but in proportion to the consolation you have given me, in letting me know that you still love me; and that I have One near and dear relation who can pity and forgive me (and then will you be greatly blessed); is the prayer of
Your ever-grateful and affectionate
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XXX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
In answer to his letters of August 26. 28-29.
Thursday, Aug. 31.
I cannot but own, that I am cut to the heart by this Miss Harlowe's interpretation of her letter. She ought never to be forgiven. She, a meek person, and a penitent, and innocent, and pious, and I know not what, who can deceive with a foot in the grave!-
'Tis evident, that she sat down to write this letter with a design to mislead and deceive. And if she be capable of That, at such a crisis, she has as much need of God's forgiveness, as I have of hers: And, with all her cant of Charity and Charity, if she be not more sure of it, than I am of her real pardon; and if she take the thing in the light she ought to take it in; she will have a few darker moments yet to come than she seems to expect.
Lord M. himself, who is not one of those (to speak in his own phrase) who can penetrate a millstone, sees the deceit, and thinks it unworthy of her; tho' my cousins Montague vindicate her. And no wonder: This cursed partial sex [I hate 'em all-by my soul, I hate 'em all!] will never allow any thing against an individual of it, where ours is concerned. And why? Because, if they censure deceit in another, they must condemn their own hearts.
She is to send me a letter after she is in heaven, is she? The devil take such allegories; and the devil take thee for calling this absurdity an innocent artifice!
I insist upon it, that if a woman of her character, at such a critical time, is to be justified in such a deception, a man in full health and vigour of body and mind, as I am, may be excused for all his stratagems and attempts against her. And, thank my stars, I can now sit me down with a quiet conscience on that score. By my soul, I can, Jack. Not has any-body, who can acquit her, a right to blame me. But with some, indeed, every-thing she does must be good, every-thing I do must be bad-And why? Because she has always taken care to coax the stupid misjudging world, like a woman: While I have constantly defied and despised its censures, like a man.
But, notwithstanding all, you may let her know from me, that I will not molest her, since my visits would be so shocking to her: And I hope she will take this into her consideration, as a piece of generosity, that she could hardly expect, after the deception she has put upon me. And let her further know, that if there be any-thing in my power, that will contribute either to her ease or honour, I will obey her, at the very first intimation, however disgraceful or detrimental to myself. All this, to make her unapprehensive, and that she may have nothing to pull her back.
If her cursed relations could be brought as chearfully to perform their parts, I'd answer life for life for her recovery.
But who, that has so many ludicrous images raised in his mind by thy aukward penitence, can forbear laughing at thee? Spare, I beseech thee, dear Belford, for the future, all thy own aspirations, if thou wouldst not dishonour those of an angel indeed.
When I came to that passage, where thou sayst, that thou considerest her as one sent from heaven, to draw thee after her-for the heart of me, I could not for an hour put thee out of my head, in the attitude of Dame Elizabeth Carteret, on her monument in Westminster-Abbey. If thou never observed it, go thither on purpose; and there wilt thou see this dame in effigie, with uplifted head and hand, the latter taken hold of by a Cupid every inch of stone, one clumsy foot lifted up also, aiming, as the sculptor designed it, to ascend; but so executed, as would rather make one imagine, that the figure (without shoe or stocken, as it is, tho' the rest of the body is robed) was looking up to its corn-cutter: The other riveted to its native earth, bemired, like thee ( immersed thou callest it), beyond the possibility of unsticking itself. Both figures, thou wilt find, seem to be in a contention, the bigger, whether it should pull down the lesser about its ears- the lesser (a chubby fat little varlet, of a fourth part of the other's bigness, with wings not much larger than those of a butterfly) whether it should raise the larger to a heaven it points to, hardly big enough to contain the great toes of either.
Thou wilt say, perhaps, that the dame's figure in stone may do credit, in the comparison, to thine, both in grain and shape, wooden as thou art all over. But that the lady, who, in every-thing but in the trick she has played me so lately, is truly an angel, is but sorrily represented by the fat flank'd Cupid. This I allow thee. But yet there is enough in thy aspirations, to strike my mind with a resemblance of thee and the lady to the figures on the wretched monument; for thou oughtest to remember, that, prepared as she may be to mount to her native skies, it is impossible for her to draw after her a heavy fellow, who has so much to repent of, and amend.
But now, to be serious once more, let me tell you, Belford, that, if the lady be really so ill as you write she is, it will become you ( No Roman style here!) in a case so very affecting, to be a little less pointed and sarcastic in your reflections. For, upon my soul, the matter begins to grate me most confoundedly.
I am now so impatient to hear oftener of her, that I take the hint accidentally given me by our two fellows meeting at Slough, and resolve to go to our friend Doleman's at Uxbridge; whose wife and sister, as well as he, have so frequently pressed me to give them my company for a week or two: There shall I be within two hours ride, if anything should happen to induce her to see me: For it will well become her piety, and avowed charity, should the worst happen [The Lord of heaven and earth, however, avert that worst!] to give me that pardon from her lips, which she has not denied me by pen and ink. And as she wishes my reformation, she knows not what good effects such an interview may have upon me.
I shall accordingly be at Doleman's to morrow morning, by eleven at furthest. My fellow will find me there at his return from you (with a letter, I hope). I shall have Joel with me likewise, that I may send the oftener, as matters fall out. Were I to be still nearer, or in town, it would be impossible to with-hold myself from seeing her.
But, if the worst happen!-as, by your continual knelling, I know not what to think of it! -(Yet, once more, Heaven avert that worst! -How natural is it to pray, when one cannot help one's self!) -Then say not, in so many dreadful words, what the event is-Only, that you advise me to take a trip to Paris: And that will stab me to the heart.
I so well approve of your generosity to poor Belton's sister, that I have made Mowbray give up his legacy, as I do mine, towards her India Bonds. When I come to town, Tourville shall do the like; and we will buy each a ring, to wear in memory of the honest fellow, with our own money, that we may perform his will, as well as our own.
My fellow rides the rest of the night. I charge you, Jack, if you would save his life, that you send him not back empty-handed.

### v7 LETTER XXXI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday night, Aug. 31.
When I concluded my last, I hoped, that my next attendance upon this surprising lady would furnish me with some particulars as agreeable as now could be hoped for from the declining way she is in, by reason of the welcome letter she had received from her cousin Morden. But it proved quite otherwise to me, tho' not to herself; for I think I never was more shocked in my life than on the occasion I shall mention presently.
When I attended her about seven in the evening, she told me, that she had found herself since I went in a very petulant way. Strange, she said, that the pleasure she had received from her cousin's letter should have had such an effect upon her. But she had given way to a comparative humour, as she might call it, and thought it very hard, that her nearer relations had not taken the methods with her, which her cousin Morden had begun with; by inquiring into her merit or demerit, and giving her cause a fair audit before condemnation.
She had hardly said this, when she started, and a blush overspread her face, on hearing, as I also did, a sort of lumbering noise upon the stairs, as if a large trunk were bringing up between two people: And, looking upon me with an eye of concern, Blunderers! said she, they have brought in something two hours before the time. -Don't be surprised, Sir: It is all to save you trouble.
Before I could speak, in came Mrs. Smith: O Madam, said she, What have you done? -Mrs. Lovick, entering, made the same exclamation. Lord have mercy upon me, Madam, cry'd I, what have you done! -For, she stepping at the instant to the door, the women told me, it was a coffin. -O Lovelace! that thou hadst been there at the moment! -Thou, the causer of all these shocking scenes! Surely thou couldst not have been less affected than I, who have no guilt, as to her, to answer for.
With an intrepidity of a piece with the preparation, having directed them to carry it into her bedchamber, she returned to us: They were not to have brought it in till after dark, said she-Pray, excuse me, Mr. Belford: And don't you, Mrs. Lovick, be concerned: Nor you, Mrs. Smith. Why should you? There is nothing more in it, than the unusualness of the thing. Why may we not be as reasonably shocked at going to the church where are the monuments of our ancestors, with whose dust we even hope our dust shall be one day mingled, as to be moved at such a sight as this?
We all remaining silent, the women having their aprons at their eyes-Why this concern for nothing at all, said she? -I am to be blamed for any-thing, it is for shewing too much solicitude, as it may be thought, for this earthly part. I love to do every-thing for myself that I can do. I ever did. Every other material point is so far done and taken care of, that I have had leisure for things of lesser moment. Minutenesses may be observed, where greater articles are not neglected for them. I might have had this to order, perhaps, when less fit to order it. I have no mother, no sister, no Mrs. Norton, no Miss Howe, near me. Some of you must have seen this in a few days, if not now; perhaps have had the friendly trouble of directing it. And what is the difference of a few days to you, when I am gratified, rather than discomposed by it? -I shall not die the sooner for such a preparation. -Should not every-body make their will, that has any-thing to bequeath? And who, that makes a will, should be afraid of a coffin? -My dear friends (to the women), I have considered these things; do not give me reason to think you have not, with such an object before you, as you have had in me, for weeks.
How reasonable was all this! -It shewed, indeed, that she herself had well considered of it. But yet we could not help being shocked at the thoughts of the coffin thus brought in: The lovely person before our eyes, who is in all likelihood so soon to fill it.
We were all silent still, the women in grief, I in a manner stunned. She would not ask me, she said; but would be glad, since it had thus earlier than she had intended been brought in, that her two good friends would walk in and look upon it. They would be less shocked, when it was made more familiar to their eye, than while their thoughts ran large upon it. Don't you lead back, said she, a starting steed to the object he is apt to start at, in order to familiarize him to it, and cure his starting? The same reason will hold in this case. Come, my good friends, I will lead you in.
I took my leave; telling her she had done wrong, very wrong; and ought not, by any means, to have such an object before her.
The women followed her in. -'Tis a strange Sex! Nothing is too shocking for them to look upon, or see acted, that has but Novelty and Curiosity in it.
Down I posted; got a chair; and was carried home, extremely shocked and discomposed: Yet, weighing the lady's arguments, I know not why I was so affected-except, as she said, at the unusualness of the thing.
While I waited for a chair, Mrs. Smith came down, and told me, that there were devices and inscriptions upon the lid. Lord bless me! Is a coffin a proper subject to display fancy upon? -But these great minds cannot avoid doing extraordinary things!

### v7 LETTER XXXII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Friday Morn. Sept. 1.
It is surprising, that I, a man, should be so much affected as I was, at such an object as is the subject of my former letter; who also, in my late uncle's case, and poor Belton's, had the like before me, and the directing of it: When she, a woman, of so weak and tender a frame, who was to fill it (so soon, perhaps, to fill it!) could give orders about it, and draw out the devices upon it, and explain them with so little concern as the women tell me she did to them last night, after I was gone.
I really was ill, and restless all night. Thou wert the subject of my execration, as she of my admiration, all the time I was quite awake: And, when I dozed, I dreamt of nothing but of flying hour-glasses, deaths heads, spades, mattocks, and Eternity; the hint of her devices (as given me by Mrs. Smith) running in my head.
However, not being able to keep away from Smith's, I went thither about seven. The lady was just gone out: She had slept better, I found, than I, tho' her solemn repository was under her window not far from her bed-side.
I was prevailed upon by Mrs. Smith and her nurse Shelburne (Mrs. Lovick being abroad with her) to go up and look at the devices. Mrs. Lovick has since shewn me a copy of the draught by which all was ordered. And I will give thee a sketch of the symbols.
The principal device, neatly etched on a plate of white metal, is a crowned serpent, with its tail in its mouth, forming a ring, the emblem of Eternity, and in the circle made by it is this inscription:

### CLARISSA HARLOWE.

### APRIL X.

### [Then the year]

### AEtat. xix.

For ornaments: At top, an hour-glass winged. At bottom, an urn.
Under the hour-glass, on another plate this inscription:
Here the wicked cease from troubling: And HERE the weary be at rest. Job iii. 17.
Over the urn, near the bottom:
Turn again unto thy rest, O my soul! For the Lord hath rewarded thee: And why? Thou hast delivered my soul from death; mine eyes from tears; and my feet from falling. Ps. cxvi. 7, 8.
Over this text is the head of a white lily snapt short off, and just falling from the stalk; and this inscription over that, between the principal plate and the lily:
The days of man are but as grass. For he flourisheth as a flower of the field: For, as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more. Ps. ciii. 15, 16.
She excused herself to the women, on the score of her youth, and being used to draw for her needleworks, for having shewn more fancy than would perhaps be thought suitable on so solemn an occasion.
The date, April 10. she accounted for, as not being able to tell what her closing-day would be; and as That was the fatal day of her leaving her father's house.
She discharged the undertaker's bill, after I was gone, with as much chearfulness as she could ever have paid for the cloaths she sold to purchase this her palace: For such she called it; reflecting upon herself for the expensiveness of it, saying, That they might observe in her, that pride left not poor mortals to the last: But indeed she did not know but her father would permit it, when furnished, to be carried down to be deposited with her ancestors; and, in that case, she ought not to discredit them in her last appearance.
It is covered with fine black cloth, and lined with white satten; soon, she said, to be tarnished by viler earth than any it could be covered by.
The burial-dress was brought home with it. The women had curiosity enough, I suppose, to see her open That, if she did open it. -And, perhaps, thou wouldst have been glad to have been present, to have admired it too!
Mrs. Lovick said, she took the liberty to blame her; and wished the removal of such an object-from her bedchamber, at least: And was so affected with the noble answer she made upon it, that she entered it down, the moment she left her.
To persons in health, said she, this sight may be shocking; and the preparation, and my unconcernedness in it, may appear affected: But to me, who have had so gradual a weaning-time from the world, and so much reason not to love it, I must say, I dwell on, I indulge (and, strictly speaking, I enjoy) the thoughts of death. For, believe me (looking stedfastly at the awful receptacle): Believe what at this instant I feel to be most true, That there is such a vast superiority of weight and importance in the thought of death, and its hoped for happy consequences, that it in a manner annihilates all other considerations and concerns. Believe me, my good friends, it does what nothing else can do; It teaches me, by strenthening in me the force of the divinest example, to forgive the injuries I have received; and shuts out the remembrance of past evils from my soul.
And now let me ask thee, Lovelace, Dost thou think, that, when the time shall come that thou shalt be obliged to launch into the boundless ocean of Eternity, thou wilt be able (any more than poor Belton was) to act thy part with such true heroism, as this sweet and tender blossom of a woman has manifested, and continues to manifest!
O no! it cannot be! -And why cannot it be? -The reason is evident: She has no wilful errors to look back upon with self-reproach-and her mind is strengthened by the consolations which flow from that religious rectitude which has been the guide of all her actions; and which has taught her rather to choose to be a sufferer, than an aggressor!
This was the support of the divine Socrates, as thou hast read. When led to execution, his wife lamenting that he should suffer being innocent, Thou fool, said he, wouldst thou wish me to be guilty?

### v7 LETTER XXXIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Friday, Sept. 1.
How astonishing, in the midst of such affecting scenes, is thy mirth on what thou callest my own aspirations! Never, surely, was there such another man in this world, thy talents and thy levity taken together! -Surely, what I shall send thee with this will affect thee. If not, nothing can, till thy own hour come: -And heavy will then thy reflections be!
I am glad, however, that thou enablest me to assure the lady, that thou wilt no more molest her; that is to say, in other words, That, after having ruined her fortunes, and all her worldly prospects, thou wilt be so gracious, as to let her lie down and die in peace.
Thy giving up to poor Belton's sister the little legacy, and thy undertaking to make Mowbray and Tourville follow thy example, is, I must say to thy honour, of a piece with thy generosity to thy Rose-bud and her Johnny; and to a number of other good actions, in pecuniary matters; altho' thy Rose-bud's is, I believe, the only instance where a pretty woman was concerned, of such a disinterested bounty.
Upon my faith, Lovelace, I love to praise thee; and often and often, as thou knowest, have I studied for occasions to do it: Insomuch that when for the life of me I could not think of any-thing done by thee that deserved it, I have taken pains to applaud the not ungraceful manner in which thou hast performed actions that merited the gallows.
Now thou art so near, I will dispatch my servant to thee, if occasion requires. But, I fear, I shall soon give thee the news thou apprehendest. For I am just now sent for by Mrs. Smith; who has ordered the messenger to tell me, that she knew not if the lady will be alive when I come.
Friday, Sept. 1. two o'clock, at Smith's.
I could not close my letter in such an uncertainty as must have added to your impatience. For you have, on several occasions, convinced me, that the suspense you love to give would be the greatest torment to you that you could receive. A common case with all aggressive and violent spirits, I believe. I will just mention then (your servant waiting here till I have written), that the lady has had two very severe fits: In the last of which, whilst she lay, they sent to the doctor, and Mr. Goddard, who both advised, that a messenger should be dispatched for me, as her executor; being doubtful, whether, if she had a third, it would not carry her off.
She was tolerably recovered by the time I came; and the doctor made her promise before me, that she would not attempt any more, while so weak, to go abroad; for, by Mrs. Lovick's description, who attended her, the shortness of her breath, her extreme weakness, and the fervor of her devotions when at church, were contraries, which, pulling different ways (the soul aspiring, the body sinking) tore her tender frame in pieces.
So much for the present. I shall detain Will no longer, than just to beg, that you will send me back this pacquet, and the last. Your memory is so good, that once reading is all you ever give, or need to give, to any-thing. And who but ourselves can make out our characters, were you inclined to let any-body see what passes between us? If I cannot be obliged, I shall be tempted to with-hold what I write, till I have time to take a copy of it.
A letter from Miss Howe is just now brought by a particular messenger, who says he must carry back a few lines in return. But, as the lady is just retired to lie down, the man is to call again by-and-by.

### v7 LETTER XXXIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
Uxbridge, Sept. 1. twelve o'clock at night.
I send you the papers with this. You must account to me honestly and fairly when I see you for the earnestness with which you write for them. And then also will we talk about the contents of your last dispatch, and about some of your severe and unfriendly reflections.
Mean time, whatever thou dost, don't let the wonderful creature leave us! Set before her the sin of her preparation, as if she thought she could depart when she pleased. She'll persuade herself, at this rate, that she has nothing to do, when all is ready, but to lie down, and go to sleep: And such a lively fancy as hers will make a reality of a jest at any time.
A jest, I call all that has passed between her and me; a mere jest to die for! -For has she not, from first to last, infinitely more triumphed over me, than suffered from me?
Would the sacred regard I have for her purity, even for her personal as well as intellectual purity, permit, I could prove this as clear as the sun. Therefore tell the dear creature, she must not be wicked in her piety. There is a too much, as well as a too little, even in righteousness. Perhaps she does not think of that. -O that she would have permitted my attendance, as obligingly as she does of thine! -The dear soul used to love humour. I remember the time that she knew how to smile at a piece of apropos humour. And, let me tell thee, a smile upon the lips must have had its correspondent chearfulnesses in a heart so sincere as hers.
Tell the doctor, I will make over all my possessions, and all my reversions, to him, if he will but prolong her life for one twelvemonth to come. But for one twelve-month, Jack! -He will lose all his reputation with me, and I shall treat him as Belton did his doctor, if he cannot do this for me, on so young a subject. But Nineteen, Belford! -Nineteen cannot so soon die of grief, if the doctor deserve that name; and so blooming and so fine a constitution as she had but three or four months ago!
But what need the doctor have asked her leave to write to her friends? Could he not have done it, without letting her know any-thing of the matter? That was one of the likeliest means that could be thought of, to bring some of them about her, since she is so desirous to see them. At least, it would have induced them to send up her favourite Norton. But these plaguy solemn fellows are great traders in parade: And, for the hearts of them, cannot get out of it, be the occasion what it will. They'll cram down your throat their poisonous drugs by wholesale, without asking you a question; and have the assurance to own it to be prescribing: But, when they are to do good, they are to ask your consent.
How the dear creature's character rises in every line of thy letters! -But it is owing to the uncommon occasions she has met with that she blazes out upon us with such a meridian lustre! -How, but for those occasions, could her noble sentiments, her prudent consideration, her forgiving spirit, her exalted benevolence, and her equanimity in view of the most shocking prospects (which set her in a light so superior to all her sex, and even to the philosophers of antiquity) have been manifested?
I know thou wilt think I am going to claim some merit to myself, for having given her such opportunities of signalizing her virtues. But I am not; for, if I did, I must share that merit with her implacable relations, who would justly be intitled to two thirds of it, at least: And my soul disdains a partnership in any-thing with such a family.
But this I mention as an answer to thy reproaches, that I could be so little edified by perfections, to which, thou supposest, I was for so long together daily and hourly a personal witness-When, admirable as she was in all she said, and in all she did, occasion had not at that time ripened, and called forth, those amazing perfections which now astonish and confound me.
Hence it is, that I admire her more than ever I did; and that my love for her is less personal, as I may say, more intellectual, than ever I thought it could be to woman.
Hence also it is, that I am confident (would it please the Fates to spare her, and make her mine) I could love her with a purity that would draw on my own FUTURE, as well as insure her TEMPORAL happiness. -And hence, by necessary consequence, shall I be the most miserable of all men, if I am deprived of her.
Thou severely reflectest upon me for my levity in the Abbey instance. And I will be ingenuous enough to own, that as thou seest not my heart, there may be passages in every one of my letters, which (the melancholy occasion considered) deserve thy most pointed rebukes. But, faith, Jack, thou art such a tragi-comical mortal, with thy leaden aspirations at one time, and thy flying hour-glasses and dreaming terrors at another, that, as Prior says, What serious is, thou-turn'st to farce; and it is impossible to keep within the bounds of decorum or gravity, when one reads what thou writest.
But to restrain myself (for my constitutional gaiety was ready to run away with me again) I will repeat, I must ever repeat, that I am most egregiously affected with the circumstances of the case: And, were this paragon actually to quit the world, should never enjoy myself one hour together, tho' I were to live to the age of Methusalem.
Indeed it is to this deep concern, that my very levity is owing: For I struggle and struggle, and try to buffet down these reflections as they rise; and when I cannot do it, I am forced, as I have often said, to try to make myself laugh, that I may not cry; for one or other I must do: And is it not philosophy carried to the highest pitch, for a man to conquer such tumults of soul as I am sometimes agitated by, and, in the very height of the storm, to be able to quaver out an horse-laugh?
Your Seneca's, your Epictetus's, and the rest of your stoical tribe, with all their apathy-nonsense, could not come up to this. They could forbear wry faces: Bodily pains they could well enough seem to support; and that was all: But the pangs of their own smitten-down souls they could not laugh over, tho' they could at the follies of others. They read grave lectures; but they were grave. This high point of philosophy, to laugh and be merry in the midst of the most soul-harrowing woes, when the heart-strings are just bursting asunder, was reserved for thy Lovelace.
There is something owing to constitution, I own; and that this is the laughing-time of my life. For what a woe must that be, which for an hour together can mortify a man of six or seven and twenty, in high blood and spirits, of a naturally gay disposition, who can sing, dance, and scribble, and take and give delight in them all? -But then my grief, as my joy, is sharper-pointed than most other mens; and, like what Dolly Welby once told me, describing the parturient throes, if there were not lucid intervals-if they did not come and go-there would be no bearing them.
After all, as I am so little distant from the dear creature, and as she is so very ill, I think I cannot excuse myself from making her one visit. Nevertheless, if I thought her so near-(What word shall I use, that my soul is not shocked at!) and that she would be too much discomposed by a visit; I would not think of it. -Yet how can I bear the recollection, that, when she last went from me (her innocence so triumphant over my premeditated guilt, as was enough to reconcile her to life, and to set her above the sense of injuries so nobly sustained) that she should then depart with an incurable fracture in her heart; and that that should be the last time I should ever see her! - How, how can I bear this reflection!
O Jack! how my conscience, that gives edge even to thy blunt reflections, tears me! -Even this moment would I give the world to push the cruel reproacher from me by one gay intervention! -Sick of myself! -Sick of the remembrance of my vile plots; and of my light, my momentary ecstasy (Villainous burglar, felon, thief, that I was!) which has brought upon me such durable and such heavy remorse! what would I give that I had not been guilty of such barbarous and ungrateful perfidy to the most excellent of God's creatures!
I would end, methinks, with one sprightlier line!- but it will not be-Let me tell thee then, and rejoice at it if thou wilt, that I am
Inexpressibly miserable.

### v7 LETTER XXXV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Sat. morning, Sept. 2.
I have some little pleasure given me by thine, just now brought me. I see now, that thou hast a little humanity left. Would to heaven, for the dear lady's sake, as well as for thy own, that thou hadst romaged it up from all the dark forgotten corners of thy soul a little sooner!
The lady is alive, and serene, and calm, and has all her noble intellects clear and strong: But Nineteen will not however save her. She says, she will now content herself with her closet-duties, and the visits of the parish-minister; and will not attempt to go out. Nor, indeed, will she, I am afraid, ever walk up or down a pair of stairs again.
I am sorry at my soul to have this to say: But it would be a folly to flatter thee.
As to thy seeing her, I believe the least hint of that sort, now, would cut off some hours of her life.
What has contributed to her serenity, it seems, is, That, taking the alarm her fits gave her, she has intirely finished, and signed and sealed, her last will: Which she had deferred doing till this time, in hopes, as she said, of some good news from Harlowe-Place; which would have occasioned the alteration of some passages in it.
Miss Howe's letter was not given her till four in the afternoon, yesterday; at what time the messenger returned for an answer. She admitted him to her presence in the dining-room, ill as she then was; and would have written a few lines, as desired by Miss Howe; but, not being able to hold a pen, she bid the messenger tell her, that she hoped to be well enough to write a long letter by the next day's post; and would not now detain him.
Saturday, six in the Afternoon.
I called just now, and found the lady writing to Miss Howe. She made me a melancholy compliment, that she shewed me not Miss Howe's letter, because I should soon have that and all her papers before me. But she told me, that Miss Howe had very considerately obviated to Colonel Morden several things which might have occasioned misapprehensions between him and me; and had likewise put a lighter construction, for the sake of peace, on some of your actions, than they deserved.
She added, That her cousin Morden was warmly engaged in her favour with her friends: And one good piece of news Miss Howe's letter contained; that her father would give up some matters, which (appertaining to her of right) would make my executorship the easier in some particulars that had given her a little pain.
She owned she had been obliged to leave off (in the letter she was writing) thro' weakness.
Will, says, he shall reach you to-night. I shall send in the morning; and if I find her not worse, will ride to Edgware, and return in the afternoon.

### v7 LETTER XXXVI.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Tuesday, Aug. 29.
My dearest Friend,
I am at length returned to this place; and had intended to wait on you in London: But my mamma is very ill-Alas! my dear, she is very ill indeed-And you are likewise very ill-I see that by yours of the 25th- What shall I do, if I lose two such near, and dear, and tender friends? She was taken ill yesterday at our last stage in our return home-And has a violent surfeit and fever, and the doctors are doubtful about her.
If she should die, how will all my pertnesses to her fly in my face! -Why, why, did I ever vex her? -She says I have been all duty and obedience! -She kindly forgets all my faults, and remembers every-thing I have been so happy as to oblige her in. And this cuts me to the heart.
I see, I see, my dear, you are very bad-And I cannot bear it. Do, my beloved Miss Harlowe, if you can be better, do, for my sake, be better; and send me word of it. Let the bearer bring me a line. Besure you send me a line. If I lose you, my more than sister, and lose my mamma, I shall distrust my own conduct, and will not marry. And why should I? -Creeping, cringing in courtship: -O my dear, these men are a vile race of Reptiles in our day, and mere Bears in their own. See in Lovelace all that was desirable in figure, in birth, and in fortune: But in his heart a devil! -See in Hickman-Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell what any-body can see in Hickman, to be always preaching in his favour. And is it to be expected, that I, who could hardly bear controul from a mother, should take it from a husband? -From one too, who has neither more wit, nor more understanding, than myself? Yet He to be my instructor! -So he will, I suppose; but more by the insolence of his will, than by the merit of his counsel. It is in vain to think of it-I cannot be a wife to any man breathing whom I at present know. - This I the rather mention now, because, on my mother's danger, I know you will be for pressing me the sooner to throw myself into another sort of protection, should I be deprived of her. But no more of this subject, or indeed of any other; for I am obliged to attend my mamma, who cannot bear me out of her sight.
Wednesday, Aug. 30.
My mother, Heaven be praised! has had a fine night, and is much better. Her fever has yielded to medicine! And now I can write once more with freedom and ease to you, in hopes that you also are better. If this be granted to my prayers, I shall again be happy. I write with still the more alacrity, as I have an opportunity given me to touch upon a subject in which you are nearly concerned.
You must know then, my dear, that your cousin Morden has been here with me. He told me of an interview he had on Monday at Lord M's with Lovelace; and asked me abundance of questions about you, and about that villainous man.
I could have raised a fine flame between them if I would: But, observing that he is a man of very lively passions, and believing you would be miserable if any-thing should happen to him from a quarrel with a man who is known to have so many advantages at his sword, I made not the worst of the subjects we talked of. But, as I could not tell untruths in his favour, you must think I said enough to make him curse the wretch.
I don't find, well as they all used to respect Colonel Morden, that he has influence enough upon them to bring them to any terms of reconciliation.
What can they mean by it! -But your brother is come home, it seems: So, The honour of the house-The reputation of the family, is all the cry!
The Colonel is exceedingly out of humour with them all. Yet has he not hitherto, it seems, seen your brutal brother. -I told him how ill you were, and communicated to him some of the contents of your letter. He admired you, cursed Lovelace, and raved against all your family. - He declared, that they were all unworthy of you.
At his earnest request, I permitted him to take some brief notes of such of the contents of your letter to me, as I thought I could read to him; and, particularly, of your melancholy conclusion.
He says, That none of your friends think you so ill as you are; nor will believe it. -He is sure they all love you, and that dearly too.
If they do, their present hardness of heart will be the subject of everlasting remorse to them should you be taken from us-But not it seems (barbarous wretches!) you are to suffer within an inch of your life.
He asked me questions about Mr. Belford: And when he had heard what I had to say of that gentleman, and his disinterested services to you, he raved at some villainous surmises thrown out against you by that officious pedant, Brand: Who, but for his gown, I find, would come off poorly enough between your cousin and Lovelace.
He was so uneasy about you himself, that on Thursday the 24th he sent up an honest serious man, one Alston, a gentleman farmer, to inquire of your condition, your visiters, &c. who brought him word, that you was very ill, and was put to great streights to support yourself: But as this was told him by the gentlewoman of the house where you lodge, who it seems mingled with it some tart, tho' deserved, reflections upon your relations cruelty, it was not credited by them: And I myself hope it cannot be true; for surely you could not be so unjust, I will say, to my friendship, as to suffer any inconveniences for want of money. I think I could not forgive you, if it were so.
The Colonel (as one of your trustees) is resolved to see you put into possession of your estate: And, in the mean time, he has actually engaged them to remit to him, for you, the produce of it accrued since your grandfather's death (a very considerable sum); and proposes himself to attend you with it. But, by a hint he dropt, I find you had disappointed some people's littleness, by not writing to them for money and supplies; since they were determined to distress you, and to put you at defiance.
Like all the rest!-I hope I may say that without offence.
Your cousin imagines, that, before a reconciliation takes place, they will insist, that you shall make such a will, as to that estate, as they shall approve of: But he declares, he will not go out of England till he has seen justice done you by every-body; and that you shall not be imposed on either by friend or foe-
By relation or foe, should he not have said? -For a friend will not impose upon a friend.
So, my dear, you are to buy your peace, if some people were to have their wills!
Your cousin [not I, my dear, tho' it was always my opinion] says, that the whole family is too rich to be either humble, considerate, or contented. And as for himself, he has an ample fortune, he says, and thinks of leaving it wholly to you.
Had this villain Lovelace consulted his worldly interest only, what a fortune would he have had in you, even altho' your marrying him had deprived you of your paternal share?
I am obliged to leave off here. But having a good deal still to write, and my mother better, I will pursue the subject in another letter, altho' I send both together. I need not say how much I am, and will ever be,
Your affectionate, &c.
Anna Howe.

### v7 LETTER XXXVII.

Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Thursday, Aug. 31.
The Colonel thought fit once to speak it to the praise of Lovelace's generosity, that (as a man of honour ought) he took to himself all the blame, and acquitted you of the consequences of the precipitate step you had taken; since, he said, as you loved him, and was in his power, he must have had advantages, which he would not have had, if you had continued at your father's, or at any friend's.
Mighty generous, I said (were it as he supposed) in such insolent reflecters, the best of them; who pretend to clear reputations, which never had been sullied, but by falling into their dirty acquaintance! But in this case, I added, that there was no need of any-thing but the strictest truth, to demonstrate Lovelace to be the blackest of villains, You the brightest of innocents.
This he catch'd at; and swore, that could he find, that there were any-thing uncommon or barbarous in the seduction, as one of your letters had indeed seemed to imply (That is to say, my dear, any-thing worse than perjury, breach of faith, and abuse of a generous confidence! -Sorry fellows!) he would avenge his cousin to the utmost.
I urged your apprehensions on this head from your last letter to me: But he seemed capable of taking what I know to be real greatness of soul, in an unworthy sense: For he mentioned directly upon it, the expectation your friends had, that you should (previous to any reconciliation with them) appear in a court of justice against the villain-If you could do it with the advantage to yourself that I hinted might be done.
And truly, if I would have heard him, he had indelicacy enough to have gone into the nature of the proof of the crime upon which they wanted to have Lovelace arraigned: Yet this is a gentleman improved by travel and learning! -Upon my word, my dear, I, who have been accustomed to the most delicate conversation ever since I had the honour to know you, despise this Sex, from the gentleman to the peasant.
Upon the whole, I find that Mr. Morden has a very slender notion of womens virtue, in particular cases: For which reason I put him down, tho' your favourite, as one who is not intitled to cast the first stone.
I never knew a man who deserved to be well thought of himself for his morals, who had a slight opinion of the virtue of our Sex in general. For if from the difference of temperament and education, modesty, chastity, and piety too (and these from principle) are not to be found in our Sex preferably to the other, I should think it a sign of a much worse nature in ours.
He even hinted (as from your relations indeed) that it is impossible but there must be some will where there is much love. These sort of reflections are enough to make a woman, who has at heart her own honour and the honour of her Sex, to look about her, and consider what she is doing, when she enters into an intimacy with these wretches; since it is plain, that whenever she throws herself into the power of a man, and leaves for him her parents or guardians, every-body will believe it to be owing more to her good luck than to her discretion, if there be not an end of her virtue: And let the man be ever such a villain to her, she must take into her own bosom a share of his guilty baseness.
I am writing to general cases. You, my dear, are out of the question. Your story, as I have heretofore said, will afford a warning, as well as an example: For who is it that will not infer, That if a person of your fortune, character, and merit, could not escape ruin, after she had put herself into the power of her hyaena, what can a thoughtless, fond, giddy creature expect?
Every man, they will say, is not a Lovelace. -True: But then, neither is every woman a Clarissa. -And allow for the one and the other, the example must be of general use.
I prepared this gentleman to expect your appointment of Mr. Belford, for an office that we both hope he will have no occasion to act in (nor any-body else) for many, very many years to come. He was at first startled at it: But, upon hearing your reasons, which had satisfied me, he only said, That such an appointment, were it to take place, would exceedingly affect his other cousins.
He told me, he had a copy of Lovelace's letter to you, imploring your pardon, and offering to undergo any penance to procure it; and also of your answer to it.
I find he is willing to hope, that a marriage between you may still take place; which, he says, will heal up all breaches.
I would have written much more: -On the following particulars especially; to wit, Of the wretched man's hunting you out of your lodgings: Of your relations strange implacableness (I am in haste, and cannot think of a word you would like better, just now): Of your last letter to Lovelace, to divert him from pursuing you: Of your aunt Hervey's penitential conversation with Mrs. Norton: Of Mr. Wyerley's renewed address: Of your lessons in Hickman's behalf, so approveable, were the man more so than he is: But indeed I am offended with him at this instant, and have been these two days: -Of your sister's transportation-project:-And of twenty and twenty other things: -But am obliged to leave off, to attend my two cousins Spilsworth, and my cousin Herbert, who are come to visit us on account of my mother's illness. -I will therefore dispatch these by Rogers; and if my mother gets well soon (as I hope she will) I am resolved to see you in town, and tell you every-thing that now is upon my mind; and particularly, mingling my soul with yours, how much I am, and will ever be, my dearest dear friend,
Your affectionate
Anna Howe.
Let Rogers bring one line, I pray you. I thought to have sent him this afternoon; but he cannot set out till to-morrow morning early.
I cannot express how much your staggering lines, and your conclusion, affect me!

### v7 LETTER XXXVIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq
Sunday Evening, Sept. 3.
I wonder not at the impatience your servant tells me you express to hear from me. I was designing to write you a long letter, and was just returned from Smith's for that purpose; but, since you are so urgent, you must be contended with a short one.
I attended the lady this morning, just before I set out for Edgware. She was so ill over-night, that she was obliged to leave her letter to Miss Howe unfinished: But early this morning she made an end of it, and had just sealed it up as I came. She was so fatigued with writing, that she told me she would like down after I was gone, and endeavour to recruit her spirits.
They had sent for Mr. Goddard, when she was so ill last night; and not being able to see him out of her own chamber, he, for the first time, saw her house, as she calls it. He was extremely shocked and concerned at it; and chid Mrs. Smith and Mrs, Lovick for not persuading her to have such an object removed from her bedchamber: And when they excused themselves on the little authority it was reasonable to suppose they must have with a lady so much their superior, he reflected warmly on whose who had more authority, and who left her to proceed in such a shocking and solemn whimsy, as he called it.
It is placed near the window, like a harpsichord, tho' covered over to the ground: And when she is so ill, that she cannot well go to her closet, she writes and reads upon it, as others would upon a desk or table. But (only as she was so ill last night) she chooses not to see any-body in that apartment.
I went to Edgware; and returning in the evening, attended her again. She had a letter brought her from Mrs. Norton (a long one, as it seems by its bulk) just before I came. But she had not opened it; and said, That as she was pretty calm and composed, she was afraid to look into the contents, lest she should be ruffled; expecting, now, to hear of nothing that could do her good or give her pleasure from that good woman's dear hard-hearted neighbours, as she called her own relations.
Seeing her so weak and ill, I withdrew; nor did she desire me to tarry, as sometimes she does, when I make a motion to depart.
By Mrs. Smith I had some hints, as I went away, that she had appropriated that evening to some offices, that were to save trouble, as she called it, after her departure; and had been giving her nurse, and Mrs. Lovick, and Mrs. Smith, orders about what she would have done when she was gone; and I believe they were of a very delicate and affecting nature; but Mrs. Smith descended not to particulars.
The Doctor had been with her, as well as Mr. Goddard; and they both joined with great earnestness to persuade her to have her house removed out of her sight: But she assured them, that it gave her pleasure and spirits; and, being a necessary preparation, she wondered they should be surprised at it, when she had not any of her family about her, or any old acquaintance, on whose care and exactness in these punctilio's, as she called them, she could rely.
The Doctor told Mrs. Smith, that he believed she would hold out long enough for any of her friends to have notice of her state, and to see her, and hardly longer; and since he could not find, that she had any certainty of hearing from or seeing her cousin Morden (which made it plain, that her relations continued inflexible) he would go home, and write a letter to her father, take it as she would.
She had spent great part of the day in intense devotions; and to-morrow morning she is to have with her the same clergyman who has often attended her; from whose hands she will again receive the Sacrament.
Thou seest, Lovelace, that all is preparing, that all will be ready; and I am to attend her to-morrow afternoon, to take some instructions from her in relation to my part in the office to be performed for her. And thus, omitting the particulars of a fine conversation between her and Mrs. Lovick, which the latter acquainted me with, as well as another between her and the Doctor and Apothecary, which I had a design this evening to give you, they being of a very affecting nature, I have yielded to your impatience.
I shall dispatch Harry to-morrow morning early with her letter to Miss Howe. An offer she took very kindly; as she is extremely solicitous to lessen that young lady's apprehensions for her on not hearing from her by Saturday's post: And yet, to write the truth, how can her apprehensions be lessened?

### v7 LETTER XXXIX.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
Saturday, Sept. 2.
I write, my beloved Miss Howe, tho' very ill still: But I could not by the return of your messenger; for I was then unable to hold a pen.
Your mother's illness (as by the first part of your letter) gave me great distress for you, till I read further: You bewail it as it becomes a daughter so sensible. May you be blessed in each other for many, very many, happy years to come! I doubt not, that even this sudden and grievous indisposition, by the frame it has put you in, and the apprehension it has given you of losing so dear a mother, will contribute to the happiness I wish you: For, alas! my dear, we never know how to value the blessings we enjoy, till we are in danger of losing them, or have actually lost them: And then, what would we give to have them restored to us?
What, I wonder, has again happened between you and Mr. Hickman? Altho' I know it not, I dare say it is owing to some pretty petulance, to some half-ungenerous advantage taken of his obligingness and assiduity. Will you never, my dear, give the weight You and all our Sex ought to give to the qualities of sobriety and regularity of life and manners in that Sex? Must bold creatures, and forward spirits, for ever, and by the best and wisest of us, as well as by the indiscreetest, be the most kindly used?
My dear friends know not, that I have actually suffered within less than an inch of my life.
Poor Mr. Brand! He meant well, I believed. -I am afraid all will turn heavily upon him, when he probably thought, that he was taking the best method to oblige: But were he not to have been so light of belief, and so weakly officious; but had given a more favourable, and, it would be strange if I could not say, a juster report; things would have been, nevertheless, exactly as they are.
I must lay down my pen. I am very ill. I believe I shall be better by-and-by. The bad writing would betray me, altho' I had a mind to keep from you, what the event must soon-
Now I resume my trembling pen. Excuse the unsteady writing. It will be so-
I have wanted no money: So don't be angry about such a trifle as money. Yet am I glad of what you incline me to hope, that my friends will give up the produce of my grandfather's estate since it has been in their hands: Because, knowing it to be my right, and that they could not want it, I had already disposed of a good part of it; and could only hope they would be willing to give it up at my last request. And now how rich shall I think myself in this my last stage! -And yet I did not want before -Indeed I did not-For who, that has many superfluities, can be said to want?
Do not, my dear friend, be concerned that I call it my last stage; for what is even the long life which in high health we with for? What, but, as we go along, a life of apprehension, sometimes for our friends, oftener for ourselves? And at last, when arrived at the old age we covet, one heavy loss or deprivation having succeeded another, we see ourselves stript, as I may say, of every-one we loved; and find ourselves exposed, as uncompanionable poor creatures, to the slights to the contempts, of jostling youth, who want to push us off the stage, in hopes to possess what we have: -And, superadded to all, our own infirmities every day increasing: Of themselves enough to make the life we wished-for the greatest disease of all! Don't you remember the lines of Howard, which once you read to me in my ivy-bower?
In the disposition of what belongs to me, I have endeavoured to do every-thing in the justest and best manner I could think of; putting myself in my relations places, and, in the greater points, ordering my matters as if no misunderstanding had happened.
I hope they will not think much of some bequests where wanted, and where due from my gratitude: But if they should, what is done, is done; and I cannot now help it. Yet I must repeat, that I hope, I hope, I have pleased every one of them. For I would not, on any account, have it thought, that, in my last disposition, any-thing undaughterly, unsisterly, or unlike a kinswoman, should have had place in a mind that is so truly free (as I will presume to say) from all resentment, that it now overflows with gratitude and blessings for the good I have received, altho' it be not all that my heart wished to receive. Were it even an hardship that I was not favoured with more, what is it but an hardship of half a year, against the most indulgent goodness of eighteen years and an half, that ever was shewn to a daughter?
My cousin, you tell me, thinks I was off my guard, and that I was taken at some advantage. Indeed, my dear, I was not. Indeed I gave no room for advantage to be taken of me. I hope, one day that will be seen, if I have the justice done me which Mr. Belford assures me of.
I should hope, that my cousin has not taken the liberties which you, by an observation (not unjust) seem to charge him with. For it is sad to think, that the generality of that Sex should make so light of crimes, which they justly hold so unpardonable in their own most intimate relations of ours-Yet cannot commit them without doing such injuries to other families and individuals, as they think themselves obliged to resent unto death, when offered to their own families.
But we women are too often to blame on this head; since the most virtuous, among us seldom make virtue the test of their approbation of the other: Insomuch that a man may glory in his wickedness of this sort without being rejected on that account, even to the faces of women of unquestionable virtue. Hence, it is, that a libertine seldom thinks himself concerned so much as to save appearances: And what is it not that our Sex suffers in their opinions on this very force? And what have I, more than many others, to answer for on this very account, in the world's eye?
May my story be a warning to all, how they prefer a libertine to a man of true honour; and how they permit themselves to be misled (where they mean the best) by the specious, yet foolish hope of subduing riveted habits, and, as I may say, of altering natures! -The more foolish, as experience might convince us, that there is hardly one in ten, of even tolerably happy marriages, in which the wife keeps the hold in the husband's affections, which she had in the lover's. What influence then can she hope to have over the morals of an avowed libertine, who marries perhaps for conveniency, who despises the tie, and whom, it is too probable, nothing but old age, or sickness, or disease (the consequence of ruinous riot) can reclaim? I am very glad you gave my cous-
Sunday morning (Sept. 3.) six o'clock.
Hither I had written, and was forced to quit my pen. And so much weaker and worse I grew, that had I resumed it, to have closed here, it must have been with such trembling unsteadiness, that it would have given you more concern for me, than the delay of sending it away by last night's post can do: So I deferred it, to see how it would please God to deal with me. And I find myself, after a better night than I expected, lively and clear; and hope to give you a proof that I do, in the continuation of my letter, which I will pursue as currently as if I had not left off.
I am glad you so considerately gave me cousin Morden favourable impressions of Mr. Belford; since, otherwise, some misunderstanding might have happened between them: For altho' I hope this gentleman is an altered man, and in time will be a reformed one, yet is he one of those high spirits that has been accustomed to resent imaginary indignities to himself, when, I believe, he as not been studious to avoid giving real offences to others; men of this cast acting as if they thought all the world was made to bear with them, and they with no-body in it.
Mr. Lovelace, you tell me, thought fit to intrust my cousin with the copy of his letter of penitence to me, and with my answer to it, rejecting him and his suit: And Mr. Belford moreover acquaints me, how much concerned Mr. Lovelace is for his baseness, and how freely he accused himself to my cousin. This shews, that the true bravery of spirit is to be above doing a vile action; and that nothing subjects the human mind to such meannesses, as to be guilty of wilful wrongs to our fellow-creatures. How low, how sordid, are the submissions which elaborate baseness compels! That that wretch could treat me as he did, and then could so poorly creep to me to be forgiven, and to be allowed to endeavour to repair crimes so wilful, so black, and so premeditated! How my soul despised him for his meanness on a certain occasion, of which you will one day be informed! And him whom could one's heart despises, it is far from being difficult to reject, had one every so partially favoured him once.
Yet am I glad this violent spirit can thus creep; that, like a poisonous serpent, he can thus coil himself, and hide his head in his own narrow circlets; because this stooping, this abasement, gives me hope that no further mischief will ensue.
All my apprehension is, what may happen when I am gone; lest then my cousin, or any other of my family, should endeavour to avenge me, and risk their own more precious lives on that account.
If that part of Cain's curse were Mr. Lovelace's, To be a fugitive and vagabond in the earth; that is to say, if it meant no more harm to him, than that he should be obliged to travel, as it seems he intends (tho' I wish him no ill in his travels) and I could know it; then should I be easy in the hop'd-for safety of my friends from his skilful violence. Oh that I could hear he was a thousand miles off!
When I began this letter, I did not think I could have run to such a length. But 'tis to You, my dearest friend, and you have a title to the spirits you raise and support; for they are no longer mine, and will subside the moment I cease writing to you.
But what do you bid me hope for, when you tell me, that if your mother's health will permit, you will see me in town? I hope your mother's health will be perfected as you wish; but I dare not promise myself so great a favour; so great a blessing, I will call it-And, indeed, I know not if I should be able to bear it now!-
Yet one comfort it is in your power to give me; and that is, Let me know, and very speedily it must be if you with to oblige me, that all matters are made up between you and Mr. Hickman; to whom, I see, your are resolved, with all your bravery of spirit, to owe a multitude of obligations for his patience with your flightiness. Think of this, my dear proud friend! and think, likewise, of what I have often told you, That Pride, in man or woman, is an extreme that hardly ever fails, sooner or later, to bring forth its mortifying Contrary.
May You, my dear Miss Howe, have no discomforts, but what you make to yourself! Those, as it will be in your own power to lessen them, ought to be your own punishment if you do not. As there is no such thing as perfect happiness here, since the busy mind will make to itself evils, were it to find none, you will pardon this limited wish, strange as it may appear till you consider it: For to wish you no infelicities, either within or without you, were to wish you what can never happen in this world; and what, perhaps, ought not to be wished for, if by a wish one could give one's friend such an exemption; since we are not to live here always.
We must not, in short, expect, that our roses will grow without thorns: But then they are useful and instructive thorns; which, by pricking the fingers of the too hasty plucker, teach future caution, at the same time that they add sweets, and poignancy too, to enjoyments which are not over-easily attained.
I must conclude-
God for ever bless you, and all you love and honour, and reward you here and hereafter for your kindness to
Your ever-obliged and affectionate
Clarissa Harlowe!

### v7 LETTER XL.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
[In Answer to hers of Thursday, Aug. 24]
Thursday, Aug. 31.
I had written sooner, my dearest young lady, but that I have been endeavouring, ever since the receipt of your last letter, to obtain a private audience of your mother, in hopes of leave to communicate it to her. But last night I was surprised by an invitation to breakfast at Harlowe-Place this morning: And the chariot came early to fetch me: An honour I did not expect.
When I came, I found there was to be a meeting of all your family with Colonel Morden at Harlowe-Place; and it was proposed by your mother, and consented to, that I should be present. Your cousin, I understand, had with difficulty brought this meeting to bear; for your brother had before industriously avoided all conversation with him on the affecting subject; urging, That it was not necessary to talk to Mr. Morden upon it, who, being a remoter relation than themselves, had no business to make himself a judge of their conduct to their daughter, their niece, and their sister; especially as he had declared himself in her favour; adding, That he should hardly have patience to be questioned by him on that head.
I was in hopes, that your mamma would have given me an opportunity of talking with her alone before the company met; but she seemed studiously to avoid it: I dare say, however, not with her inclination.
I was ordered in just before Mr. Morden came; and was bid to sit down: -Which I did in the window.
The Colonel, when he came, began the discourse, by renewing, as he called it, his solicitations in your favour. He set before them your penitence; your ill health; your virtue, tho' once betrayed, and basely used: He then read to them Mr. Lovelace's letter, a most contrite one indeed; and your high-soul'd answer; for that was what he justly called it; and he treated as it deserved Mr. Brand's officious information (of which I had before heard he had made them ashamed) by representations founded upon inquiries made by Mr. Alston, whom he procured to go up on purpose to acquaint himself with your manner of life, and what was meant by the visits of that Mr. Belford.
He then told them, That he had the day before waited upon Miss Howe, and had been shewn a letter from you to her, and permitted to take some memorandums from it, in which you appeared, both by hand-writing and the contents, to be so very ill, that it seemed doubtful to him, if it were possible for you to get over it. And when he read to them that passage, where you ask Miss Howe, 'What can be done for you now, were your friends to be ever so favourable? and wish, for their sakes, more than for your own, that they would still relent;' and then say, 'You are very ill-You must drop your pen-And ask excuse for your crooked writing; and take, as it were, a last farewel of Miss Howe; Adieu, my dear, adieu,' are your words;
O my child! my child! said your mamma, weeping, and clasping her hands.
Dear Madam, said your brother, be so good as to think you have more children than this ingrateful one.
Yet your sister seemed affected.
Your uncle Harlowe wiping his eyes, O cousin, said he, if one thought the poor girl was really so ill-
She must, said your uncle Antony. This is written to her private friend. God forbid she should be quite lost!
Your uncle Harlowe wish'd they did not carry their resentments too far.
I begged for God's sake, wringing my hands, and with a bended knee, that they would permit me to go up to you; engaging to give them a faithful account of the way you were in. But I was chidden by your brother; and this occasioned some angry words between him and Mr. Morden.
I believe, Sir, I believe, Madam, said your sister to her father and mother, we need not trouble my cousin to read any more. It does but grieve and disturb you. My sister Clary seems to be ill: I think, if Mrs. Norton were permitted to go up to her, it would be right. Wickedly as she has acted, if she be truly penitent-
Here she stopt; and every one being silent, I stood up once more, and besought them to let me go: And then I offered to read a passage or two in your letter to me of the 24th. But I was taken up again by your brother; and this occasioned still higher words between the Colonel and him.
You mamma, hoping to gain upon your inflexible brother, and to divert the anger of the two gentlemen from each other, proposed that the Colonel should proceed in reading the minutes he had taken from your letter.
He accordingly read, 'Of your resuming your pen: That you thought you had taken your last farewel; and the rest of that very affecting passage, in which you are obliged to break off more than once, and afterwards to take an airing in a chair.' Your brother and sister were affected at this; and he had recourse to his snuffbox. And where you comfort Miss Howe, and say, 'You shall be happy;' It is more, said he, than she will let any-body else be.
Your sister called you Sweet soul; but with a low voice: Then grew hard-hearted again; yet said, No-body could help being affected by your pathetic grief-but that it was your talent.
The Colonel then went on to the good effect your airing had upon you; to your good wishes to Miss Howe, and Mr. Hickman; and to your concluding sentence, That when the happy life you wish her comes to be wound up, she may be as calm and as easy at quitting it, as you hope in God you shall be. Your mamma could not stand this, but retired to a corner of the room, and sobb'd, and wept. Your father, for a few minutes, could not speak, tho' he seemed inclined to say something.
Your uncles were also both affected: -But your brother went round to each; and again reminded your mamma, that she had other children: What was there, he said, in what was read, but the result of the talent you had of moving the passions? And he blamed them for choosing to hear read what they knew their abused indulgence could not be proof against.
This set Mr. Morden up again: Fie upon you, cousin Harlowe, said he! -I see plainly to whom it is owing, that all relationship and ties of blood with regard to this sweet sufferer are laid aside. Such rigors as these make it difficult for a sliding virtue ever to recover itself.
Your brother pretended the honour of the family; and declared, that no child ought to be forgiven, who abandoned the most indulgent of parents, against warning, against the light of knowlege, as you had done.
But, Sir and Ladies, said I, rising from my seat in the window, and humbly turning round to each, If I may be permitted to speak, my dear Miss asks only for a blessing: She begs not to be received to favour: She is very ill, and asks only for a last blessing.
Come, come, goody Norton (I need not tell you who said this) you are up again with your lamentables! -A good woman, as you are, to forgive so readily a crime that has been as disgraceful to your part in her education, as to her family, is a weakness that would induce one to suspect your virtue, if you were to be encounter'd by a temptation properly adapted.
By some such charitable logic as this, said Mr. Morden, is my cousin Arabella captivated, I doubt not. If to be uncharitable and unforgiving, is to give a proof of virtue, You, Mr. James Harlowe, are the most virtuous young man in the world.
I knew how it would be, replied your brother in a passion, if I met Mr. Morden upon this business. I would have declined it: But you, Sir, to his father, would not permit me so to do. But, Sir, turning to the Colonel, in no other presence-
Then, cousin James, interrupted the other gentleman, that which is your protection, it seems, is mine. I am not used to bear defiances thus-You are my cousin, Sir- and the son and nephew of persons as dear as near to me- There he paused-
Are we, said your father, to be made still more unhappy among ourselves, when the villain lives that ought to be the object of every-one's resentment who has either a value for the family, or for this ingrateful girl?
That's the man, said your cousin, whom last Monday, as you know, I went purposely to make the object of mine. But what could I say, when I found him so willing to repair his crime? -And I give it as my opinion, and have written accordingly to my poor cousin, that it is best for all round, that his offer should be accepted: And let me tell you-
Tell me nothing, said your father, quite enraged, of that very vile fellow! I have a riveted hatred to him. I would rather see the rebel die a hundred deaths, were it possible, than that she should give such a villain as him a relation to my family.
Well, but there is no room to think, said your mamma, that she will give us such a relation, my dear. The poor girl will lessen, I fear, the number of our relations; not increase it. If she be so ill as we are told she is, let us send Mrs. Norton up to her-That's the least we can do- Let us take her, however, out of the hands of that Belford.
Both your uncles supported this motion; the latter part of it especially.
Your brother observed, in his ill-natured way, what a fine piece of consistency it was, in you, to refuse the vile injurer, and the amends he offered; yet to throw yourself upon the protection of his fast friend.
Miss Harlowe was apprehensive, she said, that you would leave all you could leave to that pert creature Miss Howe (So she called her) if you should die.
O do not, do not suppose that, my Bella, said your poor mother: I cannot think of parting with my Clary- With all her faults, she is my child-Her reasons for her conduct are not heard. It would break my heart to lose her. -I think, my dear, to your papa, none so fit as I, if you will give me leave, to go up. And Mrs. Norton shall accompany me.
This was a sweet motion; and your father paused upon it. Mr. Morden offered his service to escort her. Your uncles seemed to approve of it. But your brother dash'd all. I hope, Sir, said he, to his father; I hope, Madam, to his mother, that you will not endeavour to recover a faulty daughter, by losing an unculpable son. I do declare, that if ever my sister Clary darkens these doors again, I never will. I will set out, Madam, the same hour you go to London (on such an errand) to Edinburgh; and there I will reside; and try to forget, that I have relations in England so near and so dear, as you are now all to me.
Good God, said the Colonel! What a declaration is this! -And suppose, Sir, and suppose, Madam (turning to your father and mother) this should be the case, Whether is it better, think you, that you should lose for ever such a daughter as my cousin Clary, or that your son should go to Edinburgh, and reside there upon an estate which will be the better for his residence upon it?-
Your brother's passionate behaviour hereupon is hardly to be described. He resented it, as promoting an alienation of the affection of the family to him. And to such a height were resentments carried, every-one siding with him, that the Colonel, with hands and eyes lifted up, cried out, What hearts of flint am I related to! -O cousin Harlowe, to your father, Are you resolved to have but one daughter? Are you, Madam, to be taught by a son who has no bowels, to forget that you are a mother?
The Colonel turned from them to draw out his handkerchief, and could not for a minute speak. The eyes of every-one, but the hard-hearted brother, caught tears from his.
But then turning to them (with the more indignation, as it seemed, as he had been obliged to shew a humanity, which, however, no brave heart should be ashamed of) I leave ye all, said he, fit company for one another. I will never open my lips to any of you more upon this subject. I will instantly make my will, and in me shall the dear creature have the father, uncle, brother, she has lost. I will prevail upon her to take the tour of France and Italy with me; nor shall she return till ye know the value of such a daughter.
And saying this, he hurried out of the room, went into the court-yard, and ordered his horse.
Mr. Antony Harlowe went to him there, just as he was mounting; and said, He hoped he should find him cooler in the evening (for he till then had lodged at his house) and that then they would converse calmly; and every-one, mean time, would weigh all matters well-But the angry gentleman said, Cousin Harlowe, I shall endeavour to discharge the obligations I owe to your civility, since I have been in England: But I have been so treated by that hot-headed young man (who, as far as I know, has done more to ruin his sister than Lovelace himself, and this with the approbation of you all) that I will not again enter into your doors, or theirs. My servants shall have orders, whither to bring what belongs to me from your house. I will see my dear cousin Clary as soon as I can. And so God bless you all together! Only this one word to your nephew, if you please, That he wants to be taught the difference between courage and bluster; and it is happy for him, perhaps, that I am his kinsman; tho' I am sorry he is mine.
I wondered to hear your uncle, on his return to them all, repeat this; because of the consequences it may be attended with, tho' I hope it will not have bad ones: -Yet it was considered as a sort of challenge, and so it confirmed every-body in your brother's favour; and Miss Harlowe forgot not to inveigh against that error which had brought on all these evils.
I took the liberty again, but with fear and trembling, to desire leave to attend you.
Before any other person could answer, your brother said, He supposed I looked upon myself to be my own mistress. Did I want their consents, and courtship, to go up? If he might speak his mind, we were fittest to be together. -Yet he wish'd I would not trouble my head about their family-matters, till I was desired so to do.
But don't you know, brother, said Miss Harlowe, that the error of any branch of a family, splits that family all in pieces, and makes not only every common friend and acquaintance, but even servants, judges over both? -This is one of the blessed effects of my sister Clary's fault!
There never was a creature so criminal, said your father, looking with displeasure at me, who had not some weak heads to pity and side with her.
I wept. Your mamma was so good as to take me by the hand: Come, good woman, said she, come along with me. You have too much reason to be afflicted at what afflicts Us, to want additions to your grief.
But, my dearest young lady, I was more touched for your sake than for my own: For I have been low in the world for a great number of years; and, of consequence, must have been accustomed to snubs and rebuffs from the affluent. But I hope, that patience is written as legibly on my forehead, as haughtiness on that of any of my obligers.
Your mamma led me to her chamber; and there we sat and wept together for several minutes, without being able to speak either of us one word to the other. At last she broke silence; asking me, If you were really and indeed so ill, as it was said you were?
I answered in the affirmative; and would have shewn her your last letter; but she declined seeing it.
I would fain have procured from her the favour of a line to you, with her blessing. I asked what was intended by your brother and sister? Would nothing satisfy them but your final reprobation? -I insinuated, how easy it would be, did not your duty and humility govern you, to make yourself independent as to circumstances; but that nothing but a Blessing, a last Blessing, was requested by you. And many other things I urged in your behalf. The following brief repetition of what she was pleased to say, in answer to my pleas, will give you a notion of it all; and of the present situation of things.
She said, 'She was very unhappy! She had lost the little authority she once had over her other children, thro' one child's failing; and all influence over Mr. Harlowe, and his brothers. Your father, she said, had besought her to leave it to him to take his own methods with you; and (as she valued him) to take no step in your favour unknown to him and your uncles: Yet she owned, that they were too much governed by your brother. They would, however, give way in time, she knew, to a reconciliation: They designed no other; for they all still loved you.
'Your brother and sister, she owned, were very jealous of your coming into favour again: Yet, could but Mr. Morden have kept his temper, and stood her son's first sallies, who had carried his resentment so high, (having always had the family grandeur in view) that he knew not how to descend, the conferences, so abruptly broken off just now, would have ended more happily; for that she had reason to think, that a few concessions on your part, with regard to your grandfather's estate, and your cousin's engaging for your submission, as from proper motives, would have softened them all.
'Mr. Brand's account of your intimacy with the friend of the obnoxious man, she said, had, for the time, very unhappy effects; for she had (before that) gained some ground: But afterwards dared not, nor indeed had inclination, to open her lips in your behalf. Your continued intimacy with that Mr. Belford was wholly unaccountable, and as wholly inexcuseable.
'What made the wish'd-for reconciliation, she said, more difficult, was, first, that you yourself acknowleged yourself dishonoured; and it was too well known, that it was your own fault that you ever were in the power of so great a profligate; of consequence, that their and your disgrace could not be greater than it was: Yet, that you refused to prosecute the wretch. Next, that the pardon and blessing hoped for must probably be attended with your marriage to the man they hate, and who hates them as much: Very disagreeable circumstances, she said, I must allow, to found a reconciliation upon.
'As to her own part, she must needs say, That if there were any hope, that Mr. Lovelace would become a reformed man, the letter her cousin Morden had read to them, from him to you, and the justice (as she hoped it was) he did your character, tho' to his own condemnation (his family and fortunes being unexceptionable) and all his relations earnest to be related to you, were arguments that would have weight with her, could they have any with your father and uncles.'
To my plea of your illness, 'She could not but flatter herself, she answered, that it was from lowness of spirits, and temporary dejection. A young creature, she said, so very considerate as you naturally were, and fallen so low, must have enough of that. Should they lose you, which God forbid! the scene would then indeed be sadly changed; for then those who now most resented, would be most grieved; all your fine qualities would rise to their remembrance, and your unhappy error would be quite forgotten.
'She wished you would put yourself into your cousin's protection intirely, and have nothing more to say to Mr. Belford.'
And I would recommend it to your most serious consideration, my dear Miss Clary, whether now, as your cousin (who is your trustee for your grandfather's estate) is come, you should not give over all thoughts of Mr. Lovelace's intimate friend for your executor; more especially, as that gentleman's interfering in the concerns of your family, should the sad event take place (which my heart akes but to think of) might be attended with those consequences which you are so desirous, in other cases, to obviate and prevent. And suppose, my dear young lady, you were to write one letter more to each of your uncles, to let them know how ill you are? -And to ask their advice, and offer to be governed by it, in relation to the disposition of your estate and effects?
I find they will send you up a large part of what has been received from that estate, since it was yours; together with your current cash, which you left behind you. And this by your cousin Morden, for fear you should have contracted debts which may make you uneasy.
They seem to expect, that you will wish to live at your grandfather's house, in a private manner, if your cousin prevail not upon you to go abroad for a year or two.
Friday morning.
Betty was with me just now. She tells me, that your cousin Morden is so much displeased with them all, that he has refused to lodge any more at your uncle Antony's; and has even taken up with inconvenient lodgings, till he is provided with others to his mind. This very much concerns them; and they repent their violent treatment of him: And the more, as he is resolved, he says, to make you his heir general, and his full and whole executrix.
What noble fortunes still, my dearest young lady, await you! I am thoroughly convinced, if it please God to preserve your life and your health, that every-body will soon be reconciled to you, and that you will see many happy days.
Your mamma wished me not to attend you as yet, because she hopes that I may give myself that pleasure soon with every-body's good liking, and even at their desire. Your cousin Morden's reconciliation with them, which they are very desirous of, I am ready to hope, will include theirs with you.
But if that should happen which I so much dread, and I not with you, I should never forgive myself. Let me, therefore, my dearest young lady, desire you to command my attendance, if you find any danger, and if you wish me peace of mind; and no consideration shall with hold me.
I hear, that Miss Howe has obtained leave from her mother to see you; and intends next week to go to town for that purpose; and (as it is believed) to buy cloaths for her approaching nuptials.
Mr. Hickman's mother-in-law is lately dead. Her jointure of 600l. a year is fallen in to him; and she has moreover, as an acknowlegement of his good behaviour to her, left him all she was worth, which was very considerable, a few legacies excepted to her own relations.
These good men are uniformly good: Indeed could not else be good; and never fare the worse for being so. All the world agrees, he will make that fine young lady an excellent husband. And I am sorry they are not as much agreed in her making him an excellent wife. But I hope a lady of her principles would not encourage his address, if, whether she at present loves him or not, she thought she could not love him; or if she preferred any other man to him.
Mr. Pocock undertakes to deliver This; but fears it will be Saturday night first, if not Sunday morning.
May the Almighty protect and bless you! I long to see you-My dearest young lady, I long to see you; and to fold you once more to my fond heart. I dare to say, happy days are coming. Be but chearful. Give way to hope.
Whether for this world, or the other, you must be happy. Wish to live, however, were it only because you are so well fitted in mind to make every-one happy who has the honour to know you. What signifies this transitory eclipse? You are as near perfection, by all I have heard, as any creature in this world can be: For here is your glory: You are brightened and purified, as I may say, by your sufferings! -How I long to hear your whole sad yet instructive story from your own lips!
For Miss Howe's sake, who, in her new engagements, will so much want you; for your cousin Morden's sake; for your mother's sake, if I must go no further in your family; and yet I can say, for all their sakes; and for my sake, my dearest young lady; let your resumed and accustomed magnanimity bear you up. You have many things to do, which I know not the person who will do, if you leave us.
Join your prayers then to mine, that God will spare you to a world that wants you and your example; and, altho' your days may seem to have been numbered, who knows, but that, with the good King Hezekiah, you may have them prolonged? Which God grant, if it be his blessed will, to the prayers of
Your Judith Norton.

