Clarissa: Or, the history of a young lady: comprehending the most important concerns of private life. ... Published by the editor of Pamela. ... [pt.1]

THE HISTORY OF Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

Jan. 10.

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

Mr. Diggs * 1.1, whom I sent for at the first hearing of the rencounter, to inquire, for your sake, how your brother was, told me, That there was no danger from the wound, if there were none from the fever; which, it seems, has been increased by the perturbation of his spirits.

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

They say, That Mr. Lovelace could not avoid drawing his sword: And that either your brother's un|skilfulness or violence left him, from the very first pass, intirely in his power. This, I am told, was what Mr. Lovelace said upon it; retreating as he spoke:

'Have a care, Mr. Harlowe—Your violence puts you out of your defence. You give me too much ad|vantage! For your sister's sake, I will pass by every|thing;—if—'

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

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

Be this as it may, every-body pities you. So steady,

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

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

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

Write to me therefore, my dear, the whole of your story, from the time that Mr. Lovelace was first intro|duce•• into your family; and particularly an account of all that passed between him and your sister; about which there are different reports; some people sup|posing that the younger sister (at least by her uncom|mon merit) has stolen a lover from the elder: And pray write in so full a manner, as may gratify those,

who know not so much of your affairs, as I do. If any thing unhappy should fall out from the violence of such spirits as you have to deal with, your account of all things previous to it, will be your justification.

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

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

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

Your ever-grateful and affectionate ANNA HOWE?

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

LETTER II. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Harlowe-Place, Jan. 13.

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

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

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

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

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

It was in pursuance of a conference between Lord M. and my uncle Antony, that Mr. Lovelace (my papa and mamma not forbidding) paid his respects to my sister Arabella. My brother was then in Scotland, busying himself in viewing the condition of the con|siderable estate which was left him there by his gene|rous godmother, together with one as considerable in Yorkshire. I was also absent at my Dairy-house, as it is called (a) 1.2, busied in the accounts relating to the estate which my grandfather had the goodness to bequeath me; and which once a year are left to my inspection, altho' I have given the whole into my papa's power.

My sister made me a visit there the day after Mr. Lovelace had been introduced; and seemed highly pleased with the gentleman. His birth, his fortune in possession, a clear 2000 l. per annum, as Lord M. had assured my uncle; presumptive heir to that nobleman's large estate: His great expectations from Lady Sarah

Sadleir, and Lady Betty Lawrance; who, with his uncle, interested themselves very warmly (he being the last of his line) to see him married.

'So handsome a man!—O her beloved Clary!'

(for then she was ready to love me dearly, from the overflowings of her good humour on his account!)

'He was but too handsome a man for her!—Were she but as amiable as somebody, there would be a proba|bility of holding his affections!—For he was wild, she heard; very wild, very gay; loved intrigue—But he was young; a man of sense: Would see his error; could she but have patience with his faults, if his faults were not cured by marriage.'

Thus she ran on; and then wanted me

'to see the charming man,'

as she called him.—Again concerned,

'that she was not handsome enough for him:'

With,

'A sad thing, that the man should have the advantage of the woman in that particular.'

—But then, stepping to the glass, she complimented herself,

'That she was very well: That there were many women deemed passable, who were inferior to herself: That she was always thought comely; and, let her tell me, that comeliness having not so much to lose as beauty had, would hold, when that would evaporate and fly off:—Nay, for that matter,'

(and again she turn'd to the glass),

'her features were not irregular; her eyes not at all amiss.'

And I remember they were more than usually brilliant at that time.—

'Nothing, in short, to be sound fault with, tho' nothing very engaging, she doubted—Was there, Clary?'

Excuse me, my dear, I never was thus particular before; no, not to you. Nor would I now have writ|ten thus freely of a sister; but that she makes a merit to my brother, of disowning that she ever liked him; as I shall mention hereafter: And then you will always have me give you minute descriptions, nor suffer me to pass by the air and manner in which things are

spoken, that are to be taken notice of; rightly observe|ing, that air and manner often express more than the accompanying words.

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

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

Thus, however, could my sister make it out—

'Upon her word, she believed Mr. Lovelace deserved not the bad character he had as to women. He was really, to her thinking, a modest man. He would have spoken out, she believed: But once or twice, as he seemed to intend to do so, he was under so agree-able a confusion! Such a profound respect he seemed to shew her: A perfect reverence, she thought: She lov'd dearly, that a gentleman in courtship should shew a reverence to his mistress.'

—So indeed we all do, I believe: And with reason; since, if I may judge from what I have seen in many families, there is little enough of it shewn afterwards.—And she told my aunt Hervey, that she would be a little less upon the reserve next time he came:

'She was not one of those flirts, not she, who would give pain to a person that deserved to be well-treated; and the more for the greatness of his value for her.'

—I

wish, she had not Somebody whom I love in her eye. Yet is not her censure unjust, I believe:—Is it, my dear?—Excepting in one undue and harsh word?

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

But now she began to be dissatisfied with him: She compared his general character, with This his par|ticular behaviour to her; and, having never been courted before, own'd herself puzzled, how to deal with so odd a lover.

'What did the man mean!—Had not her uncle brought him declaredly as a suiter to her?—It could not be bashfulness (now she thought of it), since he might have open'd his mind to her uncle, if he wanted courage to speak directly to her.—Not that she cared much for the man nei|ther: But it was right, surely, that a woman should be put out of doubt, early, as to a man's intentions, in such a case as This, from his own mouth.—But, truly, she had begun to think, that he was more solicitous to cultivate her mamma's good opinion, than hers!—Every-body, she own'd, admired her mamma's conversation.—But he was mistaken, if he thought that would do with her. And then, for his own sake, surely, he should put it into her power to be complaisant to him, if he gave her cause of approbation. This distant behaviour, she must take upon her to say, was the more extraordinary, as he continued his visits, and declared himself extremely desirous to cultivate a friendship with the whole family; and as he could have no doubt about her sense, if she might take upon her to join her own with the general opinion; he having taken great notice of, and admired many of her good things, as they fell from her lips.—Reserves were painful, she

must needs say, to open and free spirits, like hers: And yet she must tell my aunt'

(to whom all this was directed)

'that she should never forget what she ow'd to her sex, and to herself, were Mr. Lovelace as unexceptionable in his morals, as in his figure, and were he to urge his suit ever so warmly.'

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

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

How they managed it in this conversation I know not: One would be tempted to think by the issue, that Mr. Lovelace was ungenerous enough to seek the occasion given (a) 1.3, and to improve it. Yet he thought fit to put the question too:—But, she says, it was not till by some means or other (she knew not how) he had wrought her up to such a pitch of displeasure with him, that it was impossible for her to recover herself, at the instant: Nevertheless he re-urged his question, as expecting a definitive answer, without waiting for the return of her temper, or endeavouring to mollify her: so that she was under a necessity of persisting in

her denial: Yet gave him reason to think, that she did not dislike his address, only the manner of it; his court being rather made to her mamma than to her|self, as if he were sure of her consent at any time.

A good encouraging denial, I must own:—As was the rest of her plea; to wit,

'A disinclination to change her state.—Exceedingly happy as she was: She never could be happier!'

And such-like con|senting negatives, as I may call them; and yet not intend a reflection upon my sister: For what can any young creature, in the like circumstances, say, when she is not sure, but a too ready consent may subject her to the slights of a sex, that generally values a blessing, either more or less, as it is obtained with difficulty or ease? Miss Biddulph's answer to a copy of verses from a gentleman, reproaching our sex, as act|ing in disguise, is not a bad one, altho' you perhaps may think it too acknowleging for the female character,

Ungen'rous sex!—To scorn us, if we're kind; And yet upbraid us, if we seem severe! Do YOU, t' encourage us to tell our mind, Yourselves, put off disguise, and be sincere. YOU talk of Coquetry!—Your own false hearts Compel our sex to act dissembling parts.

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

LETTER III. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Jan. 13, 14.

AND thus, as Mr. Lovelace thought fit to take it, had he his answer from my sister. It was with very great regret, as he pretended (I doubt the man is an hypocrite, my dear!), that be acquiesced in it.

'So much determinedness; such a noble firmness in my sister; that there was no hope of prevailing upon her

to alter sentiments she had adopted on full considera|tion.'

'He sigh'd,

as Bella told us, when he took his leave of her:

'Profoundly sigh'd: Grasp'd her hand, and kissed it with such an ardor.—Withdrew with such an air of solemn respect.—She had him then before her.—She could almost find in her heart, altho' he had vex'd her, to pity him.'

A good inten|tional preparative, this pity; since, at the time, she lit|tle thought that he would not renew his offer.

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

My sister was not wanting to herself on this occa|sion; but made a virtue of necessity; and the man was quite another man with her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My papa, indeed, after a long silence, being urged to speak his mind, by my uncle Antony, said, That he had a letter from his son James, on his hearing of Mr. Lovelace's visits to his daughter Arabella; which he had not shewn to any-body but my mamma; that

treaty being at an end when he received it: That in this letter he expressed great dislikes to an alliance with Mr. Lovelace, on the score of his immoralities: That he knew, indeed, there was an old grudge between them: That, being desirous to prevent all occa|sions of disunion and animosity in his family, he would suspend the declaration of his own mind, till his son arrived, and till he had heard his further objections: That he was the more inclined to make his son this compliment, as Mr. Lovelace's general character gave but too much ground for his son's dislike of him; adding, That he had heard, (So, he supposed, had every-one) that he was a very extravagant man: that he had contracted debts in his travels: And, indeed, he was pleased to say, he had the air of a spendthrift.

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

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

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

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

In short, Mr. Lovelace's visits were admitted, as those of a man who had not deserved disrespect from our family; but, as to his address to me, with a

reservation, as above, on my papa's part, that he would determine nothing without his son. My discretion, as to the rest, was confided in: For still I had the same objections as to the man: Nor would I, when we were better acquainted, hear any-thing but general talk from him; giving him no opportunity of conversing with me in private.

He bore this with a resignation little expected from his natural temper, which is generally reported to be quick and hasty; unused, it seems, from childhood, to check or controul: A case too common in considerable families, where there is an only son: And his mother never had any other child. But, as I have hereto|fore told you, I could perceive, notwithstanding this resignation, that he had so good an opinion of himself, as not to doubt, that his person and accomplishments would insensibly engage me: And could That be once done, he told my aunt Hervey, he should hope from so steady a temper, that his hold in my affections would be durable: While my sister accounted for his patience in another manner, which would perhaps have had more force, if it had come from a person less preju|diced:

'That the man was not fond of marrying at all: That he might perhaps have half-a-score mis|tresses; and that delay might be as convenient for his roving, as for my well-acted indifference.'

—That was her kind expression.

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

than the situation he was in with us would justify to prudence; since it was much more likely, that his address would not be allowed of, than that it would.

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

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

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

He consented, on condition that I would direct his subjects, as he called it: And, as every-one had heard his manner of writing commended; and thought his relations might be agreeable amusements in winter evenings; and that he could have no opportunity par|ticularly to address me in them, since they were to be read in full assembly, before they were to be given to the young gentleman; I made the less scruple to write, and to make observations, and put questions, for our further information—Still the less, perhaps, as I love writing; and those who do, are fond, you know, of

occasions to use the pen: And then, having every one's consent, and my uncle Hervey's desire that I would, I thought, that if I had been the only scrupu|lous person, it would have shewn a particularity, that a vain man would construe to his advantage; and which my sister would not fail to animadvert upon.

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

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

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

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

But I should own, that in the letters he sent me,

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

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

You cannot imagine how saucily the man looked; as if, in short, he was disappointed, that he had not made a more sensible impression upon me: And when he recollected himself (as he did immediately), what a visible Struggle it cost him to change his haughty airs for more placid ones. But I took no no|tice of either; for I thought it best to convince him, by the coolness and indifference, with which I repulsed his forward hopes (at the same time intending to avoid the affectation of pride or vanity), that he was not considerable enough in my eyes to make me take over-ready offence at what he said, or how he looked:

In other words, that I had not value enough for him, to treat him with peculiarity either by smiles or frowns. Indeed, he had cunning enough to give me, undesign|edly, a piece of instruction which taught me this cau|tion; for he had said in conversation once,

'That if a man could not make a lady in courtship own her|self pleased with him, it was as much, and oftentimes more, to his purpose, to make her angry with him.'

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

Your most affectionate friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER IV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Jan. 15.

THIS, my dear, was the situation Mr. Lovelace and I were in, when my brother arrived from Scotland.

The moment Mr. Lovelace's visits were mentioned to him, he, without either hesitation or apology, ex|pressed his disapprobation of them. He found great flaws in his character; and took the liberty to say, in so many words, That he wondered, how it came into the hearts of his uncles to encourage such a man for either of his sisters: At the same time returning his thanks to my father for declining his consent till he arrived, in such a manner, I thought, as a superior would do, when he commended an inferior, for have|ing well performed his duty in his absence.

He justified his avowed inveteracy, by common fame, and by what he had known of him at college; declaring, That he had ever hated him; ever should hate him; and would never own him for a brother, or me for a sister; if I married him.

That college-begun antipathy I have heard ac|counted for in this manner:

Mr. Lovelace was always noted for his vivacity and courage; and no less, it seems, for the swift and sur|prising progress he made in all parts of literature: For diligence in his studies, in the hours of study, he had hardly his equal. This, it seems, was his general character at the university; and it gained him many friends among the more learned youth; while those who did not love him, feared him, by reason of the offence his vivacity made him too ready to give, and of the courage he shewed in supporting the offence when given; which procured him as many followers as he pleased among the mischievous sort.—No very amiable character, you'll say, upon the whole.

But my brother's temper was not happier. His native haughtiness could not bear a superiority so vi|sible; and whom we fear more than love, we are not far from hating: And, having less command of his passions, than the other, was evermore the subject of his, perhaps indecent, ridicule: So, that they never me•• without quarreling: And every-body, either from love or fear, siding with his antagonist, he had a most uneasy time of it, while both continued in the same college.—It was the less wonder, the efore, that a young man, who is not noted for the gentleness of his temper, should resume an antipathy early begun, and so deeply-rooted.

He found my sister, who waited but for the occasion, ready to join him in his resentments against the man he hated. She utterly disclaimed all manner of regard for him:

'Never liked him at all:—His estate was certainly much incumber'd: It was impossible it should be otherwise; so intirely devoted as he was to his pleasures. He kept no house; had no equipage: Nobody pretended that he wanted pride: The reason therefore was easy to be guessed at.'

And then did she boast of, and my brother praise her for, refusing him: And both joined on all occasions to depreciate him, and not seldom made the occasions; their dis|pleasure

against him causing every subject to run into this, if it began not with it.

I was not solicitous to vindicate him, when I was not joined in their reflections. I told them, I did not value him enough to make a difference in the family on his account: And as he was supposed to have given too much cause for their ill opinion of him, I thought he ought to take the consequence of his own faults.

Now-and-then, indeed, when I observed, that their vehemence carried them beyond all bounds of proba|bility, I thought it but justice to put in a word for him. But this only subjected me to reproach, as have|ing a prepossession in his favour that I would not own.—So that when I could not change the subject, I used to retire either to my music, or to my closet.

Their behaviour to him, when they could not help seeing him, was very cold and disobliging; but, as yet, not directly affrontive: For they were in hopes of prevailing upon my papa to forbid his visits. But, as there was nothing in his behaviour, that might war|rant such a treatment of a man of his birth and fortune, they succeeded not: And then they were very earnest with me to forbid them. I ask'd, What authority I had to take such a step in my father's house; and when my behaviour to him was so distant, that he seemed to be as much the guest of any other person of the family, themselves excepted, as mine?—In revenge, they told me, That it was cunning management be|tween us; and that we both understood one another better than we pretended to do. And at last, they gave such a loose to their passions, all of a sudden (a) 2.1, as I may say, that instead of withdrawing, as they used to do when he came, they threw themselves in his way, purposely to affront him.

Mr. Lovelace, you may believe, very ill brooked

this: But, nevertheless, contented himself to complai•• of it to me: In high terms, however; telling me, that but for my sake, my brother's treatment of him was not to be borne.

I was sorry for the merit this gave him, in his own opinion, with me: And the more as some of the af|fronts he received, were too flagrant to be excused: But I told him, That I was determin'd not to fall out with my brother, if I could help it, whatever were his faults: And, since they could not see one another with temper, should be glad, that he would not throw himself in my brother's way; and I was sure my brother would not seek him.

He was very much nettled at this answer: But said, He must bear his affronts, if I would have it so. He had been accused himself of violence in his temper: But he hoped to shew on this occasion, that he had a command of his passions, which few young men, so provoked, would be able to shew; and doubted not, but it would be attributed to a proper motive by a per|son of my generosity and penetration.

My brother had just before, with the approbation of my uncles, employ'd a person related to a discharged bailiff or steward of Lord M. who had had the manage|ment of some part of Mr. Lovelace's affairs (from which he was also dismissed by him), to inquire into his debts; after his companions; into his amours; and the like.

My aunt Hervey, in confidence, gave me the fol|lowing particulars of what the man said of him.

'That he was a generous landlord: That he spared nothing for solid and lasting improvements upon his estate: And that he looked into his own affairs, and understood them: That he had, when abroad, been very expensive; and contracted a large debt (for he made no secret of his affairs); yet chose to limit himself to an annual sum, and to decline equi|page, in order to avoid being obliged to his uncle and aunts; from whom he might have what money

he pleased; but that he was very jealous of their controul; had often quarrels with them, and treated them so freely, that they were all afraid of him. However, that his estate was never mortgaged, as my brother had heard it was; his credit was always high; and, he believed, he was by this time, near upon, if not quite, clear of the world.

'He was a sad gentleman, he said, as to women:—If his tenants had pretty daughters, they chose to keep them out of his sight. He believed, he kept no particular mistress; for he had heard newelty, that was the man's word, was every-thing with him. But for his uncle's and aunts teazings, fansy'd he would not think of marriage: Was never known to be disguised with liquor: But was a great plotter, and a great writer: That he lived a wild life in town, by what he had heard: Had six or seven com|panions as bad as himself; whom now-and-then he brought down with him; and the country was al|ways glad when they went up again. He would have it, that, altho' passionate, he was good-humour'd; loved as well to take a jest, as to give one, and would railly himself, upon occasion, the freest of any man he ever knew.'

This was his character from an enemy; for, as my aunt observed, every thing the man said commendably of him, came grudgingly, with a Must needs say—To do him justice, &c. while the contrary was delivered with a free good-will. And this character, as a worse was expected, tho' This was bad enough, not answer|ing the end of inquiring after it, my brother and sister were more apprehensive than before, that his address would be encouraged: since the worst part of it was known, or supposed, when he was first introduced to my sister.

But, with regard to myself, I must observe in his disfavour, that, notwithstanding the merit he wanted to make with me, for his patience upon my brother's

ill-treatment of him, I owed him no compliments for trying to conciliate with him. Not that I believe it would have signified any thing, if he had made ever such court, either to him, or to my sister: Yet one might have expected, from a man of his politeness, and from his pretensions, you know, that he would have been willing to try. Instead of which, such a hearty contempt he shew'd of them both, of my bro|ther especially, that I ever heard of it with aggrava|tions. And for me to have hinted at an alteration in his behaviour to my brother, was an advantage I knew he would have been proud of; and which therefore I had no mind to give him.—But I doubted not, that having so very little encouragement from any-body, his pride would soon take fire, and he would of him|self discontinue his visits, or go to town; where, till he came acquainted with our family, he used chiefly to reside: And in this latter case he had no reason to expect, that I would receive, much less answer, his letters; the occasion, which had led me to receive any of his, being by this time over.

But my brother's antipathy would not permit him to wait for such an event; and after several excesses, which Mr. Lovelace still return'd with contempt, and a haughtiness too much like that of the aggressor, my brother took upon himself to fill up the door-way, once, when he came, as if to oppose his entrance: and, upon his asking for me, demanded, What his business were with his sister?

The other, with a challenging air, as my brother says, told him, He would answer a gentleman any question: But he wished, that Mr. James Harlowe, who had of late given himself high airs, would remem|ber, that he was not now at college.

Just then the good Dr. Lewin, who frequently ho|nours me with a visit of conversation, as he is pleased to call it, and had parted with me in my own parlour, came to the door; and, hearing the words, inter|posed;

both having their hands upon their swords: And telling Mr. Lovelace where I was, he burst by my brother, to come to me; leaving him chafing, he said, like a hunted boar at bay.

This alarm'd us all. My father was pleased to hint to Mr. Lovelace; and I, by his command, spoke a great deal plainer; that he wish'd he would discon|tinue his visits, for the peace-sake of the family.

But Mr. Lovelace is not a man to be easily brought to give up his purpose, in a point, especially, wherein he pretends his heart is so much engag'd: And an absolute prohibition not having been given, things went on for a little while as before: For I saw plainly, that to have deny'd myself to his visits (which, how|ever, I declin'd receiving, as often as I could) was to bring forward some desperate issue between the two; since the offence so readily given on one side, was only brooked by the other, out of consideration to me. And thus did my brother's rashness lay me un|der an obligation where I would least have ow'd it.

The intermediate proposals of Mr. Symmes and Mr. Mullins, both (in turn) encouraged by my brother, were inducements for him to be more patient for a while; he being in hopes, as no-body thought me over-forward in Mr. Lovelace's favour, that he should engage my father and uncles to espouse the one or the other in opposition to him. But when he found, that I had interest enough to disengage myself from their addresses, as I had (before he went to Scotland, and, before Mr. Lovelace visited here) of Mr. Wyerley's, he then kept no measures: And first set himself to upbraid me for a supposed prepossession; which he treated, as if it were criminal: And then to insult Mr. Lovelace in person. And it being at Mr. Edward Symmes's, the brother of the other Symmes, two miles off, and no good Dr. Lewin again to interpose, the unhappy rencounter follow'd. My brother was disarm'd in it, as you have heard; and on being

brought home, and giving us ground to suppose he was much worse hurt than he really was, and a fever ensuing, every-one flam'd out; and all was laid at my door.

Mr. Lovelace, for three days together, sent twice each day to inquire after my brother's health; and, altho' he received rude, and even shocking returns, he thought fit, on the fourth day, to make in person the fame inquiries; and received still greater incivilities from my two uncles, who happen'd to be both there. My papa also was held by force from going to him with his sword in his hand, altho' he had the gout upon him.

I fainted away with terror, seeing every-one so violent; and hearing his voice, swearing he would not depart without seeing me, or making my uncles ask his pardon for the indignities he had received at their hands: A door being also held fast lock'd between them; my mamma struggling with my papa; and my sister, after treating him with virulence, insulting me, as fast as I recover'd. But, when he was told how ill I was, he departed, vowing revenge.

He was ever a favourite with our domestics. His bounty to them, and having always something facetious to say to each, had made them all of his party: And on this occasion they privately blamed every-body else, and reported his patience and gentlemanly behaviour (till the provocations given him ran very high) in such favourable terms, that those reports, and my apprehen|sions of the consequence of this treatment, induced me to read a letter he sent me that night; and, it being written in the most respectful terms, offering to submit the whole to my decision, and to govern himself in|tirely by my will, to answer it some days after.

To this unhappy necessity was owing our renewed correspondence, as I may call it: Yet I did not write, till I had inform'd myself from Mr. Symmes's brother, that he was really insulted into the act of drawing his

sword, by my brother's repeatedly threatening, upon his excusing himself out of regard to me, to brand him if he did not; and, by all the inquiry I could make, that he was again the sufferer from my uncles, in a more violent manner than I have related.

The same circumstances were related to my papa, and other friends, by Mr. Symmes; but they had gone too far, in making themselves parties to the quarrel, either to retract or forgive; and I was forbid corre|sponding with him, or to be seen a moment in his company.

But one thing I can say, but that in confidence, because my mamma commanded me not to mention it:—That, expressing her apprehension of the conse|quences of the indignities offered to Mr. Lovelace, she told me, She would leave it to my prudence, to pre|vent, all I could, the impending mischief on one side.

I am obliged to break off. But, I believe, I have written enough to answer very fully all that you have commanded from me. It is not for a child to seek to clear her own character, or to justify her actions, at the expence of the most revered ones: Yet, as I know, that the account of all those further proceed|ings, by which I may be affected, will be interesting to so dear a friend (who will communicate to others no more than what is fitting), I will continue to write as I have opportunity, as minutely as we are used to write to each other. Indeed I have no delight, as I have often told you, equal to that which I take in conversing with you:—By letter, when I cannot in person.

Mean time, I can't help saying, that I am ex|ceedingly concerned to find, that I am become so much the public talk, as you tell me, and as every-body tells me, I am. Your kind, your precautionary regard for my fame, and the opportunity you have given me to tell my own story, previous to any new accident, which heaven avert! is so like the warm friend I have

ever found my dear Miss Howe, that, with redoubled obligation, you bind me to be

Your ever-grateful and affectionate CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Copy of the requested PREAMBLE to the clauses in her grandfather's will, in her favour, inclosed in the preceding letter.

AS the particular estate I have mentioned and de|scribed above is principally of my own raising: As my three sons have been uncommonly prosperous; and are very rich: The eldest by means of the unex|pected benefits he reaps from his new-found mines: The second, by what has, as unexpectedly, fallen in to him, on the deaths of several relations of his present wife, the worthy daughter by both sides of very honour|able families; over and above the very large portion which he received with her in marriage: My son An|tony, by his East-India traffick, and successful voy|ages: As furthermore my grandson James will be sufficiently provided for by his godmother Lovell's kindness to him; who, having no near relations, assures me, that she has, as well by deed of gift, as by will, left him both her Scotish and English estates: For never (blessed be God therefore!) was there a family more prosperous in all its branches: And as my second son James will very probably make it up to my grand|son, and also to my grand-daughter Arabella; to whom I intend no disrespect; nor have reason; for she is a very hopeful and dutiful child: And as my sons John and Antony seem not inclined to a marry'd life; so that my son James is the only one who has children, or is likely to have any:—For all these reasons; and because my dearest and beloved grand-daughter Clarissa Harlowe has been from infancy a matchless young creature in her duty to me, and ad|mired

by all who knew her, as a very extraordinary child; I must therefore take the pleasure of consider|ing her, as my own peculiar child; and this, without intending offence; and I hope it will not be taken as any, since my son James can bestow his favours ac|cordingly, and in greater proportion, upon Miss Ara|bella, and Master James:—These, I say, are the rea|sons which move me to dispose of the above-described estate in the precious child's favour; who is the delight of my old age; and, I verily think, has contributed, by her amiable duty, and kind and tender regards, to prolong my life.

Wherefore it is my express will and command|ment, and I injoin my three sons John, James, and Antony, and my grandson James, and my grand-daughter Arabella, as they value my blessing, and my memory, and would wish their own last wills and de|sires to be fulfilled by their survivors, that they will not impugn or contest the following bequests and dis|positions in favour of my said grand-daughter Clarissa, altho' they should not be strictly conformable to law, or the forms thereof; nor suffer them to be contro|verted or disputed on any pretence whatsoever.

And in this confidence, &c. &c. &c.

LETTER V. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Jan. 20.

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

Her disorder was a very violent colic. The con|tentions of these fierce, these masculine spirits, and the apprehension of mischiefs that may arise from the

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

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

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

Were there not truth in this observation, is it pos|sible, that my brother and sister could make their very failings, their vehemences, of such importance to all the family?

'How will my son, how will my ne|phew, take this or that measure? What will he say to it? Let us consult him about it;'

are references always previous to every resolution taken by his supe|riors, whose will ought to be his. Well may he ex|pect to be treated with this deference by every other person, when my papa himself, generally so absolute, constantly pays it to him; and the more since his god|mother's bounty has given independence to a spirit that was before under too little restraint.—But whi|ther may these reflections lead me?—I know you do not love any of us, but my mamma and me; and, being above all disguises, make me sensible that you do not, oftener than I wish you did.—Ought I then to add force to your dislikes of those whom I wish you more to like?—my father, especially; for he, poor gentleman! has some excuse for his impatience of con|tradiction. He is not naturally an ill-temper'd man; and in his person and air, and in his conversation too, when not under the torture of a gouty paroxysm, every-body distinguishes the gentleman born and edu|cated.

Our sex, perhaps, must expect to bear a little un|courtliness, shall I call it?—from the husband, whom, as the lover, they let know the preference their hearts gave him to all other men.—Say what they will of generosity being a manly virtue; but, upon my word, my dear, I have ever yet observed, that it is not to be met with in that sex one time in ten, that it is to be found in ours.—But my father was sour'd by the cruel distemper I have named; which seized him all at once in the very prime of life, in so violent a manner, as to take from the most active of minds, as his was, all power of activity, and that, in all appearance, for life;—It imprison'd, as I may say, his lively spirits in

himself, and turned the edge of them against his own peace; his extraordinary prosperity adding but to his impatiency: For those, I believe, who want the fewest earthly blessings, most regret that they want any.

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

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

Your most affectionate and obliged friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER VI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Harlowe-Place, Jan. 20.

I WILL now resume my narrative of proceedings here.—My brother being in a good way, altho' you may be sure, that his resentments are rather height|en'd

than abated by the galling disgrace he has re|ceived, my friends (my papa and uncles, however, if not my brother and sister) begin to think, that I have been treated unkindly. My mamma has been so good as to tell me this, since I sent away my last.

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

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

If none of his schemes of marrying me take effect, he has thoughts, I am told, of proposing to me to go to Scotland, in order, as the compliment is, to put his house there in such order as our own is in. But this my mamma intends to oppose for her own sake; because, having relieved her, as she is pleased to say, of the houshold cares (for which, my sister, you

know, has no turn), they must again devolve upon her, if I go. And if she did not oppose it, I should; for, believe me, I have no mind to be his house|keeper; and, I am sure, were I to go with him, I should be treated rather as a servant than a sister:—Perhaps, not the better because I am his sister. And, if Mr. Lovelace should follow me, things might be worse than they are now.

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

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

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

You know, my dear, that there is a good deal of solemnity among us. But never was there a family more united, in its different branches, than ours.

Our uncles consider us as their own children; and declare, that it is for our sakes they live single. So that they are advised with upon every article relating to, or that may affect, us. It is therefore the less wonder, at a time when they understand, that Mr. Lovelace is determin'd to pay us an amicable visit, as he calls it (but which I am sure cannot end so) that they should both be consulted upon the permission I had desired to attend you.

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

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

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

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

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

No-body spoke.

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

Every-one still remained silent.

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

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

O the fond, fond heart! with a s••eer of insult, lift|ing up his hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Son James! said my father, sternly—

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

Thus ended this conference.

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

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

Mean time, I am

Your most affectionate and obliged CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

Harlowe-Place, Feb. 20.

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

into any concert with Mr. Lovelace, had I known their motive for commanding me home; ap|prehending, 'tis evident, that I should dislike the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hoped, I said, there was no harm done: That it became not me to prescribe to Mrs. or Miss Howe who should be their visitors: That Mrs. Howe was always diverted with the raillery that passed between

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ever obliged CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER VIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Feb. 24.

THEY drive on here at a furious rate. The man lives here, I think. He courts them, and is more and more a favourite. Such terms, such set|tlements! That's the cry!

O, my dear, that I had not reason to deplore the family fault, immensely rich as they all are! But this I may the more unreservedly say to you, as we have often join'd in the same concern: I, for a father and uncles; you, for a mother; in every other respect faultless.

Hitherto, I seem to be delivered over to my bro|ther, who pretends as great love to me as ever.

You may believe, I have been very sincere with him. But he affects to railly me, and not to believe it possible, that one, so dutiful and so discreet as his sister Clary, can resolve to disoblige all her friends.

Indeed, I tremble at the prospect before me; for it is evident, that they are strangely determin'd.

My father and mother industriously avoid giving me opportunity of speaking to them alone. They ask not for my approbation, intending, as it should seem, to suppose me into their will. And with them I shall hope to prevail, or with no-body. They have not the interest in compelling me, as my brother and sister have: I say less therefore to them, reserving my whole force for an audience with my father, if he will per|mit me a patient ear. How difficult is it, my dear, to give a negative, where both duty and inclination join to make one wish to oblige!—

I have already stood the shock of three of this man's particular visits, besides my share in his more general ones; and find it is impossible I should ever endure him. He has but a very ordinary share of under|standing; is very illiterate; knows nothing but the value of estates, and how to improve them; and what belongs to land-jobbing, and husbandry. Yet am I as one stupid, I think. They have begun so cruelly with me, that I have not spirit enough to assert my own negative.

My good Mrs. Norton they had endeavour'd, it seems, to influence, before I came home: So intent are they to carry their point: And her opinion not being to their liking, she has been told, that she would do well to decline visiting here for the present: Yet she is the person of all the world, next to my mam|ma, the most likely to prevail upon me, were the measures they are engag'd in, reasonable measures; or such as she could think so.

My aunt likewise having said, that she did not think her niece could ever be brought to like Mr. Solmes, has been obliged to learn another lesson.

I am to have a visit from her to-morrow. And, ••ince I have refused so much as to hear from my bro|ther and sister what the noble settlements are to be, she is to acquaint me with the particulars; and to ••eceive from me my determination: For my father, I am told, will not have patience but to suppose, that I shall stand in opposition to his will.

Mean time it has been signify'd to me, that it will be acceptable, if I do not think of going to church next Sunday.

The same signification was made me for last Sun|day; and I obey'd. They are apprehensive, that Mr. Lovelace will be there, with design to come home with me.

Help me, dear Miss Howe, to a little of your charming spirit: I never more wanted it.

The man, you may suppose, has no reason to boast of his progress with me. He has not the sense to say any thing to the purpose. His courtship, indeed, is to them; and my brother pretends to court me as his proxy, truly! I utterly to my brother refuse his appli|cation; but thinking a person so well received, and recommended, by all my family, intitled to good man|ners, all I say against him is affectedly attributed to coyness: And he, not being sensible of his own im|perfections, believes that my avoiding him when I can, and the reserves I express, are owing to nothing else:—For, as I said, all his courtship is to them; and I have no opportunity of saying No, to one who asks me not the question. And so, with an air of mannish superiority, he seems rather to pity the bashful girl, than apprehend that he shall not succeed.