### v7 LETTER XLI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday, Sept. 4.
The lady would not read the letter she had from Mrs. Norton, till she had received the Communion, for fear it should contain any-thing that might disturb that happy calm, which she had been endeavouring to obtain for it. And when that solemn office was over, she was so composed, she said, that she thought she could receive any news, however affecting, with tranquillity.
Nevertheless, in reading it, she was forced to leave off several times thro' weakness and a dimness in her sight, of which she complained; if I may say complained; for so easy and soft were her complaints, that they could hardly be called such.
She was very much affected at divers parts of this letter. She wept several times, and sigh'd often. Mrs. Lovick told me, that these were the gentle exclamations she broke out into, as she read: -Her unkind, her cruel brother! - How unsisterly! -Poor dear woman! seeming to speak of Mrs. Norton. Her kind cousin! -O these flaming spirits! -And then reflecting upon herself more than once,- What a deep error is mine! -What evils have I been the occasion of!-
When I was admitted to her presence, I have received, said she, a long and not very pleasing letter from my dear Mrs. Norton: It will soon be in your hands. I am advised against appointing you to the office you have so kindly accepted: But you must resent nothing of these things. My choice will have an odd appearance to them: But it is now too late to alter it, if I would.
I would fain write an answer to it, continued she: But I have no distinct sight, Mr. Belford, no steadiness of fingers. -This mistiness, however, will perhaps be gone by-and-by-Then turning to Mrs. Lovick, I don't think I am dying yet-not actually dying, Mrs. Lovick-For I have no bodily pain-No numbnesses; no signs of immediate death, I think-And my breath, which used of late to be so short, is now tolerable-My head clear, my intellects free-I think I cannot be dying yet-I shall have agonies, I doubt-Life will not give up so blessedly easy, I fear-Yet how merciful is the Almighty, to give his poor creature such a sweet serenity! -'Tis what I have prayed for! -What encouragement, Mrs. Lovick, so near one's dissolution, to have it to hope, that one's prayers are answered!
Mrs. Smith, as well as Mrs. Lovick, was with her. They were both in tears; nor had I, any more than they, power to say a word in answer: Yet she spoke all this, as well as what follows, with a surprising composure of mind and countenance.
But, Mr. Belford, said she, assuming a still sprightlier air and accent, let me talk a little to you, while I am thus able to say what I have to say.
Mrs. Lovick, don't leave us; for the women were rising to go-Pray sit down; and do you, Mrs. Smith, sit down too. -Dame Shelbourne, take this key, and open that upper drawer. I will move to it.
She did, with trembling knees. Here, Mr. Belford, is my will. It is witnessed by three persons of Mr. Smith's acquaintance.
I dare to hope, that my cousin Morden will give you assistance, if you request it of him. My cousin Morden continues his affection for me: But as I have not seen him, I leave all the trouble upon you, Mr. Belford. This deed may want forms; and it does, no doubt: But the less, as I have my grandfather's will almost by heart, and have often enough heard that canvassed. I will lay it by itself in this corner; putting it at the further end of the drawer.
She then took up a parcel of letters, inclosed in one cover, sealed with three seals of black wax: This, said she, I sealed up last night. The cover, Sir, will let you know what is to be done with what it incloses. This is the superscription (holding it close to her eyes, and rubbing them); As soon as I am certainly dead, this to be broke open by Mr. Belford. -Here, Sir, I put it (placing it by the will). -These folded papers are letters and copies of letters, disposed according to their dates. Miss Howe will do with those as you and she shall think fit. If I receive any more, or more come when I cannot receive them, they may be put into this drawer (pulling out and pushing in the looking-glass drawer) [You'll be so kind as to observe that, Mrs. Lovick, and dame Shelburne] to be given to Mr. Belford, be they from whom they will.
Here, Sir, proceeded she, I put the keys of my apparel (putting them into the drawers with her papers). All is in order, and the inventory upon them, and an account of what I have disposed of: So that no-body need to ask Mrs. Smith any questions.
There will be no immediate need to open or inspect the trunks which contain my wearing apparel. Mrs. Norton will open them, or order somebody to do it for her, in your presence. Mrs. Lovick; for so I have directed in my will. They may be sealed up now: I shall never more have occasion to open them.
She then, tho' I expostulated to the contrary, caused me to seal them up with my seal.
After this, she locked the drawer where were her papers; first taking out her book of Meditations, as she called it; saying, She should, perhaps, have use for that; and then desired me to take the key of that drawer; for she should have no further occasion for that neither.
All this in so composed and chearful a manner, that we were equally surprised and affected with it.
You can witness for me, Mrs. Smith, and so can you, Mrs. Lovick, proceeded she, if any one ask after my life and conversation, since you have known me, that I have been very orderly; have kept good hours, and never have lain out of your house, but when I was in prison; and then, you know, I could not help it.
O Lovelace! that thou hadst heard her, or seen her, unknown to herself, on this occasion! -Not one of us could speak a word.
I shall leave the world in perfect charity, proceeded she. And turning towards the women, Don't be so much concerned for me, my good friends. This is all but needful preparation; and I shall be very happy.
Then again rubbing her eyes, which she said were misty, and looking more intently round upon each, particularly on me-God bless you all, said she! how kindly are you concerned for me! -Who says, I am friendless? Who says, I am abandoned, and among strangers? -Good Mr. Belford, don't be so generously humane! -Indeed (putting her handkerchief to her charming eyes) you will make me less happy, than I am sure you wish me to be.
While we were thus solemnly engaged, a servant came with a letter from her cousin Morden: -Then, said she, he is not come himself!
She broke it open; but every line, she said, appeared two to her: So that, being unable to read it herself, she desired I would read it to her. I did so; and wish'd it were more consolatory to her: But she was all patient attention; tears, however, often trickling down her cheeks. By the date, it was written yesterday; and this is the substance of it.
He tells her, 'That the Thursday before he had procured a general meeting of her principal relations, at her father's; tho' not without difficulty, her haughty brother opposing it, and, when met, rendering all his endeavours to reconcile them to her ineffectual. He censures him, as the most ungovernable young man he ever knew: Some great sickness, he says, some heavy misfortune, is wanted to bring him to a knowlege of himself, and of what is due from him to others; and he wishes, that he were not her brother, and his cousin. Nor does he spare her father and uncles, for being so implicitly led by him.'
He tells her, 'That he parted with them all in high displeasure, and thought never more to darken any of their doors: That he declared as much to her two uncles, who came to him on Saturday, to try to accommodate with him; and who found him preparing to go to London to attend her; and that, notwithstanding their pressing intreaties, he determined so to do, and not to go with them to Harlowe-Place, or to either of their own houses; and accordingly dismissed them with such an answer.
'But that her noble letter, as he calls it, of Aug. 31. being brought him about an hour after their departure, he thought it might affect them as much as it did him; and give them the exalted opinion of her virtue and honour, which was so well deserved; and at the same time convince them of what they made such difficulty to believe; to wit, that you, and all your relations, were sollicitous to obtain the honour of her alliance, on her own terms: And that this induced him to turn his horse's head back to her uncle Antony's, instead of forward towards London.
'That accordingly arriving there, and finding her two uncles together, he read to them the affecting letter; which left neither of the three a dry eye: That the absent, as is usual in such cases, bearing all the load, they accused her brother and sister; and besought him to put off his journey to town, till he could carry with him the blessings which she had formerly in vain solicited for; and (as they hoped) the happy tidings of a general reconciliation.
'That not doubting but his visit would be the more welcome to her, if these good ends could be obtained, he the more readily complied with their desires. But not being willing to subject himself to the possibility of receiving fresh insults from her brother, he had given her uncles a copy of her letter, for the family to assemble upon; and desired to know, as soon as possible, the result of their deliberations.
'He tells her, that he shall bring her up the accounts relating to the produce of her grandfather's estate, and adjust them with her; having actually in his hands the arrears due to her from it.
'He highly applauds the noble manner in which she resents your usage of her. It is impossible, he owns, that you can either deserve her, or to be forgiven. But as you do justice to her virtue, and offer to make her all the reparation now in your power; and as she is so very earnest with him not to resent that usage; and declares, that you could not have been the author of her calamities but through a strange concurrence of unhappy causes; and as he is not at a loss to know how to place to a proper account that strange concurrence; he desires her not to be apprehensive of any vindictive measures from him.'
Nevertheless (as may be expected) 'he inveighs against you; as he finds, that she gave you no advantage over her. But he forbears to enter further into this subject, he says, till he has the honour to see her; and the rather, as she seems so much determined against you. However, he cannot but say, that he thinks you a gallant man, and a man of sense; and that you have the reputation of being thought a generous man in every instance but where the Sex is concerned. In such, he owns, that you have taken inexcusable liberties. And he is sorry to say, that there are very few young men of fortune but who allow themselves in the same. Both Sexes, he observes, too much love to have each other in their power: Yet he hardly ever knew man or woman who was very fond of power, make a right use of it.
'If she be so absolutely determined against marrying you, as she declares she is, he hopes, he says, to prevail upon her to take (as soon as her health will permit) a little tour abroad with him, as what will probably establish it; since traveling is certainly the best physic for all those disorders which owe their rise to grief and disappointment. An absence of two or three years will endear her to every one, on her return, and every-one to her.
'He expresses his impatience to see her. He will set out, he says, the moment he knows the result of her family's determination; which he doubts not will be favourable. Nor will he wait long for that.'
When I had read the letter thro' to the languishing lady, And so, my friends, said she, have I heard of a patient who actually died, while five or six principal physicians were in a consultation, and not agreed upon what name to give to his distemper. The patient was an Emperor: The Emperor Joseph, I think.
I asked, If I should write to her cousin, as he knew not how ill she was, to hasten up.
By no means, she said; since, if he were not already set out, she was persuaded that she should be so low by the time he could receive my letter, and come, that his presence would but discompose and hurry her, and afflict him.
I hope, however, she is not so very near her end. And without saying any more to her, when I retired, I wrote to Colonel Morden, that if he expects to see his beloved cousin alive, he must lose no time in setting out. I sent this letter by his own servant.
Dr. H. sent away his letter to her father by a particular hand this morning.
Mrs. Walton the milaner has also just now acquainted Mrs. Smith, that her husband had a letter brought by a special messenger from parson Brand, within this halfhour, inclosing the copy of one he had written to Mr. John Harlowe, recanting his officious one.
And as all these, and the copy of the lady's letter to Col. Morden, will be with them pretty much at a time, the devil's in the family if they are not struck-with a remorse that shall burst open the double-barred doors of their hearts.
Will. engages to reach you with this (late as it will be) before you go to rest. He begs that I will testify for him the hour and the minute I shall give it him. It is just half an hour after ten.
I pretend to be (now by use) the swiftest shor-hand writer in England, next to yourself. But were matter to arise every hour to write upon, and I had nothing else to do, I cannot write so fast as you expect. And let it be remembered, that your servants cannot bring letters or messages before they are written or sent.
J. Belford.

### v7 LETTER XLII.

Dr. H. To James Harlowe, senior, Esq;
London, Sept. 4.
SIR,
If I may judge of the hearts of other parents by my own, I cannot doubt but you will take it well to be informed, that you have yet an opportunity to save yourself and family great future regret, by dispatching hither some one of it, with your last blessing, and your lady's, to the most excellent of her sex.
I have some reason to believe, Sir, that she has been represented to you in a very different light from the true one. And this it is that induces me to acquaint you, that I think her, on the best grounds, absolutely irreproachable in all her conduct which has passed under my eye, or come to my ear; and that her very misfortunes are made glorious to her, and honourable to all that are related to her, by the use she has made of them; and by the patience and resignation with which she supports herself in a painful, lingering, and dispiriting decay; and by the greatness of mind with which she views her approaching dissolution. And all this from proper motives; from motives in which a dying saint might glory.
She knows not that I write. I must indeed acknowlege, that I offered to do so, some days ago, and that very pressingly: Nor did she refuse me from obstinacy-She seems not to know what that is-But desired me to forbear for two days only, in hopes that her newly-arrived cousin, who, as she heard, was soliciting for her, would be able to succeed in her favour.
I hope I shall not be thought an officious man on this occasion: But if I am, I cannot help it; being driven to write, by a kind of parental and irresistible impulse.
But, Sir, whatever you do, or permit to be done, must be speedily done; for she cannot, I verily think, live a week: And how long of that short space she may enjoy her admirable intellects, to take comfort in the favours you may think proper to confer upon her, cannot be said. I am, Sir,
Your most humble Servant,
R. H.

### v7 LETTER XLIII.

Mr. Belford, To William Morden, Esq;
London, Sept. 4
SIR,
The urgency of the case, and the opportunity by your servant, will sufficiently apologize for this trouble from a stranger to your person; who, however, is not a stranger to your merit.
I understand you are imploying your good offices with Miss Clarissa Harlowe's parents, and other relations, to reconcile them to the most meritorious daughter and kinswoman, that ever family had to boast of.
Generously as this is intended by you, we here have too much reason to think all your solicitudes on this head will be unnecessary: For, it is the opinion of every one who has the honour of being admitted to her presence, that she cannot live over three days: So that if you wish to see her alive you must lose no time to come up.
She knows not that I write. I had done it sooner, if I had had the least doubt that before now she would not have received from you some news of the happy effects of your kind mediation in her behalf. I am, Sir,
Your most humble Servant,
J. Belford.

### v7 LETTER XLIV.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq.
[In Answer to Letter XLI.]
Uxbridge, Tuesday morn. between 4 and 5.
And can it be, that this admirable creature will so soon leave this cursed world? For cursed I shall think it, and more cursed myself, when she is gone. O Jack! thou, who canst sit so cool, and, like Addison's Angel, direct, and even enjoy, the storm, that tears up my happiness by the roots, blame me not for my impatience, however unreasonable! If thou knewest, that already I feel the torments of the damned, in the remorse that wrings my heart, on looking back upon my past actions by her, thou wouldst not be the devil thou art, to halloo on a worrying conscience, which, without thy merciless aggravations, is altogether intolerable.
I know not what I write, nor what I would write. When the company that used to delight me is as uneasy to me as my reflections are painful, and I can neither help nor divert myself, must not every servant about me partake in a perturbation so sincere?
Shall I give thee a faint picture of the horrible uneasiness with which my mind struggles? And faint indeed it must be; for nothing but outrageous madness can exceed it; and that only in the apprehension of others; since, as to the sufferer, it is certain, that actual distraction (take it out of its lucid intervals) must be an infinitely more happy state than the suspense and anxieties that bring it on.
Forbidden to attend the dear creature, yet longing to see her, I would give the world to be admitted once more to her beloved presence. I ride towards London three or four times a day, resolving pro and con. twenty times in two or three miles; and at last ride back; and in view of Uxbridge, loathing even the kind friend and hospitable house, turn my horse's head again towards the town, and resolve to gratify my humour, let her take it as she will; but, at the very entrance of it, after infinite canvasings, once more alter my mind, dreading to offend and shock her, lest by that means I should curtail a life so precious.
Yesterday, in particular, to give you an idea of the strength of that impatience which I cannot avoid suffering to break out upon my servants, I had no sooner dispatched Will, than I took horse to meet him on his return.
In order to give him time, I loiter'd about on the road, riding up this lane to the one highway, down that to the other, just as my horse pointed; all the way cursing my very being; and tho' so lately looking down upon all the world, wishing to change conditions with the poorest beggar that cried to me for charity as I rode by him-and throwing him money, in hopes to obtain by his prayers the blessing my heart pants after.
After I had sauntered-about an hour or two (which seemed three or four tedious ones) fearing I had slipt the fellow, I inquired at every turnpike, whether a servant in such a livery had not passed thro' in his return from London, on a full gallop (for woe had been to the dog, had I met him on a sluggish trot!). And lest I should miss him at one end of Kensington, as he might take either the Acton or Hamersmith road; or at the other, as he might come thro' the Park, or not; how many score times did I ride backwards and forwards from the palace to the Gore, making myself the subject of observation to all passengers, whether on horseback or on foot; who, no doubt, wondered to see a well-dressed and well-mounted man, sometimes ambling, sometimes prancing (as the beast had more fire than his master) backwards and forwards in so short a compass!
Yet all this time, tho' longing to espy the fellow, did I dread to meet him, lest he should be charged with fatal tidings.
When at distance I saw any man galloping towards me, my resemblance-forming fancy immediately made it to be him; and then my heart bounded to my mouth, as if it would have choaked me. But when the person's nearer approach undeceived me, how did I curse the varlet's delay, and thee by turns; and how ready was I to draw my pistol at the stranger, for having the impudence to gallop; which none but my messenger, I thought, had either right or reason to do! For all the business of the world, I am ready to imagine, should stand still on an occasion so melancholy, and so interesting to myself. Nay, for this week past, I could cut the throat of any man or woman I see laugh, while I am in such dejection of mind.
I am now convinced, that the wretches who fly from a heavy scene, labour under ten times more distress in the intermediate suspense and apprehension, than they can do who are present at it, and see and know the worst; so much greater are the evils we dread than those we see! -And so able is fancy or imagination, the more immediate offspring of the soul, to outdo fact, let the subject be either joyous or grievous.
And hence, as I conceive, it is, that all pleasures are greater in the expectation, or in the reflection, than in fruition; as all pains, which press heavy upon both parts of that unequal union by which frail mortality holds its precarious tenure, generally are most acute in the present tense: For how easy sit upon the reflection the heaviest misfortunes, especially when surmounted! -But most easy, I confess, those in which Body has more concern than Soul. This, however, is a point of philosophy I have neither time nor head just now to weigh: So take it as it falls from a madman's pen.
Woe be to either of the wretches who shall bring me the fatal news that she is no more! For it is but too likely that a shriek-owl so hated will never whoot or scream again; unless the shock, that will probably disorder my whole frame on so sad an occasion (by unsteadying my hand) shall divert my aim from his head, heart, or bowels, if it turn not against my own.
But, surely, she will not, she cannot yet die! Such a matchless excellence,
-whose mind
Contains a world, and seems for all things fram'd,
could not be lent to be so soon demanded back again!
But may it not be, that thou, Belford, art in a plot with the dear creature (who will not let me attend her to convince myself) in order to work up my soul to the deepest remorse and penitence; and that, when she is convinced of the sincerity of both, and when my mind is made such wax, as to be fit to take what impression she pleases to give it, she will then raise me up with the joyful tidings of her returning health and acceptance of me?
What would I give to have it so! And when the happiness of hundreds, as well as the peace and reconciliation of several eminent families, depend upon her restoration and happiness, why should it not be so?
But let me presume it will. Let me indulge my former hope, however improbable. -I will; and enjoy it too. And let me tell thee how ecstatic my delight would be on the unravelling of such a plot as this!
Do, dear Belford, let it be so! -And, O my dearest, and ever-dear Clarissa, keep me no longer in this cruel suspense; in which I suffer a thousand times more than ever I made thee suffer. Nor fear thou that I will resent, or recede, on an eclaircissement so desirable: For I will adore thee for ever, and, without reproaching thee for the pangs thou hast tortured me with, confess thee as much my superior in noble and generous contrivances, as thou art in virtue and honour!
But, once more-should the worst happen-say not what that worst is-and I am gone from this hated island- Gone for ever-And may eternal-But I am crazed already -and will therefore conclude myself,
Thine more than my own,
(And no great compliment neither)
R. L.

### v7 LETTER XLV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Tuesday, 5. Sept. 9 in the morn. at Mr. Smith's.
When I read yours of this morning, I could not help pitying you for the account you give of the dreadful anxiety and suspense you labour under. I wish from my heart all were to end as you are so willing to hope: But it will not be; and your suspense, if the worst part of your torment, as you say it is, will soon be over; but, alas! in a way you wish not.
I attended the lady just now. She is extremely ill: Yet is she aiming at an answer to her Mrs. Norton's letter, which she began yesterday in her own chamber, and has written a good deal; but in a hand not like her own fine one, as Mrs. Lovick tells me, but much larger, and the lines crooked.
I have accepted of the offer of a room adjoining to the widow Lovick's, till I see how matters go; but unknown to the lady; and I shall go home every night, for a few hours: I would not lose a sentence that I could gain from lips so instructive, nor the opportunity of receiving any command from her, for an estate.
In this my new apartment, I now write, and shall continue to write, as occasions offer, that I may be the more circumstantial: But I depend upon the return of my letters, or copies of them, on demand, that I may have together all that relates to this affecting story; which I shall reperuse with melancholy pleasure to the end of my life.
I think I will send three Brand's letter to Mr. John Harlowe, recanting his base surmizes. It is a matchless piece of pedantry; and may perhaps a little divert thy deep chagrin: Some time hence at least it may, if not now.
What wretched creatures are there in the world! What strangely mixed characters! -So sensible and so foolish at the same time! What a various, what a foolish creature is man!-
Three o'lock.
The lady has just finished her letter, and has entertained Mrs. Lovick, Mrs. Smith, and me, with a noble discourse on the vanity and brevity of life, which I cannot do justice to in the repetition: And indeed I am so grieved for her, that, ill as she is, my intellects are not half so clear as hers.
A few things which made the strongest impression upon me, as well from the sentiments themselves, as from her manner of uttering them, I remember. She introduced them thus:
I am thinking, said she, what a gradual and happy death God Almighty (Blessed be his name!) affords me! Who would have thought, that, suffering what I have suffered, and abandoned as I have been, with such a tender education as I have had, I should be so long a dying! - But see how by little and little it has come to this. I was first taken off from the power of walking: Then I took a coach-A coach grew too violent an exercise: Then I took a chair. -The prison was a large Death-stride upon me-I should have suffered longer else! -Next, I was unable to go to Church; then to go up or down stairs; Now hardly can move from one room to another; and a less room will soon hold me. -My eyes begin to fail me, so that at times I cannot see to read distinctly; and now I can hardly write, or hold a pen. -Next, I presume, I shall know no-body, nor be able to thank any of you: I therefore now once more thank you, Mrs. Lovick, and you, Mrs. Smith, and you, Mr. Belford, while I can thank you, for all your kindness to me. And thus by little and little, in such a gradual sensible death as I am blessed with, God dies away in us, as I may say, all human satisfactions, in order to subdue his poor creatures to Himself.
Thou mayst guess how affected we all were at this moving account of her progressive weakness. We heard it with wet eyes; for what with the womens example, and what with her moving eloquence, I could no more help it than they. But we were silent nevertheless; and she went on, applying herself to me.
O Mr. Belford! This is a poor transitory life in its best enjoyments. We flutter about here and there, with all our vanities about us, like painted butterflies, for a gay, but a very short season, till at last we lay ourselves down in a quiescent state, and turn into vile worms: And who knows in what form, or to what condition, we shall rise again?
I wish you would permit me, a young creature, just turned of Nineteen years of age, blooming and healthy as I was a few months ago, now nipt by the cold hand of death, to influence you, in these my last hours, to a life of regularity and repentance for any past evils you may have been guilty of. For, believe me, Sir, that now, in this last stage, very few things will bear the test, or be passed as laudable, if pardonable, at our own Ear, much less at a more tremendous one, in all we have done, or delighted in, even in a life not very offensive neither, as we may think! -Ought we not then to study in our full day, before the dark hours approach, so to live, as may afford reflections that will soften the agony of the last moments when they come, and let in upon the departing soul a ray of Divine Mercy to illuminate its passage into an awful eternity?
She was ready to faint, and, choosing to lie down, I withdrew, I need not say, with a melancholy heart: And when I was got to my new-taken apartment, my heart was still more affected by the sight of the solemn letter the admirable lady had so lately finished. It was communicated to me by Mrs. Lovick; who had it to copy for me; but it was not to be delivered to me till after her departure. However, I trespassed so far, as to prevail upon the widow to let me take a copy of it; which I did directly in character.
I send it inclosed. If thou canst read it, and thy heart not bleed at thy eyes, thy remorse can hardly be so deep as thou hast inclined me to think it is.

### v7 LETTER XLVI.

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Mrs. Norton.
In Answer to Letter XL.
My dearest Mrs. Norton,
I am afraid I shall not be able to write all that is upon my mind to say to you upon the subject of your last. Yet I will try.
As to my friends, and as to the sad breakfasting, I cannot help being afflicted for them. What, alas! has not my mother, in particular, suffered by my rashness! -Yet to allow so much for a son!-so little for a daughter! - But all now will soon be over, as to me. I hope they will bury all their resentments in my grave.
As to your advice in relation to Mr. Belford, let me only say, that the unhappy reprobation I have met with, and my short time, must be my apology now. -I wish I could have written to my mother and my uncles, as you advise. And yet, favours come so slowly from them!-
The granting of one request only now remains as a desirable from them. Which nevertheless, when granted, I shall not be sensible of. It is, that they will be pleased to permit my remains to be laid with those of my ancestors -Placed at the feet of my dear grandfather, as I have mentioned in my will. This, however, as they please. For, after all, this vile body ought not so much to engage my cares. It is a weakness-But let it be called a natural weakness, and I shall be excused; especially when a reverential gratitude shall be known to be the foundation of it. You know, my dear woman, how my grandfather loved me. And you know how much I honoured him, and that from my very infancy to the hour of his death. How often since, have I wished, that he had not loved me so well!
I wish not now, at the writing of this, to see even my cousin Morden. O my blessed woman! My dear maternal friend! I am entering upon a better tour, than to France or Italy either! -Or even than to settle at my once beloved dairy-house! -All these prospects and pleasures, which used to be so agreeable to me in health, how poor seem they to me now!-
Indeed, indeed, my dear mamma Norton, I shall be happy! I know I shall! -I have charming forebodings of happiness already! -Tell all my dear friends, for their comfort, that I shall! -Who would not bear the punishments I have borne, to have the prospects and assurances I rejoice in! -Assurances I might not have had, were all my own wishes to have been granted me!
Neither do I want to see even you, my dear Mrs. Norton. Nevertheless, I must, in justice to my own gratitude, declare, that there was a time, that your presence and comfortings would have been balm to my wounded mind, could you have been permitted to come, without incurring displeasure from those whose esteem it is necessary for you to cultivate and preserve. But were you now, even by consent, and with reconciliatory tidings, to come, it would but add to your grief: And the sight of one I so dearly love, so happily fraught with good news, might but draw me back to wishes I have had great struggles to get above. And let me tell you for your comfort, that I have not left undone, any-thing that ought to be done, either respecting mind or person; no, not to the minutest preparation: So that nothing is left for you to do for me. Every one has her direction, as to the last offices. -And my desk, that I now write upon-O my dearest Mrs. Norton, All is provided! -All is ready! And all will be as decent, as it should be!
And pray let my Miss Howe know, that by the time you will receive This, and she your signification of the contents of it, it will, in all probability, be too late for her to do me the inestimable favour, as I should once have thought it, to see me. God will have no rivals in the hearts of those he sanctifies. By various methods he deadens all other sensations, or rather absorbs them all in the love of Him.
I shall nevertheless love you, my mamma Norton, and my Miss Howe, whose love to me has passed the love of women, to my latest hour! -But yet, I am now above the quick sense of those pleasures, which once most delighted me: And once more I say, that I do not wish to see objects so dear to me, which might bring me back again into sense, and rival my Supreme Love.
Twice have I been forced to leave off. I wished, that my last writing might be to You, or to Miss Howe, if it might not be to my dearest ma-
Mamma, I would have wrote-Is the word distinct? - My eyes are so misty! -If, when I apply to you, I break off in half-words, do you supply them-The kindest are your due. -Besure take the kindest, to fill up chasms with, if any chasms there be-
Another breaking off! -But the new day seems to rise upon me with healing in its wings. I have gotten, I think, a recruit of strength: Spirits, I bless God, I have not of late wanted.
Let my dearest Miss Howe purchase her wedding garments -And may all temporal blessings attend the charming preparation! -Blessings will, I make no question, notwithstanding the little cloudinesses that Mr. Hickman encounters with now-and-then, which are but prognostics of a future golden day to him: For her heart is good, and her head not wrong-But great merit is coy, and that coyness has not always its foundation in pride: But, if it should seem to be pride, take off the skin-deep covering, and, in her, it is noble diffidence, and a love that wants but to be assured!
Tell Mr. Hickman I write this, and write it, as I believe, with my last pen; and bid him bear a little at first, and forbear; and all the future will be crowning gratitude, and rewarding love: For Miss Howe has great sense, fine judgment, and exalted generosity; and can such a one be ingrateful or easy under those obligations which his assiduity and obligingness (when he shall be so happy as to call her his) will lay her under to him!
As for me, never bride was so ready as I am. My wedding garments are bought-And tho' not fine or gawdy to the sight, tho' not adorned with jewels, and set off with gold and silver (for I have no beholders eyes to wish to glitter in) yet will they be the easiest, the happiest suit, that ever bridal maiden wore-for they are such as carry with them a security against all those anxieties, pains, and perturbations, which sometimes succeed to the most promising outsettings.
And now, my dear Mrs. Norton, do I wish for no other.
O hasten, good God, if it be thy blessed will, the happy moment that I am to be decked out in this all quieting garb! And sustain, comfort, bless, and protect with the all-shadowing wing of thy mercy, my dear parents, my uncles, my brother, my sister, my cousin Morden, my ever-dear and ever-kind Miss Howe, my good Mrs. Norton, and every deserving person to whom they wish well! is the ardent prayer, first and last, of every beginning hour, as the clock tells it me (Hours now are days, nay years) of
Your now not sorrowing or afflicted, but happy
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XLVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wedn. morn. Sept. 6. half an hour after three.
I am not the savage which you and my worst enemies think me. My soul is too much penetrated by the contents of the letter which you inclosed in your last, to say one word more to it, than that my heart has bled over it from every vein! -I will fly from the subject-But what other can I choose, that will not be as grievous, and lead into the same?
I could quarrel with all the world; with thee, as well as the rest; obliging as thou supposest thyself for writing to me hourly. How daredst thou (tho' unknown to her) to presume to take an apartment under the same roof with her? -I cannot bear to think, that thou shouldst be seen at all hours passing to and repassing from her apartments, while I, who have so much reason to call her mine, and once was preferred by her to all the world, am forced to keep aloof, and hardly dare to enter the city where she is!
If there be any-thing in Brand's letter that will divert me, hasten it to me. But nothing now will ever divert me, will ever again give me joy or pleasure! I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep. I am sick of all the world.
Surely it will be better when all is over-when I know the worst the fates can do against me-Yet how shall I bear that worst? -O Belford, Belford! write it not to me; but, if it must happen, get somebody else to write; for I shall curse the pen, the hand, the head, and the heart, employed in communicating to me the fatal tidings. But what is this saying, when already I curse the whole world except her-Myself most?
In fine, I am a most miserable being. Life is a burden to me. I would not bear it upon these terms for one week more, let what would be my lot; for already is there a hell begun in my own mind. Never more mention to me, let her or who will say it, the prison-I cannot bear it- May damnation seize quick the accursed woman, who could set death upon taking that large stride, as the dear creature calls it! -I had no hand in it! But her relations, her implacable relations, have done the business. All else would have been got over. Never persuade me but it would. The fire of youth, and the violence of passion, would have pleaded for me to good purpose, with an individual of a Sex, which loves to be addressed with passionate ardor, even to tumult, had it not been for that cruelty and unforgivingness, which (the object and the penitence considered) have no example, and have aggravated the heinousness of my faults.
Unable to rest, tho' I went not to bed till two, I dispatch this ere the day dawn-Who knows what this night, this dismal night, may have produced!
I must after my messenger. I have told the varlet I will meet him, perhaps at Knightsbridge, perhaps in Piccadilly; and I trust not myself with pistols, not only on his account, but my own: For pistols are too ready a mischief.
I hope thou hast a letter ready for him. He goes to thy lodgings first: For surely thou wilt not presume to take thy rest in an apartment near hers. If he miss thee there, he flies to Smith's, and brings me word whether in being, or not.
I shall look for him thro' the air as I ride, as well as on horseback; for if the prince of it serve me, as well as I have served him, he will bring the dog by his ears, like another Habakkuk, to my saddle-bow, with the tidings that my heart pants after.
Nothing but the excruciating pangs the condemned soul feels, at its entrance into the eternity of the torments we are taught to fear, can exceed what I now feel, and have felt for almost this week past; and mayst thou have a spice of those, if thou hast not a letter ready written for
Thy Lovelace.

### v7 LETTER XLVIII.

Mr. Belford. In Continuation.
Tuesday, Sept. 5. six o'clock.
The lady remains exceedingly weak and ill. Her intellects, nevertheless, continue clear and strong, and her piety and patience are without example. Every one thinks this night will be her last. What a shocking thing is that to say of such an excellence! She will not, however, send away her letter to her Norton, as yet. She endeavoured in vain to superscribe it: So desired me to do it. Her fingers will not hold her pen with the requisite steadiness. She has, I fear, written and read her last!
Eight o'clock.
She is somewhat better than she was. The Doctor has been here, and thinks she will hold out yet a day or two. He has ordered her, as for some time past, only some little cordials to take when ready to faint. She seemed disappointed, when he told her, she might yet live two or three days; and said, She longed for dismission! -Life was not so easily extinguished, she saw, as some imagine. -Death from grief, was, she believed, the slowest of deaths. But God's will must be done! -Her only prayer was now for submission to it: For she doubted not but by the Divine goodness she should be an happy creature, as soon as she could be divested of these rags of mortality.
Of her own accord she mentioned you; which, till then, she had avoided to do. She asked, with great serenity, where you were?
I told her where; and your motives of being so near; and read to her a few lines of yours of this morning, in which you mention your wishes to see her, your sincere affliction, and your resolution not to approach her without her consent.
I would have read more; but she said, Enough, Mr. Belford, enough! -Poor man! Does his conscience begin to find him! -Then need not any-body to wish him a greater punishment! -May it work upon him to a happy purpose!
I took the liberty to say, that as she was in such a frame, that nothing now seemed capable of discomposing her, I could wish that you might have the benefit of her exhortations, which, I dared to say, while you were so seriously affected, would have a greater force upon you than a thousand sermons; and how happy you would think yourself, if you could but receive her forgiveness on your knees.
How can you think of such a thing, Mr. Belford, said she, with some emotion? My composure is owing, next to the Divine goodness blessing my earnest supplications for it, to the not seeing him. Yet let him know, that I now again repeat, that I forgive him. -And may God Almighty, clasping her fingers, and lifting up her eyes, forgive him too; and perfect his repentance, and sanctify it to him! -Tell him I say so! And tell him, that if I could not say so with my whole heart, I should be very uneasy, and think that my hopes of mercy to myself were but weakly founded; and that I had still, in any harboured resentments, some hankerings after a life which he has been the cause of shortening.
The divine creature then turning aside her head-Poor man, said she! I once could have loved him. This is saying more than ever I could say of any other man out of my own family! Would he have permitted me to have been an humble instrument to have made him good, I think I could have made him happy! -But tell him not this, if he be really penitent-It may too much affect him! -There she paused.
Admirable creature! -Heavenly forgiver! - Then resuming -But pray tell him, that if I could know, that my death might be a means to reclaim and save him, it would be an inexpressible satisfaction to me!
But let me not, however, be made uneasy with the apprehension of seeing him. I cannot bear to see him!
Just as she had done speaking, the minister, who had so often attended her, sent up his name; and was admitted.
Being apprehensive, that it would be with difficulty that you could prevail upon that impetuous spirit of yours, not to invade her dying hours, and of the agonies into which a surprize of this nature would throw her, I thought this gentleman's visit afforded a proper opportunity to renew the subject; and (having asked her leave) acquainted him with the topic we had been upon.
The good man urged, That some condescensions were usually expected, on these solemn occasions, from pious souls like hers, however satisfied with themselves, for the sake of shewing the world, and for example-sake, that all resentments against those who had most injured them were subdued: And if she would vouchsafe to a heart so truly penitent, as I had represented Mr. Lovelace's to be, that personal pardon, which I had been pleading for, there would be no room to suppose the least lurking resentment remained; and it might have very happy effects upon the gentleman.
I have no lurking resentment, Sir, said she. -This is not a time for resentment: And you will be the readier to believe me, when I can assure you (looking at me) that even what I have most rejoiced in, the truly friendly love that has so long subsisted between my Miss Howe and her Clarissa, altho' to my last gasp it will be the dearest to me of all that is dear in this life, has already abated of its fervor; has already given place to supremer fervors: And shall the remembrance of Mr. Lovelace's personal insults, which, I bless God, never corrupted that mind which her friendship so much delighted, be stronger in these hours with me, than the remembrance of a love as pure as the human heart ever boasted? Tell, therefore, the world, if you please, and (if you think what I said to you before, Mr. Belford, not strong enough) tell the poor man, that I not only forgive him, but have such earnest wishes for the good of his soul, and that from considerations of its immortality, that could my penitence avail for more sins than my own, my last tear should fall for Him by whom I die!
Our eyes and hands expressed for us both, what our lips could not utter.
Say not then, proceeded she, nor let it be said, that my resentments are unsubdued! -And yet these eyes, lifted up to Heaven, as witness to the truth of what I have said, shall never, if I can help it, behold him more! -For do ye not consider, Sirs, how short my time is; what much more important subjects I have to employ it upon; and how unable I should be (so weak as I am) to contend even with the avowed penitence of a person in strong health, governed by passions unabated, and always violent? - And now I hope you will never urge me more on this subject.
The minister said, It were pity ever to urge this plea again.
You see, Lovelace, that I did not forget the office of a friend, in endeavouring to prevail upon her to give you her last forgiveness personally. And I hope, as she is so near her end, you will not invade her in her last hours; since she must be extremely discomposed at such an interview; and it might make her leave the world the sooner for it.
This reminds me of an expression which she used on your barbarous hunting her at Smith's, on her return to her lodgings; and that with a serenity unexampled (as Mrs. Lovick told me, considering the occasion, and the trouble given her by it, and her indisposition at the time) He will not let me die decently, said the angelic sufferer! -He will not let me enter into my Maker's presence with the composure that is required in entering into the drawing room of an earthly prince!
I cannot, however, forbear to wish, that the heavenly creature could have prevailed upon herself, in these her last hours, to see you; and that for my sake, as well as yours: For altho' I am determined never to be guilty of the crimes, which have, till within these few past weeks, blackened my former life; and for which, at present, I most heartily hate myself; yet should I be less apprehensive of a relapse, if (wrought upon by the solemnity which such an interview must have been attended with) you had become a reformed man: For no devil do I fear, but one in your shape.
It is now eleven o'clock at night. The lady, who retired to rest an hour ago, is in a sweet slumber, as Mrs. Lovick tells me.
I will close here. I hope I shall find her the better for it in the morning. Yet, alas! how frail is hope! How frail is life; when we are apt to build so much on every shadowy relief; altho' in such a desperate case as this, sitting down to reflect, we must know, that it is but shadowy!
I will inclose Brand's horrid pedantry. And for once am aforehand with thy ravenous impatience.
Mr. Brand's recantation-letters (one directed to his friend Mr.- the other to his patron Mr. John Harlowe) are thought to be originals in their way: But as they are long, and as the reader has already been let into his singular character and as this collection is run into an undesirable length, they are omitted.

### v7 LETTER XLIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wedn. morn. Sept. 6.
And is she somewhat better? -Blessings upon thee without number or measure! Let her still be better and better! Tell me so at least, if it be not so: For thou knowest not what a joy that poor temporary reprieve, that she will hold out yet a day or two, gave me.
But who told this hard-hearted and death-pronouncing Doctor, that she will hold it no longer? By what warrant says he this? What presumption in these parading solemn fellows of a college, which will be my contempt to the latest hour of my life, if this brother of it (eminent as he is deemed to be) cannot work an ordinary miracle in her favour, or rather in mine.
Let me tell thee, Belford, that already he deserves the utmost contempt, for suffering this charming clock to run down so low. What must be his art, if it could not wind it up in a quarter of the time he has attended her, when, at his first visits, the springs and wheels of life and motion were so good, that they seemed only to want common care and oiling!
I am obliged to you for endeavouring to engage her to see me. 'Twas like a friend. If she had vouchsafed me that favour, she should have seen at her feet the most abject adorer that ever kneeled to justly offended beauty.
What she bid you, and what she forbid you, to tell me (the latter for tender considerations); That she forgives me; and that, could she have made me a good man, she could have made me a happy one! That she even loved me! At such a moment to own that she once loved me! Never before loved any man! That she prays for me! That her last tear should be shed for me, could she by it save a soul, without her, doomed to perdition! -O Belford, Belford! I cannot bear it! -What a dog, what a devil, have I been to so superlative a goodness! -Why does she not inveigh against me? -Why does she not execrate me? -O the triumphant subduer! Ever above me! -And now to leave me so infinitely below her!
Marry and repair, at any time. This (wretch that I was!) was my plea to myself. To give her a lowering sensibility; to bring her down from among the stars which her beamy head was surrounded by, that my wife, so greatly above me, might not too much despise me-This was part of my reptile envy, owing to my more reptile apprehension of inferiority. -Yet, from step to step, from distress to distress, to maintain her superiority; and, like the sun, to break out upon me with the greater refulgence for the clouds that I had contrived to cast about her- And now to escape me thus! -No power left me to repair her wrongs! -No alleviation to my self-reproach! -No dividing of blame with her!-
Tell her, O tell her, Belford, that her prayers and wishes, her superlatively generous prayers and wishes, shall not be vain: That I can, and do, repent-and long have repented: -Tell her of my frequent deep remorses- It was impossible that such remorse should not at last produce effectual remorses-Yet she must not leave me-She must live, if she would wish to have my contrition perfect -For what can despair produce?-
I will do every-thing you would have me do, in the return of your letters. You have infinitely obliged me by this last, and by pressing for an admission for me, tho' it succeeded not.
Once more, how could I be such a villain to so divine a creature! Yet love her all the time, as never man loved woman! -Curse upon my contriving genius! Curse upon my intriguing head, and upon my seconding heart! -To sport with the fame, with the honour, with the life, of such an angel of a woman! -O my damn'd incredulity! - That, believing her to be a woman, I must hope to find her a woman! -On my incredulity, that there could be such virtue (virtue for virtue's sake) in the Sex, founded I my hope of succeeding with her.
But say not, Jack, that she must leave us yet. -If she recover-And if I can but re-obtain her favour, then indeed will life be life to me. -The world never saw such an husband as I will make. I will have no will but hers: She shall conduct me in all my steps: She shall open and direct my prospects, and turn every motion of my heart, as she pleases.
You tell me in your letter, that at eleven o'clock she had sweet rest; and my servant acquaints me from Mrs. Smith, that she has had a good night. What hopes does this fill me with! I have given the fellow five guineas for his good news, to be divided between him and his fellow-servant.
Dear, dear Jack! confirm this to me in thy next-For Heaven's sake do! -Tell the Doctor I will make him a present of a thousand guineas if he recover her. -Ask if a consultation be necessary.
Adieu, dear Belford! -Confirm, I beseech thee, the hopes that now with sovereign gladness have taken possession of a heart, that, next to Hers, is
Thine.

### v7 LETTER L.

Mr. Belford, To Roeert Lovelace, Esq;
Wedn. morn. eight o'clock (6 Sept.)
Your servant arrived here before I was stirring. I sent him to Smith's to inquire how the lady was; and ordered him to call upon me when he came back. I was pleased to hear she had had tolerable rest; and, as soon as I had dispatched him with the letter I had written overnight, I went to attend her.
I found her up, and dress'd; in a white satten nightgown. Ever elegant; but now more so, than I had seen her for a week past; her aspect serenely chearful.
She mentioned the increased dimness of her eyes, and the tremor which had invaded her limbs. If this be dying, said she, there is nothing at all shocking in it. My body hardly sensible of pain, my mind at ease, my intellects clear and perfect as ever. What a good and gracious God have I! -For this is what I always prayed for.
I told her, It was not so serene with you.
There is not the same reason for it, replied she. 'Tis a choice comfort, Mr Belford, at the winding-up of our short story, to be able to say, I have rather suffered injuries myself, than offered them to others. I bless God, tho' I have been unhappy, as the world deems it, and once I thought more so, than at present I do; yet have I not wilfully made any one creature so. I have no reason to grieve for any-thing but for the sorrow I have given my friends.
But pray, Mr. Belford, remember me in the best manner to my cousin Morden; and desire him to comfort them, and to tell them, that all would have been the same, had they accepted of my true penitence, as I wish as and I trust the Almighty has done.
I was called down: It was to Harry, who was just returned from Miss Howe's, to whom he carried the lady's letter. The stupid fellow, being bid to make haste with it, and return as soon as possible, staid not till Miss Howe had it, she being at the distance of five miles, altho' Mrs. Howe would have had him stay, and sent a man and horse purposely with it to her daughter.
Wednesday morning, 10 o'Clock.
The poor lady is just recovered from a fainting fit, which has left her at death's door. Her late tranquility and freedom from pain seemed but a lightening, as Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith call it.
By my faith, Lovelace, I had rather part with all the friends I have in the world, than with this lady: I never knew what a virtuous, a holy friendship, as I may call mine to her, was before. But to be so new to it, and to be obliged to forego it so soon, what an affliction! Yet, thank heaven, I lose her not by my own fault! -But 'twould be barbarous not to spare thee now.
She has sent for the Divine, who visited her before, in order to pray with her.

### v7 LETTER LI.

Mr. Lovelace, To J. Belford, Esq;
Kensington, Wednesday noon.
Like AEsop's traveller, thou blowest hot and cold, life and death, in the same breath, with a view, no doubt, to distract me. How familiarly dost thou use the words, dying, dimness, tremor? Never did any mortal ring so many changes on so few bells. Thy true father, I dare swear, was a butcher, or an undertaker, by the delight thou seemest to take in scenes of horror and death. Thy barbarous reflection, that thou losest her not by thy own fault, is never to be forgiven. Thou hast but one way to atone for the torments thou givest me, and that is, by sending me word that she is better, and will recover. Whether it be true or not, let me be told so, and I will go abroad rejoicing and believing it, and my wishes and imagination shall make out all the rest.
If she live but one year, that I may acquit myself to myself (no matter for the world!) that her death is not owing to me, I will compound for the rest.
Will neither vows nor prayers save her? I never prayed in my life, put all the years of it together, as I have done for this fortnight past: And I have most sincerely repented of all my baseness to her-And will nothing do?
But after all, if she recover not, this reflection must be my comfort; and it is truth; That her departure will be owing rather to wilfulness, to downright female wilfulness, than to any other cause.
It is difficult for people who pursue the dictates of a violent resentment, to stop where first they designed to stop.
I have the charity to believe, that even James and Arabella Harlowe, at first, intended no more by the confederacy they formed against this their angel sister, than to disgrace and keep her down, lest (sordid wretches!) their uncles should follow the example her grandfather had set, to their detriment.
Many a man, who at first intended only to try if a girl would resent a petty freedom, finding himself unchecked, or only lightly and laughingly put by, has been encouraged to attempt the last point, and has triumphed where once he presumed not to make the most distant approach but with fear and trembling and previous study how to come off, in case of a high resentment.
To bring these illustrations home; This lady, I suppose, in her resentment, intended only at first to vex and plague me; and, finding she could do it to purpose, her desire of revenge became stronger in her than the desire of life; and now she is willing to die, as an event which she supposes will cut my heart-strings asunder. And still the more to be revenged, puts on the Christian, and forgives me.
But I'll have none of her forgiveness! My own heart tells me, I do not deserve it; and I cannot bear it! -And what is it, but a mere verbal forgiveness, as ostentatiously as cruelly given with a view to magnify herself, and wound me deeper? A little, dear, specious-But let me stop-lest I blaspheme!
Reading over the above, I am ashamed of my ramblings: But what wouldst have me do? -See'st thou not that I am but seeking to run out of myself, in hope to lose myself; yet, that I am unable to do either?
If ever thou lovedst but half so fervently as I love- But of that thy heavy soul is not capable.
Send me word by thy next, I conjure thee, in the names of all her kindred saints and angels, that she is living, and likely to live! -If thou sendest ill news; thou wilt be answerable for the consequence, whether it be fatal to the messenger, or to
Thy Lovelace.

### v7 LETTER LII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Wednesday, 11 o'Clock.
Dr. H. has just been here. He tarried with me till the minister had done praying by the lady; and then we were both admitted. Mr. Goddard (who came while the doctor and the clergyman were with her) went away with them when they went. They took a solemn and everlasting leave of her, as I have no scruple to say, blessing her, and being blessed by her; and wishing (when it came to be their lot) for an exit as happy as hers is likely to be
She had again earnestly requested of the doctor, his opinion how long it was now probable that she could continue: And he told her, that he apprehended she would hardly see to-morrow night. She said, She should number the hours with greater pleasure than ever she numbered any in her life, on the most joyful occasion.
How unlike poor Belton's last hours, hers! See the infinite difference in the effects, on the same awful and affecting occasion, between a good and a bad conscience!
This moment a man is come from Miss Howe with a letter. Perhaps I shall be able to send you the contents.
She endeavoured several times with earnestness, but in vain, to read the letter of her dear friend. -The writing, she said, was too fine for her grosser sight, and the lines staggered under her eye. And indeed she trembled so, she could not hold the paper: And at last, desired Mrs. Lovick to read it to her, the messenger waiting for an answer.
Thou wilt see, in Miss Howe's letter, how different the expression of the same impatiency, and passionate love, is, when dictated by the gentler mind of a woman, from that which results from a mind so boisterous and knotty, as thine. For Mrs. Lovick will transcribe it; and I shall send it-To be read in this place, if thou wilt.
Miss Howe, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Tuesday, Sept. 5.
O my dearest friend!
What will become of your poor Anna Howe! I see by your writing, as well as read by your own account, (which, were you not very, very ill, you would have touched more tenderly) how it is with you! -Why have I thus long delayed to attend you! -Could I think, that the comfortings of a faithful friend were as nothing to a gentle mind in distress, that I could be prevailed upon to forbear visiting you so much as once in all this time! - I, as well as every-body else, to desert and abandon my dear creature to strangers! -What will become of me, if you be as bad as my apprehensions make you!
I will set out this moment, little as the encouragement is, that you give me to do so! -My mother is willing I should! -Why, O why, was she not before willing!
Yet she persuades me too (lest I should be fatally affected were I to find my fears too well justified) to wait the return of this messenger, who rides our swiftest horse-God speed him with good news to me-Else-But, Oh! my dearest, dearest friend, what else! -One line from your hand by him! -Send me but one line to bid me attend you! -I will set out the moment, the very moment, I receive it. -I am now actually ready to do so! -And if you love me, as I love you, the sight of me will revive you to my hopes. But why, why, when I can think this, did I not go up sooner?
Blessed heaven! deny not to my prayers, my friend, my monitress, my adviser, at a time so critical to myself!
But methinks, your stile and sentiments are too well connected, too full of life and vigor, to give cause for so much despair, as the staggering pen seems to threaten.
I am sorry I was not at home [I must add thus much tho' the servant is ready mounted at the door] when Mr. Belford's servant came with your affecting letter. I was at Miss Lloyd's. My mamma sent it to me; and I came home that instant. But he was gone. He would not stay, it seems. Yet I wanted to ask him an hundred thousand questions. But why delay I thus my messenger? I have a multitude of things to say to you. To advise with you about! -You shall direct me in every thing. I will obey the holding up of your finger. But, if you leave me- what is the world, or any thing in it, to
Your Anna Howe?
The effect this letter had on the lady, who is so near the end which the fair writer so much apprehends and deplores, obliged Mrs. Lovick to make many breaks in reading it, and many changes of voice.
This is a friend, said the divine lady, (taking the letter in her hand, and kissing it) worth wishing to live for. -O my dear Anna Howe! How uninterruptedly sweet and noble, has been our friendship! -But we shall one day, I hope (and that must comfort us both) meet, never to part again! Then, divested of the shades of body, shall we be all light and all mind-Then how unalloyed, how perfect, will be our friendship! Our Love then will have one and the same adorable object, and we shall enjoy it and each other to all Eternity!
She said, her dear friend was so earnest for a line or two, that she would fain write, if she could: And she tried; but to no purpose. She could dictate, however, she believed, and desired Mrs. Lovick would take pen and paper. Which she did, and then she dictated to her. I would have withdrawn; but at her desire staid.
She wandered a good deal, at first-She took notice that she did-And when she got into a little train, not pleasing herself, she apologized to Mrs. Lovick for making her begin again and again; and said, That third time should go, let it be as it would.
She dictated the farewel part, without hesitation; and when she came to the blessing and subscription, she took the pen, and dropping on her knees, supported by Mrs. Lovick, wrote the conclusion; but Mrs. Lovick was forced to guide her hand.
You will find the sense surprizingly intire, her weakness considered.
I made the messenger wait, while I transcribed it. I have endeavoured to imitate the subscriptive part.
Wedn. near 3 o'Clock.
My dearest Miss Howe,
You must not be surprized-nor grieved-that Mrs. Lovick writes for me. Altho' I cannot obey you, and write with my pen, yet my heart writes by hers-Accept it so-It is the nearest to obedience I can!
And now, what ought I to say? What can I say? - But why should you not know the truth? Since soon you must-very soon.
Know then, and let your tears be those, if of pity, of joyful pity! for I permit you to shed a few, to imbalm, as I may say, a fallen blossom-Know then, that the good doctor, and the pious clergyman, and the worthy apothecary, have just now, with joint benedictions, taken their last leave of me: And the former bids me hope-Do, my dearest, let me say hope-for my enlargement before tomorrow sun-set.
Adieu, therefore, my dearest friend! Be this your consolation, as it is mine, that in God's good time we shall meet in a blessed Eternity, never more to part! -Once more, then, adieu and be happy! -Which a generous nature cannot be, unless to its power, it makes others so too.
God for ever bless you! prays, dropt on my bended Knees, altho' supported upon them,
Your Grateful, Obliged, Affectionate,
Clar. Harlowe.
When I had transcribed and sealed this letter, by her direction, I gave it to the messenger myself; who told me that Miss Howe waited for nothing but his return, to set out for London.
Thy servant is just come; so I will close here. Thou art a merciless master. The two fellows are battered to death by thee, to use a female word; and all female words, tho' we are not sure of their derivation, have very significant meanings. I believe, in their hearts, they wish the angel in the heaven that is ready to receive her, and thee at thy proper place, that there might be an end of their flurries; another word of the same gender.
What a letter hast thou sent me! -Poor Lovelace!- is all the answer I will return.
Five o'clock.] Colonel Morden is this moment arrived.