February 25.

I have had the expected conference with my aunt.

I have been obliged to hear the man's proposal•• from her; and all their motives for espousing him a they do. I am even loth to mention, how equally unjust it is for him to make such offers, or for those I am bound to reverence to accept of them. I hate him more than before. One great estate is already obtained at the expence of the relations to it, tho' distant relations; my brother's, I mean, by his god mother: And this has given the hope, however chi|merical that hope, of procuring others; and that my own, at least, may revert to the family: And yet in my opinion, the world is but one great family originally it was so: What then is this narrow selfish+ness that reigns in us, but relationship remembre•• against relationship forgot?

But here, upon my absolute refusal of him upo•• any terms, have I had a signification made me, tha•• wounds me to the heart. How can I tell it you? Ye•• I must. It is, my dear, that I must not, for a mon•• to come, or till licence obtained, correspond with any body out of the house.

My brother, upon my aunt's report (made, how+ever, as I am informed, in the gentlest manner, an•• even giving remote hopes, which she had no com|mission from me to give), brought me, in authoritative terms, the prohibition.

Not to Miss Howe? said I.

No, not to Miss Howe, Madam, tauntingly: For have you not acknowleg'd, that Lovelace is a fa|vourite there?

See, my dear Miss Howe!—

And do you think, brother, this is the way?—

Do you look to that:—But your letters will be stopt, I can tell you.—And away he flung.

My sister came to me soon after.—Sister Clary, you are going on in a fine way, I understand. But, as

there are people who are supposed to harden you against your duty, I am to tell you, that it will be taken well, if you avoid visits or visitings for a week or two, till further order.

Can this be from those who have authority—

Ask them; ask them, child, with a twirl of her finger.—I have deliver'd my message. Your papa will be obey'd. He is willing to hope you to be all obe|dience; and would prevent all incitements to refrac|toriness.

I knew my duty, I said; and hoped I should not find impossible conditions annexed to it.

A pert young creature, vain and conceited, she called me. I was the only judge, in my own wife opi|nion, of what was right and fit. She, for her part, had long seen through my specious ways: And now I should shew every-body what I was at bottom.

Dear Bella, said I! hands and eyes lifted up,—why all this?—Dear, dear Bella, why—

None of your dear, dear Bella's to me.—I tell you, I see thro' your witchcrafts.—That was her strange word: And away she flung; adding, as she went,—And so will every-body else very quickly, I dare say.

Bless me, said I to myself, what a sister have I!—How have I deserv'd this? Then I again regretted my grandfather's too distinguishing goodness to me.

Feb. 25. in the evening .

What my brother and sister have said against me, I cannot tell:—But I am in heavy disgrace with my papa.

I was sent for down to tea. I went with a very chearful aspect: But had occasion soon to change it.

Such a solemnity in every-body's countenance!—My mamma's eyes were fixed upon the tea-cups; and when she looked up, it was heavily, as if her eye|lids had weights upon them; and then not to me. My papa sat half-aside in his elbow-chair, that his

head might be turn'd from me; his hands folded, and waving, as it were, up and down; his fingers, poor dear gentleman! in motion, as if angry to the very ends of them. My sister sat swelling. My brother looked at me with scorn, having measured me, as I may say, with his eyes, as I enter'd, from head to foot. My aunt was there, and looked upon me, as if with kindness restrained, bending coldly to my com|pliment to her, as she sat; and then cast an eye first on my brother, then on my sister, as if to give the rea|son (so I am willing to construe it) of her unusual stiffness.—Bless me, my dear! that they should choose to intimidate rather than invite a mind, till now, no•• thought either unpersuadable or ungenerous!—

I took my seat. Shall I make tea, Madam, to my mamma?—I always used, you know, my dear, to make tea.

No! a very short sentence, in one very short word was the expressive answer: And she was pleased to take the canister in her own hand.

My sister's Betty attending, my brother bid her go:—He would fill the water.

My heart was up at my mouth. I did not know what to do with myself. What is to follow? thought I

Just after the second dish, out stept my mamma.—A word with you, sister Hervey! taking her in he•• hand. Presently my sister dropt away. Then my brother. So I was left alone with my papa.

He looked so very sternly, that my heart failed me as twice or thrice I would have addressed myself to him: Nothing but solemn silence on all hands having passed before.

At last, I asked, If it were his pleasure, that I should pour him out another dish?

He answer'd me with the same angry monosyllable which I had received from my mamma before; and then arose, and walked about the room. I arose too, with intent to throw myself at his feet; but was too

much over-awed by his sternness, even to make such an expression of my duty to him, as my heart over|flowed with.

At last, as he supported himself, because of his gout, on the back of a chair, I took a little more courage; and approaching him, besought him to ac|quaint me, in what I had offended him?

He turn'd from me, and, in a strong voice, Cla|rissa Harlowe, said he, know, that I will be obey'd.

God forbid, Sir, that you should not!—I have ne|ver yet opposed your will—

Nor I your whimsies, Clarissa Harlowe, inter|rupted he.—Don't let me run the fate of all who shew ••ndulgence to your sex; To be the more contradicted for mine to you.

My papa, you know, my dear, has not (any more than my brother) a kind opinion of our sex; altho' there is not a more condescending wife in the world than my mamma.

I was going to make protestations of duty.—No protestations, girl!—No words.—I will not be prated to!—I will be obey'd!—I have no child.—I will have no child, but an obedient one.

Sir, you never had reason, I hope—

Tell me not what I never had, but what I have, and what I shall have.—

Good Sir, be pleased to hear me—My brother and my sister, I fear—

Your brother and sister shall not be spoken against, girl!—They have a just concern for the honour of my family.

And I hope, Sir,—

Hope nothing.—Tell me not of hopes, but of facts. I ask nothing of you but what is in your power to comply with, and what it is your duty to comply with.

Then, Sir, I will comply with it.—But yet I hope from your goodness,—

No expostulations!—No but's, girl!—No quali|fyings!—I will be obey'd, I tell you!—and chear|fully too!—or you are no child of mine!—

I wept.

Let me beseech you, my dear and ever-honoured papa (and I dropt down on my knees) that I may have only your's and my mamma's will, and not my brother's, to obey.—I was going on; but he was pleased to withdraw, leaving me on the floor; saying, That he would not hear me thus by subtilty and cunning aiming to distinguish away my duty; re|peating, that he would be obey'd.

My heart is too full;—so full, that it may endan|ger my duty, were I to unburden it to you on this occasion: So I will lay down my pen.—But can—Yet, positively, I will lay down my pen!—

LETTER IX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Feb. 26. in the morning.

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

I find, by a few words which dropt from her un+awares, that they have all an absolute dependence upon what they suppose to be a meekness in my temper But in this they may be mistaken; for I verily think upon a strict examination of myself, that I have al|most

as much in me of my father's as of my mother's family.

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

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

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

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

How happy might I have been with any other bro|ther in the world, but Mr. James Harlowe; and with any other sister, but his sister! Wonder not, my dear! that I, who used to chide you for these sort of liberties with my relations, now am more un|dutiful than you ever were unkind. I cannot bear the thought of being deprived of the principal pleasure of

my life; for such is your conversation by person and by letter. And who besides can bear to be made the dupe of such low cunning, operating with such high and arrogant passions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your affectionate CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER X. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Febr. 27.

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

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

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

You ask me to help you to a little of my spirit. Are you in earnest? But it will not now, I doubt, do you service.—It will not fit naturally upon you. You are your mamma's girl, think what you will, and have violent spirits to contend with. Alas! my dear, you should have borrowed some of mine a little sooner;—that is to say, before you had given the management of your estate into the hands of those who think they have a prior claim to it. What, tho'

a father's?—Has not that father two elder children?—And do they not both bear his stamp and image, more than you do?—Pray, my dear, call me not to account for this free question; lest your application of my meaning prove to be as severe as that.

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

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

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

You ask, Why may not your brother be first en|gag'd in wedlock?—I'll tell you why: His temper and his arrogance are too well known to induce women he

would aspire to, to receive his addresses, notwith|standing his great independent acquisitions, and still greater prospects. Let me tell you, my dear, those acquisitions have given him more pride, than reputa|tion. To me he is the most intolerable creature that I ever saw. The treatment you blame, he merited from one whom he would have addressed with the air of a person intending to confer, rather than hoping to receive a favour. I ever loved to mortify proud and insolent spirits. What, think you, makes me bear Hickman near me, but that the man is humble, and knows his distance?

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

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

Well then once more, I say, do you, my dear, tell me what you know of their avowed and general mo|tives; and I will tell you more than you will tell me of their failings! Your aunt Hervey, you say, (a) 6.1 has told you:—Why, as I hinted above, must I ask you to let

me know them; when you condescend to ask my ad|vice on the occasion?

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

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

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

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

We heard moreover, that you received no visitors: I could assign no reason for this; except that the pre|parations for your sister were to be private, and the ceremony sudden: Miss Lloyd and Miss Biddulph were with me to inquire what I knew of this; and of

your not being at church, either morning or afternoon, the Sunday after your return from us; to the disap|pointment of a little hundred of your admirers, to use their words. It was easy for me to guess the reason to be what you confirm:—Their apprehensions that Lovelace would be there, and attempt to wait on you home.

My mamma takes very kindly your compliments in your letter to her. Her words upon reading it were;

'Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an admirable young lady; Where-ever she goes, she confers a favour: Whom|ever she leaves, she fills with regret.'

—And then a little comparative reflection;

'O my Nancy, that you had a little of her sweet obligingness!'

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

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

I communicated to my mamma the account you give of your strange reception; also what a horrid wretch they have found out for you; and the com|pulsory treatment they give you. It only set her on magnifying her lenity to me, on my tyrannical beha|viour, as she will call it (mothers must have their way, you know), to the man she so warmly recommends, against whom, it seems, there can be no just exception;

and expatiating upon the complaisance I owe her for her indulgence. So I believe I must communicate to her nothing farther,—especially as I know she would condemn the correspondence between us, and That between you and Lovelace, as a clandestine and undu|tiful thing: For duty implicit is her cry. And more|over she lends a pretty open ear to the preachments of that starch old bachelor your uncle Antony; and for an example to her daughter, would be more careful how she takes your part, be the cause ever so just. Yet is not this right policy neither. For people who will allow nothing, will be granted nothing: In other words, those who aim at carrying too many points will not be able to carry any.

But can you divine, my dear, what that old preach|ment-making plump-hearted soul, your uncle Antony, means, by his frequent amblings hither?—There is such smirking and smiling between my mamma and him! Such mutual praises of oeconomy; and

'That is my way!'

—and

'This I do!'

—and

'I am glad it has your approbation, Sir!'

—and

'You look into every thing, Madam!'

—

'Nothing would be done, if I did not!'

—Such exclamations against servants: Such exaltings of self!—And dear-heart, and good-lack!—and 'las-a-day!—And now and then their con|versation sinking into a whispering accent, if I come cross them!—I'll tell you, my dear, I don't above half like it.

Only that these old bachelors usually take as many years to resolve upon matrimony, as they can rea|sonably expect to live; or I should be ready to fire upon his visits; and recommend Mr. Hickman, as a much properer man, to my mamma's acceptance: For what he wants in years, he makes up in gravity: And if you will not chide me, I will say, That there is a primness in both, especially when the man has presumed too much with me upon my mamma's favour for him, and is under discipline on that account, as

makes them seem near of kin: And then in contem|plation of my sauciness, and what they both bear from it, they sigh away!—and seem so mightily to com|passionate each other, that if Pity be but one remove from Love, I am in no danger, while they both are in a great deal, and don't know it.

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

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

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

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

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

But further you say, What PREFERABLE favour

you may have for him, to any other person, is owing more to the usage he has received, and for your sake borne, than to any personal consideration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ever-affectionate ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wednesday, March 1.

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

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

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

Indeed, I would not be in love with him, as it is called, for the world: First, because I have no opi|nion of his morals; and think it a fault in which our whole family, my brother excepted, has had a share,

that he was permitted to visit us with a hope; which, however being distant, did not, as I have observed heretofore, intitle any of us to call him to account for such of his immoralities as came to our ears. Next, because I think him to be a vain man, capable of tri|umphing, secretly at least, over a person whose heart he thinks he has engaged. And, thirdly, because the assiduities and veneration which you impute to him, seem to carry an haughtiness in them, as if his address had a merit in it, that would be an equivalent for a lady's favour. In short, he seems to me so to behave, when most unguarded, as if he thought himself above the very politeness which his birth and education (per|haps therefore more than his choice) oblige him to shew. In other words, his very politeness appears to me to be constrained; and, with the most remarkably easy and genteel person, something seems to be behind in his manner, that is too studiously kept in. Then, good-humour'd as he is thought to be in the main to other peoples servants, and this even to familiarity (altho', as you have observ'd, a familiarity that has dignity in it, not unbecoming a man of quality), he is apt sometimes to break out into passion with his own: An oath or a curse follows; and such looks from those servants as plainly shew terror; and that they should have far'd worse, had they not been in my hearing: With a con|firmation in the master's looks of a surmize too well justify'd.

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

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

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

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

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

Your equally affectionate and grateful CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday Morn, March 2.

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

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

But whether you have a value for this Lovelace, •• not, I know you'll be impatient to hear what Mr••

Fortescue has said of him. Nor will I keep you longer in suspense.

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

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

He had once the vanity, upon being complimented ••n these talents (and on his surprising diligence for a man of pleasure) to compare himself to Julius Cae|••ar; who perform'd great actions by day, and wrote them down at night: And valued himself, that he

only wanted Caesar's outsetting, to make a figure among his cotemporaries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

not scruple to be guilty of, whenever he has oppor|tunity.

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

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

TALK of the devil, is an old saying.—The lively wretch has made me a visit, and is but just gone away. He is all impatience and resentment, at the treatment you meet with; and full of apprehensions too, that they will carry their point with you.

I told him my opinion, that you will never be brought to think of such a man as Solmes; but that i•• will probably end in a composition, never to have either.

No man, he said, whose fortunes and alliances are so considerable, ever had so little favour from a lady, for whose sake he had borne so much.

I told him my mind, as freely as I used to do. But who ever was in fault, Self being judge? He com|plain'd of spies set upon his conduct, and to pry into his life and morals; and this by your brother and uncles.

I told him, that this was very hard upon him; and the more so, as neither the one nor the other, per|haps, would stand a fair inquiry.

He smiled, and called himself my servant.—The occasion was too fair, he said, for Miss Howe, who never spared him, to let it pass.—But, Lord help their shallow souls, would I believe it? they were for turn|ing plotters upon him. They had best take care he did not pay them in their own coin. Their hearts were better turn'd for such works, than their heads.

I asked him, if he valued himself upon having a head better turn'd than theirs for such works, as he call'd them?

He drew off: And then ran into the highest pro|fessions of reverence and affection for you. The ob|ject so meritorious, who can doubt the reality of his professions?

Adieu, my dearest, my noble friend!—I love and admire you for the generous conclusion of your last more than I can express. Tho' I began this letter with impertinent raillery, knowing that you always loved to indulge my mad vein, yet never was there a heart that more glowed with friendly love, than that of

Your own ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wedn. March 1.

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

In order to set this matter in a clear light, it is necessary to go a little backward, and even perhaps to mention some things which you already know: And so you may look upon what I am going to relate,

as a kind of supplement to my letters of the 15th and 20th of January last.

In those letters, of which I have kept memoran|dums, I gave you an account of my brother's and sister's implacableness to Mr. Lovelace; and the methods they took (so far as they had then come to my know|lege) to ruin him in the opinion of my other friends: And I told you, that after a very cold, yet not a di|rectly affrontive behaviour, to him, they all of a sud|den (a) 7.1 became more violent, and proceeded to per|sonal insults; which brought on, at last, the unhappy rencounter between my brother and him.

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

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

I have more than once mentioned to you the dar|ling view some of us have long had of raising a family as it is called: A reflection, as I have often thought upon our own; which is no inconsiderable or upsta••

one, on either side: Of my mamma's, especially.—A view too frequently, it seems, entertained by fami|lies, which having great substance, cannot be satis|fy'd without rank and title.

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

With this view, he gave himself airs very early;

'That his grandfather and uncles were his stewards: That no man ever had better: That daughters were but incumbrances and drawbacks upon a family:'

And this low and familiar expression was often in his mouth, and utter'd always with the self-complaisance which an imagin'd happy thought can be supposed to give the speaker; to wit,

'That a man who has sons brings up chickens for his own table;'

(tho' once I made his comparison stagger with him, by asking him, If the sons, to make it hold, were to have their necks wrung off?); 'whereas daughters are chickens brought up for the tables of other men.' This, ac|companied with the equally polite reflection,

'That, to induce people to take them off their hands, the family-stock must be impaired into the bargain,'

used to put my sister out of all patience: And altho' ••he now seems to think a younger sister only can be an incumbrance, she was then often proposing to me

to make a party in our own favour against my bro|ther's rapacious views, as she used to call them: While I was for considering the liberties he took of this sort, as the effect of a temporary pleasantry; which in a young man not naturally good-humour'd, I was glad to see; or as a foible, that deserv'd raillery, but no other notice.

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

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

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

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

My brother then return'd; and we were all wrong again: And Bella, as I observ'd in my letters above-mention'd, had an opportunity to give herself the cre|dit of having refused Mr. Lovelace, on the score of his reputed faulty morals. This united my brother and sister in one cause. They set themselves on all occa|sions to depreciate Mr. Lovelace, and his family too, (a family which deserves nothing but respect): And this gave rise to the conversation I am leading to, be|tween my uncles and them: Of which I now come to give the particulars; after I have observed, that it hap|pen'd before the rencounter, and soon after the inquiry made into Mr. Lovelace's affairs had come out better than my brother and sister hoped or expected (a) 7.2.

They were bitterly inveighing against him, in their usual way, strengthening their invectives with some new stories in his disfavour; when my uncle Antony, having given them a patient hearing, declar'd,

'That he thought the gentleman behav'd like a gentleman; his niece Clary with prudence; and that a more ho|nourable alliance for the family, as he had often told them, could not be wished for: Since Mr. Lovelace had a very good paternal estate; and that, by the evidence of an enemy, all clear: Nor did it appear, that he was so bad a man as had been represented: Wild indeed; but it was at a gay time of life: He was a man of sense: And he was sure that his niece would not have him, if she had not good reason to

think him reform'd, or, by her own example, likely to be so.'

He then gave one instance, my aunt told me, as a proof of a generosity in his spirit, which shew'd him, he said, to be no very bad man in nature; and of a temper, he was pleased to say, like my own: Which was, that when he, my uncle, had represented to him, that he might, if he pleased (as he had heard Lord M. say), make three or four hundred pounds a year of his paternal estate, more than he did; he answer'd,

'That his tenants paid their rents well: That it was a maxim with his family, from which he would by no means depart, never to rack-rent old tenants, or their descendants; and that it was a pleasure to him, to see all his tenants look fat, sleek, and contented.'

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

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

On this occasion, he told my uncle of the good action I hinted at, and that without any ostentatious airs; to wit, That he had once observed an old tenant and his wife in a very mean habit at church; and questioning them about it next day, as he knew they had no hard bargain in their farm, the man said, he had done some very foolish things with a good inten|tion, which had put him behind-hand, and he could not have paid his rent, and appear better. He asked him, how long it would take him to retrieve the foolish step he had made. He said, perhaps two or three years. Well then, said he, I will abate you five pounds

a year for seven years, provided you will lay it out upon your wife and self, that you may make a Sunday appearance like MY tenants. Mean time take This (putting his hand in his pocket, and giving him five guineas), to put yourselves in present plight; and let me see you next Sunday at church, hand in hand, like an honest and loving couple; and I bespeak you to dine with me afterwards.

Altho' this pleased me when I heard it, as giving an instance of generosity and prudence at the same time, not lessening, as my uncle took notice, the yearly value of the farm, yet, my dear, I had no throbs, no glows upon it;—upon my word, I had not. Nevertheless I own to you, that I could not help say|ing to myself on the occasion,

'Were it ever to be my lot to have this man, he would not hinder me from pursuing the methods I so much delight to take.'

—With

'A pity, that such a man were not uniformly good!'

Forgive me this digression.

My uncle went on, my aunt told me,

'That, be|sides his paternal estate, he was the immediate heir to very splendid fortunes: That, when he was in treaty for his niece Arabella, Lord M. told him, what great things he and his two half-sisters intended to do for him, in order to qualify him for the title (which would be extinct at his Lordship's death); and which they hoped to procure for him, or a still higher, that of those Ladies father, which had been for some time extinct, on failure of heirs male: That this view made his relations so earnest for his mar|rying: That as he saw not where Mr. Lovelace could better himself; so, truly, he thought there was wealth enough in their own family to build up three considerable ones: That therefore, he must needs say, he was the more desirous of this alliance, as there was a great probability, not only from Mr. Lovelace's descent, but from his fortunes, that his niece

Clarissa might one day be a peeress of Great Britain:—And upon that prospect (here was the mortifying stroke) he should, for his own part, think it not wrong, to make such dispositions as should contri|bute to the better support of the dignity.'

My uncle Harlowe, it seems, far from disapproving of what his brother had said, declar'd,

'That there was but one objection to an alliance with Mr. Love|lace; to wit, his morals: Especially as so much could be done for Miss Bella, and for my brother too, by my father; and as my brother was actually possessed of a considerable estate, by virtue of the deed of gift and will of his godmother Lovell.'

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

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

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

'See, sister Bella,' said he, in an indecent passion before my uncles, on the occasion I have mention'd—

'See how it is!—You and I ought to look about us!—This little Syren is in a fair way to out-uncle, as well as out-grandfather us both!'

From this time, as I now find it plain upon recol|lection, did my brother and sister behave to me, as to

one who stood in their way (sometimes as to a creature in love with their common enemy); and to each other, as having but one interest: And were resolved therefore to bend all their force to hinder an alliance from taking effect, which they believed was likely to oblige them to contract their views.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But were there no other motive to induce me to despise the upstart man, is not this unjust one to his family enough?—The upstart man, I repeat; for he was not born to the immense riches he is possessed of:

Riches left by one niggard to another, in injury to the next heir, because that other is a niggard. And should I not be as culpable, do you think, in my ac|ceptance of such unjust settlements, as he in the offer of them, if I could persuade myself to be a sharer in them, or suffer a reversionary expectation of possessing them to influence my choice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My BROTHER and my SISTER triumph.—They have got me down, is their expression, as Hannah, over-hearing

them, tells me. And so they have (yet I ne|ver knew that I was insolently up); for now my bro|ther will either lay me under an obligation to comply, to my own unhappiness, and so make me an instru|ment of his revenge upon Lovelace; or, if I refuse, throw me into disgrace with my whole family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your truly affectionate CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursday Evening, March 2.

ON Hannah's depositing my long letter, begun yesterday, but by reason of several interruptions, not finish'd till within this hour, she found and brought me yours of this day. I thank you, my dear, for this

kind expedition:—These few lines will perhaps be time enough deposited, to be taken away by your ser|vant with the others: Yet they are only to thank you, and to tell you my increasing apprehensions.

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

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

What the discharg'd steward reported of him was bad enough: What Mrs. Fortescue said, not only confirms that bad, but gives room to think him still worse:—And something my friends have come at, which, as Betty Barnes tells Hannah, is of so heinous a nature, that it proves him to be the worst of men.—But, hang the man, I had almost said,—what is he to me?

What would he be—were not this Mr. Sol—O, my dear, how I hate that man in the light he is pro|posed to me!—All of them at the same time afraid of Mr. Lovelace;—yet not afraid to provoke him!—How am I intangled!—to be obliged to go on cor|responding with him for their sakes—Heaven forbid, that their persisted-in violence should so drive me, as to make it necessary for my own!—But surely they will yield—Indeed I cannot.—I believe the gentlest spirits when provoked (causlesly and cruelly pro|voked) are the most determin'd.—The reason may be, That not taking up resolutions lightly, their very deli|beration makes them the more immoveable.—And then, when a point is clear and self-evident to every|body, one cannot, without impatience, think of enter|ing into an argument or contention upon it.

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

Yours more than my own, CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER XV. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Friday, March 3.

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

That these presumers appear not in this very un|worthy light to some of your friends, is, because their defects are not so striking to them, as to others.—And why? Shall I venture to tell you?—Because they are nearer their own standard.—Modesty, after all, per|haps has a concern in it; for how should they think,

that a niece or a sister of theirs (I will not go higher, for fear of incurring your displeasure) should be an angel?—But where indeed is the man to be found, who has the least share of due diffidence, that dares to look up to Miss Clarissa Harlowe with hope, or with any thing but wishes? Thus the bold and for|ward, not being sensible of their defects, aspire; while the modesty of the really worthy fills them with too much reverence to permit them to explain themselves. Hence your Symmes's, your Byron's, your Mullins's, your Wyerley's (the best of the herd), and your Solmes's, in turn invade you—Wretches that, look|ing upon the rest of your family, need not despair of succeeding in an alliance with it:—But, to you, what an inexcusable pr••sumption!

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

Wonder not, however, at your Bell's unsisterly behaviour in this affair: I have a particular to add to the inducements your insolent brother is govern'd by, which will account for all her driving. Her outward eye, as you have own'd, was from the first struck with the figure and address of the man whom she pretends to despise, and who 'tis certain thoroughly despises her: But you have not told us, that still she loves him of all men. Bell has a meanness in her very pride; and no one is so proud as Bell. She has own'd

her love, her uneasy days, and sleepless nights, and her revenge grafted upon it, to her favourite Betty Barnes.—To lay herself in the power of a servant's tongue!—Poor creature!—But LIKE little souls will find one another out, and mingle, as well as LIKE great ones. This, however, she told the wench in strict confidence: And thus, by way of the female round-about, as Lovelace had the sauciness on such another occasion, in ridicule of our sex, to call it, Betty (pleased to be thought worthy of a secret, and to have an opportunity of inveighing against Love|lace's perfidy, as she would have it to be) told it to one of her confidants: That confidant, with like injunctions of secrecy, to Miss Lloyd's Harriot—Har|riot to Miss Lloyd—Miss Lloyd to me—I to you—with leave to make what you please of it.—And now you will not wonder to find in Miss Bell an im|placable rivaless, rather than an affectionate sister; and will be able to account for the words witchcraft, syren, and such-like, thrown out against you; and for her driving on for a fixed day for sacrificing you to Solmes: In short, for her rudeness and violence of every kind.—What a sweet revenge will she take, as well upon Lovelace, as upon you, if she can procure her rival and all-excelling sister to be married to the man that sister hates; and so prevent her having the man whom she herself loves (whether she have hope of him, or not), and whom she suspects her sister loves! Poisons and poniards have often been set to work by minds inflam'd by disappointed love and re|venge; will you wonder then, that the ties of rela|tionship in such a case have no force, and that a sister forgets to be a sister?

This her secret motive (the more resistless, because her pride is concern'd to make her disavow it), join'd with her former envy, and with the general and avowed inducements particularized by you, now it is known, fills me with apprehensions for you: Join'd

also by a brother, who has such an ascendant over the whole family; and whose interest, slave to it as he always was, and whose revenge, his other dar|ling passion, are engaged to ruin you with every|one: Both having the ears of all your family, and continually misrepresenting all you say, all you do, to them: Their subject the rencounter, and Love|lace's want of morals, to expatiate upon.—O, my dear! how will you be able to withstand all this?—I am sure (—alas! I am too sure) that they will sub|due such a fine spirit as yours, unused to opposition; and, Tell it not in Gath, you must be Mrs. Solmes!

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

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

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

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

I am pleased with the instances you give me of Mr. Lovelace's benevolence to his own tenants, and with his little gift to your uncle's. Mrs. Fortescue allows him to be the best of landlords: I might have told yo•• That, had I thought it necessary to put you in some little conceit of him. He has qualities, in short, that may make him a tolerable creature on the other side •• fifty: But God help the poor woman to whose lot he shall fall till then! Women, I should say perhaps; since he may break half a dozen hearts before that time.—But to the point I was upon—Shall we not have reason to commend the tenant's grateful honesty, if we a•• told, that with joy the poor man call'd out your uncl••

and on the spot paid him in part of his debt those two ••uineas?—But what shall we say of that landlord, who, tho' he knew the poor man to be quite destitute, ••ould take it; and, saying nothing while Mr. Love|••ce staid, as soon as he was gone, tell of it, praising ••he poor fellow's honesty?—Were this so, and were ••ot that landlord related to my dearest friend, how ••ould I despise such a wretch!—But perhaps the ••ory is aggravated. Covetous people have every|••ne's ill word: And so indeed they ought; because ••hey are only sollicitous to keep that which they pre|••er to every-one's good one.—Covetous indeed would they be, who deserved neither, yet expected both!

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

All your own ANNA HOWE.

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

Friday, March 3.

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

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

In my last, I told you, in a fright, my apprehen|••ons; which were grounded upon a conversation that

passed between my mamma and my aunt, part •• which Hannah overheard. I need not give you th•• further particulars; since what I have to relate to yo•• from different conversations that have passed between my mamma and me in the space of a very few hour•• will include them all. I will begin then.

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

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

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

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

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

I saw my papa was excessively displeased. Wh•• angry, no man's countenance ever shew'd it so mu••

〈◊〉〈◊〉 my papa's. Clarissa Harlowe! said he, with a big ••oice; and there he stopp'd.—Sir! said I, and courte|••'d.—I trembled; and put my chair nearer the ••retch, and sat down; my face I could feel all in a ••ow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I saw what all this was for. I arose; the man hem|••ing up for a speech, rising, and beginning to set is splay-feet (indeed, my dear, the man in all his

ways is hateful to me) in an approaching posture.—I will save my brother the trouble of bringing to me his curiosity, said I.—I courtesy'd—Your servant, Sir—The man cry'd, Madam, Madam, twice, and look'd like a fool.—But away I went—to find my brother, to save my word.—But my brother was gone, indif|ferent as the weather was, to walk in the garden with my sister. A plain case, that he had left his curiosity with me, and design'd to shew me no other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo, for the sake of peace: Your papa is a very good man, and means well; but he will not be controuled; nor yet persuaded. You have seem'd to pity me sometimes, that I am obliged to give up every point. Poor man! his reputation the less for it; mine the greater; yet would I not have this credit, if I could help it, at so dear a rate to him and to myself. You are a dutiful, a prudent, and a wise child, she was pleased to say (in hope, no doubt, to make me so): You would not add, I am sure, to my trouble: You would not wilfully break that peace which costs your mamma so much to preserve. Obe|dience is better than sacrifice. O my Clary Harlowe, rejoice my heart, by telling me I have apprehended too much!—I see your concern! I see your per|plexity! I see your conflict (loosing her arm, and

rising, not willing I should see how much she herself was affected). I will leave you a moment.—Answer me not (for I was essaying to speak, and had, as soon as she took her dear cheek from mine, dropt down on my knees, my hands clasped and lifted up in a sup|plicating manner): I am not prepared for your irre|sistible expostulation, she was pleased to say.—I will leave you to recollection: And I charge you, on my blessing, that all this my truly maternal tenderness be not thrown away upon you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sunk; and when I recover'd, found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty holding open my reluctantly open'd palm, my laces cut, my linen scented with harts-horn; and my mamma gone.—Had I been less kindly treated, the hated name still

forborn to be mention'd, or mention'd with a little more preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid sound with less visible emotion—But to be bid, on the blessing of a mother so dearly beloved, so truly reverenc'd, to think of being Mrs. SOLMES, what a denunciation was that!

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

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

Within that time, my mamma came up to me.

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

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

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

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

O Madam—

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

No vices, Madam!—

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

O Madam, must I not now speak!—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again! Clary Harlowe!—

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

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

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

Condition thus with your papa. Will he bear, do you think to be thus dialogu'd with? Have I not conjur'd you, as you value my peace—What is it that I do not give up?—This very task, because I apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a

task indeed upon me. And will you give up nothing? Have you not refused as many as have been offer'd to you? If you would not have us guess for whom, comply; for comply you must, or be look'd upon as in a state of defiance with your whole family.

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

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

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

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

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

—When I came to you a second time, knowing that your contradiction would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: And in This I was wrong too, because a young creature, who loves to reason, and used to love to be convinc'd by reason, ought to have all her objections heard: I now, there|fore, this third time, see you; and am come resolv'd

to hear all you have to say: And let me, my dear, by my patience engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it; because it is to You I speak, who used to have a mind wholly generous: Let me, if your heart be really free, let me see what it will induce you to do to oblige me: And so as you permit your usual discretion to govern you, I will hear all you have to say; but with this intimation, that say what you will, it will be of no avail elsewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No-body denies him these qualities.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was not this very intimidating, my dear?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To have desired a favourable report, you know, my dear, would have been qualifying upon a point that I was too much determin'd upon, to give room for

any of my friends to think I have the least hesitation about. And so my mamma went down stairs.

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

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

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

Your sincere and ever-affectionate, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XVII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

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

She told me, that to this my papa angrily said, Let her take care—Let her take care—that she give me not ground to suspect her of a preference somewhere

else. But, if it be to ease her heart, and not to dis|pute my will, you may hear her out.

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

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

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

I wept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madam, I would rather die, than—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madam, my grandfather knew, and expresly men|tions in his will his desire, that my papa will more than make it up to my sister—I did nothing but what I thought my duty, to procure his favour. It was rather a mark of his affection, than any advan|tage to me: For, do I either seek or wish to be in|dependent?

Were I to be queen of the universe, that, dignity should not absolve me from my duty to you and my papa. I would kneel for your blessings, were it in the presence of millions—So that—

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

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

Clary Harlowe—

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

Whither, whither, Clary—

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

How now, Clary!—O girl!—

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

Girl, girl!—

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

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

The man, Madam, person and mind, is a monster in my eye.)—And that I may be induced to bear this

treatment, I am to be complimented with being in|different to all men: Yet, at other times, and to serve other purposes, am I to be thought prepossessed in favour of a man against whose moral character lie just objections.—Confined, as if, like the giddiest of creatures, I would run away with this man, and dis|grace my whole family!—O my dearest mamma! who can be patient under such treatment?