### v7 LETTER LIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Eight in the Evening.
I had but just time in my former, to tell you, that Colonel Morden was arrived. He was on horseback, attended by two servants, and alit at the door, just as the clock struck five. Mrs. Smith was then below in her backshop, weeping, her husband with her, who was as much affected as she; Mrs. Lovick having left them a little before, in tears likewise; for they had been bemoaning one another; joining in opinion, that the admirable lady would not live the night over. She had told them, it was her opinion too, from some numbnesses, which she called the forerunners of death, and from an increased inclination to doze.
The Colonel, as Mrs. Smith told me afterwards, asked with great impatience, the moment he alit, how Miss Harlowe was? She answered, Alive; but, she feared, drawing on apace. Good God! said he, with his hands and eyes lifted up. Can I see her? My name is Morden. I have the honour to be nearly related to her. Step up, pray; and let her know [She is sensible, I hope] that I am here. Who is with her?
No-body but her Nurse, and Mrs. Lovick, a widow gentlewoman, who is as careful of her, as if she were her mother.
And more careful too, interrupted he, or she is not careful at all.-
Except a gentleman be with her, one Mr. Belford, continued Mrs. Smith, who has been the best friend she has had.
If Mr. Belford be with her, surely I may-But, pray, step up, and let Mr. Belford know, that I shall take it for a favour to speak with him first.
Mrs. Smith came up to me in my new apartment. I had but just dispatched your servant, and was asking her nurse, if I might be again admitted; who answered, that she was dozing in the elbow-chair, having refused to lie down, saying, She should soon, she hoped, lie down for good.
The Colonel, who is really a fine gentleman, received me with great politeness. After the first compliments, My kinswoman, Sir, said he, is more obliged to you than to any of her own family. For my part, I have been endeavouring to move so many rocks in her favour; and, little thinking the dear creature so very bad, have neglected to attend her, as I ought to have done the moment I arrived; and would, had I known how ill she was, and what a task I should have had with the family. But, Sir, your friend has been excessively to blame; and you being so intimately his friend, has made her fare the worse for your civilities to her. But is there no hope of her recovery?
The doctors have left her, with the melancholy declaration, that there is none.
Has she had good attendance, Sir? A skilful physician? I hear these good folks have been very civil and obliging to her-
Who could be otherwise, said Mrs. Smith, weeping? She is the sweetest lady in the world!
The character, said the Colonel, lifting up his eyes and one hand, that she has from every living creature! -Good God! How could your accursed friend-
And how could her cruel parents, interrupted I? -We may as easily account for him, as for them.
Too true! returned he, the vileness of the profligates of our sex considered, whenever they can get any of the other into their power.
I satisfied him about the care that had been taken of her; and told him of the friendly and even paternal attendance she had had from Dr. H. and Mr. Goddard.
He was impatient to attend her, having not seen her, as he said, since she was twelve years old; and that then she gave promises of being one of the finest women in England.
She was so, replied I, a very few months ago: And, tho' emaciated, she will appear to you to have confirmed those promises: For her features are so regular and exact, her proportion so fine, and her manner so inimitably graceful, that were she only skin and bone, she must be a beauty.
Mrs. Smith, at his request, stept up, and brought us down word, that Mrs. Lovick and her Nurse were with her; and that she was in so sound a sleep, leaning upon the former in her elbow-chair, that she neither heard her enter the room, nor go out. The Colonel begged, if not improper, that he might see her, tho' sleeping. He said, That his impatience would not let him stay till she awaked. Yet he would not have her disturbed; and should be glad to contemplate her sweet features, when she saw not him; and asked, If she thought he could not go in, and come out, without disturbing her?
She believ'd he might, she answer'd; for her chair's back was towards the door.
He said, He would take care to withdraw, if she awoke, that his sudden appearance might not surprise her.
Mrs. Smith, stepping up before us, bid Mrs. Lovick and the Nurse not stir, when we entered: And then we went up softly together.
We beheld the lady, in a charming attitude. Dressed, as I told you before, in her virgin white, she was sitting in her elbow-chair, Mrs. Lovick close by her, in another chair, with her left arm round her neck, supporting it, as it were; for, it seems, the lady had bid her do so, saying, She had been a Mother to her, and she would delight herself in thinking she was in her Mamma's arms; for she found herself drowsy; perhaps, she said, for the last time she should ever be so.
One faded cheek rested upon the good woman's bosom, the kindly warmth of which had overspread it with a faint, but charming flush; the other paler, and hollow, as if already iced over by death. Her hands, white as the lily, with her meandring veins more transparently blue, than ever I had seen even hers (veins so soon, alas! to be choaked up by the congealment of that purple stream, which already so languidly creeps rather than flows thro' them! her hands hanging lifelesly, one before her, the other grasped by the right-hand of the kind widow, whose tears bedew'd the sweet face which her motherly bosom supported, though unfelt by the fair sleeper; and either insensibly to the good woman, or what she would not disturb her to wipe off, or to change her posture: Her aspect was sweetly calm and serene: And tho' she started now-and-then, yet her sleep seemed easy; her breath indeed short and quick; but tolerably free, and not like that of a dying person.
In this heart-moving attitude she appeared to us when we approached her, and came to have her lovely face before us.
The Colonel sighing often, gazed upon her with his arms folded, and with the most profound and affectionate attention; till at last, on her starting, and fetching her breath with greater difficulty than before, he retired to a screen, that was drawn before her house, as she calls it, which, as I have heretofore observed, stands under one of the windows. This screen was placed there, at the time she found herself obliged take to her chamber; and in the depth of our concern, and the fulness of other discourse at our first interview, I had forgotten to apprise the Colonel of what he would probably see.
Retiring thither, he drew out his handkerchief, and, drowned in grief, seemed unable to speak: But, on casting his eye behind the screen, he soon broke silence; for, struck with the shape of the coffin, he lifted up a purplish-coloured cloth that was spread over it, and, starting back, Good God! said he, what's here!
Mrs. Smith standing next him, Why, said he, with great emotion, is my cousin suffered to indulge her sad reflections with such an object before her?
Alas! Sir, reply'd the good woman, who should controul her? We are all strangers about her, in a manner: And yet we have expostulated with her upon this sad occasion.
I ought, said I, (stepping softly up to him, the lady again falling into a doze) to have apprised you of this. I was here when it was brought in, and never was so shocked in my life. But she had none of her friends about her, and no reason to hope for any of them to come near her; and, assured she should not recover, she was resolved to leave as little as possible, especially as to what related to her person, to her executor. But it is not a shocking object to her, tho' it be to every body else.
Curse upon the hard-heartedness of those, said he, who occasion'd her to make so sad a provision for herself! What must her reflections have been, all the time she was thinking of it, and giving orders about it? And what must they be, every time she turns her head towards it? These uncommon genius's-But indeed she should have been controuled in it, had I been here.
The lady fetched a profound sigh, and, starting, it broke off our talk; and the Colonel then withdrew further behind the screen, that his sudden appearance might not surprise her.
Where am I! said she. How drowsy I am! How long have I dozed? Don't go, Sir (for I was retiring). I am very stupid, and shall be more and more so, I suppose.
She then offered to raise herself; but, being ready to faint thro' weakness, was forced to sit down again, reclining her head on her chair-back; and, after a few moments, I believe now, my good friends, said she, all your kind trouble will soon be over. I have slept, but am not refreshed, and my fingers ends seem numb'd-have no feeling! (holding them up.) -'Tis time to send the letter to my good Mrs. Norton.
Shall I, Madam, send my servant post with it?
O no, Sir, I thank you. It will reach the dear woman too soon (as she will think) by the post.
I told her, this was not post-day.
Is it Wednesday still? said she: Bless me! I know not how the time goes: But very tediously, 'tis plain. And now I think I must soon take to my bed. All will be most conveniently and with least trouble over there-Will it not, Mrs. Lovick? -I think, Sir, turning to me, I have left nothing to these last incapacitating hours: Nothing either to say, or to do: I bless God, I have not: If I had, how unhappy should I be? Can you, Sir, remind me of any thing necessary to be done or said to make your office easy?
If, Madam, your cousin Morden should come, you would be glad to see him, I presume?
I am too weak to wish to see my cousin now. It would but discompose me, and him too. Yet, if he come while I can see, I will see him, were it but to thank him for former favours, and for his present kind intentions to me. Has any body been here from him?
He has called, and will be here, Madam, in half an hour; but he feared to surprise you.
Nothing can surprise me now, except my Mamma were to favour me with her last blessing in person. That would be a welcome surprise to me even yet. But did my Cousin come purposely to town to see me?
Yes, Madam. I took the liberty to let him know by a line last Monday, how ill you were.
You are very kind, Sir. I am and have been greatly obliged to you. But I think I shall be pained to see him now, because he will be concerned to see me. And yet, as I am not so ill as I shall presently be-the sooner he comes, the better. But if he come, what shall I do about that screen? He will chide me very probably; and I cannot bear chiding now. Perhaps (leaning upon Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith) I can walk into the next apartment to receive him.
She motion'd t rise; but was ready to faint again, and forced to fit still.
The Colonel was in a perfect agitation behind the screen, to hear this discourse; and twice, unseen by his cousin, was coming from it towards her; but retreated, for fear of surprising her too much.
I stept to him, and favoured his retreat; she only saying, Are you going, Mr. Belford? Are you sent for down? Is my Cousin come? For she heard somebody step softly cross the room; and thought it me, her hearing being more perfect than her sight.
I told her, I believed he was; and she said, We must make the best of it, Mrs. Lovick, and Mrs. Smith. I shall otherwise most grievously shock my poor cousin: For he loved me dearly once. Pray give me a few of the doctor's last drops in water, to keep up my spirits for this one interview; and that is all, I believe, that can concern me now.
The Colonel (who heard all this) sent in his name; and I, pretending to go down to him, introduced the afflicted gentleman; she having first ordered the screen to be put as close to the window as possible, that he might not see what was behind it; while he, having heard what she had said about it, was determined to take no notice of it.
He folded the angel in his arms as she sat, dropping down on one knee; for, supporting herself upon the two elbows of the chair, she attempted to rise, but could not. Excuse, my dear Cousin said she, excuse me, that I cannot stand up-I did not expect this favour now. But I am glad of this opportunity to thank you for all your generous goodness to me.
I never, my best beloved and dearest cousin, said he, (with eyes running over,) shall forgive myself, that I did not attend you sooner. Little did I think you were so ill; nor do any of your friends believe it. If they did-
If they did, repeated she, interrupting him, I should have had more compassion from them. I am sure I should. But pray, Sir, how did you leave them? Are you reconciled to them? If you are not, I beg, if you love your poor Clarissa, that you will: For every widen'd difference augments but my fault; since that is the foundation of all.
I had been expecting to hear from them in your favour, my dear cousin, said he, for some hours, when this gentleman's letter arrived, which hastened me up: But I have the account of your grandfather's estate to make up with you, and have bills and draughts upon their banker for the sums due to you; which they desire you may receive, lest you should have occasion for money. And this is such an earnest of an approaching reconciliation, that I dare to answer for all the rest being according to your wishes, if-
Ah! Sir, interrupted she, with frequent breaks and pauses, I wish, I wish, this does not rather shew, that were I to live, they would have nothing more to say to me. I never had any pride in being independent of them: All my actions, when I might have made myself more independent, shew this-But what avail these reflections now? -I only beg, Sir, that You, and this gentleman-to whom I am exceedingly obliged-will adjust those matters-according to the will I have written. Mr. Belford will excuse me; but it was in truth more necessity than choice, that made me think of giving him the trouble he so kindly accepts. Had I had the happiness to see you, my cousin, sooner-or to know, that you still honoured me with your regard-I should not have had the assurance to ask this favour of him -But-tho' the friend of Mr. Lovelace, he is a man of honour, and he will make peace rather than break it. And, my dear cousin, let me beg of you-to contribute your part to it-and remember, that, while I have nearer relations than my cousin Morden, dear as you are, and always were to me, you have no title to avenge my wrongs upon Him who has been the occasion of them. But I wrote to you my mind on this subject; and my reasons; and hope I need not further urge them.
I must do Mr. Lovelace so much justice, answered he, wiping his eyes, as to witness, how sincerely he repents him of his ingrateful baseness to you, and how ready he is to make you all the amends in his power. He owns his wickedness, and your merit. If he did not, I could not pass it over, tho' you have nearer relations: For, my dear cousin, did not your grandfather leave me in trust for you? And should I think myself concerned for your fortune, and not for your honour? -But, since he is so desirous to do you justice, I have the less to say; and you may make yourself intirely easy on that account.
I thank you, thank you, Sir, said she: All is now as I wished: But I am very faint, very low. I am sorry I cannot hold up; that I cannot better deserve the honour of this visit: But it will not be-And saying this, she sunk down in her chair, and was silent.
Hereupon we both withdrew, leaving word, that we would be at the Bedford-Head, if any thing extraordinary happened.
We bespoke a little repast, having neither of us dined; and while it was getting ready, you may guess at the subject of our discourse. Both joined in lamentation for the lady's desperate state: Admired her manifold excellencies: Severely condemned you, and her friends. Yet, to bring him into better opinion of you, I read to him some passages from your last letters, which shew'd your concern for the wrongs you had done her, and your deep remorse: And he said, It was a dreadful thing to labour under the sense of a guilt so irremediable.
We procured Mr. Goddard (Dr. H. being not at home) once more to visit her, and to call upon us in his return. He was so good as to do so; but he tarried with her not five minutes; and told us, That she was drawing on apace; that he feared she would not live till morning; and that she wished to see Colonel Morden directly.
The Colonel made excuses where none were needed; and tho' our little refection was just brought in, he went away immediately.
I could not touch a morsel; and took pen and ink to amuse myself, and oblige you, knowing how impatient you would be for a few lines: For, from what I have recited, you will see it was impossible I could withdraw to write, when your servant came at half an hour after five, or have an opportunity for it till now; and This is accidental: And yet your poor fellow was afraid to go away with the verbal message I sent, importing, as no doubt he told you, that the Colonel was with us, the Lady excessively ill, and that I could not stir to write a line.
Ten o'clock.
The Colonel sent to me afterwards, that the lady having been in convulsions, he was so much disordered, that he could not possibly attend me.
I have sent every half hour to know how she does: And just now I have the pleasure to hear, that her convulsions have left her; and that she is gone to rest in a much quieter way than could be expected.
Her poor cousin is very much indisposed; yet will not stir out of the house while she is in such a way; but intends to lie down on a couch, having refused any other accommodation.

### v7 LETTER LIV.

Mr. Belford. In Continuation.
Soho, Six o'clock, Sept. 7.
The Lady is still alive. The Colonel having just sent his servant to let me know, that she inquired after me about an hour ago, I am dressing to attend her. Joel begs of me to dispatch him back, tho' but with one line to gratify your present impatience. He expects, he says, to find you at Knightsbridge, let him make what haste he can back; and if he has not a line or two to pacify you, he is afraid you will pistol him; for he apprehends that you are hardly yourself. I therefore dispatch this; and will have another ready as soon as I can, with particulars. But you must have a little patience; for how can I withdraw every half hour to write, if I am admitted to the Lady's presence, or if I am with the Colonel?
Smith's, 8 o'clock in the morning.
The Lady is in a slumber. Mrs. Lovick, who sat up with her, says, she had a better night than was expected; for altho' she slept little, she seemed easy; and the easier for the pious frame she was in; all her waking moments being taken up in devotion, or in an ejaculatory silence; her hands and eyes often lifted up, and her lips moving with a fervor worthy of these her last hours.
Ten o'clock.
The Colonel being earnest to see his cousin as soon as she awaked, we were both admitted. We observed in her, as soon as we entered, strong symptoms of her approaching dissolution, notwithstanding what the women had flattered us with, from her last night's tranquility. The Colonel and I, each loth to say what we thought, looked upon one another with melancholy countenances.
The Colonel told her, He should send a servant to her uncle Antony's, for some papers he had left there; and asked, If she had any commands that way? -She thought not, she said, speaking more inwardly than she did the day before. She had indeed a letter ready to be sent to her good Mrs. Norton; and there was a request intimated in it. But it was time enough, if it were signified to those whom it concerned, when all was over. However, it might be sent then by the servant who was going that way. And she caused it to be given to the Colonel for that purpose.
Her breath being very short, she desired another pillow; and having two before, this made her in a manner fit up in her bed; and she spoke then with more distinctness; and, seeing us greatly concerned, forgot her own sufferings to comfort us; and a charming lecture she gave us, tho' a brief one, upon the happiness of a timely prepatation, and upon the hazards of a late repentance, when the mind, as she observed, was so much weakened, as well as the body, as to render a poor soul unable to contend with its own infirmities.
I beseech ye, my good friends, proceeded she, mourn not for one who mourns not, nor has cause to mourn, for herself. One the contrary, rejoice with me, that all my worldly troubles are so near their end. Believe me, Sirs, that I would not, if I might, choose to live, altho' the pleasantest part of my life were to come over again: And yet Eighteen years of it, out of Nineteen, have been very pleasant. To be so much exposed to temptation, and to be so liable to fail in the trial, who would not rejoice, that all her dangers are over! -All I wished was pardon and blessing from my dear parents. Easy as my departure seems to promise to be, it would have been still easier, had I had that pleasure. But God Almighty would not let me depend for comfort upon any but Himself.
She then repeated her request, in the most earnest manner, to her cousin, that he would not heighten her fault, by seeking to avenge her death; to me, that I would endeavour to make up all breaches, and use the power I had with my friend, to prevent all future mischiefs from him, as well as that which this trust might give me, to prevent any to him.
She made some excuses to her cousin, for having not been able to alter her will, to join him in the executorship with me; and to me, for the trouble she had given and yet should give me.
She had fatigued herself so much (growing sensibly weaker) that the sunk her head upon her pillows, ready to faint; and we withdrew to the window, looking upon one another; but could not tell what to say; and yet both seemed inclinable to speak: But the motion passed over in silence. Our eyes only spoke; and that in a manner neither's were used to; mine, at least, not till I knew this admirable creature.
The Colonel withdrew to dismiss his messenger, and send away the letter to Mrs. Norton. I took the opportunity to retire likewise; and to write thus far. And Joel returning, to take it; I now close here.
Eleven o'Clock.

### v7 LETTER LV.

Mr. Belford. In Continuation.
The Colonel tells me, That he has written to Mr. John Harlowe, by his servant, "That they might spare themselves the trouble of debating about a reconciliation; for that his dear cousin would probably be no more, before they could resolve."
He asked me after his cousin's means of subsisting; and whether she had accepted of any favour from me: He was sure, he said, she would not from you.
I acquainted him with the truth of her parting with some of her apparel. This wrung his heart; and bitterly did he exclaim as well against you, as against her implacable relations.
He wished he had not come to England at all, or had come time enough; and hoped I would apprize him of the whole mournful story, at a proper season. He added, that he had thoughts when he came over, of fixing here for the remainder of his days: But now, as it was impossible his cousin could recover, he would go abroad again, and resettle himself at Florence or Leghorn.
The lady has been giving orders, with great presence of mind, about her body: directing her nurse and the maid of the house to put her into her coffin as soon as she was cold. Mr. Belford, she said, would know that rest by her will.
She has just now given from her bosom, where she always wore it, a miniature picture, set in gold, of Miss Howe: She gave it to Mrs. Lovick, desiring her to fold it up in white paper, and direct it, To Charles Hickman, Esq; and to give it to me, when she was departed, for that gentleman.
She looked upon the picture, before she gave it her- Sweet and ever-amiable friend-companion-sister-lover! said she. -And kissed it four several times, once at each tender appellation.
Your other servant is come. -Well may you be impatient! -Well may you! -But do you think I can leave off in the middle of a conversation, to run and set down what offers, and send it away piecemeal as I write? -If I could, must I not lose one half, while I put down the other?
This event is nearly as interesting to me as it is to you. If you are more grieved than I, there can be but one reason for it; and that's at your heart! I had rather lose all the friends I have in the world (yourself included,) than this divine lady; and shall be unhappy when ever I think of her sufferings, and her merit; tho' I have nothing to reproach myself upon the former.
I say not this, just now, so much to reflect upon you, as to express my own grief; tho' your conscience, I suppose, will make you think otherwise.
Your poor fellow, who says, that he begs for his life, in desiring to be dispatched back with a letter, tears this from me. Else, perhaps, (for I am just sent for down) a quarter of an hour would make you-not easy indeed- but certain-And that, in a state like yours, to a mind like yours, is a relief.
Thursday afternoon, 4 o'Clock.

### v7 LETTER LVI.

Mr. Belford To Richard Mowbray, Esq;
Thursday afternoon.
Dear Mowbray,
I am glad to hear you are in town. Throw yourself the moment this comes to your hand (if possible with Tourville) in the way of the man, who least of all men deserves the love of the worthy heart; but most That of Thine and His: Else, the news I shall most probably send him within an hour or two, will make annihilation the greatest blessing he has to wish for.
You will find him between Piccadilly and Kensington, most probably on horseback, riding backwards and forwards in a crazy way; or put up, perhaps, at some inn or tavern in the way; a waiter possibly, if so, watching for his servant's return to him from me.
His man Will is just come to me. He will carry this to you in his way back, and be your director. Hie away, in a coach, or any how. Your being with him may save either his or a servant's life. See the blessed effects of triumphant libertinism! Sooner or later it comes home to us, and all concludes in gall and bitterness! Adieu.
J. Belford.

### v7 LETTER LVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Curse upon the Colonel, and curse upon the writer of the last letter I received, and upon all the world! Thou to pretend to be as much interested in my Clarissa's fate as myself! 'Tis well for one of us, that this was not said to me, instead of written-Living or dying, she is mine-and only mine. Have I not earned her dearly? -Is not Damnation likely to be the purchase to me, tho' a happy Eternity will be hers?
An eternal separation! O God! O God!-How can I bear that thought! -But yet there is Life-Yet, therefore, hope-Inlarge my Hope, and thou shalt be my good genius, and I will forgive thee every thing.
For this last time-But it must not, shall not, be the last -Let me hear, the moment thou receivest this-what I am to be-For, at present, I am
The most miserable of men.
Rose, at Knightsbridge, 5 o'Clock.
My fellow tells me, that thou art sending Mowbray and Tourville to me. I want them not. My soul's sick of them, and of all the world; but most of myself -Yet, as they send me word, they will come to me immediately, I will wait for them, and for thy next. O Belford! let it not be-But hasten it, hasten it, be it what it may!

### v7 LETTER LVIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Seven o'Clock, Thursday Even. Sept. 7.
I have only to say at present-Thou wilt do well to take a tour to Paris; or where-ever else thy destiny shall lead thee!!!-
John Belford.

### v7 LETTER LIX.

Mr. Mowbray, To John Belford, Esq;
Uxbridge, Sept 7, between 11 and 12 at night.
Dear Jack,
I send by poor Lovelace's desire, for particulars of the fatal breviate thou sentest him this night. He cannot bear to set pen to paper; yet wants to know every minute passage of Miss Harlowe's departure. Yet, why he should, I cannot see; for, if she is gone, she is gone; and who can help it?
I never heard of such a woman in my life. What great matters has she suffered, that grief should kill her thus?
I wish the poor fellow had never known her. From first to last, what trouble has she cost him! The charming fellow has been half lost to us, ever since he pursued her. And what is there in one woman more than another, for matter of that?
It was well we were with him when your Note came. You shewed your true friendship in your foresight. Why, Jack, the poor fellow was quite beside himself-Mad as any man ever was in Bedlam.
Will. brought him the letter, just after we had joined him, at the Bohemia Head, where he had left word at the Rose at Knightsbridge he should be; for he had been sauntering up and down, backwards and forwards, expecting us, and his fellow. Will, as soon as he delivered it, got out of his way; and when he opened it, never was such a piece of scenery. He trembled like a devil at receiving it: Fumbled at the seal, his fingers in a palsy, like Tom Doleman's; his hand shake, shake, shake, that he tore the letter in two, before he could come at the contents: And, when he had read them, off went his hat to one corner of the room, his wig to the other-Damnation seize the world! and a whole volley of such-like execratious wishes; running up and down the room, and throwing up the sash, and pulling it down, and smiting his forehead with his double fist, with such force as would have felled an ox, and stamping and tearing, that the landlord ran in, and faster out again. And this was the distraction-scene for some time.
In vain was all Jemmy or I could say to him. I offered once to take hold of his hands, because he was going to do himself a mischief, as I believed, looking about for his pistols, which he had laid upon the table, but which Will. unseen, had taken out with him [a faithful honest dog, that Will, I shall for ever love the fellow for it] and he hit me a damned dowse of the chops, as made my nose bleed. 'Twas well 'twas he; for I hardly knew how to take it.
Jemmy raved at him, and told him, wicked it was in him, to be so brutish to abuse a friend, and run mad for a woman. And then he said, he was sorry for it; and then Will ventured in with water and a towel; and the dog rejoiced, as I could see by his looks, that I had it rather than he.
And so, by degrees, we brought him a little to his reason, and he promised to behave more like a man. And so I forgave him: And we rode on in the dark to here at Doleman's. And we all try'd to shame him out of his mad ungovernable foolishness: For we told him, as how she was but a woman, and an obstinate, perverse woman too; and how could he help it?
And you know, Jack, [As we told him, moreover] that it was a shame to manhood, for a man, who had served twenty and twenty women as bad or worse, let him had served Miss Harlowe never so bad, should give himself such obstropulous airs, because she would die: And we advised him never to attempt a woman proud of her character and virtue, as they call it, any more: For why? The conquest did not pay trouble; and what was there in one woman more than another? Hay you know, Jack! -And thus we comforted him, and advised him.
But yet his damned addled pate runs upon this lady as much now she's dead, as it did when she was living. For, I suppose, Jack, it is no joke. She is certainly and bona fide dead; i'n't she? If not, thou deservest to be doubly damned for thy fooling, I tell thee that. So he will have me write for particulars of her departure.
He won't bear the word dead on any account. A squeamish puppy! How Love unmans, and softens, and enervates! And such a noble fellow as this too! Rot him for an idiot, and an oaf! I have no patience with the foolish duncical dog-Upon my soul, I have not!
So send the account, and let him howl over it, as I suppose he will.
But he must and shall go abroad: And in a month or two Jemmy, and you, and I, will join him, and he'll soon get the better of this chicken-hearted folly, never fear; and will then be ashamed of himself: And then we'll not spare him; tho' now, poor fellow, it were pity to lay him on so thick, as he deserves. And do thou, till then, spare all reflections upon him; for, it seems, thou hast worked him unmercifully.
I was willing to give thee some account of the hand we have had with the tearing fellow, who had certainly been a lost man, had we not been with him; or he would have killed somebody or other-I have no doubt of it. And now he is but very middling; sits grinning like a man in straw; curses and swears, and is confounded gloomy; and creeps into holes and corners, like an old hedghog hunted for his grease. And so adieu, Jack. Tourville and all of us wish for thee; for no one has the influence upon him that thou hast.
R. Mowbray.
As I promised him that I would write for the particulars abovesaid, I write this after all are gone to bed; and the fellow is to set out with it by day-break.

### v7 LETTER LX.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Thursday night.
I may as well try to write; since, were I to go to bed, I shall not sleep. I never had such a weight of grief upon my mind in my life, as upon the demise of this admirable woman; whose soul is now rejoicing in the regions of light.
You may be glad to know the particulars of her happy exit. I will try to proceed; for all is hush and still; the family retired; but not one of them, and least of all her poor cousin, I dare say, to rest.
At four o'clock, as I mentioned in my last, I was sent for down; and, as thou usedst to like my descriptions, I will give thee the woeful scene that presented itself to me, as I approached the bed.
The Colonel was the first that took my attention, kneeling on the side of the bed, the lady's right-hand in both his, which his face covered, bathing it with his tears; altho' she had been comforting him, as the women since told him, in elevated strains, but broken accents.
On the other side of the bed sat the good Widow; her face overwhelmed with tears, leaning her head against the bed's head in a most disconsolate manner; and turning her face to me, as soon as she saw me, O Mr. Belford, cried she, with folded hands-The dear lady-a heavy sob not permitting her to say more.
Mrs. Smith, with clasped fingers, and uplifted eyes, as if imploring help from the Only Power which could give it, was kneeling down at the bed's feet, tears in large drops trickling down her cheeks.
Her Nurse was kneeling between the widow and Mrs. Smith, her arms extended. In one hand she held an ineffectual cordial, which she had just been offering to her dying mistress; her face was swoln with weeping (tho' used to such scenes as this) and she turned her eyes towards me, as if she called upon me by them to join in the helpless sorrow; a fresh stream bursting from them as I approached the bed.
The maid of the house, with her face upon her folded arms, as she stood leaning against the wainscot, more audibly expressed her grief than any of the others.
The lady had been silent a few minutes, and speechless as they thought, moving her lips without uttering a word; one hand, as I said, in her cousin's. But when Mrs. Lovick on my approach pronounced my name, Oh! Mr. Belford, said she, in broken periods; and with a faint inward voice, but very distinct nevertheless-Now!-Now! -(I bless God for his mercies to his poor creature) will all soon be over-A few-A very few moments-will end this strife-And I shall be happy!
Comfort here, Sir-turning her head to the Colonel- Comfort my cousin-See!-the blameable kindness-He would not wish me to be happy-so soon!
Here, she stopt, for two or three minutes, earnestly looking upon him: Then resuming, My dearest cousin, said she, be comforted-What is dying but the common lot? -The mortal frame may seem to labour-But that is all! -It is not so hard to die, as I believed it to be! -The preparation is the difficulty-I bless God, I have had time for That-The rest is worse to beholders, than to me! -I am all blessed hope-Hope itself.
She looked what she said, a sweet smile beaming over her countenance.
After a short silence, Once more, my dear cousin, said she, but still in broken accents, commend me most dutifully to my Father and Mother-There she stopt. And then proceeding-To my Sister, To my Brother, To my Uncles -And tell them, I bless them with my parting breath- for all their goodness to me-Even for their displeasure, I bless them-Most happy has been to me my punishment here! -Happy indeed!
She was silent for a few moments, lifting up her eyes, and the hand her cousin held not between his. Then, O death! said she, where is thy sting! [The words I remember to have heard in the Burial-service read over my Uncle and poor Belton]. And after a pause- It is good for me that I was afflicted! -Words of Scripture, I suppose.
Then turning towards us, who were lost in speechless sorrow-O dear, dear gentlemen, said she, you know not what foretastes -what assurances. And there she again stopt, and looked up, as if in a thankful rapture, sweetly smiling.
Then turning her head towards me-Do you, Sir, tell your friend, that I forgive him! And I pray to God to forgive him! -Again pausing, and lifting up her eyes, as if praying that He would-Let him know how happily I die. -And that such as my own, I wish to be his last hour.
She was again silent for a few moments: And then resuming -My sight fails me! -Your voices only-[for we both applauded her christian, her divine frame, tho' in accents as broken as her own] And the voice of grief is alike in all. Is not this Mr. Morden's hand? pressing one of his with that he had just let go. Which is Mr. Belford's? holding out the other. I gave her mine. God Almighty bless you both, said she, and make you both- in your last hour-for you must come to this-happy as I am.
She paused again, her breath growing shorter; and, after a few minutes, And now, my dearest cousin, give me your hand-nearer-still nearer-drawing it towards her; and she pressed it with her dying lips-God protect you, dear, dear Sir-And once more, receive my best and most grateful thanks-And tell my dear Miss Howe -and vouchsafe to see, and to tell my worthy Mrs. Norton -She will be one day, I fear not, tho' now lowly in her fortunes, a Saint in Heaven-Tell them both, that I remember them with thankful blessings in my last moments! -And pray God to give them happiness here for many, many years, for the sake of their friends and lovers; and an heavenly crown hereafter; and such assurances of it, as I have, thro' the all-satisfying merits of my blessed Redeemer.
Her sweet voice and broken periods methinks still fill my ears, and never will be out of my memory.
After a short silence, in a more broken and faint accent; -and you, Mr. Belford, pressing my hand, may God preserve you and make you sensible of all your errors-You see, in me, how All ends-May you be-And down sunk her head upon her pillow, she fainting away, and drawing from us her hands.
We thought she was then gone; and each gave way to a violent burst of grief.
But soon shewing signs of returning life, our attention was again engaged; and I besought her, when a little recovered, to complete in my favour her half-pronounced blessing. She waved her hand to us both, and bowed her head six several times, as we have since recollected, as if distinguishing every person present; not forgetting the nurse and the maid-servant; the latter having approached the bed, weeping, as if crowding in for the divine lady's last blessing; and she spoke faltering and inwardly,-Bless-bless- bless-you All-And now-And now-(holding up her almost lifeless hands for the last time) Come-O come- Blessed Lord-Jesus!
And with these words, the last but half-pronounced, expired: Such a smile, such a charming serenity over-spreading her sweet face at the instant as seemed to manifest her eternal happiness already begun.
O Lovelace!-But I can write no more!
I resume my pen to add a few lines.
While warm, tho' pulseless, we pressed each her hand with our lips; and then retired into the next room.
We looked at each other, with intent to speak: But, as if one motion governed as one cause affected both, we turned away silent.
The Colonel sighed as if his heart would burst: At last, his face and hands uplifted, his back towards me, Good Heaven! said he to himself, support me! -And is it thus, O Flower of Nature! -Then pausing-And must we no more-Never more! -My blessed, blessed cousin! uttering some other words, which his sighs made inarticulate: -And then, as if recollecting himself-Forgive me, Sir! -Excuse me, Mr. Belford; and sliding by me; anon I hope to see you, Sir-And down stairs he went, and out of the house, leaving me a statue.
When I recovered myself, it was almost to repine at what I then called an unequal dispensation; forgetting her happy preparation, and still happier departure; and that she had but drawn a common lot, triumphing in it; and leaving behind her, every one less assured of happiness, tho' equally certain that it would one day be their own lot.
She departed exactly at 40 minutes after 6 o'clock, as by her watch on the table.
And thus died Miss Clarissa Harlowe, in the blossom of her youth and beauty: And who, her tender years considered, has not left behind her her superior in extensive knowlege, and watchful prudence; nor hardly her equal for unblemished virtue, exemplary piety, sweetness of manners, discreet generosity, and true christian charity: And these all set off by the most graceful modesty and humility; yet on all proper occasions manifesting a noble presence of mind and true magnanimity: So that she may be said to have been not only an ornament to her Sex, but to Human nature.
A better pen than mine may do her fuller justice: - Thine, I mean, O Lovelace! For well dost thou know how much she excelled in the graces both of mind and person, natural and acquired, all that is woman. And thou also canst best account for the causes of her immature death, thro' those calamities which in so short a space of time from the highest pitch of felicity (every one in a manner adoring her) brought her to an exit so happy for herself, but, that it was so early, so much to be deplored by all who had the honour of her acquaintance.
This task, then, I leave to thee: But now I can write no more, only that I am a sympathizer in every part of thy distress, except (and yet it is cruel to say it) in That which arises from thy guilt.
One o'clock, Friday morning.

### v7 LETTER LXI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Nine, Friday morn.
I have no opportunity to write at length, having necessary orders to give on the melancholy occasion. Joel, who got to me by six in the morning, and whom I dispatched instantly back with the letter I had ready from last night, gives me but an indifferent account of the state of your mind. I wonder not at it; but Time (and nothing else can) will make it easier to you: If (that is to say) you have compounded with your conscience; else it may be heavier every day than other.
Tourville tells me what a way you are in. I hope you will not think of coming hither. The lady in her Will desires you may not see her. Four copies are making of it. It is a long one; for she gives her reasons for all she wills. I will write to you more particularly as soon as possibly I can.
Three letters are just brought by a servant in livery, directed To Miss Clarissa Harlowe. I will send copies of them to you. The contents are enough to make one mad. How would this poor lady have rejoiced to receive them -And yet, if she had, she would not have been enabled to say, as she nobly did, That God would not let her depend for comfort upon any but Himself-And, indeed, for some days past, she had seemed to have got above all worldly considerations-Her fervent love, even for her Miss Howe, as she acknowleged, having given way to supremer fervors.

### v7 LETTER LXII.

Mrs. Norton, To Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Wednesday, Sept. 6.
At length, my best beloved Miss Clary, every thing is in the wished train-For all your relations are unanimous in your favour-Even your brother and sister are with the foremost to be reconciled to you.
I knew it must end thus! -By patience, and persevering sweetness, what a triumph have you gained!
This happy change is owing to letters received from your physician, from your cousin Morden, and from Mr. Brand.
Colonel Morden will be with you no doubt before this can reach you, with his pocket-book filled with money-bills, that nothing may be wanting to make you easy.
And now, all our hopes, all our prayers are, that this good news may restore you to spirits and health; and that (so long with-held) it may not come too late.
I know how much your dutiful heart will be raised with the joyful tidings I write you, and still shall more particularly tell you of, when I have the happiness to see you: Which will be by next Saturday, at furthest; perhaps on Friday afternoon, by the time you can receive this.
For this day, by the general voice, being sent for, I was received by every one with great goodness and condescension, and intreated (for that was the word they were pleased to use, when I needed no intreaty, I am sure) to hasten up to you, and to assure you of all their affectionate regards to you: And your father bid me say all the kind things that were in my heart to say, in order to comfort and raise you up; and they would hold themselves bound to make them good.
How agreeable is this commission to your Norton! My heart will overflow with kind speeches, never fear! -I am already meditating what I shall say, to chear and raise you up, in the names of every one dear and near to you. And sorry I am, that I cannot this moment set out, as I might, instead of writing, would they favour my eager impatience with their chariot; but as it was not offered, it would be presumption to have asked for it: And tomorrow a hired chaise and pair will be ready; but at what hour I know not.
How I long once more to fold my dear precious young lady to my fond, my more than fond, my maternal bosom!
Your Sister will write to you, and send her letter, with This, by a particular hand.
I must not let them see what I write, because of my wish about the chariot.
Your uncle Harlowe will also write, and (I doubt not) in the kindest terms: For they are all extremely alarmed and troubled at the dangerous way your doctor represents you to be in; as well as delighted with the character he gives you. Would to heaven the good gentleman had written sooner! And yet he writes, that you know not he has now written. But it is all our confidence, and our consolation, that he would not have written at all, had he thought it too late.
They will prescribe no conditions to you, my dear young lady; but will leave all to your own duty and discretion. Only your brother and sister declare, they will never yield to call Mr. Lovelace brother: Nor will your father, I believe, be easily brought to think of him for a son.
I am to bring you down with me as soon as your health and inclination will permit. You will be received with open arms. Every one longs to see you. All the servants please themselves, that they shall be permitted to kiss your hands. The pert Betty's note is already changed; and she now runs over in your just praises. What friends does prosperity make! What enemies adversity! It always was, and always will be so, in every state of life from the throne to the cottage-But let all be forgotten now on this jubilee change: And may you, my dearest Miss, be capable of rejoicing in this good news; as I know you will rejoice, if capable of any thing.
God preserve you to our happy meeting! And I will, if I may say so, weary Heaven with my incessant prayers to preserve and restore you afterwards!
I need not say how much I am, my dear young lady,
Your ever-affectionate and devoted
Judith Norton.
An unhappy delay as to the chaise, will make it Saturday morning, before I can fold you to my fond heart.

### v7 LETTER LXIII.

Miss Arab. Harlowe, To Miss Cl. Harlowe.
Wedn morning, Sept. 6.
Dear Sister,
We have just heard that you are exceedingly ill. We all loved you as never young creature was loved: You are sensible of That, Sister Clary. And you have been very naughty-But we could not be angry always.
We are indeed more afflicted with the news of your being so very ill than I can express: For I see not but, after this separation (as we understand that your misfortune has been greater than your fault, and that, however unhappy, you have demeaned yourself like the good young creature you used to be) we shall love you better, if possible, than ever.
Take comfort therefore, Sister Clary; and don't be too much cast down-Whatever your mortifications may be from such noble prospects over-clouded, and from the reflections you will have from within, on your faulty step, and from the fullying of such a charming character by it, you will receive none from any of us: And, as an earnest of your Papa's and Mamma's favour and reconciliation, they assure you by me of their Blessing and hourly prayers.
If it will be any comfort to you, and my mother finds this letter is received as we expect (which we shall know by the good effect it will have upon your health) she will herself go to town to you. Mean time, the good woman you so dearly love will be hastened up to you; and she writes by this opportunity, to acquaint you of it, and of all our returning love.
I hope you'll rejoice at this good news. Pray let us hear that you do. Your next grateful letter on this occasion, especially if it gives us the pleasure of hearing you are better upon this news, will be received with the same (if not greater) delight, that we used to have in all your prettily-penn'd epistles. Adieu, my dear Clary! I am
Your loving Sister, and true Friend,
Arabella Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER LXIV.

To his dear Niece Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
Wedn. Sept. 6.
We were greatly grieved, my beloved Miss Clary, at your fault; but we are still more, if possible, to hear you are so very ill; and we are sorry things have been carried so far.
We know your talents, my dear, and how movingly you could write, whenever you pleased; so that nobody could ever deny you any thing; and, believing you depended on your pen, and little thinking you were so ill, and that you had lived so regular a life, and were so truly penitent, are much troubled every one of us, your brother and all, for being so severe. Forgive my part in it, my dearest Clary. I am your Second-Papa, you know. And you used to love me.
I hope you'll soon be able to come down, and, after awhile, when your indulgent parents can spare you, that you will come to me for a whole month, and rejoice my heart, as you used to do. But if, thro' illness, you cannot so soon come down as we wish, I will go up to you: For I long to see you. I never more longed to see you in my life; and you was always the darling of my heart, you know.
My brother Antony desires his hearty commendations to you, and joins with me in the tenderest assurance, that all shall be well, and, if possible, better than ever; for we now have been so long without you, that we know the miss of you, and even hunger and thirst, as I may say, to see you, and to take you once more to our hearts: Whence indeed you was never banished so far, as our concern for the unhappy step made us think and you believe you were. Your sister and brother both talk of seeing you in town: So does my dear sister your indulgent mother.
God restore your health, if it be his will: Else, I know not what will become of
Your truly loving Uncle, and Second Papa,
John Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER LXV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Friday night, Sept. 8. past ten.
I will now take up the account of our proceedings from my letter of last night, which contained the dying words of this incomparable lady.
As soon as we had seen the last scene closed (so blessedly for herself!) we left the body to the care of the good women, who, according to the orders she had given them that very night, removed her into that last house which she had display'd so much fortitude in providing.
In the morning, between 7 and 8 o'clock, according to appointment, the Colonel came to me here. He was very much out of order. We went together, accompanied by Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith, into the deceased's chamber. We could not help taking a view of the lovely corpse, and admiring the charming serenity of her noble aspect. The women declared, they never saw death so lovely before; and that she looked as if in an easy slumber, the colour having not quite left her cheeks and lips.
I unlocked the drawer, in which (as I mentioned in a (a) former) she had deposited her papers. I told you in mine of Monday last, that she had the night before sealed up with three black seals a parcel inscribed, As soon as I am certainly dead, this to be broken open by Mr. Belford. I accused myself for having not done it over night. But really I was then incapable of any thing.
I broke it open accordingly, and found in it no less than eleven letters, each sealed with her own seal and black wax, one of which was directed to me.
I will inclose a copy of it.
To John Belford, Esq;
Sunday Evening, Sept. 3.
SIR,
I take this last and solemn occasion to repeat to you my thanks for all your kindness to me at a time when I most needed countenance and protection.
A few considerations I beg leave, as now, at your perusal of This, from the dead, to press upon you, with all the warmth of a sincere friendship.
By the time you will see This, you will have had an instance, I humbly trust, of the comfortable importance of a pacified conscience, in the last hours of one, who, to the last hour, will wish your eternal welfare.
The great Duke of Luxemburgh, as I have heard, on his death-bed, declared, That he would then much rather have had it to reflect upon, that he had administered a cup of cold water to a worthy poor creature in distress, than that he had won so many battles as he had triumphed for-And, as one well observes, All the sentiments of worldly grandeur vanish at that unavoidable moment which decides the destiny of all men.
If then, Sir, at the tremendous hour, it be thus with the conquerors of armies, and the subduers of nations, let me, in very few words (many are not needed) ask, What, at That period, must be the reflections of those (if capable of reflection) who have lived a life of sense and offence; whose study and whose pride most ingloriously has been to seduce the innocent, and to ruin the weak, the unguarded, and the friendless; made still more friendless by their base seductions? -Oh! Mr. Belford, weigh, ponder, and reflect upon it, now, that in health, and in vigour of mind and body, the reflections will most avail you- What an ingrateful, what an unmanly, what a meaner than reptile pride is this!
In the next place, Sir, let me beg of you, for my sake, who AM, or, as now you will best read it, have been, driven to the necessity of applying to you to be the Executor of my will, that you will bear, according to that generosity which I think to be in you, with all my friends, and particularly with my brother (who is really a worthy young man, but perhaps a little too headstrong in his first resentments and conceptions of things) if any thing, by reason of this trust, should fall out disagreeably; and that you will study to make peace, and to reconcile all parties; and more especially, that you, who seem to have a great influence upon your still more headstrong friend, will interpose, if occasion be, to prevent further mischief-For surely, Sir, that violent spirit may sit down satisfied with the evils he has already wrought; and, particularly, with the wrongs, the heinous and ignoble wrongs, he has in me done to my family, wounded in the tenderest part of its honour.
To this request I have already your repeated promise. I claim the observance of it, therefore, as a debt from you: And tho' I hope I need not doubt it, yet was I willing, on this solemn, this last occasion, thus earnestly to reinforce it.
I have another request to make to you; It is only, That you will be pleased, by a particular messenger, to forward the inclosed letters as directed.
And now, Sir, having the presumption to think, that an useful member is lost to society by means of the unhappy step which has brought my life so soon to its period, let me hope, that I may be an humble instrument in the hands of Providence, to reform a man of your parts and abilities; and then I shall think that loss will be more abundantly repaired to the world, while it will be, by God's goodness, my gain: And I shall have this further hope, that once more I shall have an opportunity, in a blessed Eternity, to thank you, as I now repeatedly do, for the good you have done to, and the trouble you will have taken for,
Sir,
Your obliged Servant
Clarissa Harlowe.
The other letters are directed, To her Father, To her Mother, One to her two Uncles, To her Brother, To her Sister, To her Aunt Hervey, To her Cousin Morden, To Miss Howe, To Mrs. Norton, and lastly one to You, in performance of her promise, that a letter should be sent you when she arrived at her Father's house! -I will withhold this last till I can be assured, that you will be fitter o receive it than Tourville tells me You are at present.
Copies of all these are sealed up, and intitled, Copies of my Ten posthumous letters, for J. Belford, Esq; and put in among the bundle of papers left to my direction, which I have not yet had leisure to open.
No wonder, while able, that she was always writing, since thus only of late could she employ that time which heretofore, from the long days she made, caused so many beautiful works to spring from her fingers. It is my opinion, that there never was a lady so young, who wrote so much, and with such celerity. Her thoughts keeping pace, as I have seen, with her pen, she hardly ever stopp'd or hesitated; and very seldom blotted out, or altered. It was a natural talent she was mistress of, among many other extraordinary ones.
I gave the Colonel his letter, and ordered Harry instantly to get ready to carry the others.
Mean time (retiring into the next apartment) we opened the Will. We were both so much affected in perusing it, that at one time the Colonel, breaking off, gave it to me to read on; at another, I gave it back to him to proceed with; neither of us being able to read it thro', without such tokens of sensibility as affected the voices of each.
Mrs. Lovick, Mrs. Smith, and her Nurse, were still more touched, when we read those articles in which they are respectively remembered: But I will avoid mentioning the particulars (except in what relates to the thread of my narration) as I shall send you a copy of it in proper time.
The Colonel told me, he was ready to account with me for the moneys he had brought up from her friends; which would enable me, as he said, directly to execute the legacy-parts of it; and he would needs at that instant force into my hands a paper relating to that subject. I put it in my pocket-book, without looking into it; telling him, That as I hoped he would do all in his power to promote a literal performance of the will, I must beg his advice and assistance in the execution of it.
Her request to be buried with her ancestors, made a letter of the following import necessary, which I prevailed upon the Colonel to write; being unwilling myself (so early at least) to appear officious in the eye of a family which probably wishes not any communication with me.
To James Harlowe, jun. Esq;
SIR,
The letter which the bearer of this brings with him, will, I presume, make it unnecessary to acquaint you and my cousins with the death of the most excellent of women. But I am requested by her Executor, who will soon send you a copy of her last Will, to acquaint her father (which I choose to do by your means) that in it she earnestly desires to be laid in the family-vault, at the feet of her grandfather.
If her father will not admit of it, she has directed her body to be buried in the church-yard of the parish where she died.
I need not tell you, that a speedy answer to This is necessary.
Her Beatification commenced yesterday afternoon, exactly at 40 minutes after six.
I can write no more, than that I am
Yours, &c.
Wm. Morden.
Friday morn. Sept. 8.
By the time this was written, and by the Colonel's leave transcribed, Harry came booted and spurred, his horse at the door; and I delivered him the letters to the family, with those to Mrs. Norton and Miss Howe (eight in all) together with the above of the Colonel to Mr. James Harlowe; and gave him orders to make the utmost dispatch with them.
The Colonel and I have bespoke mourning for our selves and servants.

### v7 LETTER LXVI.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Sat. ten o' clock.
Poor Mrs. Norton is come. She was set down at the door; and would have gone up stairs directly. But Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick being together and in tears, and the former hinting too suddenly to the truly venerable woman the fatal news, she sunk down at her feet, in fits; so that they were forced to breathe a vein, to bring her to herself; and to a capacity of exclamation: And then she run on to Mrs. Lovick and to me, who entered just as she recovered, in praise of the lady, in lamentations for her, and invectives against you: But yet so circumscribed were her invectives, that I could observe in them the woman well-educated, and in her lamentations the passion christianized, as I may say.
She was impatient to see the corpse. The women went up with her. But they owned, that they were too much affected themselves on this occasion to describe her extremely affecting behaviour.
With trembling impatience she pushed aside the coffinlid. She bathed the face with her tears, and kissed her cheeks and forehead, as if she were living. It was Her indeed, she said! Her sweet young lady! Her very self! Nor had death, which changed all things, a power to alter her lovely features! She admired the serenity of her aspect. She no doubt was happy, she said, as she had written to her she should be: But how many miserable creatures had she left behind her! -The good woman lamenting that she herself had lived to be one of them.
It was with difficulty they prevailed upon her to quit the corpse; and when they went into the next apartment, I joined them, and acquainted her with the kind legacy her beloved young lady had left her: But This rather augmented, than diminished her concern. She ought, she said, to have attended her in person. What was the world to her, wringing her hands, now the child of her bosom and of her heart was no more? Her principal consolation, however, was, that she should not long survive her. She hoped, she said, that she did not sin, in wishing she might not.
It was easy to observe by the similitude of sentiments shewn in This and other particulars, that the divine lady owed to this excellent woman many of her good notions.
I thought it would divert the poor gentlewoman, and not altogether unsuitably, if I were to put her upon furnishing mourning for herself; as it would rouse her, by a reasonable and necessary employment from that dismal lethargy of grief, which generally succeeds the too violent anguish with which a gentle nature is accustomed to be torn upon the first communication of the unexpected loss of a dear friend. I gave her therefore the thirty guineas bequeathed to her and to her son for mourning; the only mourning which the fair testatrix has mentioned: And desired her to lose no time in preparing her own, as I doubted not, that she would accompany the corpse, if it were permitted to be carried down.
The Colonel proposes to attend the herse, if his kindred give him not fresh cause of displeasure; and will take with him a copy of the Will. And being intent to give the family some favourable impressions of me, he will also, at his own desire, take with him the copy of the posthumous letter to me.
He is so kind as to promise me a minute account of all that shall pass on the melancholy occasion. And we have begun a friendship and settled a correspondence, which but one incident can possibly happen to interrupt to the end of our lives. And that I hope will not happen.
But what must be the grief, the remorse, that will seize upon the hearts of this hitherto inexorable family, on the receiving of the posthumous letters, and that of the Colonel apprizing them of what has happened!
I have given orders to an undertaker, on the supposition that the body will be permitted to be carried down; and the women intend to fill the coffin with aromatic herbs.
The Colonel has obliged me to take the bills and draughts which he brought up with him, for the considerable sums accrued since the grandfather's death from the lady's estate.
I could have shewn to Mrs. Norton the copies of the two letters which she missed by coming up. But her grief wants not the heightenings which the reading of them would have given her.
I have been dipping into the copies of the posthumous letters to the family, which Harry has carried down. Well may I call this admirable Lady divine. They ate all calculated to give comfort rather than reproach, tho' their cruelty to her merited nothing but reproach. But were I in any of their places, how much rather had I, that she had quitted scores with me by the most severe recriminations, than that she should thus nobly triumph over me by a generosity that has no example?
I will inclose some of them, which I desire you to return as soon as you can.

### v7 LETTER LXVII.

To the Ever-honoured James Harlowe, sen. Esq;
Most dear Sir!
With exulting confidence now does your emboldened daughter come into your awful presence by those lines, who dared not, but upon This occasion, to look up to you with hopes of favour and forgiveness; since, when This comes to your hands it will be out of her power ever to offend you more.
And now let me bless you, my honoured papa, and bless you, as I write, upon my knees, for all the benefits I have received from your indulgence: For your fond love to me in the days of my prattling innocence: For the virtuous education you gave me: And, for the crown of all, the happy end, which, thro' Divine Grace, by means of that virtuous education, I hope, by the time you will receive This, I shall have made. And let me beg of you, dear venerable Sir, to blot from your remembrance, if possible, the last unhappy eight months; and then I shall hope to be remembered with advantage for the pleasure you had the goodness to take in your Clarissa.
Still on her knees, let your poor penitent implore your forgiveness of all her faults and follies; more especially of that fatal error which threw her out of your protection.
When you know, Sir, that I have never been faulty in my will: That ever since my calamity became irretrievable, I have been in a state of preparation: That I have the strongest assurances, that the Almighty has accepted my unfeigned repentance; and that by this time you will (as I humbly presume to hope) have been the means of adding One to the number of the Blessed; you will have reason for joy rather than sorrow. Since, had I escaped the snares by which I was intangled, I might have wanted those exercises which I look upon now as so many mercies dispensed to wean me betimes from a world that presented itself to me with prospects too alluring: And, in that case (too easily satisfied with worldly felicity) I might not have attained to that blessedness, which now, on your reading of This, I humbly presume (thro' the Divine goodness) I am rejoicing in.
That the Almighty, in His own good time, will bring you, Sir, and my ever-honoured mother, after a series of earthly felicities, of which may my unhappy fault be the only interruption, (and very grievous I know that must have been) to rejoice in the same blessed state, is the repeated prayer of, Sir,
Your now happy Daughter,
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER LXVIII.

To the Ever-honoured Mrs. Harlowe.
Honoured Madam,
The last time I had the boldness to write to you, it was with all the consciousness of a self-convicted criminal, supplicating her offended judge for mercy and pardon. I now, by these lines, approach you with more assurance; but nevertheless, with the highest degree of reverence, gratitude, and duty. The reason of my assurance, my letter to my Papa will give: And as I humbly on my knees implored his pardon, so now, in the same dutiful manner, do I supplicate yours, for the grief and trouble I have given you.
Every vein of my heart has bled for an unhappy rashness; which (altho' involuntary as to the act) from the moment it was committed, carried with it its own punishment; and was accompanied with a true and sincere penitence.
God, who has been a witness of my distresses, knows, that great as they have been, the greatest of all was the distress that I knew I must have given to you, Madam, and to my Father, by a step that had so very ugly an appearance in your eyes, and his; and indeed, in all my family's: A step so unworthy of your daughter, and of the education you had given her!
But HE, I presume to hope, has forgiven me; and at the instant This will reach your hands, I humbly trust, I shall be rejoicing in the blessed fruits of His forgiveness. And be This your comfort, my ever-honoured Mamma, that the principal end of your pious care for me is attained, tho' not in the way so much hoped for.
May the grief which my fatal error has given to you both, be the only grief that shall ever annoy you in this world! -May you, Madam, long live to sweeten the cares, and heighten the comforts of my Papa! -May my Sister's continued, and, if possible, augmented duty, happily make up to you the loss you have sustained in me! And whenever my Brother and she change their single state, may it be with such satisfaction to you both, as may make you forget my offence; and remember me only in those days, in which you took pleasure in me: And, at last, may a happy meeting with your forgiven penitent, in the eternal mansions, augment the bliss of her, who, purify'd by sufferings, already, when This salutes your hands, presumes she shall be
The for-ever Happy
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER LXIX.

To James Harlowe, jun. Esq;
SIR,
There was but one time, but one occasion, after the rash step I was precipitated upon, that I could hope to be excused looking up to you in the character of a brother and a friend. And NOW is that time, and THIS the occasion. Now, at reading This, will you pity your late unhappy sister! NOW will you forgive her faults, both supposed and real. And NOW will you afford to her memory that kind concern which you refused to her before!
I write, my brother, in the first place, to beg your pardon for the offence my unhappy step gave to you and to the rest of a family so dear to me.
Virgin purity should not so behave, as to be suspected: Yet, when you come to know all my story, you will find further room for pity, if not for more than pity, for your late unhappy sister!
O that passion had not been deaf! That misconception would have given way to enquiry! That your rigorous heart, if it could not itself be softened (moderating the power you had obtained over every one) had permitted other hearts more indulgently to expand!
But I write not to give pain. I had rather you should think me faulty still, than take to yourself the consequence that will follow from acquitting me.
Abandoning therefore a subject which I had not intended to touch upon (for I hope, at the writing of this, I am above the spirit of recrimination) let me tell you, Sir, that my next motive for writing to you in this last and most solemn manner, is, To beg of you to forego any active resentments (which may endanger a life so precious to all your friends) against the man to whose elaborate baseness I owe my worldly ruin.
For, ought an innocent man to run an equal risque with a guilty one? -A more than equal risque, as the guilty one has been long inured to acts of violence, and is skilled in the arts of offence?
You would not arrogate to yourself God's province, who has said, Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it. If you would, I tremble for the consequence; For will it not be suitable to the Divine Justice to punish the presumptuous Innocent as you would be in this case) in the very error, and that by the hand of the Self-defending Guilty-Reserving him for a future day of vengeance for his accumulated crimes?
Leave then the poor wretch to the Divine Justice. Let your sister's fault die with her. At least, let it not be revived in blood. Life is a short stage where longest. A little time hence, the now green head will be gray, if it lives this little time: And if Heaven will afford him time for repentance, why should not you?
Then think, my brother, what will be the consequence to your dear parents, if the guilty wretch who has occasioned to them the loss of a daughter, should likewise deprive them of their best hope, an only son, more worth in the family-account than several daughters?
Would you add, my brother, to those distresses which you hold your sister so inexcusable for having (altho' from involuntary and undesigned causes) given?
Seek not then, I beseech you, to extend the evil consequences of your sister's error. His conscience, when it shall please God to touch it, will be sharper than your sword.
I have still another motive for writing to you in this solemn manner: It is, to intreat you to watch over your passions. The principal fault I know you to be guilty of, is, the violence of your temper when you think yourself in the right: which you would oftener be, but for that very violence.
You have several times brought your life into danger by it.
Is not the man guilty of a high degree of self-partiality, who is less able to bear contradiction, than apt to give it? -How often, with you, has impetuosity brought on abasement? -A consequence too natural.
Let me then caution you, dear Sir, against a warmth of temper, an impetuosity when moved, and you so ready to be moved, that may hurry you into unforeseen difficulties; and which it is in some measure a sin not to endeavour to restrain. God enable you to do it for the sake of your own peace and safety, as well presents as future! And for the sake of your family and friends, who all see your fault, but are tender of speaking to you of it!
As for me, my brother, my punishment has been seasonable. God gave me grace to make a right use of my sufferings. I early repented. I never loved the man half so much as I hated his actions, when I saw what he was capable of. I gave up my whole heart to a better hope. God blessed my penitence, and my reliance upon Him. And now I presume to say, I am happy.
May Heaven preserve you in safety, health, and honour, and long continue your life for a comfort and stay to your honoured parents: And may you in the change of your single state meet with a wife as agreeable to every one else as to yourself, and be happy in a hopeful race, and not have one Clarissa among them, to imbitter your comforts when she should give you most comfort. But may my example be of use to warn the dear creatures whom once I hoped to live to see, and to cherish, of the evils with which this deceitful world abounds, are the prayers of
Your affectionate Sister,
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER LXX.

To Miss Harlowe.
Now may you, my dear Arabella, unrestrained by the severity of your virtue, let fall a pitying tear on the past faults and sufferings of your late unhappy sister; since, Now, she can never offend you more. The Divine Mercy, which first inspired her with repentance (an early repentance it was; since it preceded her sufferings) for an error which she offers not to extenuate altho' perhaps it were capable of some extenuation, has now, at the instant that you are reading This, as I humbly hope, blessed her with the fruits of it.
Thus already, even while she writes, in imagination, purified and exalted, she the more fearlesly writes to her sister; and NOW is assured of pardon for all those little occasions of displeasure which her forwarder youth might give you; and for the disgrace which her fall has fixed upon you, and upon her family.
May you, my sister, continue to bless those dear and honoured relations, whose indulgence so well deserves your utmost gratitude, with those chearful instances of duty and obedience which have hitherto been so acceptable to Them, and praise-worthy in You! And may you, when a suitable proposal shall offer, fill up more worthily that chasm, which the loss they have sustained in me has made in their family!
Thus, my Arabella! my only Sister! and for many happy years, my Friend! most fervently prays That Sister, whose affection for you, no acts of unkindness, no misconstruction of her conduct, could cancel! And who NOW, made perfect (as she hopes) thro' sufferings, styles herself,
The Happy
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER LXXI.

To John and Antony Harlowe, Esqrs.
Honoured Sirs,
When these lines reach your hands, your late unhappy Niece will have known the end of all her troubles; and, as she humbly hopes, will be rejoicing in the mercies of a gracious God, who has declared, that He will forgive the truly penitent of heart.
I write, therefore, my dear Uncles, and to you Both in one letter (since your fraternal love has made you Both but as One person) to give you comfort, and not distress; for, however sharp my afflictions have been, they have been but of short duration; and I am betimes (happily as I hope) arrived at the end of a painful journey.
At the same time, I write to thank you both, for all your kind indulgence to me, and to beg your forgiveness of my last my only great fault to you and to my family.
The ways of Providence are unsearchable. Various are the means made use of by It, to bring poor sinners to a sense of their duty. Some are drawn by Love; others are driven by Terrors, to their Divine Refuge. I had for Eighteen years out of Nineteen rejoiced in the favour and affection of every one. No trouble came near my heart. I seemed to be one of those designed to be drawn by the silken cords of Love. -But, perhaps, I was too apt to value myself upon the love and favour of every one: The merit of the good I delighted to do, and of the inclinations which were given me, and which I could not help having, I was, perhaps, too ready to attribute to myself; and now, being led to account for the cause of my temporary calamities, find, I had a secret pride to be punished for, which I had not fathomed: And it was necessary perhaps that some sore and terrible misfortunes should befal me, in order to mortify my pride and my vanity.
Temptations were accordingly sent. I shrunk in the day of tryal. My discretion, which had been so cry'd up, was found wanting when it came to be weighed in an equal balance. I was betrayed, fell, and became the byword of my companions, and a disgrace to my family, which had prided itself in me perhaps too much. But as my fault was not that of a culpable will, when my pride was sufficiently mortified (altho' I was surrounded by dangers, and intangled in snares) I was not suffered to be totally lost: But, purified by sufferings, I was fitted for the change I have NOW, at the time you will receive This, so newly, and, as I humbly hope, so happily experienced.
Rejoice with me then, dear Sirs, that I have weathered so great a storm. Nor let it be matter of concern, that I am cut off in the bloom of youth. 'There is no inquisition in the grave, whether we lived ten or an hundred years; and the day of death is better than the day of our birth.'
Once more, dear Sirs, accept my grateful thanks for all your goodness to me; from my early childhood, to the day, the unhappy day, of my error! Forgive that error! -And God give us a happy meeting in a blessed Eternity, prays,
Your most dutiful and obliged Kinswoman,
Clarissa Harlowe.
Mr. Belford gives the Lady's posthumous letters to Mrs. Hervey, Miss Howe, and Mrs. Norton, at length likewise: But, altho' every letter varies in style as well as matter from the others; yet, as they are written on the same subject, and are pretty long, it is thought proper to abstract them.
That to her Aunt Hervey is written in the same pious and generous strain with the others preceding, seeking to give comfort rather than distress. 'The Almighty, I hope, says she, has received and blessed my penitence, and I am happy. Could I have been more than so, at the end of what is called a happy life of 20, or 30, or 40 years to come? And what are 20, or 30, or 40 years to look back upon, when passed? -In half of either of these periods, what friends might I not have mourned for? what temptations from worldly prosperity might I not have encountered with? And in such a case, immersed in earthly pleasures, how little likelihood, that, in my last stage, I should have been blessed with such a preparation and resignation, as I have now been blessed with?'
She proceeds as follows: 'Thus much, Madam, of comfort to you and myself from this dispensation. As to my dear parents, I hope they will console themselves, that they have still many blessings left, which ought to balance the troubles my error has given them: That, unhappy as I have been to be the interrupter of their felicities, they never, till this my fault, knew any heavy evil: That afflictions patiently borne may be turned into blessings: That uninterrupted happiness is not to be expected in this life: That, after all, they have not, as I humbly presume to hope, the probability of the everlasting perdition of their child to deplore: And that, in short, when my story comes to be fully known, they will have the comfort to know, that my sufferings will redound more to my honour than to my disgrace.
'These considerations will, I hope, make their temporary loss of but one child out of three (unhappily circumstanced too as she was) matter of greater consolation than affliction. And the rather, as we may hope for a happy meeting once more, never to be separated either by time or offences.'
She concludes this letter with an address to her cousin Dolly Hervey, whom she calls her amiable cousin; and thankfully remembers for the part she took in her afflictions -'O my dear Cousin, let your worthy heart be guarded against those delusions, which have been fatal to my worldly happiness! -That pity, which you bestowed upon me, demonstrates a gentleness of nature, which may possibly subject you to misfortunes, if your eye be permitted to mislead your judgment. -But a strict observance of your filial duty, my dearest cousin, and the precepts of so prudent a mother as you have the happiness to have (enforced by so sad an example in your own family as I have set) will, I make no doubt, with the Divine Assistance, be your guard and security.'
The posthumous letter to Miss Howe is extremely tender and affectionate. She pathetically calls upon her 'to rejoice, that all her Clarissa's troubles are now at an end. That the state of temptation and tryal, of doubt and uncertainty, is now over with her, and that she has happily escaped the snares that were laid for her soul. The rather to rejoice, as that her misfortunes were of such a nature, that it was impossible she could be tolerably happy in this life.'
She 'thankfully acknowleges the favours she had received from Mrs. Howe and Mr. Hickman; and expresses her concern for the trouble she has occasioned to the former, as well as to her; and prays, that all the earthly blessings they used to wish to each other, may singly devolve upon her.'
She beseeches her, 'that she will not suspend the day, which shall supply to herself the friend she will have lost in her, and give to herself a still nearer and dearer relation.'
She tells her, 'That her choice (a choice made with the approbation of all her friends) has fallen upon a sincere, an honest, a virtuous, and what is more than all, a pious man; a man, who altho' he admires her person, is still more in love with the graces of her mind. And as those graces are improveable with every added year of life, which will impair the transitory ones of person, what a firm basis, infers she, has Mr. Hickman chosen to build his love upon!'
She prays, 'That God will bless them together; and that the remembrance of her, and of what she has suffered, may not interrupt their mutual happiness, she desires them to think of nothing but what she Now is; and that a time will come, when they shall meet again, never to be divided.
'To the Divine Protection, mean time, she commits her; and charges her, by the love that has always subsisted between them, that she will not mourn too heavily for her; and again calls upon her, after a gentle tear, which she will allow her to let fall in memory of their uninterrupted friendship, to rejoice that she is so early released; and that she is purified by her sufferings, and is made, as she assuredly trusts, by God's goodness, eternally happy.'
The posthumous letters to Mr. Lovelace and Mr. Morden will be occasionally inserted hereafter: As will also the substance of that written to Mrs. Norton.

### v7 LETTER LXXII.

Mr. Belford, to Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Sat. Afternoon, Sept. 9.
I understand, that thou breathest nothing but revenge against me, for treating thee with so much freedom; and against the accursed woman and her infernal crew. I am not at all concerned for thy menaces against myself. It is my design to make thee feel. It gives me pleasure to find my intention answered. And I congratulate thee, that thou hast not lost that sense.
As to the cursed crew, well do they deserve the fire here, that thou threatenest them with, and the fire here-after that seems to await them. But I have this moment received news which will, in all likelihood, save thee the guilt of punishing the old wretch for her share of wickedness as thy agent. But if that happens to her which is likely to happen, wilt thou not tremble for what may befal the principal?
Not to keep thee longer in suspense; last night, it seems, the infamous woman got so heartily intoxicated with her beloved liquor, arrack punch, at the expence of Colonel Salter, that, mistaking her way, she fell down a pair of stairs, and broke her leg: And now, after a dreadful night, she lies foaming, raving, roaring, in a burning fever, that wants not any other fire to scorch her into a feeling more exquisite and durable than any thy vengeance could make her suffer.
The wretch has requested me to come to her: And left I should refuse a common messenger, sent her vile associate Sally Martin; who not finding me at Soho, came hither; another part of her business being to procure the divine lady's pardon for the old creature's wickedness to her.
This devil incarnate Sally was never so shocked in her life, as when I told her the lady was dead.
She took out her salts to keep her from fainting; and when a little recovered, she accused herself for her part of the injuries the lady had sustained; as she said Polly Horton would do for hers; and shedding tears, declared, that the world never produced such another woman. She called her the ornament and glory of her Sex; acknowleged, that her ruin was owing more to their instigations than even (savage as thou art) to thy own vileness: Since thou wert inclined to have done her justice more than once, had they not kept up thy profligate spirit to its height.
This wretch would fain have been admitted to a sight of the corpse. But I refused her request with execrations.
She could forgive herself, she said, for every thing but her insults upon the admirable lady at Rowland's: Since all the rest was but in pursuit of a livelihood, to which she had been reduced, as she boasted, from better expectations, and which hundreds follow as well as she. I did not ask her, By whom reduced.
At going away, she told me, that the old monster's bruises are of more dangerous consequence than the fracture: That a mortification is apprehended: And that the vile wretch has so much compunction of heart, on recollecting her treatment of Miss Harlowe, and is so much set upon procuring her forgiveness, that she is sure the news she has to carry her, will hasten her end.

### v7 LETTER LXXIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Sat. Night.
Thy servant gives me a dreadful account of thy raving unmanageableness. I wonder not at it. But as nothing violent is lasting, I dare say, that thy habitual gaiety of heart will quickly get the better of thy frenzy: And the rather do I judge so, as thy fits are of the raving kind (suitable to thy natural impetuosity) and not of that melancholy species which seizes flower souls.
For this reason I will proceed in writing to thee, that my narrative may not be broken by thy discomposure; and that the contents of it may find thee, and help thee to reflection, when thou shalt be restored.
Harry is returned from carrying the posthumous letters to the family and to Miss Howe; and that of the Colonel which acquaints James Harlowe with his sister's death, and with her desire to be interred near her grandfather.
Harry was not admitted into the presence of any of the family. They were all assembled together, it seems, at Harlowe-place, on occasion of the Colonel's letter which informed them of the lady's dangerous way; and were comforting themselves, as Harry was told, with hopes, that Mr. Morden had made the worst of her state, in order to quicken their resolutions.
It is easy then to judge what must be their grief and surprise on receiving the fatal news which the letters Harry sent in to them communicated.
He staid there long enough to find the whole house in confusion; the servants running different ways; lamenting and wringing their hands as they run; the female servants particularly; as if some body (poor Mrs. Harlowe no doubt; and perhaps Mrs. Hervey too) were in fits.
All were in such disorder, that he could get no commands, nor obtain any notice of himself. The servants seemed more inclined to execrate than welcome him-O master! O young man! cry'd three or four together, what dismal tidings have you brought! -They helped him to his horse (which with great civility they had put up on his arrival) at the very first word: And he went to an inn; and pursued on foot his way to Mrs. Norton's; and finding her come to town, left the letter he carried down for her with her son (a fine youth:) who, when he heard the fatal news, burst out into a flood of tears-first lamenting the lady's death, and then crying out, What, what, would become of his poor mother? -How would she support herself, when she should find on her arrival in town, that the dear lady who was so deservedly the darling of her heart, was no more!
He proceeded to Miss Howe's, with the letter for her. That lady, he was told, had just given orders for a young man, a tenant's son, to post to London, to bring her news of her dear friend's condition, and whether she should herself be encouraged, by an account of her being still alive, to make her a visit; every thing being ordered to be in readiness for her going up, on his return with the news she wished and prayed for with the utmost impatience. And Harry was just in time to prevent the man's setting out.
He had the precaution to desire to speak with Miss Howe's woman or maid, and communicated to her the fatal tidings, that she might break them to her young lady. The maid was herself so affected, that her old lady (who, Harry said, seemed to be every where at once) came to see what ailed her; and what herself so struck with the communication, that she was forced to sit down in a chair; O the sweet creature! said she-And is it come to this! -O my poor Nancy! -How shall I be able to break the matter to my Nancy!
Mr. Hickman was in the house. He hastened in to comfort the old lady-But he could not restrain his own tears. He feared, he said, when he was last in town, that this sad event would soon happen: But little thought it would be so very soon! -But she is happy, I am sure, said he!
Mrs. Howe, when a little recovered, went up, in order to break the news to her daughter. She took the letter, and her salts in her hand. And Harry could perceive, that they had occasion for them. For the housekeeper soon came hurrying down into the kitchen, her face overspread with tears-Her young mistress had fainted away, she said-Nor did she wonder at it-Never did there live a lady more deserving of general admiration and lamentation, than Miss Clarissa Harlowe! And never was there a stronger friendship dissolved by death than between her young lady and her. She hurried with a lighted wax-candle, and with feathers, to burn under the nose of her young mistress; which shewed that she continued in fits.
Mr. Hickman afterwards, with his usual humanity, directed that Harry should be taken care of all night; it being then the close of day. He asked him after my health. He expressed himself excessively afflicted, as well for the deprivation, as for the just grief of the lady whom he so passionately loves. But he called the departed lady an Angel of Light. We dreaded, said he (tell your master) to read the letter sent-But we needed not-'Tis a blessed letter, written by a blessed hand! -But the consolation she aims to give, will for the present heighten the sense we all shall have of the loss of so excellent a creature! Tell Mr. Belford, that I thank God I am not the man who had the unmerited honour to call himself her brother.
I know how terribly this great catastrophe (as I may call it, since so many persons are interested in it) affects thee. I should have been glad to have had particulars of the distress which the first communication of it must have given to the Harlowes. Yet who but must pity the unhappy mother?
The answer which James Harlowe returned to Colonel Morden's letter of notification of his sister's death, and to her request as to interrment, will give a faint idea of what their concern must be. Here follows a copy of it.
To William Morden, Esq;
Saturday, Sept. 9.
Dear Cousin,
I cannot find words to express what we all suffer on the mournfullest news that ever was communicated to us.
My Sister Arabella (but, alas! I have now no other Sister) was preparing to follow Mrs. Norton up; and I had resolved to escorte her, and to have looked in upon the dear creature.
God be merciful to us all! To what purpose did the doctor write if she was so near her end! -Why, as everybody says, did he not send sooner? -or why at all?
The most admirable young creature that ever swerved! -not one friend to be with her! -Alas! Sir, I fear my mother will never get over this shock-She has been in hourly fits ever since she received the fatal news. My poor father has the gout thrown into his stomach; and heaven knows-O Cousin, O Sir! -I meant nothing but the honour of the family; yet have I all the weight thrown upon me-[O this cursed Lovelace! may I perish if he escape the deserved vengeance!]
We had begun to please ourselves that we should soon see her here-Good heaven! that her next entrance into this house, after she abandoned us so precipitately, should be in a coffin!
We can have nothing to do with her Executor (another strange step of the dear creature's!) He cannot expect we will-nor, if he be a gentleman, will he think of acting. Do You therefore be pleased, Sir, to order an undertaker to convey the body down to us.
My mother says she shall be for ever unhappy, if she may not in death see the dear creature whom she could not see in life: Be so kind therefore as to direct the lid to be only half-screwed down-that (if my poor mother cannot be prevailed upon to dispense with so shocking a spectacle) she may be obliged-She was the darling of her heart!
If we know her will in relation to the funeral, it shall be punctually complied with: As shall every thing in it that is fit or reasonable to be performed; and This without the intervention of strangers.
Will you not, dear Sir, favour us with your presence at this melancholy time? Pray do;-and pity and excuse what passed at our last meeting with that generosity which is natural to the Brave and the Wise. Every one's respects attend you. And I am, Sir,
Your inexpressibly afflicted Cousin and Servant,
Ja. Harlowe, jun.
Every thing that is Fit or Reasonable, to be performed! (repeated I to the Colonel, from the above letter on his reading it to me) That is every thing which she has directed, that can be performed. I hope, Colonel, that I shall have no contention with them. I wish no more for their acquaintance than they do for mine. But you, Sir, must be the mediator between them and me; for I shall insist upon a literal performance in every article.
The Colonel was so kind as to declare that he would join to support me in my resolution.

### v7 LETTER LXXIV.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Sunday morn. 8 o'Clock, Sept. 10.
I staid at Smith's till I saw the last of all that was mortal of the divine lady.
As she has directed Rings by her Will to several persons, with her hair to be set in crystal, the afflicted Mrs. Norton cut off before the coffin was closed four charming ringlets; one of which the Colonel took for a locket, which, he says, he will cause to be made, and wear next his heart in memory of his beloved cousin.
Between four and five in the morning, the corpse was put into the herse; the coffin before being filled, as intended, with flowers and aromatic herbs, and proper care taken to prevent the corpse suffering (to the eye) from the jolting of the herse.
Poor Mrs. Norton is extremely ill. I gave particular directions to Mrs. Smith's maid (whom I have ordered to attend the good woman in a mourning chariot) to take care of her. The Colonel, who rides with his servants within view of the herse, says, that he will see my orders in relation to her inforced.
When the herse moved off and was out of sight, I locked up the lady's chamber, into which all that had belonged to her was removed.
I expect to hear from the Colonel as soon as he is got down, by a servant of his own.

### v7 LETTER LXXV.

Mr. Mowbray, To John Belford, Esq;
Uxbridge, Sunday morn. 9 o'Clock.
Dear Jack,
I send you inclosed a letter from Mr. Lovelace; which, tho' written in the cursed Algebra, I know to be such a one as will shew what a queer way he is in; for he read it to us with the air of a tragedian. You will see by it what the mad fellow had intended to do, if we had not all of us interposed. He was actually setting out with a Surgeon of this place, to have the lady opened and embalmed. -Rot me if it be not my full persuasion, that if he had, her heart would have been found to be either iron or marble.
We have got Lord M. to him. His Lordship is also much afflicted at the Lady's death. His sisters and nieces, he says, will be ready to break their hearts. What a rout's here about a woman? For after all she was no more.
We have taken a pailful of black bull's blood from him; and this has lowered him a little. But he threatens Colonel Morden, he threatens you for your cursed reflections (Cursed reflections indeed, Jack!) and curses all the world and himself still.
Last night his mourning (which is full as deep as for a wife) was brought home, and his fellows mourning too. And tho' 8 o'clock he would put it on and make them attend him in theirs.
Every-body blames him on this Lady's account. But I see not for why. She was a vixen in her virtue. And her relations are ten times more to blame than he. I will prove this to the teeth of them all. If they could use her ill, why should they expect him to use her well? -You, or I, or Tourville, in his shoes, would have done as he has done. Are not all the girls forwarned? -'Has he done by her as that Caitiffe Miles did to the farmer's daughter, whom he tricked up to town (a pretty girl also, just such another as Bob's Rosebud!) under a notion of waiting on a lady -Drill'd her on, pretending the lady was abroad. Drank her light-hearted; then carried her to a Play; then it was too late, you know, to see the pretended lady: Then to a Bagnio: Ruined her, as they call it, and all the same day. Kept her on (an ugly dog too!) a fortnight or three weeks; then left her to the mercy of the people of the Bagnio (never paying for any thing;) who stript her of all her cloaths, and because she would not take on, threw her into prison; where she died in want and in despair!" -A true story thou knowest, Jack- This fellow deserved to be damn'd. But has our Bob been such a villain as this? -And would he not have married this flinty-hearted lady? -So he is justified very evidently.
Why then should such cursed quawms take him? -Who would have thought he had been such poor blood? Now (Rot the puppy!) to see him sit silent in a corner, when he has tired himself with his mock-majesty, and with his argumentation (who so fond of arguefying as he?) and teaching his shadow to make mouths against the wainscot- Lords-zounter, if I have patience with him!
But he has had no rest for these ten days: That's the thing! -You must write to him; and pr'ythee coax him, Jack, and send him what he writes for, and give him all his way: There will be no bearing him else. And get the lady buried as fast as you can; and don't let him know where.
This letter should have gone yesterday. We told him it did. But were in hopes he would not have inquired after it again. But he raves as he has not any answer.
What he vouchsafed to read of other of your letters has give my Lord such a curiosity, as makes him desire you to continue your accounts. Pray do: But not in your hellish Araback; and we will let the poor fellow only into what we think fitting for his present way.
I live a cursed dull poking life here. With what I so lately saw of poor Belton, and what I now see of this charming fellow, I shall be as crazy as he soon, or as dull as thou, Jack; so must seek for better company in town than either of you. I have been forced to read sometimes to divert me; and you know I hate reading. It presently sets me into a sit of drowsiness, and then I yawn and stretch like a devil.
Yet in Dryden's Palemon and Arcite have I just now met with a passage, that has in it much of our Bob's case. These are some of the lines.
Mr. Mowbray then recites some lines from that poem describing a distracted man, and runs the parallel; and then priding himself in his performance; says,
Let me tell you that had I begun to write as early as you and Lovelace, I might have cut as good a figure as either of you. Why not? But boy or man I ever hated a book. 'Tis a folly to lie. I loved action, my boy. I hated droning; and have led in former days more boys from their book, than ever my master made to profit by it. Kicking and cuffing and orchard-robbing, were my early glory.
But I am tired of writing. I never wrote such a long letter in my life. My wrists and my fingers and thumb ake damnably. The pen is an hundred weight at the least. And my eyes are ready to drop out of my head upon the paper. -The cramp but this minute in my fingers. Rot the goose and the goose-quill! I will write no more long letters for a twelvemonth to come. Yet one word: We think the mad fellow coming to. Adieu.

### v7 LETTER LXXVI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Uxbridge, Sat. Sept. 9.
Jack,
I think is absolutely right that my ever-dear and beloved lady should be opened and embalmed. It must be done out of hand-this very afternoon. Your acquaintance Tomkins and old Anderson of this place, whom I will bring with me, shall be the surgeons. I have talked to the latter about it.
I will see every thing done with that decorum which the case, and the sacred person of my beloved require.
Every thing that can be done to preserve the charmer from decay, shall also be done. And when she will descend to her original dust, or cannot be kept longer, I will then have her laid in my family-vault between my own father and mother. Myself, as I am in my soul, so in person, chief mourner. But her heart, to which I have such unquestionable pretensions, in which once I had so large a share, and which I will prize above my own, I will have. I will keep it in spirits. I shall never be out of my sight. And all the charges of sepulture too shall be mine.
Surely no-body will dispute my right to her. Whose was she living? Whose is she dead, but mine? -Her cursed parents, whose barbarity to her, no doubt, was the true cause of her death, have long since renounced her. She left them for me. She chose me therefore: And I was her husband. What tho' I treated her like a villain? Do I not pay for it now? Would she not have been mine had I not? No-body will dispute but she would. And has she not forgiven me? -I am then in statu quo prius with her-Am I not!-as if I had never offended? Whose then can she be but mine?
I will free you from your Executorship and all your cares.
Take notice, Belford, that I do hereby actually discharge you, and every body, from all cares and troubles relating to her. And as to her last testament I will execute it myself.
There were no articles between us, no settlements; and she is mine, as you see I have proved to a demonstration: Nor could she dispose of herself but as I pleased. D-nation seize me then if I make not good my right against all opposers!
Her bowels, if her friends are very solicitous about them, and very humble and sorrowful (and none have they of their own) shall be sent down to them-To be laid with her ancestors-unless she has ordered otherwise. For, except that she shall not be committed to the unworthy earth so long as she can be kept out of it, her Will shall be performed in every thing.
I send in the mean time for a lock of her hair.
I charge you stir not in any part of her Will, but by my express direction. I will order every thing myself. For am I not her husband? And being forgiven by her, am I not the chosen of her heart? What else signifies her forgiveness?
The two insufferable wretches you have sent me, plague me to death, and would treat me like a babe in strings. Damn the fellows, what can they mean by it? -Yet that crippled monkey Doleman joins with them. And, as I hear them whisper, they have sent for Lord M. -To controul me, I suppose.
What can they mean by this usage of me? Sure all the world is run mad but myself. They treat me as they ought every one of themselves to be treated. The whole world is but one great Bedlam. G-d confound it, and every thing in it, since now my beloved Clarissa Lovelace-no more Harlowe-Curse upon that name and every one called by it.
What I write to you for is,
1. To forbid you intermeddling with any thing relating to her. To forbid Morden intermeddling also. If I remember right, he has threatened me, and cursed me, and used me ill. And let him be gone from her if he would avoid my resentments.
2. To send me a lock of her hair instantly by the bearer.
3. To engage Tomkins to have every thing ready for the opening and embalming. I shall bring Anderson with me.
4. To get her Will and every thing ready for my perusal and consideration.
I will have possession of her dear heart this very night; and let Tomkins provide a proper receptacle and spirits, till I can get a golden one made for it.
I will take her papers. And as no one can do her memory justice equal to myself, and I will not spare myself, Who can better shew the world what she was, and what a villain he, that could use her ill? And the world shall also see, what implacable and unworthy parents she had.
All shall be set forth in words at length. No mincing of the matter. Names undisguised as well as facts. For as I shall make the worst figure in it myself, and have a right to treat myself as no-body else shall; Who will controul me? Who dare call me to account?
Let me know if the damned mother be yet the subject of the devil's own vengeance-if the old wretch be dead or alive? Some exemplary mischief I must yet do. My revenge shall sweep away that devil and all my opposers of the cruel Harlowe family, from the face of the earth. Whole hecatombs ought to be offered up to the Manes of my Clarissa Lovelace.
Altho' her Will may in some respects cross mine, yet I expect to be observed. I will be the interpreter of hers.
Next to mine, hers shall be observed, for she is my wife; and shall be to all eternity. I will never have another.
Adieu, Jack. I am preparing to be with you. I charge you, as you value my life or your own, do not oppose me in any thing relating to my Clarissa Lovelace.
My temper is intirely altered. I know not what it is to laugh, or smile, or be pleasant. I am grown choleric and impatient, and will not be controuled.
I write this in characters as I used to do, that no-body but you should know what I write. For never was any man plagued with impertinents, as I am.
R. Lovelace,
In a separate paper inclosed in the above.
Let me tell thee, in characters still, that I am in a dreadful way just now. My brain is all boiling like a caldron over a fiery furnace. What a devil is the matter with me, I wonder! I never was so strange in my life.
In truth, Jack, I have been a most execrable villain. And when I consider all my actions by this angel of a woman, and in her the piety, the charity, the wit, the beauty I have helped to destroy, and the good to the world I have thereby been a means of frustrating, I can pronounce damnation upon myself. How then can I expect mercy any where else!
I believe I shall have no patience with you when I see you. Your damned stings and reflections have almost turned my brain.
But here Lord M. they tell me, is come! D-n him, and those who sent for him!
I know not what I have written! But her dear heart and a lock of her hair I will have, let who will be the gain-sayers! For is she not mine? Whose else can she be? She has no Father nor Mother, no Sister, no Brother; no Relations but me. And my beloved is mine; and I am hers: And that's enough-But Oh!
She's out! The damp of death has quench'd her quite!
Those spicy doors, her lips, are shut, close lock'd,
Which never gale of life shall open more!
And is it so! Is it indeed so? -Good God! Good God!-But they will not let me write on. I must go down to this officious peer-Who the devil sent for him?

### v7 LETTER LXXVII.

Mr. Belford, To Richard Mowbray, Esq;
Sunday, Sept. 10, 4 in the Afternoon.
I have yours, with our unhappy friend's inclosed. I am glad my Lord is with him. As I presume that his frenzy will be but of short continuance, I most earnestly wish that on his recovery he could be prevailed upon to go abroad. Mr. Morden, who is inconsolable, has seen by the Will, that the case was more than a common seduction; and has dropt hints already, that he looks upon himself on that account to be freed from his promises made to the dying lady, which were, that he would not seek to avenge her death. You must make the recovery of his health the motive for urging him on this head; for, if you hint at his own safety, he will not stir, but rather seek the Colonel.
As to the lock of hair, you may easily pacify him (as you once saw the angel) with hair near the colour, if he be intent upon it.
At my Lord's desire I will write on, and in my common hand; that you may judge what is, and what is not fit to read to Mr. Lovelace at present. But as I shall not forbear reflections as I go along, in hopes to reach his heart on his recovery; I think it best to direct myself to him still; and that as if he were not disordered.
As I shall not have leisure to take copies, and yet am willing to have the whole subject before me, for my own future contemplation, I must insist upon a return of my letters some time hence. Mr. Lovelace knows that this is one of my conditions; and has hitherto complied with it.
Thy letter, Mowbray, is an inimitable performance. Thou art a strange impenetrable creature. But let me most earnestly conjure thee, and the idle flutterer Tourville, from what ye have seen of poor Belton's exit; from our friend Lovelace's frenzy, and the occasion of it; and from the terrible condition in which the wretched Sinclair lies; to set about an immediate change of life and manners. For my own part, I am determined, be your resolutions what they may, to take the advice I give.
As witness
J. Belford.

### v7 LETTER LXXVIII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
O Lovelace! I have a scene to paint in relation to the wretched Sinclair, that, if I do it justice, will make thee seriously ponder and reflect, or nothing can. I will lead to it in order; and that in my usual hand, that thy compeers may be able to read it as well as thyself.
When I had written the preceding letter; not knowing what to do with myself; recollecting, and in vain wishing for that delightful and improving conversation, which I had now for ever lost; I thought I had as good begin the task, which I had for some time past resolved to begin; that is to say, To go to church; and see if I could not reap some benefit from what I should hear there. Accordingly I determined to go to hear the celebrated preacher at St. James's church. But as if the devil (for so I was then ready to conclude) thought himself concerned to prevent my intention, a visit was made me just as I was dressed, which took me off from my purpose.
Whom should this be from, but Sally Martin, accompanied by Mrs. Carter, the sister of the infamous Sinclair; the same, I suppose I need not tell you, who keeps the Bagnio near Bloomsbury.
These told me that the surgeon, apothecary, and physician, had all given the wretched woman over; but that she said, She could not die nor be at rest till she saw me: And they besought me to accompany them in the coach they came in, if I had one spark of charity, of Christian charity, as they called it, left.
I was very loth to be diverted from my purpose by a request so unwelcome, and from people so hated; but at last went, and we got thither by ten: Where a scene so shocking presented itself to me, that the death of poor desponding Belton is not, I think, to be compared with it.
The old wretch had once put her leg out by her rage and violence, and had been crying, scolding, cursing, ever since the preceding evening, that the surgeon had told her it was impossible to save her; and that a mortification had begun to shew itself; insomuch that purely in compassion to their own ears, they had been forced to send for another surgeon, purposely to tell her, tho' against his judgment, and (being a friend of the other) to seem to convince him, that he mistook her case; and that, if she would be patient, she might recover. But, nevertheless her apprehensions of death and her antipathy to the thoughts of dying were so strong, that their imposture had not the intended effect, and she was raving, crying, cursing, and even howling, more like a wolf than a human creature, when I came; so that as I went up stairs, I said, Surely this noise, this howling, cannot be from the unhappy woman! Sally said it was, and assured me, that it was nothing to the noise she had made all night; and stepping into her room before me, Dear Madam Sinclair, said she, forbear this noise! It is more like that of a bull than a woman! -Here comes Mr. Belford; and you'll fright him away, if you bellow at this rate.
There were no less than eight of her cursed daughters surrounding her bed when I entered; one of her partners, Polly Horton, at their head; and now Sally, her other partner, and Madam Carter, as they called her (for they are all Madams with one another) made the number Ten: All in shocking dishabille, and without stays, except Sally, Carter, and Polly; who, not daring to leave her, had not been in bed all night.
The other seven seemed to have been but just up, risen perhaps from their customers in the fore-house, and their nocturnal Orgies, with faces, three or four of them, that had run, the paint lying in streaky seams not half blowz'd off, discovering coarse wrinkled skins: The hair of some of them of divers colours, obliged to the black-lead comb where black was affected; the artificial jet, however, yielding apace to the natural brindle: That of others plaistered with oil and powder; the oil predominating: But every one's hanging about her ears and neck in broken curls, or ragged ends; and each at my entrance taken with one motion, stroaking their matted locks with both hands under their coifs, mobs, or pinners, every one of which was awry. They were all slip-shoed; stockenless some; only under-petticoated all; their gowns, made to cover straddling hoops, hanging trolloppy, and tangling about their heels; but hastily wrapt round them, as soon as I came up stairs. And half of them (unpadded, shoulderbent, pallid-lipp'd, feeble-jointed wretches) appearing from a blooming Nineteen or Twenty perhaps over-night, haggard well-worn strumpets of Thirty-eight or Forty.
I am the more particular in describing to thee the appearance these creatures made in my eyes when I came into the room, because I believe thou never sawest any of them, much less a group of them, thus unprepared for being seen (a). I, for my part, never did before; nor had I now, but upon this occasion, been thus favoured. If thou hadst, I believe thou wouldst hate a profligate woman, as one of Swift's Yahoos, or Virgil's obscene Harpyes, squirting their ordure upon the Trojan trenchers; since the persons of such in their retirements are as filthy as their minds- Hate them as much as I do; and as much as I admire, and next to adore a truly virtuous and elegant woman: For to me it is evident, that as a neat and clean woman must be an angel of a creature, so a sluttish one is the impurest animal in nature.
But these were the veterans, the chosen band; for now-and-then flitted in, to the number of half a dozen or more, by turns, subordinate sinners, under-graduates, younger than some of the chosen phalanx, but not less obscene in their appearance, tho' indeed not so much beholden to the plaistering fucus; yet unpropt by stays, squalid, loose in attire, sluggish-haired, under-petticoated only as the former, eyes half opened, winking and pinking, mispatched, yawning, stretching, as if from the unworn-off effects of the midnight revel; all armed in succession with supplies of cordials, of which every one present was either taster or partaker, under the direction of the Praetorian Dorcas, who now-and-then popp'd in to see her slops duly given and taken.
But when I approached the old wretch, what a spectacle presented itself to my eyes!
Her misfortune has not at all sunk, but rather, as I thought, increased her flesh; rage and violence perhaps swelling her muscly features. Behold her then, spreading the whole tumbled bed with her huge quaggy carcase: Her mill-post arms held up; her broad hands clenched with violence; her big eyes, goggling and flaming-red as we may suppose those of a salamander; her matted griesly hair, made irreverend by her wickedness (her clouted headress being half off) spread about her fat ears and brawny neck; her livid lips parched, and working violently; her broad chin in convulsive motion; her wide mouth, by reason of the contraction of her forehead (which seemed to be half-lost in its own frightful furrows) splitting her face, as it were, into two parts; and her huge tongue hideously rolling in it; heaving, puffing, as if for breath, her bellows-shaped and various-coloured breasts ascending by turns to her chin, and descending out of sight, with the violence of her gaspings.
This was the spectacle, as recollection has enabled me to describe it, that this wretch made to my eye, when I approached her bed-side, surrounded, as I said, by her suffragans and daughters, who surveyed her with scouling frighted attention, which one might easily see had more in it of horror, and self-concern (and self-condemnation too) than of love or pity; as who should say, See! what we ourselves must one day be!
As soon as she saw me, her naturally big voice, more hoarsened by her ravings, broke upon me: O Mr. Belford! O Sir! see what I am come to! -See what I am brought to! -To have such a cursed crew about me, and not one of them to take care of me! -But to let me tumble down stairs so distant from the room I went from! so distant from the room I meant to go to! O cursed be every careless devil! -May this or worse be their fate every one of them!
And then she cursed and swore more vehemently, and the more, as two or three of them were excusing themselves on the score of their being at that time as unable to help themselves as she.
As soon as she had cleared the passage of her throat by the oaths and curses which her wild impatience made her utter, she began in a more hollow and whining strain to bemoan herself. And here, said she-Heaven grant me patience! (clenching and unclenching her hands) am I to die thus miserably!-of a broken leg in my old age!- snatch'd away by means of my own intemperance! Self-do! Self-undone! -No time for my affairs! No time to repent! -And in a few hours (Oh!-Oh!-with another long howling O-h!-U-gh-o! a kind of screaming key terminating it) who knows, who can tell where I shall be! -Oh! that indeed I never, never, had had a being!
What could one say to such a wretch as this! whose whole life has been spent in the most diffusive wickedness, and who has more souls to answer for, of both sexes, than the best Divine in England ever saved? -Yet I told her, She must be patient: That her violence made her worse: And that, if she would compose herself, she might get into a frame more proper for her present circumstances.
Who I! interrupted she: I get into a better frame! I, who can neither cry, nor pray! Yet already feel the torments of the damn'd! What mercy can I expect! What hope is left for me! -Then, that sweet creature! That incomparable Miss Harlowe! -She, it seems, is dead and gone! -O that cursed Man! Had it not been for him! I had never had This, the most crying of all my sins, to answer for! And then she set up another howl.
And is she dead? -Indeed dead? proceeded she, when her howl was over-O what an angel have I been the means of destroying! -For tho' it was that wicked man's fault that ever she was in my house, yet it was Mine, and Yours, and Yours, and Yours, Devils as we all were (turning to Sally, to Polly, and to one or two more) that he did not do her justice! And That, That is my curse, and will one day be yours! And then again she howled.
I still advised patience. I said, that if her time was so short as she apprehended it to be, the more ought she to endeavour to compose herself: And then she would at least die with more ease to herself-and satisfaction to her friends, I was going to say-But the word die put her into a violent raving, and thus she broke in upon me.
Die, did you say, Sir? -Die! -I will not, I cannot die! -I know not how to die!-Die, Sir! -And must I then die! -Leave this world! -I cannot bear it! -And who brought You hither, Sir, (her eyes striking fire at me) Who brought you hither to tell me I must die, Sir? -I cannot, I will not leave this world. Let others die, who wish for another! who expect a better! -I have had my plagues in This; but would compound for all future hopes, so as I may be nothing after This! And then she howled and bellowed by turns.
By my faith, Lovelace, I trembled in every joint; and looking upon her who spoke This, and roared Thus, and upon the company round me, I more than once thought myself to be in one of the infernal mansions!
Yet will I proceed and try for thy good if I can shock thee but half as much with my descriptions, as I was shocked by what I saw and heard.
Sally-Polly-Sister Carter! said she, did you not tell me I might recover? Did not the surgeon tell me I might?
And so you may, cry'd Sally; Mr. Garon says you may, if you'll be patient. But, as I have often told you this blessed morning, you are readier to take despair from your own fears, than comfort from all the hope we can give you.
Yet, cry'd the wretch, interrupting, does not Mr. Belford (and to him you have told the truth, tho' you won't to me; Does not he) tell me I shall die? -I cannot bear it! I cannot bear the thoughts of dying!-
And then, but that half a dozen at once endeavoured to keep down her violent hands, would she have beaten herself; as it seems she had often attempted to do from the time the surgeon popt out the word mortification to her.
Well, but to what purpose, said I (turning aside to her Sister, and to Sally and Polly) are these hopes given her, if the gentlemen of the faculty give her over? You should let her know the worst, and then she must submit; for there is no running away from death. If she has any matters to settle, put her upon settling them; and do not, by telling her she will live when there is no room to expect it, take from her the opportunity of doing needful things. Do the surgeons actually give her over?
They do, whispered they. Her gross habit, they say, gives no hopes. We have sent for both surgeons, whom we expect every minute.
Both the surgeons (who are French, for Mrs. Sinclair has heard Tourville launch out in the praise of French Surgeons) came in while we were thus talking. I retired to the further end of the room, and threw up a window for a little air, being half poisoned by the effluvia arising from so many contaminated carcasses; which gave me no imperfect idea of the stench of gaols, which corrupting the ambient air, give what is called the prison-distemper.
I came back to the bed-side, when the surgeons had inspected the fracture; and asked them, If there were any expectation of her life?
One of them whispered me, There was none: That she had a strong fever upon her, which alone, in such a habit, would probably do the business; and that the mortification had visibly gained upon her, since they were there six hours ago.
Will amputation save her? Her affairs and her mind want settling. A few days added to her life may be of service to her in both respects.
They told me the fracture was high in her leg; that the knee was greatly bruised; that the mortification, in all probability, had spread half-way of the Femur: And then, getting me between them (three or four of the women joining us, and listening with their mouths open, and all the signs of ignorant wonder in their faces, as there appeared of self-sufficiency in those of the artists) did they by turns fill my ears with an anatomical description of the leg and thigh, running over with terms of art; of the Tarsus, the Metatarsus, the Tibia, the Fibula, the Patella, the Os Tali, the Os Tibae, the Tibialis Posticus and Tibialis Anticus, up to the Os Femoris, to the Acetabulum of the Os Ischion, the Great Trochanter, Glutes, Triceps, Levidus, and Little Rotators; in short, of all the muscles, cartilages, and bones, that constitute the leg and thigh from the great toe to the hip; as if they would shew me, that all their science had penetrated their heads no farther than their mouths; while Sally lifted up her hands with a Laud bless me! Are all Surgeons so learned! -But at last both the gentlemen declared, That if she and her friends would consent to amputation, they would whip off her leg in a moment.
Mrs. Carter asked, To what purpose, if the operation would not save her?
Very true, they said; but it might be a satisfaction to the patient's friends, that all was done that could be done.
And so the poor wretch was to be lanced and quartered, as I may say, for an experiment only! And, without any hope of benefit from the operation, was to pay the surgeons for tormenting her!
I cannot but say I have a mean opinion of both these gentlemen, who, tho' they make a figure it seems in their way of living, and boast not only a French extraction, but a Paris education, never will make any in their practice.
How unlike my honest English friend Tomkins, a plain, serious, intelligent man, whose art lies deeper than in words; who always avoids parade and jargon: and endeavours to make every one as much a judge of what he is about as himself.
All the time the surgeons run on with their anatomical process, the wretched woman most frightfully roared and bellowed; which the gentlemen (who shewed themselves to be of the class of those who are not affected with the evils they do not feel) took no other notice of, than by raising their voices to be heard, as she raised hers-Being evidently more sollicitous to increase their acquaintance, and to propagate the notion of their skill, than to attend to the clamours of the poor wretch whom they were called in to relieve; tho' by this very means, like the dog and the shadow in the fable, they lost both aims with me; for I never was deceived in one rule, which I made early; to wit, That the stillest water is the deepest, while the bubbling stream only betrays shallowness; and that stones and pebbles lie there so near the surface, to point out the best place to ford a river dry shod.
As no body cared to tell the unhappy wretch what every one apprehended must follow, and what the surgeons convinced me soon would, I undertook to be the denouncer of her doom. Accordingly, the operators being withdrawn, I sat down by the bed-side, and said, Come, Mrs. Sinclair, let me advise you to forbear these ravings at the carelessness of those, who, I find, at the time, could take no care of themselves; and since the accident has happened, and cannot be remedied, to resolve to make the best of the matter: For all this violence but enrages the malady, and you will probably fall into a delirium, if you give way to it, which will deprive you of that reason which you ought to make the best of, for the time it may be lent you.
She turned her head towards me, and hearing me speak with a determined voice, and seeing me assume as determined an air, became more calm and attentive.
I went on, telling her, that I was glad, from the hints she had given, to find her concerned for her past mis-spent life, and particularly for the part she had had in the ruin of the most excellent woman on earth; That if she would compose herself, and patiently submit to the consequence of an evil she had brought upon herself, it might possibly be happy for her yet. Mean time, continued I, tell me, with temper and calmness, Why you was so desirous to see me?
She seemed to be in great confusion of thought, and turned her head this way and that; and at last, after much hesitation, said, Alas for me! I hardly know what I wanted with you. When I awoke from my intemperate trance, and found what a cursed way I was in, my conscience smote me, and I was for catching, like a drowning wretch, at every straw. I wanted to see every-body and any-body but those I did see; every-body whom I thought could give me comfort. Yet could I expect none from You neither; for you had declared yourself my enemy, altho' I had never done you harm: For what, Jackey, in her old tone, whining thro' her nose, was Miss Harlowe to you? -But she is happy! -But oh! what will become of me? -Yet tell me (for the surgeons have told you the truth, no doubt) tell me, Shall I do well again? May I recover? If I may, I will begin a new course of life: As I hope to be saved I will. I'll renounce you all-every one of you (looking round her) and scrape all I can together, and live a life of penitence; and when I die, leave it all to charitable uses-I will, by my soul-Every doit of it to charity-But this once, lifting up her rolling eyes, and folded hands (with a wry-mouthed earnestness, in which every muscle and feature of her face bore its part) this one time-Good God of heaven and earth, but this once! this once! repeating those words five or six times, spare thy poor creature, and every hour of my life shall be penitence and atonement: Upon my soul it shall!
Less vehement! a little less vehement! said I-It is not for me, who have led so free a life, as you but too well know, to talk to you in a reproaching strain, and to set before you the iniquity you have lived in, and the many souls you have helped to destroy. But as you are in so penitent a way, if I might advise, it should be to send for a good Clergyman, the purity of whose life and manners may make all these things come from him with a better grace than they can from me.
How, Sir! What, Sir! interrupting me; Send for a Parson! -Then you indeed think I shall die! Then you think there is no room for hope! -A Parson, Sir! -Who sends for a Parson, while there is any hope left? The sight of a Parson would be death immediate to me! -I cannot, cannot die! -Never tell me of it! -What! die! -What! cut off in the midst of my sins!
And then she began to rave again.
I cannot bear, said I, rising from my seat with a stern air, to see a reasonable creature behave so outrageously! - Will this vehemence, think you, mend the matter? Will it avail you any thing? Will it not rather shorten the life you are so desirous to have lengthened, and deprive you of the only opportunity you can ever have to settle your affairs for both worlds? -This is but the common lot: And if it will be yours soon, looking at her, it will be also yours, and yours, and yours, speaking with a raised voice, and turning to every trembling devil round her (for they all shook at my forcible application); and mine also. And you have reason to be thankful, that you did not perish in that act of intemperance, which brought you to this: For it might have been your neck, as well as your leg; and then you had not had the opportunity you now have for repentance-And the Lord have mercy upon you! into what a State might you have awaked?
Then did the poor wretch set up an inarticulate frightful howl, such a one as I never before heard uttered, as if already pangs infernal had taken hold of her; and seeing every one half-frighted, and me motioning to withdraw, O pity me, pity me, Mr. Belford, cried she, her words interrupted by groans. I find you think I shall die! And what I may be, and where, in a very few hours-Who can tell?
I told her it was in vain to flatter her: It was my opinion she would not recover.
I was going to re-advise her to calm her spirits, and endeavour to resign herself, and to make the best of the opportunity yet left her; but this declaration set her into a most outrageous raving. She would have torn her hair, and beaten her breast, had not some of the wretches held her hands by force, while others kept her as steady as they could, lest she should again put out her new-set leg: So that, seeing her thus incapable of advice, and in a perfect phrensy, I told Sally Martin, that there was no bearing the room; and that their best way was to send for a Minister to pray by her, and to reason with her, as soon as she should be capable of it.
And so I left them; and never was so sensible of the benefit of fresh air, as I was the moment I entered the street.
Nor is it to be wondered at, when it is considered, that to the various ill smells, that will be always found in a close sick-bed room (since generally when the Physician comes, the Air is shut out) This of Mrs. Sinclair was the more particularly offensive, as, to the scent of plaisters, embrocations, and ointments, were added the stenches of spirituous liquors, burnt and unburnt, of all denominations: For one or other of the creatures, under pretence of colics, gripes, qualms, or insurrections, were continually calling for supplies of these, all the time I was there. And yet this is thought to be a genteel house of the sort: And all the prostitutes in it, are prostitutes of price, and their visiters people of note.
O Lovelace! what lives do most of us Rakes and Libertines lead! What company do we keep! And, for such company, what society renounce, or endeavour to make like these!
What woman, nice in her person, and of purity in her mind and manners, did she know what miry wallowers the generality of men of our class are in themselves, and constantly trough and sty with, but would detest the thoughts of associating with such filthy sensualists, whose favourite taste carries them to mingle with the dregs of stews, brothels, and common-sewers.
Yet, to such a choice are many worthy women betrayed, by that false and inconsiderate notion, raised and propagated, no doubt, by the author of all delusion, That a reformed Rake makes the best husband. We Rakes, indeed, are bold enough to suppose, that women in general are as much Rakes in their hearts, as the Libertines some of them suffer themselves to be taken with, are in their practice. A supposition therefore, which, it behoves persons of true honour of that Sex, to discountenance, by rejecting the address of every man, whose character will not stand the test of that virtue, which is the glory of a woman: And indeed, I may say, of a man too: Why should it not?
How, indeed, can it be, if this point be duly weighed, that a man who thinks alike of all the Sex, and knows it to be in the power of a wife to do him the greatest dishonour man can receive, and doubts not her will to do it, if opportunity offer, and importunity be not wanting: That such a one, from principle, should be a good husband to any woman? And, indeed, little do innocents think, what a total revolution of manners, what a change of fixed habits, nay, what a conquest of a bad nature, is required, to make a man a good husband, a worthy father, and true friend, from principle; especially when it is considered, that it is not in a man's own power to reform when he will. This (to say nothing of my own experience) thou hast found in the progress of thy attempts upon the divine Miss Harlowe. For whose remorses could be either deeper, or more frequent? and whose more transient?
Don't be disgusted, that I mingle such grave reflections as these with my narratives. It becomes me, in my present way of thinking, to do so, when I see in Miss Harlowe, how all human excellence, and in poor Belton, how all inhuman libertinism, and am near seeing in this abandon'd woman, how all diabolical profligateness, end. And glad should I be, for your own sake, for your splendid family's sake, and for the sake of all your intimates and acquaintance, that you were labouring under the same impressions, that so we, who have been companions in (and promoters of one another's) wickedness, might join in a general atonement to the utmost of our power.
I came home reflecting upon all these things, more edifying to me than any Sermon I could have heard preached: And I shall conclude this long letter with observing, that altho' I left the wretched howler in a high phrensy-fit, which was excessively shocking to the by-standers; yet her phrensy is the happiest part of her dreadful condition: For when she is herself, as it is called, what must be her reflections upon her past profligate life, throughout which it has been her constant delight and business, devil-like, to make others as wicked as herself! What must her terrors be (a Hell already begun in her mind!) on looking forward to the dreadful State she is now upon the verge of! -But I drop my trembling pen.
To have done with so shocking a subject at once, we shall take notice, That Mr. Belford, in a future letter, writes, that the miserable woman, to the surprize of the operators themselves (thro' hourly increasing tortures of body and mind) held out so long as till Thursday Sept. 21. And then died in such agonies, as terrified into a transitory penitence all the wretches about her.

### v7 LETTER LXXIX.

Colonel Morden, To John Belford, Esq;
Sunday Night, Sept. 10.
Dear Sir,
According to my promise, I send you an account of matters here. Poor Mrs. Norton was so very ill upon the road, that, slowly as the herse moved, and the chariot followed, I was afraid we should not have got her to St. Alban's. We put up there as I had intended. I was in hopes that she would have been better for the stop: But I was forced to leave her behind me. I ordered the servant-maid you was so considerately kind as to send down with her, to be very careful of her; and left the chariot to attend her. She deserves all the regard that can be paid her; not only upon my cousin's account, but on her own. She is an excellent woman.
When we were within five miles of Harlowe-place, I put on a hand-gallop. I ordered the herse to proceed more slowly still, the cross-road we were in being rough, and having more time before us than I wanted; for I wished not the herse to be in till near dusk.
I got to my cousin's about 4 o'clock. You may believe I found a mournful house. You desire me to be very minute.
At my entrance into the court, they were all in motion. Every servant whom I saw had swelled eyes, and looked with so much concern, that at first I apprehended some new disaster had happened in the family.
Mr. John and Mr. Antony Harlowe and Mrs. Hervey were there. They all helped on one another's grief, as they had before each other's hardness of heart.
My cousin James met me at the entrance of the hall. His countenance expressed a fixed concern; and he desired me to excuse his behaviour the last time I was there.
My cousin Arabella came to me full of tears and grief: O cousin! said she, hanging upon my arm, I dare not ask you any questions! -About the approach of the herse, I suppose she meant.
I myself was full of grief; and without going farther or speaking, sat down in the hall, in the first chair.
The brother sat down on one hand of me, the sister on the other. Both were silent. The latter in tears.
Mr. Antony Harlowe came to me soon after. His face was overspread with all the appearance of woe. He requested me to walk into the parlour; where, as he said, were all his fellow-mourners.
I attended him in. My cousins James and Arabella followed me.
A perfect concert of grief, as I may say, broke out the moment I entered the parlour.
My cousin Harlowe, the dear creature's Father, as soon as he saw me, said, O cousin, cousin, of all our family, you are the only one, who have nothing to reproach yourself with! -You are a happy man!
The poor Mother bowing, her head to me in speechless grief, sat with her handkerchief held to her eyes, with one hand. The other hand was held by her sister Hervey, between both hers; Mrs. Hervey weeping upon it.
Near the window sat Mr. John Harlowe. His face and his body were turned from the sorrowing company. His eyes were red and swelled.
My cousin Antony, at his re-entering the parlour, went towards Mrs. Harlowe-Don't-dear sister, said he! - Then towards my cousin Harlowe-Don't-dear brother! -Don't thus give way-And without being able to say another word, went to a corner of the parlour, and, wanting himself the comfort he would fain have given, sunk into a chair, and audibly sobbed.
Miss Arabella followed her uncle Antony, as he walked in before me; and seemed as if she would have spoken to the pierced mother some words of comfort. But she was unable to utter them, and got behind her mother's chair; and inclining her face over it on the unhappy lady's shoulder, seemed to claim the consolation that indulgent parent used, but then was unable to afford her.
Young Mr. Harlowe with all his vehemence of spirit, was now subdued. His self-reproaching conscience, no doubt, was the cause of it.
And what, Sir, must their thoughts be, which at that moment, in a manner deprived them all of motion, and turned their speech into sighs and groans! -How to be pitied, how greatly to be pitied, all of them! But how much to be cursed that abhorred Lovelace, who, as it seems, by arts uncommon, and a villainy without example, has been the sole author of a woe so complicated and extensive! - God judge me, as-But I stop-The man is your friend! -He already suffers, you tell me, in his intellect-Restore him heaven to That-If I find the matter come out, as I apprehend it will-Indeed her own hints of his usage of her, as in her Will, and in her first Letter to me, are enough! -Nor think, my beloved cousin, thou darling of my heart! that thy gentle spirit, breathing charity and forgiveness to the vilest of men, shall avail him!
But once more I stop-Forgive me, Sir! -Who could behold such a scene, who could recollect it, in order to describe it (as minutely as you wished me to relate how this unhappy family were affected on this sad occasion) every one of the mourners nearly related to himself, and not be exasperated against the author of all?
As I was the only person (grieved as I was myself, from whom any of them, at that instant, could derive comfort; Let us not, said I, my dear cousin, approaching the inconsolable Mother, give way to a grief, which however just, can now avail us nothing. We hurt ourselves, and cannot recall the dear creature for whom we mourn. Nor would you wish it, if you knew with what assurances of eternal happiness she left the world. -She is happy, Madam! -Depend upon it, she is happy! And comfort yourselves with that assurance.
O cousin, cousin! cried the unhappy mother, withdrawing her hand from her sister Hervey, and pressing mine with it, You know not what a child I have lost! - Then in a lower voice, And how lost! -That it is that makes the loss insupportable.
They all joined in a kind of melancholy chorus, and each accused him and herself, and some of them one another. But the eyes of all in turn, were cast upon my cousin James as the person who had kept up the general resentment against so sweet a creature. While he was hardly able to bear his own remorse: Nor Miss Harlowe hers; She breaking out into words, How tauntingly did I write to her! How barbarously did I insult her! Yet how patiently did she take it! -Who would have thought she had been so near her end! -O brother, brother!-but for you!-But for you!-
Double not upon me, said he, my own woes! -I have every thing before me that has passed! -I thought only to reclaim a dear creature that had erred! I intended not to break her tender heart! -But it was the villainous Lovelace who did that-Not any of us! -Yet, cousin, did she not attribute all to me? -I fear she did! -Tell me only, did she name me, did she speak of me, in her last hours? I hope she, who could forgive the greatest villain on earth, and plead that he may be safe from our vengeance; I hope she could forgive me.
She died blessing you all; and justified rather than condemned your severity to her.
Then they set up another general lamentation. We see, said her father; Enough we see, in her heart-piercing letters to us, what a happy frame she was in a few days before her death: But did it hold to the last? Had she no repinings? Had the dear child no heart-burnings?
None at all! -I never saw, and never shall see, so blessed a departure: And no wonder, for I never heard of such a preparation. Every hour for weeks together was taken up in it. Let this be our comfort-We need only to wish for so happy an end for ourselves and for those who are nearest to our hearts. We may any of us be grieved, for acts of unkindness to her: But had all happened that once she wished for, she could not have made a happier, perhaps not so happy, an end.
Dear soul! and dear sweet soul! the Father, Uncles, Sister, my cousin Hervey cried out all at once in accents of anguish inexpressibly affecting.
We must for ever be disturbed for those acts of unkindness to so sweet a child, cried the unhappy Mother! - Indeed, indeed (softly to her Sister Hervey) I have been too passive, much too passive, in this case! -The temporary quiet I have been so studious all my life to preserve, has cost me everlasting disquiet!-
There she stopt.
Dear Sister! was all Mrs. Hervey could say.
I have done but half my duty to the dearest and most meritorious of children, resumed the sorrowing mother! - Nay, not half! -How have we hardened our hearts against her!-
Again her tears choaked up the passage of her words.
My dearest, dearest Sister! again was all Mrs. Hervey could say.
Would to Heaven, proceeded, exclaiming, the poor mother, I had but once seen her! Then turning to my Cousin James and his Sister-O my Son! O my Arabella! if WE were to receive as little mercy-
And there again she stopt, her tears interrupting her further speech: Every one, all the time, remaining silent; their countenances shewing a grief in their hearts too big for expression.
Now you see, Mr. Belford, that my dearest cousin could be allowed all her merit! -What a dreadful thing is after-reflection upon a conduct so perverse and unnatural?
O this cursed friend of yours, Mr. Belford! This detested Lovelace! -To him, To him is owing-
Pardon me, Sir. I will lay down my pen till I have recovered my temper.
One in the Morning.
In vain, Sir, have I endeavoured to compose myself to rest. You wished me to be very particular, and I cannot help it. This melancholy subject fills my whole mind. I Will proceed, tho' it be midnight.
About six o'clock the herse came to the outward gate. The Parish-church is at some distance; but the wind sitting fair, the afflicted family were struck, just before it came, into a fresh fit of grief, on hearing the funeral bell tolled in a very solemn manner. A respect as it proved, and as they all guessed, paid to the memory of the dear deceased out of officious love, as the herse passed near the church.
Judge, when their grief was so great in expectation of it, what it must be when it arrived.
A servant came in to acquaint us with what its lumbering heavy noise up the paved inner court-yard apprized us of before.
He spoke not. He could not speak. He looked, bowed, and withdrew.
I stept out. No one else could then stir. Her brother, however, soon followed me.
When I came to the door, I beheld a sight very affecting.
You have heard, Sir, how universally my dear cousin was beloved. By the poor and middling sort especially, no young lady was ever so much beloved. And with reason: She was the common patroness of all the honest poor in her neighbourhood.
It is natural for us in every deep and sincere grief to interest all we know in what is so concerning to ourselves. The servants of the family, it seems, had told their friends, and those theirs, that, tho' living, their dear young lady could not be received nor looked upon, her body was permitted to be brought home. The space of time was so confined, that those who knew when she died, must easily guess near the time the herse was to come. A herse, passing thro' country villages, and from London, however slenderly attended (for the chariot, as I have said, waited upon poor Mrs. Norton) takes every one's attention. Nor was it hard to guess whose this must be, tho' not adorned by escutcheons, when the cross-roads to Harlowe-place were taken, as soon as it came within six miles of it: so that the Herse, and the solemn Tolling of the Bell, had drawn together at least fifty of the neighbouring men, women, and children, and some of good appearance. Not a soul of them, it seems, with a dry eye; and each lamenting the death of this admired lady, who, as I am told, never stirred out, but somebody was the better for her.
These, when the coffin was taken out of the herse, crouding about it, hindered, for a few moments, its being carried in; the young people struggling who should bear it; and yet with respectful whisperings, rather than clamorous contention. A mark of veneration I had never before seen paid, upon any occasion, in all my travels, from the under-bred Many, from whom noise is generally inseparable in all their emulations. At last six maidens were permitted to carry it in by the six handles.
The corpse was thus borne, with the most solemn respect, into the hall, and placed for the present upon two stools there. The plates, and emblems, and inscription, set every one gazing upon the Lid, and admiring. The more, when they were told, that all was of her own ordering. They wished to be permitted a sight of the corpse; but rather mentioned this as their wish than their hope. When they had all satisfied their curiosity, and remarked upon the emblems, they dispersed, with blessings upon her memory, and with tears and lamentations; pronouncing her to be happy; and inferring, that were She not so, what would become of Them? While others ran over with repetitions of the good she delighted to do. Nor were there wanting those among them, who heaped curses upon the man who was the author of her fall.
The servants of the family then got about the coffin. They could not before. And that afforded a new scene of sorrow: But a silent one; for they spoke only by their eyes, and by sighs, looking upon the lid, and upon one another, by turns, with hands lifted up. The presence of their young master possibly might awe them, and cause their grief to be expressed only in dumb shew.
As for Mr. James Harlowe (who had accompanied me, but withdrew when he saw the croud) he stood looking upon the lid when the people had left it, with a fixed attention: Yet, I dare say, knew not a symbol or letter upon it at that moment, had the question been asked him. In a profound reverie he stood, his arms folded, his head on one side, and marks of stupefaction imprinted upon every feature.
But when the corpse was carried into the lesser parlour, adjoining to the hall, which she used to call her parlour, and put on a table in the middle of the room, and the Father and Mother, the two Uncles, her Aunt Hervey, and her Sister came in (joining her Brother and me, with trembling feet, and eager woe) the scene was still more affecting. Their sorrow was heightened, no doubt, by the remembrance of their unforgiving severity: And now seeing before them the receptacle that contained the glory of their family, who so lately was driven thence by their indiscreet violence (never, never more to be restored to them!) no wonder that their grief was more than common grief.
They would have with-held the Mother, it seems, from coming in: But when they could not, tho' undetermined before, they all bore her company, led on by an impulse they could not resist. The poor lady but just cast her eye upon the coffin, and then snatched it away, retiring with passionate grief towards the window; yet addressing herself, with clasped hands, as if to her beloved daughter; O my child! my child! cried she; thou pride of my hope! Why was I not permitted to speak pardon and peace to thee! -O forgive thy cruel mother!
Her Son (his heart then softened, as his eyes shewed) besought her to withdraw: And her woman looking in at that moment, he called her to assist him in conducting her lady into the middle parlour: And then returning, met his Father going out at the door, who also had but just cast his eye on the coffin, and yielded to my entreaties to withdraw.
His grief was too deep for utterance, till he saw his son coming in; and then, fetching a heavy groan, Never, said he, was sorrow like my sorrow! -O Son! Son!-in a reproaching accent, his face turned from him.
I attended him thro' the middle parlour, endeavouring to console him. His Lady was there in agonies. She took his eye. He made a motion towards her: O my dear, said he-But turning short, his eyes as full as his heart, he hastened thro' to the great parlour: And when there, he desired me to leave him to himself.
Her uncles and her sister looked and turned away, looked and turned away, very often upon the emblems, in silent sorrow. Mrs. Hervey would have read to them the inscription -These words she did read, Here the wicked cease from troubling: But could read no further. Her tears fell in large drops upon the plate she was contemplating, and yet she was desirous of gratifying a curiosity that mingled impatience with her grief because she could not gratify it, altho' she often wiped her eyes as they flowed.
Judge you, Mr. Belford (for you have great humanity) how I must be affected. Yet was I forced to try to comfort them All.
But here I will close this letter, in order to send it to you in the morning early. Nevertheless, I will begin another, upon supposition that my doleful prolixity will not be disagreeable to you. Indeed I am altogether indisposed for Rest, as I mentioned before. So can do nothing but write. I have also more melancholy scenes to paint. My pen, if I may so say, is untired. These scenes are fresh in my memory: And I myself, perhaps, may owe to you the favour of a reviewal of them, with such other papers as you shall think proper to oblige me with, when heavy grief has given way to milder melancholy.
My servant, in his way to you with this letter, shall call at St. Alban's upon the good woman, that he may inform you how she does. Miss Arabella asked me after her, when I withdrew to my chamber; to which she complaisantly accompanied me. She was much concerned at the bad way we left her in; and said her mother would be more so.
No wonder that the dear departed, who foresaw the remorse that would fall to the lot of this unhappy family, when they came to have the news of her death confirmed to them, was so grieved for their apprehended grief, and endeavoured to comfort them by her posthumous letters. But it was still a greater generosity in her to try to excuse them to me, as she did when we were alone together a few hours before she died; and to aggravate more than (as far as I can find) she ought to have done, the only error she was ever guilty of. The more freely however perhaps (exalted creature!) that I might think the better of her friends, although at her own expence. I am, dear Sir,
Your faithful and obedient Servant,
Wm. Morden.