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

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

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

of his sex, as to me, and still ten times more jealous of the authority of a father;—This is now the point with us. You know your papa has made it a point; and did he ever give up one he thought he had a right to carry?

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

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

But this silence availed me still less.—

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

I wept.

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

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

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

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

She was very angry, and seemed to be greatly dis|appointed. She threatened to turn me over to my papa and my uncles:—She bid me (generously bid me) consider, if I thought my brother and sister had views to serve by making my uncles dissatisfied with me, what a handle I gave them. She told me, That she had early said all that she thought could be said against the present proposal, on a supposition, that I, who had refused several others (whom she own'd to be prefer|able as to person) should not approve of it; and could she have prevailed, I had never heard of it: And if SHE could not, how could I expect it?—That it was equally my good (in order to preserve to me the share I had hitherto held in every-body's affections), and her own peace, that she wished to promote by the task she had undertaken:—That my papa would flame out, upon my refusal to comply:—That my uncles were so much convinced of the consistence of the measure with their favourite views of aggrandizing the family, that they were as much determin'd as my papa:—That my aunt Hervey and my uncle Hervey were of the same party:—That it was hard, if a

father and mother, and uncles, and aunt, all con|join'd, could not be allowed to direct my choice:—That, surely, I was not the more averse, because the family view would be promoted by the match:—That this would be the light, she could assure me, in which my refusal would be taken by every-body:—That all the asseverations I could make of living single, while the man who was so obnoxious to every|body, remain'd unmarry'd, and while he buzz'd about me, was the word, would have no weight with any of them:—That if Mr. Lovelace were an angel, and my father made it a point that I should not have him, I must be sensible he would not have his will disputed: Especially, as it was not doubted, that I corresponded with him: To the belief of which, and that it was by Miss Howe's means, were owing the prohibition, laid upon me, so much against her liking, she was pleased to say.

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

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

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

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

O Madam, what can I say to questions so indul|gently put? I do indeed know my duty: No creature in the world is more willing to practise it: But, par|don me, dearest Madam, if I say, That I must bear

these prohibitions, if I am to pay so dear to have them taken off.

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

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

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

Be pleased, Madam, only to advise me how to break it off with safety to my brother and uncles; and it is all I wish for. Would to heaven, the man so hated had not the pretence to make of having been too violently treated, when he meant peace and re|conciliation! It would always have been i•• my own power to have broke with him:—His reputed im|moralities would have given me a just pretence at any time to do so—But, Madam, as my uncles and my brother will keep no measures;—as he has heard

what the view is; and as I have reason to think, that he is only restrained by his regard for me from re|senting their violent treatment of him and his family; what can I do?—Would you have me, Madam, make him desperate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YOU, my dear, have seen all the letters that have passed between him and me, till my last return from

you: You have acknowleg'd, that he has nothing to boast of, from them: Three others I have received since, by the private conveyance I told you of; the last I have not yet answer'd.

In these three, as in those you have seen, after having besought my favour, and, in the most earnest manner, professed the sincerity of his passion for me; and set forth the indignities done him; the defiances my brother throws out against him in all companies; the menaces, and hostile appearance of my uncles, where-ever they go, or come; and the methods they take to defame him; he declares,

'That neither his own honour, nor his family's (involved as that is in the undistinguishing reflections cast upon him for an un|happy affair, which he would have shunn'd, but could not), permit him to bear these confirmed in|dignities: That as my inclinations, if not favour|able to him, cannot be, nor are, to such a man as the new-set-up Solmes, he is interested the more to resent my brother's behaviour; who to every-body avows his rancour and malice; and glories in the probability he has, thro' this Solmes's address, of mortifying me, and avenging himself on him: That it is impossible, he should not think himself con|cern'd to frustrate a measure, so directly level'd at him, had he not still a higher motive for hoping to frustrate it: That I must forgive him, if he enters into conference with Solmes upon it. He earnestly insists upon what he has so often proposed, That I will give him leave, in company with Lord M. to wait upon my uncles, and even upon my papa or mamma; promising patience, if new provocations, absolutely beneath a man to bear, are not given:'

Which, by the way, I am far from being able to engage for.

In my answer, I absolutely declare, as I tell him I have often done,

'That he is to expect no favour from me, against the approbation of my friends:

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

To this, in his last, among other things, he replies;

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

I will send you these letters for your perusal, in a few days. I would inclose them; but that it is possible something may happen, which may make my

mamma require to see them again.—You will see, my dear, by his, how he endeavours to hold me to this correspondence.

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

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

One thing I will tell you, Clary Harlowe: But I charge you, as you would not have me question the generosity of your spirit, to take no advantage of it, either mentally or verbally, were the words: That I am so much pleased with the offer of your keys to me, in so chearful and unreserved a manner, and in the prudence you have shewn in your letters, that were it practicable to bring every one, or your father only, into my opinion, I should readily leave all the rest to your discretion, reserving only to myself the direction or approbation of your future letters; and to see, that you broke off the correspondence, as soon as possible. But as it is not, and as I know your papa would have no patience with you, should it be acknowleg'd that you correspond with Mr. Lovelace, or that you have corresponded with him since the time he prohibited

you so to do; I forbid you continuing such a liberty. Yet, as the case is difficult, let me ask you, What you yourself can propose? Your heart, you say, is free. You own, that you cannot think, as matters are circum|stanced, that a match with a man so obnoxious as he now is to us all, is proper to be thought of: What do you propose to do?—What, Clary, are your own thoughts of the matter?

Without hesitation (for I saw I was upon a new trial) thus I answer'd—What I humbly propose is this:—

'That I will write to Mr. Lovelace (for I have not answer'd his last) that he has nothing to do between my father and me: That I neither ask his advice, nor need it: But that since he thinks he has some pretence for interfering, because of my bro|ther's avowal of the interest of Mr. Solmes in ma|lice to him, I will assure him, without giving him any reason to impute the assurance to be in the least favourable to himself, that I never will be that man's.'

And if, proceeded I, I may be permitted to give him this assurance; and Mr. Solmes, in consequence of it, be discouraged from prosecuting his address; let Mr. Lovelace be satisfy'd or dissatisfy'd, I will go no farther; nor write another line to him; nor ever see him more, if I can avoid it: And shall have a good excuse for it, without bringing in any of my family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world, as I have often thought, ill-natured as it is said to be, is generally more just in characters (speaking by what it feels), than is usually apprehend|ed: And those who complain most of its censorious|ness,

perhaps should look inwardly for the occasion oftener than they do.

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

LETTER XVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sat. Mar. 4.

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

I have not been in bed all night; nor am I in the least drousy. Expectation, and hope, and doubt (an uneasy state!), kept me sufficiently wakeful. I stept

down at my usual time, that it might not be known I had not been in bed; and gave directions in the fa|mily way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sit down when I bid you.

I sat down.

You look very sullen, Clary.

I hope not, Madam.

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

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

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

Indeed, Madam, I am not sullen.—And I arose, and, turning from her, drew out my handkerchief, for the tears ran down my cheeks. I thought, by

the glass before me, I saw the mother in her soften'd eye cast towards me.—But her words confirm'd not the hop'd-for tenderness.

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

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

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

I courtesy'd with reverence.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I cannot rise! I will disobey my mamma, when

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

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

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

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

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

Sat. March 4. 12 o' clock.

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

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

As to the article of giving up to my papa's controul the estate bequeathed me, my motives at the time, as you acknowlege, were not blameable. Your advice to me on the subject was grounded, as I remember, on your good opinion of me; believing that I should not make a bad use of the power willed me: Neither you nor I, my dear, altho' you now assume the air of a diviner (pardon me), could have believed That would have happen'd which has happen'd, as to my father's

part particularly. You were indeed jealous of my bro|ther's views against me; or rather of his predominant love of Self; but I did not think so hardly of my bro|ther and sister, as you always did. You never loved them; and ill-will has eyes always open to the faulty side; as good-will or love is blind even to real imper|fections. I will briefly recollect my motives.

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

of the one, and the fewer of the other, for having aimed at excelling.

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

And now for the most concerning part of your letter.

You think I must of necessity be Mr. Solmes's wife, as matters are circumstanced. I will not be very rash, my dear, in protesting to the contrary: But I think it never, never can, nor ought to be!—My temper, I know, is depended upon: But I have heretofore said, that I have something in me of my father's family, as well as of my mother's (a) 7.3. And have I any encou|ragement to follow too implicitly the example which my mamma sets of meekness, and resignedness to the wills of others?—Is she not for ever obliged to be, as she was pleased to hint to me, of the forbearing side? In my mamma's case, your observation is verify'd, that those who will bear much, shall have much to bear:—What is it, as she says, that she has not sacrificed to peace?—Yet, has she by her sacrifices always found the peace she has deserved to find? Indeed No!—I am afraid the very contrary. And often and often have I had reason, on her account, to reflect, that we poor mortals, by our over-sollicitude to preserve undisturbed the qualities we are constitutionally fond of, frequently lose the benefits we propose to ourselves from them:

Since the designing and incroaching, finding out what we most fear to forfeit, direct their batteries against these our weaker places, and, making an artillery, if I may so phrase it, of our hopes and fears, play it upon us at their pleasure.

Steadiness of mind (a quality which the ill-bred and censorious deny to any of our sex), when one is con|vinced of being in the right (otherwise it is not steadi|ness, but obstinacy), and in material cases, is a qua|lity, my good Dr. Lewin was wont to say, that brings great credit to the possessor of it; at the same time that it usually, when try'd and known, raises such above the attempts of the meanly machinating. He used therefore to inculcate upon me this steadiness, upon laudable convictions. And why may I not think that I am now put upon an exercise of it?—I have said, that I never can be, that I never ought to be, Mrs. Solmes.—I repeat, that I ought not: For surely, my dear, I should not give up to my brother's am|bition the happiness of my future life.—Surely I ought not to be the instrument to deprive Mr. Solmes's re|lations of their natural rights and reversionary pro|spects, for the sake of further aggrandizing a family (altho' that I am of) which already lives in great af|fluence and splendor; and who might be as justly dis|satisfy'd, were what some some of them aim at to be obtained, that they were not princes, as now they are, that they are not peers (for when ever was an am|bitious mind, as you observe in the case of avarice (a) 7.4, satisfy'd by acquisition?). The less, surely, ought I to give into these grasping views of my brother, as I myself heartily despise the end aimed at; as I wish not either to change my state, or better my fortunes; and as I am fully persuaded, that happiness and riches are two things, and very seldom meet together.

Yet I dread, I exceedingly dread, the conflicts I know I must encounter with. It is possible, that I

may be more unhappy from the due observation of the good doctor's general precept, than were I to yield the point; since what I call steadiness is attri|buted to stubbornness, to obstinacy, to prepossession, by those who have a right to put what interpretation they please upon my conduct.

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

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

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

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

Hannah informs me, that she heard my papa high and angry with my mamma, at taking leave of

her: I suppose for being too favourable to me; for Hannah heard her say, as in tears,

'Indeed, Mr. Harlowe, you greatly distress me!—The poor girl does not deserve—'

Hannah heard no more, but that he said, he would break somebody's heart—Mine, I suppose.—Not my mother's, I hope.

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

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

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

LETTER XX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sat. P. M.

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

I have made, said she, as she enter'd my room, a short as well as early dinner, on purpose to confer with you: And I do assure you, that it will be the last con|ference I shall either be permitted or inclined to hold with you on the subject, if you should prove as refractory as some, whom I hope you'll disappoint, imagine you

will; and thereby demonstrate, that I have not the weight with you that my indulgence to you deserves.

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

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

I was silent.

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

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

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

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

May I, Madam, be permitted to expostulate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She severely chid me for this.

I received her rebukes in silence.

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

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

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

I was still speechless.

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

Speech and tears were lent me at the same time.—You have given me life, Madam, said I, clasping my uplifted hands together, and falling on one knee; a

happy one, till now, has your goodness, and my papa's, made it! O do not, do not, make all the re|mainder of it miserable!

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

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

She was very angry. She again called me perverse: She upbraided me with regarding only my own in|clinations, and respecting not either her peace of mind, or my own duty:—

'It was a grating thing, she said, for the parents of a child, who delighted in her in all the time of her helpless infancy, and throughout every stage of her childhood, and in every part of her education to womanhood, because of the promises she gave of proving the most grate|ful and dutiful of children; to find, that just when the time arrived which should crown all their wishes, she should stand in the way of her own happiness, and her parents comfort, and, refusing an excellent offer, and noble settlements, give suspicions to her anxious friends, that she would become the property of a vile rake and libertine, who (be the occasion what it would) defy'd her family, and had actually embrued his hands in her brother's blood.'

She added,

'That she had a very hard time of it between my father and me; That seeing my dislike, she had more than once pleaded for me; but all to no purpose. She was only treated as a too fond mother, who, from motives of a blameable indul|gence;

would encourage a child to stand in oppo|sition to a father's will: She was charged, she said, with dividing the family into two parts; she and her youngest daughter standing against her husband, his two brothers, her son, her eldest daughter, and her sister Hervey. She had been told, that she must be convinced of the fitness as well as advantage to the whole (my brother and Mr. Lovelace out of the question) of carrying the contract with Mr. Solmes, on which so many contracts depended, into execution.'

She repeated,

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

This was a most affecting plea, my dear; I wept in silence upon it; I could not speak to it: And my mamma proceeded:

'What therefore could be his motives, she asked, in the earnest desire he had to see this treaty perfected, but the welfare and aggrandizement of his family; which already hav|ing fortunes to become the highest condition, could not but aspire to greater distinctions: That, how|ever slight such views as these might appear to me, I knew, that they were not slight ones to any other of the family: And my papa would be his own judge of what was, and what was not, likely to pro|mote the good of his children: That my abstract|edness (affectation of abstractedness some called it)

savour'd of greater particularity, than what they aim'd to carry: That modesty and humility would therefore oblige me rather to mistrust myself of pe|culiarity, than censure views, which all the world pursued, as opportunity offer'd.'

I was still silent; and she proceeded—

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

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

She went on,

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

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

'That neither for my sake, nor his own, could my father labour under a suspense so affecting to

his repose: That he had even thought fit to ac|quaint her, on her pleading for me, that it became her, as she valued her own peace (How harsh to such a wife!), and as she wished, that he should not suspect that she secretly favoured the address of a vile rake (a character which all the sex, he was pleased to say, virtuous and vicious, were but too fond of!), to exert her authority over me: And that This she might the less scrupulously do, as I had own'd (the old string!) that my heart was free.'

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

She added,

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

She therefore intreated me in the most earnest and condescending manner,

'To signify to my papa, on his return, my ready obedience: And this, she was pleased to say, as well for her sake, as mine.'

Affected by my mamma's goodness to me, and by that part of her argument which related to her own peace, and to the suspicions they had of her secretly inclining to prefer the man so hated by them, to the man so much my aversion, I could not but wish it were possible for me to obey. I therefore paused, hesitated, consider'd, and was silent for a consider|able space. I could see, that my mamma hoped that the result of this hesitation would be favour|able to her arguments. But then, recollecting, that all was owing to the instigations of a brother and sister, wholly actuated by selfish and envious views: That I had not deserved the treatment I had of late met with: That my disgrace was already become the

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

Never was there a countenance that express'd so significantly, as my mamma's, an anguish, which she struggled to hide, under an anger she was compelled

to assume.—Till the latter overcoming the former, she turned from me with an uplifted eye, and stamp|ing—Strange perverseness! were the only words I heard of a sentence that she angrily pronounced; and was going. I then, half franticly I believe, laid hold of her gown—Have patience with me, dearest Madam! said I—Do not you renounce me totally!—If you must separate yourself from your child, let it not be with absolute reprobation on your own part!—My uncles may be hard-hearted—My papa may be immoveable—I may suffer from my brother's ambi|tion, and from my sister's envy!—But let me not lose my mamma's love; at least, her pity.

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

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

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

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

So, Clary, you are already at defiance with your

papa! I have had too much cause before to apprehend as much—What will this come to?—I, and then my dear mamma sigh'd—I, am forced to put up with many humours—

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

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

Cruel alternative!—But is not my sincerity, is not the integrity of my heart, concerned in my answer? May not my everlasting happiness be the sacrifice? Will not the least shadow of the hope you just now demanded from me, be driven into absolute and sudden certainty? Is it not sought to insnare, to intangle me in my own desire of obeying, if I could

give answers that might be construed into hope?—Forgive me, Madam: Bear with your child's bold|ness in such a cause as This!—Settlements drawn!—Patterns sent for!—An early day!—Dear, dear Madam, how can I give hope, and not intend to be this man's?

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

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

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

What could I do but weep?

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

But here, run away with by my pen, I suffer my dear mamma to be angry with me on her own account. She hinted to me, indeed, that I must seek her, if my

mind changed; which is a condition that amounts to a prohibition:—But, as she left me in displeasure, will it not have a very obstinate appearance, and look like a a kind of renunciation of her mediation in my favour, if I go not down to supplicate her pity, and her kind report, before my papa comes back?—

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

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

CL. H.

LETTER XXI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sat. Night.

I HAVE been down. I am to be unlucky in all I do, I think, be my intention ever so good. I have made matters worse instead of better; as I shall now tell you.

I found my mamma and sister together in my sister's parlour. My mamma, I fear, by the glow in her fine face (and as the browner, sullener glow in my sister's confirm'd), had been expressing herself with warmth, against her unhappier child: Perhaps giving such an account of what had passed, as should clear herself, and convince Bella, and thro' her, my brother and uncles, of the sincere pains she had taken with me!—

I enter'd like a dejected criminal, I believe;—and besought the favour of a private audience. My mam|ma's return, both looks and words, gave but too much reason for my surmize.

You have, said she (looking at me with a sternness that never sits well on her sweet features), rather a requesting than a conceding countenance, Clarissa Har|lowe: If I am mistaken, tell me so; and I will with|draw with you where-ever you will.—Yet, if so, or not so, you may say what you have to say before your sister.

My mamma, I thought, might have withdrawn with me, as she knows, that I have not a friend in my sister.

I came down, I said, to beg of her to forgive me for any-thing she might have taken amiss in what had passed above respecting herself; and to use her in|terest to soften my papa's displeasure, when she made the report she was to make to him.

Such aggravating looks; such lifting-up of hands and eyes; such a furrow'd forehead, in my sister!—

My mamma was angry enough without all that; and asked me, To what purpose I came down, if I were still so untractable?

She had hardly spoke the words, when Shorey came in to tell her, that Mr. Solmes was in the hall, and desired admittance.

Ugly creature! What, at the close of day, quite dark, brought him hither?—But, on second thoughts. I believe it was contrived, that he should be here at supper, to know the result of the conference between my mamma and me; and that my papa, on his return, might find us together.

I was hurrying away; but my mamma commanded me, since I had come down only, as she said, to mock her, not to stir; and at the same time see if I could behave so to him, as might encourage her to make the report to my papa which I had so earnestly besought her to make.

My sister triumphed. I was vexed to be so caught, and to have such an angry and cutting rebuke given me, with an aspect more like the taunting sister than the indulgent mother, if I may presume to say so.—

For my mamma herself seem'd to enjoy the surprize upon me.

The man stalked in. His usual walk is by pauses, as if (from the same vacuity of thought which made Dryden's clown whistle) he was telling his steps: and first paid his clumsy respects to my mamma; then to my sister; next to me, as if I were already his wife, and therefore to be last in his notice; and sitting down by me, told us in general what weather it was. Very cold he made it; but I was warm enough. Then ad|dressing himself to me; And how do you find it, Miss, was his question; and would have took my hand.

I withdrew it, I believe with disdain enough: My mamma frown'd; my sister bit her lip.

I could not contain myself: I never was so bold in my life; for I went on with my plea, as if Mr. Solmes had not been there.

My mamma colour'd, and look'd at him, look'd at my sister, and look'd at me. My sister's eyes were opener and bigger than ever I saw them before.

The man understood me. He hemm'd, and re|mov'd from one chair to another.

I went on, supplicating for my mamma's favour|able report: Nothing but invincible dislike—

What would the girl be at? Why, Clary!—Is this a subject!—Is this!—Is this!—Is this a time—And again she look'd upon Mr. Solmes.

I am sorry, on reflection, that I put my mamma into so much confusion.—To be sure it was very saucy in me.

I begg'd pardon. But my papa, I said, would re|turn. I should have no other opportunity. I thought it was requisite, since I was not permitted to with|draw, that Mr. Solmes's presence should not deprive me of an opportunity of such importance for me to embrace; and at the same time, if he still visited on my account (looking at him), to shew, that it could not possibly be to any purpose.

Is the girl mad? said my mamma, interrupting me.

My sister, with the affectation of a whisper to my mamma—This is—This is spite, Madam (very spite|fully she spoke the word), because you commanded her to stay.

I only looked at her, and turning to my mamma, Permit me, Madam, said I, to repeat my request. I have no brother, no sister!—If I lose my mamma's favour, I am lost for ever!

Mr. Solmes removed to his first seat, and fell to gnawing the head of his hazel; a carved head, almost as ugly as his own. I did not think the man was so sensible.

My sister rose, with a face all over scarlet, and step|ping to the table, where lay a fan, she took it up, and, altho' Mr. Solmes had observ'd that the weather was cold, fann'd herself very violently.

My mamma came to me, and angrily taking my hand, led me out of that parlour into my own; which, you know, is next to it—Is not this behaviour very bold, very provoking, think you, Clary?

I beg your pardon, Madam, if it has that appear|ance to you. But indeed, my dear mamma, there seem to be snares laying for me. Too well I know my brother's drift. With a good word he shall have my consent for all he wishes to worm me out of.—Neither he, nor my sister, shall need to take half this pains.—

My mamma was about to leave me in high dis|pleasure.

I besought her to stay: One favour, but one favour, dearest Madam, said I, give me leave to beg of you—

What would the girl?

I see how every thing is working about.—I never, never can think of Mr. Solmes. My papa will be in tumults, when he is told that I cannot. They will judge of the tenderness of your heart to a poor child who seems devoted by every-one else, from the wil|lingness you have already shewn to hearken to my

prayers. There will be endeavours used to confine me, and keep me out of your presence, and out of the presence of every one who used to love me—(This, my dear, is threaten'd)—If This be effected; if it be put out of my power to plead my own cause, and to appeal to You, and to my uncle Harlowe, of whom only I have hope;—then will every ear be open'd against me; and every tale encourag'd.—It is, there|fore, my humble request, That, added to the dis|graceful prohibitions I now suffer under, you will not, if you can help it, give way to my being deny'd your ear.

Your listening Hannah has given you this intelli|gence, as she does many others.

My Hannah, Madam, listens not!—My Han|nah—

No more in her behalf—She is known to make mischief—She is known—But no more of that busy intermeddler—'Tis true, your father threaten'd to confine you to your chamber, if you comply'd not, in order the more assuredly to deprive you of the op|portunity of corresponding with those who harden your heart against his will. He bid me tell you so, when he went out, if I found you refractory. But I was loth to deliver so harsh a declaration; being still in hope that you would come down to us in a compliant tem|per.—Hannah has overheard this, I suppose; and has told you of it; as also, that he declar'd he would break your heart, rather than you should break his. And I now assure you, that you will be confin'd, and prohibited making teazing appeals to any of us: And we shall see who is to submit, You, or every-body to you!

I offer'd to clear Hannah, and to lay the latter part of the intelligence to my sister's echo, Betty Barnes, who had boasted of it to another servant: But I was again bid to be silent on that head. I should soon find, she was pleased to say, that others could be as determin'd

as I was obstinate: And, once for all, would add, that since she saw that I built upon her indulgence, and matter'd not involving her in contentions with my father, and his brothers, and her other children, she would now assure me, that she was as much deter|min'd against Mr. Lovelace, and for Mr. Solmes and the family-schemes, as any-body; and would not re|fuse her consent to any measures that should be thought necessary to reduce a stubborn child to her duty.

I was ready to sink. She was so good as to lend me her arm to support me.

And this is all I have to hope for from my mamma?

It is. But, Clary, this one further opportunity I give you—Go in again to Mr. Solmes, and behave discreetly to him; and let your papa find you toge|ther, upon civil terms at least.

My feet moved (of themselves, I think) farther from the parlour where he was, and towards the stairs; and there I stopp'd and paused.

If, proceeded she, you are determin'd to stand in defiance of us all—then indeed may you go up to your chamber (as you are ready to do)—And God help you!

God help me indeed! for I cannot give hope of what I cannot intend—But let me have your prayers, my dear mamma!—Those shall have mine, who have brought me into all this distress!

I was moving to go up—

And will you go up, Clary?

I turn'd my face to her: My officious tears would needs plead for me: I could not just then speak; and stood still.

Good girl, distress me not thus!—Dear, good girl, do not thus distress me!—holding out her hand; but standing still likewise—

What can I do, Madam?—What can I do?—

Go in again, my child—Go in again, my dear child!—repeated she; and let your papa find you to|gether!—

What, Madam, to give him hope?—To give hope to Mr. Solmes?

Obstinate, perverse, undutiful Clarissa Harlowe! with a rejecting hand, and angry aspect; then take your own way, and go up!—But stir not down again, I charge you, without leave, or till your papa's pleasure be known concerning you.

She flung from me with high indignation: And I went up with a very heavy heart; and feet as slow as my heart was heavy.

MY father is come home, and my brother with him. Late as it is, they are all shut up together. Not a door opens; not a soul stirs. Hannah, as she moves up and down, is shunn'd as a person infected.

THE angry assembly is broke up. My two uncles and my aunt Hervey are sent for, it seems, to be here in the morning to breakfast. I shall then, I sup|pose, know my doom. 'Tis past eleven, and I am order'd not to go to bed.

Twelve o' clock.

THIS moment the keys of every thing are taken from me. It was proposed to send for me down: But my papa said, he could not bear to look upon me.—Strange alteration in a few weeks! Shorey was the messenger. The tears stood in her eyes when she de|liver'd her message.

You, my dear, are happy!—May you always be so!—And then I can never be wholly miserable. Adieu, my beloved friend!

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday morning, March 5.

HANNAH has just brought me, from the private place in the garden-wall, a letter from Mr. Love|lace, deposited last night, signed also by Lord M.

He tells me in it,

'That Mr. Solmes makes it his boast, that he is to be marry'd in a few days to one of the shyest women in England: That my brother explains his meaning to be me; assuring every-one, that his youngest sister is very soon to be Mr. Solmes's wife. He tells me of the patterns bespoke, which my mamma mention'd to me.'

Not one thing escapes him that is done or said in this house!

'My sister, he says, reports the same things; and that with such particular aggravations of insult upon him, that he cannot but be extremely piqued, as well at the manner, as from the occasion; and expresses himself with great violence upon it.

'He knows not what my relations inducements can be, to prefer such a man as Solmes to him. If ad|vantageous settlements be the motive, Solmes shall not offer what he will refuse to comply with.

'As to his estate, or family; the first cannot be excepted against: And for the second, he will not disgrace himself by a comparison so odious. He ap|peals to Lord M. for the regularity of his life and manners, ever since he has made his addresses to me, or had hope of my favour.'

I suppose, he would have his Lordship's signing to this letter to be taken as a voucher for him.

'He desires my leave, in company with my Lord, in a pacific manner, to attend my father or uncles, in order to make proposals that must be accepted, if they will but see him, and hear what they are:

And tells me, that he will submit to any mea|sures that I shall prescribe, in order to bring about a reconciliation.'

He presumes to be very earnest with me

'to give him a private meeting some night, in my father's garden, attended by whom I please.'

Really, my dear, were you to see his letter, you would think I had given him great encouragement, and were in direct treaty with him; or that he were sure that my friends would drive me into a foreign protection; for he has the boldness to offer, in my Lord's name, an asylum to me, should I be tyranni|cally treated in Solmes's behalf.

I suppose it is the way of this sex to endeavour to intangle the thoughtless of ours by bold supposals and offers, in hopes that we shall be too complaisant or bashful to quarrel with them; and, if not check'd, to reckon upon our silence, as assents voluntarily given, or concessions made in their favour.

There are other particulars in this letter which I ought to mention to you: But I will take an oppor|tunity to send you the letter itself, or a copy of it.

For my own part, I am very uneasy to think how I have been drawn on one hand, and driven on the other, into a clandestine, in short, into a mere Lover-like correspondence, which my heart condemns.

It is easy to see, that if I do not break it off, Mr. Lovelace's advantages, by reason of my unhappy situ|ation, will every day increase, and I shall be more and more intangled: Yet if I do put an end to it, without making it a condition of being freed from Mr. Solmes's address—May I, my dear, is it best, to continue it a little longer, in hopes, by giving him up, to extricate myself out of the other difficulty?—Whose advice can I now ask but yours?

All my relations are met. They are at breakfast together. Solmes is expected. I am excessively un|easy. I must lay down my pen.

THEY are all going to church together. Grievously disorder'd they appear to be, as Hannah tells me. She believes something is resolved upon.

Sunday noon.

WHAT a cruel thing is suspense!—I will ask leave to go to church this afternoon. I expect to be deny'd: But if I do not ask, they may allege, that my not going is owing to my self.

I desired to speak with Shorey: Shorey came: I directed her to carry my request to my mamma, for permission to go to church this afternoon. What think you was the return? Tell her, that she must direct herself to her brother for any favour she has to ask.—So, my dear, I am to be deliver'd up to my brother!—

I was resolved, however, to ask of him this favour. Accordingly, when they sent me up my solitary din|ner, I gave the messenger a billet, in which I made it my humble request to my papa, thro' him, to be per|mitted to go to church this afternoon.

This was the contemptuous answer: Tell her, that her request will be taken into consideration to-morrow.—My request to go to church to-day to be taken into consideration to-morrow!—

Patience will be the fittest return I can make to such an insult. But this method will not do, indeed it will not, with your Clarissa Harlowe. And yet it is but the beginning, I suppose, of what I am to ex|pect from my brother, now I am delivered up to him.

ON recollection, I thought it best to renew my re|quest. I did. The following is a copy of what I wrote, and what follows that, of the answer sent me.

SIR,

I KNOW not what to make of the answer brought to my request of being permitted to go to church this afternoon. If you designed to shew your plea|santry by it, I hope that will continue; and then my request will be granted. You know, that I never absented myself, when well, and at home, till the two last Sundays; when I was advised not to go. My present situation is such, that I never more wanted the benefit of the public prayers. I will solemnly engage only to go thither, and back again. I hope it cannot be thought that I would do otherwise. My dejection of spirits will give a too just excuse on the score of in|disposition, for avoiding visits. Nor will I, but by distant civilities, return the compliments of any of my acquaintance. My disgraces, if they are to have an end, need not to be proclaim'd to the whole world. I ask this favour, therefore, for my reputation's sake, that I may be able to hold up my head in the neigh|bourhood, if I live to see an end of the unmerited severities, which seem to be designed for

Your unhappy sister, CL. HARLOWE.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

FOR a girl to lay so much stress upon going to church, and yet resolve to defy her parents, in an article of the greatest consequence to them, and to the whole family, is an absurdity. You are re|commended, Miss, to the practice of your private de|votions: May they be efficacious upon the mind of one of the most pervicacious young creatures that ever was heard of! The in-ten-tion is, I tell you plainly, to mortify you into a sense of your duty. The neigh|bours you are so sollicitous to appear well with, already know, that you defy that. So, Miss, if you have a

real value for your reputation, shew it as you ought. It is yet in your own power to establish or impair it.

JA. HARLOWE.

Thus, my dear, has my brother got me into his snares, and I, like a poor silly bird, the more I strug|gle, am the more intangled.

LETTER XXIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Mond. morning, Mar. 6.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Betty enviously whisper'd Shorey upon it.

Hannah told me, before their faces, having no other

opportunity, that she had been examin'd about letters to me, and from me: And that she had given her pockets to Miss Harlowe, who look'd into them, and put her fingers in her stays; to satisfy herself that she had not any.

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XXIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Mond. near 12 o'Clock.

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

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

Mond. March 6.

Miss CLARY,

BY your papa's and mamma's command, I write, expresly to forbid you to come into their pre|sence,

or into the garden when they are there: Nor when they are not there, but with Betty Barnes to at|tend you, except by particular licence or command.

On their blessings, you are forbidden likewise to correspond with the vile Lovelace; as it is well known you did by means of your sly Hannah: Whence her sudden discharge: As was fit.

Neither are you to correspond with Miss Howe; who has given herself high airs of late; and might possibly help on your correspondence with that liber|tine. Nor, in short, with any-body without leave.

You are not to enter into the presence of either of your uncles, without their leave first obtained. It is in mercy to you, after such a behaviour to your mamma, that your papa refuses to see you.

You are not to be seen in any apartment of the house, you so lately govern'd as you pleased, unless you are commanded down.

In short, are strictly to confine yourself to your chamber, except now and then, in Betty Barnes's sight (as aforesaid) you take a morning and evening turn in the garden: And then you are to go directly, and without stopping at any apartment in the way, up and down the back-stairs, that the sight of so perverse a young creature may not add to the pain you have given every-body.

The hourly threatenings of your Lovelace, as well as your own unheard-of obstinacy, will account to you for all this. What a hand has the best and most indulgent of mothers had with you, who so long pleaded for you, and undertook for you; even when others, from the manner of your setting out, despaired of moving you!—What must your perverseness have been, that such a mother can give you up! She thinks it right so to do: Nor will take you to favour, unless you make the first steps, by a com|pliance with your duty.

As for myself, whom, perhaps, you think hardly

of (in very good company, if you do, that is my consolation); I have advised, that you may be permit|ted to pursue your own inclinations [Some people need no greater punishment than such a permission]; and not to have the house incumbered by one who must give them the more pain for the necessity she has laid them under of avoiding the sight of her, altho' in it.

If any thing I have written, appear severe or harsh, it is still in your power (but perhaps, will not always be so) to remedy it; and that by a single word.

Betty Barnes has orders to obey you in all points consistent with her duty to those to whom you owe it, as well as she.

JA. HARLOWE.