### v7 LETTER LXXX.

Colonel Morden. In Continuation.
When the unhappy mourners were all retired, I directed the lid of the coffin to be unscrewed, and caused some fresh aromatics and flowers to be put into it.
The corpse was very little altered, notwithstanding the journey. The sweet smile remained.
The maids who brought the flowers were ambitious of strewing them about it: They poured forth fresh lamentations over her; each wishing she had been so happy as to have been allowed to attend her in London. One of them particularly, who is, it seems, my cousin Arabella's personal servant, was more clamorous in her grief than the rest; and the moment she turned her back, all the others allowed she had reason for it. I enquired afterwards about her, and found, that this creature was set over my dear cousin, when she was confined to her chamber by their indiscreet severity.
Good heaven! that they should treat, and suffer thus to be treated, a young lady, who was qualified to give laws to all her family!
When my cousins were told, that the lid was unscrew'd, they press'd in again, all but the mournful Father and Mother, as if by consent. Mrs. Hervey kissed her pale lips. Flower of the world! was all she could say; and gave place to Miss Arabella; who kissing the forehead of her whom she had so cruelly treated, could only say, to my cousin James (looking upon the corpse, and upon him) O Brother! -While he, taking the fair lifeless hand, kissed it, and retreated with precipitation.
Her two Uncles were speechless. They seemed to wait each other's example, whether to look upon the corpse, or not. I ordered the lid to be replaced; and then they pressed forward, as the others again did, to take a last farewell of the casket which so lately contained so rich a jewel.
Then it was that the grief of each found fluenter expression; and the fair corpse was addressed to (with all the tenderness that the sincerest love and warmest admiration could inspire) by each, according to their different degrees of relationship, as if none of them had before looked upon her. She was their very Niece, both uncles said; The injured Saint, her uncle Harlowe; The same smiling Sister, Arabella! -The dear creature! all of them-The same benignity of countenance! The same sweet composure! The same natural dignity-She was questionless happy! That sweet smile betokened her being so; Themselves most unhappy! -And then, once more, the Brother took the lifeless hand, and vowed Revenge upon it, on the cursed author of all this distress.
The unhappy parents proposed to take one last view and farewel of their once darling daughter. The Father was got to the parlour-door, after the inconsolable Mother: But neither of them were able to enter it. The Mother said, She must once more see the child of her heart, or she should never enjoy herself. But they both agreed to refer their melancholy curiosity till the next day; and hand in hand retired inconsolable, and speechless both, their faces overspread with woe, and turned from each other, as unable each to behold the distress of the other.
When all were withdrawn, I retired, and sent for my cousin James, and acquainted him with his sister's request in relation to the discourse to be pronounced at her interrment; telling him, how necessary it was, that the Minister, whoever he were to be, should have the earliest notice given him that the case would admit.
He lamented the death of the reverend Dr. Lewen, who, as he said, was a great admirer of his sister, as she was of him, and would have been the fittest of all men for that office.
He spoke with great asperity of Mr. Brand, upon whose light enquiry after his sister's character in town, he was willing to lay some of the blame due to himself.
Mr. Melvill, Dr. Lewen's assistant, must, he said, be the man; and he praised him for his abilities, his elocution, and unexceptionable manners; and promised to engage him early in the morning.
He called out his Sister, and she was of his opinion. So I left this upon them.
They both, with no little warmth, hinted their disapprobation of you, Sir, for their sister's Executor, on the score of your intimate friendship with the author of her ruin.
You must not resent any thing I shall communicate to you of what they say on this occasion. Depending that you will not, I shall write with the greater freedom.
I told them how much my dear cousin was obliged to your friendship and humanity: The injunctions she had laid you under, and your own inclination to observe them. I said, That you were a man of honour: That you were desirous of consulting me, because you would not willingly give offence to any of them; and that I was very fond of cultivating your favour and correspondence.
They said, There was no need of an Executor out of their family, and they hoped that you, Sir, would relinquish so unnecessary a trust, as they called it. My cousin James declared, that he would write to you as soon as the funeral was over, to desire that you would do so, upon proper assurances that all that the Will prescribed should be performed.
I said, You were a man of resolution: That I thought he would hardly succeed; for that you made a point of honour of it.
I then shewed them their Sister's posthumous Letter to you; in which she confesses her obligations to you, and regard for you, and for your future welfare. You may believe, Sir, they were extremely affected with the perusal of it.
They were surprized, that I had given up to you the proceed of her grandfather's estate, since his death. I told them plainly, that they must thank themselves if any thing disagreeable to them occurred from their sister's devise; deserted and thrown into the hands of strangers, as she had been.
They said, they would report all I had said to their father and mother; adding, That great as their trouble was, they found they had more still to come. But if Mr. Belford were to be the Executor of her Will, contrary to their hopes, they besought me to take the trouble of transacting every thing with you; that a friend of the man, to whom they owed all their calamity, might not appear to them.
They were extremely moved at the text their sister had chosen for the subject of the funeral discourse. I had extracted from the Will that article, supposing it probable, that I might not so soon have an opportunity to shew them the Will itself, as would otherwise have been necessary, on account of the interrment: Which cannot be delayed.
Monday morning between Eight and Nine.
The unhappy family are preparing for a mournful meeting at breakfast. Mr. James Harlowe, who has had as little rest as I, has written to Mr. Melvill, who has promised to draw up a brief Eulogium on the deceased. Miss Howe is expected here by-and-by, to see, for the last time, her beloved friend.
Miss Howe, by her messenger, desires she may not be taken any notice of. She shall not tarry six minutes, was the word. Her desire will be easily granted her.
Her servant, who brought the request, if it were denied, was to return, and meet her; for she was ready to set out in her chariot when he got on horseback.
If he met her not with the refusal, he was to stay here till she came. I am, Sir,
Your faithful humble Servant,
William Morden.

### v7 LETTER LXXXI.

Colonel Morden. In Continuation.
Monday, Afternoon, Sept. 11.
Sir,
We are such bad company here to one another, that it is some relief to retire, and write.
I was summoned to breakfast about half an hour after nine. Slowly did the mournful congress meet. Each, listless and spiritless, took our place, with swollen eyes inquiring, without expecting any tolerable account, how each had rested.
The sorrowing Mother gave for answer, That she should never more know what Rest was.
By the time we were well seated, the bell ringing, the outward gate opening, a chariot rattling over the pavement of the court-yard, put them into emotion.
I left them; and was just time enough to give Miss Howe my hand, as she alighted: Her maid in tears remaining in the chariot.
I think you told me, Sir, you never saw Miss Howe. She is a fine graceful young lady. A fixed-melancholy on her whole aspect, overclouded a vivacity and fire, which, nevertheless, darted now-and-then through the awful gloom. I shall ever respect her for her love to my dear cousin.
Never did I think, said she, as she gave me her hand, to enter more these doors: But, living or dead, my Clarissa brings me after her any-whither!
She entered with me the little parlour. The moment she saw the coffin, she withdrew her hand from mine, and with impatience pushed aside the lid. As impatiently she removed the face-cloth. In a wild air, she clasped her uplifted hands together; and now looked upon the corpse, now up to Heaven, as if appealing her woes to that? Her bosom heaved and flutter'd discernible thro' her handkerchief, and at last she broke silence;-O Sir!-See you not here! -See you not here-the Glory of her Sex? - Thus by the most villainous of yours-Thus-laid low!
O my blessed Friend, said she! -My sweet Companion! -My lovely Monitress!-kissing her lips at every tender invocation. And is this All! -Is it All, of my Clarissa's Story!
Then, after a short pause, and a profound sigh, she turned to me, and then to her breathless friend-But is she, can she, be really dead! -O no! no! -She only sleeps-Awake, my beloved Friend! My sweet clay-cold Friend, awake! Let thy Anna Howe revive thee, my dear creature!-by her warm breath revive thee! And, kissing her again, Let my warm lips animate thy cold ones!
Then, sighing again, as from the bottom of her heart, and with an air, as if disappointed that she answered not, And can such perfection end thus! -And art thou really and indeed flown from thy Anna Howe! -O my unkind Clarissa!
She was silent a few moments, and then, seeming to recover herself, she turned to me-Forgive, forgive, Mr. Morden, this wild frensy! -I am not myself! -I never shall be! -You know not the Excellence, no, not half the Excellence, that is thus laid low!-Repeating, This cannot, surely, be All of my Clarissa's Story!
Again pausing, One tear, my beloved friend, didst thou allow me! -But this dumb sorrow! -O for a tear to ease my full-swoln heart, that is just bursting!-
But why, Sir, why, Mr. Morden, was she sent hither? Why not to me? She has no Father, no Mother, no Relations; no, not one! -They had all renounced her. I was her sympathizing friend-And had not I the best right to my dear creature's remains? -And must Names, without Nature, be preferred to such a Love as mine?
Again she kissed her lips, each cheek, her forehead- and sighed as if her heart would break-
But why, why, said she, was I with-held from seeing my dearest dear friend, before she commenced Angel? - Delaying still, and too easily persuaded to delay, the friendly visit that my heart panted after; what pain will this reflection give me! -O my blessed Friend! Who knows, who knows, had I come in time, what my cordial comfortings might have done for thee!
But-looking round her, as if she apprehended seeing some of the family-One more kiss, my Angel, my Friend, my ever-to-be-regretted lost Companion! And let my fly this hated house, which I never loved but for thy sake! - Adieu, then, my dearest Clarissa! -Thou art happy, I doubt not, as thou assuredst me in thy last letter! -O may we meet, and rejoice together, where no villainous Lovelaces, no hard-hearted Relations, will ever shock our innocence, or ruffle our felicity!
Again she was silent, unable to go, tho' seeming to intend it; struggling, as it were, with her grief, and heaving with anguish: At last, happily, a flood of tears gushed from her eyes-Now! -Now!-said she, shall I-shall I-be easier. But for this kindly relief, my heart would have burst asunder-More, many more tears than these are due to my Clarissa, whose counsel has done for me what mine could not do for her! -But why, looking earnestly upon her, her hands clasped and lifted up-But why do I thus lament the Happy? And that thou art so, is my comfort. It is, it is, my dear creature! kissing her again.
Excuse me, Sir (turning to me, who was as much moved as herself); I loved the dear creature, as never woman loved another. Excuse my frantic grief. How has the Glory of her Sex fallen a victim to villainy, and to hard-heartedness!
Madam, said I, they All have it! -Now indeed they have it.-
And let them have it! -I should bely my Love for the friend of my heart, were I to pity them! -But how unhappy am I (looking upon the Corpse) that I saw her not before these Eyes were shut, before these Lips were for ever closed! -Oh! Sir, you know not the wisdom that continually flowed from these Lips, when she spoke! -Nor what a Friend I have lost!
Then, surveying the Lid, she seemed to take in at once the meaning of the emblems: And this gave her so much fresh grief, that tho' she several times wiped her eyes, she was unable to read the inscription and texts: Turning therefore to me, Favour me, Sir, I pray you, by a line, with the description of these emblems, and with these texts: And if I might be allowed a lock of the dear creature's hair-
I told her, that her Executor would order both; and would also send her a copy of her Will; in which she would find the most grateful remembrances of her Love for her, whom she calls The Sister of her Heart.
Justly, said she, does she call me so; for we had but one heart, but one soul, between us: And now my better half is torn from me-what shall I do?
But looking round her, on a servant's stepping by the door, as if again she had apprehended it was some of the family-Once more, said she, a solemn, an everlasting adieu! -Alas! for me, a solemn, an everlasting adieu!
Then again embracing her face with both her hands, and kissing it, and afterwards the hands of the dear deceased, first one, then the other, she gave me her hand; and, quitting the room with precipitation, rush'd into her chariot; and, when there, with profound sighs, and a fresh burst of tears, unable to speak, she bowed her head to me, and was driven away.
The inconsolable company saw how much I had been moved, on my return to them. Mr. James Harlowe had been telling them what had passed between him and me: And, finding myself unfit for company, and observing, that they broke off talk at my coming-in; I thought it proper to leave them to their consultations.
And here I will put an end to this letter; for indeed, Sir, the very recollection of this affecting scene has left me nearly as unable to proceed, as I was, just after it, to converse with my cousins. I am, Sir, with great truth,
Your most obedient humble Servant,
William Morden.

### v7 LETTER LXXXII.

Colonel Morden. In Continuation.
Tuesday morning, Sept. 12.
The good Mrs. Norton is arrived, a little amended in her spirits: Owing to the very posthumous letters, as I may call them, which you, Mr. Belford, as well as I, apprehended would have had fatal effects upon her.
I cannot but attribute this to the right turn of her mind. It seems she has been inured to afflictions; and has lived in a constant hope of a better life, and, having no acts of unkindness to the dear deceased to reproach herself with, is most considerately resolved to exert her utmost fortitude, in order to comfort the sorrowing Mother.
O Mr. Belford, how does the character of my dear departed cousin rise upon me from every mouth! -Had she been my own child, or my sister! -But do you think, that the man who occasioned this great, this extended ruin- But I forbear.
The Will is not to be looked into, till the funeral rites are performed. Preparations are making for the solemnity; and the servants, as well as principals, of all the branches of the family are put into deep mourning.
I have seen Mr. Melvill. He is a serious and sensible man. I have given him particulars to go upon in the discourse he is to pronounce at the funeral: But had the less need to do this, as I find he is extremely well acquainted with the whole unhappy story; and was a personal admirer of my dear cousin, and a sincere lamenter of her misfortunes and death. The reverend Dr. Lewen, who is but very lately dead, was his particular friend, and had once intended to recommend him to her favour.
I am just returned from attending the afflicted parents, in an effort they made to see the corpse of their beloved child. They had requested my company, and that of the good Mrs. Norton. A last leave, the Mother said, she must take.
An effort, however, it was, and no more. The moment they came in sight of the coffin, before the lid could be put aside, O my dear, said the Father, retreating, I cannot, I find I cannot, bear it! -Had I-Had I-Had I never been hard-hearted! -Then turning round to his Lady, he had but just time to catch her in his arms, and prevent her sinking on the floor. O my dearest life! said he, This is too much! -Too much indeed! -Let us, let us retire. Mrs. Norton, who (attracted by the awful receptacle) had but just left the good Lady, hastened to her-Dear, dear woman, cried the unhappy Parent, flinging her arms about her neck, Bear me, bear me, hence! -O my child! my child! My own Clarissa Harlowe! Thou pride of my life so lately! -Never, never more, must I behold thee!
I supported the unhappy father, Mrs. Norton the sinking mother, into the next parlour. She threw herself on a settee there: He into an elbow-chair by her: The good woman at her feet, her arms clasped round her waist. The two Mothers, as I may call them, of my beloved cousin, thus tenderly engaged! -What a variety of distress in these woeful scenes!
The unhappy father, in endeavouring to comfort his lady, loaded himself. Would to God, my dear, said he, would to God, I had no more to charge myself with, than you have! -You relented! -You would have prevailed upon me to relent!
The greater my fault, said she, when I knew that displeasure was carried too high, to acquiesce, as I did! What a barbarous parent was I, to let two angry children make me forget that I was mother to a third- To such a third!-
Mrs. Norton used arguments and prayers to comfort her -O my dear Norton, answered the unhappy lady, You was the dear creature's more natural Mother! -Would to heaven I had no more to answer for than you have!
Thus the unhappy pair unavailingly recriminated, till my cousin Hervey entered, and, with Mrs. Norton, conducted up to her own chamber the inconsolable Mother. The two Uncles, and Mr. Hervey, came in at the same time, and prevailed upon the afflicted Father to retire with them to his -Both giving up all thoughts of ever seeing more the child, whose death was so deservedly regretted by them.
Time only, Mr. Belford, can combat with advantage such a heavy deprivation as this. Advice will not do, while the loss is recent. Nature will have way given to it (and so it ought) till sorrow has in a manner exhausted itself; and then Reason and Religion will come in seasonably with their powerful aids, to raise the drooping heart.
I see here no face that is the same I saw at my first arrival. Proud and haughty every countenance then, unyielding to intreaty: Now, how greatly are they humbled! -The utmost distress is apparent in every protracted feature, and in every bursting muscle, of each disconsolate mourner. Their eyes, which so lately flashed anger and resentment, now are turned to every one that approaches them, as if imploring pity! -Could ever wilful hard-heartedness be more severely punished?
The following lines of Juvenal are, upon the whole, applicable to this House and Family. I have revolved them many times since Sunday evening:
Humani generis mores tibi nosse volenti
Sufficit una domus: paucos consume dies, &
Dicere te miserum, postquam illinc veneris, aude.
Let me add, That Mrs. Norton has communicated to the family the posthumous letter sent her. This letter affords a foundation for future consolation to them; but at present it has new-pointed their grief, by making them reflect on their cruelty to so excellent a Daughter, Niece, and Sister. I am, dear Sir,
Your faithful humble Servant,
Wm. Morden.

### v7 LETTER LXXXIII.

Colonel Morden. In Continuation.
Thursday Night, Sept. 14.
We are just returned from the solemnization of the last mournful Rite. My cousin James and his Sister, Mr. and Mrs. Hervey, and their daughter, a young Lady whose affection for my departed Cousin shall ever bind me to her; my cousins John and Antony Harlowe, myself, and some other more distant relations of the names of Fuller and Allinson (who to testify their respect to the memory of the dear deceased, had put themselves in mourning, self-invited) attended it.
The Father and Mother would have joined in these last honours, had they been able: But they were both very much indisposed; and continue to be so.
The inconsolable Mother told Mrs. Norton, that the two Mothers of the sweetest Child in the world, ought not, on this occasion, to be separated. She therefore desired her to stay with her.
The whole solemnity was performed with great decency and order. The distance from Harlowe-place to the Church is about half a mile. All the way the corpse was attended by great numbers of people of all conditions.
It was nine when it entered the church. Every corner of which was crowded. Such a profound, such a silent respect did I never see paid at the funeral of princes. An attentive sadness overspread the face of All.
The Eulogy pronounced by Mr. Melvill was a very pathetic one. He wiped his own eyes often; and made every body present still oftener wipe theirs.
The auditors were most particularly affected, when he told them, that the solemn text was her own choice.
He enumerated her fine qualities, naming with honour their late worthy Pastor for his authority.
Every enumerated excellence was witnessed to in different parts of the church-in respectful whispers by different persons, as of their own knowlege, as I have been since informed.
When he pointed to the pew where (doing credit to Religion by her example) she used to sit or kneel, the whole auditory, as one person, turned to the pew with the most respectful solemnity, as if she had been herself there.
When the gentleman attributed condescension and mingled dignity to her, a buzzing approbation was given to the attribute throughout the church; and a poor neat woman under my pew added, 'That she was indeed all graciousness, and would speak to any body.'
Many eyes ran over, when he mentioned her charities, her well-judged charities. And her reward was decreed from every mouth, with interjections from some, and these words from others, 'The poor will dearly miss her.'
The chearful giver, whom God is said to love, was allowed to be her: And a young lady, I am told, said, it was Miss Clarissa Harlowe's care to find out the unhappy, upon a sudden distress, before the sighing heart was overwhelmed by it.
She had a set of poor people, chosen for their remarkable honesty and ineffectual industry. These voluntarily paid their last attendance on their benefactress; and mingling in the church as they could croud near the eyle where the corpse was on Stands, it was the less wonder that her praises from the Preacher met with such general and such grateful whispers of approbation.
Some it seems there were who knowing her unhappy story, remarked upon the dejected looks of the Brother, and the drowned eyes of the Sister; 'O what would they now give, they'd warrant, had they not been so hard-hearted!' -Others pursued, as I may say, the severe Father and unhappy Mother into their chambers at home. -'They answered for their relenting, now, that it was too late! -What must be their grief? -No wonder they could not be present!'
Several expressed their astonishment, as people do every hour, 'that a man could live whom such perfections could not engage to be just to her,' to be humane, I may say. -And who, her rank and fortune considered, could be so disregardful of his own interest, had he had no other motive to be just!-
The good Divine, led by his text, just touched upon the unhappy step that was the cause of her untimely fate. He attributed it to the State of things below, in which there could not be absolute perfection. He very politely touched upon the noble disdain she shewed (tho' earnestly sollicited by a whole splendid family) to join interests with a man, whom she found unworthy of her esteem and confidence; and who courted her with the utmost earnestness to accept of him.
What he most insisted upon was, the happy End she made; and thence drew consolation to her relations, and instruction to the auditory.
In a word, his performance was such as heightened the reputation which he had before in a very eminent degree obtained.
When the corpse was to be carried down into the vault, (a very spacious one, within the church) there was great crouding to see the coffin-lid, and the devices upon it. Particularly two gentlemen, muffled up in cloaks, pressed forward. These it seems were Mr. Mullins and Mr. Wyerley: Both of them professed admirers of my dear cousin.
When they came near the coffin, and cast their eyes upon the lid, 'In that little space, said Mr. Mullins, is included all human excellence!' -And then Mr. Wyerley, unable to contain himself, was forced to quit the church; and we hear is very ill.
It is said, that Mr. Solmes was in a remote part of the church, wrapped round in a horseman's coat: And that he shed tears several times. But I saw him not.
Another gentleman was there incognito, in a pew near the entrance of the vault, who had not been taken notice of, but for his great emotion when he looked over his pew, at the time the coffin was carried down to its last place. This was Miss Howe's worthy Mr. Hickman.
My cousins John and Antony, and their nephew James, chose not to descend into the vault among their departed ancestors.
Miss Harlowe was extremely affected. Her Conscience, as well as her Love, was concerned on the occasion. She would go down with the corpse of her dear, her only Sister, she said: But her Brother would not permit it. And her overwhelmed eye pursued the coffin till she could see no more of it: And then she threw herself on the seat, and was near fainting away.
I accompanied it down, that I might not only satisfy myself, but you, Sir, her Executor, that it was deposited, as she had directed, at the feet of her grandfather.
Mr. Melvill came down, contemplated the lid, and shed a few tears over it. I was so well satisfied with his discourse and behaviour, that I presented him on the solemn spot with a ring of some value; and thanked him for his performance.
And here I left the Remains of my beloved cousin; having bespoken my own place by the side of her coffin.
On my return to Hartlowe-place, I contented myself with sending my compliments to the sorrowing parents, and retired to my chamber. Nor am I ashamed to own, that I could not help giving way to a repeated fit of humanity, as soon as I entered it.
I am, Sir,
Your most faithful and obedient Servant,
Wm. Morden.
P. S. You will have a letter from my cousin James, who hopes to prevail upon you to relinquish the Executorship. It has not my encouragement.

### v7 LETTER LXXXIV.

Mr. Belford, To William Morden, Esq;
Saturday, Sept. 16.
Dear Sir,
I once had thoughts to go down privately, in order, disguised, to see the last solemnity performed. But there was no need to give myself this melancholy trouble, since your last letter to naturally describes all that passed, that I have every scene before my eyes.
You croud me, Sir, methinks, into the silent slow procession -Now with the sacred bier do I enter the awful porch: Now measure I, with solemn paces, the venerable eyle: Now, emulasive of a relationship to her, placed in a new pew to the eye-attracting coffin, do I listen to the moving Eulogy. Now, thro' the buz of gaping, eyeswoln crouds, do I descend into the clammy vault, as a true Executor, to see that part of her Will performed with my own eyes. There, with a soul filled with musing, do I number the surrounding monuments of mortality, and contemplate the present stillness of so many once busy vanities, crouded all into one poor vaulted nook, as if the living grudged room for the corps of those, which when animated, the earth, the air, and the waters, could hardly find room for. Then seeing her placed at the feet of him whose earthly delight she was; and who, as I find, ascribes to the pleasure she gave him, the prolongation of his own life; sighing, and with averted face, I quit the solemn mansion, the symbolic coffin, and, for ever, the glory of her Sex, and ascend with those, who, in a few years, after a very short blaze of life, will fill up other spaces of the same vault, which now (while they mourn only for her, whom they jointly persecuted) they press with their feet.
Nor do your affecting descriptions permit me here to stop: But, ascended, I mingle my tears and my praises with those of the numerous spectators. I accompany the afflicted mourners back to their uncomfortable mansion; and make one in the general concert of unavailing woe; till retiring, as I imagine, as they retire, like them, in reality, I give up to new scenes of solitary and sleepless grief; reflecting upon the perfections I have seen the end of; and having no relief but from an indignation, which makes me approve of the resentments of others against the unhappy man, and those equally unhappy relations of hers, to whom the irreparable loss is owing.
Forgive me, Sir, these reflections; and permit me with This, to send you what you declined receiving till the Funeral was over-
He gives him then an account of the money and effects which he sends him down by this opportunity, for the Legatees at Harlowe-place, and in its neighbourhood; which he desires him to dispose of according to the Will.
He also sends him an account of other steps he has taken in pursuance of the Will; and desires to know, if Mr, Harlowe expects the discharge of the funeral expences from the effects in his hands; and the reimbursement of the sums advanced to the Testatrix since her Grandfather's death.
These expeditious proceedings, says he, will convince Mr. James Harlowe, that I am resolved to see the Will completely executed; and yet, by my manner of doing it, that I desire not to give unnecessary mortifications to the family, since every thing that relates to them shall pass thro' your hands.

### v7 LETTER LXXXV.

Mr. James Harlowe, To John Belford, Esq;
Harlowe-Place, Friday Night, Sept. 15.
Sir,
I hope from the character my worthy cousin Morden gives you, that you will excuse the application I make to you, to oblige a whole family in an affair that much concerns their peace, and cannot equally concern any body else. You will immediately judge, Sir, that This is the Executorship which my Sister has given you the trouble of by her Last Will.
We shall all think ourselves extremely obliged to you, if you please to relinquish this Trust to our own family; These reasons pleading for our expectation of this favour from you:
First, Because she never would have had the thought of troubling you, Sir, if she had believed any of her near relations would have taken it upon themselves.
Secondly, I understand, that she recommends to you in the Will to trust to the honour of any of our family, for the performance of such of the articles as are of a domestic nature. We are any of us, and all of us, if you request it, willing to stake our honours upon this occasion: And all you can wish for, as a man of honour, is, That the Trust be executed.
We are the more concerned, Sir, to wish you to decline this office, because of your short and accidental knowlege of the dear Testatrix, and long and intimate acquaintance with the man to whom she owed her ruin, and we the greatest loss and disappointment (her manifold excellencies considered) that ever befel a family.
You will allow due weight, I dare say, to this plea, if you make our case your own: And so much the readier, when I assure you, that your interfering in this matter so much against our inclinations [Excuse, Sir, my plain-dealing] will very probably occasion an opposition in some points, where otherwise there might be none.
What therefore I propose is, Not that my Father should assume this Trust: He is too much afflicted to undertake it-Nor yet myself-I might be thought too much concerned in interest: But that it may be allowed to devolve upon my two uncles; whose known honour, and whose affection to the dear deceased, nobody ever doubted: And they will treat with you, Sir, thro' my Cousin Morden, as to the points they will undertake to perform.
The trouble you have already had, will well intitle you to the legacy she bequeaths you, together with the reimbursement of all the charges you have been at, and allowance of the legacies you have discharged, altho' you should not have qualified yourself to act as an Executor; as I presume you have not yet done; nor will now do.
Your compliance, Sir, will oblige a family (who have already distress enough upon them, in the circumstance that occasions this application to you; and more particularly, Sir,
Your most humble Servant,
James Harlowe, jun.
I send this by one of my servants, who will attend your dispatch.

### v7 LETTER LXXXVI.

Mr. Belford, To James Harlowe, jun. Esq;
Saturday, Sept. 16.
Sir,
You will excuse my plain-dealing in turn: for I must observe, that if I had not the just opinion I have of the sacred nature of the office I have undertaken, some passages in the letter you have favoured me with, would convince me that I ought not to excuse myself from acting in it.
I need name only one of them. You are pleased to say, That your uncles, if the Trust be relinquished to them, will treat with me, thro' Colonel Morden, as to the points they will undertake to perform.
Permit me, Sir, to say, That it is the duty of an Executor to see every point performed, that can be performed. Nor will I leave the performance of mine to any other persons, especially where a qualifying is so directly intimated, and where all the branches of your family have shewn themselves, with respect to the incomparable Lady, to have but one mind.
You are pleased to urge, that she recommends to me, the leaving to the honour of any of your family such of the articles as are of a Domestic Nature. But admitting this to be so, does it not imply that the other articles are still to obtain my care? -But even these, you will find by the Will, she gives not up; and to That I refer you.
I am sorry for the hints you give of an opposition, where, as you say, there might be none, if I did not interfere. I see not, Sir, why your animosity against a man who cannot be defended, should be carried to such a height against one who never gave you offence: And This only, because he is acquainted with that Man. I will not say, all I might say, on this occasion.
As to the Legacy to myself, I assure you, Sir, that neither my circumstances nor my temper will put me upon being a gainer by the Executorship. I shall take pleasure to tread in the steps of the admirable Testatrix in all I may; and rather will increase than diminish her Poor's Fund.
With regard to the trouble that may attend the Execution of the Trust, I shall not, in honour to her memory, value ten times more than This can give me. I have indeed two other Executorships on my hands; but they sit light upon me. And survivors cannot better or more charitably bestow their time.
I conceive that every article, but that relating to the Poor's Fund, may be performed in two month's time, at furthest.
Occasions of litigation or offence shall not proceed from me. You need only apply to Col. Morden, who shall command me in every thing that the Will allows me to oblige your family in. I do assure you, that I am as unwilling to obtrude myself upon it, as any of it can wish.
I own, that I have not yet proved the Will; nor shall I do it till next week at soonest, that you may have time for amicable objections, if such you think fit to make thro' the Colonel's mediation. But let me observe to you, Sir, 'That an Executor's power, in such instances as I have exercised it, is the same before the Probate, as after it. He can even, without taking that out, commence an action, altho' he cannot declare upon it: And these Acts of Administration make him liable to actions himself.' I am therefore very proper in the steps I have taken in part of the Execution of this sacred Trust; and want not allowance on the occasion.
Permit me to add, That when you have perused the Will, and coolly considered every thing, it is my hope, that you will yourself be of opinion, that there can be no room for dispute or opposition: And that if your family will join to expedite the Execution, it will be the most natural and easy way of shutting up the whole affair, and to have done with a man, so causelesly, as to his own particular, the object of your dislike; as is, Sir,
Your very humble Servant (notwithstanding)
John Belford.
The WILL;
To which the following Preamble, written on a separate paper, was stitched with black silk.
To my Executor.
"I hope I may be excused for expatiating, in divers parts of this solemn last Act, upon subjects of importance. For I have heard of so many instances of confusion and disagreement in families, and so much doubt and difficulty, for want of absolute clearness in the Testaments of departed persons, that I have often concluded (were there to be no other reasons but those which respect the peace of surviving friends) that this Last Act as to its designation and operation, ought not to be the Last in its composition or making; but should be the result of cool deliberation; and (as is more frequently than justly said) of a sound mind and memory; which too seldom are to be met with, but in sound health. All pretences of insanity of mind are likewise prevented, when a testator gives reasons for what he wills: all cavils about words are obviated: the obliged are assured; and They enjoy the benefit for whom the benefit was intended. Hence have I for some time past employed myself in penning down heads of such a disposition; which, as reasons offered, I have altered and added to; so that I never was absolutely destitute of a Will, had I been taken off ever so suddenly. These minutes and imperfect sketches enabled me, as God has graciously given me time and sedateness, to digest them into the form in which they appear."
I Clarissa Harlowe, now, by strange melancholy accidents, lodging in the parish of St. Paul Covent-Garden, being of sound and perfect mind and memory, as I hope these presents, drawn up by myself, and written with my own hand, will testify; do, [this second day of September, in the year of our Lord-- make and publish this my Last Will and Testament, in manner and form following.
In the first place, I desire, that my body may lie unburied three days after my decease, or till the pleasure of my father be known concerning it. But the occasion of my death not admitting of doubt, I will not, on any account, that it be opened; and it is my desire, that it shall not be touched but by those of my own Sex.
I have always earnestly requested, that my body might be deposited in the family vault with those of my ancestors. If it might be granted, I could now wish, that it may be placed at the feet of my dear and honoured grandfather. But as I have, by one very unhappy step, been thought to disgrace my whole lineage, and therefore this last honour may be refused to my corpse; in this case, my desire is, that it may be interred in the church-yard belonging to the parish in which I shall die; and that in the most private manner, between the hours of eleven and twelve at night; attended only by Mrs. Lovick, and Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and their maid-servant.
But it is my desire, that the same fees and dues may be paid which are usually paid for those who are laid in the best ground, as it is called, or even in the Chancel.- And I bequeath five pounds, to be given at the direction of the church-wardens, to twenty poor people the Sunday after my interrment; and This whether I shall be buried here or elsewhere.
I have already given verbal directions, that after I am dead (and laid out in the manner I have ordered) I may be put into my coffin as soon as possible: It is my desire that I may not be unnecessarily exposed to the view of any body; except any of my relations should vouchsafe, for the last time, to look upon me.
And I could wish, if it might be avoided without making ill-will between Mr. Lovelace and my Executor, that the former might not be permitted to see my corpse. But if, as he is a man very uncontroulable, and as I am Nobody's, he insist upon viewing her dead, whom he Once before saw in a manner dead, let his gay curiosity be gratified. Let him behold, and triumph over the wretched Remains of one who has been made a victim to his barbarous perfidy: But let some good person, as by my desire, give him a paper, whilst he is viewing the ghastly spectacle, containing these few words only-"Gay, cruel heart! behold here the Remains of the once ruined, yet now happy, Clarissa Harlowe! -See what thou thyself must quickly be;-and REPENT!-"
Yet to shew, that I die in perfect charity with all the world, I do most sincerely forgive Mr. Lovelace the wrongs he has done me.
If my father can pardon the error of his unworthy child, so far as to suffer her corpse to be deposited at the feet of her grandfather, as above requested, I could wish (my misfortunes being so notorious) that a short discourse might be pronounced over my remains before they be interred. The subject of the discourse I shall determine before I conclude this writing.
So much written about what deserves not the least consideration, and about what will be Nothing when this writing comes to be opened and read, will be excused when my present unhappy circumstances and absence from all my natural friends are considered.
And NOW, with regard to the worldly matters which I shall die possessed of, as well as to those which of right appertain to me, either by the Will of my said grandfather, or otherwise; Thus do I dispose of them.
In the first place, I give and bequeath all the real estates in or to which I have any claim or title by the said Will, to my ever-honoured father James Harlowe, Esq; and that rather than to my brother and sister, to whom I had once thoughts of devising them, because, if they survive my father, those estates will assuredly vest in them, or one of them, by virtue of his favour and indulgence, as the circumstances of things with regard to marriage-settlements, or otherwise, may require; or, as they may respectively merit by the continuance of their duty.
The house late my grandfather's, called The Grove, and by him, in honour of me, and of some of my voluntary employments, my dairy-house, and the furniture thereof as it now stands (the pictures and large iron chest of old plate excepted) I also bequeath to my said father; only begging it as a favour, that he will be pleased to permit my dear Mrs. Norton to pass the remainder of her days in that house; and to have and enjoy the apartments in it known by the name of The housekeeper's apartments, with the furniture in them; and which (plain and neat) was bought for me by my grandfather, who delighted to call me his housekeeper; and which therefore in his life-time I used as such: The office to go with the apartments. And I am the more earnest in this recommendation, as I had once thought to have been very happy there with the good woman; and because I think her prudent management will be as beneficial to my father, as his favour can be convenient to her.
But with regard to what has accrued from that estate, since my grandfather's death, and to the sum of nine hundred and seventy pounds, which proved to be the moiety of the money that my said grandfather had by him at his death, and which moiety he bequeathed to me for my sole and separate use [as he did the other moiety, in like manner, to my sister,] and which sum, (that I might convince my brother and sister, that I wished not for an independence upon my father's pleasure) I gave into my father's hands, together with the management and produce of the whole estate devised to me--These sums, however considerable when put together, I hope I may be allowed to dispose of absolutely, as my Love and my Gratitude (not confined wholly to my own family, which is very wealthy in all its branches) may warrant: And which therefore I shall dispose of in the manner hereafter mentioned. But it is my will, and express direction, that my father's account of the above-mentioned produce may be taken and established absolutely (and without contravention or question) as he shall be pleased to give it to my cousin Morden, or to whom else he shall choose to give it; so as that the said account be not subject to litigation, or to the controul of my Executor, or any other person.
My father, of his love and bounty, was pleased to allow me the same quarterly sums that he allowed my sister for apparel and other requisites; and (pleased with me then) used to say, that those sums should not be deducted from the estate and effects bequeathed to me by my grandfather: But having mortally offended him (as I fear it may be said) by one unhappy step, it may be expected, that he will reimburse himself those sums-It is therefore my will and direction, that he shall be allowed to pay and satisfy himself for all such quarterly or other sums, which he was so good as to advance me from the time of my grandfather's death; and that his account of such sums shall likewise be taken without questioning: the money, however, which I left behind me in my escritoire, being to be taken in part of those disbursements.
My grandfather, who, in his goodness and favour to me, knew no bounds, was pleased to bequeath to me all the family pictures at his late house, some of which are very masterly performances; with command, that if I died unmarried, or if married and had no descendents, they should then go to that son of his (if more than one should be then living) whom I should think would set most value by them. Now, as I know that my honoured uncle, John Harlowe, Esq; was pleased to express some concern that they were not left to him, as eldest son; and as he has a gallery where they may be placed to advantage: and as I have reason to believe, that he will bequeath them to my father, if he survive him; who, no doubt, will leave them to my brother; I therefore bequeath all the said family pictures to my said uncle John Harlowe. In these pictures, however, I include not one of my own, drawn when I was about fourteen years of age; which I shall hereafter in another article bequeath.
My said honoured grandfather having a great fondness for the old family plate, which he would never permit to be changed, having lived, as he used to say, to see a great deal of it come into request again in the revolution of fashions; and having left the same to me, with a command to keep it intire; and with power at my death to bequeath it to whomsoever I pleased that I thought would forward his desire; which was, as he expresses it, that it should be kept to the end of time: this family plate, which is deposited in a large iron chest, in the strong room at his late dwelling-house, I bequeath intire to my honoured uncle Antony Harlowe, Esq; with the same injunctions which were laid on me; not doubting but he will confirm and strengthen them by his own last will.
I bequeath to my ever-valued friend Mrs. Judith Norton, to whose piety and care, seconding the piety and care of my ever-honoured and excellent mother, I owe, morally speaking, the qualifications, which, for Eighteen years of my life, made me beloved and respected, the full sum of six hundred pounds, to be paid her within three months after my death.
I bequeath also to the same good woman thirty guineas, for mourning for her and for her son my foster-brother.
To Mrs. Dorothy Hervey, the only sister of my honoured mother, I bequeath the sum of fifty guineas, for a ring; and I beg of her to accept of my thankful acknowlegements for all her goodness to me from my infancy; and particularly for her patience with me, in the several altercations that happened between my brother and sister, and me, before my unhappy departure from Harlowe-place.
To my kind and much-valued cousin Miss Dolly Hervey, daughter of my aunt Hervey, I bequeath my watch and equipage, and my best Mechlin and Brussels head-dresses and ruffles; also my gown and petticoat of flowered silver of my own work; which having been made up but a few days before I was confined to my chamber, I never wore.
To the same young lady I bequeath likewise my harpsichord, my chamber-organ, and all my music-books.
As my Sister has a very pretty library; and as my beloved Miss Howe has also her late father's, as well as her own, I bequeath all my books in general, with the cases they are in, to my said cousin Dolly Hervey, As they are not ill-chosen for a woman's library, I know that she will take the greater pleasure in them (when her friendly grief is mellowed by time into a remembrance more sweet than painful) because they were mine; and because there are observations in many of them of my own writing; and some very judicious ones, written by the truly reverend Dr. Lewen.
I also bequeath to the same young lady twenty-five guineas for a ring, to be worn in remembrance of her true friend.
If I live not to see my worthy cousin William Morden, Esq; I desire my humble and grateful thanks may be given to him for his favours and goodness to me; and particularly for his endeavours to reconcile my other friends to me, at a time when I was doubtful whether he would forgive me himself. As he is in great circumstances, I will only beg of him to accept of two or three trifles, in remembrance of a kinswoman who always honoured him as much as he loved her. Particularly, of that piece of flowers which my uncle Robert, his father, was very earnest to obtain, in order to carry it abroad with him.
I desire him likewise to accept of the little miniature picture set in gold, which his worthy father made me sit for to the famous Italian master whom he brought over with him; and which he presented to me, that I might bestow it, as he was pleased to say, upon the man whom one day I should be most inclined to favour.
To the same gentleman I also bequeath my rose diamond ring, which was a present from his good father to me; and will be the more valuable to him on that account.
I humbly request Mrs. Annabella Howe, the mother of my dear Miss Howe, to accept of my respectful thanks for all her favours and goodness to me, when I was so frequently a visiter to her beloved daughter; and of a ring of twenty-five guineas price.
My picture at whole length, which is in my late grandfather's closet, (excepted in an article above from the family pictures) drawn when I was near fourteen years of age; about which time my dear Miss Howe and I began to know, to distinguish, and to love one another-so dearly-I cannot express how dearly-I bequeath to that sister of my heart: of whose friendship, as well in adversity as prosperity, when I was deprived of all other comfort and comforters, I have had such instances, as that our Love can only be exceeded in that State of Perfection, in which I hope to rejoice with her hereafter, to all Eternity.
I bequeath also to the same dear friend my best diamond ring, which is in the private drawer of my escritoire, with other jewels. As also all my finished and framed pieces of needle-work; the flower-piece excepted, which I have already bequeathed to my cousin Morden.
These pieces have all been taken down, as I have heard; and my relations will have no heart to put them up again: but if my good mother chooses to keep back any one piece (the above capital piece, as it is called, excepted) not knowing but some time hence she may bear the sight of it; I except that also from this general bequest; and direct it to be presented to her.
My whole-length picture in the Vandyke taste, that used to hang in my own parlour, as I was permitted to call it, I bequeath to my aunt Hervey, except my mother shall think fit to keep it herself.
I bequeath to the worthy Charles Hickman, Esq; the locket with the minature picture, which I have constantly worn, and shall continue to wear near my heart till the approach of my last hour, of the lady whom he best loves. It must be the most acceptable present that can be made him, next to the hand of the dear original. And O my dear Miss Howe, let it not be long before you permit his claim to the latter -for indeed you know not the value of a virtuous mind in that Sex; and how preferable such a mind is to one distinguished by the more dazling flights of unruly wit; altho' the latter were to be joined by that specious outward appearance which is too-too often permitted to attract the hasty eye, and susceptible heart.
I make it my earnest request to my dear Miss Howe, that she will not put herself into mourning for me. But I desire her acceptance of a ring with my hair; and that Mr. Hickman will also accept of the like; each of the value of fifteen guineas.
I bequeath to Lady Betty Lawrance, and to her sister Lady Sarah Sadleir, and to the right honourable Lord M. and to their worthy nieces Miss Charlotte and Miss Martha Montague, each an enamelled ring, with a cypher Cl. H. with my hair in crystal, and round the inside of each, the day, month, and year of my death: Each ring, with brilliants, to cost twenty guineas. And this as a small token of the grateful sense I have of the honour of their good opinions and kind wishes in my favour; and of their truly noble offer to me of a very considerable annual provision, when they apprehended me to be intirely destitute of any.
To the reverend and learned doctor Arthur Lewen, by whose instructions I have been equally delighted and benefited, I bequeath twenty guineas for a Ring. If it should please God to call him to Himself, before he can receive this small bequest, it is my will, that his worthy daughter may have the benefit of it.
In token of the grateful sense I have of the civilities paid me by Mrs. and Miss Howe's domestics, from time to time in my visits there, I bequeath thirty guineas to be divided among them, as their dear young mistress shall think proper.
To each of my worthy companions and friends Miss Biddy Lloyd, Miss Fanny Alston, Miss Rachel Biddulph, and Miss Cartwright Campbell, I bequeath five guineas for a ring.
To my late maid-servant Hannah Burton, an honest, faithful creature, who loved me, reverenced my mother, and respected my sister, and never sought to do any thing unbecoming of her character, I bequeath the sum of fifty pounds, to be paid within one month after my decease, she labouring under ill health: And if that ill health continue, I commend her for farther assistance to my good Mrs. Norton, to be put upon my Poor's fund, hereafter to be mentioned.
To the Coachman, Groom, and Two Footmen, and Five Maids at Harlowe-place, I bequeath ten pounds each; To the Helper five pounds.
To my Sister's maid Betty Barnes, I bequeath ten pounds, to shew that I resent not former disobligations; which I believe were owing more to the insolence of office, and to natural pertness, than to personal ill-will.
All my wearing apparel, of whatever sort, that I have not been obliged to part with, or which is not already bequeathed, (my linen excepted) I desire Mrs. Norton will accept of.
The trunks and boxes in which my cloaths are sealed up, I desire may not be opened, but in presence of Mrs. Norton (or of some one deputed by her) and of Mrs. Lovick.
To the worthy Mrs. Lovick abovementioned, from whom I have received great civilities, and even maternal kindnesses; and to Mrs. Smith (with whom I lodge) from whom also I have received great kindnesses; I bequeath all my linen, and all my unfold laces; to be divided equally between them, as they shall agree; or, in case of disagreement, the same to be sold, and the money arising to be equally shared by them.
And I bequeath to the same two good women, as a further token of my thankful acknowlegements of their kind love and compassionate concern for me, the sum of twenty guineas each.
To Mr. Smith, the husband of Mrs. Smith above-named, I bequeath the sum of ten guineas, in acknowlegement of his civilities to me.
To Sarah the honest maid-servant of Mrs. Smith, to whom (having no servant of my own) I have been troublesome, I bequeath five guineas; and ten guineas more, in lieu of a suit of my wearing-apparel, which once, with some linen, I thought of leaving to her. With this she may purchase what may be more suitable to her liking and degree.
To the honest and careful widow Ann Shelburne, my nurse, over and above her wages, and the little customary perquisites that may belong to her, I bequeath the sum of ten guineas. Hers is a careful, and (to persons of such humanity and tenderness) a melancholy employment, attended in the latter part of life with great watching and fatigue, which is hardly ever enough considered.
The few books I have at my present lodgings, I desire Mrs. Lovick to accept of; and that she be permitted, if she please, to take a copy of my book of meditations, as I used to call it; being extracts from the best of books; which she seemed to approve of, although suited particularly to my own case. As for the book itself, perhaps my good Mrs. Norton will be glad to have it, as it is written all with my own hand.
In the middle drawer of my escritoire at Harlowe-place, are many letters and copies of letters, put up according to their dates, which I have written or received in a course of years (ever since I learned to write) from and to my grandfather, my father and mother, my uncles, my brother and sister, on occasional little absences; my late uncle Morden, my cousin Morden; Mrs. Norton, and Miss Howe, and other of my companions and friends before my confinement at my Father's: as also from the three reverend gentlemen, Dr. Blome, Mr. Arnold, and Mr. Tompkins, now with God; and the very reverend Dr. Lewen, on serious subjects. As these letters exhibit a correspondence that no young person of my sex need to be ashamed of, allowing for the time of life when mine were written; and as many excellent things are contained in those written to me; and as Miss Howe, to whom most of them have been communicated, wished formerly to have them, if she survived me: for these reasons, I bequeath them to my said dear friend Miss Anna Howe; and the rather, as she had for some years past a very considerable share in the correspondence.
I do hereby make, constitute and ordain, John Belford, of Edgworth in the county of Middlesex, Esq; the sole Executor of this my Last Will and Testament; having previously obtained his leave so to do. I have given the reasons which induced me to ask this gentleman to take upon him this trouble, to Miss Howe. I therefore refer to her on this subject.
But I do most earnestly beg of him the said Mr. Belford, that, in the execution of this trust, he will (as he has repeatedly promised) studiously endeavour to promote peace with, and suppress resentments in every one; so as that all farther mischiefs may be prevented, as well from as to his friend. And in order to this, I beseech him to cultivate the friendship of my worthy cousin Morden; who, as I presume to hope (when he understands it to be my dying request) will give him his advice and assistance in every article where it may be necessary; and who will perhaps be so good as to interpose with my relations, if any difficulty should arise about carrying any of the articles of this my Last Will into execution, and to soften them into the wished-for condescension: -For it is my earnest request to Mr. Belford, that he will not seek by Law, or by any sort of violence, either by word or deed, to extort the performance from them. If there be any articles of a merely domestic nature, that my relations shall think unfit to be carried into execution; such articles I leave intirely to my said cousin Morden and Mr. Belford to vary, or totally dispense with, as they shall agree upon the matter; or, if they two differ in opinion, they will be pleased to be determined by a third person, to be chosen by them both.
Having been pressed by Miss Howe and her mother, to collect the particulars of my sad story, and given expectation that I would, in order to do my character justice with all my friends and companions: but not having time before me for the painful task, it has been a pleasure to me to find, by extracts kindly communicated to me by my said Executor, that I may safely trust my fame to the justice done me by Mr. Lovelace, in his letters to him my said Executor. And as Mr. Belford has engaged to contribute what is in his power towards a compilement to be made of all that relates to my story, and knows my whole mind in this respect; it is my desire, that he will cause two copies to be made of this collection; one to remain with Miss Howe, the other with himself; and that he will shew or lend his copy, if required, to my aunt Hervey, for the satisfaction of any of my family; but under such restrictions as the said Mr. Belford shall think fit to impose; that neither any other person's safety may be endangered, nor his own honour suffer, by the communication.
I bequeath to my said Executor, the sum of one hundred guineas, as a grateful tho' insufficient acknowlegement of the trouble he will be at in the execution of the trust he has so kindly undertaken. I desire him likewise to accept of twenty guineas for a ring. And that he will reimburse himself for all the charges and expences which he shall be at in the execution of this trust.
In the worthy Dr. H. I have found a physician, a father and a friend, I beg of him, as a testimony of my gratitude, to accept of twenty guineas for a ring.
I have the same obligations to the kind and skilful Mr. Goddard, who attended me as my apothecary. His very moderate bill I have discharged down to yesterday. I have always thought it incumbent upon testators to shorten all they can the trouble of their executors. I know I under-rate the value of Mr. Goddard's attendances, when over and above what may accrue from yesterday, to the hour that will finish all, I desire fifteen guineas for a ring may be presented to him.
To the reverend Mr. -- who frequently attended me and prayed by me in my last stages, I also bequeath fifteen guineas for a ring.
There are a set of honest indigent people, whom I used to call my poor, and to whom Mrs. Norton conveys relief each month, or at shorter periods, in proportion to their necessities, from a sum I deposited in her hands, and from time to time recruited, as means accrued to me; but now nearly, if not wholly expended: Now, that my fault may be as little aggravated as possible by the sufferings of the worthy people whom Heaven gave me a heart to relieve; and as the produce of my Grandfather's estate (including the moiety of the sums he had by him, and was pleased to give me at his death, as above-mentioned) together with what I shall further appropriate to the same use in the subsequent articles, will, as I hope, more than answer all my legacies and bequests; it is my will and desire, that the remainder, be it little or much, shall become a fund to be appropriated, and I hereby direct, that it be appropriated, to the like purposes with the sums which I put into Mrs. Norton's hands, as aforesaid-And this under the direction and management of the said Mrs. Norton, who knows my whole mind in this particular. And in case of her death, or of her desire to be acquitted of the management thereof; it is my earnest request to my dear Miss Howe, that she will take it upon herself: and at her own death, that she will transfer what shall remain undisposed of at the time, to such persons, and with such limitations, restrictions and provisoes, as she shall think will best answer my intention. For, as to the management and distribution of all or any part of it, while in Mrs. Norton's hands or her own, I will, that it be intirely discretional, and without account, either to my Executor or any other person.
Altho' Mrs. Norton, as I have hinted, knows my whole mind in this respect; yet it may be proper to mention, in this last solemn Act, that my intention is, that this fund be intirely set apart and appropriated to relieve temporarily, from the interest thereof (as I dare say it will be put out to the best advantage) or even from the principal, if need be, the honest, industrious, labouring poor only; when sickness, lameness, unforeseen losses, or other accidents disable them from following their lawful callings; or to assist such honest people of large families as shall have a child of good inclinations to put out to service, trade or husbandry.
It has always been a rule with me in my little donations, to endeavour to aid and set forward the sober and industrious poor. Small helps, if seasonably afforded, will do for such; and so the fund may be of more extensive benefit: an ocean of wealth will not be sufficient for the idle and dissolute: whom, therefore, since they will be always in want, it will be no charity to relieve, if worthier creatures shall by that means be deprived of such assistance as may set the wheels of their industry going, and put them in a sphere of useful action.
But it is my express will and direction, that let this fund come out to be ever so considerable, it shall be applied only in support of the temporary exigencies of the persons I have described; and that no one family or person receive from it, at one time, or in one year, more than the sum of twenty pounds.
It is my will and desire, that the set of jewels which was my grandmother's, and presented to me soon after her death by my grandfather, be valued; and the worth of them paid to my Executor, if any of my family choose to have them; or otherwise, that they be sold, and go to the augmentation of my poor's fund. -But if they may be deemed an equivalent for the sums my father was pleased to advance to me since the death of my grandfather, I desire, that they may be given up to him.
I presume, that the diamond necklace, solitaire, and buckles, which were properly my own, presented by my mother's uncle Sir Josias Brookland, will not be purchased by any one of my family, for a too obvious reason: in this case I desire, that they may be sent to my Executor; and that he will dispose of them to the best advantage; and apply the money to the uses of my will.
In the beginning of this tedious writing, I referred to the latter part of it, the naming of the subject of the discourse which I wished might be delivered at my funeral, if permitted to be interred with my ancestors: I think the following will be suitable to my case. I hope the alteration of the words her and she, for him and her may be allowable.
"Let not her that is deceived trust in vanity; for vanity shall be her recompence. She shall be accomplished before her time; and her branch shall not be green. She shall shake off her unripe grape as the vine, and shall cast off her flower as the blighted olive.'
But if I am to be interred in town, let only the usual Burial-service be read over my corpse.
If my body be permitted to be carried down, I bequeath ten pounds to be given to the poor of the parish, at the discretion of the church-wardens, within a fortnight after my interrment.
If any necessary matter be omitted in this my Will; or if any thing appear doubtful or contradictory, as possibly may be the case; since, besides my inexperience in these matters, I am now at this time very weak and ill; having put off the finishing hand a little too long, in hopes of obtaining the last forgiveness of my honoured friends; in which case I should have acknowleged the favour with a suitable warmth of duty, and filled up some blanks which I left to the very last, in a more agreeable manner to myself, than now I have been enabled to do- In case of such omissions and imperfections, I desire that my cousin Morden will be so good as to join with Mr. Belford in considering them, and in comparing them with what I have more explicitly written; and if, after that, any doubt remain, that they will be pleased to apply to Miss Howe, who knows my whole heart: And I desire that their construction may be established: And I hereby establish it, provided it be unanimous, and direct it to be put in force, as if I had so written and determined myself.
And Now, O my blessed Redeemer, do I, with a lively faith, humbly lay hold of Thy meritorious Death and Sufferings; hoping to be washed clean in Thy precious Blood from all my sins: In the bare hope of the happy consequences of which, how light do those sufferings seem (grievous as they were at the time) which I confidently trust will be a means, by Thy Grace, to work out for me a more exceeding and eternal weight of glory!
Clarissa Harlowe.
Signed, sealed, published, and declared, the day and year above-written, by the said Clarissa Harlowe, as her Last Will and Testament; contained in seven sheets of paper, all written with her own hand, and every sheet signed and sealed by herself, in the presence of Us,
John Williams,
Arthur Bedall,
Elizabeth Swanton.

### v7 LETTER LXXXVII.

Colonel Morden, To John Belford, Esq;
Sat. Sept. 16.
I have been employed in a most melancholy task. In reading the Will of the dear deceased.
The unhappy Mother and Mrs. Norton chose to be absent on the affecting occasion. But Mrs. Harlowe made it her earnest request, that every article of it should be fulfilled.
They were all extremely touched with the preamble.
The first words of the Will-'I Clarissa Harlowe, now by strange melancholy accidents, lodging,' &c. drew tears from some, sighs from all.
The directions for her funeral, in case she were or were not permitted to be carried down; the mention of her orders having been given for the manner of her being laid out, and the presence of mind so visible throughout the whole, obtained their admiration, expressed by hands and eyes lifted up, and by falling tears.
When I read the direction, 'That her body was not to be viewed, except any of her relations should vouchsafe for the last time to look upon her;' they turned away, and turned to me, three or four times alternately. Mrs. Hervey and Miss Arabella sobbed; the Uncles wiped their eyes; the Brother looked down; the Father wrung his hands.
I was obliged to stop at the words, 'That she was No-body's.'
But when I came to the address to be made to the accursed man, 'if he were not to be diverted from seeing her dead, whom once before he had seen in a manner dead'-execration, and either vows or wishes of revenge, filled every mouth.
These were still more fervently renewed, when they came to hear read her forgiveness of even this man.
You remember, Sir, on our first reading of the Will in town, the observations I made on the foul lay which it is evident the excellent creature met with from this abandoned man, and what I said upon the occasion. I am not used to repeat things of that nature.
The dear creature's noble contempt of the Nothing, as she as nobly calls it, about which she had been giving such particular directions, to wit, her Body; and her apologizing for the particularity of those directions from the circumstances she was in-had the same, and as strong an effect upon me, as when I first read the animated paragraph; and, pointed by my eye (by turns cast upon them all) affected them all.
When the article was read which bequeathed to the father the grandfather's estate, and the reason assigned for it (so generous and so dutiful) the father could sit no longer, but withdrew, wiping his eyes, and lifting up his hands at Mr. James Harlowe; who arose to attend him to the door, as Arabella likewise did-All he could say-O Son! Son!-O Girl! Girl!-as if he reproached them for the parts they had acted, and put him upon acting.
But yet, on some occasions, this Brother and Sister shewed themselves to be true Will-disputants.
Let tongue and eyes express what they will, Mr. Belford, the reading of a Will, where a person dies worth anything considerable, generally affords a true test of love to the deceased.
The cloaths, the thirty guineas for mourning to Mrs. Norton, with the recommendation of the good woman for housekeeper at The Grove, were thought sufficient, had the article of 600l. which was called monstrous, been omitted. Some other passages in the Will were called flights, and such whimsies as distinguish people of imagination from those of judgment.
My cousin Dolly Hervey was grudged the Library. Miss Harlowe said, That as she and her sister never bought the same books, she would take that to herself, and would make it up to her cousin Dolly one way or other.
I intend, Mr. Belford, to save you the trouble of interposing - The Library shall be my cousin Dolly's.
Mrs. Hervey could hardly keep her seat. On this occasion, however, she only said, That her late dear and ever dear niece, was too good to her and hers. But, at another time, she declared, with tears, that she could not forgive herself for a letter she wrote (looking at Miss Arabella, whom, it seems, unknown to any-body, she had consulted before she wrote it) and which, she said, must have wounded a spirit, that now, she saw, had been too deeply wounded before.
O my aunt, said Arabella, no more of that! -Who would have thought that the dear creature had been such a penitent?
Mr. John and Mr. Antony Harlowe were so much affected with the articles in their favour (bequeathed to them without a word or hint of reproach or recrimination) that they broke out into self accusations; and lamented, that their sweet niece, as they called her, was now got above all grateful acknowlegement and returns.
Indeed, the mutual upbraidings and grief of all present, upon those articles in which every-one was remembered for good, so often interrupted me, that the reading took up above six hours. But curses upon the accursed man were a refuge to which they often resorted, to exonerate themselves.
How wounding a thing, Mr. Belford, is a generous and well-distinguished forgiveness! What Revenge can be more effectual and more noble, were Revenge intended, and were it wished to strike remorse into a guilty or ingrateful heart! But my dear cousin's motives were all Duty and Love. She seems indeed to have been, as much as mortal could be, Love itself. Love sublimed by a purity, by a true delicacy, that hardly any woman before her could boast of. O Mr. Belford, what an Example would she have given in every station of life (as Wife, Mother, Mistress, Friend, had her lot fallen upon a man blessed with a mind like her own!
The 600l. bequeathed to Mrs. Norton, the Library to Miss Hervey, and the Remembrances to Miss Howe, were not the only articles grudged. Yet to what purpose did they regret the pecuniary bequests, when the Poors fund, and not themselves, would have had the benefit, had not those legacies been bequeathed?
But enough passed to convince me, that my cousin was absolutely right in her choice of an Executor out of the family. Had she chosen one in it, I dare say, that her Will would have been no more regarded than if it had been the Will of a dead King; than that of Louis XIV. in particular; so flagrantly broken thro' by his nephew the Duke of Orleans before he was cold. The only will of that Monarch perhaps which was ever disputed.
But little does Mr. James Harlowe think, that while he is grasping at hundreds, he will most probably lose thousands, if he be my survivor. A man of a spirit so selfish and narrow, shall not be my heir.
You will better conceive, Mr. Belford, than I can express, how much they were touched at the hint, that the dear creature had been obliged to part with some of her cloaths.
Silent reproach seized every one of them, when I came to the passage where she mentions, that she deferred filling up some blanks, in hopes of receiving their last blessing and forgiveness.
I will only add, that they could not bear to hear read the concluding part, so solemnly addressed to her Redeemer. They all arose from their seats, and crouded out of the apartment we were in. And then, as I afterwards found, separated, in order to seek that consolation in solitary retirement, which, tho' they could not hope for from their own reflections, yet, at the time, they had less reason to expect in each other's company. I am, Sir,
Your faithful and obedient Servant,
Wm. Morden.

### v7 LETTER LXXXV.

Mr. Belford, To the Right Honourable Lord M.
London, Sept. 14.
My Lord,
I am very apprehensive, that the affair between Mr. Lovelace and the late excellent Miss Clarissa Harlowe will be attended with further bad consequences, notwithstanding her dying injunctions to the contrary. I would therefore humbly propose, that your Lordship and his other relations will forward the purpose your kinsman lately had to go abroad; where I hope he will stay till all is blown over. But as he will not stir, if he know the true motives of your wishes, the avowed inducement, as I hinted once to Mr. Mowbray, may be such as respects his own health both of person and mind. To Mr. Mowbray and Mr. Tourville all countries are alike; and they perhaps will accompany him.
I am glad to hear that he is in a way of recovery: But this the rather induces me to press the matter. And I think no time should be lost.
Your Lordship has heard, that I have the honour to be the Executor of this admirable lady's last Will. I transcribe from it the following paragraph.
He then transcribes the article which so gratefully mentions this Nobleman, and the Ladies of his family, in relation to the rings she bequeaths them, about which he desires their commands.

### v7 LETTER LXXXVI.

Miss Montague, To John Belford, Esq;
M. Hall, Friday, Sept. 15.
Sir,
My Lord having the gout in his right-hand, his Lordship, and Lady Sarah, and Lady Betty, have commanded me to inform you, that before your letter came Mr. Lovelace was preparing for a foreign tour. We shall endeavour to hasten him away on the motives you suggest.
We are all extremely affected with the dear lady's death. Lady Betty and Lady Sarah have been indisposed ever since they heard of it. They had pleased themselves, as had my sister and self, with the hopes of cultivating her acquaintance and friendship after he was gone abroad, upon her own terms. Her kind remembrance of each of us has renewed, tho' it could not heighten, our regrets for so irreparable a loss. We shall order Mr. Finch, our goldsmith, to wait on you. He has our directions about the rings. They will be long, long worn in memory of the dear testatrix.
Every-body is assured, that you will do all in your power to prevent farther ill consequences from this melancholy affair. My Lord desires his compliments to you. I am, Sir,
Your humble Servant, Ch. Montague.
This collection having run into a much greater length than was wished, it is thought proper to omit several Letters that passed between Colonel Morden, Miss Howe, Mr. Belford, and Mr. Hickman, in relation to the execution of the Lady's Will, &c.
It is however necessary to observe on this subject, That the unhappy mother, being supported by the two uncles, influenced the afflicted father to over-rule all his son's objections, and to direct a literal observation of the Will; and at the same time to give up all the sums which he was impowered by it to reimburse himself; as also to take upon himself to defray the funeral expences.
Mr. Belford so much obliged Miss Howe by his steadiness, equity, and dispatch, and by his readiness to contribute to the directed collection, that she voluntarily entered into a correspondence with him, as the representative of her beloved friend. In the course of which, he communicated to her (in confidence) the Letters which passed between him and Mr. Lovelace, and, by Colonel Morden's consent, those which passed between that gentleman and himself.
He sent with the first parcel of letters which he had transcribed out of short-hand for Miss Howe, a letter to Mr. Hickman, dated the 16th of September; in which he expresses himself as follows:
'But I ought, Sir, in this parcel to have kept out one letter. It is that which relates to the interview between yourself and Mr. Lovelace, at Mr. Dormer's. In which Mr. Lovelace treats you with an air of levity, which neither your person, your character, nor your commission, deserved; but which was his usual way of treating every one whose business he was not pleased with. I hope, Sir, you have too much greatness of mind, to be disturbed at this letter, should Miss Howe communicate it to you; and the rather, as it is impossible that you should suffer with her on that account.' He then excuses Mr. Lovelace, as a good-natured man, with all his faults; and gives instances of his still greater freedoms with himself.
To this Mr. Hickman answers, in his letter of the 18th,
'As to Mr. Lovelace's treatment of me in the letter you are pleased to mention, I shall not be concerned at it, whatever it be. I went to him prepared to expect odd behaviour from him; and was not disappointed. I argue to myself, in all such cases as this, as Miss Howe, from her ever-dear friend, argues, That if the reflections thrown upon me are just, I ought not only to forgive them, but to endeavour to profit by them: If unjust, that I ought to despise them, and the reflecter too; since it would be inexcusable to strengthen by anger an enemy whose malice might be disarmed by contempt. And, moreover, I should be almost sorry to find myself spoken well of by a man who could treat as he treated a lady who was an ornament to her sex, and to human nature.
'I thank you, however, Sir, adds he, for your consideration for me in this particular; and for your whole letter, which gives me so desirable an instance of that friendship which you honoured me with the assurances of, when I was last in town; and which I as cordially embrace, as wish to cultivate.'
Miss Howe, in hers of the 20th, acknowleging the receipt of the letters, and papers, and legacies, sent with Mr. Belford's letter to Mr. Hickman, assures him, 'That no use shall be made of his communications, but what he shall approve of.'
He had mentioned with compassion the distresses of the Harlowe family-'Persons of a pitiful nature, says she, may pity them. I am not one of those. You, I think, pity the infernal man likewise; while I from my heart grudge him his phrensy, because it deprives him of that remorse, which, I hope, on his recovery, will never leave him. At times, Sir, let me tell you, that I hate your whole Sex for his sake; even men of unblameable characters; whom at those times I cannot but look upon as persons I have not yet found out.
If my dear creature's personal jewels, proceeds she, be sent up to you for sale, I desire that I may be the purchaser of them, at the highest price-Of the necklace and solitaire particularly.
'O what tears did the perusal of my beloved's Will cost me! -But I must not touch upon the heart-piercing subject. I can neither take it up, nor quit it, but with execration of the villain whom all the world must execrate.'
Mr. Belford, in his answer, promises, that she shall be the purchaser of the jewels, if they come into his hands.
He acquaints her, that the family had given Col. Morden the keys of all that belonged to the dear departed: That the unhappy mother had (as the Will allows) ordered a piece of needlework to be set aside for her, and had desired Mrs. Norton to get the little book of Meditations transcribed, and to let her have the original, as it was all of her dear daughter's hand-writing; and as it might, when she could bear to look into it, administer consolation to herself. And that she had likewise reserved for herself her picture in the Vandyke taste.
Mr. Belford sends with this letter to Miss Howe the lady's memorandum-book; and promises to send her copies of the several posthumous letters. He tells her, that Mr. Lovelace being upon the recovery, he had inclosed the posthumous letter directed for him to Lord M. that his Lordship might give it to him, or not, as he should find he could bear it. The following is a copy of that Letter.

### To Mr. Lovelace.

Thursday, Aug. 24.
I told you, in the letter I wrote to you on Tuesday last (a), that you should have another sent you when I had got to my Father's house.
I presume to say, that I am now, at your receiving of This, arrived there; and I invite you to follow me, as soon as you can be prepared for so great a journey.
Not to allegorize further-My fate is now, at your perusal of this, accomplished. My doom is unalterably fixed: And I am either a miserable, or a happy being to all Eternity. If happy, I owe it solely to the Divine mercy: If miserable, to your undeserved cruelty. -And consider now, for your own sake, gay, cruel, fluttering, unhappy man! consider, whether the barbarous and perfidious treatment I have met with from you, was worthy of the hazard of your immortal soul; since your wicked views were not to be effected but by the wilful breach of the most solemn vows that ever were made by man; and those aided by a violence and baseness unworthy of a human creature.
In time then, once more, I wish you to consider your ways. Your golden dream cannot long last. Your present course can yield you pleasure no longer than you can keep off thought or reflection. A hardened insensibility is the only foundation on which your inward tranquillity is built. When once a dangerous sickness seizes you; when once effectual remorse breaks in upon you; how dreadful will be your condition! How poor a triumph will you then find it, to have been able, by a series of black perjuries, and studied baseness, under the name of Gallantry or Intrigue, to betray poor unexperienced young creatures, who perhaps knew nothing but their duty till they knew you! -Not one good action in the hour of languishing to recollect, not one worthy intention to revolve, it will be all conscience and horror; and you will wish to have it in your power to compound for annihilation.
Reflect, Sir, that I can have no other motive in what I write, than your good, and the safety of other innocent creatures, who may be drawn in by your wicked arts and perjuries. You have not, in my wishes for your future welfare, the wishes of a suppliant wife, endeavouring for her own sake, as well as for yours, to induce you to reform those ways. They are wholly disinterested, as undeserved. But I should mistrust my own penitence, were I capable of wishing to recompense evil for evil-if, black as your offences have been against me, I could not forgive, as I wish to be forgiven.
I repeat, therefore, that I do forgive you. And may the Almighty forgive you too! Nor have I, at the writing of this, any other essential regrets than what are occasioned by the grief I have given to parents, who till I knew you were the most indulgent of parents; by the scandal given to the other branches of my family; by the disreputation brought upon my Sex; and by the offence given to Virtue in my fall.
As to myself, you have only robbed me of what once were my favourite expectations in the transient life I shall have quitted when you receive This. You have only been the cause that I have been cut off in the bloom of youth, and of curtailing a life, that might have been agreeable to myself, or otherwise, as had suited the designs and ends of Providence. I have reason to be thankful, for being taken away from the evil of supporting my part of a yoke, with a man so unhappy I will only say, that, in all probability, every hour I had lived with him might have brought with it some new trouble. And I am (indeed through sharp afflictions and distresses) indebted to you, secondarily, as I humbly presume to hope, for so many years of glory, as might have proved years of danger, temptation, and anguish, had they been added to my mortal life.
So, Sir, tho' no thanks to your intention, you have done me real service; and in return, I wish you happy. But such has been your life hitherto, that you can have no time to lose, in setting about your repentance. Repentance to such as have lived only carelessly, and in the omission of their regular duties, and who never aimed to draw any poor creatures into evil, is not so easy a task, nor so much in our own power, as some imagine. How difficult a grace then to be obtained, where the guilt is premeditated, wilful, and complicated!
To say I once respected you with a preference, is what I ought to blush to own, since at the very time, I was far from thinking you even a moral man; tho' I little thought that you, or indeed that any man breathing, could be what you have proved yourself to be. But, indeed, Sir, I have long been greatly above you: For, from my heart I have despised you, and all your ways, ever since I saw what manner of man you were.
Nor is it to be wondered, that I should be able so to do, when that preference was not grounded on ignoble motives. For I was weak enough, and presumptuous enough, to hope to be a means in the hand of Providence to reclaim a man, whom I thought worthy of the attempt.
Nor have I yet, as you will see by the pains I take, on this solemn occasion, to awaken you out of your sensual dream, given over all hopes of this nature.
Hear me therefore, O Lovelace! as one speaking from the dead-Lose no time-Set about your repentance instantly -Be no longer the instrument of Satan, to draw poor souls into those subtile snares, which at last shall intangle your own feet. Seek not to multiply your offences, till they become beyond the power, as I may say, of the Divine Mercy to forgive; since justice, no less than mercy, is an attribute of the Almighty.
Tremble and reform, when you read what is the portion of the wicked man from God. Thus it is written:
'The triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment. He is cast into a net by his own feet-He walketh upon a snare. Terrors shall make him afraid on every side, and shall drive him to his feet. His strength shall be hunger-bitten, and destruction shall be ready at his side. The first-born of death shall devour his strength. His remembrance shall perish from the earth; and he shall have no name in the streets. He shall be chased out of the world. He shall neither have son nor nephew among his people. They that have seen him, shall say, Where is he? He shall fly away as a dream: He shall be chased away as a vision of the night. His meat is the gall of asps within him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him thro'. A fire not blown shall consume him. The heaven shall reveal his iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. The worm shall feed sweetly on him. He shall be no more remembered. -This is the fate of him that knoweth not God.'-
Whenever you shall be inclined to consult the Sacred Oracles, from whence the above threatenings are extracted, you will find doctrines and texts, which a truly penitent and contrite heart may lay hold of for its consolation.
May yours, Mr. Lovelace, become such! And may you be enabled to escape the fate denounced against the abandoned man, and be intitled to the mercies of a long-suffering and gracious God, is the sincere prayer of
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER LXXXVII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
M. Hall, Thursday, Sept. 14.
Ever since the fatal seventh of this month, I have been lost to myself, and to all the joys of life. I might have gone farther back than that fatal seventh; which, for the future, I will never see anniversarily revolve but in sables; only till that cursed day I had some gleams of hope now and then darting in upon me.
They tell me of an odd letter I wrote to you. I remember I did write. But very little of the contents of what I wrote do I remember.
I have been in a cursed way. Methinks something has been working strangely retributive. I never was such a fool as to disbelieve a Providence: Yet am I not for resolving into judgments every-thing that temporarily chances to wear an avenging face. Yet if we must be punished either here or hereafter for our misdeeds, better here, say I, than hereafter. Have I not then an interest to think my punishment already not only begun, but completed; since what I have suffered, and do suffer, passes all description?
To give but one instance of the retributive-Here I, who was the barbarous cause of the loss of senses for a week together to the most inimitable of women, have been punished with the loss of my own-Preparative to -Who knows what? -When, O when, shall I know a joyful hour?
I am kept excessively low; and excessively low I am. This sweet creature's posthumous letter sticks close to me. All her excellencies rise up hourly to my remembrance.
Yet dare I not to indulge in these melancholy reflections. I find my head strangely working again? -Pen, begone!
Friday, Sept. 15.
I resume, in a sprightly vein, I hope-Mowbray and Tourville have just now-
But what of Mowbray and Tourville! -What's the world? -What's any-body in it?-
Yet are they highly exasperated against thee, for the last letter thou wrotest to them -Such an unfriendly, such a merciless-
But it won't do! -I must again lay down my pen-O Belford, Belford! I am still, I am still, most miserably absent from myself! Shall never, never, more be what I was!
Saturday, Sunday, Nothing done. Incapable of anything.-
Monday, Sept. 18.
Heavy, damnably heavy, and sick at soul, by Jupiter! -I must come into their expedient. I must see what change of climate will do.
You tell these fellows, and you tell me, of repenting and reforming-But I can do neither. He who can, must not have the extinction of a Clarissa Harlowe to answer for. -Harlow!-Curse upon the name! -And curse upon myself for not changing it, as I might have done! - Yet have I no need of urging a curse upon myself-I have it effectually.
'To say I once respected you with a preference '- In what stiff language does maidenly modesty on these nice occasions express itself! -To say I once loved you, is the English; and there is truth and ease in the expression. -'To say I once loved you,' then let it be; 'is what I ought to blush to own.'
And dost thou own it? -Excellent creature! and dost thou then own it? -What music in these words from such an angel! -What would I give that she were in being, and could and would own that she loved me?
'But indeed, Sir, I have long been greatly above you.'
Long, my blessed charmer! -Long indeed-For you have been ever greatly above me, and above your sex, and above all the world.
'That preference was not grounded on ignoble motives.'
What a wretch was I, to be so distinguished by her, and yet to be so unworthy of her hope to reclaim me!
Then, how generous her motives! Not for her own sake merely, not altogether for mine, did she hope to reclaim me; but equally for the sake of innocents who might otherwise be ruined by me.
And now, why did she write this letter, and why direct it to be given me when an event the most deplorable had taken place, but for my good, and with a view to the safety of innocents she knew not? -And when was this letter written? Was it not at the time, at the very time, that I had been pursuing her, as I may say, from place to place; when her soul was bowed down by calamity and persecution; and herself was denied all forgiveness from relations the most implacable?
Exalted creature! -And couldst thou at such a time, and so early, and in such circumstances, have so far subdued thy own just resentments, as to wish happiness to the principal author of all thy distresses? Wish happiness to him who had robbed thee 'of all thy favourite expectations in this life?' To him who had been the cause 'that thou wert cut off in the bloom of youth?'
Heavenly aspirer! -What a frame must thou be in, to be able to use the word ONLY, in mentioning these important deprivations! -And as this was before thou puttedst off mortality, may I not presume, that thou now,
- with pitying eye,
Not derogating from thy perfect bliss,
Surveyst all heaven and wishest for me?
'Consider my ways'-Dear life of my life! Of what avail is consideration now, when I have lost the dear creature, for whose sake alone it was worth while to have consideration? -Lost her beyond retrieve-Swallowed up by the greedy grave-For ever lost her-That, that's the sting. - Matchless woman! -How does this reflection wound me!
'Your golden dream cannot long last.' -Divine prophetess! my golden dream is already over. 'Thought and reflection are no longer to be kept off.' -No longer continues that 'hardened insensibility' thou chargest upon me. -'Remorse has broken in upon me.' -'Dreadful is my condition!' -'It is all conscience and horror with me! -A thousand vulturs in turn are preying upon my heart!
But no more of these fruitless reflections-Since I am incapable of writing any-thing else; since my pen will slide into this gloomy subject, whether I will or not; I will once more quit it; nor will I again resume it, till I can be more its master, and my own.
All I took pen to write for, is however unwritten. It was, in few words, to wish you to proceed with your communications, as usual. And why should you not? - Since, in her ever-to-be-lamented death, I know everything shocking and grievous. -Acquaint me, then, with all thou knowest, which I do not know: How her relations, her cruel relations take it; and whether, now, the barbed dart of after-reflection sticks not in their hearts, as in mine up to the very feathers.
I will soon quit this kingdom. For now my Clarissa is no more, what is there in it (in the world indeed) worth living for? -But should I not first, by some masterly mischief, avenge her and myself upon her cursed family?
The accused woman, they tell me, has broken her leg. Why was it not her neck? -All, all, but what is owing to her relations, is the fault of that woman, and of her hellborn nymphs. The greater the virtue, the nobler the triumph, was a sentence for ever in their mouths. -I have had it several times in my head to set fire to the execrable house; and to watch at the doors and windows, that not a devil in it escape the consuming flames. Had the house stood by itself, I had certainly done it.
But, it seems, the old wretch is in the way to be rewarded, without my help. A shocking letter is received of somebody's, in relation to her-Yours, I suppose-Too shocking for me, they say, to see at present.
They govern me as a child in strings: Yet did I suffer so much in my fever, that I am willing to bear with them, till can get tolerably well.
At present I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep. Yet are my disorders nothing to what they were: For, Jack, my brain was on fire day and night: And had it not been of the asbestos kind, it had all been consumed.
I had no distinct ideas, but of dark and confused misery: It was all conscience and horror indeed! Thoughts of hanging, drowning, shooting; then rage, violence, mischief, and despair, took their turns with me. My lucid intervals still worse, giving me to reflect upon what I was the hour before, and what I was likely to be the next, and perhaps for life-The sport of enemies! the laughter of fools! and the hanging-sleev'd, go-carted property of hired slaves; who were perhaps to find their account in manacling, and (abhorr'd thought!) in personally abusing me by blows and stripes!
Who can bear such reflections as these? To be made to fear only, to such a one as me, and to fear such wretches too! -What a thing was this, but remotely to apprehend! And yet, for a man to be in such a state, as to render it necessary for his dearest friends to suffer this to be done for his own sake, and in order to prevent further mischief! -There is no thinking of these things!
I will not think of them, therefore: But will either get a train of chearful ideas, or hang myself, by to-morrow morning.
-To be a dog, and dead,
Were paradise, to such a life as mine.

### v7 LETTER LXXXVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Wedn. Sept. 20.
I write to demand back again my last letter. I own it was my mind at the different times I wrote it; and, whatever ailed me, I could not help writing it. Such a gloomy impulse came upon me, and increased as I wrote, that, for my soul, I could not forbear running into the Miserable.
'Tis strange, very strange, that a man's conscience should be able to force his fingers to write whether he will or not; and to run him into a subject he more than once, at the very time, resolved not to think of.
Nor is it less strange, that (no new reason occurring) he should, in a day or two more, so totally change his mind; have his mind, I should rather say, so wholly illuminated by gay hopes, and rising prospects, as to be ashamed of what he had written.
For, on reperusal of a copy of my letter, which fell into my hands by accidents, in the hand-writing of my cousin Charlotte, who, unknown to me, had transcribed it, I find it to be such a letter as an enemy would rejoice to see.
This I know, that were I to have continued but one week more in the way I was in when I wrote the latter part of it, I should have been confined, and in straw, the next: For I now recollect, that all my distemper was returning upon me with irresistible violence-and that in spite of water-gruel and soupe maigre.
I own, that I am still excessively grieved at the disappointment this admirable woman made it so much her whimsical choice to give me. But, since it has thus fallen out; since she was determined to leave the world; and since she actually ceases to be; ought I, who have such a share of life and health in hand, to indulge gloomy reflections upon an event that is passed; and being passed, cannot be recalled? -Have I not had a specimen of what will be my case, if I do?
For, Belford ('tis a folly to deny it) I have been, to use an old word, quite bestraught.
Why, why, did my mother bring me up to bear no controul? Why was I so educated, as that to my very tutors it was a request, that I should not know what contradiction or disappointment was? -Ought she not to have known what cruelty there was in her kindness?
What a punishment, to have my first very great disappointment touch my intellect! -And intellects once touched-But that I cannot bear to think of-Only thus far; The very repentance and amendment wished me so heartily by my kind and cross dear, have been invalidated and postponed, who knows for how long? the amendment at least: -Can a madman be capable of either?
Once touch'd therefore, I must endeavour to banish those gloomy reflections, which might otherwise have brought on the right turn of mind; and this, to express myself in Lord M.'s style, that my wits may not be sent a wooll-gathering.
For, let me moreover own to thee, that Dr. Hale, who was my good Astolfo [You read Ariosto, Jack] and has brought me back my wit-jar, had much ado, by starving diet, by profuse phlebotomy, by flaying blisters, eylethole-cupping, a dark room, a midnight solitude in a mid-day sun, to effect my recovery. And now, for my comfort, he tells me, that I may still have returns upon full moons-Horrible! most horrible!-and must be as careful of myself at both Equinoctials, as Caesar was warned to be of the ides of March.
How my heart sickens at looking back upon what I was. Denied the Sun, and all comfort: All my visiters, low-born, tiptoe attendants: Even those tiptoe slaves never approaching me but periodically, armed with gallipots, bolus's, and cephalic draughts; delivering their orders to me in hated whispers; and answering other curtain-holding impertinents, inquiring how I was, and how I took their execrable potions, whisperingly too! What a cursed still-life this! -Nothing active in me, or about me, but the worm that never dies.
Again I hasten from the recollection of scenes, which will, at times, obtrude themselves upon me.
Adieu, Belford!
But return me my last letter-and build nothing upon its contents. I must, I will, I have already, overcome these fruitless gloominesses. Every hour my constitution rises stronger and stronger to befriend me; and, except a tributary sigh now and then to the memory of my heart's beloved, it gives me hope, that I shall quickly be what I was,-Life, spirit, gaiety, and once more the plague of a Sex, that has been my plague, and will be every man's plague, at one time or other of his life.
I repeat my desire, however, that you will write to me as usual. I hope you have good store of particulars by you to communicate, when I can better bear to hear of the dispositions that were made for all that was mortal of my beloved Clarissa.
But it will be the joy of my heart to be told, that her implacable friends are plagued with remorse. Such things as those you may now send me: For company in misery is some relief; especially when a man can think those he hates as miserable as himself.
Once more adieu, Jack!

### v7 LETTER LXXXIX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
I am preparing to leave this kingdom. Mowbray and Tourville promise to give me their company in a month or two.
I'll give thee my route.
I shall first to Paris; and, for amusement and diversion sake, try to renew some of my old friendships: Thence to some of the German courts: Thence, perhaps, to Vienna: Thence descend thro' Bavaria and the Tyrol to Venice, where I shall keep the carnival: Thence to Florence and Turin: Thence again over mount Cenis to France: And, when I return again to Paris, shall expect to see my friend Belford, who by that time, I doubt not, will be all crusted and bearded over with penitence, self-denial, and mortification; a very anchorite, only an itinerant one, journeying over in hope to cover a multitude of his own sins, by proselyting his old companion.
But let me tell thee, Jack, if stock rises on, as it has done since I wrote my last letter, I am afraid thou wilt find a difficult task in succeeding, should such be thy purpose.
Nor, I verily think, can thy own penitence and reformation hold. Strong habits are not so easily rooted out. Old Satan has had too much benefit from thy faithful services, for a series of years, to let thee so easily get out of his clutches, He knows what will do with thee. A fine strapping Bona Roba, in the Chartres-taste, but well-limb'd, clear-complexion'd, and Turkish-ey'd; thou the first man with her, or made to believe so, which is the same thing; how will thy frosty face shine upon such an object! How will thy tristful visage be illumined by it! A composition will be made between thee and the grand tempter: Thou wilt promise to do him suit and service till old age and inability come. And then will he, in all probability, be sure of thee for ever. For, wert thou to outlive thy present reigning appetites, he will trump up some other darling sin, or make a now secondary one darling, in order to keep thee firmly attached to his infernal interests. Thou wilt continue resolving to amend, but never amending, till grown old before thou art aware, (a dozen years after thou art old with every-body else) thy for-time-built tenement having lasted its allotted period, he claps down upon thy grizzled head the universal trapdoor: And then all will be over with thee in his own way.
Thou wilt think these hints uncharacteristic from me. But yet I cannot help warning thee of the danger thou art actually in; which is the greater, as thou seemest not to know it. A few words more, therefore, on this subject.
Thou hast made good resolutions. If thou keepest them not, thou wilt never be able to keep any. But, nevertheless, the devil and thy time of life are against thee: And six to one thou failest. Were it only that thou hast resolved, six to one thou failest. And if thou dost, thou wilt become the scoff of men, and the triumph of devils. -Then how will I laugh at thee! For this warning is not from principle. Perhaps I wish it were: But I never lyed to man, and hardly ever said truth to woman. The first is what all free livers cannot say: The second, what every one can.
I am mad again, by Jupiter! -But, thank my stars, not gloomily so! -Farewell, farewel, farewel, for the third or fourth time, concludes
Thy Lovelace.
I believe Charlotte and you are in private league together. Letters, I find, have passed between her, and you, and Lord M. I have been kept strangely in the dark of late: But will soon break upon you all, as the Sun upon a midnight thief. Remember, that you never sent me the copy of my Beloved's Will.

### v7 LETTER XC.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Friday, Sept. 22.
Just as I was sitting down to answer yours of the 14th to the 18th, in order to give you all the consolation in my power, came your revoking letter of Wednesday.
I am really concerned, and disappointed, that your first was so soon followed by one so contrary to it.
The shocking letter you mention, which your friends with-hold from you, is indeed from me. They may now, I see, shew you any-thing. Ask them, then, for that letter, if you think it worth while to read aught about the true mother of your mind.
I will suppose, that thou hast just read the letter thou callest shocking; and which I intended to be so. And let me ask, What thou thinkest of it? Dost thou not tremble at the horrors the vilest of women labours with, on the apprehensions of death, and future judgment? - How sit the reflections that must have been raised by the perusal of this letter upon thy yet unclosed eylet-holes? Will not some serious thoughts mingle with thy melilot, and tear off the callus of thy mind, as that may stay the leather from thy back, and as thy epispastics may strip the parchment from thy plotting head? If not, then indeed is thy conscience feared, and no hopes will lie for thee.
Mr. Belford then gives an account of the wretched Sinclair's terrible exit, which he had just then received.
If this move thee not, I have news to acquaint thee with, of another dismal catastrophe that is but within this hour come to my ear, of another of thy blessed agents. Thy Tomlinson!-Dying, and, in all probability, before this can reach thee, dead, in Maidstone gaol. As thou sayst in thy first letter, 'something strangely retributive seems to be working.'
This his case. He was at the head of a gang of smugglers, endeavouring to carry off run goods, landed last Tuesday, when a party of dragoons came up with them in the evening. Some of his comrades fled. McDonald being surrounded, attempted to fight his way thro', and wounded his man; but having received a shot in his neck, and being cut deeply in the head by a broad-sword, he fell from his horse, was taken, and carried to Maidstone-gaol: And there my informant left him, just dying, and assured of hanging if he recover.
Absolutely destitute, he got a kinsman of his to apply to me, and, if in town, to the rest of the confraternity, for something, not to support him was the word (for he expected not to live till the fellow returned) but to bury him.
I never employed him but once; and then he ruined my project. I now thank Heaven that he did. But I sent him three guineas; and promised him more, as from you, and Mowbray, and Tourville, if he live a few days, or to take his tryal. And I put it upon you to make further inquiry of him, and to give him what you think fit.
His messenger tells me, That he is very penitent: That he weeps continually. He cries out, that he has been the vilest of men: Yet palliates, that his necessities made him worse than he should otherwise have been [An excuse which none of us can plead]: But that what touched him most of all, was a vile imposture he was put upon, to serve a certain gentleman of fortune, to the ruin of the most excellent woman that ever lived; and who, he had heard, was dead of grief.
Let me consider, Lovelace-Whose turn can be next? -I wish it may not be thine. But since thou givest me one piece of advice (which I should indeed have thought out of character, hadst thou not taken pains to convince me, that it proceeds not from principle) I will give thee another: And that is, 'Prosecute, as fast as thou canst, thy intended tour.' Change of scene, and of climate, may establish thy health: While this gross air, and the approach of winter, may thicken thy blood; and, with the help of a conscience, that is upon the struggle with thee, and like a cunning wrestler watches its opportunity to give thee another fall, may make thee miserable for thy life.
I return your revoked letter. Don't destroy it, however. The same dialect may one day come in fashion with you again.
As to the family at Harlowe-Place, I have most affecting letters from Colonel Morden relating to their grief and distress. You, to whom the occasion is owing, do well to rejoice in their compunction: But, as one well observes, Averse as they were to you, they must and they would have been reconciled in time, had you done her justice.
I should be sorry, if I could not say, that what you have warned me of in sport, makes me tremble in earnest. I hope (for this is a serious subject with me, tho' nothing can be so with you) that I never shall deserve, by my apostasy, to be the scoff of men, and the triumph of devils.
All that you say, of the difficulty of conquering rooted habits, is but too true. Those, and time of life, are indeed too much against me: But, when I reflect upon the ends (some untimely) of those of our companions whom we have formerly lost; upon Belton's miserable exit; upon the howls and screams of Sinclair, which are still in my ears; and now upon your miserable Tomlinson; and compare their ends with the happy and desirable end of the inimitable Miss Harlowe: I hope I have reason to think my footing morally secure. Your caution, nevertheless, will be of use, however you might design it: And since I know my weak side, I will endeavour to fortify myself in that quarter by marriage, as soon as I can make myself worthy of the confidence and esteem of some virtuous woman; and, by this means, become the subject of your envy, rather than of your scoffs.
I have already begun my retributory purposes, as I may call them. I have settled an annual sum for life upon poor John Loftus, whom I disabled, while he was endeavouring to protect his young mistress from my lawless attempts. I rejoice, that I succeeded not in that; as I do in recollecting many others of the like sort, in which I miscarried.
Poor Farley, who had become a bankrupt, I have set up again: But have declared, that the annual allowance I make her shall cease, if I hear she returns to her former courses: And I have made her accountable for her conduct to the good widow Lovick, whom I have taken, at a handsome salary, for my housekeeper at Edgeware (for I have let the house at Watford); and she is to dispense the quarterly allotment to her, as she merits.
This good woman shall have other matters of the like nature under her care, as we grow better acquainted: And I make no doubt that she will answer my expectations, and that I shall be both confirmed and improved by her conversation: For she shall generally sit at my own table.
The undeserved sufferings of Miss Clarissa Harlowe, her exalted merit, her exemplary preparation, and her happy end, will be standing subjects with us.
She shall read to me, when I have no company; write for me, out of books, passages she shall recommend. Her years (turn'd of fifty) and her good character, will secure me from scandal; and I have great pleasure in reflecting, that I shall be better myself for making her happy.
Then, whenever I am in danger, I will read some of the admirable lady's papers: Whenever I would abhor my former ways, I will read some of thine, and copies of my own.
The consequence of all this will be, that I shall be the delight of my own relations of both sexes, who were wont to look upon me as a lost man. I shall have good order in my own family, because I shall give the example myself. I shall be visited and respected, not perhaps by Lovelace, by Mowbray, and by Tourville, because they cannot see me upon the old terms, and will not, perhaps, see me upon the new, but by the best and worthiest gentlemen, clergy as well as laity, all around me. I shall look upon my past follies with contempt; upon my old companions with pity. Oaths and curses shall be for ever banished from my mouth: In their place shall succeed conversation becoming a rational being, and a gentleman. And instead of acts of offence, subjecting me perpetually to acts of defence, will I endeavour to atone for my past evils, by doing all the good in my power, and by becoming an universal benefactor to the extent of that power.
Now, tell me, Lovelace, upon this faint sketch of what I hope to do, and to be, if this be not a scheme infinitely preferable to the wild, the pernicious, the dangerous ones, both to body and soul, which we have pursued?
I wish I could make my sketch as amiable to you, as it appears to me. I wish it with all my soul: For I always loved you. It has been my misfortune that I did: For this led me into infinite riots and follies, which otherwise, I verily think, I should not have been guilty of.
You have a great deal more to answer for, than I have, were it only in the temporal ruin of this admirable woman. Let me now, while yet you have youth, and health, and intellect, prevail upon you: For I am afraid, very much afraid, that such is the enormity of this single wickedness, in depriving the world of such a shining light, that if you do not quickly reform, it will be out of your power to reform at all; and that Providence, which has already given you the fates of your agents Sinclair and Tomlinson to take warning by, will not let the principal offender escape, if he slight the warning.
You will, perhaps, laugh at me for these serious reflections. Do, if you will. I had rather you should laugh at me for continuing in this way of thinking and acting, than triumph over me, as you threaten, on my swerving from purposes I have determined upon with such good reason, and from such good examples.
And so much for this subject at present.
I should be glad to know when you intend to set out. I have too much concern for your welfare, not to wish you in a thinner air, and more certain climate.
What have Tourville and Mowbray to do, that they cannot set out with you? They will not covet my company, I dare say; and I shall not be able to endure theirs, when you are gone: Take them therefore with you.
I will not, however, forswear making you a visit at Paris, at your return from Germany and Italy: But hardly with the hope of reclaiming you, if due reflection upon what I have set before you, and upon what you have written in your two last, will not by that time have done it.
I suppose I shall see you before you go. Once more, I wish you were gone. This heavy island-air cannot do for you what that of the continent will.
I do not think I ought to communicate with you, as I used to do, on this side the Channel: Let me then hear from you on the opposite shore, and you shall command the pen, as you please; and, honestly, the power, of
J. Belford

### v7 LETTER XCI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday, Sept. 26.
Fate, I believe in my conscience, spins threads for tragedies, on purpose for thee to weave with. -Thy Watford uncle, poor Belson, the fair Inimitable (Exalted creature! and is she to be found in such a list!) the accursed woman, and Tomlinson, seem to have been all doomed to give thee a theme for the Dismal and the Horrible! -And, by my soul, as Lord M. would phrase it, thou dost work it going.
That's the horrid thing: A man cannot begin to think, but causes for thought croud in upon him: The gloomy takes place; and mirth and gaiety abandon his heart for ever!
Poor McDonald!-I am really sorry for the fellow. -He was an useful, faithful, solemn varlet, who could act incomparably any part given him, and knew not what a blush was. -He really took honest pains for me in the last affair; which has cost him and me so dearly in reflection. Often gravell'd, as we both were, yet was he never daunted. -Poor McDonald, I must once more say! -For carrying on a solemn piece of roguery, he had no equal.
I was so solicitous to know if he were really as bad as thou hast a knack of painting every-body whom thou singlest out to exercise thy murdering pen upon, that I dispatched a man and horse to Maidstone, as soon as I had thine; and had word brought me, that he died in two hours after he had received thy three guineas. And all thou wrotest of his concern in relation to the ever-dear Miss Harlowe, it seems, was true.
I can't help it, Belford! -I have only to add, that it is happy that the poor fellow lived not to be hanged; as it seems he would have been: For who knows, as he had got into such a penitential strain, what might have been in his dying speech?
When a man has not great good to comfort himself with, it is right to make the best of the little that may offer. There never was any discomfort happened to mortal man, but some little ray of consolation would dart in, if the wretch was not so much a wretch, as to draw, instead of undraw, the curtain, to keep it out.
And so much, at this time, and for ever, for poor Capt. Tomlinson, as I called him.
Your solicitude to get me out of this heavy changeable climate, exactly tallies with every-body's here. They all believe, that travelling will establish me. Yet I think I am quite well. Only these plaguy new's and full's, and the equinoctials, fright me a little when I think of them; and that is always: For the whole family are continually ringing these changes in my ears, and are more sedulously intent, than I can well account for, to get me out of the kingdom.
But wilt thou write often, when I am gone? Wilt thou then piece the thread where thou brokest it off? Wilt thou give me the particulars of their distress, who were my auxiliaries in bringing on the event that affects me? - Nay, principals rather: Since, say what thou wilt, what did I do worth a woman's breaking her heart for?
Faith and troth, Jack, I have had very hard usage, as I have often said: -To have such a plaguy ill name given me, pointed at, screamed out upon, run away from, as a mad dog would be; all my own friends ready to renounce me!-
Yet I think I deserve it all: For have I not been as ready to give up myself, as others are to condemn me?
What madness, what folly, this! -Who will take the part of a man that condemns himself? -Who can? He that pleads guilty to an indictment, leaves no room for ought but the sentence. Out upon me, for an impolitic wretch! I have not the art of the least artful of any of our Christian princes; who every day are guilty of ten times worse breaches of faith; and yet, issuing out a manifesto, they wipe their mouths, and go on from infraction to infraction, from robbery to robbery; commit devastation upon devastation; and destroy-for their glory! And are rewarded with the names of Conquerors, and are dubb'd Le Grand; praised, and even deified, by orators and poets, for their butcheries and depredations.
While I, a poor, single, harmless prowler; at least comparatively harmless; in order to satisfy my hunger, steal but one poor lamb; and every mouth is opened, every hand is lifted up, against me.
Nay, as I have just now heard, I am to be manifestoed against, tho' no prince: For Miss Howe threatens to have the case published to the whole world.
I have a good mind not to oppose it; and to write an answer to it, as soon as it comes forth, and exculpate myself, by throwing all the fault upon the old ones. And this I have to plead, supposing all that my worst enemies can allege against me were true,-That I am not answerable for all the extravagant and unforeseen consequences that this affair has been attended with.
And this I will prove demonstrably by a case, which, but a few hours ago, I put to Lord M. and to the two Misses Montague. This it is:
Suppose A, a miser, had hid a parcel of gold in a secret place, in order to keep it there, till he could lend it out at extravagant interest.
Suppose B in such great want of this treasure, as to be unable to live without it.
And suppose A, the miser, has such an opinion of B, the wanter, that he would rather lend it to him, than to any mortal living; but yet, tho' he has no other use in the world for it, insists upon very unconscionable terms.
B would gladly pay common interest for it; but would be undone (in his own opinion, at least, and that is every-thing to him) if he complied with the miser's terms; since he would be sure to be soon thrown into gaol for the debt, and made a prisoner for life. Wherefore guessing (being an arch, penetrating fellow) where the sweet hoard lies, he searches for it, when the miser is in a profound sleep, finds it, and runs away with it.
B, in this case, can be only a thief, that's plain, Jack.
Here Miss Montague put in very smartly. -A thief, Sir, said she, that steals what is and ought to be dearer to me than my life, deserves less to be forgiven, than he who murders me.
But what is this, cousin Charlotte, said I, that is dearer to you, than your life? Your honour, you'll say-I will not talk to a lady (I never did) in a way she cannot answer me-But in the instance for which I put my case (allowing all you attribute to the phantom) what honour is lost, where the will is not violated, and the person cannot help it? But, with respect to the case put, how knew we, till the theft was committed, that the miser did actually set so romantic a value upon the treasure?
Both my cousins were silent; and my Lord cursed me, because he could not answer me; and I proceeded.
Well then, the result is, that B can only be a thief; that's plain-To pursue, therefore, my case-
Suppose this same miserly A, on awaking, and searching for, and finding his treasure gone, takes it so much to heart, that he starves himself;
Who but himself is to blame for that? -Would either Equity, Law, or Conscience, hang B for a murder?
And now to apply, said I-
None of your applications, and be d-n'd to you, the passionate Peer.
Well then, returned I, I am to conclude it to be a case so plain, that it needs none; looking at the two girls, who tried for a blush apiece. And I hold myself, of consequence, acquitted of the death.
Not so, cried my Lord [Peers are judges, thou knowest, Jack, in the last resort]: For if, by committing an unlawful act, a capital crime is the consequence, you are answerable for both.
Say you so, my good Lord? -But will you take upon you to say, supposing (as in the present case) a Rape (saving your presence, cousin Charlotte, saving your presence, cousin Patty); Is death the natural consequence of a Rape? -Did you ever hear, my Lord, or did you, Ladies, that it was? -And if not the natural consequence, and a lady will destroy herself, whether by a lingering death, as of grief; or by the dagger, as Lucretia did; Is there more than one fault the man's? -Is not the other her's? -Were it not so, let me tell you, my dears, chucking each of my blushing cousins under the chin, we either have had no men so wicked as young Tarquin was, or no women so virtuous as Lucretia, in the space of-How many thousand years, my Lord? -And so Lucretia is recorded as a single wonder!
You may believe I was cry'd out upon. People who cannot answer, will rave: And this they all did. But I insisted upon it to them, and so I do to you, Jack, that I ought to be acquitted of every-thing but a common theft, a private larceny, as the lawyers call it, in this point. And were my life to be a forfeit to the Law, it would not be for murder.
Besides, as I told them, there was a circumstance strongly in my favour in this case: For I would have been glad, with all my soul, to have purchased my forgiveness by a compliance with the terms I first boggled at. And this I offered; and my Lord, and Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, and my two cousins, and all my cousins cousins, to the fourteenth generation, would have been bound for me- But it would not do: The sweet miser would break her heart, and die; and how could I help it?
Upon the whole, Jack, had not the lady died, would there have been half so much said of it, as there is? Was I the cause of her death? or, Could I help it? And have there not been, in a million of cases like this, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand that have not ended as this has ended? -How hard, then, is my fate! -Upon my soul, I won't bear it as I have done; but, instead of taking guilt to myself, claim pity. And this (since yesterday cannot be recalled) is the only course I can pursue to make myself easy. Proceed anon.

### v7 LETTER XCII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
But what a pretty scheme of life hast thou drawn out for thyself, and thy old widow! By my soul, Jack, I am mightily taken with it. There is but one thing wanting in it; and that will come of course: Only to be in the commission, and one of the quorum. Thou art already provided with a clerk, as good as thou'lt want; for thou understandest Law, and she Conscience: A good Lord Chancellor between ye! -I should take prodigious pleasure to hear thee decide in a bastard case, upon thy new notions, and old remembrances.
But raillery apart [All gloom at heart, by Jupiter! altho' the pen and the countenance assume airs of levity!]: If, after all, thou canst so easily repent and reform, as thou thinkest thou canst: If thou canst thus shake off thy old sins, and thy old habits: And if thy old master will so readily dismiss so tried and so faithful a servant, and permit thee thus calmly to enjoy thy new system; no room for scandal; all temptation ceasing: And if at last (thy reformation warranted and approved by time) thou marriest, and livest honest: -Why, Belford, I cannot but say, that if all these IF's come to pass, thou standest a good chance to be a happy man!
All I think, as I told thee in my last, is, that the devil knows his own interest too well, to let thee off so easily. Thou thyself tellest me, that we cannot repent when we will. And indeed I found it so: For, in my lucid intervals, I made good resolutions: But, as health turned its blyth side to me, and opened my prospects of recovery, all my old inclinations and appetites returned; and this letter, perhaps, will be a thorough conviction to thee, that I am as wild a fellow as ever, or in the way to be so.
Thou askest me, very seriously, If, upon the faint sketch thou hast drawn, thy new scheme be not infinitely preferable to any of those which we have so long pursued? - Why, Jack-Let me reflect-Why, Belford-I can't say but it is. It is really, as Biddy in the play says, a good comfortable scheme.
But when thou tellest me, That it was thy misfortune to love me, because thy value for me made thee a wickeder man than otherwise thou wouldst have been; I desire thee to revolve this assertion: And I am persuaded, that thou wilt not find thyself in so right a train as thou imaginest.
No false colourings, no glosses, does a true penitent aim at. Debasement, diffidence, mortification, contrition, are all near of kin, Jack, and inseparable from a repentant spirit. -If thou knowest not this, thou art not got three steps (out of threescore) towards repentance and amendment. And let me remind thee, before the grand accuser comes to do it, that thou wert ever above being a passive follower in iniquity. Tho' thou hadst not so good an invention as he to whom thou writest, thou hadst as active an heart for mischief, as ever I met with in man.
Then for improving an hint, thou wert always a true Englishman. I never started a roguery, that did not come out of thy forge in a manner ready anvilled and hammered for execution, when I have sometimes been at a loss to make any-thing of it myself.
What indeed made me appear to be more wicked than thee, was, that I being a handsome fellow, and thou an ugly one, when we had started a game, and hunted it down, the poor frighted puss generally chose to throw herself into my paws, rather than into thine: And then, disappointed, hast thou wiped thy blubber-lips, and marched off to start a new game, calling me a wicked fellow all the while.
In short, Belford, thou wert an excellent starter and setter. The old women were not afraid for their daughters, when they saw such a face as thine. But, when I came, whip, was the key turned upon their girls. And yet all signified nothing; for Love, upon occasion, will draw an elephant thro' a key-hole. But for thy Heart, Belford, who ever doubted that?
Nor even in this affair, that sticks most upon me, and which my conscience makes such a handle of against me, art thou so innocent as thou fansiest thyself. Thou wilt stare at this: But it is true; and I will convince thee of it in an instant.
Thou sayst, thou wouldst have saved the lady from the ruin she met with. Thou art a pretty fellow for this: For how wouldst thou have saved her? What methods didst thou take to save her?
Thou knewest my designs all along. Hadst thou a mind to make thyself a good title to the merit to which thou now pretendest to lay claim, thou shouldest, like a true knight-errant, have sought to set the lady free from her inchanted castle. Thou shouldst have apprised her of her danger; have stolen in, when the giant was out of the way; or, hadst thou the true spirit of chivalry upon thee, and nothing else would have done, have killed the giant; and then something wouldst thou have had to brag of.
'O but the giant was my friend: He reposed a confidence in me: And I should have betrayed my friend, and his confidence!' This thou wouldst have pleaded, no doubt. But try this plea upon thy present principles, and thou wilt see what a caitiff thou wert to let it have weight with thee, upon an occasion where a breach of confidence is more excuseable than to keep the secret.
Thou canst not pretend, and I know thou wilt not, that thou wert afraid of thy life by taking such a measure: For a braver fellow lives not, nor a more fearless, than Jack Belford. I remember several instances, and thou canst not forget them, where thou hast ventured thy bones, thy neck, thy life, against numbers, in a cause of roguery; and hadst thou had a spark of that virtue, which now thou art willing to flatter thyself thou hast, thou wouldst surely have run a risk to save an innocence, and a virtue, that it became every man to protect and espouse. This is the truth of the case, greatly as it makes against myself. But I hate an hypocrite from my soul.
I believe I should have killed thee at the time, if I could, hadst thou betrayed me thus. But I am sure now, that I would have thanked thee for it, with all my heart; and thought thee more a father, and a friend, than my real father, and my best friend-And it was natural for thee to think, with so exalted a merit as this lady had, that this would have been the case, when consideration took place of passion; or, rather, when that damn'd fondness for intrigue ceased, which never was my pride so much, as it is now, upon reflection, my curse.
Set about defending thyself, and I will probe thee still deeper, and convict thee still more effectually, that thou hast more guilt than merit even in this affair. And as to all the others, in which we have hunted in couples, thou wert always the forwardest whelp, and more ready, by far, to run away with me, than I with thee. Yet canst thou now compose thy horse-muscles, and cry out, How much more hast thou, Lovelace, to answer for, than I have! - Saying nothing, neither, when thou sayst this, were it true: - For thou wilt not be tried, when the time comes, by comparison.
In short, thou mayst, at this rate, so miserably deceive thyself, that, notwithstanding all thy self-denial and mortification, when thou closest thy eyes, thou mayst perhaps open them in a place where thou thoughtest least to be.
However, consult thy old woman on this subject. I shall be thought to be out of character, if I go on in this strain. But really, as to a title to merit in this affair, I do assure thee, Jack, that thou less deservest praise than an horse-pond: And I wish I had the sousing of thee.
I am actually now employed in taking leave of my friends in the country. I had once thoughts of taking Tomlinson, as I called him, with me: But his destiny has frustrated that intention.
Next Monday I think to see you in town; and then you, and I, and Mowbray, and Tourville, will laugh off that evening together. They will both accompany me (as I expect you will) to Dover, if not cross the water. I must leave you and them good friends. They take extremely amiss the treatment you have given them in your last letters. They say, you strike at their understandings. I laugh at them; and tell them, that those people who have least, are the most apt to be angry when it is called in question.
Make up all the papers and narratives you can spare me against the time. The Will particularly I expect to take with me. Who knows but that those things, which will help to secure you in the way you are got into, may convert me?
Thou talkest of a wife, Jack: What thinkest thou of our Charlotte? Her family and fortune, I doubt, according to thy scheme, are a little too high. Will those be an objection? Charlotte is a smart girl. For piety (thy present turn) I cannot say much: Yet she is as serious as most of her Sex, at her time of life-Would flaunt it a little, I believe too, like the rest of them, were her reputation under covert.
But it won't do neither, now I think of it: -Thou art so homely, and so aukward a creature! Hast such a boatswain like air! -People would think she had picked thee up in Wapping, or Rotherhith; or in going to see some new ship launched, or to view the docks at Chatham, or Portsmouth. So gaudy and so clumsy! Thy tawdriness won't do with Charlotte! -So sit thee down contented, Belford.
Yet would I fain secure thy morals too, if matrimony will do it.
Let me see! -Now I have it.
Has not the widow Lovick a daughter, or a niece? It is not every girl of fortune and family that will go to prayers with thee once or twice a day. But since thou art for taking a wife to mortify with, what if thou marriest the widow herself? -She will then have a double concern in thy conversion. You and she may tete a tete pass many a comfortable winter's evening together, comparing experiences, as the good folks call them.
I am serious, Jack. Faith I am. And I would have thee take it into thy wise consideration.

### v7 LETTER XCIII.

Mr. Belford, To Colonel Morden.
Thursday, Sept. 21.
Give me leave, dear Sir, to address myself to you in a very serious and solemn manner on a subject that I must not, cannot dispense with; as I promised the divine lady, that I would do every-thing in my power to prevent that further mischief which she was so very apprehensive of.
I will not content myself with distant hints. It is with very great concern that I have just now heard of a declaration which you are said to have made to your relations at Harlowe-Place, That you will not rest till you have avenged your cousin's wrongs upon Mr. Lovelace.
Far be it from me to offer to defend the unhappy man, or even unduly to extenuate his crime: But yet I must say, that the family, by their persecutions of the dear lady at first, and by their implacableness afterwards, ought, at least, to share the blame with him. There is even great reason to believe, that a lady of such a religious turn, her virtue neither to be surprised nor corrupted, her will inviolate, would have got over a mere personal injury; especially as he would have done all that was in his power to repair it; and as, from the application of all his family in his favour, and other circumstances attending his sincere and voluntary offer, the lady might have condescended, with greater glory to herself, than if he had never offended.
When I have the pleasure of seeing you next, I will acquaint you, Sir, with all the circumstances of this melancholy story; from which you will see, that Mr. Lovelace was extremely ill-treated, at first, by the whole family, this admirable lady excepted. This exception, I know, heightens his crime: But as his principal intention was but to try her virtue; and that he became so earnest a suppliant to her for marriage; and as he has suffered so deplorably in the loss of his reason, for not having it in his power to repair her wrongs; I presume to hope, that much is to be pleaded against such a resolution as you are said to have made.
I will read to you at the same time some passages from letters of his; two of which (one but this moment received) will convince you, that the unhappy man, who is but now recovering his intellects, needs no greater punishment than what he has from his own reflections.
I have just now read over the copies of the dear lady's posthumous letters. I send them all to you, except that directed for Mr. Lovelace; which I reserve till I have the pleasure of seeing you. Let me intreat you to read once more that to yourself; and that to her brother; which latter I now send you; as they are in point to the present subject.
I think, Sir, they are unanswerable. Such, at least, is the effect they have upon me, that I hope I shall never be provoked to draw my sword again in a private quarrel.
To the weight these must needs have upon you, let me add, that the unhappy man has given no new occasion of offence, since your visit to him at Lord M's, when you were so well satisfied of his intention to repair his crimes, that you yourself urged to your dear cousin her forgiveness of him.
Let me also (tho' I presume to hope there is no need, when you coolly consider every-thing) remind you of your own promise to your departing cousin; relying upon which, her last moments were the easier.
My dear colonel Morden, the highest injury was to her: Her family all have a share in the cause: She forgives it: Why should we not endeavour to imitate what we admire?
You asked me, Sir, when in town, If a brave man could be a premeditatedly base one? -Generally speaking, I believe Bravery and Baseness are incompatible. But Mr. Lovelace's character, in the instance before us, affords a proof of the truth of the common observation, That there is no general rule but has its exceptions: For England, I believe, as gallant a nation as it is deemed to be, has not in it a braver spirit than his; nor a man who has greater skill at his weapons; nor more calmness with his skill.
I mention not this with a thought that it can affect Col. Morden; who, if he be not with-held by SUPERIOR Motives, as well as influenced by those I have reminded him of, will tell me, That this skill, and this bravery, will make him the more worthy of being called upon by him.
To these SUPERIOR motives then I refer myself: And with the greater confidence; as a pursuit ending in blood would not, at this time, have the plea lie for it with anybody, which sudden passion might have with some: But would be construed by all, to be a cool and deliberate act of revenge for an evil absolutely irretrievable: An act, which a brave and noble spirit, such as the gentleman's to whom I now write, is not capable of.
Excuse me, Sir, for the sake of my executorial duty and promise, keeping in eye the dear lady's personal injunctions, as well as written will, inforced by letters posthumous. Every article of which (solicitous as we both are to see it duly performed) she would have dispensed with, rather than farther mischief should happen on her account. I am,
Dear Sir,
Your affectionate and faithful Servant,
John Belford.
The following is the posthumous letter to Col. Morden, referred to in the above.

### v7 LETTER XCIV.

Superscribed,
To my beloved Cousin William Morden, Esq;
To be delivered after my death.
My dearest Cousin,
As it is uncertain, from my present weak state, whether, if living, I may be in a condition to receive as I ought the favour you intend me of a visit, when you come to London, I take this opportunity to return you, while able, the humble acknowlegements of a grateful heart, for all your goodness to me from childhood till now: And more particularly for your present kind interposition in my favour-God Almighty for ever bless you, dear Sir, for the kindness you endeavoured to procure for me.
One principal end of my writing to you in this solemn manner, is, to beg of you, which I do with the utmost earnestness, that when you come to hear the particulars of my story, you will not suffer active resentment to take place in your generous breast on my account.
Remember, my dear cousin, that vengeance is God's province; and he has undertaken to repay it; nor will you, I hope, invade that province: -Especially as there is no necessity for you to attempt to vindicate my fame; since the offender himself (before he is called upon) has stood forth, and offered to do me all the justice that you could have extorted from him, had I lived: And when your own person may be endangered by running an equal risque with a guilty man.
Duelling, Sir, I need not tell you, who have adorned a public character, is not only an usurpation of the Divine prerogative; but it is an insult upon magistracy and good government. 'Tis an impious act. 'Tis an attempt to take away a life that ought not to depend upon a private sword: An act, the consequence of which is to hurry a soul (all its sins upon its head) into perdition; endangering that of the poor triumpher-Since neither intend to give to the other that chance, as I may call it, for the Divine mercy, in an opportunity for repentance, which each presumes to hope for himself.
Seek not then, I beseech you, Sir, to aggravate my fault, by a pursuit of blood, which must necessarily be deemed a consequence of it. Give not the unhappy man the merit (were you assuredly to be the victor) of falling by your hand. At present he is the perfidious, the ingrateful deceiver; but will not the forfeiture of his life, and the probable loss of his soul, be a dreadful expiation for having made me miserable for a few months only, and thro' that misery, by the Divine favour, happy to all Eternity?
In such a case, my cousin, where shall the evil stop? And who shall avenge on you? -And who on your avenger?
Let the poor man's conscience then, dear Sir, avenge me. He will one day find punishment more than enough from that. Leave him to the chance of repentance. If the Almighty will give him time for it, why should you deny it him? -Let him still be the guilty aggressor; and let no one say, Clarissa Harlowe is now amply revenged in his fall; or, in the case of yours (which Heaven avert!) that her fault, instead of being buried in her grave, is perpetuated, and aggravated, by a loss far greater than that of herself.
Often, Sir, has the more guilty been the vanquisher of the less. An Earl of Shrewsbury, in the reign of Charles II. as I have read, endeavouring to revenge the greatest injury that man can do to man, met with his death at Barn-Elms, from the hand of the ignoble Duke who had vilely dishonoured him. Nor can it be thought an unequal dispensation, were it generally to happen, that the usurper of the Divine prerogative should be punished for his presumption by the man whom he sought to destroy, and who, however previously criminal, is put, in this case, upon a necessary act of self-defence.
May Heaven protect you, Sir, in all your ways; and, once more I pray, reward you for all your kindness to me: A kindness so worthy of your heart, and so exceedingly grateful to mine: That of seeking to make peace, and to reconcile parents to a once beloved child; uncles to a niece late their favourite; and a brother and sister to a sister whom once they thought not unworthy of that tender relation. A kindness so greatly preferable to the vengeance of the murdering sword.
Be a comforter, dear Sir, to my honoured parents, as you have been to me: And may we, thro' the Divine goodness to us both, meet in that blessed Eternity, into which, as I humbly trust, I shall have entered when you read This.
So prays, and to her latest hour will pray, my dear cousin Morden, my Friend, my Guardian, but not my Avenger-[Dear Sir! remember That!]-
Your ever-affectionate and obliged
Clarissa Harlowe.