To JAMES HARLOWE junior, Esq

SIR,

I WILL only say, That you may congratulate yourself on having so far succeeded in all your views, that you may report what you please of me, and I can no more defend myself, than if I were dead. Yet one favour, nevertheless, I will beg of you: It is this;—That you will not occasion more severities, more disgraces, than are necessary for carry|ing into execution your further designs, whatever they be, against

Your unhappy Sister, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tues. March 7.

BY my last deposite, you'll see how I am driven, and what a poor prisoner I am: No regard had to my reputation. The whole matter is now before you. Can such measures be supposed to soften?—But

surely they can only mean to try to frighten me into my brother's views.—All my hope is, to be able to weather this point till my cousin Morden comes from Florence; and he is expected soon. Yet, if they are determined upon a short day, I doubt he will not be here time enough to save me.

It is plain, by my brother's letter, that my mamma has not spared me, in the report she has made of the conferences between herself and me: Yet she was pleased to hint to me, that my brother had views which she would have had me try to disappoint.—But she had engaged to give a faithful account of what was to pass between herself and me: And it was doubtless, much more eligible to give up a daughter, than to disoblige a husband, and every other person of the family.

They think they have done every-thing by turn|ing away my poor Hannah: But as long as the li|berty of the garden, and my poultry-visits are allowed me, they will be mistaken.

I asked Mrs. Betty, If she had any orders to watch or attend me? or, Whether I were to ask her Leave, whenever I should be disposed to walk in the garden, or to go to feed my Bantams?

Lord bless her! what could I mean by such a question!—Yet she owned, that she had heard, that I was not to walk in the garden when my papa, mamma, or uncles were there.

However, as it behoved me to be assured on this head, I went down directly, and staid an hour, with|out question or impediment: And yet a good part of the time, I walked under, and in sight (as I may say) of, my brother's Study-window; where both he and my sister happened to be. And I am sure they saw me, by the loud mirth they affected; by way of insult, as I suppose.

So this part of my restraint was doubtless a stretch of the authority given him. The inforcing of that may perhaps come next. But I hope not.

Tuesday night.

SINCE I wrote the above, I have ventured to send a letter by Shorey, to my mamma. I directed her to give it into her own hand, when nobody was by.

I shall inclose the copy of it. You'll see that I would have it thought, that now Hannah is gone, I have no way to correspond out of the house. I am far from thinking all I do, right. I am afraid, this is a little piece of art, that is not so. But this is an after-thought: The letter went first.

Honoured Madam,

HAVING acknowleged to you, that I had re|ceived letters from Mr. Lovelace, full of resent|ment, and that I answered them purely to prevent further mischief; and having shew'd you copies of my answers, which you did not disapprove of, altho' you thought fit, after you had read them, to forbid me any further correspondence with him; I think it my duty to acquaint you, that another letter from him has since come to my hand, in which he is very earnest with me to permit him to wait on my papa, or you, or my two uncles, in a pacific way, accompanied by Lord M.—On which I beg your commands.

I own to you, Madam, that had not the prohibition been renew'd, and had not Hannah been so suddenly dismissed my service, I should have made the less scruple to have written an answer, and to have com|manded her to convey it to him with all speed, in order to dissuade him from these visits, lest any thing should happen on the occasion, that my heart akes but to think of.

And here, I cannot but express my grief, that I should have all the punishment, and all the blame, who, as I have reason to think, have prevented great mischief, and have not been the occasion of any. For, Madam, could I be supposed to govern the pas|sions of either of the gentlemen?—Over the one in|deed,

I have had some little influence, without giving him hitherto any reason to think he has fasten'd an obligation upon me for it.—Over the other, Who, Madam, has any?

I am grieved at heart, to be obliged to lay so great blame at my brother's door, altho' my reputation and my liberty are both to be sacrific'd to his resentment and ambition. May not, however, so deep a sufferer be permitted to speak out?

This communication being as voluntarily made, as dutifully intended; I humbly presume to hope, that I shall not be required to produce the letter itself. I can|not either in honour or prudence do that, because of the vehemence of his style; for having heard [not, I as|sure you, by my means, or thro' Hannah's] of some part of the harsh treatment I have met with; he thinks himself intitled to place it to his own account, by reason of speeches thrown out by some of my relations equally vehement.

If I do not answer him, he will be made desperate, and think himself justified [tho' I shall not think him so] in resenting the treatment he complains of: If I do, and if, in compliment to me, he forbears to resent what he thinks himself intitled to resent; be pleased, Madam, to consider the obligation he will suppose he lays me under.

If I were as strongly prepossessed in his favour as is supposed, I should not have wish'd this to be consider'd by you.—And permit me, as a still further proof that I am not prepossessed, to beg of you to consider, Whe|ther, upon the whole, the proposal I made of declare|ing for the Single Life (which I will religiously ad|here to) is not the best way, to get rid of his pre|tensions with honour. To renounce him, and not to be allowed to aver, that I will never be the other man's, will make him conclude (driven as I am driven), that I am determined in that other man's favour.

If this has not its due weight, my brother's strange

schemes must be try'd, and I will resign myself to my destiny, with all the acquiescence that shall be granted to my prayers. And so leaving the whole to your own wisdom, and whether you choose to con|sult my papa and uncles upon this humble application, or not; or whether I shall be allowed to write an answer to Mr. Lovelace, or not (and if allow'd so to do, I beg your direction, by whom to send it); I re|main,

Honoured Madam, Your unhappy, but ever-dutiful daughter, CL. HARLOWE.

Wednesday morning.

I have just received an answer to the inclosed letter. My mamma, you'll observe, has ordered me to burn it: But, as you will have it in your safe keeping, and nobody else will see it, her end will be equally answer'd. It has neither date nor superscription.

CLARISSA,

SAY not all the blame, and all the punishment, is yours. I am as much blam'd, and as much punish'd, as you are; yet am more innocent. When your obstinacy is equal to any other person's passion, blame not your brother. We judg'd right, that Han|nah carry'd on your correspondencies. Now she is gone, and you cannot write (we think you cannot) to Miss Howe, nor she to you, without our knowlege, one cause of uneasiness and jealousy is over.

I had no dislike to Hannah. I did not tell her so; because Somebody was within hearing, when she de|sired to pay her duty to me at going: I gave her a caution, in a raised voice, To take care, where-ever she went to live next, if there were any young Ladies, how she made parties, and assisted in clandestine cor|respondencies:—But I slid two guineas into her hand.

Nor was I angry to hear you were more bountiful to her—So much for Hannah.

I don't know what to write, about your answ••••ing that man of violence. What can you think of it, that such a family as ours, should have such a rod held over it?—For my part, I have not own'd that I know you have corresponded: By your last boldness to me (an astonishing one it was, to pursue before Mr. Solmes, the subject that I was forced to break from above stairs) you may, as far as I know, plead, that you had my countenance for your correspondence with him; and so add to the uneasiness between your papa and me. You was once all my comfort: You made all my hardships tolerable:—But now!—However, nothing, it is plain, can move you; and I will say no more on that head: For you are under your papa's discipline now; and he will neither be prescribed to, nor intreated.

I should have been glad to see the letter you tell me of, as I saw the rest:—You say, both honour and prudence forbid you to shew it me!—O Clarissa! what think you of receiving letters that honour and prudence forbid you to shew to a mo|ther!—But it is not for me to see it, if you would choose to shew it me. I will not be in your secret. I will not know that you did correspond. And, as to an answer, take your own methods. But let him know it will be the last you will write. And, if you do write, I won't see it: So seal it up, if you do, and give it to Shorey, and she—Yet do not think I give you licence to write!

We will be upon no conditions with him, nor will you be allow'd to be upon any. Your papa and uncles would have no patience were he to come. What have you to do to oblige him with your refusal of Mr. Solmes?—Will not That refusal be to give him hope? And while he has any, can we be easy or free from his insults? Were even your brother in fault, as

that fault cannot be conquer'd, is a sister to carry on a correspondence that shall endanger her brother? But your papa has given his sanction to your brother's dis|likes, and they are now your papa's dislikes, and my dislikes, your uncles and every-body's!—No matter to whom owing.

As to the rest, you have by your obstinacy put it out of my power to do any-thing for you. Your papa takes upon himself to be answerable for all con|sequences. You must not therefore apply to me for any favour. I shall endeavour to be only an observer; Happy, if I could be an unconcerned one!—While I had power, you would not let me use it as I would have used it. Your aunt has been forced to engage not to interfere but by your papa's direction. You'll have severe trials. If you have any favour to hope for, it must be from the mediation of your uncles. And yet I believe, they are equally determin'd: For they make it a principle—(Alas! they never had children!) that that child, who in marriage is not go|vern'd by her parents, is to be given up as a lost crea|ture!

I charge you, let not this letter be found. Burn it. There is too much of the mother in it, to a daughter so unaccountably obstinate.

Write not another letter to me, I can do nothing for you. But you can do every thing for yourself.

Now, my dear, to proceed with my melancholy narrative.

After this letter, you will believe, that I could have very little hopes, that an application directly to my father, would stand me in any stead: But I thought it became me to write, were it but to acquit myself to myself, that I have left nothing unattempted, that has the least likelihood to restore me to his favour. Accordingly I wrote to the following effect:

'I presume not, I say, to argue with my papa, I

only beg his mercy and indulgence in this one point, on which depends my present and perhaps my fu|ture happiness; and beseech him not to reprobate his child for an aversion which it is not in her power to conquer. I beg, that I may not be sacrific'd to projects, and remote contingencies: I complain of the disgraces I suffer in this banishment from his pre|sence, and in being confined to my chamber. In every thing but this one point, I promise implicit duty and resignation to his will. I repeat my offers of a Single Life; and appeal to him, whether I have ever given him cause to doubt my word. I beg to be admitted to his, and to my mamma's presence, and that my conduct may ••e under their own eye: And this with the more earnestness, as I have too much reason to believe, that snares are laid for me; and tauntings and revilings used, on purpose to make a handle of my words against me, when I am not permitted to speak in my own defence. I conclude with hoping, that my brother's instigations may not rob an unhappy child of her father.'

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

Wednesday.

I Write, perverse girl, but with all the indignation that your disobedience deserves. To desire to be forgiven a fault you own, and yet resolve to persevere in, is a boldness, no more to be equall'd, than passed over. It is my authority you defy. Your reflections upon a brother, that is an honour to us all, deserve my utmost resentment. I see how light all relation|ship sits upon you. The cause I guess at, too: I can|not bear the reflections that naturally arise from this consideration. Your behaviour to your too indulgent, and too fond mother—But, I have no patience—

Continue banished from my presence, undutiful as you are, till you know how to conform to my will. In|grateful creature! Your letter but upbraids me for my past indulgence. Write no more to me, till you can distinguish better; and till you are convinc'd of your duty to

A justly incensed Father.

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

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

LETTER XXVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursd. morn. Mar. 9.

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

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

He is excessively uneasy upon what he hears; and his expressions both of love to me, and resentment to them, are very fervent. He sollicits me much

'To engage my honour to him, Never to have Mr.

Solmes.'

I think I may fairly promise him that I will not.

He begs,

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

Indeed, he says, his relations, the Ladies particu|larly, advise him to have recourse to a legal remedy:

'But how, he asks, can a man of honour go to law for verbal abuses, given by people intitled to wear swords?'

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

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

It is natural, I believe, for a person to be the more desirous of making new friends, in proportion as she loses the favour of old ones: Yet, had I rather appear amiable in the eyes of my own relations, and in your eyes, than in those of all the world besides:—But these four Ladies of his family have such excellent cha|racters, that one cannot but wish to be thought well of by them. Cannot there be a way to find out by Mrs. Fortescue's means, or by Mr. Hickman, who has some knowlege of Lord M. (covertly, however), what their opinions are of the present situation of things in our family; and of the little likelihood there

is, that ever the alliance once approved of by them, can take effect?—I cannot, for my own part, think so well of myself, as to imagine, that they can wish him to persevere in his views with regard to me, through such contempts and discouragements—Not that it would concern me, should they advise him to the contrary.—By my Lord's signing Mr. Lovelace's former letter; by Mr. Lovelace's as|surances of the continued favour of all his relations; and by the report of others; I seem to stand still high in their favour: But, methinks, I would be glad to have this confirmed to me, as from themselves, by the lips of an indifferent person; and the rather, as they are known to put a value upon their alliance, fortunes, and family; and take it amiss, as they have reason, to be included by ours in the contempt thrown upon their kinsman.

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

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

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

I tell him,

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

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

I apprise him,

'That I am conniv'd at in sending

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

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

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

For, my dear, you never knew so bold a supposer. As commentators find beauties in an author, which the author perhaps was a stranger to; so he some|times compliments me in high strains of gratitude, for

favours, and for a consideration, which I never de|signed him; insomuch that I am frequently under a necessity of explaining away the attributed goodness, which if I shew'd him, I should have the less opinion of myself.

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

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

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

LETTER XXVII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday night, March 9.

I Have no patience with any of the people you are with. I know not what to advise you to do. How do you know, that you are not punishable for

being the cause, tho' to your own loss, that the will of your grandfather is not comply'd with?—Wills are sacred things, child. You see, that they, even they, think so, who imagine they suffer by a will, thro' the distinction paid you in it.

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

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

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

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

It must be confess'd, however, that this brother and sister of yours, judging as such narrow spirits will

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

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

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

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

Lovelace entertain'd the company in his lively gay way, and made every-body laugh at one of his stories. It was before this creature was thought of for you. Solmes laugh'd too. It was, however, his laugh: For his first three years, at least, I imagine, must have been one continual fit of crying; and his muscles have

never yet been able to recover a risible tone. His very smile (you never saw him smile I believe; never at least gave him cause to smile) is so little natural to his features, that it appears in him, as hideous as the grin of a man in malice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HERE my mamma broke in upon me. She

wanted to see what I had written. I was silly enough to read Solmes's character to her.

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

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

This difference in our tempers, however, is pro|bably the reason that we love one another so well, that, in the words of Norris, no third love can come in between: Since each, in the other's eye, having something amiss, and each loving the other well enough to bear being told of it; and the rather, per|haps, as neither wishes to mend it; This takes off a

good deal from that rivalry which might encourage a little, if not a great deal, of that latent spleen, which in time might rise into envy, and That into ill-will. So, my dear, if This be the case, let each keep her fault, and much good may do her with it, say I: For there is constitution in both to plead for it: And what an hero or heroine must he or she be, who can conquer a constitutional fault? Let it be avarice, as in some I dare not name: Let it be gravity, as in my best friend: Or let it be flippancy, as in—I need not say whom.

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

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

Thus it was:

'I cannot but think, Nancy, said she, after all, that there is a little hardship in Miss Harlowe's case: And yet, as her mamma says, it is a grating thing to have a child, who was always noted for her duty in smaller points, to stand in opposition to her pa|rents will, in the greater; yea, in the greatest of all. And now, to middle the matter between both, it is pity, that the man they insist upon her accepting has not that sort of merit, which so delicate a mind as Miss Harlowe's might reasonably expect in a hus|band.—But then, this man is surely preferable to a libertine: To a libertine too, who has had a duel with her own brother. Fathers and mothers must

think so, were it not for that circumstance—And it is strange if they do not know best.'

And so they must, thought I, from their experience, if no little, dirty views give them also that prepossession in one man's favour, which they are so apt to censure their daughters for having in another's—And if, as I may add in your case, they have no creeping, old, musty, uncle Antony's to strengthen their preposses|sions, as he does my mamma's—Poor, creeping, po|sitive soul, what has such an old bachelor as he to do, to prate about the duties of children to parents; un|less he had a notion that parents owe some to their children? But your mamma, by her indolent meek|ness, let me call it, has spoiled all the three brothers.

'But you see, child, proceeded my mamma, what a different behaviour MINE is to YOU. I recom|mend to you one of the soberest, yet politest, men in England.—'

I think little of my mamma's politest, my dear. She judges of honest Hickman for her daughter, as she would have done, I suppose, twenty years ago, for herself: For Hickman appears to me to be a man of that antiquated cut; as to his mind I mean: A great deal too much upon the formal, you must needs think him to be, yourself.

'Of a good family, continued my mamma; a fine, clear, and improving estate (a prime consideration with my mamma, as well as with some other folks, whom you know): And I beg and I pray you to en|courage him: At least, not to use him the worse, for his being so obsequious to you.'

Yes, indeed! To use him kindly, that he may treat me familiarly—But distance to the men-wretches is best—I say.

'Yet all will hardly prevail upon you to do as I would have you. What would you say, were I to treat you as Miss Harlowe's father and mother treat her?'

'What would I say, Madam!—That's easily an|swer'd. I would SAY nothing. Can you think such usage, and to such a young lady, is to be borne?

'Come, come, Nancy, be not so hasty: You have heard but one side; and that there is more to be said is plain, by your reading to me, but parts of her letters. They are her parents. They must know best. Miss Harlowe, as fine a child as she is, must have done something, must have said something (you know how they lov'd her), to make them use her thus.'

'But if she should be blameless, Madam, how does your own supposition condemn them?'

Then came up Solmes's great estate; his good ma|nagement of it—'A little too NEAR indeed,' was the word!—(O how money-lovers, thought I, will palliate! Yet my mamma is a princess in spirit to this Solmes!)

'What strange effects have prepossession and love upon young ladies!'

I don't know how it is, my dear; but people take strange delight in finding out folks in love; Curiosi|ties beget curiosities: I believe that's the thing!

She proceeded to praise Mr. Lovelace's person, and his qualifications natural and acquired: But then she would judge as mothers will judge, and as daughters are very loth to judge:—But could say nothing in an|swer to your offer of living single; and breaking with him—if—if—(three or four If's she made of one good one, If) that could be depended on, she said.

But still obedience without reserve, reason what I will, is the burden of my mamma's song: And This, for my sake, as well as yours.

I must needs say, that I think duty to parents is a very meritorious excellence: But I bless God I have not your trials. We can all be good when we have no temptation nor provocation to the contrary:—But few young persons (who can help themselves too) would bear what you bear.

I will not mention all that is upon my mind, in re|lation to the behaviour of your father and uncles, and the rest of them, because I would not offend you: But I have now a higher opinion of my own sagacity, than ever I had, in that I could never cordially love any one of your family but yourself. I am not born to like them. But it is my duty to be sincere to my friend: And this will excuse her Anna Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe. I ought indeed to have excepted your mamma; a lady to be reverenced; and now to be pity'd. What must have been her treatment, to be thus subjugated, as I may call it? Little did the good old Viscount think, when he married his darling, his only, daughter to so well-appearing a gentleman, and to her own liking too, that she would have been so much kept down. Another would call your father a tyrant, if you will not: All the world indeed would: And if you love your mother, you should not be very angry at the world for taking that liberty. Yet, after al•• I cannot help thinking, that she is the less to be pitied, as she may be said (be the gout, or what will, the occasion of his moroseness) to have long behaved unworthy of her birth and fine qualities, in yielding to incroaching spirits (you may confine the reflection to your brother, if it will pain you to extend it); and This for the sake of preserving a temporary peace to her|self; which is the less worth attempting to preserve, as it always produced a strength in the will of others, and a weakness in her own, that has subjected her to an arbitrariness which grew, and became established, upon her patience.—And now to give up the most de|serving of her children, against her judgment, a sacri|fice to the ambition and selfishness of the least deserv|ing—But I fly from this subject—having, I fear, said too much to be forgiven for—and yet much less than is in my heart to say upon the over-meek subject.

Mr. Hickman is expected from London this even|ing. I have desired him to inquire after Lovelace's

life and conversation in town. If he has not, I shall be very angry with him. Don't expect a very good account of either. He is certainly an intriguing wretch, and full of inventions.

Upon my word, I most heartily despise that sex! I wish they would let our fathers and mothers alone; teazing them to teaze us with their golden promises, and protestations, and settlements, and the rest of their ostentatious nonsense. How charmingly might you and I live together, and despise them all!—But to be cajoled, wire-drawn, and insnared, like silly birds, into a state of bondage, or vile subordination: To be courted as princesses for a few weeks, in order to be treated as slaves for the rest of our lives—Indeed, my dear, as you say of Solmes, I cannot endure them!—But for your relations (friends no more will I call them, unworthy as they are even of the other name!) to take such a wretch's price as That; and to the cutting off all reversions from his own family!—How must a mind but commonly just resist such a measure!

Mr. Hickman shall sound Lord M. upon the subject you recommend. But beforehand, I can tell you what he and what his sisters will say, when they are sounded. Who would not be proud of such a rela|tion as Miss Clarissa Harlowe?—Mrs. Fortescue told me, that they are all your very great admirers.

If I have not been clear enough in my advice about what you shall do, let me say, that I can give it in one word: It is only by re-urging you to RESUME. If you do, all the rest will follow.

We are told here, that Mrs. Norton, as well as your aunt Hervey, has given her opinion on the im|plicit side of the question. If she can think, that the part she has had in your education, and your own ad|mirable talents and acquirements, are to be thrown away upon such a worthless creature as Solmes, I could heartily quarrel with her. You may think I say this to lessen your regard for the good woman. And per|haps

not wholly without cause, if you do. For, to own the truth, methinks, I don't love her so well as I should do, did you love her so apparently less, that I could be out of doubt, that you love me better.

Your mamma tells you,

'That you will have great trials: That you are under your papa's discipline.'

— The word's enough for me to despise them who give occasion for its use!—

'That it is out of her power to help you!'

And again:

'That if you have any favour to hope for, it must be by the mediation of your uncles!'

I suppose you will write to the oddi|ties; since you are forbid to see them!—But can it be, that such a lady, such a sister, such a wife, such a mother, has no influence in her own family? Who indeed, as you say, would marry, that can live single? My choler is again beginning to rise. RESUME, my dear:—And that's all I will give myself time to say further, lest I offend you, when I cannot serve you—Only this, that I am

Your truly affectionate friend and servant, ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday, Mar. 10.

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

In the first place, you must allow me to say, low as I am in spirits, that I am very angry with you for your reflections on my relations, particularly on my father, and on the memory of my grandfather. Nor, my dear, does your own mamma always escape the keen edge of your vivacity. One cannot one's self forbear to write or speak freely of those we love and

honour; that is to say, when grief wrings the heart: But it goes against one to hear any body else take the same liberties. Then you have so very strong a man|ner of expression, where you take a distaste, that when passion has subsided, and I come by reflection to see by your severity what I have given occasion for, I cannot help condemning myself. Let me then, as matters arise, make my complaints to you; but be it your part to soothe and soften my angry passions, by such advice as nobody better knows how to give: And this the rather, as you know what an influence your advice has upon me.

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

As to the advice you give, to resume my estate, I am determin'd not to litigate with my papa, let what will be the consequence to myself. I may give you, at another time, a more particular answer to your reasonings on this subject: But, at present, will only observe, that it is my opinion, that Lovelace himself would hardly think me worth addressing, were he to know this to be my resolution. These men,

my dear, with all their flatteries, look forward to the PERMANENT. Indeed, it is fit they should. For Love must be a very foolish thing to look back upon, when it has brought persons born to affluence into indigence; and laid a generous mind under the hard necessity of obligation and dependence.

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

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

Indeed, my beloved Miss Howe, I am asham'd to have your mamma say, with ME in her view,

'What strange effects have Prepossession and Love upon young creatures of our sex!'

This touches me the

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

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

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

LETTER XXIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Saturday, March 11.

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

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

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

Next, altho' they build upon this argument in or|der to silence me, they seem not to believe me, but

treat me as violently, and as disgracefully, as if I were in love with one of my father's footmen:—So that my conditional willingness to give up Lovelace, has procur'd me no favour.

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

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

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

TREATED, as I am treated, and, in a great measure, if not wholly, by your instigations, brother, you must permit me to expostulate with you upon the occasion. It is not my intention to displease you in what I am going to write: And yet I must deal freely with you: The occasion calls for it.

And permit me, in the first place, to remind you, That I am your sister; and not your servant; and that, therefore, the bitter revilings and passionate lan|guage brought me from you, upon an occasion, in which you have no reason to prescribe to me, are neither worthy of my character to bear, or of yours to offer.

Put the case, that I were to marry the man you dislike, and that he were not to make a polite or tender husband, Is that a reason for you to be an un|polite and disobliging brother?—Why must you, Sir, anticipate my misfortunes, were such a case to happen?—Let me tell you plainly, that the husband who could treat me, as a wife, worse than you, of late, have treated me as a sister, must be a barbarous man indeed.

Ask yourself, I pray you, Sir, If you would thus have treated your sister Bella, had she thought fit to receive the addresses of the man so much hated by you?—If not, let me caution you, my brother, not to take your measures by what you think will be borne, but rather by what ought to be offer'd.

How would you take it, if you had a brother, who, in a like case, were to act by you, as you do by me? You cannot but remember what a laconic answer you gave even to my papa, who recommended to you Miss Nelly D'Oily:—You did not like her, were your words: And that was thought sufficient.

You must needs think, that I cannot but know to whom to attribute my disgraces, when I recollect my papa's indulgence to me, in permitting me to decline several offers; and to whom, that a common cause is endeavoured to be made, in favour of a man whose person and manners are more exceptionable, than those of any of the gentlemen I have been permitted to refuse.

I offer not to compare the two men together: Nor is there, indeed, the least comparison to be made be|tween them. All the difference to the one's dis|advantage,

if I did, is but in one point—Of the greatest importance, indeed—But to whom of most importance?—To myself, surely, were I to encourage his application:—Of the least to you. Nevertheless, if you do not, by your strange policies, unite that man and me as joint-sufferers in one cause, you shall find me as much resolv'd to renounce him, as I am to re|fuse the other. I have made an overture to this pur|pose: I hope you will not give me reason to confirm my apprehensions, that it will be owing to you, if it be not accepted.

It is a sad thing, to have it to say, without being conscious of ever having given you cause of offence, that I have in you a brother, but not a friend.

Perhaps you will not condescend to enter into the reasons of your late conduct with a foolish sister: But, if politeness, if civility, be not due to that character, and to my sex, justice is.

Let me take the liberty further to observe, that the principal end of a young gentleman's education at the university, is, to learn him to reason justly, and to subdue the violence of his passions: I hope, brother, that you will not give room for any-body who knows us both, to conclude, that the ••oilette has learned the one more of the latter doctrine, than the university has taught the other. I am truly sorry to have cause to say, that I have heard it often re|marked, that your uncontrouled passions are not a credit to your liberal education.

I hope, Sir, that you will excuse the freedom I have taken with you: You have given me too much reason for it, and you have taken much greater with me, without reason;—so, if you are offended, ought to look at the cause, and not at the effect:—Then examining yourself, that cause will cease, and there will not be any-where a more accomplish'd gentleman than my brother.

Sisterly affection, I do assure you, Sir (unkindly,

as you have used me), and not the pertness which of late you have been so apt to impute to me, is my motive in this hint. Let me invoke your returning kindness, my only brother! And give me cause, I be|seech you, to call you my compassionating friend. For I am, and ever will be,

Your affectionate sister, CL. HARLOWE.

This is my brother's answer.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Know, there will be no end of your impertinent scribble, if I don't write to you. I write there|fore: But, without entring into argument with such a conceited and pert preacher and questioner, it is, to forbid you to plague me with your quaint nonsense. I know not what Wit in a woman is good for, but to make her over-value herself, and despise every|body else. Yours, Miss Pert, has set you above your duty, and above being taught or prescrib'd to, either by parents, or any-body else—But go on, Miss, your mortification will be the greater; That's all, child. It shall, I assure you, if I can make it so, so long as you prefer that villainous Lovelace, who is justly hated by all your family. We see by your Letter now, as well as we too justly suspected before, most evidently, what hold he has got of your for|ward heart. But the stronger the hold, the greater must be the force (and you shall have enough of that) to tear such a miscreant from it. In me, notwith|standing your saucy lecturing, and as saucy reflections before, you are sure of a friend, as well as a brother, if it be not your own fault. But if you will still think of such a husband as that Lovelace, never ex|pect either in

JA. HARLOWE.

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

IN what, my dear sister, have I offended you, that instead of endeavouring to soften my father's anger against me (as I am sure, I should have done for you, had my unhappy case been yours) you should, in so hard-hearted a manner, join to aggravate not only his displeasure, but my mamma's against me. Make but my case your own, my dear Bella; and suppose you were commanded to marry Mr. Lovelace (to whom you are believed to have an antipathy), would you not think it a very grievous injunction?—Yet cannot your dislike to Mr. Lovelace be greater than mine is to Mr. Solmes. Nor are Love and Hatred voluntary passions.

My brother may, perhaps, think it a proof of a manly spirit, to be an utter stranger to the gentle passions. We have both heard him boast, that he never loved with distinction; and, having predomi|nating passions, and checked in his first attempt, perhaps he never will: It is the less wonder then, raw from the college, so lately himself the tutored, that he should set up for a tutor, a prescriber to our gentler sex, whose tastes and manners are differently formed; For what, according to his account, are colleges, but classes of tyrants, from the upper students over the lower, and from them to the tutor?—That he, with such masculine passions, should endeavour to controul and bear down an unhappy sister, in a case where his antipathy, and, give me leave to say, his ambition (once you would have allowed the latter to be his fault), can be gratify'd by so doing, may not be quite so much to be wonder'd at—But, that a sister should give up the cause of a sister, and join with him to set her father and mother against her, in a case relative to sex; in a case that might have been her own—Indeed, my Bella, this is not pretty in you.

There was a time that Mr. Lovelace was thought reclaimable, and when it was far from being deem'd a censurable view to hope to bring back to the paths of virtue and honour, a man of his sense and under|standing. I am far from wishing to make the ex|periment:—But nevertheless will say, That if I have not a regard for him, the disgraceful methods taken to compel me to receive the addresses of such a man as Mr. Solmes, are enough to inspire it.

Do you, my sister, for one moment, lay aside all prejudice, and compare the two men in their births, their educations, their persons, their understandings, their manners, their air, and their whole deport|ments; and in their fortunes too, taking in reversions; And then judge of both: Yet, as I have frequently offer'd, I will live single with all my heart, if that will do.

I cannot thus live in displeasure and disgrace!—I would, if I could, oblige all my friends—But will it be just, will it be honest, to marry a man I cannot endure?—If I have not been used to oppose the will of my father, but have always delighted to oblige and obey, judge of the strength of my antipathy, by the painful opposition I am obliged to make, and cannot help it.

Pity then, my dearest Bella, my sister, my friend, my companion, my adviser, as you used to be when I was happy, and plead for,

Your ever-affectionate CL. HARLOWE.

To Miss CLARY HARLOWE.

LET it be pretty, or not pretty, in your wise opinion, I shall speak my mind, I'll assure you, both of you and your conduct, in relation to this de|tested Lovelace. You are a fond, foolish girl, with all your wisdom. Your letter shews that enough in

twenty places. And as to your cant of living single, nobody will believe you, This is one of your fetches to avoid complying with your duty, and the will of the most indulgent parents in the world, as yours have been to you, I am sure—Tho' now they see themselves finely requited for it.

We all, indeed, once thought your temper soft and amiable: But why was it?—You never was contradicted before: You had always your own way. But no sooner do you meet with opposition in your wishes to throw yourself away upon a vile rake, but you shew what you are!—You cannot love Mr. Solmes! that's the pretence; but sister, sister, let me tell you, that is because Lovelace has got into your fond heart: A wretch hated, justly hated, by us all; and who has dipped his hands in the blood of your brother:—Yet him you would make our relation, would you?

I have no patience with you, but for putting the case of my liking such a vile wretch as him. As to the encouragement you pretend he received formerly from all our family, it was before we knew him to be so vile: And the proofs that had such force upon us, ought to have had some upon you:—And would, had you not been a foolish forward girl; as on this oc|casion every-body sees you are.

O how you run out in favour of the wretch!—His birth, his education, his person, his understand|ing, his manners, his air, his fortune—Reversions too taken in to augment the surfeiting catalogue! What a fond string of love-sick praises is here!—And yet you would live single—Yes, I warrant!—When so many imaginary perfections dance before your dazled eye!—But no more—I only desire, that you will not, while you seem to have such an opinion of your wit, think every one else a fool; and that you can at pleasure, by your whining flourishes, make us all dance after your lead.

Write as often as you will, this shall be the last an|swer or notice, you shall have upon this subject from

ARABELLA HARLOWE.

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

LETTER XXX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday night, March 12.

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

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

What did the man come for, if he intended to look challenge and defiance, as Shorey says he did, and as others observed it seems as well as she? Did he come for my sake; and, by behaving in such a man|ner

to those present of my family, imagine he was do|ing me either service o•• pleasure?—He knows how they hate him: Nor will he take pains, would pains do, to obviate their hatred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CL. H.

See Letter xxxvi. for Mr. Lovelace's account of his be|haviour and intentions in his appearance at their church.

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

Monday, March 13.

IN vain dost (a) 26.1 thou and thy compeers press me to go to town, while I am in such an uncertainty as I am at present with this proud Beauty. All the ground I have hitherto gained with her, is intirely owing to her concern for the safety of people whom I have reason to hate.

Write then, thou biddest me, if I will not come. That, indeed, I can do; and as well without a sub|ject,

as with one. And what follows shall be a proof of it.

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

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

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

He who seems virtuous does but act a part; And shews not his own nature, but his art.

Well, but, it seems, I must practise for This art, if I would succeed with this truly admirable creature! But why practise for it?—Cannot I indeed reform?—I have but one vice;—Have I, Jack?—Thou knowest my heart, if any man living does. As far as I know it myself, thou knowest it.—But 'tis a cursed de|ceiver—For it has many and many a time imposed

upon its master—Master, did I say? That am I not now: Nor have I been, from the moment I beheld this angel of a woman: Prepared indeed as I was by her character, before I saw her: For what a mind must that be, which, tho' not virtuous itself, admires not virtue in another?—My visit to Arabella, owing to a mistake of the sisters, into which, as thou hast heard me say, I was led by the blundering uncle; who was to introduce me (but lately come from abroad) to the divinity, as I thought; but, instead of her, carry'd me to a mere mortal. And much diffi|culty had I, so fond and so forward my Lady, to get off, without forfeiting All with a family that I intended should give me a goddess.

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

What was it then, dost thou ask me, since the dis|appointment had such effects upon me, when I found myself jilted, that I was hardly kept in my senses?—Why I'll tell thee what, as near as I can remember; for it was a great while ago:—It was—egad, Jack, I can hardly tell what it was—But a vehement aspi|ration after a novelty, I think—Those confounded Poets, with their celestially-terrene descriptions, did as much with me as the Lady: They fired my imagina|tion, and set me upon a desire to become a goddess-maker. I must needs try my new-fledg'd pinions, in sonnet, elogy, and madrigal. I must have a Cynthia, a Stella, a Sacharissa, as well as the best of them: Darts, and flames, and the devil knows what, must I

give to my Cupid. I must create beauty, and place it where nobody else could find it: And many a time have I been at a loss for a subject, when my new-created goddess has been kinder than it was proper for my plaintive sonnet she should be.

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

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

I have no notion of playing the hypocrite so egre|giously, as to pretend to be blind to qualifications which every-one sees and acknowleges. Such praise-begging hypocrisy! Such affectedly-disclaim'd attri|butes! Such contemptible ••raise-traps!—But yet, shall my vanity extend only to personals, such as the gracefulness of dress, my debonnaire, and my assure|ance?—Self-taught, self-acquired, these!—For my

PARTS, I value not myself upon them. Thou wilt say, I have no cause.—Perhaps not: But if I had any thing valuable as to intellectuals, those are not my own: And to be proud of what a man is answerable for the abuse of, and has no merit in the right use of, is to strut, like the jay, in a borrowed plumage.

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

But now am I in-deed in love. I can think of no|thing, of no-body else, but the divine Clarissa Har|lowe.—Harlowe!—How that hated word sticks in my throat—But I shall give her for it, the name of Love (a) 26.2.

CLARISSA!—O there's music in the name, That soft'ning me to infant tenderness, Makes my heart spring like the first leaps of life!

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

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

Love various minds does variously inspire; He stirs in gentle natures gentle fire: Like that of incense on the altar laid.

But raging flames tempestuous souls invade: A fire, which ev'ry windy passion blows; With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows.

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

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

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

them; and bringing that sordidly-imperious brother to kneel at the foot-stool of my throne.

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

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

How my heart rises at her preference of them to me, when she is convinc'd of their injustice to me! Convinc'd that the alliance would do honour to them all—herself excepted; to whom every-one owes ho|nour; and from whom the most princely family might receive it. But how much more will my heart rise with indignation against her, if I find she hesitates but one moment (however persecuted) about pre|ferring me to the man she avowedly hates! But she cannot surely be so mean, as to purchase her peace

with them at so dear a rate. She cannot give a sanction to projects form'd in malice, and founded in a selfishness (and that at her own expence) which she has spirit enough to despise in others; and ought to disavow, that we may not think her a Harlowe.

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

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

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her.

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

I met with in my Westphalian journey. 'Tis well, that the necessity for all This arises not from scorn and tyranny; but is first imposed upon herself!

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

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

The cause of Love can never be assign'd, 'Tis in no face;—But in the lover's mind.

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

Beauty! thou wild fantastic ape, Who dost in ev'ry country change thy shape: Here black; there brown; here tawny; and there white; Thou flatterer! who comply'st with every sight! Who hast no certain What, nor Where.

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

—Full many a Lady I've ey'd with best regard; and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear. For several virtues Have I lik'd several women. Never any With so full soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd, And put it to the foil. But SHE!—O SHE!

So perfect and so peerless is created, Of ev'ry creature's best.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus, Jack, as thou desirest, have I written: Written upon Something; upon Nothing; upon Re|venge, which I love; upon Love, which I hate,

heartily hate, because 'tis my master: And upon the devil knows what besides:—For, looking back, I'm amaz'd at the length of it. Thou may'st read it: I would not for a King's ransom—But so as I do but write, thou say'st thou wilt be pleased.

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

Farewell.

LETTER XXXII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday, March 14.

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

To JOHN HARLOWE, Esq

Sat. March 11.

ALLOW me, my honoured Second Papa, as in my happy days you taught me to call you, to implore your interest with my papa, to engage him to dispense with a command, which, if insisted upon, will deprive me of my free-will, and make me miser|able for my whole life.

For my whole life! let me repeat: Is that a small point, my dear uncle, to give up? Am not I to live with the man? Is any-body else? Shall I not there|fore be allow'd to judge for myself, whether I can, or can-not live happily, with him?

Should it be ever so un-happily, will it be prudence to complain, or appeal? If it were, to whom could I appeal with effect against a husband? And would

not the invincible and avow'd dislike I have for him at setting out, justify, as it might seem, any ill usage from him, in that state; were I to be ever so obser|vant of him? And if I were to be at all so, it must be from Fear, not Love.—

Once more, let me repeat, That this is not a small point to give up: And that it is for life. Why, I pray you, good Sir, should I be made miserable for life? Why should I be deprived of all comfort, but that which the hope, that it would be a very short one, would afford me?

Marriage is a very solemn engagement, enough to make a young creature's heart ake, with the best pro|spects, when she thinks seriously of it!—To be given up to a strange man; To be ingrafted into a strange family; To give up her very name, as a mark of her becoming his absolute and dependent property: To be obliged to prefer this strange man, to father, mother,—to every body:—And his hu|mours to all her own—Or to contend, perhaps, in breach of a vow'd duty, for every innocent instance of free-will: To go no whither: To make acquain|tance: To give up acquaintance:—To renounce even the strictest friendships perhaps; all at his plea|sure, whether she think it reasonable to do so or not:—Surely, Sir, a young creature ought not to be obliged to make all these sacrifices, but for such a man as she can approve.—If she is, how sad must be the case!—How miserable the life, if to be called life!

I wish I could obey you all. What a pleasure would it be to me, if I could! Marry first, and Love will come after, was said by one of my dearest friends! But, 'tis a shocking assertion! A thousand things may happen to make that state but barely tolerable, where it is entered into with mutual affection: What must it then be, where the husband can have no con|fidence in the love of his wife; but has reason rather

to question it, from the preference he himself believes she would have given to somebody else, had she been at her own option? What doubt, what jealousies, what want of tenderness, what unfavourable prepos|sessions, will there be, in a matrimony thus circum|stanced? How will every look, every action, even the most innocent, be liable to misconstruction?—While, on the other hand, an indifference, a care|lessness to oblige, may take place; and Fear only can constrain even an appearance of what ought to be the real effect of undisguised Love?

Think seriously of these things, dear good Sir, and represent them to my papa, in that strong light which the subject will bear; but in which my sex, and my tender years and inexperience, will not permit me to paint it; and use your powerful interest, that your poor niece may not be consigned to a misery so durable.

I have offer'd to engage not to marry at all, if that condition may be accepted. What a disgrace is it to me to be thus sequester'd from company, thus ba|nish'd my papa's and mamma's presence, thus slighted and deserted by you, Sir, and my other kind uncle! And to be hinder'd from attending at that public worship, which, were I out of the way of my duty, would be most likely to reduce me into the right path again!—Is this the way, Sir, can it be thought, to be taken with a free and open spirit?—May not this strange method rather harden than convince?—I can|not bear to live in disgrace thus: The very servants, so lately permitted to be under my own direction, hardly daring to speak to me; my own servant dis|carded with high marks of undeserved suspicion and displeasure, and my sister's maid set over me.

The matter may be too far pu••h'd: Indeed it may: And then, perhaps, every one will be sorry for their parts in it.

May I be suffered to mention an expedient?—If

I am to be watch'd, banish'd, and confin'd; Suppose, Sir, it were to be at your house?—Then the neigh|bouring gentry will the less wonder, that the person of whom they used to think so favourably, appeared not at church here; and that she received not their visits.

I hope, there can be no objection to This. You used to love to have me with you, Sir, when all went happily with me: And will you not now permit me, in my troubles, the favour of your house, till all this displeasure be overblown?—Upon my word, Sir, I will not stir out of doors, if you require the contrary of me: Nor will I see any body, but whom you'll allow me to see; provided you will not bring Mr. Solmes to persecute me there.

Procure, then, this favour for me; if you cannot procure the still greater, that of a happy reconci|liation; which nevertheless I presume to hope for, if you will be so good as to plead for me: And you will then add to those favours, and to that indulgence, which have bound me, and then will for ever bind me, to be

Your dutiful and obliged Niece, CL. HARLOWE.

The ANSWER.

Sunday night.

My dear Niece,

IT grieves me to be forced to deny you any thing you ask. Yet it must be so; for unless you can bring your mind to oblige us in this one point, in which our promises and honour were engaged be|fore we believed there could be so sturdy an oppo|sition, you must never expect to be what you have been to us all.

In short, niece, we are an embattel'd phalanx; your reading makes you a stranger to nothing, but what you should be most acquainted with—So you will see

by that expression, that we are not to be pierced by your persuasions, and invincible persistence. We have agreed all to be moved, or none; and not to comply without one another: So you know your destiny; and have nothing to do but to yield to it.

Let me tell you, the virtue of obedience lies not in obliging when you can be obliged again:—But give up an inclination, and there is some merit in That.

As to your expedient: You shall not come to my house, Miss Clary; tho' this is a prayer I little thought I ever should have deny'd you: For were you to keep your word as to seeing no-body but whom we please, yet can you write to somebody else, and receive letters from him: This we too well know you can, and have done—More is the shame and the pity!

You offer to live single, Miss—We wish you mar|ry'd: But because you mayn't have the man your heart is set upon, why, truly, you'll have no-body we shall recommend: And as we know, that some how or other you correspond with him, or at least did, as long as you could; and as he defies us all, and would not dare to do it, if he were not sure of you in spite of us all (which is not a little vexatious to us, you must think); we are resolv'd to frustrate him, and triumph over him, rather than he over us: That's one word for all. So expect not any advocateship from me: I will not plead for you; and that's enough. From

Your displeased Uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.

P. S. For the rest, I refer to my brother Antony.

To ANTONY HARLOWE, Esq.

Saturday, March 11.

Honoured Sir,

AS you have thought fit to favour Mr. Solmes with your particular recommendation, and was very

earnest in his behalf, ranking him (as you told me, upon introducing him to me) amongst your select friends; and expecting my regards to him accordingly; I beg your patience, while I offer a few things, out of many that I could offer, to your serious consider|ation, on occasion of his address to me, if I am to use that word.

I am charged with prepossession in another person's favour: You will be pleased, Sir, to consider, that, till my brother returned from Scotland, that other person was not discouraged, nor was I forbid to re|ceive his visits: And is it such a crime in me, if I should prefer an acquaintance of Twelve months to one of Two?—I believe it will not be pretended, that in birth, education, or personal endowments, a com|parison can be made between the two. And only let me ask you, Sir, if the one would have been thought of for me, had he not made such offers, as, upon my word, I think, I ought not in justice to accept, nor he to propose: Offers, which if he had not made, I dare say, my papa would not have required them of him.

But the one, it seems, has many faults:—Is the other fault-less?—The principal thing objected to Mr. Lovelace (and a very inexcusable one) is, that he is immoral in his Loves:—Is not the other in his Hatreds?—Nay, as I may say, in his Loves too (the object only differing), if the love of money be the root of all evil?

But, Sir, if I am prepossessed, what has Mr. Solmes to hope for?—Why should he persevere? What must I think of the man who would wish me to be his against my inclination?—And is it not a very harsh thing for my friends to desire to see me marry'd to one I cannot love, when they will not be persuaded but that there is one I do love?

Treated as I am, now is the time for me to speak out, or never.—Let me review what it is Mr. Solmes depends upon on this occasion. Does he believe, that the disgrace which I suffer on his account, will give

him a merit with me? Does he think to win my esteem, thro' my uncles sternness to me; by my bro|ther's contemptuous usage; by my sister's unkindness; by being deny'd to visit, or be visited; and to corre|spond with my chosen friend, altho' a person of un|exceptionable honour and prudence, and of my own sex; my servant to be torn from me, and another ser|vant set over me; to be confined, like a prisoner, to narrow and disgraceful limits, in order avowedly to mortify me, and to break my spirit; to be turn'd out of that family-management which I loved, and had the greater pleasure in it, because it was an ease, as I thought, to my mamma, and what my sister chose not; and yet, tho' time hangs heavy upon my hands, to be so put out of my course, that I have as little inclination as liberty to pursue any of the choice delights of my life—Are these steps necessary to reduce me to a standard so low, as to make me a fit wife for this man?—Yet these are all he can have to trust to—And if his reliance is on these measures, I would have him to know, that he mistakes meekness and gentleness of disposition for servility and baseness of heart.

I beseech you, Sir, to let the natural turn and bent of his mind, and my mind be considered: What are his qualities, by which he would hope to win my esteem?—Dear, dear Sir, if I am to be compelled, let it be in favour of a man that can read and write—That can teach me something: For what a husband must that man make, who can do nothing but com|mand; and needs himself the instruction he should be qualified to give?

I may be conceited, Sir; I may be vain of my little reading; of my writing; as of late I have more than once been told I am—But, Sir, the more unequal the proposed match, if so: The better opinion I have of myself, the worse I must have of him; and the more unfit are we for each other.

Indeed, Sir, I must say, I thought my friends had

put a higher value upon me. My brother pretended once, that it was owing to such value, that Mr. Love|lace's address was prohibited.—Can this be; and such a man as Mr. Solmes be intended for me?

As to his proposed settlements, I hope I shall not incur your greater displeasure, if I say what all who know me have reason to think, and some have up|braided me for, that I despise those motives. Dear, dear Sir, what are settlements to one who has as much of her own as she wishes for?—Who has more in her own power, as a single person, than it is probable she would be permitted to have at her disposal, as a wife!—Whose expences and ambition are moderate; and, if she had superfluities, would rather dispense them to the necessitous, than lay them by her useless? If then such narrow motives have so little weight with me for my own benefit, shall the remote and uncer|tain view of family-aggrandizement, and that in the person of my brother and his descendants, be thought sufficient to influence me?

Has the behaviour of that brother to me of late, or his consideration for the family (which had so little weight with him, that he could choose to hazard a life so justly precious as an only son's, rather than not gratify passions which he is above attempting to subdue, and, give me leave to say, has been too much indulged in, ei|ther for his own good, or the peace of any-body related to him; Has his behaviour, I say) deserved of me in particular, that I should make a sacrifice of my tem|poral (and, who knows? of my eternal) happiness, to promote a plan, that, if I might be permitted to exa|mine it, I will venture to engage to demonstrate it to be, if not absurd, very precarious, and what must depend upon improbable contingencies?

I am afraid you will condemn my warmth: But does not the occasion require it? To the want of a greater degree of earnestness in my opposition, it seems, it is owing, that such advances have been made, as

have been made. Then, dear Sir, allow something, I beseech you, for a spirit raised and imbittered by disgraces, which (knowing my own heart) I am con|fident to say, are unmerited.

But why have I said so much, in answer to the supposed charge of prepossession, when I have declared to my mamma, as now, Sir, I do to you, that if it be not insisted upon that I shall marry any other per|son, particularly this Mr. Solmes, I will enter into any engagements never to have the other, nor any man else, without their consents; that is to say, without the consents of my Father and Mother, and of you my Uncle, and my eldest Uncle, and my cousin Mor|den, as he is one of the trustees for my grandfather's bounty to me.—As to my Brother indeed, I cannot say, that his treatment of me has been, of late, so brotherly, as to intitle him to more than civility from me: And for this, give me leave to add, he would be very much my debtor.

If I have not been explicit enough in declaring my dis|like to Mr. Solmes, that the charge of prepossession may not be supposed to influence me against him, I do de|clare solemnly, That, were there no such man as Mr. Lovelace in the world, I would not have him. It is necessary, in some one of my letters to my dear friends, that I should write so clearly as to put this out of all doubt: And to whom can I better address myself, with an explicitness that can admit of no mis|take, than to a gentleman who professes the highest regard for plain-dealing and sincerity?

Let me then, for these reasons, be still more par|ticular in some of my exceptions to him.

Mr. Solmes appears to me (to all the world indeed) to have a very narrow mind, and no great capacity: He is coarse and indelicate; as rough in his manners as in his person: He is not only narrow, but covet|ous: Being possessed of great wealth, he enjoys it not; nor has the spirit to communicate to a distress of any

kind. Does not his own sister live unhappily, for want of a little of his superfluities? And suffers he not his aged uncle, the brother of his own mother, to owe to the generosity of strangers the poor subsistence he picks up from half-a-dozen families?—You know, Sir, my open, free, communicative temper: How unhappy must I be, circumscribed in his narrow, selfish circle? out of which, being with-held by this diabolical parsimony, he dare no more stir, than a conjurer out of his; nor would let me.

Such a man as this, love!—Yes, perhaps he may, my grandfather's estate; which he has told several persons (and could not resist hinting it to me, with that sort of pleasure which a low mind takes, when it intimates its own interest as a sufficient motive for it to expect another's favour) lies so extremely con|venient for him, that it would double the value of a considerable part of his own. That estate, and an alliance which would do credit to his obscurity and narrowness, may make him think he can love, and induce him to believe he does: But, at most, it is but a second-place Love. Riches were, are, and al|ways will be, his predominant passion. His were left him by a miser, on this very account: And I must be obliged to forego all the choice delights of my life, and be as mean as he, or else be quite unhappy! Par|don, Sir, this severity of expression!—One is apt to say more than one would, of a person one dislikes, when more is said in his favour than he can possibly deserve; and when he is urged to my acceptance with so much vehemence, that there is no choice left me.

Whether these things be perfectly so, or not, while I think they are, it is impossible I should ever look upon him in the light he is offered to me. Nay, were he to be proved ten times better than I have re|presented him, and sincerely think him; yet would he be still ten times more disagreeable to me than

any other man I know in the world. Let me there|fore beseech you, Sir, to become an advocate for your niece, that she may not be made a victim of, to a man so highly disgustful to her.

You, and my other uncle, can do a great deal for me, if you please, with my papa. Be persuaded, Sir, that it is not obstinacy I am governed by: It is aver|sion; an aversion I cannot overcome: For, if I have but endeavoured to reason with myself (out of regard to the duty I owe to my papa's will), my heart has recoiled, and I have been averse to myself, for offer|ing but to argue with myself, in behalf of a man who, in the light he appears to me, has no one merit; and who, knowing this aversion, could not persevere as he does, if he had the spirit of a man, and a gentle|man.

If, Sir, you can think the contents of this letter reasonable, I beseech you to support them with your interest: If not—I shall be most unhappy!—Never|theless, it is but just in me so to write, as that Mr. Solmes may know what he has to trust to.

Forgive, dear Sir, this tedious letter; and suffer it to have weight with you; and you will for ever oblige

Your dutiful and affectionate Niece, CL. HARLOWE.

Mr. ANTONY HARLOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Niece CLARY,

YOU had better not write to us, or to any of us. To me, particularly, you had better never to have set pen to paper, on the subject whereupon you have written. He that is first in his own cause, saith the wise man, seemeth just: But his neighbour cometh, and searcheth him. And so, in this respect, will I be your neighbour; for I will search your heart to the bottom; that is to say, if your letter be written from

your heart. Yet do I know what a task I have under|taken, because of the knack you are noted for at writing: But in defence of a father's authority, in behalf of the good, and honour, and prosperity of a family one comes of, what a hard thing would it be, if one could not beat down all the arguments a rebel child (how loth I am to write down that word of Miss Clary Harlowe!) can bring, in behalf of her obstinacy?

In the first place, don't you declare (and that con|trary to your declarations to your mother) that you prefer the man we all hate, and who hates us as bad?—Then what a character have you given of a worthy gentleman! I wonder you dare write so freely of a man we all respect. But possibly it may be for that very reason.

How you begin your letter!—Because I value Mr. Solmes as my friend, you treat him the worse—That's the plain Dunstable of the matter, Miss!—I am not such a fool but I can see That.—And so a noted whore-monger is to be chosen before a man who is a money-lover! Let me tell you, niece, this little becomes so nice a one as you have been always reckon'd. Who, think you, does most injustice, a prodigal man, or a saving man?—The one saves his own money; the other spends other people's: But your favourite is a sinner in grain, and upon record.

The devil's in your sex! God forgive me for say|ing so—The nicest of them will prefer a vile rake and Wh—I suppose I must not repeat the word:—The Word will offend when the Vicious denominated by that word will be chosen!—I had not been a bachelor to this time, if I had not seen such a mass of contradictions in you all.—Such gnat-strainers and camel-swallowers, as venerable Holy Writ has it. What names will perverseness call things by—A prudent man, who intends to be just to every-body, is a co|vetous man!—While a vile, prossigate rake is chris|ten'd

with the appellation of a gallant man, and a polite man, I'll warrant you!

It is my firm opinion, Lovelace would not have so much regard for you as he professes; but for two reasons. And what are these?—Why out of spite to all of us—one of them: The other, because of your independent fortune. I wish your good grandfather had not left what he did so much in your own power, as I may say. But little did he imagine his beloved grand-daughter would have turned upon all her friends as she has done!

What has Mr. Solmes to hope for, if you are prepos|sess'd! Hey-day! Is this you, cousin Clary!—Has he then nothing to hope for from your father's, and mo|ther's, and our recommendations?—No nothing at all, it seems!—O brave!—I should think that this, with a dutiful child, as we took you to be, was enough. Depending on this your duty, we proceeded: And now there is no help for it: For we won't be balked: Neither shall our friend Mr. Solmes, I can tell you that.

If your estate is convenient for him, what then? Does that, pert cousin, make it out that he does not love you? He had need to expect some good with you, that has so little good to hope for from you; mind that. But pray, is not this estate our estate, as we may say? Have we not all an interest in it, and a prior right, if right were to have taken place? And was it more than a good old man's dotage, God rest his soul! that gave it you before us all?—Well then, ought we not to have a choice who shall have it in marriage with you? And would you have the conscience to wish us to let a vile fellow who hates us all, run away with it?—You bid me weigh what you write: Do you weigh this, girl: And it will appear we have more to say for ourselves than you were aware of.

As to your hard treatment, as you call it, thank

yourself for That: It may be over when you will: So I reckon nothing upon that: You was not banish'd and confin'd till all intreaty and fair speeches were try'd with you: Mind that. And Mr. Solmes can't help your obstinacy:—Let that be observ'd too.

As to being visited, and visiting, you never was fond of either: So that's a grievance put into the scale to make weight.—As to disgrace, that's as bad to us as to you: So fine a young creature!—So much as we used to brag of you!—And too, besides, this is all in your power, as the rest.—But your heart recoils, when you would persuade yourself to obey your pa|rents—Finely describ'd, i'n't it!—Too truly described, I own, as you go on. I know, that you may love him if you will.—I had a good mind to bid you hate him; then, perhaps, you'd like him the better: For I have always found a most horrid romantic perverse|ness in your sex. To do and to love what you should not, is meat, drink, and vesture, to you all.

I am absolutely of your brother's mind, That read|ing and writing, tho' not too much for the wits of you young girls, are too much for your judgments.—You say, you may be conceited, cousin; you may be vain!—And so you are, to despise this gentleman as you do. He can read and write as well as most gentle|men, I can tell you that. Who told you Mr. Solmes can't read and write? But you must have a husband who can learn you something!—I wish you knew but your duty as well as you do your talents—That, niece, you have of late to learn; and Mr. Solmes will there|fore find something to instruct you in. I won't shew him this letter of yours, tho' you seem to desire it, lest it should provoke him to be too severe a school-master, when you are his'n.

But now I think of it, suppose you are readier at your pen than he—You will make the more useful wife to him; won't you? For who so good an oeco|nomist as you?—And you may keep all his accompts, and save yourselves a steward.—And, let me tell you,

this is a fine advantage in a family: For those stewards are often sad dogs, and creep into a man's estate, be|fore he knows where he is; and not seldom is he forced to pay them interest for his own money. I know not why a good wife should be above these things.—'Tis better than lying abed half the day, and junketing and card-playing all the night, and make|ing yourselves wholly useless to every good purpose in your own families, as is now the fashion among ye—The duce take ye all that do so, say I!—Only that, thank my stars, I am a bachelor!—Then this is a pro|vince you are admirably vers'd in: You grieve that it is taken from you here, you know. So here, Miss, with Mr. Solmes you will have something to keep ac|count of, for the sake of you and your children: With t'other, perhaps, you'll have an account to keep, too—But an account of what will go over the left shoulder: only of what he squanders, what he borrows, and what he owes, and never will pay. Come, come, cousin, you know nothing of the world; a man's a man, and you may have many partners in a handsome man, and costly ones too, who may lavish away all you save. Mr. Solmes therefore for my money, and I hope for yours!

But Mr. Solmes is a coarse man, he is not delicate enough for your niceness, because I suppose he dres|ses not like a fop and a coxcomb, and because he lays not himself out in complimental nonsense, the poison of female minds. He is a man of sense, I can tell you. No man tal••s more to the purpose to us:—But you sly him so, that he has no opportunity given him, to express it to you: And a man who loves, if he have ever so much sense, looks like a fool; especially when he is despised, and treated as you treated him the last time he was in your company.

As to his sister; she threw herself away, (as you want to do) against his full warning: For he told her what she had to trust to, if she married where she did

marry. And he was as good as his word; and so an honest man ought: Offences against warning ought to be smarted for. Take care This be not your case. Mind that.

His uncle deserves no favour from him, for he would have circumvented him, and got Sir Oliver to leave to himself the estate he had always designed for him his nephew; and brought him up in the hope of it. Too ready forgiveness does but encourage offences: That's your good father's maxim: And there would not be so many headstrong daughters as there are, if this maxim were kept in mind.—Punishments are of ser|vice to offenders; Rewards should be only to the me|riting: And I think the former are to be dealt out rigorously, in wilful cases.

As to his love; he shews it but too much for your deservings, as they have been of late; let me tell you That: And This is his misfortune; and may in time perhaps be yours.

As to his parsimony, which you wickedly call dia|bolical—a very free word in your mouth, let me tell ye—Little reason have you of all people for this, on whom he proposes, of his own accord, to settle all he has in the world: A proof, let him love riches as he will, that he loves you better. But that you may be without excuse on this score, we will tie him up to your own terms, and oblige him, by the marriage articles, to allow you a very handsome quarterly sum, to do what you please with. And this has been told you before; and I have said it to Mrs. Howe, that good and worthy lady, before her proud daughter, that you might hear of it again.

To contradict the charge of prepossession to Love|lace, you offer never to have him without our con|sents: And what is This saying, but that you will hope on for our consents, and to wheedle and tire us out: Then he will always be in expectation, while you are single: And we are to live on at this rate

(are we?), vexed by you, and continually watchful about you; and as continually exposed to his inso|lence and threats. Remember last Sunday, girl!—What might have happen'd, had your brother and he met?—Moreover, you can't do with such a spirit as his, as you can with worthy Mr. Solmes: The one you make tremble; the other will make you quake. Mind that: And you will not be able to help your|self. And remember, that if there should be any mis|understanding between one of them and you, we should all interpose; and with effect, no doubt: But with the other, it would be self-do self-have, and who would either care or dare to put in a word for you? Nor let the supposition of matrimonial differences frighten you: Honey-moon lasts not now-a-days above a fortnight; and Dunmow flitch, as I have been informed, was never claimed; tho' some say once it was. Marriage is a queer state, child, whe|ther pair'd by the parties or by their friends. Out of three brothers of us, you know, there was but one had courage to marry. And why was it, do you think? We were wise by other people's experience.

Don't despise money so much; you may come to know the value of it: That is a piece of instruction that you are to learn; and which, according to your own notions, Mr. Solmes will be able to teach you.

I do indeed condemn your warmth. I won't allow for disgraces you bring upon yourself. If I thought them unmerited, I would be your advocate. But it was always my notion, that children should not dis|pute their parents authority. When your grandfather left his estate to you, tho' his three sons, and a grand|son, and your elder sister were in being, we all ac|quiesced: And why? Because it was our father's do|ing. Do you imitate that example: If you will not, those who set it you have the more reason to hold you inexcusable. Mind that, Cousin.

You mention your brother too scornfully: And, in

your letter to him, are very disrespectful, as well as in your sister's, to her. He is your brother; a third older than yourself: And a man: And while you can pay so much regard to one man of a twelve month's acquaintance only, pray be so good as not to forget what is due to a brother, who (next to us three bro|thers) is the head of the family; and on whom the name depends: As upon your dutiful compliance de|pends the success of the noblest plan that ever was laid down for the honour of the family you are come of. And pray now let me ask you, If the honour of That will not be an honour to you?—If you don't think so, the more unworthy you. You shall see the plan, if you promise not to be prejudiced against it, right or wrong. If you are not besotted to that man, I am sure you will like it. If you are, were Mr. Solmes an angel, it would signify nothing: For the devil is Love, and Love is the devil, when it gets in|to any of your heads. Many examples have I seen of that.

If there were no such man as Lovelace in the world, you would not have Mr. Solmes.—You would not, Miss!—Very pretty, truly!—We see how your spirit is imbitter'd indeed.—Wonder not, since it is come to your will nots, that those who have authority over you, say, You shall have the other. And I am one. Mind that. And if it behoves You to speak out, Miss, it behoves US not to speak in. What's sauce for the goofe is sauce for the gander: Take that in your thought too.

I humbly apprehend, that Mr. Solmes has the spirit of a man, and a gentleman. I would admonish you therefore not to provoke it. He pities you as much as he loves you. He says, He will convince you of his love by deeds, since he is not permitted by you to express it by words. And all his dependance is upon your generosity hereafter. We hope he may depend upon That: We encourage him to think he

may. And this heartens him up. So that you may lay his constancy at your parents and your uncles doors; and This will be another mark of your duty, you know.

You must be sensible, that you reflect upon your parents, and all of us, when you tell me you cannot in justice accept of the settlements proposed to you. This reflection we should have wonder'd at from you once; but now we don't.

There are many other very censurable passages in this free letter of yours; but we must place them to the account of your imbittered spirit: I am glad you mention'd that word, because we should have been at a loss what to have call'd it:—Much rather have had reason to give it a better name.

I love you dearly still, Miss. I think you, tho' my niece, one of the finest young gentlewomen I ever saw. But, upon my conscience, I think you ought to obey your parents, and oblige me, and my brother John: For you know very well, that we have nothing but your good at heart; consistently, in|deed, with the good and honour of all of us. What must we think of any one of it, who would not pro|mote the good of the whole? and who would set one part of it against another?—Which God forbid, say I!—You see I am for the good of all. What shall I get by it, let things go as they will? Do I want any thing of any body for my own sake? Does my brother John?—Well, then, cousin Clary, What would you be at, as I may say?

O but, You can't love Mr. Solmes!—But, I say, you know not what you can do. You encourage yourself in your dislike. You permit your heart (little did I think it was such a froward one) to recoil. Take it to task, niece; drive it on as fast as it recoils (we do so in all our sea-fights, and land-fights too, by our sailors and soldiers, or we should not conquer); and we are all sure you will overcome it. And

why? Because you ought. So we think, whatever you think: And whose thoughts are to be preferred? You may be wittier than we; but, if you are wiser, we have lived some of us, let me tell you, to very little purpose thirty or forty years longer than you.

I have written as long a letter as yours. I may not write in so lively, or so polite a style as my niece: But I think I have all the argument on my side: And you will vastly oblige me, if you will shew me, by your compliance with all our desires, that you think so too. If you do not, you must not expect an ad|vocate, or even a friend, in me, dearly as I love you. For then I shall be sorry to be called

Your Uncle, ANTONY HARLOWE.

Tuesday, Two in the morning.

Postscript.

You must send me no more letters: But a com|pliable one you may send. But I need not have for|bid you; for I am sure, this, by fair argument, is unanswerable: I know it is. I have written day and night, I may say, ever since Sunday morning, only church-time, or the like of that: But this is the last, I can tell you, from

A. H.

LETTER XXXIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursday, March 16.

HAVING met with such bad success in my ap|plication to those of my own family, I have taken a step that will surprise you. It is no other than writing a letter to Mr. Solmes himself. I sent it; and have his answer. He had certainly help in it.

For I have seen a letter of his; as indifferently worded, as poorly spelt. Yet the superscription is of his dictating, I dare say; for he is a formal wretch. With these, I shall inclose one from my brother to me, on occasion of mine to Mr. Solmes. I did think that it was possible to discourage this man from proceeding; and that would have answer'd all my wishes. It was worth the trial. But you'll see nothing will do. My brother has taken his measures too securely.

To ROGER SOLMES, Esq

Wednesday, Mar. 15.

SIR,

YOU will wonder to receive a letter from me, and more still at the uncommon subject of it. But the necessity of the case will justify me, at least in my own apprehension; and I shall therefore make no other apology for it.

When you first came acquainted with my father's family, you found the writer of This one of the hap|piest creatures in the world; beloved by the best and most indulgent of parents, and rejoicing in the kind favour of two affectionate uncles, and in the esteem of every one.

But how is this happy scene now changed!—You was pleased to cast a favourable eye upon me. You addressed yourself to my friends: Your proposals were approved of by them; approved of without consult|ing me; as if my choice and happiness were of the least signification. Those who had a right to all rea|sonable obedience from me, insisted upon it without reserve. I had not the felicity to think as they did; almost the first time my sentiments differed from theirs. I besought them to indulge me in a point so important to my future happiness: But, alas, in vain! And then (for I thought it was but honest) I told you my mind; and even that my affections were engaged.

But, to my mortification, and surprize, you persisted, and still persist.

The consequence of all is too grievous for me to repeat: You, who have such free access to the rest of the family, know it too well; too well you know it, either for the credit of your own generosity, or for my reputation. I am used, on your account, as I never before was used, and never before was thought to deserve to be used; and this was the hard, the im|possible condition of their returning favour, that I must prefer a man to all others, that of all others I cannot prefer.

Thus distressed, and made unhappy, and all for your sake, and thro' your cruel perseverance, I write, Sir, to demand of you the peace of mind you have robbed me of: To demand of you the Love of so many dear friends, of which you have deprived me; and, if you have the generosity that should distinguish a man, and a gentleman, to adjure you not to con|tinue an address that has been attended with such cruel effects to the creature you profess to esteem.