### v7 LETTER XCV.

Colonel Morden, To John Belford, Esq;
Sat. Sept. 23.
Dear Sir,
I am very sorry, that any-thing you have heard I have said should give you uneasiness.
I am obliged to you for the letters you have communicated to me; and still further for your promise to favour me with others occasionally.
All that relates to my dear cousin I shall be glad to see, be it from whom it will.
I leave to your own discretion, what may or may not be proper for Miss Howe to see from so free a pen as mine.
I admire her spirit. Were she a man, do you think, Sir, she would, at this time, have your advice to take upon such a subject as that you write upon?
Fear not, however, that your communications shall put me upon any measures that otherwise I should not have taken. The wickedness, Sir, is of such a nature, as admits not of aggravation.
Yet I do assure you, that I have not made any resolutions that will be a tie upon me.
I have indeed expressed myself with vehemence upon the occasion. Who could forbear to do so? But it is not my way to resolve in matters of moment, till opportunity brings the execution of my purposes within my reach. We shall see what manner of spirit this young man will be acted by, on his recovery. If he continue to brave and defy a family, which he has so irreparably injured-If- But resolutions depending upon future contingencies are best left to future determination, as I just now hinted.
Mean time, I will own, that I think my cousin's arguments unanswerable. No good man but must be concluded by them. -But, alas! Sir, who is good?
As to your arguments; I hope you will believe me, when I assure you, as I now do, that your opinion, and your reasonings, have, and will always have, great and deserved weight with me: And that I respect you still more than I did, if possible, for your expostulations in favour of the end of my cousin's pious injunctions to me. They come from you, Sir, with the greatest propriety, as her executor and representative; and likewise as you are a man of humanity, and a well-wisher to both parties.
I am not exempt from violent passions, Sir, any more than your friend; but then I hope they are only capable of being raised by other peoples insolence, and not by my own arrogance, If ever I am stimulated by my imperfections and my resentments to act against my judgment, and my cousin's injunctions; some such reflections as these that follow, will run away with my reason. Indeed they are always present with me.
In the first place; My own disappointment: Who came over with the hope of passing the remainder of my days in the conversation of a kinswoman so beloved; and to whom I had a double relation, as her cousin and trustee.
Then I reflect, too-too often perhaps for my engagements to her in her last hours, that the dear creature could only forgive for herself. She, no doubt, is happy: But who shall forgive for a whole family, in all its branches made miserable for their lives?
That the more faulty her friends were as to her, the more enormous his ingratitude, and the more inexcusable-What! Sir, was it not enough, that she suffered what she did for him, but the barbarian must make her suffer for her sufferings for his sake?- Passion makes me express this weakly: Passion refuses strength sometimes, where the propriety of a resentment prima facie declares expression to be needless. I leave it to you, Sir, to give this reflection its due force.
That the author of this diffusive mischief perpetrated it premeditatedly, wantonly, in the gaiety of his heart. To try my cousin, say you, Sir? To try the virtue of a Clarissa, Sir! -Had she then given him any cause to doubt her virtue? -It could not be. -If he averrs that she did-I am indeed called upon-But I will have patience.
That he carried her, as now it appears, to a vile brothel, purposely to put her out of all human resource; Himself out of the reach of all humane remorse: And that, finding her proof against all the common arts of delusion, base and unmanly arts were there used to effect his wicked purposes. Once dead, the injured saint, in her will, says, he has seen her.
That I could not know this, when I saw him at M. Hall: That, the object of his attempts considered, I could not suppose there was such a monster breathing as he: That it was natural for me to impute her refusal of him rather to transitory resentment, to consciousness of human frailty, and mingled doubts of the sincerity of his offers, than to villainies, which had given the irreversible blow, and had at that instant brought her down to the gates of death, which in a very few days inclosed her.
That he is a man of defiance: A man who thinks to awe every-one by his insolent darings, and by his pretensions to superior courage and skill.
That, disgrace as he is to his name, and to the character of a gentleman, the man would not want his merit, who, in vindication of the dishonoured distinction, should expunge and blot him out of the worthy lift.
That the injured family has a son, who, however unworthy of such a sister, is of a temper vehement, unbridled, fierce, unequal therefore (as he has once indeed been found) to a contention with this man: The loss of which son, by a violent death, on such an occasion, by a hand so justly hated, would complete the misery of the whole family: And who, nevertheless, resolves to call him to account, if I do not: His very misbehaviour perhaps to such a sister stimulating his perverse heart to do her memory the more signal justice; tho' the attempt might be fatal to him.
Then, Sir, to be a witness, as I am every hour, to the calamity and distress of a family to which I am related; every-one of whom, however averse to an alliance with him while it had not taken place, would no doubt have been soon reconciled to the admirable creature, had the man (to whom, for his family and fortunes it was not a disgrace to be allied) done her but common justice!
To see them hang their pensive heads; mope about, shunning one another; tho' formerly never used to meet but to rejoice in each other; afflicting themselves with reflections, that the last time they respectively saw the dear creature it was here, or there, at such a place, in such an attitude; and could they have thought that it would have been the last?
Every-one of them reviving instances of her excellencies, that will for a long time make their very blessings a curse to them!
Her closet, her chamber, her cabinet, given up to me to disfurnish, in order to answer (now too late obliging!) the legacies bequeathed; unable themselves to enter them; and even making use of less convenient back-stairs, that they may avoid passing by the doors of her apartment!
Her parlour locked up; the walks, the retirements, the summer-house in which she delighted, and used to pursue her charming works; that, in particular, from which she went to the fatal interview; shunned, or hurried by, or over!
Her perfections, nevertheless, called up to remembrance, and enumerated: Incidents and graces, unheeded before, or passed over in the groupe of her numberless perfections, now brought into notice, and dwelt upon!
The very servants allowed to expatiate upon these praiseful topics to their principals! Even eloquent in their praises-The distressed principals listening and weeping! Then to see them break in upon the zealous applauders, by their impatience and remorse, and throw abroad their helpless hands, and exclaim; then again to see them listen to hear more of her praises, and weep again-They even encouraging the servants to repeat, how they used to be stopt by strangers to ask after her, and by those who knew her, to be told of some new instances to her honour-How aggravating all this!
In dreams they see her, and desire to see her: Always an angel, and accompanied by angels: Always clad in robes of light: Always endeavouring to comfort them, who declare that they shall never more know comfort!
What an example she set! How she indited! How she drew! How she wrought! How she talked! How she sung! How she played! Her voice, music! Her accent, harmony!
Her conversation how instructive! how sought after! The delight of persons of all ages, of both sexes, of all ranks! Yet how humble, how condescending! Never were dignity and humility so illustriously mingled!
At other times, how generous, how noble, how charitable, how judicious in her charities! In every action laudable! In every attitude attractive! In every appearance, whether full-dressed, or in the housewife's more humble garb, equally elegant, and equally lovely! Like or resembling Miss Clarissa Harlowe, they now remember to be a praise denoting the highest degree of approveable excellence, with every-one, whatever person, action, or rank, spoken of.
The desirable daughter; the obliging kinswoman; the affectionate sister (All envy now subsided!); the faithful, the warm friend; the affable, the kind, the benevolent mistress! -Not one fault remembered! All their severities called cruelties: Mutually accuseing each other; each him and herself; and all to raise her character, and torment themselves.
Such, Sir, is the angel, of whom the vilest of men has deprived the world! You, Sir, who know more of the barbarous machinations and practices of this strange man, can help me to still more inflaming reasons, were they needed, why a man not perfect may stand excused to the generality of the world, if he should pursue his vengeance.
But I will force myself from the subject, after I have repeated, that I have not yet made any resolutions that can bind me. Whenever I do, I shall be glad they may be such as may merit the honour of your approbation.
I send you back the copies of the posthumous letters. I see the humanity of your purpose in the transmission of them to me; and I thank you most heartily for it. I presume, that it is owing to the same laudable consideration, that you kept back the copy of that to the wicked man himself.
I intend to wait upon Miss Howe in person with the diamond ring, and such other of the effects bequeathed to her as are here. I am, Sir,
Your most faithful and obliged Servant,
Wm. Morden.
Mr. Belford, in his answer to this letter, farther inforces the lady's dying injunctions; and rejoices that the Colonel has made no vindictive resolutions; and hopes everything from his prudence and consideration, and from his promise given to the dying lady.
He refers to the seeing him in town an account of the dreadful ends of two of the greatest criminals in his cousin's affair. 'This, says he, together with Mr. Lovelace's disorder of mind, looks as if Providence had already taken the punishment of these unhappy wretches into its own hands.'
He desires a day's notice of his coming to town, lest otherwise he may be absent at the time.
This he does, tho' he tells him not the reason, with a view to prevent a meeting between him and Mr. Lovelace; who may be in town (as he apprehends) about the same time, in his way to go abroad.

### v7 LETTER XCVI.

Colonel Morden, To John Belford, Esq;
Tuesday, Sept. 26.
Dear Sir,
I cannot help congratulating myself as well as you, that we have already got thro' with the family every article of the Will, where they have any concern.
You left me a discretional power, in many instances; and, in pursuance of it, I have had my dear cousin's personal jewels valued; and will account to you for them, at the highest price, when I come to town, as well as for other matters that you were pleased to intrust to my management.
These jewels I have presented to my cousin Dolly Hervey, in acknowlegement of her love to the dear departed. I have told Miss Howe of this; and she is as well pleased with what I have done, as if she had been the purchaser of them herself. As that young lady has jewels of her own, she could only have wished to purchase these for her beloved friend's sake.
The grandmother's jewels are also valued; and the money will be paid me, for you, to be carried to the uses of the Will.
Mrs. Norton is preparing, by general consent, to enter upon her office as housekeeper at The Grove. But it is my opinion, that she will not be long on this side Heaven.
I waited upon Miss Howe myself, as I told you I would, with what was bequeathed to her and her mother. If I make a few observations with regard to that young lady, so dear to my beloved cousin, you will not be displeased perhaps, as you have not a personal acquaintance with her.
There never was a firmer and nobler friendship in women, than that which the wretched man has put an end to, between my dear cousin and Miss Howe.
Friendship, generally speaking, Mr. Belford, is too fervent a flame for female minds to manage: A light, that but in few of their hands burns steady, and often hurries the Sex into flight and absurdity. Like other extremes, it is hardly ever durable. Marriage, which is the highest state of friendship, generally absorbs the most vehement friendships of female to female; and that whether the wedlock be happy, or not.
What female mind is capable of two fervent friendships at the same time?
This I mention as a general observation: But the friendship that subsisted between these two ladies affords a remarkable exception to it: Which I account for from those qualities and attainments in both, which, were they more common, would furnish more exceptions still in favour of the Sex. Both had an inlarged, and even a liberal education: Both had minds thirsting after virtuous knowlege. Great readers both: Great writers-[And early familiar writing I take to be one of the greatest openers and improvers of the mind, that man or woman can be imployed in.] Both generous. High in fortune; therefore above that dependence each on the other, that frequently destroys the familiarity which is the cement of friendship. Both excelling in different ways, in which neither sought to emulate the other. Both blessed with clear and distinguishing faculties; with solid sense; and from their first intimacy [I have many of my lights, Sir, from Mrs. Norton] each seeing something in the other to fear, as well as love; yet making it an indispensable condition of their friendship each to tell the other of her failings; and to be thankful for the freedom taken. One by nature gentle; the other made so, by her love and admiration of her exalted friend- Impossible that there could be a friendship better calculated for duration.
I must however take the liberty to blame Miss Howe for her behaviour to Mr. Hickman. And I infer from it, that even women of sense are not to be trusted with power.
By the way, I am sure I need not desire you not to communicate to this fervent young lady the liberties I take with her character.
I dare say, my cousin could not approve of Miss Howe's behaviour to this gentleman: A behaviour which is talked of by as many as know Mr. Hickman and her. Can a wise young lady be easy under such censure? -She must know it.
Mr. Hickman is really a very worthy man. Every-body speaks well of him. But he is gentle-dispositioned, and he adores Miss Howe; and Love admits not of an air of even due dignity to the object of it. Yet will he hardly ever get back the reins he has yielded up; unless she, by carrying too far the power she seems at present too sensible of, should, when she has no favours to confer which he has not a right to demand, provoke him to throw off the too heavy yoke. And should he do so, and then treat her with negligence, Miss Howe, of all the women I know, will be the least able to support herself under it. She will then be more unhappy than she ever made him: For a man who is uneasy at home can divert himself abroad; which a woman cannot so easily do, without scandal.
Permit me to take further notice, as to Miss Howe; that it is very obvious to me, that she has, by her haughty behaviour to this worthy man, involved herself in one difficulty, from which she knows not how to extricate herself with that grace, which accompanies all her actions. She intends to have Mr. Hickman. I believe she does not dislike him. And it will cost her no small pains to descend from the elevation she has climbed to.
Another inconveniency she will suffer from her having taught every-body (for she is above disguise) to think, by her treatment of Mr. Hickman, much more meanly of him than he deserves to be thought of. And must she not suffer dishonour in his dishonour?
Mrs. Howe is much disturbed at her daughter's behaviour to the gentleman. He is very deservedly a favourite of hers. But (another failing in Miss Howe!) her mother has not all the authority with her that her daughter's good sense ought to permit her to have. It is very difficult, Mr. Belford, for people of different or contrary dispositions (tho' no bad people neither) to mingle Reverence with their Love for each other; even where Nature has called for Love in the relationship.
Miss Howe is open, generous, noble. The Mother has not any of these fine qualities. Parents, in order to preserve their childrens veneration for them, should take great care not to let them see any-thing in their conduct, or behaviour, or principles, which they themselves would not approve of in others.
But, after all, I see that there is something so charmingly brilliant and frank in Miss Howe's disposition, altho' at present visibly overclouded by grief, that it is impossible not to love her even for her failings. She may, and I hope she will, make Mr. Hickman an obliging wife. And if she do, she will have an additional merit with me; since she cannot be apprehensive of check or controul; and may therefore by her generosity and prudence lay an obligation upon her husband, by the performance of what is no more than her duty.
Her mother both loves and fears her. Yet is Mrs. Howe a woman of vivacity, and ready enough, I dare say, to cry out when she is pained. But, alas! she has, as I hinted above, weakened her authority by the narrowness of her mind.
Yet once she praised her daughter to me for the generosity of her spirit, with so much warmth, that had I not known the old lady's character, I should have thought her generous herself. And yet I have always observed, that people even of narrow tempers are ready to praise generous ones: -And thus have I accounted for it, that such persons generally find it to their purpose, that all the world should be open minded but themselves.
The old lady applied herself to me, to urge to the young one the contents of the Will, in order to hasten her to fix a day for her marriage: But desired that I would not let Miss Howe know that she did.
I took the liberty upon it to tell the young lady, that I hoped that her part of a Will, so soon, and so punctually, in almost all its other articles, fulfilled, would not be the only one that would be slighted.
Her answer was, She would consider of it: And made me a courtesy with such an air, as shewed me, that she thought me more out of my sphere, than I could allow her to think me, had I been permitted to argue the point with her.
I found both Miss Howe and her own servant-maid in deep mourning. This, it seems, had occasioned a great debate at first between her mother and her. Her mother had the words of the Will of her side; and Mr. Hickman's interest in her view; as her daughter had said, that she would wear it for six months at least. But the young lady carried her point-'Strange, said she, if I, who shall mourn the heavy, the irreparable loss to the last hour of my life, should not shew my concern to the world for a few months.'
Mr. Hickman, for his part, was so far from uttering an opposing word on this occasion, that, on the very day that Miss Howe put on hers, he waited on her in a new suit of mourning, as for a near relation. His servants and equipage made the same respectful appearance.
Whether the mother was consulted by him in it, I cannot say; but the daughter knew nothing of it, till she saw him in it. She looked at him with surprize, and asked him, for whom he mourned?
The dear, and ever-dear Miss Harlowe, he said.
She was at a loss, it seems-At last-All the world ought to mourn for my Clarissa, said she; but who, Man, (that was her address to him) thinkest thou to oblige by this appearance?
It is more than appearance, madam. I love not my own sister, worthy as she is, better than I loved Miss Clarissa Harlowe. I oblige myself by it. And if I disoblige not you, that is all I have to wish.
She surveyed him, I am told, from head to foot. She knew not, at first, whether to be angry or pleased-At length, I thought at first, said she, that you might have a bolder and freer motive-But (as my mamma says) you may be a well-meaning man, tho' generally a little wrong-headed -However, as the world is censorious, and may think us nearer of kin than I would have it supposed, I must take care, honest friend, that I am not seen abroad in your company.
But let me add, Mr. Belford, that if this compliment of Mr. Hickman (or this more than compliment, as I may well call it, since the worthy man speaks not of my dear cousin without emotion) does not produce a short day, I shall think Miss Howe has less generosity in her temper than I am willing to allow her.
You will excuse me, Mr. Belford, I dare say, for the particularities which you have invited and encouraged.
Having now seen every-thing that relates to the Will of my dear cousin brought to a desirable issue, I will set about making my own. I shall follow the dear creature's example, and give my reasons for every article, that there may be no room for after-contention.
What but a fear of death, a fear unworthy of a creature who knows that he must one day as surely die as he was born, can hinder any one from making such a disposition?
I hope soon to pay my respects to you in town. Mean time, I am, with great respect, dear Sir,
Your faithful and affectionate humble Servant,
Wm. Morden.

### v7 LETTER XCVII.

Mr. Belford, To Miss Howe.
Thursday, Sept. 28.
Madam,
I do myself the honour to send you with This, according to my promise, copies of the posthumous letters written by your exalted friend.
These will be accompanied with other letters, particularly a copy of one from Mr. Lovelace, begun to be written on the 14th, and continued down to the 18th. You will judge by it, Madam, of the dreadful anguish that his spirits labour with, and of his deep remorse.
Mr. Lovelace sent for this letter back. I complied; but I first took a copy of it. As I have not told him that I have done so, you will be pleased to forbear communicating of it to any-body but Mr. Hickman. That gentleman's perusal of it will be the same as if no-body but yourself saw it.
One of the letters of Colonel Morden's which I inclose, you will observe, Madam, is only a copy. The true reason for which, as I will ingenuously acknowledge, is, some free, but respectful observations which the Colonel has made upon you, Madam, for declining to carry into execution your part of your dear friend's last requests. I have therefore, in respect to that worthy gentleman (having a caution from him on that head) omitted those parts.
Will you allow me, Madam, however, to tell you, that I myself could not have believed that my inimitable testatrix's own Miss Howe would have been the most backward in performing such a part of her dear friend's last Will, as is intirely in her own power to perform-Especially, when that performance would make one of the most deserving men in England happy; and whom, I presume, she proposes to honour with her hand?
Excuse me, Madam. I have a most sincere veneration for you; and would not disoblige you for the world.
I will not presume to make remarks on the letters I send you: Nor upon the informations I have to give you of the dreadful end of two unhappy wretches, who were the greatest criminals in the affair of your adorable friend. These are the infamour Sinclair, and a person whom you have read of no doubt in the letters of the charming Innocent, by the name of Captain Tomlinson.
The wretched woman died in the extremest tortures and despondency: The man from wounds got in defending himself in carrying on a contraband trade: Both accusing themselves in their last hours, for the parts they had acted against the most excellent of women, as of the crime they had most remorse for.
Give me leave to say, Madam, that if your compassion be not excited for the poor man who suffers from his own anguish of mind, as you will see by his letter; and for the unhappy family, whose remorse, as you will see by Col. Morden's, is so deep;-your terror must. And yet I shall not wonder, if the just sense of the irreparable loss you have sustained hardens a heart against pity, which, on a less extraordinary occasion, would want its principal grace, if it were not compassionate.
I am, Madam, with the greatest respect and gratitude,
Your most obliged and faithful humble Servant,
J. Belford.

### v7 LETTER XCVIII.

Miss Howe, To John Belford, Esq.
Sat. Sept. 30.
Sir,
I little thought I ever could have owed so much obligation to any man, as you have laid me under. And yet what you have sent me has almost broken my heart, and ruined my eyes.
I am surprised, tho' agreeably, that you have so soon, and so well, got over that part of the trust you have engaged in which relates to the family.
It may be presumed, from the exits you mention of two of the infernal man's accomplices, that the thunderbolt will not stop short of the principal. Indeed I have some pleasure to think it seems rolling along towards the devoted head that has plotted all the mischief. But let me, however, say, that altho' I think Mr. Morden not altogether in the wrong in his reasons for resenting, as he is the dear creature's Kinsman and Trustee; yet I think you very much in the right in endeavouring to dissuade him from it, as you are her Executor, and act in pursuance of her earnest request.
But what a letter is that of the infernal man! I cannot observe upon it. Neither can I, for very different reasons, upon my dear creature's posthumous letters; particularly on that to him. Oh! Mr. Belford! what numberless perfections died, when my Clarissa drew her last breath!
If decency be observed in his letters (for I have not yet had patience to read above two or three of them, besides this horrid one, which I return you inclosed) I may some time hence be curious to look, by their means, into the hearts of wretches, which, tho' they must be the abhorrence of virtuous minds, will, when laid open (as I presume they are in them) afford a proper warning to those who read them, and teach them to detest men of such profligate characters.
If your reformation be sincere, you will not be offended that I except you not on this occasion. -And thus have I helped you to a criterion to try yourself by.
By this letter of the wicked man it is apparent, that there are still wickeder women. But see what a guilty commerce with the devils of your sex will bring those to, whose morals ye have ruined! -For these women were once innocent: It was man that made them otherwise. The first bad man, perhaps, threw them upon worse men: Those upon still worse; till they commenced devils incarnate -The height of wickedness, or of shame, is not arrived at all at once, as I have somewhere heard observed.
But this man, this monster rather, for him to curse these women, and to curse the dear creature's family (implacable as the latter were) in order to lighten a burden he voluntarily took up, and groans under, is meanness added to wickedness: And in vain will he one day find his low plea of sharing with her friends, and with those common wretches, a guilt which will be adjudged him as all his own; tho'; they too may meet with their punishment: As it is evidently begun; in the first, in their ineffectual reproaches of one another; in the second, as you have told me.
This letter of the abandoned wretch I have not shewn to any-body; not even to Mr. Hickman: For, Sir, I must tell you, I do not as yet think it the same thing as only seeing it myself.
Mr. Hickman, like the rest of his sex, would grow upon indulgence. One distinction from me would make him pay two to himself. Insolent creepers, or incroachers, all of you! To shew any of you a favour to-day, you would expect it as a right to-morrow.
I am, as you see, very open and sincere with you; and design in another letter to be still more so, in answer to your call, and Colonel Morden's call, upon me, in a point that concerns me to explain myself upon to my beloved creature's Executor, and to her only tender and only worthy relation.
I cannot but highly applaud Colonel Morden for his generosity to Miss Dolly Hervey.
O that he had arrived time enough to save my inimitable friend from the machinations of the vilest of men, and from the envy and malice of the most selfish and implacable of brothers and sisters!
Anna Howe.

### v7 LETTER XCIX.

Miss Howe, To John Belford, Esq;
Monday, Oct. 2.
When you question me, Sir, as you do, and on a subject so affecting to me, in the character of the representative of my best-beloved friend, and have in every particular hitherto acted up to that character, you are intitled to my regard: Especially as in your questioning of me you are joined by a gentleman, whom I look upon as the dearest and nearest (because worthiest) relation of my dear friend: And who, it seems, has been so severe a censurer of my conduct, that your politeness will not permit you to send me his letter, with others of his; but a copy only, in which the passages reflecting upon me are omitted.
I presume, however, that what is meant by this alarming freedom of the Colonel's, is no more than what you both have already hinted to me; as if you thought I were not inclined to pay so much regard to my beloved creature's last Will, in my own case, as I would have others pay to it. A charge that I ought not to be quite silent under.
You have observed, no doubt, that I have seemed to value myself upon the freedom I take in declaring my sentiments without reserve upon every subject that I pretend to touch upon: And I can hardly question that I have, or shall, in your opinion, by my unceremonious treatment of you upon so short an acquaintance, run into the error of those, who, wanting to be thought above hypocrisy and flattery, fall into rusticity, if not ill-manners; a common fault with such, who, not caring to correct constitutional failings, seek to gloss them over by some nominal virtue; when all the time, perhaps, it is native arrogance; or, at least, a contracted rust, that they will not, because it would give them pain, submit to have filed off.
You see, Sir, that I can, however, be as free with myself as with you: And, by what I am going to write, you will find me still more free: And yet I am aware, that such of my sex as will not assume some little dignity, and exact respect from yours, will render themselves cheap; and perhaps, for their modesty and diffidence, be repaid with scorn and insult.
But the scorn I will endeavour not to deserve; and the insult I will not bear.
In some of the dear creature's papers, which you have had in your possession, and must again have for transcription, you will find several friendly but severe reprehensions of me, on account of a natural, or, at least, an habitual, warmth of temper, which she was pleased to impute to me.
I was thinking to give you her charge against me in her own words, from one of her letters delivered to me with her own hands, on taking leave of me, on the last visit she honoured me with. But I will supply that charge by confession of more than it imports; to wit, 'That I am haughty, uncontroulable, and violent in my temper;' This I say: 'Impatient of contradiction,' was my beloved's charge (from any-body but her dear self, she should have said); 'and aim not at that affability, that gentleness next to meekness, which, in the letter I was going to communicate, she tells me, are the peculiar and indispensable characteristics of a real fine lady; who, she is pleased to say, should appear to be gall-less as a dove; and never should know what warmth or high spirit is, but in the cause of Religion or Virtue; or in cases where her own honour, the honour of a friend, or that of an innocent person, is concerned.'
Now, Sir, as I must needs plead guilty to this indictment, do you think I ought not to resolve upon a Single Life? -I, who have such an opinion of your sex, that I think there is not one man in an hundred whom a woman of sense and spirit can either honour or obey, tho' you make us promise both, in that solemn form of words which unites or rather binds us to you in marriage?
When I look round upon all the married people of my acquaintance, and see how they live, and what they bear, who live best, I am confirmed in my dislike to the State.
Well do your sex contrive to bring us up fools and idiots, in order to make us bear the yoke you lay upon our shoulders; and that we may not despise you from our hearts (as we certainly should, if we were brought up as you are) for your ignorance, as much as you often make us do (as it is) for your insolence.
These, Sir, are some of my notions. And, with these notions, let me repeat my question, Do you think I ought to marry at all?
If I marry either a sordid or an imperious wretch, can I, do you think, live with him? And ought a man of a contrary character, for the sake of either of our reputations, to be plagued with me?
Long did I stand out against all the offers made me, and against all the persuasions of my mother; and, to tell you the truth, the longer, and with the more obstinacy, as the person my choice would have at first fallen upon, was neither approved by my mother, nor by my dear friend. This riveted me to my pride, and to my opposition: For altho' I was convinced after a while, that my choice would neither have been prudent nor happy; and that the specious wretch was not what he had made me believe he was; yet could I not easily think of any other man: And indeed, from the detection of him, took a settled aversion to the whole sex.
At last Mr. Hickman offered himself; a man worthy of a better choice. He had the good fortune [he thinks it so] to be agreeable (and to make his proposals agreeable) to my mother.
As to myself; I own, that were I to have chosen a Brother, Mr. Hickman should have been the man; virtuous, sober, sincere, friendly, as he is. But I wished not to marry: Nor knew I the man in the world whom I could think deserving of my beloved friend. But neither of our parents would let us live single.
The accursed Lovelace was proposed warmly to her, at one time; and, while she was yet but indifferent to him, they by ungenerous usage of him (for then, Sir, he was not known to be Beelzebub himself) and by endeavouring to force her inclinations in favour first of one worthless man, then of another, in antipathy to him, thro' her foolish brother's caprice, turned that indifference (from the natural generosity of her soul) into a regard which she never otherwise would have had for a man of his character.
Mr. Hickman was proposed to me. I refused him again and again. He persisted: My mother his advocate. My mother made my beloved friend his advocate too. I told him my aversion to all men: To him: To matrimony. - Still he persisted. I used him with tyranny: Led indeed partly by my temper, partly by design; hoping thereby to get rid of him; till the poor man (his character unexceptionably uniform) still persisting, made himself a merit with me by his patience. This brought down my pride [I never, Sir, was accounted very ungenerous, nor quite ingrateful] and gave me, at one time, an inferiority in my own opinion to him; which lasted just long enough for my friends to prevail upon me to promise him encouragement; and to receive his addresses.
Having so done, when the weather-glass of my pride got up again, I found I had gone too far to recede. My mother and my friend both held me to it. Yet I tried him; I vexed him an hundred ways; and not so much neither with design to vex him, as to make him hate me, and decline his suit.
He bore this, however; and got nothing but my pity: Yet still my mother and my friend, having obtained my promise (made, however, not to him, but to them) and being well assured that I valued no man more than Mr. Hickman (who never once disobliged me in word, or deed, or look, except by his foolish perseverance) insisted upon the performance.
While my dear friend was in her unhappy uncertainty, I could not think of marriage: And now, what encouragement have I? -She, my monitress, my guide, my counsel, gone, for ever gone! -By whose advice and instructions I hoped to acquit myself tolerably in the State into which I could not avoid entering. For, Sir, my mother is so partially Mr. Hickman's friend, that I am sure, should any difference arise, she would always censure me, and acquit him; even were he ungenerous enough to remember me in his day.
This, Sir, being my situation, consider how difficult it is for me to think of marriage. Whenever we approve, we can find an hundred good reasons to justify our approbation. Whenever we dislike, we can find a thousand to justify our dislike. Every-thing in the latter case is an impediment: Every shadow a bugbear. -Thus can I enumerate and swell perhaps only imaginary grievances; 'I must go whither he would have me to go: Visit whom he would have me to visit: Well as I love to write (tho' now, alas! my grand inducement to write is over) it must be to whom he pleases:' And Mrs. Hickman (who, as Miss Howe, cannot do wrong) would hardly ever be able to do right. Thus, the tables turned upon me, I am reminded of my broken-vowed obedience; Madam'd up perhaps to matrimonial perfection, and all the wedded warfare practised comfortably over between us (for I shall not be passive under insolent treatment) till we become curses to each other, a bye-word to our neighbours, and the jest of our own servants.
But there must be bear and forbear, methinks some wise body will tell me: But why must I be teazed into a State where that must be necessarily the case; when now I can do as I please, and wish only to be let alone to do as best pleases me? And what, in effect, does my mother say? 'Anna Howe, you now do every-thing that pleases you: You now have no-body to controul you: You go and you come; you dress and you undress; you rise and you go to rest; just as you think best: But you must be happier still, child!-'
As how, Madam?
'Why, you must marry, my dear, and have none of these options; but, in every-thing, do as your husband commands you.'
This is very hard, you will own, Sir, for such a one as me to think of. And yet, engaged to enter into that State, as I am, how can I help myself? My mother presses me; my friend, my beloved friend, writing as from the dead, presses me; and you, and Mr. Morden, as Executors of her Will, remind me; the man is not afraid of me [I am sure, were I the man, I should not have half his courage]; and I think I ought to conclude to punish him (the only effectual way I have to do it) for his perverse adherence and persecution, as many other persons are punished, with the grant of his own wishes.
Let me then assure you, Sir, that when I can find, in the words of my charming friend in her Will, writing of her cousin Hervey, that my grief for her is mellowed by time into a remembrance more sweet than painful, that I may not be utterly unworthy of the passion a man of some merit has for me, I will answer the request of my dear friend, so often repeated, and so earnestly pressed; and Mr. Hickman shall find, if he continue to deserve my gratitude, that my endeavours shall not be wanting to make him amends for the patience he has had, and must still for a little while longer have, with me: And then will it be his own fault (I hope not mine) if our marriage answer not those happy prognostics, which filled her generous presaging mind, upon this view, as she once, for my encouragement, and to induce me to encourage him, told me.
Thus, Sir, have I, in a very free manner, accounted to you, as to the Executor of my beloved friend, for all that relates to you, as such, to know; and even for more than I needed to do, against myself: Only that you will find as much against me in some of her letters; and so, losing nothing, I gain the character of ingenuity with you.
And thus much for the double reprimand, on my delaying my part of the performance of my dear friend's Will.
And now let me remind you of one great article relating to yourself, while you are admonishing me on this subject: It is furnished me by her posthumous letter to you-I hope you will not forget, that the most benevolent of her sex expresses herself as earnestly concerned for your thorough reformation, as she does for my marrying. You'll see to it then, that her wishes are as completely answered in that particular, as you are desirous they should be in all others.
I have, I own, disobeyed the dear creature in one article; and that is, where she desires that I will not put myself into mourning. I could not help it.
I send this and mine of Saturday last together: And will not add another word, after I have told you, that I think myself
Your obliged Servant,
A. Howe.

### v7 LETTER C.

Mr. Belford, To Miss Howe.
Thursday night, Oct. 5.
I return you, Madam, my most respectful thanks for your condescending hint, in relation to the pious wishes of your exalted friend for my thorough reformation.
I will only say, that it shall be my earnest and unwearied endeavour to make those generous wishes effectual: And I hope for the Divine blessing upon such my endeavours, or else I know they will be in vain.
I cannot, Madam, express how much I think myself obliged to you for your further condescension, in writing to me so frankly the state of your past and present mind, in relation to the Single and Matrimonial Life. If the lady by whom, as the Executor of her inimitable friend, I am thus honoured, has failings, never were failings so lovely in woman! -How much more lovely, indeed, than the virtues of many of her sex!
I might have ventured into the hands of such a lady the Colonel's letter, without transcription or omission. That worthy gentleman exceedingly admires you; and his caution was the effect of his politeness only, and of his regard for you.
I send you, Madam, a letter from Lord M. to myself; and the copies of three others written in consequence of that. These will acquaint you with Mr. Lovelace's departure from England, and with other particulars, which you will be curious to know.
Be pleased to keep to yourself such of the contents as your own prudence will suggest to you ought not to be seen by any-body else.
I am, Madam, with the profoundest and most grateful respect,
Your faithful and obliged humble Servant,
John Belford.

### v7 LETTER CI.

Lord M. To John Belford, Esq;
M. Hall, Friday Sept. 29.
Dear Sir,
My kinsman Lovelace is now setting out for London; proposing to see you, and then to go to Dover, and so embark. God send him well out of the kingdom!
On Monday he will be with you, I believe. Pray let me be favoured with an account of all your conversations; for Mr. Mowbray and Mr. Tourville are to be there too; and whether you think he is grown quite his own man again. What I mostly write for is, to wish you to keep Colonel Morden and him asunder, and so to give you notice of his going to town. I should be very loth thee should be any mischief between them, as you gave me notice that the Colonel threatened my nephew. But my kinsman would not bear that; so no-body let him know that he did. But I hope there is no fear: For the Colonel does not, as I hear, threaten now. For his own sake, I am glad of that; for there is not such a man in the world as my kinsman is said to be, at all the weapons- As well he was not; he would not be so daring.
We shall all here miss the wild fellow. To be sure, there is no man better company when he pleases.
Pray, do you never travel thirty or forty mile? I should be glad to see you here at M. Hall. It will be charity, when my kinsman is gone; for we suppose you will be his chief correspondent: Altho' he has promised to write to my nieces often. But he is very apt to forget his promises; To us his relations particularly. God preserve us all; Amen! prays
Your very humble Servant,
M.

### v7 LETTER CII.

Mr. Belford, To Lord M.
London, Tuesday night, Oct. 3.
My Lord,
I obey your Lordship's commands with great pleasure. Yesterday in the afternoon Mr. Lovelace made me a visit at my lodgings. As I was in expectation of one from Colonel Morden about the same time, I thought proper to carry him to a tavern which neither of us frequented (on pretence of an half-appointment); ordering notice to be sent me thither, if the Colonel came: And Mr. Lovelace sent to Mowbray, and Tourville, and Mr. Doleman of Uxbridge (who came to town to take leave of him) to let them know where to find us.
Mr. Lovelace is too well recovered, I was going to say. I never saw him more gay, lively, and handsome. We had a good deal of bluster about some parts of the Trust I have engaged in; and upon freedoms I had treated him with; in which, he would have it, that I had exceeded our agreed on limits: But on the arrival of our three old companions, and a nephew of Mr. Doleman's (who had a good while been desirous to pass an hour with Mr. Lovelace) it blew off for the present.
Mr. Mowbray and Mr. Tourville had also taken some exceptions at the freedoms of my pen; and Mr. Lovelace, after his way, took upon him to reconcile us; and did it at the expence of all three; and with such an infinite run of humour and raillery, that we had nothing to do but laugh at what he said, and at one another. I can deal tolerably with him at my pen; but in conversation he has no equal. In short, it was his day. He was glad, he said, to find himself alive; and his two friends clapping and rubbing their hands twenty times in an hour, declared, that now once more he was all himself; the charmingst fellow in the world; and they would follow him to the furthest part of the globe.
I threw a bur upon his coat now-and then; but none would stick.
Your Lordship knows, that there are many things which occasion a roar of applause in conversation, when the heart is open, and men are resolved to be merry, which will neither bear repeating, nor thinking of afterwards. Common things, in the mouth of a man we admire, and whose wit has passed upon us for sterling, become, in a gay hour, uncommon. We watch every turn of such a one's countenance, and are resolved to laugh when he smiles, even before he utters what we are expecting to flow from his lips.
Mr. Doleman and his nephew took leave of us by Twelve. Mowbray and Tourville grew very noisy by One; and were carried off by Two. Wine never moves Mr. Lovelace, notwithstanding a vivacity which generally helps on over-gay spirits. As to myself, the little part I had taken in their gaiety kept me unconcerned.
The clock struck Three before I could get him into any serious or attentive way-So natural to him is gaiety of heart; and such strong hold had the liveliness of the evening taken of him. His conversation you know, my Lord, when his heart is free, runs off to the bottom without any dregs.
But after that hour, and when we thought of parting, he became a little more serious: And then he told me his designs, and gave me a plan of his intended tour; wishing heartily, that I could have accompanied him.
We parted about Four; he not a little dissatisfied with me; for we had some talk about subjects which, he said, he loved not to think of; to wit, Miss Harlowe's Will; my Executorship; papers I had in confidence communicated to that admirable lady [with no unfriendly design, I assure your Lordship]; and he insisting upon, and I refusing, the return of the letters he had written to me from the time that he had made his first addresses to her.
He would see me once again, he said; and it would be upon very ill terms if I complied not with his request. Which I bid him not expect. But, that I might not deny him every-thing, I told him, that I would give him a copy of the Will; tho' I was sure, I said, when he read it, he would wish he had never seen it.
I had a message from him about Eleven this morning, desiring me to name a place at which to dine with Him, and Mowbray, and Tourville, for the last time: And soon after another from Colonel Morden, inviting me to pass the evening with him at the Bedford-Head in Covent-Garden. And, that I might keep them at distance from one another, I appointed Mr. Lovelace at the Eagle in Suffolk-Street.
There I met him, and the two others. We began where we left off at our last parting; and were very high with each other. But, at last, all was made up, and he offered to forget and forgive every-thing, on condition that I would correspond with him while abroad, and continue the series which had been broken thro' by his illness; and particularly give him, as I had offered, a copy of the Lady's Will.
I promised him: And he then fell to raillying me on my gravity, and on my Reformation-schemes, as he called them. As we walked about the room, expecting dinner to be brought in, he laid his hand upon my shoulder, then pushed me from him with a curse; walking round me, and surveying me from head to foot; then calling for the observation of the others, he turned round upon his heel, and, with one of his peculiar wild airs, Ha, ha, ha, ha, burst he out, that these sour-faced proselytes should take it into their heads that they cannot be pious, without forfeiting both their good-nature and good manners! -Why Jack, turning me about, pr'ythee look up, man! -Dost thou not know, that Religion, if it has taken proper hold of the heart, is the most chearful countenance-maker in the world? -I have heard my beloved Miss Harlowe say so: And she knew, or no-body did. And was not her aspect a benign proof of the observation? But by these wamblings in thy cursed gizzard, and thy aukward grimaces, I see thou'rt but a novice in it yet! -Ah, Belford, Belford thou hast a confounded parcel of briars and thorns to trample over barefoot, before Religion will illumine these gloomy features!
I give your Lordship this account, in answer to your desire to know, if I think him the man he was?
In our conversation at dinner, he was balancing whether he should set out the next morning, or the morning after. But finding he had nothing to do, and Colonel Morden being in town (which, however, I told him not of) I turned the scale; and he agreed upon setting out to-morrow morning; they to see him imbark; and I promised to accompany them for a morning's ride (as they proposed their horses); but said, that I must return in the afternoon.
With much reluctance they let me go to my evening's appointment: They little thought with whom: For Mr. Lovelace had put it as a case of honour to all of us, whether, as he had been told that Mr. Morden and Mr. James Harlowe had thrown out menaces against him, he ought to leave the kingdom till he had thrown himself in their way.
Mowbray gave his opinion, that he ought to leave it like a man of honour, as he was; and if he did not take those gentlemen to task for their opprobrious speeches, that at least he should be seen by them in public before he went away; else they might give themselves airs, as if he had left the kingdom in fear of them.
To this he himself so much inclined, that it was with difficulty I persuaded him, that, as they had neither of them proceeded to a direct and formal challenge; as they knew he had not made himself difficult of access; and as he had already done the family injury enough; and it was Miss Harlowe's earnest desire, that be would be content with that; he had no reason, from any point of honour, to delay his journey; especially as he had so just a motive for his going, as the establishing of his health; and as he might return the sooner, if he saw occasion for it.
I found the Colonel in a very solemn way. We had a good deal of discourse upon the subject of letters which had passed between us in relation to Miss Harlowe's Will, and to her family.
He has some accounts to settle with his banker; which, he says, will be adjusted to-morrow; and on Thursday he proposes to go down again, to take leave of his friends; and then intends to set out directly for Italy.
I wish Mr. Lovelace could have been prevailed upon to take any other tour, than that of France and Italy. I did propose Madrid to him: But he laugh'd at me, and told me, that the proposal was in character from a Mule; and from one who was become as grave as a Spaniard of the old cut, at ninety.
I expressed to the Colonel my apprehensions, that his cousin's dying injunctions would not have the force upon him, that were to be wished.
They have great force upon me, Mr. Belford, said he; or one world would not have held Mr. Lovelace and me thus long. But my intention is to go to Florence; not to lay my bones there, as upon my cousin's death I told you I thought to do; but to settle all my affairs in those parts, and then to come over, and reside upon a little paternal estate in Kent, which is strangely gone to ruin in my absence. Indeed, were I to meet Mr. Lovelace, either here or abroad, I might not be answerable for the consequence.
He would have engaged me for to-morrow. But having promised to attend Mr. Lovelace on his journey, as I have mentioned, I said, I was obliged to go out of town, and was uncertain as to the time of my return in the evening. And so I am to see him on Thursday morning at my own lodgings.
I will do myself the honour to write again to your Lordship to-morrow night. Mean time, I am, my Lord,
Your Lordship's, &c.

### v7 LETTER CIII.

Mr. Belford, To Lord M.
Wedn. night, Oct. 4.
My Lord,
I am just returned from attending Mr. Lovelace as far as Gad's-Hill near Rochester. He was exceeding gay all the way. Mowbray and Tourville are gone on with him. They will see him embark, and under sail; and promise to follow him in a month or two; for they say, there is no living without him, now he is once more himself.
He and I parted with great and even solemn tokens of affection; but yet not without gay intermixtures, as I will acquaint your Lordship.
Taking me aside, and clasping his arms about me, 'Adieu, dear Belford! said he: May you proceed in the course you have entered upon! -Whatever airs I give myself, this charming creature has fast hold of me here- (clapping his hand upon his heart); and I must either appear what you see me, or be what I so lately was. - O the divine creature!' lifting up his eyes-
'But if I live to come to England, and you remain fixed in your present way, and can give me encouragement, I hope rather to follow your example, than to ridicule you for it. This Will (for I had given him a copy of it) I will make the companion of my solitary hours. You have told me part of its melancholy contents; and that, and her posthumous letter, shall be my study; and they will prepare me for being your disciple, if you hold on.
'You, Jack, may marry, continued he; and I have a wife in my eye for you. -Only thou'rt such an aukward mortal' [He saw me affected, and thought to make me smile]: 'But we don't make ourselves, except it be worse, by our dress. Thou art in mourning now, as well as I: But if ever thy ridiculous turn lead thee again to be Beau-brocade, I will bedizen thee, as the girls say, on my return, to my own fancy, and according to thy own natural appearance-Thou shalt doctor my soul, and I will doctor thy body: Thou shalt see what a clever fellow I will make of thee.
'As for me, I never will, I never can, marry-That I will not take a few liberties, and that I will not try to start some of my former game, I won't promise-Habits are not easily shaken off-But they shall be by way of weaning. So return and reform shall go together.
'And now, thou sorrowful monkey, what aileth thee?' I do love him, my Lord.
'Adieu!-And once more adieu!-embracing me- And when thou thinkest thou hast made thyself an interest out yonder (looking up) then put in a word for thy Lovelace.'
Joining company, he recommended to me, to write often; and promised to let me quickly hear from him; and that he would write to your Lordship, and to all his family round; for he said, that you had all been more kind to him, than he had deserved.
And so we parted.
I hope, my Lord, for all your noble family's sake, that we shall see him soon return, and reform, as he promises.
I return your Lordship my humble thanks for the honour of your invitation to M. Hall. The first letter I receive from Mr. Lovelace shall give me the opportunity of embracing it. I am, my Lord,
Your most faithful and obedient Servant,
J. Belford.

### v7 LETTER CIV.

Mr. Belford, To Lord M.
Thursday morning, Oct. 5.
It may be some satisfaction to your Lordship, to have a brief account of what has just now passed between Colonel Morden and me.
We had a good deal of discourse about the Harlowe-family, and those parts of the Lady's Will which still remain unexecuted; after which the Colonel addressed himself to me in a manner which gave me some surprize.
He flattered himself, he said, from my present happy turn, and from my good constitution, that I should live a great many years. It was therefore his request, that I would consent to be his Executor; since it was impossible for him to make a better choice, or pursue a better example, than his cousin had set.
His heart, he said, was in it: There were some things in his cousin's Will and his analogous; and he had named one person with me, with whom he was sure I would not refuse to be joined; and to whom he intended to apply for his consent, when he had obtained mine. [Intimating, as far as I could gather, that it was Mr. Hickman, son of Sir Charles Hickman; to whom I know your Lordship is not a stranger: For he said, Every one who was dear to his beloved cousin, must be so to him: and he knew, that the gentleman whom he had thoughts of, would have, besides my advice and assistance, the advice of one of the most sensible ladies in England.]
He took my hand, seeing me under some surprize: You must not hesitate, much less deny me, Mr. Belford. Indeed you must not. Two things I will assure you of: That I have, as I hope, made every-thing so clear, that you cannot have any litigation: And that I have done so justly, and I hope it will be thought so generously, by all my relations, that a mind like yours will rather have pleasure than pain in the Execution of this Trust. And this is what I think every honest man, who hopes to find an honest man for his Executor, should do.
I told him, that I was greatly obliged to him for his good opinion of me: That it was so much every man's duty to be an honest man, that it could not be self-praise to say, that I had no doubt to be found so. But if I accepted of this Trust, it must be on condition-
I could name no condition, he said, interrupting me, which he would refuse to comply with.
This condition, I told him, was, that as there was as great a probability of his being my survivor, as I his, he would permit me to name him for mine; and, in that case, a week should not pass before I made my Will.
With all his heart, he said; and the readier, as he had no apprehensions of suddenly dying; for what he had done and requested was really the effect of the satisfaction he had taken in the part I had already acted as his cousin's Executor; and in my ability, he was pleased to add: As well as in pursuance of his cousin's advice in the Preamble to her Will; to wit, 'That this was a work which should be set about in full health, both of body and mind.'
I told him, that I was pleased to hear him say, that he was not in any apprehension of suddenly dying; as this gave me assurance, that he had laid aside all thoughts of acting contrary to his beloved cousin's dying request.
Does it argue, said he, smiling, that if I were to pursue a vengeance so justifiable in my own opinion, I must be in apprehension of falling by Mr. Lovelace's hand? -I will assure you, that I have no fears of that sort. -But I know this is an ingrateful-subject to you. Mr. Lovelace is your friend; and I will allow, that a good man may have a friendship for a bad one, so far as to wish him well, without countenancing him in his evil.
I will assure you, added he, that I have not yet made any resolutions either way. I have told you what force my cousin's repeated requests have with me. Hitherto they have with-held me-But let us quit this subject.
This, Sir (giving me a sealed-up parcel), is my Will. It is witnessed. I made no doubt of prevailing upon you to do me the requested favour. I have a duplicate to leave with the other gentleman; and an attested copy, which I shall deposit at my banker's. At my return, which will be in six or eight months at farthest, I will allow you to make an exchange of yours, if you will have it so. I have only now to take leave of my relations in the country. And so God protect you, Mr. Belford! You will soon hear of me again.
He then very solemnly embraced me, as I did him: And we parted.
I heartily congratulate with your Lordship on the narrow escape each gentleman has had from the other: For I apprehend, that they could not have met without fatal consequences.
Time, I hope, which subdues all things, will subdue their resentments. I am, my Lord,
Your Lordship's most faithful and obedient Servant,
J. Belford.
Several other Letters passed between Miss Howe and Mr. Belford, relating to the disposition of the Papers and Letters; to the Poor's Fund; and to other articles of the Lady's Will: Wherein the method of proceeding in each case was adjusted. After which the Papers were returned to Mr. Belford, that he might order the two directed copies of them to be taken.
In one of these letters Mr. Belford requests Miss Howe to give the Character of the friend she so dearly loved: 'A task, he imagines, that will be as agreeable to herself, as worthy of her pen.'
'I am more especially curious to know, says he, what was that particular disposition of her time, which I find mentioned in a letter which I have just dipt into, where her sister is enviously reproaching her on that score. This information may perhaps enable me, says he, to account for what has often surprised me; How, at so tender an age, this admirable lady became mistress of such extraordinary and such various qualifications.'
This request produced the following Letter.

### v7 LETTER CV.

Miss Howe, To John Belford, Esq;
Thursday, October 12.
Sir,
I am incapable of doing justice to the character of my beloved friend; and that not only from want of talents, but from grief; which, I think, rather increases than diminishes by time; and which will not let me sit down to a task that requires so much thought, and a greater degree of accuracy than I ever believed myself mistress of.
And yet I so well approve of your motion, that I will throw into your hands a few materials, that may serve by way of supplement, as I may say, to those you will be able to collect from the papers themselves, from Col. Morden's letters to you, particularly that of Sept. 23.; and from the letters of the detestable wretch himself, who, I find, has done her justice, altho' to his own condemnation: All these together will enable you, who seem to be so great an admirer of her virtues, to perform the task; and, I think, better than any person I know. But I make it my request, that if you do any-thing in this way, you will let me see it. -If I find it not to my mind, I will add or diminish, as justice shall require.
She was a wonderful creature from her infancy: But I suppose you intend to give a character of her at those years when she was qualified to be an example to other young ladies, rather than a history of her life.
Perhaps, nevertheless, you will choose to give a description of her person: And as you knew not the dear creature when her heart was easy, I will tell you, what yet, in part, you can confirm;
That her shape was so fine, her proportion so exact, her features so regular, her complexion so lovely, and her whole person and manner was so distinguishedly charming, that she could not move without being admired and followed by the eyes of every one, tho' strangers, who never saw her before. Col. Morden's letter, above referred to, will confirm this.
In her dress she was elegant beyond imitation.
Her stature rather tall than middling: In her whole aspect and air, a dignity, that bespoke the mind that animated all.
This native dignity, as I may call it, induced some superficial persons, who knew not how to account for the reverence which involuntarily filled their hearts on her appearance, to impute pride to her. But she knew not what pride, in the bad sense of the word, was.
You may throw in these sentences of hers, if you touch upon this subject:
'Persons of accidental or shadowy merit may be proud: But inborn worth must be always as much above conceit as arrogance.'
'Who can be better or more worthy than they should be? And, Who shall be proud of talents they give not to themselves?'
'The darkest and most contemptible ignorance is that of not knowing one's self; and that all we have, and all we excel in, is the gift of God.'
'All human excellence is but comparative-There are persons who excel us, as much as we fancy we excel the meanest.'
'In the general scale of beings, the lowest is as useful, and as much a link of the great chain, as the highest.'
'The excellence that makes every other excellence amiable, is Humility.'
'There is but one Pride pardonable; That of being above doing a base or dishonourable action.'
Such were the sentiments by which this admirable young lady endeavoured to conduct herself, and to regulate her conduct to others.
And in truth, never were affability and complacency (graciousness, some have called it) more eminent in any person, man or woman, than in her, to those who put it in her power to oblige them: Insomuch that the benefited has sometimes not known which to prefer; the grace bestowed, or the manner in which it was conferred.
It has been observed, that what was said of Henry IV. of France, might be said of her manner of refusing a request; That she generally sent from her presence the person refused nearly as well satisfied, as if she had granted it.
Then she was so nobly sincere! -You cannot, Sir, expatiate too much upon her sincerity. I dare say, that in all her letters, in all the wretch's letters, her sincerity will not be found to be once impeachable, altho' her calamities were so heavy, the horrid wretch's wiles so subtle, and her struggles to free herself from them so active.
Severe, as she always was, in her reprehensions of a wilful and studied vileness; yet no one accused her judgment, or thought her severe in a wrong place: For her charity was so great, that she always chose to defend or acquit, where the fault was not so flagrant, that it became a piece of justice to condemn it.
You must every-where insist upon it, that had it not been for the stupid persecutions of her relations, she never would have been in the power of this horrid profligate: And yet she was frank enough to acknowlege, that were person, and address, and alliance, to be allowably the principal attractives, it would not have been difficult for her eye to mislead her heart.
When she was last with me, three happy weeks together! in every visit he made her, he left her more dissatisfied with him than before.
In obedience to her friends commands on her coming to me, she never would see him out of my company; and would often say, when he was gone, 'O my Nancy, This is not THE man.' -At other times, 'Gay, giddy creature! he has always something to be forgiven for.' At others, 'This man will much sooner excite one's Fears, than attract one's Love:' And then would she repeat, 'This is not THE man. -All that the world says of him cannot be untrue. -But what title have I to charge him, who intend not to have him?' -In short, had she been left to a judgment and discretion, which no-body ever questioned who had either, she would have discovered enough of him, to make her discard him for ever.
Her ingenuity in acknowleging any error she was drawn into, you must also insist upon.
'Next to not erring, she used to say, was the owning of an error: And that the offering at an excuse in a blameable matter, was the undoubted mark of a disingenuous or perverse mind.'
Yet one of her expressions upon a like subject deserves to be remembred: Being upbraided by a severe censurer, upon a person's proving base, whom she had frequently defended; 'You had more penetration, Madam, than such a young creature as I can pretend to have. But altho' human depravity may, I doubt, oftener justify the person who judges harshly, than them who judge favourably, yet will I not part with my charity; altho', for the future, I will endeavour to make it consistent with caution and prudence.'
If you mention the beauties and graces of her pen, you may take notice, that it was always matter of surprize to her, that the Sex are generally so averse as they are to writeing; since the Pen, next to the Needle, of all employments, is the most proper and best adapted to their genius's; and this as well for improvement as amusement: 'Who sees not, would she say, that those women who take delight in writing excel the men in all the graces of the familiar style? The gentleness of their minds, the delicacy of their sentiments (improved by the manner of their Education) and the liveliness of their imaginations, qualify them to a high degree of preference for this employment: While men of learning, as they are called (of mere learning, however) aiming to get above that natural ease and freedom which distinguish This (and indeed every other kind of writing) when they think they have best succeeded, are got above, or rather beneath, all natural beauty.'
And one hint you may give to the Sex, if you please, who are generally too careless in their orthography (a consciousness of a defect in which generally keeps them from writing)-She used to say, 'It was a proof that a woman understood the derivation and sense of the words she used, and that she stop not at sound, when she spelt accurately.'
You may take notice of the admirable facility she had in learning languages: That she read with great ease both Italian and French, and could hold a conversation in either, tho' she was not fond of doing so [And that she was not, be pleased to call it a fault]: That she had begun to apply herself to Latin.
But that, notwithstanding all her acquirements, she was an excellent Oeconomist and Housewife. And these qualifications, you must take notice, she was particularly fond of inculcating upon all her reading and writing companions of the Sex: For it was a maxim with her, 'That a woman who neglects the Useful and the Elegant, which distinguish her own Sex, for the sake of obtaining the learning which is supposed more peculiar to the other, incurs more contempt by what she foregoes, than she gains credit by what she acquires.'
'Let our Sex therefore (she used to say) seek to make themselves mistresses of all that is excellent, and not incongruous to their Sex, in the other; but without losing any-thing commendable in their own.'
Perhaps you will not think it amiss further to observe on this head, as it will shew that precept and example always went hand in hand with her, That her Dairy at her grandfather's was the delight of every one who saw it; and She, of all who saw her in it: For, in the same hour, whenever she pleased, she was the most elegant dairy-maid that ever was seen, or the finest lady that ever graced a circle.
Yet was this admirable creature mistress of all these domestic qualifications, without the least intermixture of Narrowness. She used to say, 'That, to define true generosity, it must be called, The happy medium between parsimony and profusion.'
She was as much above Reserve as Disguise. So communicative, that no young lady could be in her company half an hour, and not carry away instruction with her, whatever was the topic. Yet all sweetly insinuated; nothing given with the air of prescription: So that while she seemed to ask a question for information-sake, she dropt in the needful instruction, and left the instructed unable to decide, whether the thought (which being started, she, the instructed, could improve) came primarily from herself, or from the sweet instructress.
The Goths and Vandals in those branches of science which she aimed at acquiring, she knew how to detect and expose; and all from Nature.
Propriety, another word for Nature, was her Law, as it is the foundation of all true judgment.
Her skill in Needleworks you will find mentioned perhaps in some of the letters. That piece which she bequeaths to her cousin Morden, is indeed a capital piece; a performance so admirable, that gentleman's father, who resided chiefly abroad, was (as is mentioned in her Will) very desirous to obtain it, in order to carry it to Italy with him, to shew the curious of other countries (as he used to say) for the honour of his own, that the cloister'd confinement was not necessary to make English women excel in any of those fine Arts, which Nuns and Recluses value themselves upon.
Her quickness at these sort of works was astonishing; and a great encouragement to herself to prosecute them.
Mr. Morden's father would have been continually making her presents, would she have permitted him: And he used to call them, and so did her grandfather, tributes due to a merit so sovereign, and not presents.
I say nothing of her skill in Music, and of her charming Voice, when it accompanied her fingers, tho' very extraordinary, because she had her equals in both.
If she could not avoid Cards without incurring the censure of particularity, she would play; but then she always declared against playing high. 'Except for trifles, she used to say, she would not submit to Chance what she was already sure of.'
At other times, 'She should make her friends a very ill compliment, if she supposed they would wish to be possessed of what of right belonged to her; and she should be very unworthy, if she desired to make herself a title to what was theirs.'
'High gaming, in short, she used to say, was a sordid vice; an immorality; the child of avarice; and a direct breach of that commandment which forbids us to covet what is our neighbour's.'
You will have occasion to mention her Charities. Her Will gives you hints of the peculiar nature of those: Indeed, for the prudent distribution of them, she had neither example nor equal.
You may, if you desire to be particular in the account of them, consult Mrs. Norton upon this subject; and when I see what she will furnish, I shall perhaps make an addition to it.
In all her Readings, and in her Conversations upon them she was fonder of finding beauties than blemishes: Yet she used to lament, that certain writers of the first class, who were capable of exalting virtue, and of putting vice out of countenance, too generally employed themselves in works of imagination only, upon subjects merely speculative, disinteresting, and unedifying; from which no good moral or example could be drawn.
All she said, and all she did, was accompanied with a natural ease and dignity, which set her above affectation, or the suspicion of it. For, with all her excellencies, she was forwarder to hear than speak; and hence no doubt derived no small part of her improvement.
You are curious to know the particular distribution of her Time; which you suppose will help you to account for what you own yourself surprised at, to wit, how so young a Lady could make herself mistress of so many accomplishments.
I will premise, that she was from infancy inured to rise early in a morning, by an excellent, and, as I may say, a learned woman, Mrs. Norton, to whose care, wisdom, and example, she was beholden for the groundwork of her taste and acquirements, which meeting with such a genius, made it the less wonder that she surpassed most of her Age and Sex.
She used to say, 'It was incredible to think what might be done by early rising, and by long days well filled up.'
It may be added, That had she calculated according to the practice of too many, she had actually lived more years at Sixteen, than they had at Twenty-six.
She used to say, 'That no one could spend their time properly, who did not live by some Rule: Who did not appropriate the hours, as near as might be, to particular purposes and employments.'
In conformity to this self-Lesson, the usual distribution of the twenty-four hours, when left to her own choice, was as follows:
For REST she allotted SIX hours only.
She thought herself not so well, and so clear in her intellects (so much alive, she used to say) if she exceeded this proportion. If she slept not, she chose to rise sooner. And in winter had her fire laid, and a taper ready burning to light it; not loving to give trouble to servants, 'whose harder work, and later hours of going to bed, she used to say, required consideration.'
I have blamed her for her greater regard to them, than to herself: But this was her answer: 'I have my choice: Who can wish for more? Why should I oppress others, to gratify myself? You see what free-will enables one to do; while imposition would make a light burden heavy.'
Her First THREE Morning Hours
Were generally passed in her Study, and in her Closet-duties: And were occasionally augmented by those she saved from Rest: And in these passed her epistolary amusements.
TWO Hours she generally allotted to Domestic Management.
These at different times of the day, as occasions required, all the housekeeper's bills, in ease of her mother, passing thro' her hands. For she was a perfect mistress of the four principal rules of arithmetic.
FIVE Hours to her Needle, Drawings, Music, &c.
In these she included the assistance and inspection she gave to her own servants, and to her sister's servants, in the needleworks required for the family: For her sister is a Modern. In these she also included Dr. Lewen's conversation-visits; with whom likewise she held a correspondence by letters. That reverend gentleman delighted himself and her, twice or thrice a week, if his health permitted, with these visits: And she always preferred his company to any other engagement.
TWO Hours she allotted to her Two first Meals.
But if conversation, or the desire of friends, or the falling in of company or guests, required it to be otherwise, she never scrupled to oblige; and would borrow, as she called it, from other distributions. And as she found it very hard not to exceed in this appropriation, she put down.
ONE Hour more to Dinner-time Conversation,
To be added or subtracted, as occasions offered, or the desire of her friends required: And yet found it difficult, as she often said, to keep this account even; especially if Dr. Lewen obliged them with his company at their table: Which however he seldom did; for, being a valetudinarian, and in a regimen, he generally made his visits in the afternoon.
ONE Hour to Visits to the neighbouring Poor;
To a select number of whom, and to their children, she used to give brief instructions, and good books: And as this happened not every day, and seldom above twice a week, she had two or three hours at a time to bestow in this benevolent employment.
The remaining FOUR Hours,
Were occasionally allotted to supper, to conversation, or to reading after supper to the family. This allotment she called Her Fund, upon which she use to draw, to satisfy her other debits: And in this she included visits received and returned, shews, spectacles, &c. which, in a country-life, not occurring every-day, she used to think a great allowance, no less than two artificial days in six, for amusements only: And she was wont to say, that it was hard if she could not steal time out of such a fund as this, for an excursion of even two or three days in a month.
If it be said, that her relations, or the young neighbouring ladies, had but little of her time, it will be considered, that besides these four hours in the twenty-four, great part of the time she was employed in her needle-works, she used to converse as she worked: And it was a custom she had introduced among her acquaintance, that the young ladies in their visits used frequently, in a neighbourly way (in the winter evenings especially) to bring their work with them; and one of half a dozen of her select aquaintance used by turns to read to the rest as they were at work.
This was her usual method, when at her own command, for Six days in the week.
The SEVENTH DAY
She kept, as it ought to be kept: And as some part of it was frequently employed in works of mercy, the hour she allotted to visiting the neighbouring poor, was occasionally supplied from this day, and added to her fund.
But I must observe, that when in her grandfather's life-time she was three or four weeks at a time his housekeeper and guest, as also at either of her uncles, her usual distribution of time was varied: But still she had an eye to it as nearly as circumstances would admit.
When I had the happiness of having her for my guest, for a fortnight or so, she likewise dispensed with her rules. In her account-book, since her ever-to-be-lamented death, I have found this memorandum: -'From such a day, to such a day, all holidays, at my dear Miss Howe's.' At her return: -'Account resumed such a day, ' naming it; and then she proceeded regularly, as before.
Once a week she used to reckon with herself; when, if within the 144 hours contained in the six days she had made her account even, she noted it accordingly: If otherwise, she carried the debit to the next week's account; as thus: Debtor to the article of benevolent visits, so many hours. And so of the rest.
But it was always an especial part of her care, that, whether visiting or visited, she shewed in all companies an intire ease, satisfaction, and chearfulness, as if she kept no such particular account, and as if she did not make herself answerable to herself for her occasional exceedings.
This method, which to others will appear perplexing and unnecessary, her early hours, and custom, had made easy and pleasant to her.
And indeed, as I used to tell her, greatly as I admired her in all her methods, I could not bring myself to this (tho' I had to early hours, and find the benefit of it) might I have had the world for my reward.
She used to answer: 'I do not think All I do necessary for another to do: Nor even for myself: But when it is more pleasant to me to keep such an account, than to let it alone; why may I not proceed in my supererogatories? -There can be no harm in it. It keep up my attention to accounts; which one day may be of use to me in more material instances. Those who will not keep a strict account, seldom long keep any. I neglect not more useful employments for it. And it teaches me to be covetous of time; the only thing of which we can be allowably covetous; since we live but once in this world; and when gone, are gone from it for ever.'
O Mr. Belford! I can write no further on this subject. For, looking into the account-book for other particulars, I met with a most affecting memorandum; which, being written on the extreme edge of the paper, with a fine pen, and in the dear creature's smallest hand, I saw not before. -This it is; written, I suppose, at some calamitous period after the day named in it-Help me to a curse to blast the monster who gave occasion for it!-
'April 10. The account concluded!-
'And with it, all my worldly hopes and prospects!!!'
I take up my pen; but not to apologize for my execration. -Once more I pray to God to avenge me of him! -Me I say-For mine is the loss-Hers the gain.
O Sir! You did not, you could not know her, as I knew her! Never was such an excellence! -So warm, yet so cool a friend! -So much what I wish to be, but never shall be! -For, alas! my Stay, my Adviser, my Monitress, my Directress, is gone! for ever gone!
She honoured me with the title of The sister of her heart: But I was only so in the Love I bore her (A Love beyond a sister's-infinitely beyond her sister's!); in the hatred I have to every mean and sordid action; and in my Love of Virtue: -For, otherwise, I am of a high and haughty temper, as I have acknowleged before, and very violent in my passions.
In short, she was the nearest perfection of any creature I ever knew. She never preached to me lessons she practised not. She lived the life she taught. All humility, meekness, self-accusing, others-acquitting, tho' the shadow of the fault hardly hers, the substance theirs whose only honour was their relation to her.
To lose such a Friend, such a Guide-If ever my violence was justifiable, it is upon this recollection! -For she only lived to make me sensible of my failings, but not long enough to enable me to conquer them; as I was resolved to endeavour to do.
Once more then let me execrate-But now violence and passion again predominate! -And how can it be otherwise?
But I force myself from the subject, having lost the purpose for which I resumed my pen.
A. Howe.