If you really value me, as my friends would make me believe, and as you have declared you do, must it not be a mean and selfish value? A value that can have no merit with the unhappy object of it, because it is attended with effects so grievous to her? It must be for your own sake only, not for mine. And, even in this point, you must be mistaken; for would a pru|dent man wish to marry one who has not a heart to give? Who cannot esteem him? Who therefore must prove a bad wife?—And how cruel would it be to make a poor creature a bad wife, whose pride it would be to make a good one?

If I am capable of judging, our tempers and incli|nations are vastly different. Any other of my sex will make you happier than I can. The treatment I meet with, and the obstinacy, as it is called, with which I support myself under it, ought to convince

you of this; were I not able to give so good a rea|son for this my supposed perverseness, as that I can|not consent to marry a man whom I cannot value.

But if, Sir, you have not so much generosity in your value for me, as to desist, for my own sake, let me conjure you, by the regard due to yourself, and to your own future happiness, to discontinue your suit, and place your affections on a worthier object: For why should you make me miserable, and yourself not happy? By this means you will do all that is now in your power, to restore me to the affection of my friends; and, if That can be, it will leave me in as happy a state as you found me. You need only to say, That you see there are no HOPES, as you will perhaps complaisantly call it, of succeeding with me (—And indeed, Sir, there cannot be a greater truth than this—) and that you will therefore no more think of me; but turn your thoughts another way.

Your compliance with this request, will lay me un|der the highest obligation to your generosity, and make me ever

Your well-wisher, and humble servant, CLARISSA HARLOWE.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

These most humbly present. Thursday, March 16.

Dearest Miss,

YOUR letter has had a very contrary effect upon me, to what you seem to have expected from it. It has doubly convinced me of the excellency of your mind, and the honour of your disposition. Call it selfish, or what you please, I must persist in my suit; and happy shall I be, if by patience and perseverance, and a steady and unalterable devoir, I may at last overcome the difficulty laid in my way.

As your good parents, your uncles, and other friends, are absolutely determined you shall never have Mr. Lovelace, if they can help it; and as I pre|sume

no other person is in the way; I will con|tentedly wait the issue of this matter. And, forgive me, dearest Miss; but a person should sooner per|suade me to give up to him my estate, as an instance of my generosity, because he could not be happy with|out it, than I would a much more valuable treasure, to promote the felicity of another, and make his way easier to circumvent myself.

Pardon me, dear Miss, but I must persevere, tho' I am sorry you suffer on my account, as you are pleased to think; for I never before saw the Lady I could love: And while there is any hope, and that you remain undisposed of to some other happier man, I must and will be

Your faithful, and obsequious admirer, ROGER SOLMES.

Mr. JAMES HARLOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday, March 16.

WHAT a fine whim you took into your head, to write a letter to Mr. Solmes, to persuade him to give up his pretensions to you!—Of all the pretty romantic flights you have delighted in, this was cer|tainly one of the most extraordinary. But to say no|thing of what fires us all with indignation against you (your owning your prepossession in a villain's favour, and your impertinence to me and your sister, and your uncles; one of which has given it you home, child); How can you lay at Mr. Solmes's door, the usage you so bitterly complain of?—You know, little fool, as you are, that it is your fondness for Love|lace that has brought upon you all these things; and which would have happen'd, whether Mr. Solmes had honour'd you with his addresses or not.

As you must needs know This to be true, con|sider, pretty, witty Miss, if your fond love-sick heart

can let you consider, what a fine figure all your ex|postulations with us, and charges upon Mr. Solmes, make!—With what propriety do you demand of him to restore to you your former happiness, as you call it, and merely call it, for if you thought our fa|vour so, you would restore it to yourself; since it is yet in your own power to do so. Therefore, Miss Pert, none of your pathetics, except in the right place. Depend upon it, whether you have Mr. Solmes, or not, you shall never have your heart's delight, the vile rake Lovelace, if our parents, if our uncles, if I, can hinder it. No! you fallen angel, you shall not give your father and mother such a son, nor me such a brother, in giving yourself that profligate wretch for a husband. And so set your heart at rest, and lay aside all thoughts of him, if ever you expect for|giveness, reconciliation, or a kind opinion, from any of your family; but especially from him, who, at pre|sent, styles himself

Your Brother, JAMES HARLOWE.

P. S. I know your knack at letter-writing. If you send me an answer to this, I'll return it unopen'd, for I won't argue with your perverseness in so plain a case—Only once for all, I was willing to put you right as to Mr. Solmes; whom I think to blame to trouble his head about you.

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

Friday, March 17.

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

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

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

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

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

This is the right way with me. Many and many a pretty rogue had I spared, whom I did not spare, had my power been acknowleged, and my mercy

been in time implored. But th•• Debellare superbos should be my motto, were I to have a new one.

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

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

I never was so honest for so long together since my matriculation. It behoves me so to be—Some way or other, my recess may be found out; and it will then be thought that my Rose-bud has attracted me. A report in my favour, from simplicities so amiable, may establish me; for the grandmother's relation to my Rose-bud may be sworn to: And the father is an honest poor man: Has no joy, but in his Rose-bud.—O Jack! spare thou therefore (for I shall leave thee often alone; spare thou) my Rose-bud!—Let the rule I never de|parted from, but it cost me a long regret, be observed to my Rose-bud! Never to ruin a poor girl, whose simplicity and innocence was all she had to trust to; and whose fortunes were too low to save her from the rude contempts of worse minds than her own, and from an indigence extreme: Such an one will only pine in secret; and at last, perhaps, in order to re|fuge herself from slanderous tongues and virulence, be

induced to tempt some guilty stream, or seek an end in the knee-incircling garter, that, peradventure, was the first attempt of abandoned Love.—No defiances will my Rose-bud breathe; no self-dependent, thee-doubting watchfulness (indirectly challenging thy in|ventive machinations to do their worst), will she as|sume. Unsuspicious of her danger, the lamb's throat will hardly shun thy knife!—O be not thou the butcher of my lambkin!

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

I have examined the little heart: She has made me her confident: She owns, she could love Johnny Barton very well: And Johnny Barton has told her, He could love her better than any maiden he ever saw—But, alas! it must not be thought of. Why not be thought of?—She don't know!—And then she sighed: But Johnny has an aunt, who will give

him an hundred pounds, when his time is out; and her father cannot give her but a few things, or so, to set her out with: And tho' Johnny's mother says, she knows not where Johnny would have a prettier, or notabler wife, yet—And then she sighed again—What signifies talking?—I would not have Johnny be unhappy, and poor for me!—For what good would that do me, you know, Sir!

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

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

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

See what grave reflections an innocent subject will produce! It gives me some pleasure to think, that it is not out of my power to reform: But then, Jack, I am afraid I must keep better company, than I do at present—For we certainly harden one another. But be not cast down, my boy; there will be time enough

to give thee, and all thy brethren, warning to choose another leader: And I fansy thou wilt be the man.

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

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

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

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

The dear creature has tempted him, he told them, with a bribe (which she never offered), to convey a letter (which she never wrote) to Miss Howe; he be|lieves, with one inclosed (perhaps to me): But he de|clined it: And he begged they would take no notice of it to her. This brought him a stingy shilling; great

applause; and an injunction followed it to all the ser|vants, for the strictest look-out, lest she should con|trive some way to send it—And, about an hour after, an order was given him to throw himself in her way; and (expressing his concern for denying her request) to tender his service to her, and to bring them her letter: Which it will be proper for him to report, that she has refused to give him.

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

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

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

The interview I am meditating, will produce her consent, I hope, to other favours of the like kind: For, should she not choose the place I am expecting to see her in, I can attend her any-where in the ram|bling, Dutch-taste garden, whenever she will permit

me that honour: For my implement, hight Joseph Leman, has given me the opportunity of procuring two keys (one of which I have given him, for reasons good) to the garden-door, which opens to the haunted coppice, as tradition has made the servants think it; a man having been found hanging in it about twenty years ago: And Joseph, upon the least notice, will leave it unbolted.

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

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

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

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

But all gentle shall be my movements: All respect|ful, even to reverence, my address to her!—Her hand shall be the only witness to the pressure of my

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

What tho' his mighty soul his grief contains? He meditates revenge, who least complains: And, like a lion slumb'ring in his way, Or sleep dissembling, while he waits his prey, His fearless foes within his distance draws; Constrains his roaring, and contracts his paws: Till at the last, his time for fury found, He shoots with sudden vengeance from the ground: The prostrate vulgar passes o'er, and spares; But, with a lordly rage, his hunters tears.

LETTER XXXVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sat. night, Mar. 18.

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

In the same point of time that I saw him, he be|sought

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

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

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

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

would be attended with any other issue, than to lose me for ever, and be triumphed over and insulted upon it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As he hoped, that I would one day make him the happiest man in the world, he assured me, that he had so much regard for my fame, that he would be as far from advising any step that were likely to cast a shade upon my reputation, (altho' That step were to be ever so much in his own favour) as I would be to follow such advice. But since I was not to be per|mitted

to live single, he would submit it to my con|sideration, whether I had any way but one to avoid the intended violence to my inclinations: My father so jealous of his authority: Both my uncles in my father's way of thinking: My cousin Morden at a distance: My uncle and aunt Hervey aw'd into insig|nificance, was his word: My brother and sister in|flaming every one; Solmes's offers captivating: Miss Howe's mother rather of party with them, for mo|tives respecting example to her own daughter.

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

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

Interrupting me, he represented the unlikelihood there was of that, from the courses they had enter'd upon; which he thus enumerated:—Their engaging Mrs. Howe against me, in the first place, as a person I might have thought to fly to, if push'd to desperation:—My brother continually buzzing in my father's ears, that my cousin Morden would soon arrive, and then would insist upon giving me possession of my grandfather's estate, in pursuance of the will; which would render

me independent of my father:—Their disgraceful confinement of me:—Their dismissing so suddenly my servant, and setting my sister's over me:—Their engaging my mamma, contrary to her own judgment, against me: These, he said, were all so many flagrant proofs, that they would stick at nothing to carry their point; and were what made him inexpressibly uneasy.

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

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

He had no pleasure, he said, in urging any thing that could be so construed; for, however well warranted he was to make such reflections, from the provoca|tions they were continually giving him, he knew how offensive to me any liberties of this sort would be.—And yet he must own, that it was painful to him, who had youth and passions to be allow'd for, as well as others; and who had always valued himself upon speaking his mind; to curb himself, under such treat|ment. Nevertheless, his consideration for me would make him confine himself in his observations, to facts, that were too flagrant, and too openly avowed, to be disputed. It could not therefore justly displease, he would venture to say, if he made this natural infer|ence from the premises, That if such were my father's behaviour to a wife, who disputed not the imaginary

prerogative he was so unprecedently fond of asserting, what room had a daughter to hope, he would depart from an authority he was so earnest, and so much more concern'd, to maintain? family-interests at the same time engaging; an aversion, however cause|lessly conceived, stimulating; my brother's and sister's resentments and selfish views co-operating; and my banishment from their presence depriving me of all personal plea or intreaty in my own favour.

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

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

He represented to me, that my present disgraceful confinement was known to all the world: That nei|ther my sister nor brother scrupled to represent me as an obliged and favoured child, in a state of actual rebellion:—That, nevertheless, every-body who knew me was ready to justify me for an aversion to a man, whom every-body thought utterly unworthy of me, and more fit for my sister: That unhappy as he was, in not having been able to make any greater impression upon me in his favour, all the world gave me to him:—Nor was there but one objection made to him, by his very enemies (his birth, his fortunes, his prospects all unexceptionable, and the latter splendid); and that, he thank'd God, and my example, was in a fair way of being removed for ever: Since he had seen his error, and was heartily sick of the courses he had fol|low'd; which, however, were far less enormous than

malice and envy had represented them to be. But of This he should say the less, as it were much better to justify himself by his actions, than by the most so|lemn asseverations, and promises: And then compli|menting my person, he assured me (for that he always loved virtue, altho' he had not follow'd its rules, as he ought), that he was still more captivated with the graces of my mind: And would frankly own, that till he had the honour to know me, he had never met with an inducement sufficient to enable him to over|come an unhappy kind of prejudice to matrimony; which had made him before impenetrable to the wishes and recommendations of all his relations.

You see, my dear, he scruples not to speak of him|self, as his enemies speak of him. I can't say, but his openness in these particulars gives a credit to his other professions. I should easily, I think, detect an hypocrite: And this man particularly, who is said to have allowed himself in great liberties, were he to pretend to instantaneous lights and convictions—at his time of life too: Habits, I am sensible, are not so easily changed. You have always join'd with me in remarking, that he will speak his mind with free|dom, even to a degree of unpoliteness sometimes; and that his very treatment of my family is a proof that he cannot make a mean court to any body for in|terest sake.—What pity, where there are such lauda|ble traces, that they should have been so mired, and choaked up, as I may say!—We have heard, that the man's head is better than his heart: But do you really think Mr. Lovelace can have a very bad heart? Why should not there be something in blood in the human creature, as well as in the ignobler animals? None of his family are exceptionable—but himself, indeed. The Ladies characters are admirable. But I shall incur the imputation I wish to avoid. Yet what a look of censoriousness does it carry, to take one to task for doing that justice, and making those cha|ritable

inferences in favour of one particular person, which one ought without scruple to do, and to make, in the behalf of any other man living?

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

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

I then assur'd him, that it was with infinite con|cern, that I had found myself drawn into an epistolary

correspondence with him; especially since that corre|spondence had been prohibited:—And the only agree|able use I could think of making of this unexpected and undesired interview, was, to let him know, that I should from henceforth think myself obliged to discontinue it. And I hoped, that he would not have the thought of engaging me to carry it on, by menacing my relations.

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

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

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

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

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

my own hands), were it to scruple to give up its ar|dors to a woman capable of such a preference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

knew what hopes I had of my father's receding: He did not know him, if I had any.

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

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

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

He recommended himself to my favour at parting, with great earnestness, yet with as great submission; not offering to condition any thing with me; altho' he hinted his wishes for another meeting: Which I forbid him ever attempting again in the same place.—And I'll own to you, from whom I should be really blameable to conceal any thing, that his arguments (drawn from the disgraceful treatment I meet with) of what I am to expect, make me begin to apprehend, that I shall be under an obligation to be either the one

man's or the other's—And if so, I fancy I shall not incur your blame, were I to say, which of the two it must be. You have said, which it must not be. But, O my dear, the Single Life is by far the most eligible to me: Indeed it is. And I yet hope to ob|tain the blessing of making that option.

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

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

If he may be believed (and I should think he would not have come purposely to defy my family, yet ex|pect favour from me), one may see, my dear, the force of hatred, which misrepresents all things:—Yet why should Shorey (except officiously to please her prin|cipals) make a report in his disfavour? He told me, That he would appeal to Dr. Lewin for his justification on this head; adding, that the whole conversation be|tween them turned upon his desire to attempt to re|concile

himself to us all, in the face of the Church; and, upon the Doctor's endeavouring to dissuade him from making such a public overture, till he knew how it would be accepted. But, alas! I am de|barred from seeing that good man, or any one who would advise me what to do in my present difficult situation!—

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

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

Your affectionate and faithful friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.

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

LETTER XXXVII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sunday, March 19.

I Beg your pardon, my dearest friend, for having given you occasion to remind me of the date of my last. I was willing to have before me as much of the workings of your wise relations as possible; being verily persuaded, that one side or the other would have yielded by this time: And then, I should have had some degree of certainty to found my observations upon. And indeed, what can I write, that I have not already written?—You know, that I can do nothing but rave at your stupid persecutors:

And That you don't like. I have advised you to re|sume your own estate: That you won't do. You cannot bear the thoughts of having their Solmes: And Lovelace is resolved you shall be his, let who will say to the contrary. I think you must be either the one man's or the other's. Let us see what their next step will be. As to Lovelace, while he tells his own story; having behaved so handsomely on his intrusion in the woodhouse; and intended so well at Church; who can say, That the man is in the least blameworthy?—Wicked people! to combine against so innocent a man!—But, as I said, Let us see what their next step will be, and what course you will take upon it; and then we may be more inlighten'd.

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

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

When a person gets a great cold, he or she puzzles, and studies, how it began; how he—she got it: And when that is accounted for, down he—she sits con|tented, and lets it have its course, or takes a sweat, or the like, to get rid of it, if it be very trouble|some.

—So, my dear, before the malady you wot of, yet wot not of, grows so importunate, as that you must be obliged to sweat it out, let me advise you to mind how it comes on. For I am persuaded, as surely as that I am now writing to you, that their indiscreet violence on one hand, and his insinuating address on the other, if the man be not a greater fool than any body thinks him, will effectually bring it to This, and do all his work for him.

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

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

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

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

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

Let me add, That if you would clearly and ex|plicitly

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

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

Remember, that you found me out in a moment.

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

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

You must know, that this subject was warmly de|bated among us in our last conversation, and Miss Lloyd wished me to write to you upon it for your opinion; to which, in every debated case, we always defered. I hope you will not be so much ingross'd by your more weighty cares, as not to have freedom of spirits enough to enter upon the task.—You know how much we all admire your opinion on such topics; which ever produces something new and instructive, as you handle the subjects. And pray tell us, to what you think it owing, that your man seems so careful to adorn that self-adorned person of his; yet so manages, that one cannot for one's heart think him a coxcomb?—Let this question, and the above tasks,

divert, and not displease you, my dear.—One subject, tho' ever so important, could never yet ingross your capacious mind. If they should displease you, you must recollect the many instances of my impertinence, which you have forgiven, and then say, This is a mad girl:—But yet I love her!—And she is my own

ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXXVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Monday, March 20.

YOUR last so sensibly affects me, that I must post|pone every other consideration, however weighty, to reply to it: And this I will do very distinctly, and with all the openness of heart, which our mutual friendship demands.

But let me observe, in the first place, gratefully observe, That if I have in fifty passages of my letters given you such undoubted proofs of my value for Mr. Lovelace, that you have spared me for the sake of my explicitness, it is acting by me with a generosity wor|thy of yourself.

But lives the man, think you, who is so very bad, that he does not give even a doubting mind reason at one time to be better pleased with him, than at an|other? And when that reason offers, is it not just to express one's self accordingly? I would do the man who addresses me as much justice, as if he did not address me: It has such a look of tyranny, it appears so ungenerous, methinks, to use a man worse for his respect to one (no other cause for disrespect oc|curring), that I would not by any means be that per|son who should do so.

But, altho' I may intend no more than justice, it will, perhaps, be difficult to hinder those who know the man's views, from construing it as a partial

favour: And especially if the eager-ey'd observer has been formerly touch'd herself, and would triumph that her friend had been no more able to escape than she!—Noble minds, emulative of perfection (and yet the passion, properly directed, I do not take to be an im-perfection neither), may be allow'd a little ge|nerous envy, I think!

If I meant by this a reflection, by way of revenge, it is but a revenge, my dear, in the soft sense of the word!—I love, as I have told you, your pleasantry—Altho' at the time, it may pain one a little; yet on recollection, when one feels in the reproof more of the cautioning friend, than of the satirizing observer, an ingenuous mind will be all gratitude upon it. All the business will be This, I shall be sensible of the pain in the present letter perhaps; but I shall thank you in the next, and ever after.

In this way, I hope, my dear, you will account for a little of that sensibility which you will find above, and perhaps still more, as I proceed.—You frequently remind me, by the best example, that I must not spare you!

I am not conscious, that I have written any thing of this man, that has not been more in his dispraise than in his favour. Such is the man, that I think I must have been faulty, and ought to take myself to account, if I had not: But if you think otherwise, I will not put you upon labouring the proof, as you call it! My conduct must then have a faulty ap|pearance at least, and I will endeavour to rectify it. But of this I assure you, That whatever interpretation my words were capable of, I intended not any reserve to you. I wrote my heart, at the time:—If I had had thoughts of disguising it, or been conscious, that there was reason for doing so; perhaps I had not given you the opportunity of remarking upon my curiosity after his relations esteem for me; nor upon my con|ditional liking, and such-like. All I intended by the

first, I believe I honestly told you at the time: To that letter I therefore refer, whether it make for me, or against me: And by the other, that I might bear in mind, what it became a person of my sex and cha|racter to be and to do, in such an unhappy situation, where the imputed love is thought an undutiful, and therefore a criminal, passion; and where the sup|posed object of it is a man of faulty morals too. And I am sure you will excuse my desire of appearing at those times the person I ought to be; had I no other view in it, but to merit the continuance of your good opinion.

But that I may acquit myself of having reserves—O, my dear, I must here break off!—

LETTER XXXIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Monday, March 20.

THIS letter will account to you, my dear, for my abrupt breaking off in the answer I was writing to yours of yesterday; and which, possibly, I shall not be able to finish, and send you, till to-morrow or next day; having a great deal to say to the subjects you put to me in it. What I am now to give you are the particulars of another effort made by my friends, thro' the good Mrs. Norton.

It seems they had sent to her yesterday, to be here this day, to take their instructions, and to try what she could do with me. It would, at least, I suppose they thought, have this effect; To render me inex|cusable with her; or to let her see, that there was no room for the expostulations she had often wanted to make in my favour to my mamma.

The declaration, that my heart was free, afforded them an argument to prove obstinacy and perverse|ness upon me; since it could be nothing else that go|vern'd

me in my opposition to their wills, if I had no particular esteem for another man: And now, that I have given them reason (in order to obviate this argu|ment) to suppose that I have a preference to another, they are resolved to carry their schemes into execution as soon as possible. And in order to this, they sent for This good woman, for whom they know I have even a filial regard.

She found assembled my papa and mamma, my brother and sister, my two uncles, and my aunt Hervey.

My brother acquainted her with all that had passed since she was last permitted to see me; with my let|ters avowing my regard to Mr. Lovelace, as they all interpreted them; with the substance of their answers to them; and with their resolutions.

My mamma spoke next; and delivered herself to this effect, as the good woman told me afterwards:

After reciting how many times I had been indulged in my refusals of different gentlemen; and the pains she had taken with me, to induce me to oblige my whole family, in one instance out of five or six; and my obstinacy upon it; O my good Mrs. Norton, said the dear Lady, could you have thought, that my Clarissa and your Clarissa was capable of so determin'd an opposition to the will of parents so indulgent to her? But see what you can do with her. The mat|ter is gone too far to be receded from, on our parts. Her papa had concluded every thing with Mr. Solmes, not doubting her compliance. Such noble settlements, Mrs. Norton, and such advantages to the whole family!—In short, she has it in her power to lay an obligation upon us all. Mr. Solmes, knowing she has good principles, and hoping, by his patience now, and good treatment hereafter, to engage her gratitude, and by degrees her love, is willing to over|look All!—

[Overlook all, my dear! Mr. Solmes to overlook all! There's a word!]

So, Mrs. Norton, if you are convinc'd, that it is a child's duty to submit to her parents authority, in the most important point as well as in the least, I beg you'll try your influence over her: I have none. Her papa has none: Her uncles neither. Altho' it is her apparent interest to oblige us All; for, on that con|dition, her grandfather's estate is not half of what, living and dying, is purpos'd to be done for her. If any body can prevail with her, it is you; and I hope you will heartily enter upon this task with her.

She ask'd, Whether she was permitted to expostu|late with them upon the occasion, before she came up to me?

My arrogant brother told her, she was sent for to expostulate with his sister, and not with them. And This, Goody Norton [She is always Goody with him!], you may tell her, that matters are gone so far with Mr. Solmes, that there is no going back!—Of con|sequence, no room for your expostulation, or hers either.

Be assured of This, Mrs. Norton, said my papa, in an angry tone, that we will not be baffled by her. We will not appear like fools in This matter, and as if we had no authority over our own daughter. We will not, in short, be bully'd out of our child by a cursed rake, who had like to have killed our only son!—And so she had better make a merit of her obe|dience: For comply she shall, if I live; independent as she thinks my father's indiscreet bounty hath made her of me, her father. Indeed since That, she has ne|ver been what she was before. An unjust bequest!—And it is likely to prosper accordingly!—But if she marry that vile Lovelace, I will litigate every shilling with her: Tell her so; and that the Will may be set aside, and shall.

My uncles join'd, with equal heat.

My brother was violent in his declarations.

My sister put in with vehemence, on the same side.

My aunt Hervey was pleased to say, There was no article so proper for parents to govern in, as This of marriage: And it was very fit, mine should be ob|liged.

Thus instructed, the good woman came up to me. She told me all that had passed; and was very earnest with me to comply; and so much justice did she to the task imposed upon her, that I more than once thought, that her own opinion went with theirs. But when she saw what an immoveable aversion I had to the man, she lamented with me their determin'd re|solution: And then examin'd into the sincerity of my profession, that I would gladly compound with them by living single: Of this being satisfy'd, she was so convinc'd, that this offer (which would exclude Love|lace effectually) ought to be accepted, that she would go down, altho' I told her, it was what I had tender'd over-and-over to no purpose, and undertake to be guaranty for me on that score.

She went accordingly; but soon return'd in tears; being used harshly for urging this alternative:—They had a right to my obedience upon their own terms, they said: My proposal was an artifice, only to gain time: Nothing but marrying Mr. Solmes should do: They had told me so before: They should not be at rest till it was done; for they knew what an interest Lovelace had in my heart: I had as good as own'd it in my letters to my uncles, and brother, and sister, altho' I had most disingenuously declared otherwise to my mamma. I depended, they said, upon their in|dulgence, and my own power over them: They had not banish'd me their presence, if they did not know that their consideration for me was greater than mine for them. And they would be obey'd, or I never should be restor'd to their favour, let the consequence be what it would.

My brother thought fit to tell the good woman, that her whining nonsense did but harden me. There was a perverseness, he said, in female minds, a Tra|gedy-pride, that would make a romantic young crea|ture, such a one as me, risque any thing to obtain pity. I was of an age, and a turn (the insolent said), to be fond of a lover-like distress: And my grief (which she pleaded) would never break my heart; it would sooner break That of the best and most indulgent of mothers. He added, That she might once more go up to me: But that, if she prevailed not, he should suspect, that the man they all hated had found a way to attach her to his interest.

Every-body blam'd him for this unworthy reflec|tion; which greatly affected the good woman. But nevertheless he said, and no-body contradicted him, that if she could not prevail upon her sweet child (as it seems she had fondly called me), she had best withdraw to her own home, and there tarry till she was sent for; and so leave her sweet child to her father's ma|nagement.

Sure no-body ever had so insolent, so hard-hearted a brother, as I have! So much resignation to be ex|pected from me! So much arrogance, and to so good a woman, and of so fine an understanding, to be al|lowed in him!

She nevertheless told him, that however she might be ridiculed for speaking of the sweetness of my dispo|sition, she must take upon her to say, that there never was a sweeter in the sex: And that she had ever found, that by mild methods, and gentleness, I might at any time be prevailed upon, even in points against my own judgment and opinion.

My aunt Hervey hereupon said, it was worth while to reflect upon what Mrs. Norton said: And that she had sometimes allowed herself to doubt, whether I had been begun with by such methods as generous tempers are only to be influenced by, in cases where

their hearts are supposed to be opposite to the will of their friends.

She had both my brother and sister upon her for This: Who referr'd to my mamma, whether she had not treated me with an indulgence that had hardly any example?

My mamma said, She must own, that no indul|gence had been wanting from her: But she must needs say, and had often said it, that the reception I met with on my return from Miss Howe, and the manner in which the proposal of Mr. Solmes was made to me (which was such as left nothing to my choice), and before I had had an opportunity to con|verse with him, were not what she had by any means approved of.

She was silenc'd, you will guess by whom,—with, My dear! my dear!—You have ever something to say, something to palliate, for this rebel of a girl!—Re|member her treatment of you, of me!—Remember, that the wretch, whom we so justly hate, would not dare to persist in his purposes, but for her encourage|ment of him, and obstinacy to us.—Mrs. Norton (angrily to her), go up to her once more—and if you think gentleness will do—you have a commission to be gentle.—If it won't, never make use of that plea again.

Ay, my good woman, said my mamma, try your force with her. My sister Hervey and I will go up to her, and bring her down in our hands, to receive her father's blessing, and assurances of every-body's love, if she will be prevailed upon: And, in that case, we will all love you the better for your good offices.

She came up to me, and repeated all these passages with tears:—But, after what had passed between us, I told her, that she could not hope to prevail upon me to comply with measures so wholly my brother's; and so much to my aversion.—And then folding me to her maternal bosom, I leave you, my dearest Miss, said

she!—I leave you, because I must!—But let me be|seech you to do nothing rashly; nothing unbecoming your character. If all be true that is said, Mr. Love|lace cannot deserve you. If you can comply, re|member it is your duty to comply. They take not, I own, the right method with so generous a spirit. But remember, that there would not be any merit in your compliance, if it were not to be against your own will. Remember also, what is expected from a character so extraordinary as yours: Remember, it is in your power to unite or disunite your whole fa|mily for ever. Altho' it should at present be disagree|able to you to be thus compelled, your prudence, I dare say, when you consider the matter seriously, will enable you to get over all prejudices against the one, and all prepossessions in favour of the other: And then the obligation you will lay all your family un|der, will be not only meritorious in you, with regard to them, but in a few months, very probably, highly satisfactory, as well as reputable, to yourself.

Consider, my dear mamma Norton, said I, only consider, that it is not a small thing that is insisted upon; nor for a short duration: It is for my Life.—Consider too, that all This is owing to an overbear|ing brother, who governs every-body. Consider how desirous I am to oblige them, if a single ••ife, and breaking all correspondence with the man they hate because my brother hates him, would do it.

I consider every-thing, my dearest Miss: And, add|ed to what I have said, do you only consider, that if, by pursuing your own will, and rejecting theirs, you should be unhappy, you will be deprived of all that consolation which those have, who have been directed by their parents, altho' the event prove not answer|able to their wishes.

I must go, repeated she;—your brother will say (and she wept), that I harden you by my whining non|sense. 'Tis indeed hard, that so much regard should

be paid to the humours of one child; and so little to the inclination of another. But let me repeat, that it is your duty to acquiesce, if you can acquiesce: Your father has given your brother's schemes his sanction; and they are now his. Mr. Lovelace, I doubt, is not a man that will justify your choice, so much as he will their dislike. It is too easy to see that your brother has a view in discrediting you with all your friends, with your uncles in particular: But for that very reason, you should comply, if possible, in order to disconcert his ungenerous measures. I will pray for you; and that is all I can do for you. I must now go down, and make a report, that you are re|solved never to have Mr. Solmes:—Must I?—Con|sider, Miss,—Must I?

Indeed you must!—But of This I do assure you, that I will do nothing to disgrace the part you have had in my education. I will bear every-thing, that shall be short of forcing my hand into his, who never can have any share in my heart. I will try, by pa|tient duty, by humility, to overcome them. But death will I choose, in any shape, rather than That man.

I dread to go down, said she, with so determin'd an answer: They will have no patience with me.—But let me leave you with one observation, which I beg of you always to bear in mind:—

'That persons of prudence, and distinguished ta|lents, like yours, seem to be sprinkled thro' the world, to give credit, by their example, to Religion and Virtue. When such persons wilfully err, how great must be the fault! How ungrateful to that God, who blessed them with such talents! What a loss likewise to the world! What a wound to Virtue! But this, I hope, will never be to be said of Miss Clarissa Harlowe!'

I could give her no answer, but by my tears. And I thought, when she went away, the better half of my heart went with her.

I listened to hear what reception she would meet with below; and found it was just such a one as she apprehended.

Will she, or will she not, be Mrs. Solmes? None of your whining circumlocutions, Mrs. Norton!—(You may guess who said this.)—Will she, or will she not, comply with her parents will?

This cut short all she was going to say.

If I must speak so briefly, Miss will sooner die, than have—

Any-body but Lovelace! interrupted my brother—This, Madam, This, Sir, is your meek daughter! This is Mrs. Norton's sweet child!—Well, Goody, you may return to your own habitation. I am im|powered to forbid you to have any correspondence with this perverse girl, for a month to come, as you value the favour of our whole family, or of any indi|vidual of it.

And saying this, uncontradicted by any-body, he him|self shewed her to the door—No doubt, with all that air of cruel insult, which the haughty Rich can put on to the unhappy Low, who have not pleased them.

So here, Miss, am I deprived of the advice of one of the most prudent and conscientious women in the world, were I to have ever so much occasion for it.

I might, indeed, write, as I presume, under your cover, and receive her answers to what I should write. But should such a correspondence be charged upon her, I know she would not be guilty of a falshood for the world; nor even of an equivocation: And should she own it, after this prohibition, she would forfeit my mamma's favour for ever. And in my dangerous fever, some time ago, I engaged my mamma to pro|mise me, that, if I died before I could do any-thing for the good woman, she would set her above want for the rest of her life, should her eyes fail her, or sickness befal her, and she could not provide for herself, as she now so prettily does by her fine needleworks, &c.

What measures will they fall upon next?—Will they not recede, when they find, that it must be a rooted antipathy, and nothing else, that could make a temper, not naturally inflexible, so sturdy?

Adieu, my dear. Be you happy!—To know that it is in your power to be so, is all that seems wanting to make you so.

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XL. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE. [In continuation of the subject in Letter XXXVIII.]

I WILL now, tho' midnight (for I have no sleep in my eyes), resume the subject I was forced so abruptly to quit; and will obey yours, Miss Lloyd's, Miss Campion's, and Miss Biddulph's call, with as much temper as my divided thoughts will admit. The dead stillness of this solemn hour will, I hope, contribute to calm my disturbed mind.

In order to acquit myself of so heavy a charge as that of having reserves to so dear a friend, I will ac|knowlege (and I thought I had over and over), that it is owing to my particular situation, if Mr. Love|lace appears to me in a tolerable light: And I take upon me to say, that had they opposed to him a man of sense, of virtue, of generosity; one who enjoy'd his fortune with credit; who had a tenderness in his na|ture for the calamities of others, which would have given a moral assurance, that he would have been still less wanting in grateful returns to an obliging spirit:—Had they opposed such a man as this to Mr. Lovelace, and been as earnest to have me marry'd, as now they are, I do not know myself, if they would have had rea|son to tax me with that invincible obstinacy which they lay to my charge: And this, whatever had been the Figure of the man: Since the Heart is what we women should judge by in the choice we make, as the best

security for the party's good behaviour in every relation of life.

But, situated as I am, thus persecuted, and driven; I own to you, that I have now and then had a little more difficulty than I wish'd for, in passing by Mr. Lovelace's tolerable qualities, to keep up my dislike to him for his others.

You say, I must have argued with myself in his favour, and in his disfavour, on a supposition, that I might possibly be one day his. I own, that I have: And thus called upon by my dearest friend, I will set before you both parts of the argument.

And first, what occurred to me in his favour.

At his introduction into our family, his negative virtues were insisted upon:—He was no gamester; no horse-racer; no fox-hunter; no drinker: My poor aunt Hervey had, in confidence, given us to apprehend much disagreeable evil, especially to a wife of the least delicacy, from a wine-lover: And com|mon sense instructed us, that Sobriety in a man, is no small point to be secured, when so many mischiefs happen daily from excess. I remember, that my sister made the most of this favourable circumstance in his character, while she had any hopes of him.

He was never thought to be a niggard: Not even ungenerous: Nor, when his conduct came to be in|quired into, an extravagant, or squanderer: His pride (so far was it a laudable pride) secured him from that. Then he was ever ready to own his errors: He was no jester upon sacred things: Poor Mr. Wyerley's fault; who seemed to think, that there was wit in saying bold things, which would shock a serious mind. His con|versation with us was always unexceptionable; even chastly so; which, be his actions what they would, shew'd him capable of being influenc'd by decent com|pany; and that he might probably therefore be a led man, rather than a leader, in other. And one late instance, so late as last Saturday evening, has raised

him not a little in my opinion, with regard to this point of good (and, at the same time, of manly) be|haviour.

As to the advantage of birth, that is of his side, above any man who has been found out for me: If we may judge by that expression of his, which you was pleased with at the time;

'That upon true qua|lity, and hereditary distinction, if good sense were not wanting, honour sat as easy as his glove:'

That, with as familiar an air, was his familiar expression;

'while none but the prosperous upstart, MUSHROOM'D into rank (another of his peculiars) was arrogantly proud of it.'

If, I say, we may judge of him by this, we shall conclude in his favour, that he knows what sort of behaviour is to be expected from persons of Birth, whether he act up to it or not. Conviction is half way to amendment.

His fortunes in possession are handsome; in expecta|tion, splendid: So nothing need be said on that subject.

But it is impossible, say some, that he should make a tender or kind husband. Those who are for im|posing upon me such a man as Mr. Solmes, and by methods so violent, are not intitled to make this ob|jection: But now, on this subject, let me tell you how I have argued with myself—For still you must remember, that I am upon the extenuating part of his character.

A great deal of the treatment a wife may expect from him, will, possibly, depend upon herself. Per|haps she must practise, as well as promise, obedience to a man so little used to controul; and must be care|ful to oblige. And what husband expects not this?—The more, perhaps, if he has not reason to assure himself of the preferable love of his wife, before she became such. And how much easier and pleasanter to obey the man of her choice, if he should be even unreasonable sometimes, than one she would not have had, could she have avoided it? Then, I think, as

the men were the framers of the matrimonial office, and made obedience a part of the woman's vow, she ought not, even in policy, to shew him, that she can break thro' her part of the contract, however lightly she may think of the instance; lest he should take it into his head (himself is judge) to think as lightly of other points, which she may hold more important. But indeed no point, so solemnly vow'd, can be slight.

Thus principled, and acting accordingly, what a wretch must that husband be, who could treat such a wife brutally!—Will Lovelace's wife be the only person, to whom he will not pay the grateful debt of civility and good-manners? He is allow'd to be brave: Who ever knew a brave man, if a man of sense, an universally base man? And how much the gentle|ness of sex, and the manner of our training-up and education, make us need the protection of the brave, and the countenance of the generous, let the general approbation which we are all so naturally inclin'd to give to men of that character, testify.

At worst, will he confine me prisoner to my cham|ber? Will he deny me the visits of my dearest friend, and forbid me to correspond with her? Will he take from me the Mistresly management, which I had not faultily discharged? Will he set a servant over me, with licence to insult me? Will he, as he has not a sister, permit his cousins Montague, or would either of those Ladies accept of a permission, to insult and tyrannize over me?—It cannot be.—Why then, think I often, do you tempt me, O my cruel friends, to try the difference?

And then has the secret pleasure intruded itself, to be able to reclaim such a man to the paths of virtue and honour: To be a secondary means, if I were to be his, of saving him, and preventing the mischiefs so enterprising a creature might otherwise be guilty of, if he be such a one.

In these lights when I have thought of him (and that as a man of sense he will sooner see his errors, than an|other),

I own to you, that I have had some difficulty to avoid taking the path they so violently endeavour to make me shun: And all that command of my passions, which has been attributed to me, as my greatest praise, and, in so young a creature, as my distinction, has hardly been sufficient for me.

And let me add, that the favour of his relations (all but himself unexceptionable) has made a good deal of additional weight, thrown into the same scale.

But now, in his disfavour. When I have reflected upon the prohibition of my parents: The giddy ap|pearance, disgraceful to sex, that such a preference would have: That there is no manner of likelihood, inflam'd by the rencounter, and upheld by art and ambition on my brother's side, that ever the animosity will be got over: That I must therefore be at per|petual variance with all my own family: Must go to him, and to his, as an obliged, and half-fortun'd person: That his aversion to them all, is as strong, as theirs to him; That his whole family are hated for his sake; they hating ours in return: That he has a very im|moral character as to our sex: That knowing this, it is a high degree of impurity, to think of joining in wedlock with such a man: That he is young, un|broken, his passions unsubdued: That he is violent in his temper; yet artful: I am afraid vindictive too: That such an husband might unsettle me in all my own principles, and hazard my future hopes: That his own relations, two excellent aunts, and an uncle, from whom he has such large expectations, have no influence upon him: That what tolerable qualities he has, are sounded more in pride than in virtue: That allowing, as he does, the excellency of Moral Precepts, and believing the doctrine of future Rewards and Punishments, he can live as if he despis'd the one, and defy'd the other: The probability that the taint arising from such free principles, may go down into the manners of po|sterity:

That I knowing these things, and the im|portance of them, should be more inexcusable than one who knows them not; since an error against judgment, is worse, infinitely worse, than an error in judgment:—Reflecting upon these things, I cannot help conjuring you, my dear, to pray with me, and to pray for me, that I may not be push'd upon such indiscreet measures, as will render me inexcusable to myself: For that is the test, after all; the world's opi|nion ought to be but a secondary consideration.

I have said, in his praise, that he is extremely ready to own his errors: But I have sometimes made a great drawback upon this article, in his disfavour; having been ready to apprehend, that this ingenuity may pos|sibly be attributable to two causes, neither of them, by any means, creditable to him. The one, that his vices are so much his masters, that he attempts not to con|quer them; the other, that he may think it policy, to give up one half of his character, to save the other, when the whole may be blameable: By this means, silencing by acknowlegement the objections he can|not answer; which may give him the praise of in|genuousness, when he can obtain no other; and when the challeng'd proof might bring out, upon dis|cussion, other evils. These, you'll allow, are severe constructions; but every-thing his enemies say of him cannot be false.

I will proceed by and by.

SOMETIMES we have both thought him one of the most undesigning merely witty men we ever knew; at other times one of the deepest creatures we ever convers'd with. So that, when in one visit, we have imagin'd we fathom'd him, in the next, he has made us ready to give him up as impenetrable. This, my dear, is to be put among the shades in his character.—Yet, upon the whole, you have been so far of his

party, that you have contested, that his principal fault is over-frankness, and too much regardlesness of ap|pearances, and that he is too giddy to be very artful: You would have it, that at the time he says any thing good, he means what he speaks; That his variableness and levity are constitutional, owing to sound health, and to a soul and body, that was your observation, fitted for, and pleased with, each other. And hence you concluded, that could this consentaneousness, as you call'd it, of corporal and animal faculties, be pointed by discretion; that is to say, could his vivacity be confined within the pale of but moral obligations; he would be far from being rejectible as a companion for life.

But I used then to say, and I still am of opinion, that he wants a heart: And if he does, he wants every-thing. A wrong head may be convinc'd, may have a right turn given it: But who is able to give a heart, if a heart be wanting? Divine Grace, work|ing a miracle, or next to a miracle, can only change a bad heart. Should not one fly the man who is but suspected of such a one?—What, O what, do parents do, when they precipitate a child, and make her think better than she would otherwise think of a man of an indifferent character, in order to avoid another that is odious to her!

I have said, that I think him vindictive: Upon my word, I have sometimes doubted, whether his per|severance in his addresses to me, has not been the more obstinate, since he has found himself so dis|agreeable to my friends. From that time, I verily think he has been more fervent in them; yet courts them not; but sets them at defiance. For this, in|deed, he pleads disinterestedness (I am sure he cannot politeness) and the more plausibly, as he is apprized of the ability they have to make it worth his while to court them. 'Tis true, he has declared, and with too much reason, or there would be no enduring

him, that the lowest submissions on his part, would not be accepted; and to oblige me, has offered to seek a reconciliation with them, if I would give him hope of success. As to his behaviour at church, the Sunday before last, I lay no stress upon that, because I doubt there was too much outward pride in his in|tentional humility, or Shorey, who is not his enemy, could not have mistaken it.

I do not think him so deeply learn'd in human Na|ture, or in Ethics, as some have thought him. Don't you remember how he stared, at the following trite observations, which every moralist could have furnish'd him with? Complaining, as he did, in a half-menacing strain, of the obloquies raised against him—

'That if he were innocent, he should despise the obloquy: If not, revenge would not wipe off his guilt.'

'That nobody ever thought of turning a sword into a sponge!'

'That it was in his own power, by reformation of an error laid to his charge by an enemy, to make that enemy one of his best friends; and (which was the noblest revenge in the world) against his will; since an enemy would not wish him to be without the faults he taxed him with.'

But the intention, he said, was the wound.

How so, I ask'd him, when That cannot wound without the application?

'That the adversary only held the sword: He himself pointed it to his breast?—And why should he resent mortally that malice, which he might be the better for, as long as he lived?'

—What could be the reading he has been said to be master of, to wonder, as he did, at these observations?

But, indeed, he must take pleasure in revenge; and yet holds others to be inexcusable for the same fault.—He is not, however, the only one who can see how truly blameable those errors are in another, which they hardly think such in themselves.

From these considerations; From these over-ba|lances;

it was, that I said, in a former, that I would not be in Love with this man for the world: And it was going further than prudence would warrant, when I was for compounding with you, by the words conditional liking; which you so humorously railly.

Well but, methinks you say, what is all this to the purpose? This is still but reasoning: But, if you are in Love, you are: And Love, like the vapours, is the deeper rooted for having no sufficient cause assign|able for its hold. And so you call upon me again, to have no reserves, and so-forth.

Why then, my dear, if you will have it, I think, that, with all his preponderating faults, I like him bet|ter than I ever thought I should like him; and, those faults consider'd, better perhaps than I ought to like him. And, I believe, it is possible for the persecution I labour under, to induce me to like him still more:—Especially while I can recollect to his advantage our last interview, and as every day produces stronger in|stances of tyranny, I will call it, on the other side.—In a word, I will frankly own (since you cannot think any thing I say too explicite), that were he now but a moral man, I would prefer him to all the men I ever saw.

So that This is but conditional liking still, you'll say.—Nor, I hope, is it more. I never was in Love; and whether This be it, or not, I must submit to you:—But will venture to think it, if it be, no such mighty monarch, no such unconquerable power, as I have heard it represented; and it must have met with greater encouragements than I think I have given it, to be so irresistible.—Since I am persuaded, that I could yet, without a throb, most willingly give up the one man to get rid of the other.

But now to be a little more serious with you: If, my dear, my particularly unhappy situation had driven (or led me, if you please,) into a liking of the man; and if that liking had, in your opinion, inclined me

to the other L, should you, whose mind is susceptible of the most friendly impressions; who have such high notions of the delicacy of sex; and who actually do en|ter so deeply into the distresses of one you love; should you have pushed so far that unhappy friend on so very nice a subject?—Especially, when I aimed not (as you could prove by fifty instances, it seems), to guard against being found out. Had you raillied me by word of mouth in the manner you do, it might have been more in character; especially, if your friend's distresses had been surmounted; and if she had af|fected Prudish airs in revolving the subject: But to sit down to write it, as methinks I see you, with a gladden'd eye, and with all the archness of exultation—Indeed my dear (and I take notice of it, rather for the sake of your own generosity, than for my sake; for, as I have said, I love your raillery) it is not so very pretty; the delicacy of the subject, and the delicacy of your own mind, consider'd.

I lay down my pen, here, that you may consider of it a little, if you please.

I RESUME; to give you my opinion of the sorce which figure or person ought to have upon our sex: And this I shall do both generally, and particularly, as to this man: Whence you will be able to collect how far my friends are in the right, or in the wrong, when they attribute a good deal of prejudice in favour of one man, and in disfavour of the other, on the score of figure. But, first, let me observe, That they see abundant reason, on comparing Mr. Lovelace and Mr. Solmes together, to believe that this may be a con|sideration with me; and therefore they believe it is.

There is certainly something very plausible and at|tractive, as well as creditable to a woman's choice, in figure. It gives a favourable impression at first sight, in which one wishes to be confirm'd: And if, upon further acquaintance, we find reason so to be,

we are pleased with our own judgment, and like the person the better, for having given us cause to com|pliment our own sagacity, in our first-sighted im|pressions. But, nevertheless, it has been generally a rule with me, to suspect a fine figure, both in man and wo|man; and I have had a good deal of reason to approve my rule. With regard to men especially; who ought to value themselves rather upon their intellectual than personal qualities. For, as to our sex, if a fine wo|man should be led by the opinion of the world, to be vain and conceited upon her form and features; and that to such a degree, as to have neglected the more material and more durable recommendations; the world will be ready to excuse her; since a pretty fool, in all she says, and in all she does, will please, we know not why.

But who would grudge this pretty fool her short day! Since, with her summer's sun, when her but|terfly-flutters are over, and the winter of age and furrows arrives, she will feel the just effects of hav|ing neglected to cultivate her better faculties; for then, like another Helen, she will be unable to bear the reflection even of her own glass; and being sunk into the insignificance of a mere old woman; she will be intitled to the contempts which follow that cha|racter. While the discreet matron, who carries up (we will not, in such a one's case, say down) into ad|vanced life, the ever-amiable character of virtuous prudence, and useful experience, finds solid vene|ration take place of airy admiration, and more than supply the want of it.

But for a man to be vain of his person, how ef|feminate? If such a one has genius, it seldom strikes deep into intellectual subjects. His cutside usually runs away with him. To adorn, and perhaps, in|tending to adorn, to render ridiculous, that person, takes up all his attention. All he does is personal; that is to say, for himself: All he admires, is him|self:

And in spite of the corrections of the stage, which so often, and so justly exposes a coxcomb, he generally dwindles down, and sinks into that cha|racter; and, of consequence, becomes the scorn of one sex, and the jest of the other.

This is generally the case of your fine figures and gay dressers of men: Whence it is, that I repeat, that mere person in a man, is a despicable consideration. But if a man, besides figure, has learning, and such talents, as would have distinguish'd him, whatever were his form; then indeed person is an addition: And if he has not run too egregiously into self-ad|miration; and if he has preserved his morals, he is truly a valuable being.

Mr. Lovelace has certainly taste; and, as far as I am able to determine, he has judgment in most of the politer arts. But altho' he has a humorous way of carrying it off, yet one may see, that he values him|self not a little, both on his person and his parts, and even upon his dress; and yet he has so happy an ease in the latter, that it seems to be the least part of his study. And as to the former, I should hold myself in|excusable, if I were to add to his vanity by shewing the least regard for what is too evidently so much his.

And now, my dear, let me ask you; Have I come up to your expectation? If I have not, when my mind is more at case, I will endeavour to please you better. For, methinks, my sentences drag; my style creeps; my imagination is sunk; my spirit serves me not; only to tell you, That whether I have little or much, it is all devoted to the commands of my dear Miss Howe.

CL. HARLOWE.

Postscript.

The insolent Betty Barnes has just now fired me anew, by reporting to me the following expressions of the hideous creature, Solmes—

'That he is sure of the coy girl; and that with little labour to himself.'

'That be I ever so averse to him beforehand, he can

depend upon my principles; and it will be a pleasure to him to see by what pretty degrees I shall come-to.'

[—Horrid wretch!]

'That it was Sir Oliver's obser|vation, who knew the world perfectly well, that Fear was a better security than Love, for a woman's good behaviour to her husband; altho', for his part, to such a fine creature, he would try what Love would do; for a few weeks at least: Being unwilling to believe what the old Knight used to averr, That fondness spoils more wives than it makes good.'

What think you, my dear of such a wretch as this! tutor'd, too, by that old surly Misogynist, as he was deemed, Sir Oliver?—

LETTER XLI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday, March 21.

HOW willingly would my dear mamma shew kindness to me, were she permitted! None of this persecution should I labour under, I am sure, if that regard were paid to her prudence and fine under|standing, which they so well deserve. Whether owe|ing to her, or to my aunt, or to both, that a new trial was to be made upon me, I cannot tell; but this morning her Shorey deliver'd into my hand the fol|lowing condescending letter.

My dear girl,

FOR so I must still call you; since dear you may be to me, in every sense of the word—We have taken into particular consideration, some hints that fell yesterday from your good Norton, as if we had not, at Mr. Solmes's first application, treated you with that condescension, wherewith we have in all other instances treated you. If it had been so, my dear, you were not excusable to be wanting in your part, and to set yourself to oppose your father's will in a point he had enter'd too far into, to recede with honour.

But all yet may be well. On your single will, my child, depends all our present happiness!—

Your father permits me to tell you, that if you now at last comply with his expectations, all past dis|obligations shall be bury'd in oblivion, as if they had never been: But withal, that this is the last time that that grace will be offer'd you.

I hinted to you, you must remember, that patterns of the richest silks were sent for. They are come: And as they are come, your papa, to shew how much he is determin'd, will have me send them up to you. I could have wish'd they might not have accompany'd this letter—But there is no great matter in that. I must tell you, that your delicacy is not to be quite so much regarded, as I had once thought it deserved to be.

These are the newest, as well as richest, that we could procure; answerable to our station in the world; answerable to the fortune, additional to your grandfather's estate, designed you; and to the noble settlements agreed upon.

Your papa intends you six suits (three of them dress'd) at his own expence. You have an intire new suit; and one besides, which I think you never wore but twice. As the new suit is rich, if you chuse to make That one of the six, your papa, will present you with an hundred guineas in lieu.

Mr. Solmes intends to present you with a set of jewels. As you have your grandmother's and your own, if you choose to have the former new-set and to make them serve, his present will be made in money; a very round sum—which will be given in full property to yourself; besides a fine annual al|lowance for pin-money, as it is called. So that your objection against the spirit of a man you think worse of than he deserves, will have no weight; but you will be more independent than a wife of less discretion than we attribute to you, perhaps ought to be. You know full well, that I, who first and last brought a

still larger fortune into the family, than you will carry to Mr. Solmes, had not a provision made me of near This, that we have made for you.—Where people marry to their liking, terms are the least things stood upon.—Yet should I be sorry if you cannot, to oblige us all, overcome a dislike.

Wonder not, Clary, that I write to you thus plainly and freely upon this subject. Your behaviour hitherto has been such, that we have had no opportunity of entering minutely into the subject with you. Yet, after all that has passed between you and me in con|versation, and between you and your uncles by letter, you have no room to doubt what is to be the con|sequence.—Either, child, we must give up our au|thority, or you your humour. You cannot expect the one: We have all the reason in the world to ex|pect the other. You know I have told you more than once, that you must resolve to have Mr. Solmes, or never to be looked upon to be our child.

The draught of the settlements you may see when|ever you will. We think there can be no room for objection to any of the articles. There is still more in them in our family's favour, than was stipulated at first, when your aunt talk'd of them to you. More so, indeed, than we could have ask'd. If, upon perusal of them, you think any alteration necessary, it shall be made.—Do, my dear girl, send to me within this day or two, or rather ask me, for the perusal of them.

As a certain person's appearance at church so lately, and what he gives out every-where, make us ex|tremely uneasy, and as that uneasiness will continue while you are single, you must not wonder that a short day is intended. This-day-fortnight we design it to be, if you have no objection to make, that I shall approve of. But, if you determine as we would have you, and signify it to us, we shall not stand with you for a week or so.

Your sightliness of person, may perhaps make some

think this alliance disparaging. But I hope you won't put such a personal value upon yourself; if you do, it will indeed be the less wonder that person should weigh with you, (however contemptible the con|sideration!)—in another man.—Thus we parents, in justice, ought to judge: That our two daughters are equally dear and valuable to us: If so, why should Clarissa think that a disparagement, which Arabella would not (nor we for her) have thought any, had the address been made to her?—You will know what I mean by this, without my explaining myself further.

Signify to us, now, therefore, your compliance with our wishes.—And then there is an end of your confinement: An act of oblivion, as I may call it, shall pass upon all your former refractoriness: And you will once more make us happy in you, and in one another. You may, in this case, directly come down to your papa and me, in his study; where we will give you our opinions of the patterns, with our hearty forgiveness and blessings.

Come, be a good child, as you used to be, my Clarissa. I have (notwithstanding your past behaviour, and the hopelesness which some have express'd of your compliance) undertaken this one time more for you. Discredit not my hopes, my dear girl. I have promised never more to interfere between your father and you, if this my most earnest application succeed not. I expect you down, Love. Your papa expects you down. But be sure don't let him see any thing unchearful in your compliance. If you come, I will clasp you to my fond heart, with as much pleasure as ever I press'd you to it in my whole life. You don't know what I have suffer'd within these few weeks past; nor ever will be able to guess, till you come to be in my situation; which is that of a fond and indulgent mother, praying night and day, and struggling to preserve, against the attempts of more ungovernable spirits, the peace and union of her family.

But, you know the terms. Come not near us, if you resolve to be undutiful: But this, after what I have written, I hope you cannot be.

If you come directly, and, as I said, chearfully, as if your heart were in your duty (and you told me it was free, you know—) I shall then, as I said, give you the most tender proofs, how much I am

Your truly affectionate Mother.

Think for me, my dearest friend, how I must be affected by this letter; the contents of it so surpri|singly terrifying, yet so sweetly urged!—O why, cry'd I to myself, am I obliged to undergo this severe conflict between a command that I cannot obey, and language so condescendingly moving!—Could I have been sure of being struck dead at the altar before the ceremony had given the man I hate a title to my vows, I think I could have submitted to have been led to it. But to think of living with, and living for, a man one cannot abide, what a sad thing is that!—

And then, how could the glare of habit and orna|ment be supposed any inducement to one, who has always held, that the principal view of a good wife in the adorning of her person, ought to be, to preserve the affection of her husband, and to do credit to his choice; and that she should be even fearful of attract|ing the eyes of others?—In this view, must not the very richness of the patterns add to my disgusts?—Great encouragement indeed, to think of adorning one's-self to be the wife of Mr. Solmes!—

Upon the whole, it was not possible for me to go down upon the prescrib'd condition. Do you think it was?—And to write, if my letter would have been read, what could I write that would be admitted, and after what I had written and said to so little effect? I walked backward and forward: I threw down with disdain the patterns: Now to my closet retir'd I; then, quitting it, now threw I myself upon the Settee; now

upon this chair; now upon that; and then into one window, then into another—I knew not what to do!—And while I was in this suspense, having again taken up the letter to re-peruse it, Betty came in, reminding me, by order, That my papa and mamma waited for me in my papa's study.

Tell my mamma, said I, that I beg the favour of seeing her here for one moment; or to permit me to attend her any where by herself.

I listen'd at the stair's-head—You see, my dear, how it is, cry'd my father, very angrily: All your condescension (as your indulgence heretofore) is thrown away. You blame your son's violence, as you call it, [I had some pleasure in hearing this] but nothing else will do with her. You shall not see her alone. Is my presence an exception to the bold creature?

Tell her, said my mamma to Betty, she knows up|on what terms she may come down to us. Nor will I see her upon any other.

The maid brought me this answer. I had recourse to my pen and ink; but I trembled so, that I could not write, nor knew I what to say had I had steadier fingers. At last Betty brought me these lines from my papa.

Undutiful and perverse Clarissa,

NO condescension, I see, will move you. Your mother shall not see you; nor will I. Prepare, however to obey. You know our pleasure. Your uncle Antony, your brother, and your sister, and your favourite Mrs. Norton, shall see the ceremony performed privately at your said uncle's chapel. And when Mr. Solmes can introduce you to us, in the temper we wish to behold you in, we may perhaps forgive his wife, altho' we never can, in any other character, our perverse daughter. As it will be so privately performed, cloaths and equipage may be pro|vided afterwards. So prepare to go to your uncle's for

an early-day in next week. We will not see you till all is over: And we will have it over the sooner, in order to shorten the time of your deserved confinement, and our own trouble, in contending with such a rebel, as you have been of late. I'll hear no pleas. Will receive no letter, nor expostulation. Nor shall you hear from me any more till you have chang'd your name to my liking. This from

Your incensed Father.

If this resolution be adhered to, then will my papa never see me more!—For I will never be That Solmes's wife—I will die first!—

Tuesday evening.

HE, this Solmes, came hither soon after I had re|ceived my papa's letter. He sent up to beg leave to wait upon me. I wonder at his assurance!

I said to Betty, who brought me his message, Let him restore a lost creature to her father and mother, and then I may hear what he has to say. But, if my friends will not see me on his account, I will not see him upon his own.

I hope, Miss, said Betty, that you will not send me down with this answer. He is with your papa and mamma.

I am driven to despair, said I. I cannot be used worse. I will not see him.

Down she went with my answer. She pretended, it seems, to be loth to repeat it: So was commanded out of her affected reserves, and gave it in its full force.

O how I heard my papa storm!—

They were all together, it seems, in his study. My brother was for having me turn'd out of the house that moment, to Lovelace, and my evil destiny. My mamma was pleased to put in a gentle word for me: I know not what it was: But thus she was answer'd—

My dear, this is the provoking'st thing in the world in a woman of your good sense!—To love a rebel, as well as if she were dutiful. What encouragement for duty is this?—Have I not loved her as well as ever you did, and why am I changed? Would to the Lord, your sex knew how to distinguish? But the fond mother ever made a harden'd child!—

She was pleased, however, to blame Betty, as the wench own'd, for giving my answer its full force. But my father praised her for it.

The wench says, That he would have come up in his wrath, at my refusing to see Mr. Solmes: But my brother and sister prevailed upon him to the contrary.

I wish he had!—And, were it not for his own sake, that he had killed me.

Mr. Solmes condescended (I am mightily obliged to him, truly!) to plead for me.

They are all in tumults! How it will end, I know not!—I am quite weary of my life!—So happy, till within these few weeks!—So miserable now!

Well, indeed, might my mamma say, That I should have great trials!—

P. S. The idiot (such a one am I treated like!) is begg'd, as I may say, by my brother and sister. They have desired, that I may be consigned over intirely to their management. If it be granted (It is, on my father's side, I understand, but not yet on my mother's) what cruelty may I not expect from their envy, jealousy, and ill-will?—I shall soon see, by its effects, if I am to be so consigned.—This is a written intimation privately dropt in my Wood-house-walk, by my cousin Dolly Hervey. The dear girl longs to see me, she tells me: But is forbidden till she see me as Mrs. Solmes, or consenting to be his. I will take example by their perseverance!—Indeed I will!—

LETTER XLII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

AN angry dialogue, a scolding-bout rather, has passed between my sister and me. Did you think I could scold, my dear?

She was sent up to me, upon my refusal to see Mr. Solmes—Let loose upon me, I think!—No intention, on their parts, to conciliate! I am to be given up to my brother and her I suppose, by general consent.

Every thing she said against me, which carried force with it, I will do justice to. As I ask for your approbation or disapprobation of my conduct, upon the facts I lay before you, I should think it the sign of a very bad cause, if I endeavoured to mislead my judge.

She began with representing to me the danger I had been in, had my father come up, as he would have done, had he not been hindered, by Mr. Solmes, among the rest. She reflected upon my good Mrs. Norton, as if she encouraged me in my perverseness. She ridiculed me for my supposed esteem for Love|lace. Was surprised that the witty, the prudent, nay, the dutiful and pi-ous (so she sneeringly pronounced the word) Clarissa Harlowe, should be so strangely fond of a profligate man, that her parents were forced to lock her up, to keep her from running into his arms. Let me ask you, my dear, said she, how you now keep your account of the disposition of your time? How many hours in the twenty-four do you devote to your Needle? How many to your Prayers? How many to Letter-writing? And how many to Love?—I doubt, I doubt, my little dear, was her arch expression, The latter article is like Aaron's rod, and swallows up all the rest!—Tell me; is it not so?

To these I answered, That it was a double mor|tification to me to owe my safety from my papa's in|dignation

to a man I could never thank for any thing.—I vindicated the good Mrs. Norton with a warmth that her merit required from me.—With equal warmth I resented her unsisterly reflections upon me on Mr. Lovelace's account. As to the disposition of my time, in the twenty-four hours, I told her it would better have become her to pity a sister in di|stress, than to exult over her—Especially, when I could too justly attribute to the disposition of some of her wakeful hours no small part of that distress.

She raved extremely at this last hint: But reminded me of the gentle treatment of all my friends, my mamma's particularly, before it came to This: She said, that I had discovered a spirit they never had ex|pected: That, if they had thought me such a cham|pioness, they would hardly have ventured to engage with me: But that now, the short and the long was, that the matter had gone too far to be given up: That now it was a contention between duty and wil|fulness; Whether a parent's authority was to yield to a daughter's obstinacy, or the contrary: That I must therefore bend or break, that was all, child.

I told her, that I wished the subject were of such a nature, that I could return her pleasantry with equal lightness of heart: But that, if Mr. Solmes had such merit in every-body's eye, in hers particularly, why might he not be a brother to me, rather than a husband?

O child, she thought I was as pleasant to the full as she was: She began to have some hopes of me now. But did I think she would rob her sister of her humble servant? Had he first addressed himself to me, said she, something might have been said: But to take my younger sister's refusal! No, no, child; it is not come to that neither! Besides, That would be to leave the door open in your heart for you know who, child; and we would fain bar him out, if possible. In short (and then she changed both her tone, and her looks), had I been as forward as somebody, to throw myself

into the arms of one of the greatest profligates in Eng|land, who had endeavoured to support his claim to me thro' the blood of my brother, then might all my family join together to save me from such a wretch, and to marry me as fast as they could, to some wor|thy gentleman, who might oppor-tune-ly offer him|self. And now, Clary, all's out, and make the most of it.

Did not this deserve a severe return? Do, say it did, to justify my reply.—Alas! for my poor sister! said I.—The man was not always so great a profligate. How true is the observation, That unrequited love turns to deepest hate!

I thought she would have beat me.—But I pro|ceeded—I have heard often of my brother's danger, and my brother's murderer. When so little ceremony is made with me, why should I not speak out?—Did he not seek to kill the other, if he could have done it? Would he have given him his life, had it been in his power?—The aggressor should not complain.—And, as to oppor-tune offers, would to heaven some one had offer'd oppor-tune-ly to somebody. It is not my fault, Bella, the oppor-tune gentleman don't come!

Could you, my dear, have shewn more spirit? I expected to feel the weight of her hand. She did come up to me, with it held up: Then, speechless with passion, ran down half way of the stairs, and then up again.

When she could speak—God give her patience with me!

Amen, said I: But you see, Bella, how ill you bear the retort you provoke. Will you forgive me; and let me find a sister in you, as I am sorry, if you have reason to think me unsisterly in what I have said?

Then did she pour upon me, with greater violence; considering my gentleness as a triumph of temper over

her. She was resolved, she said, to let every-body know how I took the wicked Lovelace's part against my brother.

I wish'd, I told her, I could make the plea for my-self, which she might for her-self: That my anger was more inexcusable than my judgment. But I pre|sumed she had some other view in coming to me, than she had hitherto acquainted me with. Let me, said I, but know (after all that has passed) if you have anything to propose that I can comply with; any thing that can make my only sister once more my friend?

I had before, upon her ridiculing me on my sup|posed character of meekness, said, that, altho' I wished to be thought meek, I would not be abject; altho' humble, not mean: And here, in a sneering way, she cautioned me on that head.

I replied, that her pleasantry was much more agree|able than her anger: But I wished she would let me know the end of a visit that had hitherto (between us) been so unsisterly?

She desired to be informed, in the name of every|body, was her word, what I was determined upon: And whether to comply or not?—One word for all: My friends were not to have patience with so perverse a creature, for ever.

This then I told her I would do: Absolutely break with the man they were all so determined against: Upon condition, however, that neither Mr. Solmes, nor any other, were urged to me with the force of a command.

And what was this, more than I had offered be|fore? What, but ringing my changes upon the same bells, and neither receding nor advancing one tittle?

If I knew what other proposals I could make, that would be acceptable to them all, and free me from the address of a man so disagreeable to me, I would make them. I had indeed before offered, never to marry without my father's consent—

She interrupted me, That was because I depended upon my whining tricks to bring my father and mo|ther to what I pleased.

A poor dependence! I said:—She knew those who would make that dependence vain—

And I should have brought them to my own beck, very probably, and my uncle Harlowe too, as also my aunt Hervey, had I not been forbidden their sight, and thereby hindered from playing my pug's tricks before them.

At least, Bella, said I, you have hinted to me to whom I am obliged, that my father and mother, and every-body else, treat me thus harshly. But surely you make them all very weak. Indifferent persons, judging of us two, from what you say, would either think me a very artful creature, or you a very spiteful one.

You are indeed a very artful one, for that matter, interrupted she in a passion: One of the artfullest I every knew! And then followed an accusation so low! so unsisterly!—That I next-to-bewitch'd people, by my insinuating address: That no-body could be va|lued or respected, but must stand like cyphers where|ever I came. How often, said she, have I and my brother been talking upon a subject, and had every|body's attention, till you came in, with your bewitch|ing meek pride, and humble significance; and then have we either been stopped by references to Miss Clarissa's opinion, forsooth; or been forced to stop ourselves, or must have talked on unattended to by every-body.