### v7 LETTER CVI.

Mr. Lovelace, to John Belford, Esq;
Paris, Octob. 14-25.
-Timor & minae
Scandunt eodem quo dominus: neque
Decedit aerata triremi, &
Post equitem sedet atra cura.
In a language so expressive as the English, I hate the pedantry of tagging or prefacing what I write with Latin scraps; and ever was a censurer of the mottomongers among our weekly and daily scribblers. But these verses of Horace are so applicable to my case, that, whether on shipboard, whether in my post-chaise, or in my inn at night, I am not able to put them out of my head. Dryden once I thought said well in these bouncing lines:
Man makes his Fate according to his mind.
The weak, low spirit Fortune makes her slave:
But she's a drudge, when hector'd by the brave.
If Fate weave common thread, I'll change the doom,
And with new purple weave a nobler loom.
And in these:
Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me,
I have a soul, that, like an ample shield,
Can take in all, and verge enough for more.
Fate was not mine: Nor am I Fate's-
Souls know no conquerors-
But in the first quoted lines, considering them closely, there is nothing but blustering absurdity: In the other, the poet says not truth; for Conscience is the Conqueror of Souls: At least it is the Conqueror of mine: And who ever thought it a narrow one?
But this is occasioned partly by poring over the affecting Will, and posthumous Letter. What an army of texts has she drawn up in array against me in the latter! -But yet, Jack, do they not shew me, that, two or three thousand years ago, there were as wicked fellows as myself? - They do-And that's some consolation.
But the generosity of her mind display'd in both, is what stings me most. And the more still, as it is now out of my power any way in the world to be even with her.
I ought to have written to you sooner. But I loiter'd two days at Calais, for an answer to a letter I wrote to engage my former travelling valet, De la Tour; an ingenious, ready fellow, as you have heard me say. I have engaged him, and he is now with me.
I shall make no stay here; but intend for some of the Electoral courts. That of Bavaria, I think, will engage me longest. Perhaps I may step out of my way (if I can be out of my way any-where) to those of Dresden and Berlin: And it is not impossible that you may have one letter from me at Vienna. And then perhaps I may fall down into Italy by the Tirol; and so, taking Turin in my way, return to Paris; where I hope to see Mowbray and Tourville: Nor do I despair of you.
This a good deal differs from the plan I gave you. But you may expect to hear from me as I move; and whether I shall pursue this route, or the other.
I have my former lodgings in the Rue St. Antoine: Which I shall hold, notwithstanding my tour: So they will be ready to accommodate any two of you, if you come hither before my return: And for this I have conditioned.
I write to Charlotte; and that is writing to all my relations at once.
Do thou, Jack, inform me duly of every-thing that passes: -Particularly, How thou proceedest in thy Reformation-scheme: How Mowbray and Tourville go on in my absence: Whether thou hast any chance for a wife [I am the more solicitous on this head, because thou seemest to think, that thy Mortification will not be complete, nor thy Reformation secure, till thou art shackled]: How the Harlowes proceed in their penitentials: If Miss Howe be married, or near being so: How honest Doleman goes on with his Empiric, now he has dismissed his Regulars, or they him; and if any likelihood of his perfect recovery. Be sure be very minute: For every trifling occurrence relating to those we value, becomes interesting, when we are at a distance from them. Finally, prepare thou to piece thy broken thread, if thou wouldst oblige
Thy Lovelace.

### v7 LETTER CVII.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
London, Oct. 25.
I write, to shew you, that I am incapable of slighting even the minutest requests of an absent and distant friend. Yet you may believe, that there cannot be any great alterations in the little time that you have been out of England, with respect to the subjects of your inquiry. Nevertheless I will answer to each for the reason above given; and for the reason you mention, that even trifles and chit-chat are agreeable from friend to friend, and of friends, and even of those to whom we give the importance of deeming them our foes.
First, then, as my Reformation-scheme, as you call it, I hope I go on very well. I wish you had entered upon the like, and could say so too. You would then find infinitely more peace of mind, than you are likely ever otherwise to be acquainted with. When I look back upon the sweep that has been made among us in the two or three past years, and forward upon what may still happen, I hardly think myself secure; tho' of late I have been guided by other lights than those of sense and appetite, which have hurried so many of our confraternity into worldly ruin, if not into eternal perdition.
I am very earnest in my wishes to be admitted into the Nuptial State. But I think I ought to pass some time as a probationary, till, by steadiness in my good resolutions, I can convince some woman, whom I could love and honour, and whose worthy example might confirm my morals, that there is one Libertine who had the grace to reform, before Age or Disease put it out of his power to sin on.
The Harlowes continue inconsoleable; and I dare say will to the end of their lives.
Miss Howe is not yet married; but I have reason to think will soon. I have the honour of corresponding with her; and the more I know of her, the more I admire the nobleness of her mind. She must be conscious, that she is superior to half our Sex, and to most of her own; which may make her give way to a temper naturally hasty and impatient: But, if she meet with condescension in her man (and who would not veil to a superiority so visible, if it be not exacted with arrogance?) I dare say she will make an excellent wife.
As to Doleman, the poor man goes on trying and hoping with his Empiric. I cannot but say, that as the latter is a sensible and judicious man, and not rash, opinionative, or over-sanguine, I have great hopes (little as I think of Quacks and Nostrum-mongers in general) that he will do him good, if his case will admit of it. My reasons are, That the man pays a regular and constant attendance upon him: Watches, with his own eye, every change, and new symptom of his patient's malady: Varies his applications as the indications vary: Fetters not himself to rules laid down by the fathers of the art, who lived many hundred years ago; when diseases, and the causes of them, were different, as the modes of living were different from what they are now, as well as climates and accidents: That he is to have his reward, not in daily fees; but (after the first five guineas for medicines) in proportion as the patient himself shall find amendment.
As to Mowbray and Tourville; what novelties can be expected, in so short a time, from men, who have not sense enough to strike out or pursue new lights, either good or bad? Now, especially, that thou art gone, who wert the soul of all enterprize, and in particular their soul. Besides, I see them but seldom. I suppose they'll be at Paris before you can return from Germany; for they cannot live without you: And you gave them such a specimen of your recovered volatility, in the last evening's conversation, as equally delighted them, and concerned me.
I wish, with all my heart, that thou wouldst bend thy course towards the Pyreneans. I should then (if thou writest to thy cousin Montague an account of what is most observable in thy tour) put in for a copy of thy letters. I wonder thou wilt not; since then thy subjects would be as new to thyself, as to
Thy Belford.

### v7 LETTER CVIII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Paris, Oct. 16-27.
I follow my last of the, on the occasion of a letter just now come to hand from Joseph Leman. The fellow is Conscience-ridden, Jack; and tells me, 'That he cannot rest either day or night for the mischiefs which he fears he has been, and may still further be the means of doing.' He wishes, 'if it please God, and if it please me, that he had never seen my Honour's face.'
And what is the cause of his present concern, as to his own peculiar; what, but 'the slights and contempts which he receives from every one of the Harlowes; from those particularly, he says, whom he has endeavoured to serve as faithfully as his engagements to me would let him serve them? And I always made him believe, he tells me (poor weak soul as he was from his cradle!) that serving me was serving both, in the long-run. But this, and the death of his dear young lady, is a grief, he declares, that he shall never claw off, were he to live to the age of Matthew-Salem: Althoff, and howsoever, he is sure; that he shall not live a month to an end, being strangely pined, and his stomach nothing like what it was: And Mrs. Betty being also (now she has got his love) very cross and slighting: But, thank his God for punishing her! she is in a poor way hersell.
'But the chief occasion of troubling my Honour now, is not his own griefs only, altho they are very great; but to prevent future mischiefs to me: For he can assure me, that Colonel Morden has set out from them all, with a full resolution to have his will of me: And he is well assured, that he said, and swore to it, as how he was resolved that he would either have my Honour's heart's blood, or I should have his; or some such-like sad threatenings: And that all the family rejoice in it, and hope I shall come short home.'
This is the substance of Joseph's letter; and I have one from Mowbray, which has a hint to the same effect. And I recollect now, that thou wert very importunate with me to go to Madrid, rather than to France and Italy, the last evening we passed together.
What I desire of thee, is, by the first dispatch, to let me faithfully know all that thou knowest on this head.
I can't bear to be threatened, Jack. Nor shall any man, unquestioned, give himself airs in my absence, if I know it, that shall make me look mean in any-body's eyes: That shall give my friends pain for me: That shall put them upon wishing me to change my intentions, or my plan, to avoid him. Upon such despicable terms as these, thinkest thou that I could bear to live?
But why, if such were his purpose, did he not let me know it, before I left England? Was he unable to work himself up to a resolution, till he knew me to be out of the kingdom?
As soon as I can inform myself where to direct to him, I will write to know his purpose; for I cannot bear suspense, in such a case as this: That solemn act, were it even to be Marriage or Hanging, which must be done tomorrow, I had rather should be done to-day. My mind tires and sickens with impatience on ruminating upon scenes that can afford neither variety nor certainty. To dwell twenty days in expectation of an event that may be decided in a quarter of an hour, is grievous.
If he come to Paris, altho' I should be on my tour, he will very easily find out my lodgings: For I every day see some or other of my countrymen, and divers of them have I entertained here. I go frequently to the Opera, and to the Play, and appear at Court, and at all public places. And, on my quitting this city, will leave a direction whither my letters from England, or elsewhere, shall from time to time be forwarded. Were I sure, that his intention is what Joseph Leman tells me it is, I would stay here, or shorten his course to me, let him be where he would.
I cannot get off my regrets on account of this dear Lady for the blood of me. If the Colonel and I are to meet, as he has done me no injury, and loves the memory of his cousin, we shall engage with the same sentiments, as to the object of our dispute: And that, you know, is no very common case.
In short, I am as much convinced that I have done wrong, as he can be; and regret it as much. But I will not bear to be threatened by any man in the world, however conscious of having deserved blame.
Adieu, Belford! Be sincere with me. No palliation, as thou valuest
Thy Lovelace.

### v7 LETTER CIX.

Mr. Belford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
London, October 26.
I cannot think, my dear Lovelace, that Colonel Morden has either threatened you in those gross terms mentioned by the vile, hypocritical, and ignorant Joseph Leman, or intends to follow you. They are the words of people of that fellow's class; and not of a gentleman: Not of Colonel Morden, I am sure. You'll observe, that Joseph pretends not to say that he heard him speak them
I have been very solicitous to sound the Colonel, for your sake, and for his own, and for the sake of the injunctions of the excellent lady to me, as well as to him, on that subject. He is (and you will not wonder that he should be) extremely affected; and owns, that he has expressed himself in terms of resentment on the occasion. Once he said to me, That had his beloved cousin's case been that of a common seduction; and had she been drawn in by what Bishop Burnet calls The Delicacy of Intrigue (her own infirmity or credulity contributing to her fall) he could have forgiven you. But, in so many words, He assured me, that he had not taken any resolutions; nor had he declared himself to the family in such a way as should bind him to resent: On the contrary, he has owned, that his cousin's injunctions have hitherto had the force upon him which I could wish they should have.
He went abroad in a week after you. When he took his leave of me, he told me, That his design was to go to Florence; and that he would settle his affairs there; and then return to England, and here pass the remainder of his days.
I was indeed apprehensive that if you and he were to meet, something unhappy might fall out: And as I knew that you proposed to take Italy, and very likely Florence, in your return to France, I was very solicitous to prevail upon you to take the court of Spain into your plan. I am still so. And if you are not to be prevailed upon to do that, let me intreat you to avoid Florence or Leghorn in your return, as you have visited both heretofore. At least, let not the proposal of a meeting come from you.
It would be matter of serious reflection to me, if the very fellow, this Joseph Leman, who gave you such an opportunity to turn all the artillery of his masters against themselves, and to play them upon one another to favour your plotting purposes, should be the instrument in the devil's hand (unwittingly too) to avenge them all upon you: For should you even get the better of the Colonel, would the mischief end there? -It would but add remorse to your present remorse; since the interview must end in death; for he would not, I am confident, take his life at your hand. The Harlowes would, moreover, prosecute you in a legal way. You hate them; and they would be gainers by his death: Rejoicers in yours-And have you not done mischief enough already?
Let me therefore (and thro' me all your friends) have the satisfaction to hear, that you are resolved to avoid this gentleman. Time will subdue all things. No-body doubts your bravery. Nor will it be known, that your plan is changed thro' persuasion.
Young Harlowe talks of calling you to account. This is a plain evidence, that Mr. Morden has not taken the quarrel upon himself for their family.
I am in no apprehension of any-body but Colonel Morden. I know it will not be a means to prevail upon you to oblige me, to say, that I am well assured, that this gentleman is a skilful swordsman; and that he is as cool and sedate as skilful. But yet I will add, that if I had a value for my life, he should be the last man, except yourself, with whom I would choose to have a contention.
I have, as you required, been very candid and sincere with you. I have not aimed at palliation. If you seek not Colonel Morden, it is my opinion he will not seek you: For he is a man of principle. But if you seek him, I believe he will not shun you.
Let me re-urge (It is the effect of my love for you!) that you know your own guilt in this affair, and should not be again an aggressor. It would be pity, that so brave a man as the Colonel should drop, were you and he to meet: And, on the other hand, it would be dreadful, that you should be sent to your account unprepared for it; and persuing a fresh violence. Moreover, seest thou not, in the deaths of two of thy principal agents, the handwriting upon the wall against thee?
My zeal on this occasion may make me guilty of repetition. Indeed I know not how to quit the subject. But if what I have written, added to your own remorse and consciousness, cannot prevail, all that I might further urge will be ineffectual.
Adieu therefore! Mayst thou repent of the past: And may no new violences add to thy heavy reflections, and overwhelm thy future hopes, is the wish of
Thy true Friend,
John Belford.

### v7 LETTER CX.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Munich, Nov. 11-22.
I received yours this moment, just as I was setting out for Vienna.
As to going to Madrid, or one single step out of the way, to avoid Colonel Morden, let me perish, if I do! - You cannot think me so mean a wretch.
And so you own, that he has threatened me; but not in gross and ungentlemanly terms, you say. If he has threatened me like a gentleman, I will resent his threats like a gentleman. But he has not done as a man of honour, if he has threatened me at all behind my back. I would scorn to threaten any man to whom I knew how to address myself either personally or by pen and ink.
As to what you mention of my guilt; of the handwriting on the wall; of a legal prosecution, if he meet his fate from my hand; of his skill, coolness, courage, and such-like poltroon stuff; what can you mean by it? Surely you cannot believe, that such insinuations as those will weaken either my hands or my heart. -No more of this sort of nonsense, I beseech you, in any of your future letters.
He had not taken any resolutions, you say, when you saw him. He must and will take resolutions, one way or other, very quickly; for I wrote to him yesterday, without waiting for this your answer to my last. I could not avoid it. I could not (as I told you in that) live in suspense. I have directed my letter to Florence. Nor could I suffer my friends to live in suspense as to my safety or otherwise. But I have couched it in such moderate terms, that he has fairly his option. He will be the challenger, if he take it in the sense in which he may so handsomely avoid taking it. And if he does, it will demonstrate that malice and revenge were the predominant passions with him; and that he was determined but to settle his affairs, and then take his resolutions, as you phrase it. -Yet, if we are to meet (for I know what my option would be, in his case, on such a letter, complaisant as it is) I wish he had a worse, I a better cause. It would be sweet revenge to him, were I to fall by his hand. But what should I be the better for killing him?
I will inclose the copy of the letter I sent him.
On reperusing yours in a cooler moment, I cannot but thank you for your friendly love, and good intentions. My value for you, from the first hour of our acquaintance till now, I have never found misplaced; regarding at least your intention: Thou must, however, own a good deal of blunder of the over-do and under-do kind, with respect to the part thou actedst between me and the beloved of my heart. But thou art really an honest fellow, and a sincere and warm friend. I could almost wish I had not written to Florence till I had received thy letter now before me. But it is gone. Let it go. If he wish peace, and to avoid violence, he will have a fair opportunity to embrace the one, and shun the other. -If not-he must take his fate.
But be this as it may, you may contrive to let young Harlowe know (He is a menacer too!) that I shall be in England in March next, at farthest.
This of Bavaria is a gallant and polite court. Nevertheless, being uncertain whether my letter may meet with the Colonel at Florence, I shall quit it, and set out, as I intended, for Vienna; taking care to have any letter or message from him conveyed to me there: Which will soon bring me back hither, or to any other place to which I shall be invited.
As I write to Charlotte, I have nothing more to add, after compliments to all friends, than that I am
Wholly Yours,
Lovelace.

### To William Morden, Esq;

[Inclosed in the above.]
Munich, Nov. 10-21.
Sir,
I have heard, with a great deal of surprize, that you have thought fit to throw out some menacing expressions against me.
I should have been very glad, that you had thought I had punishment enough in my own mind, for the wrongs I have done to the most excellent of women; and that it had been possible for two persons so ardently joining in one love (especially as I was desirous, to the utmost of my power, to repair those wrongs) to have lived, if not on amicable terms, in such a way, as not to put either to the pain of hearing of threatenings thrown out in absence, which either ought to be despised for, if he had not spirit to take notice of them.
Now, Sir, if what I have heard be owing only to warmth of temper, or to sudden passion, while the loss of all other losses the most deplorable to me was recent, I not only excuse, but commend you for it. But if you are really determined to meet me on any other account (which, I own to you, is not however what I wish) it would be very blameable, and very unworthy of the character, I desire to maintain as well with you as with every other gentleman, to give you a difficulty in doing it.
Being uncertain when this letter may meet you, I shall set out to-morrow for Vienna; where any letter directed to the post-house in that city, or to Baron Windisgratz's (at the Favorita) to whom I have commendations, will come to hand.
Mean time, believing you to be a man too generous to make a wrong construction of what I am going to declare, and knowing the value which the dearest of all creatures had for you, and your relationship to her; I will not scruple to assure you, that the most acceptable return will be, that Colonel Morden chooses to be upon an amicable, rather than upon any other footing, with
His sincere Admirer, and humble Servant,
R. Lovelace.

### v7 LETTER CXI.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Lintz, Nov. 28.
Dec. 9.
I am now on my way to Trent, in order to meet Colonel Morden, in pursuance of his answer to my letter inclosed in my last. I had been at Presburgh, and had intended to visit some other cities of Hungary: But having obliged myself to return first to Vienna, I there met with his letter: Which follows.
Munich, Nov. 21.
Dec. 2.
Sir,
Your letter was at Florence four days before I arrived there.
That I might not appear unworthy of your favour, I set out for this city the very next morning. I knew not but that the politeness of this court might have engaged, beyond his intention, a gentleman who has only his pleasures to pursue.
But being disappointed in my hope of finding you here, it becomes me to acquaint you, that I have such a desire to stand well in the opinion of a man of your spirit, that I cannot hesitate a moment upon the option, which I am sure Mr. Lovelace in my situation (thus called upon) would make.
I own, Sir, that I have, on all occasions, spoken of your treatment of my ever-dear cousin as it deserved. It would have been very surprising if I had not. And it behoves me (now you have given me so noble an opportunity of explaining myself) to convince you, that no words fell from my lips, of you, merely because you were absent. I acquaint you, therefore, that I will attend your appointment; and would, were it to the farthest part of the globe.
I shall stay some days at this court; and if you please to direct for me at M. Klienfurt's in this city, whether I remain here or not, your commands will come safely and speedily to the hands of, Sir,
Your most humble Servant,
Wm. Morden.
So you see, Belford, that the Colonel, by his ready, his even eagerly expressed acceptance of the offered interview, was determined. And is it not much better to bring such a point as this to an issue, than to give pain to friends for my safety, or continue in a suspense myself; as I must do, if I imagined that another had aught against me?
This was my reply:
Vienna, Nov. 25.
Dec. 6.
Sir,
I have this moment the favour of yours. I will suspend a tour I was going to take into Hungary, and instantly set out for Munich: And, if I find you not there, will proceed to Trent. This city being on the confines of Italy, will be most convenient, as I presume, to you, in your return to Tuscany; and I shall hope to meet you in it on the 1 3/4 of December.
I shall bring with me only a French valet and an English footman. Other particulars may be adjusted when I have the honour to see you. Till when I am, Sir,
Your most obedient Servant,
R. Lovelace.
Now, Jack, I have no manner of apprehension of the event of this meeting. And I think I may say, He seeks me; not I him. And so let him take the consequence.
What is infinitely nearer to my heart, is, my ingratitude to the most excellent of women-My premeditated ingratitude! -Yet all the while enabled to distinguish and to adore her excellencies, in spite of the mean opinion of the Sex which I had imbibed from early manhood.
But this Lady has asserted the worthiness of her Sex, and most gloriously has she exalted it with me now. Yet, surely, as I have said and written an hundred times, there cannot be such another woman.
But while my loss in her is the greatest of any man's, and while she was nearer to me, than to any other person in the world, and once she herself wished to be so, what an insolence in any man breathing to pretend to avenge her on me! -Happy! happy! thrice happy! had I known how to value, as I ought to have valued, the glory of such a preference!
I will aggravate to myself this aggravation of the Colonel's pretending to call me to account for my treatment of a lady so much my own, lest, in the approaching interview, my heart should relent for one so nearly related to her, and who means honour and justice to her memory; and I should thereby give him advantages which otherwise he cannot have. For I know that I shall be inclined to trust to my skill, to save a man who was so much and so justly valued by her; and shall be loth to give way to my resentment, as a threatened man. And in this respect only am I sorry for his skill, and his courage, lest I should be obliged, in my own defence, to add a chalk to a score that is already too long.
Indeed, indeed, Belford, I am, and shall be, to my latest hour, the most miserable of beings. Such exalted generosity! -Why didst thou put into my craving hands the copy of her Will? Why sentest thou to me the posthumous Letter? -What tho' I was earnest to see the Will? Thou knewest what they both were (I did not); and that it would be cruel to oblige me.
The meeting of twenty Colonel Mordens, were there twenty to meet in turn, would be nothing to me; would not give me a moment's concern, as to my own safety: But my reflections upon my vile ingratitude to so superior an excellence will ever be my curse.
Had she been a Miss Howe to me, and treated me as if I were an Hickman, I had had a call for revenge; and policy (when I had intended to be an husband) might have justified my attempts to humble her. But a meek and gentle temper was hers, tho' a true heroine, whenever honour or virtue called for an exertion of spirit.
Nothing but my cursed devices stood in the way of my happiness. Remembrest thou not, how repeatedly, from the first, I poured cold water upon her rising flame, by meanly and ingratefully turning upon her the injunctions, which virgin delicacy, and filial duty, induced her to lay me under, before I got her into my power?
Did she not tell me, and did I not know it, if she had not told me, that she could not be guilty of affectation or tyranny to the man whom she intended to marry? I knew, as she once upbraided me, that from the time I had got her from her father's house, I had a plain path before me. True did she say, and I triumphed in the discovery, that from that time I had held her soul in suspense an hundred times. My Ipecacuanha trial alone was enough to convince an infidel, that she had a mind in which love and tenderness would have presided, had I permitted the charming buds to put forth and blow.
She would have had no reserves, as once she told me, had I not given her cause of doubt. And did she not own to thee, that once she could have loved me; and, could she have made me good, would have made me happy? O Belford! here was Love; a Love of the noblest kind! - A Love, as she hints in her posthumous Letter that extended to the Soul; and which she not only avowed in her dying hours, but contrived to let me know it after death, in that Letter filled with warnings and exhortations, which had for their sole end my eternal welfare!
The cursed women, indeed, endeavoured to excite my vengeance, and my pride, by preaching to me eternally her doubts, her want of love, and her contempt of me. And my pride was, at times, too much excited by their vile insinuations. But had it even been as they said; well might she, who had been used to be courted and admired by every desiring eye, and worshiped by every respectful heart-Well might such a woman be allowed to draw back, when she found herself kept in suspense, as to the great question of all, by a designing and intriguing spirit; pretending awe and distance, as reasons for reining-in a fervor, which, if real, cannot be reined-in. -Divine creature! Her very doubts, her reserves (so justly doubting) would have been my assurance, and my glory! -And what other trial needed her virtue? What other needed a purity so angelic (blessed with such a command of her passions in the bloom of youth) had I not been a villain- and a wanton, a conceited, a proud fool, as well as a villain?
These reflections sharpened, rather than their edge by time rebated, accompany me in whatever I do, and wherever I go; and mingle with all my diversions and amusements. And yet I go into gay and splendid company. I have made new acquaintance in the different courts I have visited. I am both esteemed, and sought after, by persons of rank and merit. I visit the colleges, the churches, the palaces. I frequent the theatre: Am present at every public exhibition; and see all that is worth seeing, that I had not seen before, in the cabinets of the curious: Am sometimes admitted to the toilette of an eminent toast, and make one with distinction at the assemblees of others- Yet can think of nothing, nor of any-body, with delight, but of my Clarissa. Nor have I seen one woman with advantage to herself, but as she resembles in stature, air, complexion, voice, or in some feature, that charmer, that only charmer, of my soul.
What greater punishment, than to have these astonishing perfections, which she was mistress of, strike my remembrance with such force, when I have nothing left me but the remorse of having deprived myself and the world of such a blessing? Now-and-then, indeed, am I capable of a gleam of comfort, arising (not ungenerously) from the moral certainty which I have of her everlasting happiness, in spite of all the machinations and devices which I set on foot to insnare her virtue, and to bring down so pure a mind to my own level.
For can I be, at worst (Avert that worst,
O Thou Supreme, who only canst avert it!)
So much a wretch, so very far abandon'd,
But that I must, ev'n in the horrid'st gloom,
Reap intervenient joy, at least some respite
From pain and anguish, in her bliss-For why?
This very soul must suffer-Not another.
It can't be mine, if it could envy her,
Or at her happiness repine-
If I find myself thus miserable abroad, I will soon return to England, and follow your example, I think- turn hermit, or some plaguy thing or other, and see what a constant course of penitence and mortification will do for me. There is no living at this rate-D-n me if there be!
If any mishap should befal me, you'll have the particulars of it from De la Tour. He indeed knows not a word of English: But every modern tongue is yours. He is a trusty and ingenious fellow: And, if any thing happen, will have some other papers, which I shall have ready sealed up, for you to transmit to Lord M. And since thou art so expert, and so ready at Executorships, pr'ythee, Belford, accept of the office for Me, as well as for my Clarissa -Clarissa Lovelace let me call her.
By all that's good, I am bewitched to her memory. Her very name, with mine joined to it, ravishes my soul, and is more delightful to me than the sweetest music.
Had I carried her (I must still recriminate) to any other place, than to that accursed woman's-For the potion was her invention and mixture; and all the persisted-in violence was at her instigation, and at that of her wretched daughters, who have now amply revenged upon me their own ruin, which they lay at my door.
But this looks so like the confession of a thief at the gallows, that possibly thou wilt be apt to think, I am intimidated in prospect of the approaching interview. But far otherwise. On the contrary, most chearfully do I go to meet the Colonel; and I would tear my heart out of my breast with my own hands, were it capable of fear or concern on that account.
Thus much only I know, that if I should kill him (which I will not do, if I can help it) I shall be far from being easy in my mind: That shall I never be more. But as the meeting is evidently of his own seeking, against an option fairly given to the contrary, and I cannot avoid it, I'll think of that hereafter. It is but repenting and mortifying for all at once: For I am as sure of victory, as I am that I now live, let him be as skilful a swordsman as he will: Since, besides that I am no unfleshed novice, this is a sport, that, when provoked to it, I love as well as my food. And, moreover, I shall be as calm and undisturbed as the Bishop at his prayers: While he, as is evident by his letter, must be actuated by revenge and passion.
Doubt not, therefore, Jack, that I shall give a good account of this affair. Mean time, I remain
Yours most affectionately, &c.
Lovelace.

### v7 LETTER CXII.

Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Trent, Dec. 3-14.
To-morrow is to be the Day, that will, in all probability, send either one or two ghosts to attend the Manes of my Clarissa.
I arrived here yesterday; and inquiring for an English gentleman of the name of Morden, soon found out the Colonel's lodgings. He had been in town two days; and left his name at every probable place.
He was gone to ride out; and I left my name, and where to be found: And in the evening he made me a visit.
He was plaguy gloomy. That was not I. But yet he told me, that I had acted like a man of true spirit in my first letter; and with honour, in giving him so readily this meeting. He wished I had in other respects; and then we might have seen each other upon better terms than now we did.
I said, there was no recalling what was pass'd; and that I wished some things had not been done, as well as he.
To recriminate now, he said, would be as exasperating as unavailable. And as I had so chearfully given him this opportunity, words should give place to business. - Your choice, Mr. Lovelace, of Time, of Place, of Weapon, shall be my choice.
The two latter be yours, Mr. Morden. The Time tomorrow, or next day, as you please.
Next day, then, Mr. Lovelace; and we'll ride out tomorrow, to fix the place.
Agreed, Sir.
Well; now, Mr. Lovelace, do you choose the Weapon.
I said, I believed we might be upon an equal foot with the Single Rapier; but, if he thought otherwise, I had no objection to a Pistol.
I will only say, replied he, that the chances may be more equal by the Sword, because we can neither of us be to seek in that: And you'd stand, says he, a worse chance, as I apprehend, with a Pistol; and yet I have brought two; that you may take your choice of either: For, added he, I never missed a mark at pistol-distance, since I knew how to hold one.
I told him, that he spoke like himself: That I was expert enough that way, to embrace it, if he chose it; tho' not so sure of my mark as he pretended to be. Yet the devil's in't, Colonel, if I, who have a slit a bullet in two upon a knife's-edge, hit not my man. So I have no objection to a Pistol, if it be your choice. No man, I'll venture to say, has a steadier Hand or Eye than I have.
They may both be of use to you, Sir, at the Sword, as well as at the Pistol: The Sword therefore be the thing, if you please.
With all my heart.
We parted with a solemn sort of ceremonious civility: And this day I called upon Him; and we rode out together to fix upon the place: And both being of one mind, and hating to put off for the morrow what could be done to-day, would have decided it then: But De la Tour, and the Colonel's valet, who attended us, being unavoidably let into the secret, joined to beg we would have with us a Surgeon from Brixen, whom La Tour had fallen in with there, and who had told him he was to ride next morning to bleed a person in a fever, at a lone cottage, which, by the Surgeon's description, was not far from the place where we then were, if it were not that very cottage within sight of us.
They undertook so to manage it, that the Surgeon should know nothing of the matter till his assistance was called in. And La Tour being, as I assured the Colonel, a ready-contriving fellow (whom I ordered to obey him as myself were the chance to be in his favour) we both agreed to defer the decision till to-morrow, and to leave the whole about the Surgeon to the management of our two valets; injoining them absolute secrecy: And so rode back again by different ways.
We fixed upon a little lone valley for the Spot-Ten to-morrow morning the Time-And Single Rapier the Word. Yet I repeatedly told him, that I value myself so much upon my skill in that weapon, that I would wish him to choose any other.
He said, It was a gentleman's weapon; and he who understood it not, wanted a qualification that he ought to suffer for not having: But that, as to him, one weapon was as good as another throughout all the instruments of offence.
So, Jack, you see I take no advantage of him: But my devil must deceive me, if he take not his life, or his death, at my hands, before eleven to-morrow morning.
His valet and mine are to be present; but both strictly injoined to be impartial and inactive: And, in return for my civility of the like nature, he commanded his to be assisting to me, if he fell.
We are to ride thither, and to dismount when at the place; and his footman and mine are to wait at an appointed distance, with a chaise to carry off to the borders of the Venetian territories the survivor, if one drop; or to assist either or both, as occasion may demand.
And thus, Belford, is the matter settled.
A shower of rain has left me nothing else to do: And therefore I write this letter; tho' I might as well have deferred it till to-morrow twelve o'clock, when I doubt not to be able to write again, to assure you how much I am
Yours, &c.
Lovelace.

### v7 LETTER CXIII.

Translation of a Letter from F. J. De la Tour. To John Belford, Esq; near Soho-Square, London.
Trent, December 18. N.S.
Sir,
I have melancholy news to inform you of, by order of the Chevalier Lovelace. He shewed me his letter to you before he sealed it; signifying, that he was to meet the Chevalier Morden on the 15th. Wherefore, as the occasion of the meeting is so well known to you, I shall say nothing of it here.
I had taken care to have ready, within a little distance, a Surgeon and his assistant, to whom, under an oath of secrecy, I had revealed the matter (tho' I did not own it to the two gentlemen); so that they were prepared with bandages, and all things proper. For well was I acquainted with the bravery and skill of my Chevalier; and had heard the character of the other; and knew the animosity of both. A post-chaise was ready, with each of their footmen, at a little distance.
The two Chevaliers came exactly at their time: They were attended by Monsieur Margate (the colonel's gentleman) and myself. They had given orders over-night, and now repeated them in each other's presence, that we should observe a strict impartiality between them: And that, if one fell, each of us should look upon himself, as to any needful help, or retreat, as the servant of the survivor, and take his commands accordingly.
After a few compliments, both the gentlemen, with the greatest presence of mind that I ever beheld in men, stript to their shirts, and drew.
They parried with equal judgment several passes. My Chevalier drew the first blood, making a desperate-push, which, by a sudden turn of his antagonist, missed going clear thro' him, and wounded him on the fleshy part of the ribs of his right side; which part the sword tore out, being on the extremity of the body: But, before he could recover himself, his adversary, in return, pushed him into the inside of the left arm, near the shoulder: And the sword, by raking his breast as it passed, being followed by a great effusion of blood, the Colonel said, Sir, I believe you have enough.
My Chevalier swore by G-d, he was not hurt: 'Twas a pin's point: And so made another pass at his antagonist; which he, with a surprising dexterity, received under his arm, and run my dear Chevalier into the body: Who immediately fell: saying, The luck is your's, Sir- O my beloved Clarissa! -Now art thou-Inwardly he spoke three or four words more. His sword dropt from his hand. Mr. Morden threw his down, and ran to him, saying in French-Ah Monsieur, you are a dead man! - Call to God for mercy!
We gave the signal agreed upon to the footmen; and they to the Surgeons; who instantly came up.
Colonel Morden, I found, was too well used to the bloody work; for he was as cool as if nothing so extraordinary had happened, assisting the Surgeons, tho' his own wound bled much. But my dear Chevalier fainted away two or three times running, and vomited blood besides.
However, they stopped the bleeding for the present; and we helped him into the voiture; and then the Colonel suffered his own wound to be dressed; and appeared concerned that my Chevalier was between whiles (when he could speak, and struggle) extremely outrageous. - Poor gentleman! he had made quite sure of victory!
The Colonel, against the Surgeons advice, would mount on horseback to pass into the Venetian territories; and generously gave me a purse of gold to pay the Surgeons; desiring me to make a present to the footman; and to accept of the remainder, as a mark of his satisfaction in my conduct; and in my care and tenderness of my master.
The Surgeons told him,that my Chevalier could not live over the day.
When the Colonel took leave of him, Mr. Lovelace said in French. You have well revenged the dear creature.
I have, Sir, said Mr. Morden, in the same language: And perhaps shall be sorry that you called upon me to this work, while I was balancing whether to obey, or disobey, the dear angel.
There is a fate in it! replied my Chevalier-A cursed fate! -Or this could not have been! -But be ye all witnesses, that I have provoked my destiny, and acknowlege, that I fall by a Man of Honour.
Sir, said the Colonel, with the piety of a confessor, (wringing Mr. Lovelace's hand) snatch these few fleeting moments, and commend yourself to God.
And so he rode off.
The voiture proceeded slowly with my Chevalier; yet the motion set both his wounds bleeding afresh; and it was with difficulty they again stopped the blood.
We brought him alive to the first cottage; and he gave orders to me to dispatch to you the pacquet I herewith send sealed up; and bid me write to you the particulars of this most unhappy affair, and to give you thanks, in his name, for all your favours and friendship to him.
Contrary to all expectation, he lived over the night: But suffered much, as well from his impatience and disappointment, as from his wounds; for he seemed very unwilling to die.
He was delirious, at times, in the two last hours; and then several times cried out, Take her away! Take her away! but named no-body. And sometimes praised some Lady (that Clarissa, I suppose, whom he had called upon when he received his death's wound) calling her, Sweet Excellence! Divine Creature! Fair Sufferer! -And once he said, Look down, blessed Spirit, look down! -And there stopt;-his lips however moving.
At nine in the morning, he was seized with convulsions, and fainted away; and it was a quarter of an hour before he came out of them.
His few last words I must not omit, as they shew an ultimate composure; which may administer some consolation to his honourable friends.
Blessed-said he, addressing himself no doubt to Heaven; for his dying eyes were lifted up-A strong convulsion prevented him for a few moments saying more-But recovering, he again with great fervor (lifting up his eyes, and his spread hands) pronounced the word Blessed: -Then, in a seeming ejaculation, he spoke inwardly so as not to be understood: At last, he distinctly pronounced these three words,
LET THIS EXPIATE!
And then, his head sinking on his pillow, he expired; at about half an hour after ten.
He little thought, poor gentleman! his End so near: So had given no direction about his body. I have caused it to be embowelled, and deposited in a vault, till I have orders from England.
This is a favour that was procured with difficulty; and would have been refused, had he not been an Englishman of rank: A nation with reason respected in every Austrian government-For he had refused ghostly attendance, and the Sacraments in the Catholic way. May his Soul be happy, I pray God!
I have had some trouble also on account of the manner of his death, from the Magistracy here: Who have taken the requisite informations in the affair. And it has cost me some money. Of which, and of my dear Chevalier's effects, I will give you a faithful account in my next. And so, waiting at this place your commands, I am, Sir,
Your most faithful and obedient Servant,
F. J. De la Tour.

### CONCLUSION.

### Supposed to be written by Mr. Belford.

What remains to be mentioned for the satisfaction of such of the readers as may be presumed to have interested themselves in the fortunes of those other principals in the story, who survived Mr. Lovelace, will be found summarily related as follows:
The news of Mr. Lovelace's unhappy End was received with as much grief by his own relations, as it was with exultation by the Harlowe-family, and by Miss Howe. His own family were most to be pitied, because, being sincere admirers of the inimitable Lady, they were greatly grieved for the injustice done her; and now had the additional mortification of losing the only male of it, by a violent death.
That his fate was deserved, was still a heightening of their calamity, as they had, for that very reason, and his unpreparedness for it, but too much grounds for apprehension with regard to his future happiness. While the other family, from their unforgiving spirit, and even the noble young Lady above-mentioned, from her lively resentments, found his death some little, some temporary, alleviation of the heavy loss they had sustained, principally thro' his means.
Temporary alleviation, we repeat, as to the Harlowe family; for THEY were far from being happy or easy in their reflections upon their own conduct.
Mrs. Harlowe lived about two years and an half after the much-lamented death of her excellent daughter.
Mr. Harlowe survived his Lady about half a year.
Both, in their last hours, comforted themselves, that they should be restored to their BLESSED daughter, as they always (from the time that they were acquainted with her happy exit) called her.
They both lived, however, to see their son James, and their daughter Arabella, married: But not to take joy in either of their nuptials.
Mr. James Harlowe married a woman of family, an orphan, and is obliged, at a very great expence, to support her claim to estates, which were his principal inducement to make his addresses to her; but which, to this day, he has not recovered; nor is likely to recover; having very powerful adversaries to contend with, and a Title to assert, which admits of litigation; and he not blessed with so much patience as is necessary to persons embarrassed in Law.
What is further observable with regard to him, is, that the match was intirely of his own head, against the advice of his father, mother, and uncles, who warned him of marrying in this lady a Law-suit for life. His ungenerous behaviour to his wife, for what she cannot help, and for what is as much her misfortune as his, has occasioned such estrangements between them (she being a woman of spirit) as, were the Law-suits determined, and even more favourably than probably they will be, must make him unhappy to the End of his Life. He attributes all his misfortunes, when he opens himself to the few friends he has, to his vile and cruel treatment of his angelic sister. He confesses these misfortunes to be just, without having temper to acquiesce in the acknowledged justice. One month in every year he puts on mourning, and that month commences with him on the 7th of September, during which he shuts himself up from all company. Finally, he is looked upon, and often calls himself, The most miserable of Beings.
Arabella's Fortune became a temptation to a man of Quality to make his addresses to her: His Title an inducement with her to approve of him. Brothers and Sisters, when they are not Friends, are generally the sharpest Enemies to each other. He thought too much was done for her in the settlements. She thought not enough. And for some years past, they have so heartily hated each other, that if either know a joy, it is in being told of some new misfortune or displeasure that happens to the other. Indeed, before they came to an open rupture, they were continually loading each other, by way of exonerating themselves (to the additional disquiet of the whole family) with the principal guilt of their implacable behaviour and sordid cruelty to their admirable Sister. -May the reports that are spread of this Lady's further unhappiness from her Lord's free life; a fault she justly thought so odious in Mr. Lovelace (though that would not have been an insuperable objection with her to his addresses); and of his public slights and contempt of her, and even sometimes of his personal abuses, which are said to be owing to her impatient spirit, and violent passions; be utterly groundless. -For, what a heart must that be, which would wish she might be as great a torment to herself, as she had aimed to be to her Sister? Especially as she regrets to this hour, and declares, that she shall to the last of her life, her cruel treatment of that Sister; and (as well as her Brother) is but too ready to attribute to that her own unhappiness.
Mr. Antony and Mr. John Harlowe are still [at the writing of this] living: But often declare, That, with their beloved niece, they lost all the joy of their lives: And lament, without reserve, in all companies, the unnatural part they were induced to take against her.
Mr. Solmes is also still living, if a man of his cast may be said to live; for his general behaviour and sordid manners are such as justify the aversion the excellent Lady had to him. He has moreover found his addresses rejected by several women of far inferior fortunes (great as his own are) to those of the Lady to whom he was encouraged to aspire.
Mr. Mowbray and Mr. Tourville having lost the man in whose conversation they so much delighted; shock'd and awakened by the several unhappy catastrophes before their eyes; and having always rather ductile than dictating hearts; took their friend Belford's advice: Converted the remainder of their fortunes into Annuities for Life; and retired, the one into Yorkshire, the other into Nottinghamshire, of which counties they are natives: Their friend Belford managing their concerns for them, and corresponding with them, and having more and more hopes every time he sees them (which is once or twice a year, when they come to town) that they will become more and more worthy of their names and families.
It cannot be amiss to mention what became of the two sisters in iniquity, Sally Martin, and Polly Horton; names so frequently occurring in the foregoing collection.
After the death of the profligate Sinclair, they kept on the infamous trade with too-much success; till an accident happened in the house-A gentleman of family killed in it in a fray, contending with another for a new-vamp'd face. Sally was accused of holding the gentleman's arm, while his more favoured adversary run him through the heart, and then-made off. And she being try'd for her life, narrowly escaped.
This accident obliged them to break up house-keeping, and not having been frugal enough of their ill-gotten gains (lavishing upon one, what they got by another) they were compelled, for subsistence-sake, to enter themselves as under-managers at such another house as their own had been. In which service, soon after, Sally died of a fever and surfeit got by a debauch: And the other, about a month after, by a violent cold, occasioned thro' carelessness in a Salivation. Two creatures who wanted not sense, and had had (what is deemed to be) a good Modern Education; their parents having lived reputably; and once having much better hopes of them: But who were in a great measure answerable for their miscarriages, by indulging them in the fashionable follies and luxury of an age given up to those amusements and pleasures which are so apt to set people of but Middle Fortunes above all the useful employments of life; and to make young women an easy prey to Rakes and Libertines.
Happier Scenes open for the remaining characters; for it might be descending too low to mention the untimely Ends of Dorcas, and of William, Mr. Lovelace's wicked servant; and the pining and consumptive ones of Betty Barnes and Joseph Leman, unmarried both, and in less than a year after the happy death of their excellent young Lady.
The good Mrs. Norton passed the small remainder of her life, as happily as she wished, in her beloved foster-daughter's dairy-house, as it used to be called: As she wished, we repeat;-for she had too strong aspirations after Another life, to be greatly attached to This.
She laid out the greatest part of her time in doing good by her advice, and by the prudent management of the Fund committed to her direction. Having lived an Exemplary Life from her Youth upwards; and seen her Son happily settled in the world; she departed with ease and calmness, without pang or agony, like a tired traveller, falling into a sweet slumber: Her last words expressing her hope of being restored to the Child of her Bosom; and to her own excellent Father and Mother, to whose care and pains she owed that good Education to which she was indebted for all her other blessings.
The Poor's Fund, which was committed to her care, she resigned, a week before her death, into the hands of Mrs. Hickman, according to the direction of the Will, and all the accounts and disbursements with it; which she had kept with such an exactness, that that Lady declares, that she will follow her method, and only wishes to do as well.
Miss Howe was not to be persuaded to quit her mourning for her dear friend, until six months were fully expired: And then she made Mr. Hickman one of the happiest men in the world. A woman of her fine sense and understanding, married to a man of virtue and good-nature (who had no past capital errors to reflect upon, and to abate his joys, and whose behaviour to Mrs. Hickman is as affectionate, as it was respectful to Miss Howe) could not do otherwise. They are already blessed with two fine children; a Daughter, to whom, by joint consent, they have given the name of her beloved friend; and a Son, who bears that of his father.
She has allotted to Mr. Hickman, who takes delight in doing good (and that as much for its own sake, as to oblige her) his part of the management of the Poor's Fund; to be accountable for it, as she pleasantly says, to her. She has a appropriated every Thursday morning for her part of that management; and takes so much delight in the task, that she declares, it is one of the most agreeable of her amusements. And the more agreeable, as she teaches every one whom she benefits, to bless the Memory of her departed Friend; to whom she attributes the merit of all her own charities, as well as that of those which she dispenses in pursuance of her Will.
She has declared, That this Fund shall never fail while she lives. She has even engaged her Mother to contribute annually to it. And Mr. Hickman has appropriated twenty pounds a year to the same. In consideration of which she allows him to recommend four objects yearly to partake of it. Allows, is her style; for she assumes the whole prerogative of dispensing this charity; the only prerogative she does or has occasion to assume. In every other case, there is but one will between them; and that is generally his or hers, as either speak first, upon any subject, be it what it will. Mrs. Hickman, she sometimes as pleasantly as generously tells him, must not quite forget that she was once Miss Howe, because if he had not loved her as such, and with all her foibles, she had never been Mrs. Hickman. Nevertheless she seriously, on all occasions, and that to others, as well as to himself, confesses, that she owes him unreturnable obligations for his patience with her in HER Day, and for his generous Behaviour to her in HIS.
And still the more highly does she esteem and love him, as she reflects upon his past kindness to her beloved friend; and on that dear friend's good opinion of him. Nor is it less grateful to her, that the worthy man joins most sincerely with her in all those respectful and affectionate recollections, which make the memory of the Departed precious to Survivors.
Mr. Belford was not so destitute of humanity and affection, as to be unconcerned at the unhappy fate of his most intimate friend. But when he reflects upon the untimely Ends of several of his companions, but just mentioned in the preceding history -On the shocking despondency and death of his poor friend Belton-On the signal justice which overtook the wicked Tomlinson- On the dreadful exit of the infamous Sinclair-On the deep remorses of his more valued friend-And, on the other hand, on the Example, set him by the most excellent of her Sex-and on her blessed preparation, and happy departure-And when he considers, as he often does with awe and terror, that his wicked habits were so rooted in his depraved heart, that all these Warnings, and this lovely Example, seemed to be but necessary to enable him to subdue them, and to reform; and that such awakening Calls are hardly ever afforded to men of his cast, or (if they are) but seldom attended with such happy effects in the Prime of Youth, and in the full Vigour of Constitution: -When he reflects upon all these things, he adores the Mercy, which thro' these Calls has snatched him as a brand out of the fire: And thinks himself obliged to make it his endeavour to find out, and to reform any of those who may have been endangered by his means; as well as to repair, to the utmost of his power, any damage or mischiefs which he may have occasioned to others.
With regard to the Trust with which he was honoured by the inimitable Lady, he had the pleasure of acquitting himself of it in a very few months, to every-body's satisfaction; even to that of the unhappy family; who sent him their thanks on the occasion. Nor was he, at delivering up his accounts, contented with resigning the Legacy bequeathed to him, to the Uses of the Will. So that the Poor's Fund, as it is called, is become a very considerable sum; and will be a lasting bank for relief of objects who best deserve relief.
There was but one Earthly Blessing which remained for Mr. Belford to wish for, in order, morally speaking, to secure to him all his other blessings; and that was, the greatest of all worldly ones, a virtuous and prudent Wife. So free a liver as he had been, he did not think that he could be worthy of such a one, till, upon an impartial examination of himself, he found the pleasure he had in his new resolutions so great, and his abhorrence of his former courses so sincere, that he was the less apprehensive of a deviation.
Upon this presumption, having also kept in his mind some encouraging hints from Mr. Lovelace; and having been so happy as to have it in his power to oblige Lord M. and that whole noble family, by some services grateful to them (the request for which from his unhappy friend was brought over, among other papers, with the dead body, by De la Tour) he besought that Nobleman's Leave to make his addresses to Miss Charlotte Montague, the eldest of his Lordship's two nieces: And making at the same time such proposals of Settlements as were not objected to, his Lordship was pleased to use his powerful interest in his favour. And his worthy niece having no engagement, she had the goodness to honour Mr. Belford with her hand; and thereby made him as completely happy as a man can be, who has enormities to reflect upon, which, in a course of years, the deaths of some of the injured parties, and the irreclaimableness of others, have put it out of his power to atone for.
Happy is the man who, in time of health and strength, sees and reforms the errors of his ways! -But how much more happy he, who has no capital and wilful errors to repent of! -How unmixed and sincere must the joys of such a one come to him!
Lord M. added bountifully in his life-time, as did also the two Ladies his Sisters, to the fortune of their worthy Niece. And as Mr. Belford has been blessed with a Son by her, his Lordship at his death (which happened just three years after the untimely one of his unhappy Nephew) was pleased to devise to that Son, and to his descendants for ever (and in case of his death unmarried, to any other children of his Niece) his Hertfordshire estate (designed for Mr. Lovelace) which he made up to the value of a moiety of his real estates; bequeathing also a moiety of his personal to the same Lady.
Miss Patty Montague, a fine young Lady (to whom her Noble uncle, at his death, devised the other moiety of his real and personal estates, including his Seat in Berkshire) lives at present with her excellent Sister Mrs. Belford; to whom she removed upon Lord M's death: But, in all probability, will soon be the Lady of a worthy Baronet, of antient family, fine qualities, and ample fortunes, just returned from his Travels, with a character superior to the very good one he set out with: A case that very seldom happens, altho' the End of Travel is Improvement.
Colonel Morden, who with so many virtues and accomplishments, cannot be unhappy, in several Letters to the Executor, with whom he corresponds from Florence (having, since his unhappy affair with Mr. Lovelace, changed his purpose of coming so soon to reside in England as he had intended) declares, That altho' he thought himself obliged either to accept of what he took to be a challenge, as such; or tamely to acknowlege, that he gave up all resentment of his cousin's wrongs; and in a manner to beg pardon for having spoken freely of Mr. Lovelace behind his back; and altho' at the time he owns he was not sorry to be called upon, as he was, to take either the one course or the other; yet now, coolly reflecting upon his beloved cousin's reasonings against Duelling; and upon the price it had too probably cost the unhappy man; he wishes he had more fully considered those words in his cousin's posthumous letter-"If God will allow him Time for Repentance, why should you deny it him?"
To conclude-The worthy Widow Lovick continues to live with Mr. Belford; and by her prudent behaviour, piety, and usefulness, has endeared herself to her Lady, and to the Whole Family.

### POSTSCRIPT.

The Author of the foregoing Work has been favoured, in the course of its Publication, with many Anonymous Letters, in which the Writers have differently expressed their wishes as to what they apprehended of the Catastrophe.
Most of those directed to him by the gentler Sex turn in favour of what they call a fortunate Ending; and some of them, enamoured, as they declare, with the principal Character, are warmly solicitous to have her happy.
These Letters having been written on the perusal of the first Four Volumes only, before the complicated adjustment of the several parts to one another could be seen, or fully known, it may be thought superfluous, now the whole Work is before the Public, to enter upon this argument, because it is presumed, that the Catastrophe necessarily follows the natural progress of the Story: But as the Notion of Poetical Justice seems to have generally obtained among the Fair Sex, and must be confessed to have the appearance of Good Nature and Humanity, it may not be amiss to give it a brief consideration.
Nor can it be deemed impertinent to touch upon this subject at the Conclusion of a Work which is designed to inculcate upon the human mind, under the guise of an Amusement, the great Lessons of Christianity, in an Age like the present; which seems to expect from the Poets and Dramatic Writers (that is to say, from the Authors of Works of Invention) that they should make it one of their principal Rules, to propagate another Sort of Dispensation, under the Name of Poetical Justice, than that with which God, by Revelation, teaches us, he has thought fit to exercise Mankind; whom, placing here only in a State of Probation, he hath so intermingled Good and Evil, as to necessitate them to look forward for a more equal Distribution of both.
The History, or rather, The Dramatic Narrative of Clarissa, is formed on this Religious Plan; and is therefore well justified in deferring to extricate suffering Virtue till it meets with the Completion of its Reward.
But we have no need to shelter our Conduct under the Sanction of Religion (an Authority, perhaps, not of the greatest weight with modern Critics) since we are justified in it by the greatest Master of Reason, and the best Judge of Composition, that ever was. The learned Reader knows we must mean Aristotle; whose Sentiments in this matter we shall beg leave to deliver in the words of a very amiable Writer of our own Country.
'The English Writers of Tragedy, says Mr. Addison, are possessed with a Notion, that when they represent a virtuous or innocent person in distress, they ought not to leave him till they have delivered him out of his troubles, or made him triumph over his enemies.
'This Error they have been led into by a ridiculous Doctrine in Modern Criticism, That they are obliged to an equal distribution of Rewards and Punishments, and an impartial Execution of Poetical Justice.
'Who were the first that established this Rule, I know not; but I am sure it has no Foundation in Nature, in Reason, or in the Practice of the Antients.
'We find, that [in the dispensations of Providence] Good and Evil happen alike to ALL MEN on this side the grave: And as the principal design of Tragedy is to raise Commiseration and Terror in the minds of the Audience, we shall defeat this great end, if we always make Virtue and Innocence happy and successful.
'Whatever crosses and disappointments a good man suffers in the Body of the Tragedy, they will make but small impression on our minds, when we know, that, in the last Act, he is to arrive at the end of his wishes and desires.
'When we see him engaged in the depth of his afflictions, we are apt to comfort ourselves, because we are sure he will find his way out of them, and that his grief, how great soever it may be at present, will soon terminate in gladness.
'For this reason, the antient Writers of Tragedy treated men in their Plays, as they are dealt with in the World, by making Virtue sometimes happy and sometimes miserable, as they found it in the Fable which they made choice of, or as it might affect their Audience in the most agreeable manner.
'Aristotle considers the Tragedies that were written in either of those kinds; and observes, that those which ended unhappily had always pleased the people, and carried away the Prize, in the public disputes of the Stage, from those that ended happily
'Terror and Commiseration leave a pleasing anguish in the mind, and fix the Audience in such a serious composure of thought, as is much more lasting and delightful, than any little transient Starts of Joy and Satisfaction.
'Accordingly we find, that more of our English Tragedies have succeeded, in which the Favourites of the Audience sink under their calamities, than those in which they recover themselves out of them.
'The best Plays of this kind are The Orphan, Venice Preserved, Alexander the Great, Theodosius, All for Love, Oedipus, Oroonoko, Othello, &c.
'King Lear is an admirable Tragedy of the same kind, as Shakespeare wrote it: But as it is reformed according to the chimerical notion of Poetical [or, as we may say, Anti-Providential] Justice, in my humble opinion it has lost half its beauty.
'At the same time I must allow, that there are very noble Tragedies, which have been framed upon the other Plan, and have ended happily; as indeed most of the good Tragedies which have been written since the starting of the above-mentioned Criticism, have taken this turn: As The Mourning Bride, Tamerlane, Ulysses, Phaedra and Hippolytus, with most of Mr. Dryden's. I must also allow, that many of Shakespeare's, and several of the celebrated Tragedies of Antiquity, are cast in the same form. I do not therefore dispute against this way of writing Tragedies; but against the Criticism that would establish This as the only method; and by that means would very much cramp the English Tragedy, and perhaps give a wrong bent to the Genius of our Writers.'
Thus far Mr. Addison.
Our fair Readers are also desired to attend to what a celebrated Critic of a neighbouring nation says on the nature and design of Tragedy, from the Rules laid down by the same great Antient.
'Tragedy, says he, makes man modest, by representing the great Masters of the Earth humbled; and it makes him tender and merciful, by shewing him the strange accidents of life, and the unforeseen disgraces to which the most important persons are subject.
'But because Man is naturally timorous and compassionate, he may fall into other extremes. Too much Fear may shake his Constancy of Mind, and too much Compassion may enfeeble his Equity. 'Tis the business of Tragedy to regulate these two weaknesses. It prepares and arms him against Disgraces, by shewing them so frequent in the most considerable persons; and he will cease to fear extraordinary accidents, when he sees them happen to the highest [And still more efficacious, we may add, the example will be, when he sees them happen to the best] part of mankind.
'But as the End of Tragedy is to teach men not to fear too weakly common Misfortunes, it proposes also to teach them to spare their Compassion for Objects that deserve it. For there is an Injustice in being moved at the afflictions of those who deserve to be miserable. We may see, without pity, Clytemnestra slain by her son Orestes in AEschylus, because she had murdered Agamemnon her husband; and we cannot see Hippolytus die by the plot of his stepmother Phaedra, in Euripides, without Compassion, because he died not but for being chaste and virtuous.'
These are the great Authorities so favourable to the Stories that end unhappily: Yet the Writer of the History of Clarissa is humbly of Opinion, that he might have been excused referring to them for the vindication of his Catastrophe, even by those who are advocates for the contrary opinion; since the notion of Poetical Justice, founded on the Modern Rules, has hardly ever been more strictly observed in works of this nature, than in the present performance, if any regard at all be to be paid to the Christian System, on which it is formed.
For, Is not Mr. Lovelace, who could persevere in his villainous views, against the strongest and most frequent convictions and remorses that ever were sent to awaken and reclaim a wicked man-Is not this great, this wilful Transgressor, condignly punished; and his punishment brought on thro' the intelligence of the very Joseph Leman whom he had corrupted; and by means of the very women whom he had debauched -Is not Mr. Belton, who has an uncle's hastened death to answer for -Are not the whole Harlowe family - Is not the vile Tomlinson-Are not the infamous Sinclair, and her wretched Partners-And even the wicked Servants, who, with their eyes open, contributed their parts to the carrying on of the vile schemes of their respective principals-Are they not All likewise exemplarily punished?
On the other hand, Is not Miss Howe, for her noble Friendship to the exalted Lady in her calamities-Is not Mr. Hickman, for his unexceptionable Morals, and Integrity of Life-Is not the repentant and not ungenerous Belford-Is not the worthy Norton-made signally happy?
And who that are in earnest in their Profession of Christianity, but will rather envy than regret the triumphant death of Clarissa, whose Piety, from her early Childhood; whose diffusive Charity; whose steady Virtue; whose Christian Humility; whose Forgiving Spirit; whose Meekness, whose Resignation, HEAVEN only could reward?
The Length of the piece has been objected to by some, who had seen only the first four Volumes, and who perhaps looked upon it as a mere Novel or Romance; and yet of these there are not wanting works of equal length.
They were of opinion, that the Story moved too slowly, particularly in the first and second Volumes, which are chiefly taken up with the Altercations between Clarissa and the several persons of her Family.
But is it not true, that those Altercations are the Foundation of the whole, and therefore a necessary part of the work? The Letters and Conversations, where the Story makes the slowest progress, are presumed to be characteristic. They give occasion likewise to suggest many interesting Personalities, in which a good deal of the Instruction essential to a work of this nature, is conveyed. And it will, moreover, be remembred, that the Author at his first setting out, apprised the Reader, that the Story was to be looked upon as the Vehicle only to the Instruction.
To all which we may add, that there was frequently a necessity to be very circumstantial and minute, in order to preserve and maintain that Air of Probability, which is necessary to be maintained in a Story designed to represent real Life; and which is rendered extremely busy and active by the plots and contrivances formed and carried on by one of the principal Characters.
In a word, If, in the History before us, it shall be found, that the Spirit is duly diffused throughout; that the Characters are various and natural; well distinguished, and uniformly supported and maintained: If there be a variety of incidents sufficient to excite Attention, and those so conducted, as to keep the Reader always awake; the Length then must add proportionably to the pleasure that every Person of Taste receives from a well-drawn Picture of Nature. But where the contrary of all these qualities shock the understanding, the extravagant performance will be judged tedious, tho' no longer than a Fairy-Tale.
END of Vol. 7.
FINIS.