She paused. Dear Bella, proceed!—She indeed seemed only gathering breath.

And so I will, said she. Did you not bewitch my grandfather? Could any thing be pleasing to him, that you did not say or do? How did he use to hang, till he slabber'd again, poor doting old man! on your silver tongue! Yet what did you say, that we could not have said? What did you do, that we did not endeavour to do?—And what was all this for? His

Last Will shewed what effect your smooth obligingness had upon him!—To leave the acquired part of his estate from the next heirs, his own sons, to a grand|child; to his youngest grandchild! a daughter too!—To leave the family-pictures from his sons to you, because you could tiddle about them, and, tho' you now neglect their examples, could wipe and clean them with your dainty hands! The family-plate too, in such quantities, of two or three generations stand|ing, must not be changed, because his precious child (a) 37.1, humouring his old fal-lal taste, admired it, to make it all her own.

This was too low too move me: O my poor sister! said I: Not to be able, or at least willing, to distin|guish between art and nature! If I did oblige, I was happy in it: I looked for no further reward: My mind is above art, from the dirty motives you men|tion. I wish with all my heart my grandfather had not thus distinguished me: He saw my brother likely to be amply provided for out of the family, as well as in it: He desired that you might have the greater share of my papa's favour for it; and no doubt but you both will. You know, Bella, that the estate my grandfather bequeathed me was not half the real estate he left.

What's all that to an estate in possession, and left you with such distinctions, as gave you a reputation of greater value than the estate itself?

Hence my misfortune, Bella, in your Envy, I doubt! But have I not given up that possession in the best manner I could—

Yes, interrupting me, she hated me for that best manner. Specious little witch! she called me: Your best manner, so full of art and design, had never been seen thro', if you, with your blandishing ways, had not been put out of sight, and reduced to positive decla|rations!—Hindered from playing your little, whining

tricks; curling, like a serpent, about your mamma; and making her cry to deny you any thing your little obstinate heart was set upon!

Obstinate heart, Bella!

Yes, obstinate heart! For did you ever give up any thing? Had you not the art to make them think all was right you asked, tho' my brother and I were fre|quently refused favours of no greater import?

I knew not, Bella, that I ever asked any thing un|fit to be granted. I seldom asked favours for myself, but for others.

I was a reflecting creature for this!

All you speak of, Bella, was a long time ago. I cannot go so far back into our childish follies. Little did I think of how long standing this your late-shewn antipathy is.

I was a reflecter again! Such a saucy meekness; such a best manner; and such venom in words!—O Clary! Clary! Thou wert always a two-faced girl!

No-body thought I had two faces, when I gave up All into my papa's management; taking from his bounty, as before, all my little pocket-money, with|out a shilling addition to my stipend, or desiring it—

Yes, cunning creature!—And that was another of your fetches!—For did it not engage my fond papa (as no doubt you thought it would) to tell you, that, since you had done so grateful and dutiful a thing, he would keep intire, for your use, all the produce of the estate left you, and be but your steward in it; and that you should be intitled to the same allowances as before: Another of your hook-in's, Clary!—So that all your extravagancies have been supported gratis.

My extravagancies, Bella!—But did my papa ever give me any-thing he did not give you?

Yes, indeed; I got more by that means, than I should have had the conscience to ask. But I have still the greater part to shew! But you! What have you to shew?—I dare to say, not fifty pieces in the world!

Indeed I have not!

I believe you!—Your mamma Norton, I suppose—But mum for that!

Unworthy Bella!—The good woman, altho' low in circumstance, is great in mind! Much greater than those who would impute meanness to a soul incapable of it.

What then have you done with the sums given you from infancy to squander?—Let me ask you (affect|ing archness), Has, has, has, Lovelace, has your Rake, put it out at interest for you?

O that my sister would not make me blush for her! It is, however, out at interest!—And I hope it will bring me interest upon interest!—Better than to lie rusting in my cabinet, as yours does.

She understood me, she said. Were I a man, she should suppose I was aiming to carry the County. Popularity! A croud to follow me with their blessings, when I went to and from church, and no-body else to be regarded, were agreeable things! House-top proclamations! I hid not my light under a bushel, she would say that for me. But was it not a little hard upon me, to be kept from blazing on a Sunday?—And to be hindered from my charitable ostentations?

This, indeed, Bella, is cruel in you, who have so largely contributed to my confinement.—But go on. You'll be out of breath by-and-by. I cannot wish to be able to return this usage.—Poor Bella! And I believe I smiled a little too contemptuously for a sister.

None of my saucy contempts (rising in her voice): None of my poor Bella's, with that air of superiority in a younger sister!

Well then, rich Bella! courtesying—that will please you better—And it is due likewise to the hoards you boast of.

Look-ye, Clary, holding up her hand, if you are not a little more abject in your meekness, a little more mean in your humility, and tre••t me with the respect due to an elder sister—you shall find—

Not that you will treat me worse than you have done, Bella!—That cannot be; unless you were to let fall your uplifted hand upon me—And that would less become you to do, than me to bear.

Good, meek creature!—But you were upon your overtures just now!—I shall surprize every-body by tarrying so long. They will think some good may be done with you—And supper will be ready.

A tear would stray down my cheek—How happy have I been, said I, sighing, in the supper-time conver|sations, with all my dear friends in my eye, round the hospitable board!

I met only with insult for this—Bella has not a feeling heart: The highest joy in this life she is not capable of: But then she saves herself many griefs, by her impenetrableness.—Yet, for ten times the pain that such a sensibility is attended with, would I not part with the pleasure it brings with it.

She asked me, upon my turning from her, If she should say any thing below of my compliances?

You may say, That I will do every-thing they would have me do, if they will free me from Mr. Solmes's address.

This is all you desire at present, creeper-on! (What words she has!) But will not t'other man flame out, and roar most horribly, upon a prey's being snatch'd from his paws, that he thought himself sure of?

I must let you talk in your own way, or we shall never come to a point. I shall not matter his roar|ing, as you call it: I will promise him, that, if I ever marry any other man, it shall not be till he is mar|ried. And if he be not satisfied with such a conde|scension as this, I shall think he ought: And I will give any assurances, that I will neither correspond with him, nor see him. Surely this will do.

But I suppose then you will have no objection to see and converse, on a civil foot, with Mr. Solmes—as your papa's friend, or so?

No! I must be permitted to retire to my apartment whenever he comes: I would no more converse with the one, than correspond with the other: That would be to make Mr. Lovelace guilty of some rashness, on a belief, that I broke with him, to have Mr. Solmes.

And so, that wicked wretch is to be allowed such a controul over you, that you are not to be civil to your papa's friends, at his own house, for fear of in|censing him!—When this comes to be represented, be so good as to tell me, what it is you expect from it?

Every-thing, I said, or nothing, as she was pleased to represent it.—Be so good as to give it your interest, Bella: And say farther, That I will by any means I can, in the Law, or otherwise, make over to my papa, to my uncles, or even to my brother, all I am in|titled to by my grandfather's will, as a security for the performance of my promises. And as I shall have no reason to expect any favour from my papa, if I break them, I shall not be worth any-body's having. And further still, unkindly as my brother has used me, I will go down to Scotland privately, as his house|keeper (I now see I may be spared here), if he will promise to treat me no worse than he would do an hired one.—Or I will go to Florence, to my cousin Morden, if his stay in Italy will admit of it: And, in either case, it may be given out, that I am gone to the other; or to the world's end: I care not whither it is said I am gone, or do go.

Let me ask you, child, if you will give your pretty proposal in writing?

Yes, with all my heart. And I stept to my clo|set, and wrote to the purpose I have mentioned; and, moreover, a few lines to my brother with it; ex|pressing

'my concern for having offended him; be|seeching him to support with his interest the accom|panying proposal; disdaining subterfuge and art; re|ferring to him to draw up a writing to bind me to the observance of my promises; declaring, that what

the law would not establish, my resolution should.—I told him, That he could do more than any-body to reconcile my father and mother to me: And I should be infinitely obliged to him, if he would let me owe this favour to his brotherly mediation.'

And how do you think Bella employed herself while I was writing?—Why, playing gently upon my harpsichord: And humming to it, to shew her uncon|cernedness.

When I approached her with what I had written, the cruel creature arose with an air of levity—Why, love, you have not written already!—You have, I protest!—O what a ready penwoman!—And may I read it?

If you please, Bella.

She read it; and burst into an affected laugh: How wise-ones may be taken in!—Then you did not know, that I was jesting with you all this time!—And so you would have me carry down this pretty piece of non|sense?

Don't let me be surprized at your seeming unsisterli|ness, Bella. I hope it is but seeming. There can be no wit in such jesting as this.

The folly of the creature! How natural it is for people, when they set their hearts upon any-thing, to think every-body must see with their eyes!—Pray, dear child, what becomes of your papa's authority here?—Who stoops here, the parent, or the child?—How does this square with the engagements actually agreed upon between your Papa and Mr. Solmes? What security, that your Rake will not follow you to the world's-end?—Pr'ythee, pr'ythee, take it back; and put it to thy love-sick heart, and never think I will be laughed at for being taken-in by thy whining nonsense. I know thee better, my dear.—And, with another spiteful laugh, she flung it on my toilette; and away she went.—Contempts for contempts, as she passed!—That's for your poor Bella's!

Nevertheless, I inclosed what I had written, in a few lines directed to my brother: As modestly as I could, accounting, from my sister's behaviour, for sending it down to him; lest she, having, in her pas|sion, mistaken me, as I said, should set what I had written in a worse light than, as I apprehended, it deserved to appear in. The following is the answer I received to it, delivered to me just as I was going to bed. His passion would not let him stay till morning.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Wonder that you have the courage to write to me, upon whom you are so continually emptying your whole female quiver. I have no patience with you, for reflecting upon me as the aggressor in a quarrel which owed its beginning to my consideration for you.

You have made such confessions in a villain's fa|vour, as ought to cause all your relations to renounce you for ever. For my part, I will not believe any woman in the world, who promises against her avowed inclination. To put it out of your power to ruin yourself, is the only way lest to prevent your ruin. I did not intend to write; but your too-kind sister has prevailed upon me. As to your going into Scotland, that day of grace is over!—Nor would I advise, that you should go to grandfather-up your cousin Morden. Besides, that worthy gentleman might be involved in some fatal dispute, upon your account; and then be called the aggressor.

A fine situation you have brought yourself to, to propose to hide yourself from your Rake, and to have falshoods told, to conceal you!—Your confinement, at this rate, is the happiest thing that could befal you. Your Bravo's behaviour at church, looking out for you, is a sufficient indication of his power over you, had you not so shamelesly acknowleged it.

One word for all—If, for the honour of the family,

I cannot carry this point, I will retire to Scotland, and never see the face of any one of it more.

JA. HARLOWE.

There's a brother!—There's flaming duty to a fa|ther, and mother, and uncles!—But he sees himself valued, and made of consequence; and he gives him|self airs accordingly!—

LETTER XLIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wednesday morning, 9 o'clock.

MY aunt Hervey lay here last night, and is but just gone from me. She came up to me with my sister. They would not trust my aunt without this ill-natur'd witness. When she enter'd my cham|ber, I told her, That this visit was a high favour to a poor prisoner, in her hard confinement. I kiss'd her hand. She, kindly saluting me, said, Why this distance to your aunt, my dear, who loves you so well?

She own'd, That she came to expostulate with me, for the peace sake of the family: For that she could not believe it possible, if I did not conceive myself un|kindly treated, that I, who had ever shewn such a sweetness of temper, as well as manners, should be thus resolute, in a point so very near to my father, and all my friends. My mamma and she were both willing to impute my resolution to the manner I had been begun with; and to my supposing, that my bro|ther had originally more of a hand in the proposals made by Mr. Solmes, than my father, or other friends. And fain would she have furnish'd me with an excuse to come off of my opposition; Bella all the while humming a tune, and opening this book and that, without meaning; but saying nothing. After having shewed me, that my opposition could not be of signi|fication,

my father's honour being engaged, she con|cluded with inforcing upon me my duty, in stronger terms than I believe she would have done, the circum|stances of the case consider'd, had not my sister been present. It would but be repeating what I have so often mentioned, to give you the arguments that passed on both sides. So I will only recite what she was pleased to say, that carried with it the face of newness.

When she found me inflexible, as she was pleased to call it, she said—For her part, she could not but say, that if I were not to have either Mr. Solmes or Mr. Lovelace, and yet, to make my friends easy, must marry, she should not think amiss of Mr. Wyerley. What did I think of Mr. Wyerley?

Ay, Clary, put in my sister, what say you to Mr. Wyerley?

I saw thro' this immediately. It was said on pur|pose, I doubted not, to have an argument against me of absolute prepossession in Lovelace's favour: Since Mr. Wyerley every-where proclaims his value, even to veneration, for me; and is far less exception|able, both in person and mind, than Mr. Solmes: And I was willing to turn the tables, by trying how far Solme's terms might be dispens'd with; since the same terms could not be expected from Mr. Wyerley?

I therefore desired to know, Whether my answer, if it should be in favour of Mr. Wyerley, would re|lease me from Mr. Solmes?—For I own'd, that I had not the aversion to him, that I had to the other.

Nay, she had no commission to propose such a thing—She only knew, that my papa and mamma would not be easy till Mr. Lovelace's hopes were in|tirely defeated.

Cunning creature! said my sister.—And this, and her joining in the question-before, confirm'd me, that it was a designed snare for me.

Don't YOU, dear Madam, said I, put questions that can answer no end, but to support my brother's

schemes against me.—But are there any hopes of an end to my sufferings and disgrace, without having this hated man imposed upon me? Will not what I have offer'd be accepted? I am sure it ought: I will ven|ture to say That.

Why, niece, if there be not any such hopes, I pre|sume you don't think yourself absolv'd from the duty due from a child to her parents?

Yes, said my sister, I do not doubt but it is Miss Clary's aim, if she does not fly to her Lovelace, to get her estate into her own hands, and go to live at The Grove, in that independence upon which she builds all her perverseness. And, dear heart! my little love, how will you then blaze away! Your mamma Norton your oracle, with your Poor at your gates, mingling so proudly and so meanly with the rag|ged herd! Reflecting, by your ostentation, upon all the Ladies in the county, who do not as you do. This is known to be your scheme! And the Poor without-doors, and Lovelace within, with one hand building up a name, pulling it down with the other!—O what a charming scheme is this!—But let me tell you, my pretty little frighty one, that my papa's living Will shall controul my grandfather's dead one; and That estate will be disposed of as my fond grandfather would have disposed of it, had he lived to see such a change in his favourite. In a word, Miss, it will be kept out of your hands, till my papa sees you discreet enough to have the management of it, or till you can dutifully, by Law, tear it from him.

Fie, Miss Harlowe, said my aunt, this is not pretty to your sister.

O Madam, let her go on. This is nothing to what I have borne from Miss Harlowe. She is either commissioned to treat me ill by her envy, or by an higher authority, to which I must submit.—As to revoking the estate, what hinders, if I pleased? I know my power; but have not the least thought of

exerting it. Be pleased to let my papa know, that, whatever be the consequences to myself, were he to turn me out of doors (which I should rather he would, than to be confined and insulted as I am), and were I to be reduced to indigence and want, I would seek no resources, that should be contrary to his will.

For that matter, child, said my aunt, were you to marry, you must do as your husband will have you. If that husband be Mr. Lovelace, he will be glad of any opportunity of embroiling the families more. And let me tell you, niece, if he had the respect for you he pretends to have, he would not be upon such de|fiances as he is. He is known to be a very revenge|ful man; and were I you, Miss Clary, I should be afraid he would wreak upon me that vengeance, tho' I had not offended him, which he is continually threaten|ing to pour upon the family.

Mr. Lovelace's threaten'd vengeance is in return for threaten'd vengeance. It is not every-body will bear insult, as, of late, I have been forced to bear it.

O how my sister's face shone with passion!

But Mr. Lovelace, proceeded I, as I have said twenty and twenty times, would be quite out of the question, were I to be generously treated!

My sister said something with great vehemence: But only raising my voice, to be heard, without minding her, Pray, Madam, provokingly interrogated I, was he not known to have been as wild a man, when he was at first introduced into our family, as he now is said to be? Yet then, the common phrases of wild oats, and black oxen, and such-like, were qualifiers; and marriage, and the wise's discretion, were to perform wonders—But (turning to my sister) I find I have sai•• too much.

O thou wicked reflecter!—And what made me ab|hor him, think you, but the proof of those villainous freedoms that ought to have had the same effect upon you, were you but half so good a creature as you pretend to be?

Proof, did you say, Bella! I thought you had not proof?—But you know best. [Was not this very spite|ful, my dear?]

Now, Clary, would I give a thousand pounds to know all that is in thy little rancorous and reflecting heart, at this moment.

I might let you know for a much less sum, and not be afraid of being worse treated than I have been.

Well, young Ladies, I am sorry to see things run so high between you. You know, niece (to me), you had not been confined thus to your apartment, could your mamma by condescensions, or your papa by authority, have been able to have done any thing with you. But how can you expect, when there must be a concession on one side, that it should be on theirs? If my Dolly, who has not the hundredth part of your understanding, were thus to set herself up in absolute contradiction to my will, in a point so material, I should not take it well of her—Indeed I should not.

I believe not, Madam: And if Miss Hervey had just such a brother, and just such a sister (you may look, Bella!)—and if both were to aggravate her parents, as my brother and sister do mine—Then, perhaps, you might use her as I am used: And if she hated the man you proposed to her, and with as much reason as I do Mr. Solmes—

[And loved a Rake and Libertine, Miss, as you do Lovelace, said my sister—]

Then might she (continued I, not minding her) beg to be excused from obeying. But yet if she did, and would give you the most solemn assurances, and security besides, that she never would have the man you disliked, against your consent—I dare say, Miss Hervey's father and mother would sit down satisfy'd, and not endeavour to force her inclinations.

So!—said my sister, with uplifted hands, father and mother now come in for their share!

But if, child, reply'd my aunt, I knew she loved

a Rake, and suspected, that she sought only to gain time, in order to wire-draw me into a consent—

I beg pardon, Madam, for interrupting you; but if Miss Hervey could obtain your consent, what fur|ther would be to be said?

True, child; but she never should.

Then, Madam, it never would be.

That I doubt, niece.

If you do, Madam, can you think confinement and ill usage is the way to prevent the apprehended rashness?

My dear, this sort of intimation would make one but too apprehensive, that there is no trusting to yourself, when one knows your inclination.

That apprehension, Madam, seems to have been conceived before this intimation was made, or the least cause for it given. Why else the disgraceful confine|ment I have been laid under?—Let me venture to say, that my sufferings are rather owing to designed terror, knowing there were too good grounds for my opposition, than doubt of my conduct; for, when they were inflicted upon me first, I had given no cause of doubt; nor should there now be room for any, if my discretion might be trusted to.

My aunt, after a little hesitation, said, But, con|sider, my dear, what confusion will be perpetuated in your family, if you marry this hated Lovelace?

And, let it be considered, what misery to me, Ma|dam, if I marry that hated Solmes?

Many a young creature has thought she could not love a man, with whom she has afterwards been very happy. Few women, child, marry their first loves.

That may be the reason there are so few happy marriages.

But there are few first-impressions fit to be encou|raged.

I am afraid so too, Madam. I have a very indif|ferent opinion of light and first impressions. But, as I have often said, all I wish for is, to have leave to live single.

Indeed you must not, Miss. Your father and mo|ther will be unhappy till they see you marry'd, and out of Lovelace's reach.—I am told, that you propose to condition with him (so far are matters gone between you), never to have any man, if you have not him.

I know no better way to prevent mischief on all sides, I freely own it—And there is not, if he be out of the question, another man in the world, I can think favourably of.—Nevertheless, I would give all I have in the world, that he were marry'd to some other person—Indeed I would, Bella, for all you put on that smile of incredulity.

May be so, Clary: But I will smile for all that.

If he be out of the question! repeated my aunt—So, Miss Clary, I see how it is.—I will go down.—(Miss Harlowe, shall I follow you?)—And I will endeavour to persuade your papa to let my sister her|self come up: And a happier event may then result.—

Depend upon it, Madam, said my sister, This will be the case: My mamma and she will be both in tears; but with this different effect; My mamma will come down soften'd, and cut to the heart; but will leave her favourite harden'd, from the advantages she will think she has over my mamma's tenderness.—Why, Madam, it was for this very reason the girl is not admitted into her presence.

Thus she run on, as she went down-stairs.

LETTER XLIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

MY heart fluttered with the hope and the fear of seeing my mamma, and with the shame and the grief of having given her so much uneasiness. But it needed not: She was not permitted to come. But my aunt was so good as to return; yet not without my sister: And, taking my hand, made me sit down by her.

She came, she must own, officiously, she said, this once more; tho' against the opinion of my father: But knowing, and dreading, the consequence of my opposition, she could not but come.

She then set forth to me, my friends expectations from me; Mr. Solmes's riches (three times as rich he came out to be as any-body had thought him); the set|tlements proposed; Mr. Lovelace's bad character; their aversion to him; all in a very strong light; but not a stronger, than my mamma had before placed them in. My mamma, surely, could not have given the particulars of what had passed between herself and me: If she had, my aunt would not have repeated many of the same sentiments, as you will find she did, that had been still more strongly urged, without ef|fect, by her venerable sister.

She said, it would break the heart of my father to have it imagin'd, that he had not a power over his child; and that, as he thought, for my own good: A child too, whom they always had doated upon!—Dearest, dearest Miss, concluded she, clasping her fingers, with the most condescending earnestness, let me beg of you for my sake, for your own sake, for a hundred sakes, to get over this averseness, and give up your prejudices, and make every-one happy and easy once more.—I would kneel to you, my dearest niece—Nay, I will kneel to you!—

And down she dropp'd, and I with her, kneeling to her, and beseeching her not to kneel; clasping my arms about her, and bathing her worthy bosom with my tears!

Oh rise! rise! my beloved aunt, said I: You cut me to the heart with this condescending goodness.

Say then, my dearest niece, say then, that you will oblige all your friends! If you love us, I beseech you do!

How can I promise what I can sooner choose to die than to perform!—

Say then, my dear, you'll consider of it. Say you will but reason with yourself. Give us but hopes. Don't let me intreat, and thus intreat, in vain. For still she kneeled, and I by her.

What a hard case is mine!—Could I but doubt, I know I could conquer.—That which is an inducement to my friends, is none at all to me!—How often, my dearest aunt, must I repeat the same thing!—Let me but be single—Cannot I live single? Let me be sent, as I have proposed, to Scotland, to Florence; any-whither: Let me be sent a slave to the Indies; any-whither: Any of these I will consent to. But I cannot, cannot think of giving my vows to a man I cannot endure!—

Well then rising; (Bella silently, with uplifted hands, reproaching my supposed perverseness) I see nothing can prevail with you to oblige us.

What can I do, my dearest aunt Hervey? What can I do? Were I capable of giving a hope I meant not to inlarge, then could I say, I would consider of your kind advice. But I would rather be thought per|verse than insincere. Is there, however, no medium? Can nothing be thought of? Will nothing do, but to have a man who is the more disgustful to me, because he is unjust in the very articles he offers?

Who now, Clary, said my sister, do you reflect upon? Consider That.

Make not invidious applications of what I say, Bella. It may not be look'd upon in the same light by every one. The giver and the accepter are prin|cipally answerable, in an unjust donation. While I think of it in this light, I should be inexcusable to be the latter. But why do I enter upon a sup|position of this nature? My heart, as I have often, often said, recoils at the thoughts of the man, in every light.—Whose father, but mine, agrees upon articles, where there is no prospect of a liking? Where the direct contrary is avow'd, all along avow'd, with|out

the least variation, or shadow of a change of sen|timent?—But it is not my father's doing originally. O my cruel, cruel brother, to cause a measure to be forced upon me, which he would not behave tolerably under, were the like to be offer'd to him!

The girl is got into her altitudes, aunt Hervey, said my sister. You see, Madam, she spares no-body. Be pleased to let her know what she has to trust to. Nothing is to be done with her. Pray, Madam, pronounce her doom.

My aunt retir'd to the window, weeping, with my sister in her hand: I cannot, indeed I cannot, Miss Harlowe, said she, softly (but yet I heard every word she said): There is great hardship in her case. She is a noble child, after all. What pity things are gone so far! But Mr. Solmes ought to be told to desist.

O Madam, said my sister, in a kind of loud whis|per, are you caught too by the little Syren?—My mamma did well not to come up!—I question whe|ther my papa himself, after his first indignation, would not be turn'd round by her. Nobody but my bro|ther can do any-thing with her, I am sure.

Don't think of your brother's coming up, said my aunt, still in a low voice—He is too furious by much. I see no obstinacy, no perverseness in her manner! If your brother comes, I will not be answerable for the consequences: For I thought twice or thrice she would have gone into fits.

O Madam, she has a strong heart!—And you see there is no prevailing upon her, tho' you were upon your knees to her.

My sister left my aunt musing at the window, with her back towards us; and took that oppor|tunity to insult me still more barbarously: For, step|ping to my closet, she took up the patterns which my mamma had sent me up, and bringing them to me, she spread them upon the chair by me; and, of|fering one, and then another, upon her sleeve and

shoulder, Thus she ran on, with great seeming tran|quillity, but whisperingly, that my aunt might not hear her. This, Clary, is a pretty pattern enough: But This is quite charming! I would advise you to make your appearance in it. And This, were I you, should be my wedding night-gown—and This my second dress'd suit! Won't you give orders, love, to have your grandmother's jewels new set?—Or will you think to shew away in the new ones that Mr. Solmes intends to present to you? He talks of laying out two or three thousand pounds in presents, child! Dear heart!—How gorgeously will you be array'd!—What! silent, my dear, mamma Norton's sweet dear! What! silent still?—But, Clary, won't you have a Velvet suit? It would cut a great figure in a country church, you know: And the weather may bear it for a month yet to come. Crimson Velvet, suppose! Such a fine complection as yours, how would it be set off by it! What an agreeable blush would it give you!—High-ho! (mocking me; for I sighed to be thus fooled with): And do you sigh, love?—Well then, as it will be a solemn wedding, what think you of black Velvet, child?—Silent still, Clary!—Black Velvet, so fair as you are, with those charming eyes, gleaming thro' a wintry cloud, like an April Sun!—Does not Lovelace tell you they are charming eyes!—How lovely will you appear to every one!—What! silent still, love!—But about your laces, Clary!—

She would have gone on still further, had not my aunt advanced towards us, wiping her eyes—What! whispering, Ladies! You seem so easy and so pleas'd, Miss Harlowe, with your private conference, that I hope I shall carry down good news.

I am only giving her my opinion of her patterns, here.—Unask'd indeed.—But she seems, by her silence, to approve of my judgment.

O Bella! said I, that Mr. Lovelace had not taken you at your word!—You had before now been exer|cising

your judgment on your own account: And I had been happy, as well as you!—Was it my fault, I pray you, that it was not so?—O how she rav'd!

To be so ready to give, Bella, and so loth to take, is not very fair in you.

The poor Bella descended to call names.

Why, sister, said I, you are as angry, as if there were more in the hint, than possibly might be de|signed. My wish is sincere, for both our sakes!—for the whole family's sake!—And what (good now) is there in it?—Do not, do not, dear Bella, give me cause to suspect, that I have found a reason for your unsisterly behaviour to me; and which till now was wholly unaccountable from sister to sister—

Fie, fie, Miss Clary! said my aunt.

My sister was more and more outrageous.

O how much fitter, said I, to be a jest, than a jester!—But now, Bella, turn the glass to you, and see how poorly sits the robe upon your own shoulders, which you have been so unmercifully fixing upon mine!

Fie, fie, Miss Clary! repeated my aunt.

And fie, fie, likewise, good Madam, to Miss Har|lowe, you would say, were you to have heard her barbarous insults upon me!

Let us go, Madam, said my sister, with great violence; let us leave the creature to swell till she bursts with her own poison.—The last time I will ever come near her, in the mind I am in!

It is so easy a thing, return'd I, were I to be mean enough to follow an example that is so cen|sureable in the setter of it, to vanquish such a teazing spirit as yours, with its own blunt weapons, that I am amaz'd you will provoke me!—Yet, Bella, since you will go (for she had hurry'd to the door), for|give me: I do you. And you have a double reason to do so, both from eldership, and the offence so stu|diously given to one in affliction.—But may you be happy, tho' I never shall!—May you never have half

the trials I have had! Be this your comfort, that you cannot have a sister to treat you, as you have treated me! And so God bless you!

O thou art a—And down she flung without say|ing what.

Permit me, Madam, said I to my aunt, sinking down, and clasping her knees with my arms, to de|tain you one moment—Not to say any thing about my poor sister—She is her own punisher—Only to thank you for all your condescending goodness to me. I only beg of you, not to impute to obstinacy the immoveableness I have shewn to so tender a friend; and to forgive me every thing I have said or done amiss in your presence: For it has not proceeded from inward rancour to the poor Bella. But I will be bold to say, that neither She, nor my Brother, nor even my Father himself, knows what a heart they have set a bleeding.

I saw, to my comfort, what effect my sister's ab|sence wrought for me.—Rise, my noble-minded niece!—charming creature!—[Those were her kind words] kneel not to me!—Keep to yourself what I now say to you: I admire you more than I can ex|press—And if you can forbear claiming your estate, and can resolve to avoid Lovelace, you will continue to be the greatest miracle I ever knew at your years.—But I must hasten down after your sister.—These are my last words to you: Conform to your father's will, if you possibly can. How meritorious will it be in you to do so! Pray to God to enable you to con|form. You don't know what may be done.

Only, my dear aunt, one word, one word more (for she was going)—Speak up all you can for my dear Mrs. Norton. She is but low in the world: Should ill health overtake her, she may not know how to live without my mamma's favour. I shall have no means to help her; for I will want necessaries before I will assert my right: And I do assure you,

she has said so many things to me in behalf of my re|signing to my father's will, that her arguments have not a little contributed to make me resolve to avoid the extremities, which nevertheless I pray to God they do not at last force me upon. And yet they deprive me of her advice, and think unjustly of one of the most excellent of women.

I am glad to hear you say This: And take This, and This, and This, my charming niece (for so she call'd me at every word almost); kissing me earnestly, and clasping her arms about my neck: And God protect you, and direct you! But you must submit: Indeed you must. Some one day in a month from This, is all the choice that is left you.

And this, I suppose, was the doom my sister call'd for; yet not worse than what had been pronounced upon me before.

She repeated these last sentences louder than the former. And remember, Miss, added she, it is your duty to comply—And down she went, leaving me with my heart full, and my eyes runing over.

The very repetition of this, fills me with almost equal concern, to that which I felt at the time. I can write no more; mistinesses of all the colours in the rainbow twinkling upon my deluged eye.

Wednesday, Five o'Clock.

I WILL add a few lines—My aunt, as she went down from me, was met at the foot of the stairs by my sister, who seemed to think she had stay'd a good while after her: And hearing her last words prescribing to me implicit duty, praised her for it, and exclaim'd against my obstinacy, with, Did you ever hear of such per|verseness, Madam? Could you have thought, that your Clarissa, and every body's Clarissa, was such a girl?—And who, as you said, is to submit, her father or she?

My aunt said something in answer to her, com|passionating

me, as I thought, by her accent: But I heard not the words.

Such a strange perseverance in a measure so unrea|sonable!—But my brother and sister are continually misrepresenting all I say and do; and I am deprived of the opportunity of defending myself!—My sister says (a) 39.1, that had they thought me such a championess, they would not have engaged with me: And now, not knowing how to reconcile my supposed obstinacy with my general character, and natural temper, they seem to hope to tire me out, and resolve to vary their mea|sures accordingly. My brother, you see, (b) 39.2, is de|termin'd to carry this point, or to abandon Harlowe-place, and never to see it more:—So they are to lose a son, or to conquer a daughter—the perversest and most ingrateful that ever parents had!—This is the light he places things in: And has undertaken, it seems, to subdue me, if his advice be followed. It will be further try'd, that I am convinced of; and what will be their next measure, who can divine?

I shall dispatch, with this, my answer to yours of Sunday last; begun on Monday (c) 39.3; but which is not yet quite finish'd. It is too long to copy: I have not time for it. In it I have been very free with you, my dear, in more places than one. I cannot say, that I am pleas'd with all I have written:—Yet will not now alter it.—My mind is not at ease enough for the sub|ject.—Don't be angry with me. Yet, if you can ex|cuse one or two passages, it will be, because they were written by

Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.

END of VOL. I.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Her brother's surgeon.
• (a) 1.2

  Her grandfather, in order to invite her to him, as often as her other friends would spare her, indulged her in erecting and sitting-up a dairy-house in her own taste. When finished, it was so much admired for its elegant simplicity and convenience, that the whole seat, before, of old time, from its situation, called The Grove, was generally known by the name of The Dairy-house; her grandfather, particularly, was fond of having it so called.
• (a) 1.3

  See Mr. Lovelace's Letter, N^o. xxxi. in which he briefly accounts for his conduct in this affair.
• (a) 2.1

  The reason of this their more-openly shewn animos••ty is given in letter xiii.
• (a) 6.1

  See p. 46.
• (a) 7.1

  See Letter iv. p. 21.
• (a) 7.2

  See Letter iv. p. 22.
• (a) 7.3

  See Letter ix. p. 50.
• (a) 7.4

  See Letter x. p. 55.
• (a) 26.1

  These gentlemen affected the Roman style, as they called it, in their letters: And it was an agreed rule with them, to take in good part whatever freedoms they treated each other with, if the passages were written in that style.
• (a) 26.2

  Lovelace.
• (a) 37.1

  Alluding to his words in the preamble to the clauses in his Will, in her favour. See p. 28.
• (a) 39.1

  See p. 287.
• (b) 39.2

  In his Lett. p. 297.
• (c) 39.3

  See Lett. xl.